Wake Up and Dream

by Ian R. MacLeod

  WAKE UP AND DREAM—A BIOPIC OF LARS BECHMEIR SCREENPLAY BY DANIEL LAMOTTE

  No credits. The first thing the audience see as they settle in the theater are lines of faces, young and old, pretty and ugly, just like their own, but right up there on the screen. Some are yawning, some expectant. Some are pretty, some ugly. It’s a typical scene. The CAMERA pans over more and more faces. The FIELD gives out nothing at first but a general sense of anticipation. It’s like the audience on the screen and those in the feelie theater are the same. Then, as an underlay, with the DANIEL LAMOTTE THEME riding with it on the SOUNDTRACK, comes a mixture of awe and unease. CAMERA fixes on a young boy’s face. He’s pale, scruffily dressed. His mouth and eyes are wide. Then, a drumroll. Applause. The flare of a nearby spotlight glints in his wide open eyes. And we switch CAMERA POV to the kid. Roll CREDITS.

  The show begins.

  Rags to riches. Poverty to fame. Europe to America. East to west. The story contained so many of the ingredients for a successful feelie that it was a wonder it hadn’t been made years before. Especially when you considered who it was about.

  Lars Bechmeir had been born in Germany at the turn of the century to a family of traveling circus players. Alongside the strong men and bearded ladies and lion tamers, Bechmeir’s parents had performed a mind-reading act, and it was something they were surprisingly good at. So good that their only son was puzzled by how they often managed to make accurate guesses even when their usual system of signs and signals failed. Lars was a bright lad, and curious about the world. Perhaps he might even have shaken off his lowly upbringing and gotten to university, had the Great War not intervened.

  Like all young and able German men, Lars Bechmeir was conscripted. Like most, he ended up in the version of hell that was the Western Front. The only uncommon thing about Lars Bechmeir’s war was that he survived. That, and that his terrible experiences made him think even more deeply about how people reacted to each other; how atmospheres of fear, aggression and occasional joy were so easily and quickly transmitted. How bouts of savagery, or mercy, or bravery, or fear, seemed to pass from soldier to soldier like some contagious disease.

  What, Bechmeir wondered, if people communicated with each other not just through their commonly understood senses, but also by some other means? Of course, he knew the idea wasn’t original. He even knew how the many experiments which had attempted to prove communication between minds always failed. But Bechmeir wasn’t thinking about people sat behind screens and looking at cards in some bright laboratory.

  What he had experienced and witnessed in the trenches, above all what he felt, led him to believe that this hidden sense was a primitive thing, dealing not in higher-brain abstractions like words or images or thoughts, but in the raw stuff of basic emotion.

  We are, he decided, minutely touched by the cloaking aura of every person we meet. It explained the mass actions of mobs. It explained sudden feelings of attraction, repulsion or fear. It even explained the feeling of peacefulness so often found inside churches, and the homeliness of a happy house, and the sense of dread which clings to places where something terrible has happened. It might even explain why people imagined they saw ghosts.

  Lars Bechmeir fled war-ravaged Europe and headed for America with the vision of a means by which people shared each other’s feelings. If we could reach into each other’s minds, he reasoned—if we could really feel what another person felt and understand their joy and suffering—there would surely never be war again. He lived a few years in Chicago, sweeping the floors at the university and occasionally having use of the library. Then, like millions of others, he went west. He labored, he begged, but he still worked obsessively on his idea, which by now was a wad of calculations and speculations stuffed into the back pocket of his only pair of dungarees. It was on this journey that he met his wife Betty, whose sharecropper parents had been thrown off their land.

  In a barn in Minnesota, which Clark believed was now open daily for public tours, Bechmeir was finally able to capture on specially treated photographic paper those first famous images of his wife’s aura. Only a thumbprint smudge, a blur as if of faint gray wings flapping around a silhouetted body, but it bore out all that he had long theorized, even down to the essential weakness and changeability of the human aura. Now, at last, he had his proof. And, he reasoned, if this aura was essentially nothing more than a weak electromagnetic field which he called plasm, not only could this plasm be captured as an image, but, most likely, it could be recorded—and if it could be recorded, these recordings could be re-transmitted, and they could then be amplified, and edited. In one leap, Bechmeir had moved from the theory of a mild but little-credited extra sense to an idea which would revolutionize the world.

  Lars and Betty Bechmeir continued west. Inevitably, they reached LA. In a series of run-down rooming houses and abandoned garages, he worked on generating this newly discovered field artificially. At least in LA, there was a ready supply of electronic equipment which the rapid progress of recording technology had discarded, and he made much use of cannibalized parts and the borrowed know-how of technicians he met in bars. He could see many uses for his discovery, but he soon realized that the most rapid progress could be made in what was then called the movie industry.

  But who would listen? Not the major players—not to a crank clutching a carpetbag with some weird idea about thought-waves. Which was what finally brought Lars Bechmeir to the top floor of the Taft Building for an appointment to see Howard Hughes. Hughes was a wealthy man and a movie producer, for sure, but he was already more famous for his eccentricities and his forays into aviation. For all his successes, Hughes was regarded as a loose cannon, but if you were looking for someone who would be fascinated by the idea of a device which could record the emanations of the mind, it would have been hard to find anyone better.

  Even before the vacuum tubes of the frail and rudimentary device had been warmed up and wired together across his desk by the small, nervous guy with a German accent who’d shuffled into his office on worn out shoes, Hughes had been persuaded. When, after much further coaxing, a shimmering field of plasm stuttered from between two spikes of metal, and the everyday sounds of city traffic wafting in through the windows were briefly eclipsed by a strange but palpable sense of dread, he was fully convinced.

  Bechmeir had already filed patents for his discovery, and, even then, he was determined that his device should be made available to the world as a whole. Still, he took Hughes’ backing to push on with developing a commercial prototype in the old schoolhouse down in Willowbrook where he was by then working, and which subsequently become a museum and home to the Bechmeir Trust. Rumors were soon rife about this strange new form of entertainment the Hughes Corporation was said to be developing, and then of the talkie—no, it would be called a feelie-movie—in which it would be premiered.

  Reactions to the first showings of Broken Looking Glass at Grauman’s Chinese Theater were mixed. There were teething troubles. Reels broke. Valves overheated. There was a small fire. Many claimed to have been made nauseous by the strange, crackling aurora which spluttered before the screen. Others said they felt nothing at all. The Actors’ Guild and the other studios were hostile. A Catholic bishop condemned the whole enterprise for tampering with the very stuff of the human soul. Then, and in the tradition of most of Hughes’ movies, the story itself was no good.

  But the press loved the whole thing. They loved Howard Hughes and they loved wacky ideas and they loved premieres. Above all, they loved Lars Bechmeir with his trim beard, owlish glasses, double-breasted safari jacket, trademark meerschaum pipe and soft German accent, and they loved his marvelous recordings played through a clever wire machine, conjuring up wraiths which puttered and danced like flames of marsh gas, reaching out their ghostly arms to touch minds with the raw stuff of human emotion. They loved handsome and prematurely-grayed Betty Bechmeir as well. The pair made a good couple—were photogenic in a down-home sort of way—and the press soon came t
o portray their life story as the best and latest version of the rags-to-riches American Dream. From that day forward, nothing was ever the same. Lars Bechmeir was soon up there with Thomas Edison. In most people’s eyes, in fact, he was above him, seeing as Edison kept all his money, whilst Bechmeir promised to channel the proceeds of his patents into a charitable trust.

  By the mid 1930s, all the movie theaters in the country were re-equipping themselves with Bechmeir field generators, and the idea of the plain old talkies, which had seemed so revolutionary five years before, was old hat. After all, who would want to merely watch and listen to something played up on a screen when you could actually feel it as well? And if the other advances which Bechmeir had promised—in education, in the sciences, in the understanding of the deeper workings of the mind, and in improving mental health—had failed, or been slower in arriving, and even if poor old Howard Hughes himself had gone mad, people barely noticed, and they cared even less. They were too busy going to the feelies, or counting the blessings of this burgeoning new industry which had helped drag America out of the Great Depression.

  Which was how, Clark reckoned, this story should have ended if it had been fiction. Lars and Betty Bechmeir might have given most of their money away to charity, but they were nevertheless seriously successful and authentically rich. And they lived in a fine house in LA; what else could anyone possibly want? Few major openings in and around the city—libraries, dams, new power stations, even first nights of the rapidly declining live theater, and, of course, premieres of feelies themselves—were complete without the Bechmeirs’ attendance.

  But then, Betty Bechmeir’s body was found one morning in May 1936 dangling by a rope from the Colorado Street Bridge out in Pasadena. Despite an exhaustive inquest, the true reason for her death was never explained. Soon after, Lars Bechmeir, previously a man in vigorous middle age, suffered what the papers first reported as a fall, then as a major stroke. The next time he was seen in public, his voice was slurred and he was in a wheelchair. It was no surprise when their palatial house in Beverly Hills was put up for sale and Lars Bechmeir vanished from the public eye. Sightings of him in the years since had become as common as sightings of Bigfoot in the press. Lars Bechmeir in some backwoods log cabin in Maine, or dining out in Paris. That, or reports that he was fully recovered and working on some magical new device, or had remarried, or had become a hopeless vegetable, or was dead.

  Bechmeir’s tragedy and subsequent disappearance had elevated him from all-American hero to bona-fide myth. The problem, though, from the point of view of producing a feelie about his life—and presumably the reason why it had never yet been done—was how to deal with an event as shattering as Betty Bechmeir’s apparent suicide, and her husband’s subsequent illness and reclusiveness, yet still retain that allimportant happy ending.

  And that, for all the neat tricks and fine writing in the script he was reading, was to Clark’s mind the cleverest thing about what Daniel Lamotte had achieved. Betty Bechmeir might have been seen as an all-year-round version of Mother Christmas, but the woman he portrays is far more complex and serious. She’s seen suffering, death and poverty in her life just as Lars Bechmeir has. And she feels things at least as deeply. That’s the very reason she buys into her husband’s vision so easily, and stands by him through thick and thin. It all fits with the success of those crude early experiments on recording auras which he conducted on her and then—and here was the really elegant part—with Betty’s unease, which even their triumphant success cannot remove. She’s too in tune with other people’s feelings. She cares too much, and has seen too much, for any kind of success to wash those feelings away.

  So, when she drives off into the thunderstorm on that climactic night, it doesn’t feel like a cop-out or a let-down. You fully understand that, just as Christ submitted to crucifixion, Betty Bechmeir loves us all too much to carry on living. As he finished the treatment, Clark was blinking back tears. At least for the time he was reading it, he really did believe that Betty Bechmeir was actually taking away some of the world’s pain as she drove toward the Colorado Street Bridge.

  EIGHT

  NEEDING SOME AIR, he pulled on a sportcoat and took the dim-lit stairs down through the Doge’s Apartments past all the usual nightly sounds of arguments and murmuring radios, and headed north toward Albert Kinney Pier.

  Quiet tonight. The dancehall closed. The Ferris wheel, stilled and its lights dead, was a huge black spiderweb cast across the starlessly hazy night. Wrappers fluttered about his feet. The sigh of the Pacific came and went through the gaps in the pier’s boarding.

  He leaned on the railing. As he rolled himself a cigarette and blew plumes of smoke into the darkness, he ran through possible explanations for the strange role which April Lamotte was asking him to perform. The one in which she’d killed Daniel Lamotte and he was helping to provide her with some kind of alibi bothered him the most. But, for all that April Lamotte was plainly a woman who was capable of many things, he just couldn’t believe that she’d murdered her husband. If his intuition, long-honed in dealing with worried spouses, told him anything at all about April Lamotte, it was that she was genuinely trying to sort her and her husband’s lives out. But was she telling him everything? His intuition also told him that most definitely she was not.

  A cold prickle—the sort of thing you paid for when you went to the feelies, or got for free when someone walked over your grave—passed across him. He looked back along the pier. There was no one about. But, for an odd moment, something did seem to be moving towards him from amid the dark and empty attractions. Not quite a figure—its shape wouldn’t stay that clear. He had it down as simply some kind of dust devil, although he’d never seen such a thing before out here in Venice. Nothing but a stir of warmed air and darkness, it picked up swirls of beachsand and scraps of litter as it moved toward him with an odd quality of purpose. Certainly not a figure. Or if it was a figure, it was a ragged blur of scraps and shadows, the shape not of one figure but of many, and it was running towards him as if from out of the end of some incredibly long tunnel, and it was bringing with it an odd and breathy hissing.

  He blinked, and the whole sensation faded. The wind stirred, and then there was nothing back down the pier but sea air and darkness. He put it down to the sound of the tide, and the breeze, and the loose fry wrappers blowing around him, and his tiredness, and seeing that wraith, and then Peg Entwistle in that feelie…

  The light was off in Glory’s cubbyhole when he got back to the Doge’s Apartments. Most of the radios were off as well. Where the furniture creaked, where people cried out, it was to other rhythms.

  He let himself in, undressed, climbed into bed. He lay there for a long while, staring up at the ceiling.

  NINE

  HE PARKED HIS FORD in a lot beside the Equitable Building at just gone three next day, June 27. Checking the polished glass of the shop windows as he walked south, he saw a lanky man with big ears and slicked back brown hair, casually well-dressed, wearing heavy brown glasses and carrying a small cardboard suitcase. These were expensive clothes—Daniel Lamotte had a sort of crumpled style—and they were a good fit. Even the shoes.

  He’d arranged to meet April Lamotte opposite the Taft Building on Hollywood and Vine at half past the hour. Historically appropriate, he reckoned, seeing as that was where Howard Hughes had maintained his offices until he’d been carted off to the funny farm. The lawyer’s office was a couple of miles on along Sunset toward Downtown, but it made sense that she pick him up someplace else. He saw that he’d arrived ten minutes early when he checked Daniel Lamotte’s Longines watch.

  The glasses were starting to slide with the sweat off his nose. He felt around in his pockets for a handkerchief—it was fresh, and monogrammed D L—but his fingers felt a gritty residue. Particles of sand glittered on his fingertips. He brushed them off, told himself to focus, wiped the lenses, put his glasses back on. He was an actor once again, and this was simply another role. It was just a
question of imagining that the whole of Los Angeles was a giant stage. He bought coffee in a paper cup from a doughnut-shaped stand using a dollar from Daniel Lamotte’s billfold. Mussolini had just declared war on the British and the Russians had invaded some place called Latvia according to the newsstand. More interestingly, stockings made out of something called “nylon” were about to go on sale. He’d just finished the coffee when he saw the Delahaye heading east, top down. Even amid the expensive machines that teemed across this particular intersection—the Cadillacs, Buicks and Bentleys of all the feelie industry players who worked around here—it stood out.

  April Lamotte pulled in at the curb and gave him a smile far warmer than anything he’d seen the day before as she leaned across the bench leather seat and gestured him in. She was wearing something burgundy with padded shoulders and big lapels and puff sleeves. The outfit was belted at the waist and fitted snug around her hips and down to her beige-stockinged thighs. She was also wearing a diamond-studded wedding ring and matching gold and emerald necklace and bracelet. Clark heard the thrum of the Delahaye’s exhaust, felt the expensive heft and swing of the door, as he sat beside her and slung the suitcase on the back seat.

  “Bang on time.”

  “You must have been early.” She was still smiling. Then she let go of the wheel and leaned over and slid the glasses neatly off his ears and laid them on the dash and put her arms right around him. Her lips sought his mouth with smooth ease. He felt the hard push of her tongue. She was still wearing Chanel Cuir de Russie and she was fuller-bodied than he’d thought. Her hand trailed down across the top of his thigh as she finally drew away. He saw the guys around the doughnut stand watching open-mouthed as she pulled off. If she was looking for witnesses, she’d certainly got them.