The Book of the Film of the Story of My Life

by William Brandt

  “Apart from that.”

  “Well, I guess it’d be something to tell my grandchildren about.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “It’ll cost you.”

  “Of course. I quite understand.”

  “And what about us?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The relationship.”

  “For the time being we carry on. In the event that anything happens we’ll work something out. A scene. A passionate denunciation.”

  She sighs again. “Oh, all right.”

  “Excellent.” I’ve finished the sunblock. I sit back on my heels.

  “Thanks.” She sits up, grabs her margarita, swigs it and makes a face. “Ichh. Warm.”

  Chapter 14

  “SEE ANYTHING?”

  “Not yet.”

  We’re all standing on the beach. The two totems stand facing the sunset, arms outstretched, silhouetted black against the flaming red ball as it slips, faster and faster, into the sea. Most of us have changed for dinner. I’m in my shiniest shirt, Melissa is in underwear. Ella is in a pantsuit and heels, Russell is in a Hawaiian shirt with giant pineapples all over it and Brian has the strangest baby outfit I’ve ever seen. He looks almost exactly like Henry VIII except for the beard: Brian hasn’t trimmed his the same way.

  The sun is down.

  “Anything?”

  “No. You?”

  “Nothing.”

  We were watching for the green flash. There’s supposed to be one at the moment the sun slips out of sight. I’ve never seen it. Now that the sun is out of the way, though, the sunset really kicks in—a Disney parade of vast salmon-pink nuclear mushrooms marches away over the horizon. You feel like applauding.

  As evening settles the waiters are doing the rounds with cocktails and snacks. I order an orange juice. Darkness falls and the sand glows white, like snow at night. A mournful wailing sound comes from far down the beach. Shivers run down my spine. We all look in the direction of the sound and we see a light, dancing and wavering as it comes toward us. It pauses, and dips, and now there are two lights, and it comes toward us again, and now there are three. They’re lighting torches, all along the beach. The sound comes again, a long, drawn-out note. It sounds like some mournful, dying sea creature.

  “What’s that?” says Melissa.

  “That is the sound of a conch shell.” I jump. The chief of police is standing close behind us. His voice is deep and smooth, and two tiny torch flames dance in the lenses of his sunglasses. He smiles at Melissa. The torchbearer comes closer. Stripped to the waist and generously oiled, he holds the torch aloft, jogging slowly, Olympic style. He passes us and moves on, lighting up the dark. The conch sounds again. Melissa sighs. I get a whiff of shampoo. I have an ache. I wonder what Sophie is up to. I haven’t seen her all day. I spent the entire afternoon hanging around on a deck chair within sight of her tent. It was a stakeout. I hardly moved. I got so full of tomato juice my bladder must have resembled a size-twelve blood bag. While I was waiting I read some more of Gerard’s script, which I have to admit is beginning to grab me. Melissa finished her entire stock of thrillers and started on my screenplays. The rate she reads at is phenomenal. Her recall is excellent too. Matt came out around lunchtime, collected some food and took it back to the tent. He wasn’t smiling. Rebecca visited about halfway through the afternoon. I think I heard raised voices at one point, but I could have been mistaken.

  “Well that was nice.” Melissa rubs her hands together. Sinatra starts to play on the sound system. Fairy lights strung through the branches of the trees flicker on. The tables are set for dinner. We all find our places, which have been preallocated. Melissa and I are sharing a table with Russell and Ella, who has Brian on her knee and is trying to get him to eat something out of a jar that doesn’t look any different from the way it’ll be when he’s finished with it. Also there is Drunken Denise, the old couple from next door—and, on my left, Tamintha. A cold wind blowing from that quarter. Drunken Denise has changed into a pair of skintight slacks with huge flares and ultra-low waist and a matching strapless crossover top. The five-inch stiletto heels on her rhinestone fuck-me-without-delay shoes have a dangerous habit of disappearing into the sand at every step. This is especially problematic as she keeps jumping up to go over to other tables and make a witty remark or three.

  I don’t know what to say to Tamintha. She’s sitting tight-mouthed as staff serve the entrée: a shrimp cocktail with little umbrellas. “So . . .” I say.

  Tamintha eats in silence.

  “It’s a lovely island.”

  Tamintha eats in silence.

  “Have you seen the snakes?”

  Tamintha puts down her knife and fork and turns to me. “Frederick,” she says, in the civilized but icy tone that I’ve heard her using when talking to New York, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Oh.”

  She turns back to her shrimp.

  Suddenly, the lights all go out. Thunderous drumming on the sound system. Spots hit the dance floor and eight young islanders in grass skirts and headdresses, their brown bodies daubed with white paint, carrying flaming torches, jog-trot single file into the light. The crowd roars. The dancers duck and spin, whirling their torches, passing them back and forth, catching them under legs, sideways, in their teeth. Black greasy smoke billows away into the night. Sweat pours in rivulets, staining the ground.

  “Get yer gear off!” Drunken Denise has to be restrained. The dancers jog-trot off stage, looking nervous, pursued by whistles and catcalls. The sound system goes back to Sinatra.

  Sophie and Matt choose this moment to make a late entrance. Sophie is looking radiant in a little black dress cut like a tent and a sticking plaster above her eye. Leaning lightly on Matt’s arm, she looks around, almost shyly, as she takes her place at a table near the dance floor. She’s been seated with the Irish Brothers, Charles, and other notables. She pours herself a glass of water. Matt, grinning all around, sits next to her.

  It’s impossible to read her expression from here, but, from the way they made their entrance, it’s all too clear. There’s a brittle edge to it, I can tell. They’re putting on a brave face, both of them, they’re getting on for the sake of appearances, but there’s a rift. There’s definitely a definite rift. My heart begins to pound. I can’t help it. Matt glances briefly in my direction but it’s a glance that betrays nothing—which is of course a dead giveaway. He’s in trouble. Serious trouble, and he knows it.

  The dinner proceeds. The shrimp is followed by huge slabs of cow, which, Russell explains, are delicious due to the coconut fiber in the cows’ diets. I notice that Sophie is eating well, although Matt doesn’t seem to be hungry. I, of course, eat with moderation: you should always get up from the table feeling that you can get up from the table.

  Melissa gets up. “I’m just going to the bog,” she announces. She kisses me on the nose and squeezes out of her chair.

  “So who is she?” It’s Tamintha. She’s still looking at her plate.

  “Melissa?”

  “She seems nice.”

  “Oh, yeah, she is.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “Selfridges. Garden furniture.”

  She lowers her voice. “She’s half your age, Frederick. What are you trying to prove?”

  “Nothing.”

  Tamintha looks at me.

  “What can I say? We met and . . . wham.” I punch my fist rather weakly into my palm.

  “I’ve seen this so many times.”

  “Actually, I doubt that you’ve seen this before.”

  Tamintha shakes her head sorrowfully. “What do you talk about? Or don’t you?”

  “Lots of things. She’s very bright. She’s a student.”

  “What’s she studying? Or no—let me guess. Art history?”

  “Nuclear physics.”

  Tamintha stops chewing. She looks impressed. “That girl?”

  “Hard to believe, isn’
t it?”

  “Very.”

  About now, Melissa gets back, and Tamintha turns to dessert, which is something called a volcano cake, specially conceived for the occasion. It’s cone-shaped and there’s a lot of chocolate in it, much of it in a molten state. Chairs are pushed back. Belts are loosened. Conversation slows.

  At the other table, I notice Matt wiping his lips, stretching, getting up and heading for the ablutions block. On impulse, I give it a minute, then follow. There are torches all the way along the trail but it’s eerie with the shadows jumping and the distant thump-thump-thump of the generator. I try not to think of snakes.

  The ablutions block is empty when I enter. Matt must be in a cubicle. I wash my hands and splash my head with water. I’m feeling nervous. A cubicle door opens and I have to stop myself from spinning around. Footsteps behind me. I glance in the mirror. It’s the enormously fat woman. She goes to wash her hands, and I go back to my basin. Another cubicle door creaks. This time it’s Matt. He strolls over to the basin next to mine and starts to wash his hands. “Hey Frederick, how ya doin’?” Very friendly.

  I try to think of a suitably cool and cutting reply. “Good, thanks, good. And you?”

  “Oh, can’t complain.”

  The enormously fat woman finishes washing her hands and heads out. The ablutions block is now empty, except for the two of us. “So you’re enjoying yourself, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure.”

  “Yeah, we’re having a pretty good time.” I note the “we.”

  “It’s a very beautiful spot.”

  “It certainly is. Very beautiful.”

  We stroll for the door, Matt slightly ahead. My legs are behaving strangely. It’s like they’ve suddenly turned into stilts. We walk down the path without speaking, me just behind. When we get to the beach Matt stops by the bar and waits for me. Sinatra is faintly audible in the background. The lighting is low. His face is in shadow and all I can see is a jutting jaw, the occasional flash of the whites of his eyes. A waiter hurries past from the kitchen, carrying a huge silver platter.

  “You hungry?” says Matt. “I’m not hungry.” He pulls a cigar out of his pocket. “Want a cigar?”

  “No thanks. But you go ahead.”

  Matt sits at a nearby table. He takes his time. He hauls an aluminum tube out of his breast pocket, extracts a huge knobbly cigar. He fumbles in his left pants pocket, comes out with a gold cutter, clips the end, fumbles in his right pants pocket, stares into the flame of his rather chunky lighter. I think it’s a vice that he affects. I once had the shock of my life when, walking down Jermyn Street, I looked in the window of the incredibly expensive tobacconist on the corner and saw Matt’s face, wreathed in smoke, staring out at me from the cover of Cigar magazine with a twelve-inch Havana clamped between his teeth. Matt extinguishes the lighter with a reluctant snap. He looks at me dolefully. “You probably don’t like me too much do you, Frederick?”

  I remember a few months back I was standing on the tube platform. It was raining outside and everyone was damp and steaming gently. The train was approaching. There was someone standing in front of me, his toes right on the yellow line. I thought to myself that if that person were Matt Chalmers, I would probably give him a good hard shove. I would.

  “Oh, what the hey. Water under the bridge and all that.”

  Matt pauses. He looks me in the eye, like he’s searching for something—my soul, or maybe my contact lenses. He looks down at the table and slides the lighter away from him. He leaves it lying on the table like a peace offering. “For what it’s worth, I’m real sorry the way it’s turned out, this whole thing. I always kinda hoped you and I were gonna be friends.”

  “No reason why we shouldn’t be.”

  Matt’s eyes widen.

  “I’m sure Sophie’s a lot happier now, and I know I am, and after all, that’s what really matters.”

  For a second he’s speechless, which in itself is almost worth the effort. “Wow. You’re really together, you know that?”

  I shrug. “A lot of people say that.”

  “Well, let me say this, then. I really admire your attitude.”

  “It’s only natural. After all, infidelity in a relationship is really only a sign of more fundamental problems that aren’t being addressed. Sophie was seeking to end the relationship but unable to find a way to do so. I should be thanking you, really. It’s thanks to you that Sophie and I were finally able to address those issues and move forward in a constructive way. We’re both much happier as a result. I’m sure it’s been the same for you and Anne-Marie.”

  He spins the lighter on the tabletop and his face sags. “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  “Have you spoken to Anne-Marie?”

  “I guess it hit her pretty hard.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I suppose we were growing apart for a while . . . you know, it’s weird, you spend your life with someone, you think you know a person, you wake up one morning and . . . there’s a stranger lying there in bed next to you.” He looks up, suddenly hopeful. “I don’t mean literally, a strange person, I mean . . .”

  “I know just what you mean.”

  “And then you meet someone, and it’s just . . . it’s just, like, WHAM.” He smacks one fist loosely into his palm. “You know what I’m saying?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Like a goddamn freight train, it knocks you flat. No use saying wait a minute, or . . . there’s no saying anything. No time to think. Just . . .”

  “Wham.”

  “And then there’s the baby.”

  “A double-whammy. You must be thrilled about that.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He nods and stares at the table. “Thrilled.”

  “A new baby. All the responsibilities and joys of fatherhood to look forward to.”

  He pulls on the cigar. “Oh yeah, I love kids. I love ’em. I mean, I’ve got kids of my own already.”

  I nod sympathetically. “Yeah, I know.”

  “You don’t have kids, do you?”

  I shake my head.

  “You never wanted kids?”

  “No, never. Melissa feels just the same. Just not interested for some reason.”

  “She seems like a wonderful girl.”

  “Oh, she is.”

  Matt nods. He rubs his chin. He looks at the ground, at the sky, at his cigar. There’s no doubt about it. Here he is, he’s got everything. Looks, talent, fame, fortune, Sophie. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. He’s got a pilot’s license, a black belt, an ancient Roman coin collection, two-and-a-half racehorses, a hand-crafted maple humidor and a personal assistant called Jerry. I know most of this because I bought that copy of Cigar magazine. They didn’t really capture the inner person. But is Matt happy? Of course not. The guy’s miserable. It’s written all over his face. He misses his family, he’s racked with guilt. Sophie is nothing to him. She’s a midlife panic reaction to lost youth, lost teeth, lost hair. He doesn’t love Sophie. He barely knows her. She’s a fantasy. A fantasy that promptly turned around and got pregnant.

  “You know, Matt, I might just change my mind about that cigar.”

  “Sure, buddy.”

  Matt slips an aluminum tube out of his breast pocket and hands it to me. I unscrew it. I breathe in. The smell of tobacco. It’s one of those smells all right. Matt leans across with the lighter. I twirl the cigar in the flame until it catches. I draw. My mouth floods with saliva. I exhale through my nose and the full, sweet, musty odor blows the top of my head clean off.

  “Matt, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Are you happy?”

  He looks at me for a long time. His eye twitches. “Who can truly say they’re happy?”

  I lean forward. I lay my forearms on the table. I pick up the gold lighter. It’s even heavier than I expected. I flick the flame into being and it dances between us. The light reflects from Matt’s eyeballs, two tiny golden sparks in the dark. �
�I think I can.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  “Melissa is everything I could ever hope for in a woman. Warm, considerate, intelligent, deeply compassionate and understanding, great sense of humor, generous to a fault . . . sensual . . .”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s incredible too, the wisdom and maturity and depth of one so young and luscious and, and . . . pliant. You know, if ever I’ve got a problem, something on my mind, she can cut straight to the heart of it. It’s amazing. Every time. You should talk to her. You should spend some time, just talking and getting to know her. Lots of time. All the time you want. You’d be surprised.”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “As a matter of fact, she was saying just today how much she enjoyed meeting you, and how she hopes to spend some more time getting to know you better.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Absolutely.” I pause, smile at a private thought, and lay the lighter on the table. Matt picks it up.

  “Can I ask you a question, Frederick?”

  “Anything.”

  “Sophie seems to be real upset about something. I was wondering if it might be something specific.”

  I nod thoughtfully.

  “It’s just this morning she really took a dive, you know what I mean? She really, she went down. I’d have to say I’m a little concerned, and I just wondered if she’d said anything to you or if you got any indication of what might be troubling her?”

  I furrow my brow. I rub my chin. “Gee, Matt, I don’t know. I can’t think of anything.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Of course Sophie is like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well I’m sure you’ve noticed her mood swings already.”

  “She is kinda moody, isn’t she?”

  “Bipolar disorder is of course just a label.”

  Matt nods, thoughtfully.

  “She’s probably just having a bigger swing than usual. That happens every six months or so.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Nothing really. Just stay calm. Try to stay between her and open windows. Sometimes I’d have to hide the knives, but only for a week or so.”