Overland

by Graham Rawle

  Kay was leaning over the banister when Queenie let herself in through the front door. Queenie, still wearing her red shorts and dance shoes, wearily climbed the stairs.

  “How did it go?”

  Queenie looked up at the sound of Kay’s voice. “I’ve had better days,” she said.

  “No luck?”

  “Nah. I got in to see an important choreographer, but I was a little off my game. Things on my mind.”

  Kay was intrigued yet reluctant to pry. Queenie joined Kay on the landing. Seeing her friend’s look of concern, she decided to share. She let out a long sigh before speaking.

  “Between you, me, and the grand piano, I’m still waiting for my Aunt Flo to visit.”

  Kay looked dubious. “Oh. I’m not sure Mrs Ishi is very keen on us having visitors.”

  “Not that kind of visitor, dope. You know … Aunt Flo? … From Redding? … Comes to stay for a few days once a month?” Queenie stressed the words to make sure that Kay had caught on. “Except mine hasn’t turned up and I’m starting to get worried. She’s never normally this late.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Oh dear is right. I don’t know what the heck I’m going to do if she doesn’t show up soon.”

  There was a pause while Kay considered this.

  “Do you think we should call the police?”

  EIGHT

  GEORGE WAS DOWN at the Overland diner waiting to be served when he became aware of a Resident in painting coveralls leaning against the counter reading a newspaper.

  “’Bout time huh?” he said.

  “What?”

  The man held up the newspaper. The headline read Expulsion of all Japs in California near.

  George frowned. “Do they mean civilians?”

  “Anyone with even a drop of Japanese blood. Sayonara.”

  “Why are they doing that?”

  “Are you crazy? ’Cos of Pearl Harbor, you dope. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “Are they sending them back to Japan?”

  “Uh-uh. Concentration camps. Stick ’em out in the middle of nowhere, throw a big barbed-wire fence around ’em.”

  “That seems rather …”

  “Extreme?” The man shrugged. “War’s war. What are you gonna do? Nobody wants one of them crazy Kamikazes dropping in for supper.”

  George ruminated on this. “No, that could be awkward.”

  He picked up his coffee and donut to leave. On his way out, he noticed that many of the Overland diners were reading newspapers. One word seemed to dominate many of the front pages: Bataan. Wasn’t that where Jimmy had said his brother was stationed? He had no idea where Bataan was, but the headlines gave some hint of developing events there: Japanese Forces Take Bataan. Bataan falls! 36,800 US troops trapped. 15 Generals among war prisoners.

  Outside, crossing the square, a young man was carrying a wide roll of fabric on his shoulder. George trotted after him, trying not to spill his coffee.

  MEANWHILE In a dark corner of the factory a man in bulky jacket and gloves, wearing a thick leather smoke hood, was stoking the glowing embers of a forge with a long-handled trowel. The mask’s dark goggling eyeholes gave him a demonic look as he lifted and sifted the bright, hot coals. It was reminiscent of a scene from Dante’s Inferno.

  “Harry, tell Mr Beckman on the gate I don’t want any of the workers bringing in newspapers from outside.”

  Harry took the roll from his shoulder and stood it upright, draping his arm around it like it was a high-school sweetheart. “Gee, boss. The fellers like to take a look at the paper during their lunch break … find out what’s going on in the world.”

  “Well, not me. I don’t want to know what’s going on out there. I don’t want to hear a goddamn thing about it. Tell them that while they’re here in Overland they should keep their mind on the job. No newspapers.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know if the men will go for that.”

  “Well then we’ll print our own newspaper. Local news. News of what’s going on in Overland.”

  “You’re serious, right?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Because nothing’s going on in Overland; there’s nothing to write about. Besides, everybody finishes at the end of the week. There’ll be nobody here to read it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Overland project. Friday’s our last day. The carpenters, construction crew, the painters, prop-makers, sparks, lighting guys—we’re all heading back to our regular jobs. Back to the studios, back to construction sites.”

  “What, everybody? There’s still so much to do.”

  “That’s the way it goes. Contracts end. No more pay. Everyone goes home to momma.”

  “Where’s your loyalty? Don’t you care about the success of the project?”

  “Major Lund’s orders. He says we’re through here. You should check your contract too, boss. The major said you were being moved out to Seattle.”

  “I’m not being moved out anywhere. I’m in charge around here, not Major Lund. Overland is my project and I say what goes on in this town. Get it?”

  George felt embarrassed by his own haughtiness.

  “Whatever you say, Mr Godfrey.” Harry’s tone carried a patronizing edge.

  “And tell Mr Beckman, from now on, no newspapers. We’ll be printing our own.”

  Harry pretended to make a mental note. “No newspapers. Check. We’ll be printing our own … Even though there will be no one here.”

  George responded testily. “The Residents will still be here. I’m sure they’ll be interested to read about what’s going on in their town.”

  “Oh, sure they will. Stop press: Overland Resident to embark on leisurely walk … Local woman forgets to hang out laundry. Brother. Hold the front page.”

  This sort of thing used to happen at the studios too; someone on the crew would repeatedly do or say things that exposed and undermined the verisimilitude of whatever fiction George had created, seemingly unable to accept that this was simply another kind of reality. It wasn’t meant maliciously, but it was annoying just the same. Yes, George knew that the mountains were a painted backdrop and that the castle was made from papier mâché, but it didn’t help the actors, director, or anyone one else involved in telling the story, to be constantly reminded of it.

  While at MGM, much of George’s day was spent in the various work shops, figuring out design and production details, but he was happiest wandering round the various sound stages and backlots. That was where the sets really came to life. He preferred them just prior to shooting, before the crew cluttered the area and spoiled the illusion with their camera cranes, lighting equipment and dolly track—when each set was still a blank canvas onto which any number of stories could be painted.

  Though it was a modified version of reality, in most cases he saw it as an improvement. He’d never been to Bali, had no idea even where it was, but he couldn’t imagine that the beaches there would be any more exotic than the one created for Dorothy Lamour in Aloma of the South Seas. He’d never been to New York either, but thanks to his familiarity with the Brownstone District on MGM’s Lot Two he felt au fait enough with the area to know where he might get his pants pressed or buy a good steak dinner.

  The studio backlots were so vast, some of them sprawling over more than sixty acres, that once you were in the midst of them the perimeter fences fell away into the distance; there was nowhere else to go but to some other reality.

  Once, when he’d run out of cigarettes, he intuitively headed for a tobacco shop in the French district only to be reminded that this particular store was “facade only” and had no interior. Some did, but he could never remember which.

  Stray dogs and cats roamed the streets or dozed in the shade of buildings; birds perched on branches. They couldn’t tell, and didn’t care, whether the trees or houses were real.

  Employees involved in the Andy Hardy series of pictures spent years working day in, day out on the elaborate New Englan
d street set that stood permanently on Lot Two, representing Andy’s fictional hometown of Carvel. And though it was a confection rather than a reflection of the American way of life, they came to know and love the neighborhood better than their own. Carvel was a real nice town; who wouldn’t want to live there? Its inhabitants were always generous and tolerant, whereas in the world outside the studio gates most people turned out to be selfish and morally corrupt.

  When George had worked on the snow scenes for The Mortal Storm, they covered the entire area of Stage Fifteen with 300 tons of white dolomite and gypsum. Falling snow made from goose feathers and shaved paper pulp added to the effect. During the course of the day, he began to notice that the crew working on set were wearing sweaters and coats. It was maybe eighty degrees, yet folks were all wrapped up because they felt cold. That’s what happens—your eyes see snow and send a signal to your brain that it’s midwinter; suddenly your teeth start chattering and you’re putting on mittens.

  He loved how convincingly this sense of place could be created. On a typical day he might eat breakfast in a Mexican bordello, take a mid-morning nap aboard a pirate galleon and then later enjoy a fried chicken lunch on the ice-capped summit of Mount Everest. When the working day was over, instead of going straight home he would take a stroll through Dickensian London or sit and smoke cigarettes on the surface of the moon.

  The Lockheed Aircraft plant sprawled over a hundred acres, bigger even than MGM’s Lot Three. There were seventeen hangars, some longer than a city block, and dozens of other major buildings, parking lots, manufacturing plants and factories. Without its Overland shell, the plant was like a bullseye painted on the Burbank townscape; strategically, it was one giant self-advertising target.

  The aerial footage of the unconcealed Lockheed factory, taken before George made it disappear, had been shown to him at his initial meeting with Major Lund at an airbase in Glendale, where they had sat side by side in a small screening room along with a number of other military men. Nobody spoke; the only sound was the whirr of the projector and the quiet chatter of the film running through it. George felt very much the outsider: the only one not in uniform, watching a film that he assumed all the others had seen before.

  All this was clearly leading up to something big, but nobody had yet mentioned exactly what they wanted him to do. It was as if they were shy about putting it to him too directly. Major Lund finally came out with it.

  The proposal was to design and fabricate a three-dimensional town covering the entire Lockheed factory plant that from the air would look like an ordinary residential neighborhood—concealing, and therefore protecting, the factory below from Japanese air attack. It was a huge area to cover, Major Lund realized, but considering the capabilities of the movie studio art departments and the lengths they went to …

  Apparently, the major had witnessed this himself on official visits to Warner Brothers and MGM. He had been particularly impressed with aerial photographs of art director Lyle Wheeler’s spectacular city of Atlanta set for David O. Selznick’s Gone With the Wind, constructed on RKO’s “back forty” in Culver City. Why, suggested the major, couldn’t they build a simpler, more modest version on top of the Lockheed plant? A large area of camouflage netting, some trees and a few houses dotted about. He stressed that the fake town would only ever be seen in extreme long shot, certainly no closer than a thousand feet, so there would be no need for any great level of detail. With a large enough workforce to overcome the logistics of covering such a vast area, he felt sure this would be achievable.

  George was already picturing it.

  An entire town, like Andy Hardy’s Carvel, except that this would be his own design—and with no cameras, lights and microphone booms to compromise the reality. It would be far grander in scale than any movie set ever built and he, George Godfrey, would be its creator. Overland would be the greatest achievement of his career.

  Without giving it a second thought, he agreed to take on the mission.

  NINE

  THE MAN WHO came to Jimmy’s house to buy his motorcycle was called Wilf or Whiff; Jimmy didn’t quite catch the name because he had a few missing teeth that affected the way he spoke. He was a bear of a guy with a thick, woolly beard and a black eyepatch like a pirate. When they shook on the deal, the man’s hand felt thick and crusty like it was covered in barnacles. Jimmy half expected to be paid in gold doubloons or pieces of eight. Instead, the man counted out bills onto his hand. In exchange, Jimmy handed over the owner’s title and a key on a fob.

  The man brought the document close to his good eye, squinting to read the words. Satisfied, he folded it in half and stuffed it into his inside pocket. He reached for the handlebars, swung his leg over and mounted the motorcycle, settling himself into the saddle. Jimmy stepped back and put his hands in his pockets, distancing himself.

  “Don’t forget, the headlight needs adjusting,” he said.

  “No big deal. I won’t be riding it at night.” The pirate tapped his eyepatch with the tip of his index finger. “Makes judging distances a problem,” he explained. “I don’t see so good in the dark.”

  Kay was folding laundry and setting it in neat piles on the bed while Queenie sat at her dresser mirror titivating her hair.

  “What kind of work do you do … at that factory?”

  Queenie took a moment to consider her three-quarter profile before answering. “Lockheed? They build airplanes. They’re taking on a lot of women to do the men’s jobs while they’re overseas fighting.”

  “What kind of jobs?”

  “Welding, riveting—manual labor.”

  “Women do that?”

  “Sure they do. Why not? We’re twice as tough and ten times twice as smart as any man.”

  “Welding? I don’t think I could do that.”

  “Sure you could. All the girls do it. Nothing to it. They’re crying out for workers to increase production. Taking just about anyone who can make a fist. Good pay too.”

  “You think I could get a job there?”

  Queenie was forced to backpedal. “Oh, I don’t know about that, sweetie. No one’s hiring Japanese now. You know that. Especially not Lockheed. High risk of sabotage. A factory making fighter planes and bombers isn’t going to risk having a Jap spying on them and telling what’s-his-name old Hirohito all our military secrets. There is a war on. And strictly speaking, Lotus Blossom, you are the enemy.”

  “Why would I spy on Americans? I am an American—and as patriotic as you are.”

  “They’re not going to see it that way. Take a look in the mirror.”

  She did. Her Asian face stared glumly back at her.

  “Besides, I thought all you lot were being packed off to concentration camps. How come you haven’t been sent away?”

  “I was supposed to register at some assembly center yesterday. I didn’t go.”

  “Will they be looking for you?”

  Kay shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess. May tenth is the final deadline for exclusion of all Japanese. By then everyone is supposed to be in a camp.”

  “May tenth? That’s soon. What day is that?”

  “Sunday, I think,” said Kay.

  Queenie studied the calendar above Kay’s bed, running her finger along the rows of numbers. “May tenth is a Saturday. Wait, this says December.” She took a closer look “What’s this? Nineteen thirty-two? Holy Toledo. You’re a bit behind the times, aren’t you, sweetie?”

  “It’s an old one,” explained Kay. “I only have it because of the picture.”

  Queenie took a good look at the lakeside cottage scene. She didn’t get it. She turned to Kay with a quizzical look.

  “It’s from the man next door,” said Kay.

  “The Man Next Door?” Queenie said it like it was the title of a movie she had not yet seen, supposing that the lake picture might be a still from it. She had no idea what Kay was on about.

  “And anyway,” said Kay, “why is it only Japanese people? What about the Germans or I
talians? How come they’re not being imprisoned? America is at war with them too.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Is it? Why?”

  “Well, I guess because …”

  “Because Germans and Italians don’t look foreign? Because they don’t have flat noses and slanting eyes?”

  “Don’t chew me out. I didn’t make the rules.”

  “Well, I don’t know who did. I’m an American citizen, but they’re saying that anyone with even one-sixteenth Japanese ancestry has to go be evacuated. That’s saying that if you have just one Japanese great-great grandparent, you’re Japanese.”

  “I guess they want to be sure. In case there’s, you know, spies.”

  “So they lock all the Japanese up? Just in case?”

  Queenie shrugged. Like she said, she didn’t make the rules.

  “So there are no Japanese workers at your factory?”

  “There are a few orientals,” said Queenie. “I don’t know what they are. Chinese, probably. Chinese are allowed, apparently.”

  “Do you think maybe I could say I was Chinese—like you said? You know, an American citizen, but with Chinese ancestry instead of Japanese?”

  “I guess.”

  “Are they hiring Chinese?”

  “I don’t know. We could try. Better still, we make you look American. Then you don’t have to worry about it.”

  Five minutes later, the makeover was underway. Kay sat in front of the mirror wearing sunglasses; her hair was pulled up and stowed under a green wide-brimmed hat. Queenie assessed her protégée’s look.

  “Let’s get you out of that suit and into something a bit more eye-catching. We need to dazzle the personnel officer.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s too … chaste. Haven’t you got something with a bit more oomph?”

  “Not really. I don’t tend to go for garish colors.”