The Book of the Film of the Story of My Life

by William Brandt

  “Oh,” I say, keeping it breezy. “Hi, guys.”

  “How y’doin’?” says Seamus or Sean.

  “Can’t complain.” Breezy, breezy. Seamus or Sean takes the left, Sean or Seamus takes the right. They unzip in perfect time. These guys are everything I ever wished or hoped I could be. Young, cockney, scruffy, but wildly successful. Casual, friendly, unaffected, universally loved. The films they make are irreverent, naughty, funky, clever, uncooperative, and brilliant. These guys are it. And there are two of them. When Sophie and I were together I used to hang with these guys. Really. Me. I used to drop in at the edit suite in Soho whenever I felt like it, no appointment necessary.

  Fred, come on in, have a lager.

  What do you think, Fred? Should we cut it this way or that?

  They used to drop around the house. We used to watch football. We’d go to the movies. We’d play pool. I haven’t seen them once since Sophie left me. Not a phone call, not a card, nothing. But then, they’re busy, and they’re too young and cool to be considerate. It’s still possible that they do actually like me for myself and not merely for my connection with Sophie. I think if they would only still be my buddies everything would be all right for the rest of my life. I think my self-respect, my sense of belonging to the human tribe, my essential optimism, my belief in the goodness of human beings and the ultimate justice of the universe would survive unscathed. But I mustn’t appear desperate or overeager. If you love something, set it free.

  “Saw you guys in Empire.”

  “Oh, that. Crap photo.”

  “I thought it was good.”

  About eight weeks ago (and counting), I woke up in the middle of the night. I had a brilliant idea for a film. It was stunning. It was so unbelievable that I couldn’t believe it. I dashed to my office (i.e., switched on the laptop at the side of the bed), and did something I, as a film producer, never do. I wrote an outline for a film idea. I printed it on one hundred gram eggshell wove, I did a covering letter on Godzone letterhead, slipped it inside a proposal folder, paper-clipped a business card to the top corner, scrawled in casual, chummy longhand Hi guys!! How’s it hanging? Let’s do lunch. Cheers, Frederick, and mailed it off to the Irish Brothers the next day.

  I was on the moon. I was on Venus. I was on Mars. I was transfused with ineffable joy. I was scared that my head was going to explode. This time, I said to myself, this time I’ve struck gold. My true genius has at last shone through (tears filled my eyes). With an idea like this, I just can’t miss. I mean, I really can’t miss. The Irish Brothers cannot choose but love it. No one could choose. They will be my slaves. Welcome, Frederick, they will say, to your own. They’re going to phone any day now and fly me out to LA and give me a fantastic job and Sophie will be sorry and love me. This state of euphoria lasted a day. I went to Selfridges and had a hot salt beef sandwich and watched the Jewish princesses go by. I was so happy it hurt.

  The next night, I woke up again. I sat bolt upright. A bucket of ice water flooded my bowels. I was overcome by a terrible wave of total, pitiless clarity. It was an appalling idea for a film. It was so, so utterly fucked and embarrassing and stupid that I couldn’t believe I had ever thought for a moment that it was worth even writing down just for the pleasure of ripping it to a thousand shreds, dousing it with lighter fluid and ritually burning it as a symbolic cleansing of all fucked ideas from the surface of the globe.

  The Irish Brothers wouldn’t get past paragraph two. I could see them now. Irish One turns to Irish Two: “Poor old Frederick. He’s really lost it now.” “Yeah,” says Irish One, “he’s finally exposing the complete lack of creative ability and feebleness of imagination he’s always suffered from without any of us being impolite enough to tell him so to his face.” “Yeah,” says Irish Two, “for Sophie’s sake we never said anything, but in a way don’t you think it would have been kinder to tell him before now, before he makes such a total and utter pillock of himself in our eyes by sending us this utterly completely inadequate piece of dog shit? I mean, look at the way he’s scrawled across the top of the letter in a fake casual-chummy longhand, ‘How’s it hanging?’ I mean, really, only a seriously inadequate individual with no understanding of how truly cool and creative people like ourselves think and behave could possibly ever have written such a pathetic, childish comment.”

  Irish One thinks. “I think you’re right, Sean,” he says. “I agree with everything you say.”

  “You’re Sean,” says Irish Two. “I’m Seamus.”

  “Oh, yeah,” says Irish One. “Sorry about that.”

  It’s an old story, from here on in. They didn’t phone. They didn’t write. In a nutshell, they didn’t communicate. And now, here they are.

  Yes.

  There is something I have to do. There is a tiny, tiny possibility that they didn’t get the outline. That it went astray in the post or something like that. If that happened, I want to know. That way I can relax. They never read it. I can forget it. I can send them another outline another time. If they did read it, however, that I also need to know. “Not what we’re looking for.” I need to hear it. So I can put it to bed. So I can lay it out, cold and stiff. Pay my last respects.

  But if I want to know, I’m going to have to ask. That’s not going to be easy.

  Meanwhile something is becoming apparent. It’s happening again. I can’t get started. I’m as dry as the Sahara. This is becoming monotonous. I’m going to have to give up urinals altogether. With Sean/Seamus and Seamus/Sean gushing like a pair of frisky young stallions either side, I force myself to relax. Think watery thoughts. Nothing.

  “What about Saturday, then? What about that?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Tossers,” says Sean/Seamus.

  “My granny could kick better than that,” says Seamus/Sean.

  I don’t actually know anything about football, beyond the fact that they have to use their feet, and I find it mind-numbingly boring to watch. Doesn’t matter. If I could do it with these guys, I’d watch back-to-back reruns of The Love Boat. I’d watch paint dry.

  “Are you all right, then, Frederick?”

  “Oh, sure, you know, same old same old.”

  Still nothing. I picture waterfalls, cataracts. I can feel it. If I could just get it started I’d be all right. But I can’t get it started. Pee. God, pee.

  “You’ve lost weight, mate.”

  “Yeah, you have.”

  “And hey, who’s that chick I saw you with?”

  “Oh, that’s Melissa. We met at Selfridges. In garden furniture.”

  “She looks all right.”

  “Yeah, she’s all right.” I’m going for breezy-casual, but it’s impossible to sound convincingly casual when you’re standing over a dry urinal with the breeze caressing your nethers. There’s an edge of hysteria that can’t be masked.

  Irish Two finishes, shakes off and zips up. Irish One zips up too. I’m now standing here alone, with my dick hanging out, trying to have a casual conversation. It’s worse than impossible. “So, you guys have a project going with Sophie?”

  Irish Two chuckles. “Don’t believe everything you read.”

  Irish One slaps me on the shoulder. “See you around, Fred.”

  “Yeah, see you guys on the island.”

  The door swings shut.

  The sluice gates open.

  They didn’t even wash their hands. How’s that for cool?

  A convoy of minivans drives out of town past plantations of coconut trees arranged in rows with large exceptionally clean red-and-white cows grazing underneath. What is wrong with this picture? There’s something about that combination, cows and coconuts, that just doesn’t go, like pictures of cavemen hunting a dinosaur.

  The scenery is amazing. The greens are so green they’re unreal, supersaturated. It reminds me of this time I had a black eye (long story) and my eye was shut for three weeks. When it finally started to open the colors were so bright and vivid it was like being in a cartoon. We
climb a hill, then wind down a near-vertical metaled road with vines and creepers and jungle on all sides, banana trees, mangoes, pawpaws, bright splashes of bougainvillea, purple and red, and hanging bell-shaped white flowers that might or might not be datura.

  Melissa and I are in the backseat. Her behavior is frankly embarrassing. She’s cornered me against the window, draped herself across me. She keeps trying to stick her tongue in my ear. Russell is having kittens, Ella is looking incredulous.

  The road is getting worse with every mile. It’s like a turbulent river of tarmac poured through the jungle. The minivans pick their way, lurching dangerously. The drive takes three hours. We stop once along the way, in a widening of the road, just to stretch our legs. Dust hangs in the air, it’s hotter than ever, and the noise of the cicadas is deafening. I think I’m getting a headache. People don’t walk far. They stand around in the shade, sipping water and sweating. Melissa is asleep in the back. Russell gets me aside. “So what’s the story with Melissa?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I mean . . . nuclear physics. Wow. Don’t you feel intimidated?”

  “Not at all. It’s nice to have found my intellectual equal.”

  “She seems to be very fond of you.”

  “We hit it off okay.”

  Russell puts a hand on my shoulder. “Frederick, you deserve this. You deserve to be happy.”

  “Thanks, Russell, I think so too.”

  He squeezes my arm. He doesn’t say any more. He’s too choked up. I help him back to the van.

  Around midday we climb slowly, painfully, up the steepest section of road I’ve ever seen in my entire life, including Space Mountain. Then we descend a terrifying dirt track. Some of the ruts are so deep you can’t see the bottom. Every so often the thick overhanging vine-laden trees part on a bend and we catch a glimpse of the solid, supersaturated implacable blue of the sea.

  At the bottom of the hill the track ends in a dusty turnaround. The other vans are already parked. We all climb out and walk a few yards through the bush. We come out on a small beach of blinding white sand. It’s so bright, if I take off my sunglasses I can’t see. Behind us crouches the bush, a green wave rolling to meet the blue. Around us is the buzz of cicadas, the call of parrots. A small marquee has been erected on the beach, staffed by several smiling ni-Vanuatu in white printed T-shirts. On the front: HOW IS YOUR DAY? On the back: HOW CAN I MAKE IT BETTER? On the sleeve a monogram: CM. Melissa helps herself to champagne.

  “So where’s Charles?” I ask.

  “On the boat,” says Ella. “Ah, there’s the cocksucker now.”

  This is a fairly impolite way to refer to one’s host, and I have to say I’m a little shocked. It must show on my face because Ella laughs. “Look.” I follow Ella’s pointing finger. Coming slowly around the point is a boat. A beautiful boat, a long, white, floating dream, a luxury oceangoing motor yacht with graceful, sweeping lines. Must be a good thirty meters. Stenciled along the bows in flowing elegant copperplate is the boat’s name: COCKSUCKER.

  Melissa and I are in the last boatload, with Russell and Ella, an elderly couple from New Zealand, the drunken woman who fell on me on the way off the plane, whose name is Denise, Ken and Ramon—her bodyguards—and a couple of good-looking gay boys. Ken has a close-trimmed beard, and obviously works out. Denise is barely compos. She sits slumped in the bows, a scarf fixing her hat to her head, fifties-style sunglasses awry on her nose, a glass of champagne in one hand and a sausage roll in the other. Apparently she is an heiress and considers herself to be a terrorist target.

  “Don’t worry about her,” says Ken. “She’ll be sober by March.”

  The boat is drawing nearer. As we run up alongside the boatman kills the motor and grabs the railing.

  “Gidday, gidday, welcome aboard, one and all!” There he stands, grinning, larger than life, a nut-brown teddy bear in a black G-string and a cowboy hat, champagne cocktail in one hand, the other held out to hoist us aboard.

  Chapter 11

  “WELL, FOR GOODNESS SAKE: do you want a sexual relationship, or don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. I want the sex, I want the attraction. But it has to be subtle, suggested. Back there on the bus, that was a practical demonstration. It’s a question of taste.”

  “Men with ponytails shouldn’t talk about taste.”

  I’ve hurt her feelings. I can tell. “Don’t work so hard at it, that’s all I’m saying. You can afford to leave a little more to the imagination. It’s sexier like that anyway. People don’t want it shoved in their faces.”

  “They do sometimes.”

  “Well it’s not what I want. And something else. This nonsense about nuclear physics. That’s worse than fox hunting. What are you trying to do?”

  She looks embarrassed. “It just slipped out. I don’t think anyone noticed.”

  “Of course they noticed.”

  “Look. You don’t impress people like this with a nanny from Levin.”

  “The aim is not to impress. The aim is to blend.”

  “Okay, you want it that way, fine. But there’s something I want to say to you.”

  “By all means.”

  “You say I’m over the top, fine. But you—you’re a cold fish. You never say anything warm. You don’t touch me, you don’t show affection, you’re not spontaneous or even friendly. You just stand there like a stiff. It’s embarrassing. If you don’t loosen up, people are going to think there’s something wrong.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to be more demonstrative.”

  “That would help.”

  “I just hope to God nobody asks you anything about nuclear physics.”

  “Relax. Who wants to know anything about nuclear physics?”

  “I’m going to get an orange juice.” I push off from the rail.

  “Whoa. Hold it right there!”

  “What?”

  She throws up her hands in exasperation. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You just walk off, head down, with a depressed, worried look on your face. You don’t smile, you don’t pat my arm, you don’t kiss me or cuddle me—where’s the romance? Where’s the fun?”

  She’s right. I lean down, close. I’m looking into her eyes. Eyes. What is it about eyes? I look into someone’s eyes nowadays, all I ever see is—eyes. I remember staring into Sophie’s eyes. I remember spending entire days staring into Sophie’s eyes. It was better than TV. I take a deep breath. I can do this. I brace myself. “Another champagne? . . . sweet . . . heart?”

  Melissa smiles, almost maliciously. “Gee, thanks, pumpkin. And another couple of tuna rolls would be nice.” She pecks me on the cheek.

  “Do you have to call me ‘pumpkin’?”

  She lowers her voice to a venomous hiss. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer some other vegetable?”

  She gooses me as I turn to go. I make for the champagne, which is set up under an awning erected over a horseshoe-shaped seating arrangement just forward of the wheelhouse. I catch sight of Ella, sitting with Brian on her knee, keeping him under the shade. Brian is done up with a huge frilly hat and sun cream. His face is white. He looks like an aging clown. Ella gives me a little wave. She’s watching Melissa and me, I know. Every time I turn around, there she is. Trying to appear relaxed, I pour a champagne flute for Melissa and an orange juice for me.

  I look around. The Cocksucker is big, absolutely gorgeous, and designed for comfort. Teak decking, brass fittings, varnished wood everywhere. Everywhere you look there are smiling dark-skinned staff in white T-shirts carrying trays of canapés. There’s a light but insistent breeze blowing, and we’re just clearing the harbor mouth. The first Pacific rollers are lifting the bow. I feel that familiar old surge under my feet.

  The birthday boy is in the middle of the group under the awning, keeping up a nonstop patter routine. He can’t blink without getting a laugh. Tamintha is in the crowd, laughing politely, looking miserable. I’ve noticed a few more people I know, more or less, but no one I
feel compelled to go and talk to. For example, over there, leaning on the port-side rail and talking to a designer called Mark, is Rebecca. She catches sight of me over Mark’s shoulder. I give her a little wave and a smile. She shakes her head and looks away. She says something to Mark. Mark gives me a grin and a wave.

  I haven’t seen Rebecca since that time she came around to pick up Sophie. She was Sophie’s support person. Sophie was very supportive of her when she was leaving her husband, who by the way is a guy by the name of Enoch. He used to own a farm although I think he sold it recently. Nice enough guy. Tweedy but clean. Red-apple cheeks. They had three hundred acres, three children, two dogs and a cow called Bessie. When it all fell apart Sophie went around with Rebecca to pick up the cow and the dogs. The breakup was especially long and messy and Rebecca used to come around at all hours of the day and night to sit with Sophie at the kitchen table and tell her all the reasons he was an arsehole and unreasonable and demented and self-centered and vicious and uncooperative. I have to say I was shocked. To meet the guy you would never have known. But then it’s true that no one ever really knows what goes on inside a marriage—least of all the ones who are in it. Not that I’m cynical about marriage. Some of my best friends are married. I’m just cynical about my marriage.

  Anyway, when Sophie was leaving me, Rebecca was the natural choice for a support person—obviously she had Matt, who left Anne-Marie and flew straight over to London and lived with her in the exact same house on Avenue Road I’d visited Anne-Marie in—but she also had Rebecca. There wasn’t too much for Rebecca to do, as our breakup was not drawn out or nasty or anything other than extremely civilized and postmodern at all times, but you do need someone anyway, and she was always on hand with tissues and glasses of water and helpful suggestions whenever Sophie ran out of horrible things to say about me. I know Sophie was saying horrible things about me, because it’s just one of those things you have to do. I know what she was saying too, because she said it all to me first. I don’t think she meant any of it. It’s just one of those things.