The Book of the Film of the Story of My Life

by William Brandt

  The sunglasses don’t move.

  “Look, I really have to say this so I might as well just say it. I’ve seen Shag City four times and I think it’s absolutely brilliant. I just loved it.”

  “Thanks.” Still the sunglasses don’t move.

  And here he comes. Six-foot-something, tanned white-blond hair cut short. Six-pack. Narrow temples, wide jaw. Strong chin. Slightly crooked nose. A pair of little round wire-rimmed sunglasses halfway down his nose. Rugged, lined face. Around forty. Your thinking man’s superhero. His eyes are narrow and green, almost khaki. Army-surplus eyes. He stops just outside my reach, ready to smile, ready to block and counterpunch. “Hey, Frederick, how ya doin’?”

  “Hi, Matt.”

  “This is Melissa,” says Sophie.

  “Hi, how ya doin’?”

  Four gunslingers, we stand facing one another. The sun slips below the surface of the sea, throwing out frantic distress signals in all directions, beacons of red, pink and yellow.

  “Well,” I say. I swing my arms.

  Sophie’s stomach is enormous. It’s enormous and so round it could be a giant balloon. I’m not looking at it. I’m looking at everything else. I’m looking at the sky, at the sea and the waves. I’m not looking at the belly. “Have you guys been here long?”

  Matt coughs. “We came over yesterday.”

  “Nice boat, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah. Nice boat.”

  “Nice place.”

  Sophie is carved out of rock.

  I throw out my arm, a stiff, jerky gesture, like I’m trying to lose a piece of sticking plaster. “So, ah, we better go and unpack. See you guys round.”

  Melissa follows reluctantly.

  “Yeah, see ya round.” Matt smiles.

  Sophie says nothing. She rests one hand on the front of her stomach and takes off her sunglasses to watch us go. Her eyes are slightly bloodshot.

  The tent is everything the hotel in Port Vila should have been. There are towels and soap, bottles of moisturizer and sunblock and mosquito repellent. Special lamps for bedtime reading and a thick foam rubber mattress with crisp freshly laundered sheets. I lie on the mattress. Everything is very far away. I feel tired, gritty and salty. Melissa is excited.

  “She’s a lot shorter than I expected.”

  “Five-two-and-a-half.”

  “She’s got an amazing presence. And him, he’s gorgeous. I mean, wow. He looks even better than he does on film. I can see why she left you for him.”

  “Hmm.”

  “God, I can’t believe it. Sophie Carlisle and Matt Chalmers, in the flesh!”

  “Incredible.”

  “Do you think she’d mind if I asked for an autograph?”

  “I’m sure she’d be very happy to oblige.”

  Melissa’s weight sinks onto the mattress next to me. “Wow. I’m so glad I came. This is going to be fantastic. What time’s dinner?”

  I close my eyes.

  The seaplane is nosed up to the beach as the pilot lugs a huge wicker basket across the sand. It really is very impressive what they’ve done. The undergrowth has been cleared out from under the large spreading trees by the beach, to form a sort of a large shady central square, with tables dotted around. Arranged around the edges of the central clearing are the amenities: to one side a fully equipped bar, its roof thatched with palm leaves. Behind the bar is the kitchen tent. Smells of cooking and the clatter of saucepans drift on the breeze. Every so often a harassed-looking cook or waiter emerges to add another item to the laden buffet. There’s fruit, pastries, cold meats, croissants, coffee and tea, cereals, three sorts of muesli, juices—you name it. On another side is the hairdresser’s fale. There’s a queue halfway to the beach already. A fattish blond woman with her head in curlers sits reading Cleo magazine against a backdrop of jungle creepers. Behind that is the massage hut. Groans of pleasurable abandon compete with the plaintive whine of the hair dryers.

  On the opposite side of the square from the bar, under the boughs of a massive spreading tree, is a raised stage, with a movie screen behind it and a sprung dance floor in front, made of marine-ply. A couple of technicians are still working on the sound system. There’s a young white guy in an old black baseball cap going CHUH CHUH into the microphones and an old black guy in a new white baseball cap twiddling knobs on the mixing desk. They’re both wearing Hawaiian shirts. There are big fat black cables all over the place and the speakers are stacked three-high either side.

  We choose an empty table, sit down. Already there are heads bobbing in the shallows. Drunken Denise is there, with Ramon and Ken to keep her mouth clear of the waves. An enormously fat woman wades in to join them, toting several bottles of champagne. Here and there people are sprawled on deck chairs with drinks and cocktails, books, magazines. Out on the bay a speedboat is towing a parasail. The Cocksucker rides at anchor in the bay, a wet, white dream. In the space of a few minutes, the sun clears the shoulder of the volcano, the still of the early morning burns off like fog, the temperature rises by about five degrees, and a gentle land breeze picks up. We’re in business.

  Charles wanders by in G-string, cowboy hat and flip-flops. He has the build of a middle-aged construction-site foreman: he’s all stomach. He has an elegant crystal champagne flute in one hand and a bacon-wrapped quail in the other. He’s munching it like an apple. I glance at my watch. It’s eight o’clock in the morning. He’s looking flushed and unsteady. “Hey, Freddy boy!”

  “Charles, hi. How are you?”

  “Having fun?”

  “Great, thanks. Great party. Thanks for inviting us.”

  “Seen the toilets yet?”

  “Not this morning, no.”

  “Check ’em out. They’re bloody amazing.” He approaches, crabwise, frowning. “You’ve lost weight, mate.”

  “Oh, everyone says that.”

  “Looking good.” He pats my tummy, grins obscenely at Melissa, who grins back. Charles laughs like a drain and empties his champagne glass.

  “How about some fruit juice and muesli, pumpkin?”

  “Thanks . . . dear heart.”

  Charles’s eyes go round. Melissa turns to him. “Refill for you?”

  Charles goes to hand her the glass, then snatches it back. “On second thoughts just bring the bottle.”

  Charles watches her go. “Christ, mate, you haven’t wasted any time.” Charles is a high-flyer in the stratospheric world of film production. He spends almost all his time in LA and probably visits New Zealand about once every ten years for family funerals. His Kiwi accent gets stronger every year. “Where’d you pick her up?”

  “We met in Selfridges. In garden furniture.”

  Charles nods thoughtfully, watching Melissa wiggle across the sand. She’s in a minuscule tan-colored string bikini. “Bet she fucks like a weasel, eh?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Charles looks puzzled.

  “I’ve never fucked a weasel.”

  He grins. On his breath I can smell beer, champagne, marijuana, whiskey, chicken and something old and unidentifiable. Possibly seaweed. “What’s her name?”

  “Melissa.”

  “Fuckin’ dynamite, mate. Where’d you dig her up?”

  “Selfridges. In garden furniture. She was just going by and she said have you got the time, and I said . . .”

  “Little minx, mate.”

  “I thought she was a weasel.”

  “Fuckin’ polecat, mate.” He lurches.

  I nod, smiling, and look around, hoping for a tidal wave or an eruption. He can go on like this for hours. But don’t be fooled. He may be drunk but he’s as sharp as a tack. In fact the drunker he gets the sharper he gets. This, incidentally, is the sad truth about the elite: they are the elite because they are better. Not one of the elite on this island got where they are today merely thanks to their wealthy and privileged backgrounds. After all, I have a wealthy and privileged background and look at me. Privilege and wealth are only two of the requirements
: you also have to be smart, motivated and disciplined. Good-looking doesn’t hurt, either. Yes, they’re better than us. Pure and simple. Smarter, richer, better-looking. That’s why I prefer my geniuses dead, poor, unappreciated in their lifetime and preferably misguided. Karl Marx is good, Van Gogh, people like that.

  Charles is looking sideways at me. “You know Soph’s here?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I try for breezy. “Yeah, I saw her last night, when we came in. She’s looking good. Good to catch up. Haven’t seen her for a while.”

  He nods. “Matt’s here too.”

  “Yeah, I saw him too.” I smile and look enthusiastic.

  Charles raises a finger. “Watch him, mate, watch him.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Oh, he’s insatiable, mate. Fuckin’ tomcat, mate.” He gestures with his chin in the direction of Melissa.

  “You don’t seriously mean . . . ?”

  Charles shakes his head. “He can’t help himself. Can’t help himself, mate. He’s a rabbit, he’s a snake on heat, he’s a little . . . fuckin’ . . . fucker. Mate.” Charles eyes me narrowly.

  “I see.”

  “Watch him. Watch him.”

  “I will.”

  “Watch him like a hawk. Like an eagle. Like an owl. Like a fuckin’ . . . ah . . . watch him like a fuckin’ . . . watcher.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “So, how do you guys get on nowadays? You and Soph?”

  “Oh, fine. We’re best mates.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s all in the past now. You know how it is. Water under the bridge.”

  “Yeah, I know, mate, I know.”

  A battered little plywood runabout putters very, very slowly past, about ten feet from shore. It’s crammed to the gunwales with kids. Big kids, little kids, boys and girls, barefoot, in raggedy T-shirts. The driver is a kid of about twelve in a pair of cutoff jeans and an International Harvester baseball cap. The whole boat is a mass of skinny black limbs and fat white smiles. There is maybe an inch and half of freeboard. Every face on the boat is turned shoreward, eyes wide. As the boat comes by, I notice two figures come forward from the shelter of the trees. Two big men, Melanesian, heavily built, wearing cutoff jeans and black T-shirts with the word SECURITY stenciled across the shoulders. They stand, arms folded, watching the boat go by.

  “Where do they come from?”

  “They’re kids from the village across the bay. They’ll be sending sightseeing expeditions all day.”

  “No, I mean the guys in the T-shirts.”

  “Oh, them. Security.”

  “What do you need that for?”

  Charles shrugs. “We don’t want stuff going missing. That village over there doesn’t even have running water.” I look across the bay. I can see a thin column of smoke rising from the bush and what might be houses under the trees. “See that bloke over there, at the table?” I look. There’s a distinguished-looking Melanesian man sitting down, reading the paper. “He’s the local chief of police. The security are all off-duty policemen.”

  “So who actually owns this island?”

  Charles grins. “I do.”

  “You’ve bought it?”

  “Ah, buying it, yeah.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Oh, I’ve got plans, mate. Big plans. Yeah, the Caribbean’s crowded. Fuckin’ hellhole, mate. I had a little island there next door to Mick Jagger’s place. Worse than Piccadilly Circus, mate. Had to sell it. Couldn’t take it, eh. Boats going by all day, bloody parties every night—other people’s parties, this is. Nah, fuckin’ hellhole. South Pacific. Way to go, mate, way to go.”

  Melissa comes back with a bottle of champagne, followed by a waitress with a tray laden with breakfast. Charles takes the champagne, winks and toddles down to the sea. Cheered by the drinking bathers he pops the cork, throws a high five to the fat woman, and slips into the water.

  Melissa and I settle down to breakfast. Russell and Ella come up. Russell is lugging Brian, Ella has flippers, snorkels and masks. Russell’s shorts are fluorescent, but his torso outshines them by far. They’re going snorkeling and they want us to mind Brian. “Don’t worry,” says Russell, “there’s nothing to it.” He hands me Brian while Ella hands Melissa a huge carryall.

  “There’s a bottle in there if he’s hungry—and all the gear if he fills his nappies.”

  “How will I know if he has?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll know.”

  “He might cry a bit at first,” says Russell, “but he’ll stop as soon as we’re out of sight. He always does.”

  “If you’re out of sight, how do you know that?”

  “Relax. It’s like the fridge light.”

  “Where are you guys going?” says Melissa.

  “You should come,” says Ella. “Frederick can manage by himself. Can’t you, Frederick?”

  Melissa looks at me. So does Ella. “You go ahead. Honeybunch.” Melissa goes to find some flippers. Ella and Russell smile confidently and step out for the water. Brian lets them get about ten feet then he pulls the rip cord. The kid has unbelievable lungs. Ella and Russell turn, smile a little less confidently, and head for the water again.

  Brian screams.

  Ella turns. She is no longer smiling.

  Brian howls.

  Ella wavers. She takes a step toward us, her lower lip quivering. Russell grabs her arm and drags her into the waves. Now, Brian really lets out all the stops. The bathing drinkers turn to watch. The bartender looks up from his daiquiris. The security guard on the beach covers his ears. It is now that I spot the fatal flaw in the fridge-light theory. Ella and Russell will never be out of sight. Brian can sit here hollering his lungs out and watching them snorkel up and down the bay all afternoon. I’m going to have to move. “Come on, Brian.” I follow the path to the lavatory block heading inland. As soon as we’ve turned the first corner, Brian stops. It’s like flicking a switch. He looks around him, round-eyed, trying to catch at passing leaves. Below the almost deafening birdsong, I hear a distant thump-thump-thump, coming from way off in the bush, which I guess must be the generators. This place must have the power requirements of a small town.

  We turn a corner. “Well, Brian, these are the lavatories. What do you think?”

  “Duh.”

  I must say the lavatories really are a masterpiece, and they’re constructed almost entirely in banana leaves. Passing through an arched opening crowned with banana leaves, we enter a large circular structure with a domed roof, built from two-by-fours, number eight wire and banana leaves. There are shower booths with banana-leaf partitioning, hot and cold water, real porcelain hand basins, mirrors, hair dryers, complimentary soap, shampoo and hand cream. Lavatories, once again with banana-leaf partitions, are, alas, not equipped with flush toilets, but teams of willing staff in face masks are emptying the buckets as fast as we can fill them. It’s cool and green and leafy, and there’s the soothing tinkle of running water. There’s even piped music. Split Enz.

  “Duh,” says Brian.

  Brian and I go back to the beach. His parents are now merely two dots in the bay and he pays them no attention at all. We sit in the shade of a tree. There’s no sign of Sophie. Brian is sitting bolt upright. He looks around, twisting his head through a hundred and twenty degrees. He looks straight up. He points into the canopy of the tree.

  “Dah.”

  I look up. “Yes, Brian, they’re coconuts.”

  “Duh.” Brian looks at the coconuts. I look at the sea. There’s nothing really to this child-minding business after all. The bush, the sea, the sand, the sky. Blue on green on white on blue. I lie back. It’s blissfully hot. I close my eyes. There’s a bird trilling in the bush. It sounds exactly like my cellphone.

  “Well, Brian, you might as well give up now. It doesn’t get any better than this.”

  “Dah.”

  “I mean, let’s face it. The best-case scenario from here
on is that you get old and die.” Brian doesn’t answer. I open one eye. “Wouldn’t you agree, Brian?” Brian isn’t committing himself one way or the other. Now that I think of it, there’s something pop-eyed about him. “Brian?” I look more closely. He is clutching a handful of sand. He has traces of sand around his mouth. “Brian? Have you been eating sand? Brian? Open wide, now.” How do you open a baby’s mouth? I know how to open a dog’s. You pry it open with a stick between the gums. Turns out it works for babies too. Brian’s mouth is packed solid with sand.

  “Brian! Spit out the sand!” Brian looks a little worried, like he thinks I might not be entirely normal. I hook my finger in and scoop out a glob. Brian smacks his lips. “Dah.” He looks around.

  “Brian, don’t eat the sand, okay?”

  “Dah.” He looks at me with intense concentration. He frowns with effort. “Duh.” His face reddens. “Duhh.” He relaxes and looks around again. “Dah.” He points at the coconuts. I smell something. I’m going to skip the details.

  Once that little job’s done, I rummage around and find the bottle in the holdall. I hold out the bottle and Brian opens his mouth. He knows exactly what this is all about. In goes the teat. I lean against the tree, he leans against me, grabs the bottle and sucks away. The fluid in the bottle sinks rapidly. When the pressure differential gets too great, Brian pauses, opens his mouth to let some air in to the bottle to equalize, and sucks again. In no time the bottle is empty. Brian sighs, leans back against my stomach and falls instantly asleep. I realize that I am extremely uncomfortable; there’s a bit of tree trunk sticking in my back and my left buttock is aching. I wouldn’t move for the world.

  “Orange juice?” It’s Sophie. She’s come up behind me, from the ablutions block. She’s in the same swimming costume, silk shawl across her shoulders, which parts over her belly like stage curtains. She’s pretending everything’s normal. She’s pretty good at that.

  “Yeah, ta.”

  She waddles over to the bar. She collects two orange juices and comes over. I think Sophie and I must be the only two on the island who are drinking orange juice. She hands me mine and sits down, leaning against my coconut palm. We’re at ninety degrees. Our shoulders are almost touching but we’re not looking at each other. I can smell shampoo. I can smell soap. She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “I just saw a snake back there.”