by E. R. Torre
"I'm sorry if I'm prying, but why are you sitting behind the counter?"
"You mean, why would the granddaughter of a famous actor be toiling away in such an uncomfortable, menial job?"
“Your words, not mine!”
"Actually, I’m normally resting in my palatial estates, my every decadent whim tended to by an army of low paid servants,” she said and laughed.
“Seriously?”
“Oh, you want the truth,” she continued. “The problem with the truth is that it’s always so much more mundane.”
“I can take it.”
“That’s what they all say. Without sounding too terribly obnoxious, I do indeed own this place. Now for the ordinary part: The regular attendant called in sick. I couldn't find a replacement in time, so here I am.”
“How long have you been doing this festival?”
“A few years now,” she replied.
“Oh, since—”
I was about to say it, but stopped. No need to go there.
“That’s OK,” she said, but her smile and good cheer faded. “Yes, we’ve been doing the festival every year since my Grandfather’s death. It ends tomorrow. The day after tomorrow, the day he passed away, we close down. Call it our moment of silence. Hard to believe it’s been six years since he died."
He died on my birthday, I thought.
"This is probably the last John Robinson film festival we ever have."
Not surprising, given the lack of crowds.
“You can barely get people to see the new films, much less the older ones,” she continued.
“Here today…”
“…gone tomorrow. It’s like Granddad always said: Each year you’ve got new actors hitting their stride. By the same time next year, many of them are washed up and a new batch arrives, bright and eager, ready to take their place. The rewards are great for those who succeed, but the best they can hope for is to hang out on or near the top for a couple of years. The really fortunate ones, and there aren’t many of them, make it for five, ten years. But even they get older and are bound to make some bad choices. In Grandpa’s business, all it takes is one really bad choice and you’re through.”
“Dog eat dog.”
“Absolutely. But say you beat the odds and your career is productive, lucrative, and long lasting. You make a whole bunch of well received films and you live the relatively comfortable life of a star. Many want more.”
“What else?”
“Immortality. Grandpa wanted his name and works to live well past his career and, yes, his life.”
“Sounds—”
“Egotistical?” she said. The smile returned to her face, though there was a hint of sadness behind it. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing to want to leave behind a body of work you can be proud of. But how and if you’re remembered, that’s out of your hands. In John Robinson’s lifetime he made forty five films. There were good ones, bad ones, and many in between. A serious film buff would consider only four or five of those films true classics. Your average film-goer, on the other hand, would be hard pressed to name more than one or two. Let a few more years pass and they’ll forget all about John Robinson and all his films.”
"Even if they do, the movies still exist.”
She shrugged.
“What good is that if no one sees them?”
“But John Robinson’s hard work, his movies, do exist. One hundred years from now, long past the time we’re all dead, people will still have the opportunity to see them. Can’t say the same about any of my work.”
“I suppose.”
“Look, let’s say he is eventually forgotten. He was obviously successful during his lifetime, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“He received accolades and was rewarded for his work, right?”
“I suppose.”
“The way I figure it, you go around this trip once. Better to be successful during your lifetime than afterwards or not at all. I’m sure there are plenty of actors, painters, and writers who produced great works in their time but lived in the shadows, unknown and unloved, eking out a living while fighting to pay their bills, their talents all but ignored by their peers. Then one day, they’re gone, and afterwards, wouldn’t you know it, their works are finally appreciated. Van Gogh, Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft. Their names are immortal now, long after it does them no good. Given their lot or your Grandfather’s, I’d gladly take your Grandfather’s.”
The smile on her face broadened.
“Grandpa would have liked you,” she said. “For what you just said, if nothing else.”
I matched her smile and cleared my throat.
“My name is Robert Towne. I came in from Manville today."
"Just to see the film festival?"
“No, I'm here because—”
I paused. There was no way in hell I could tell her the real reason. She picked up on my hesitancy.
"So you didn't come here for the film festival," she said and laughed. "I’m Judith. Judith Robinson."
"Pleased to meet you," I said. "It’s getting close to dinner time. Say, do you...would you like to join me for a bite?"
Judith motioned to the area around me.
"What, and disappoint the masses?” she said. She offered a wink and nodded. "Let me tell the projectionist we’re canceling the next show."
CHAPTER NINE
The Clement Restaurant sat only a couple of blocks from the theater and near the southern end of town. The restaurant was housed in what appeared to be one of the older buildings within Viktor. Its lines were smooth and horizontal, a perfect example of thirties era Art Deco. If it wasn’t for the snow and a dearth of palm trees, the building could have passed for most of those on South Beach. This motif continued within the restaurant itself. The furniture was functional yet brightly colored, and big band music filtered through hidden speakers tucked away in the restaurant’s shadowy ceiling. A couple sat in a corner table, but otherwise the place was empty. A waiter, eager for something to do, approached as we entered.
"Table for two?" he said. He knew Judith and greeted her with a nod. “Non-smoking?”
Judith returned the waiter’s nod with one of her own. We were escorted to a table by one of the front windows. The waiter left us for the moment and I whispered:
“If this is the non-smoking section, where do they keep the smokers? Out on the street?”
“We’re a small town that tries to act like we aren’t,” Judith said. “Most people are polite enough to not smoke in the company of others.”
Outside the window, the weak snow flurries were replaced with a stronger snow fall. Beyond them and beyond the town stood Viktor’s mountain, dark and imposing. The sun faded behind it, making her appear all the more ominous.
The waiter returned with a pair of menus.
“Care for something to drink?”
“Water is fine,” Judith said.
“Same for me.”
The waiter headed to the rear of the restaurant. We opened the menus and examined our choices.
"You never did tell me why you came to Viktor," Judith said.
"It’s a strange story," I said and instantly regretted it.
"How strange could it be?" she said. She offered me a warm smile that, to my eyes, hid a growing discomfort.
"Figure of speech," I said. I stalled for time and Judith could tell.
"The truth is, I can’t really explain why I came here," I quickly added. "I’m usually not an impulsive guy. When I flew in to Manville and got to the baggage claim, I saw a map of the area on a wall. I come from a really big city and when I spotted Viktor and realized how very small a town it was, I thought it might be interesting to give it a try. You know, to get away from the crowds."
Judith's closed her menu and laid it on the table.
"You should have fun skiing on Viktor's mountain,” she said. My lie by omission had taken most of her suspicion away. “It isn't as scenic as those in Manville, but the trade off is t
hat it isn't as crowded."
"Is that an invitation?"
Judith smiled. The warmth was slowly returning to her face.
"Sure."
After dinner we headed back to the cinema. Our meal was pleasant and things between us felt like they were clicking nicely. All the uncomfortable thoughts about John Robinson’s death were miles away. But when I looked up the street and saw how dark the sky had turned and how chilly the winds howling around us were, I couldn’t help but think of Judith’s Grandfather. As far as I knew, this was his town and his world. Without meaning to, I gazed past the buildings and at Viktor's mountain. It sat ominous in the near complete darkness.
A by now familiar chill gripped my body. No, I did not come here to meet Judith Robinson or ski on Viktor’s slopes. Something else, something much darker, dragged me to Viktor. In the approaching night I could feel its anger and its fear. It pulled at me like a riptide, drawing me closer and closer to—
"What’s wrong?"
The voice came out of nowhere and broke the trance. Judith was standing a half-dozen feet in front of me. Without realizing it, I came to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk and she continued on. She caught me frozen in place, staring at Viktor’s mountain despite the blustery wind. A single tear ran down my cheek. I turned away and wiped my stinging eyes.
"I'm sorry,” I said as I walked to her side. “Got caught up looking at the mountain. Damn, my eyes sting."
Judith watched as I approached. There was weariness in her expression.
"I enjoyed our dinner," I said in the hope of switching topics and lightening the mood. "I really enjoyed your company."
Without saying a word, Judith turned away. My behavior rattled her.
"I'm sorry I seemed so distracted. It really isn't the way I am."
“You were looking up there, at the mountain,” she said.
“Yes.”
“It’s where he died.”
There was nothing to say to that, so I didn’t try. After a few seconds of silence, she said:
"Why did you come to Viktor? Is it about my Grandfather?"
“Look,” I started, unsure where exactly to go. “I feel—Christ.”
I took a breath and shook my head.
“Up until a few days ago, I never heard of your grandfather. I never was a fan of his films or, like I told you before, the films of anybody. I didn’t know he lived here and died here.”
“And you just happened to see that map on the wall at the airport and decided to come here?”
“Just before flying to Manville, I found an article in an old newspaper. It was about your grandfather’s accident. I read the story and didn’t think anything else of it. Not until I got to the Manville airport and, yes, saw that map on the wall. It was the first time I connected your grandfather and this town and decided to come here. I discovered your theatre was playing one of his best films, at least according to my sister, and since I made it this far, I figured why not see the film."
"You found out about my Grandfather and his death only a few days ago?" Judith said. There was a healthy amount of skepticism in her voice. "You don't follow the news much, do you?"
“Not as much as I should. That’s all. Now I’ve seen one of his films and come to know you and it’s—”
I shook my head.
“That’s it.”
“Why were you staring at the mountain?”
“Because that’s where it happened. The paper didn’t say much other than that it was an accident.”
Judith remained quiet. I wet my lips and said:
“How exactly did he die?"
"You're another one, aren't you?" she hissed. Her face clouded with anger.
"Another what?"
"Another goddamned liar."
“What?”
There would be no answer to my question. Judith turned and stormed away, eventually disappearing into the Viktor Cinema. I could do little but watch and wonder.
The wind picked up once again. A cold blast sent chills down my spine. I looked up at Viktor's mountain, and it looked back down at me, darker and angrier than before.
The chills got the better of me.
I ran back to the Inn.
CHAPTER TEN
The night crawled by slowly.
I killed time watching a bit of TV –mostly local news- before exhaustion gave way to sleep. As I drifted off, a thunderstorm moved in from the west and strong winds battered my room’s window. When it calmed now and again, I heard the sounds of someone furiously clicking away on a keyboard in the room next door.
What little sleep I managed was shallow and full of dark dreams.
I dreamed of the mountain. I was on it and skiing down to Viktor. Only I was going too fast and losing all control. I held on tight and tried not to slide off the trail.
If I did, there was no chance I’d survive the ride.
Despite the chill which filtered in from the outside, I awoke the next morning covered in sweat. For what seemed like the thousandth time, I questioned why I was here. There was no reason, really. Coincidences or not, I felt the urge to get out of this place before uncovering any of its secrets.
Yes, there were secrets.
It was clear from the look on Judith’s face the night before. Whether dark or innocent, simple or complex, they were real and they caused people pain and they were none of my goddamned business.
I got out of bed and headed to the closet. I pulled out my suitcase and laid it on the bed and returned to the closet to take out my clothes. But as I did, I caught a glimpse of the early morning outside the window. The difference between the darkness of last night and the morning was startling. Blue sky replaced the foreboding night clouds. Viktor's mountain, so dark and ominous the night before, looked radiant in a fresh coat of pristine snow.
Last night the mountain scared me away. Today, it invited me in.
I couldn’t tell you how long I stared out that window, admiring that beauty. All I know is that when I was done, all thoughts of leaving Viktor were gone.
The day was ripe with possibilities.
I dressed up in heavy winter clothes and a jacket. I stepped out of my room just as the man occupying the one next door exited his place. He was no more than forty years old and had a tall and lean frame. His hair was brown and stringy and almost completely hid the thick glasses which covered his eyes. He wore mismatching brown slacks and a worn down red winter jacket. Just below the jacket was a faded yellow shirt. In his right hand was a small stack of documents. In his left hand was a black briefcase.
The man watched me through his thick glasses. His eyes were tiny and as brown as his pants.
He muttered “Good morning” and took a step around me.
"Excuse me," I said. He stopped.
"I had trouble getting to sleep last night.”
“Yeah?” the man said. His voice was deep but emotionless.
“You were typing, and it was bothersome. Do you mind doing that on the other side of the room?”
A look of incredulity crossed the man’s face.
“There was thunder and lighting and a wind blowin’ in from hell and you say my typing kept you awake?”
He was right, of course. I sounded like some overly sensitive lunatic.
“I work in an office. Eight hours a day I hear the sound of people, most often myself, typing on a keyboard.”
“Oh,” the man said. The incredulity on his face vanished. Perhaps he knew where I was coming from. Maybe he was a desk jockey, too. “While you’re on vacation, it’s the last thing you want to hear.”
The man’s lips pressed tight. He nodded.
"All right," he said and turned.
I sighed as he walked away. The events of the last few days had obviously taken their toll. I needed to unwind. Badly.
I headed down the stairs a few paces behind my neighbor. While he made a beeline to the door, I stopped to greet Mrs. Borg. She sat behind the counter, reading the day’s paper. Her features were
fresh and lively. Her motherly figure was accented by the bright yellow of her dress. Her graying hair was once again braided and wrapped in a bun. While yesterday she looked every second of her age, today she was so radiant she could easily pass for someone fifteen years younger. The morning worked its magic on everything in Viktor.
"Good morning," she said. "Are you going to the slopes today?"
I nodded.
"When is check out?”
“Noon.”
I glanced at my watch. It read nine.
“I better pay for another day,” I said. I pulled out my wallet. "You know, that’s the last thing I thought I’d say this morning."
"Viktor is a beautiful town,” the Innkeeper said. “I wouldn't live anywhere else. In fact, I'm surprised more people haven't moved here.” She offered a playful shrug. “Then again, if they did, the place would change, and our small town charm would disappear."
"How long have you been here?"
"Ever since I married. My husband, the late Mr. Borg, bought this property shortly after our honeymoon. We worked it together and I've maintained it since his death."
Ouch.
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, don’t worry. It happened a very long time ago." A dreamy look filled Mrs. Borg's face and she smiled at the pleasant memories. "He was older than me, but not by much. He died twenty nine years ago, at the age of 33. Pneumonia. We had only been married seven years."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. Look, I’m just as caring as the next guy, but to be brutally honest, sharing the sad details of Mrs. Borg’s life was the last thing on my itinerary. Besides, the way I upset Judith the day before worked its way into my mind and there was no reason to repeat that experience with Mrs. Borg. I handed her my credit card.
“Don’t think anything of it,” Mrs. Borg said. She processed the card and handed it back. “Did you catch your movie?”
“Collision Course,” I said. “Part of the John Robinson film festival. For the most part, I was the only one there.”