Dreams Are Not Enough

by Jacqueline Briskin

  She had never been sodomized. An indomitable part of her refused to let Maxim know the full extent of pain he was inflicting on her, so she buried her face in the smooth cotton folds of the quilt, smothering her agonized groans.

  His hands clasped her waist and his body hammered against hers more furiously. Then, with a drawn-out groan, he fell away from her. Almost immediately the mattress shifted and he got up. As he left the cottage, the lock didn’t catch. The door blew open and shut and for an immeasurable length of time she lay with the cold, damp air slapping in gusts at her naked buttocks.

  Slowly she clambered from the bed, inching to the vestibule. It wasn’t until she had locked the door that she realized the warmth trickling down her thighs was not only semen but also blood. She turned on the shower. Resting her shoulders against the tiles, she sagged downward until she was squatting in near-boiling water. The rape had banished Alyssia del Mar. She was Alice Hollister again, and as her skin turned crimson she expended the feeble remnants of her strength on hating the Cordiners, one and all.

  • • •

  The following morning, when she emerged, made up and coiffed, from the trailer, Maxim was waiting to drape an arm around her waist and give her a proprietorial smile. Seemingly by osmosis, everyone on the film—except Barry—knew that Maxim Cordiner had scored again.

  During shooting, Alyssia’s entire body ached and certain motions tore unbearably. Thank God Hap broke early for lunch. Alyssia ignored the buffet, heading back to the trailer.

  Diller caught up with her. “Alyssia, can we go someplace to talk alone?” he asked quietly. He took off the brightly embroidered denim jacket that was part of his costume, draping it over her shoulders. “I promise not to keep you long.”

  Dreading the reproaches or whatever else might ensue, she said, “Dill, I’m zonked.”

  “Please?” His voice shook.

  “Let me get some tea first.”

  She took a few sips from the Styrofoam cup as Diller led her deeper into the scrubby little trees.

  “Alyssia, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Of course we are. Dill, you don’t need to spell anything out. I understand. And it’s never mattered to me what a person’s preferences are.”

  “Sure I’m gay.” Diller shrugged. “I came to terms with it years ago. This thing with you and Maxim—”

  “Put your mind at rest,” she interrupted bitterly. “It’s totally one-sided—part of his obsession with the female half of the human race.”

  “Maxim’s obsession is hiding from his father.” Diller held aside a branch for her, then said, “It’s no secret how Desmond Cordiner feels about homosexuals.”

  She stumbled as Diller’s meaning penetrated. “I can’t believe what you’re telling me,” she said in a shocked whisper. “Maxim? But he’s been married. He’s had a million girls.”

  “We’ve been lovers for three years.”

  The Styrofoam had cracked and lukewarm tea dripped onto the long skirt of her granny dress, but she didn’t notice. “So then I’m a beard. But . . . if he just wants to stay in the closet, why not keep on with the public passes? Everybody thinks he’s superstud anyway. Why did he have to jump my bones?”

  Diller’s eyes were moist. “Alyssia, he’s convinced that you’re his key to a straight life.”

  “Me? He can’t believe that, Diller. He knows my feelings are totally negative. Me? The idea’s so far out it’s crazy. . . .” Her protestations faded as she recalled the cone of lamplight and Maxim’s peculiar expression of yearning grief.

  “He wasn’t like this with his wife or the others—they really were beards. He never stops talking about you.”

  “To you? He has a true gift for cruelty.”

  “Cruelty’s one of his tunes, yes. But, Alyssia, he’s so much more than that. He’s witty, totally honest with himself. He can be kind. He’s brilliant.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “So you won’t hate him.”

  Turning back toward the set, she said quietly, “You’re a truly good person, Dill.”

  “No I’m not. I’m jealous as hell. But, Alyssia—don’t hate him.”

  20

  Maxim gloomily tapped the end of his ballpoint on the shooting schedule. “We’re going six days over.”

  “And that’s if things run like clockwork,” Hap said.

  Both brothers grimaced. It would be unrealistic not to anticipate any time-consuming screwups.

  Hap warmed his hands on his steaming mug of roasted grain “coffee”—the Pagoda of Health in Mendocino served no stimulants, but since their conversation demanded privacy they had foregone caffeine at the crudely hearty six o’clock breakfast set out by the catering truck. “Face it, Maxim,” he said. “It was inevitable that we couldn’t keep to the schedule. This is my first directing job.”

  “And my first production. Barry’s first screenplay, Whitney’s first movie. We ought to change the title to Virgins.” Maxim jotted down figures. “This puts us around a hundred thou over budget.”

  “That much?”

  “Probably twenty-five more. It’s ulcer time, Harvard.”

  Sipping ersatz coffee, Hap said, “Where can we find financing? We can’t go to Dad.”

  They exchanged glances. Each was recalling a poolside conversation at their parents’ Palm Springs house. After they had unveiled their plan for Wandering On, Desmond Cordiner said, “Why not flush that inheritance of yours down the crapper and save yourself a lot of work and heartache? There’s no chance whatsoever of bringing in anything commercial for that kind of peanuts.”

  Hap asked, “D’you know anybody with investment capital?”

  “To lend virgins? You’re a comedian.”

  “What about PD?”

  “PD? Now you’ve got me laughing so hard I’m rolling on the floor. Paisan can’t even pay his office rent.”

  PD had left the MCA agency earlier this spring to venture forth on his own. He represented a few lackluster clients, and though he kept up a good front, the family was aware that every month he borrowed from either Frank or Lily Zaffarano.

  Hap said, “He knows how deals are put together.”

  Maxim’s index finger tapped against the counter for nearly a minute, then he asked, “Got any change?”

  They both emptied their pockets.

  Maxim went to the pay phone, dialing 213, the Los Angeles area code. “Yes, you dumb wop, sure I know the time. But this weekend we need a conference. . . . Yes, I know you have dates, you have nuts, don’t you? . . . Yes, sure. . . . Listen, PD, Hap and I’re in so deep we’re wearing rubber boots. We need you. Great, great. . . . Yes, naturally the room and fare are on us.”

  • • •

  They were shooting every day, including weekends, but when the Saturday flight landed Maxim was on hand.

  To his surprise Beth preceded PD down the metal ladder.

  “Hey, Beth.” He bent to kiss his trim, dainty cousin. “You’ve shocked the socks off me. I wasn’t expecting the big lady executive.”

  Upon her graduation (summa cum laude) from USC in June 1960, Beth had been hired by Magnum as an assistant reader. Highly literate yet acutely practical in selecting material for the screen, conscientious to the point of compulsiveness, she had risen without a whisper of nepotism (or as Maxim inquired, was it niecetism?) to become head of Magnum’s story department. As she had been the perfect coed, so now, in her ice-blue sleeveless linen shift, she epitomized the young California career woman.

  She said a shade breathily, “When PD mentioned he was flying up, it seemed a fun opportunity to see Barry.”

  “These twins and their twisted umbilicuses,” PD joked.

  Maxim had reserved a single room for PD in the main building of the Three Rock Inn. Leaving Beth at the desk competently arranging her accommodations, the two men went upstairs.

  PD, a connoisseur of luxury in all its permutations, glanced disdainfully around the cubbyhole. “Talk about g
oing all-out.”

  “I got you a private bathroom, didn’t I?” Maxim retorted.

  PD was already starting the shower. Embarrassed by his overactive sweat glands, he nursed the family myths about his fetish for cleanliness.

  Maxim sat on the narrow bed until PD emerged, a towel wrapped around his short, muscular body, a gold cross dangling amid the moist black hairs of his chest.

  “Now what’s all of this about?” PD asked. “Why drag me up here to the boonies?”

  “Should I waltz you around first or give it to you straight? We’re over budget.”

  PD gave an agent’s shrewd nod. “When you talked this project to me, I figured you’d never bring it in at three sixty. Even on a shoestring, I decided, you’d need five hundred. Was I close?”

  “Not too far off. We need another hundred and twenty-five thousand.”

  PD skivvied into black bikini shorts. “If Magnum’s releasing, why not get it from them?”

  “There’s no way we’ll go to Dad.”

  PD, who had inherited old-country ideas about famiglia sticking together and helping one another, looked baffled. “Why not?”

  “For a great many reasons, none of which is germane to this conversation.”

  “At this point, talking strictly from a business angle, you have what amounts to a half-finished student film.”

  “One minor detail. We’re working with professionals like Diller Roberts and Alyssia del Mar.”

  “Diller’s never had proper career guidance. And Alyssia’s never carried a film. Still, she’s not exactly chopped liver.” He tugged ruminatively at his cross.

  “You’ve got that cagy look, PD.”

  “I know people in Vegas. They’re friends and fellow countrymen of Dad’s. . . .”

  Casino people, Maxim thought. In Hollywood circles, Frank Zaffarano was better known for his gambling than for his directing. Frank would bet on anything, people said, then would cite an example. Once, on location, he had bet Clark Gable a hundred dollars which raindrop would crawl fastest down a windowpane. He had bet Henry Fonda when the Fonda children would cut a tooth. He had standing poker games; he patronized several bookies. His preference, though, was for the high-stakes tables of Nevada.

  Maxim asked, “What makes you think your chums would put up cash?”

  PD pulled on a sport shirt magnificently pressed by Lily Cordiner Zaffarano’s manicured hand. (Though Lily paid two full-time servants she continued to iron her menfolk’s linen.) “Since I’ve been on my own, they’ve expressed interest to me about financing films. Magnum, MGM, Fox, Warners, Columbia—all of the majors—steer clear of Nevada money. One day it’ll be different, but as of now—”

  “In case you’ve forgotten,” Maxim interrupted, “my brother rivals Superman in incorruptibility.”

  “I’m pretty sure a bank would handle the transaction. You needn’t tell Hap.”

  “How much of the package will they take?”

  “Fifteen percent. That’s the going interest rate for production loans. They want their show-biz investments to be strictly legitimate.”

  Maxim stared out the window. It was a high blue summer day, and from here he could see an inlet where brilliant azure breakers curled and crashed spuming against massive boulders. “What about you?” he asked.

  “If I can help out, why not?”

  “No finder’s fee?”

  “We’re family,” PD said reproachfully. “I’ll just bring you together and let you work out the deal.” He was pulling on ironed black socks. “Now tell me about Alyssia. Is she good?”

  “A terrific piece of ass on the screen—and off.”

  PD grinned. “Maxim, you shit. Poor old Barry.”

  “We’re family. I’m giving transfusions to a troubled marriage.”

  PD laughed and shook his head. “Is she turning in the same caliber performance she does with Saint-Simon?” He asked this a fraction too loudly. Though PD Zaffarano paid lip service to the art-house boys—Fellini, Bergman, Bunuel, Saint-Simon et al.—he disliked and avoided foreign films. He had never seen Alyssia onscreen.

  “Better. Hap’s really fabulous with her. When she’s in the frame, you can’t look anywhere else. No denying those fantastic boobs help, but it’s more than that. Come on, I’ll show you. There’s a fleapit in Mendo.”

  After dropping Beth off at the trailer to surprise Barry, they proceeded to the Royale, where Maxim slipped the manager and projectionist each a joint to run yesterday’s rushes before the kiddies charged in for the Saturday cartoon matinee.

  The clips showed different versions of three scenes. In the long love scene, the camera was in so tight that the fine hairs on the nape of Alyssia’s neck showed.

  PD held his breath. All his life he’d been exposed to movie sirens, but Alyssia had something unique. It wasn’t her luminous flesh, those large, sultry blue eyes, her mouth with that sensual lower lip or her startling body—after all, many actresses came well equipped. It was the mysteriously conveyed message that her sexuality was too heavy for her to carry alone, and she needed a man—PD Zaffarano in this case—to help her with the burden. He’d never had the least inclination toward his cousin’s wife, yet watching her on the screen he got a hard-on.

  The receptionist yelled, “That’s it, Maxim!”

  PD came to his senses. “Wow,” he said reverently. “And she can act, too.”

  • • •

  That night, with PD and Beth at the big table by the fireplace, Our Own Gang was once again complete. Wisecracks and laughter bubbled. Only once did the conversation touch a serious note.

  PD said, “You heard about Far Country?” Far Country, Magnum’s big summer release, had become this month’s media joke, a catchphrase for failure. “Word is that Uncle Desmond’s job’s on the line.”

  “Dad?” Hap and Maxim questioned in shocked unison. Whatever filial resentment they nourished, neither had known Desmond Cordiner as anything other than invincible and invulnerable.

  Beth set down her fork. “I hear all the Magnum gossip. Rio Garrison isn’t blaming Uncle Desmond for the last few flops.” Rio was Art Garrison’s widow, and the company’s major stockholder. “Still, in a way you’re right, PD. She expects one huge moneymaker this year. Everyone’s saying to trust Uncle Desmond, he’ll pull a rabbit out of the hat like he always does.”

  Alyssia, forcing herself to appear brightly in control, joined the laughter. Not only was she drained from work, but she was self-conscious at being with the sister-in-law who embodied everything that intimidated her. A college graduate, a sorority girl, coolly collected, discreetly dressed, virginal.

  • • •

  Beth and PD lay curled across the four-poster bed in her big room on the second floor. He was naked except for his cross; she wore only her delicate gold Star of David.

  “Mmm,” she said, her lightly freckled arms nurturing him.

  “Mmm,” he replied. “Good?”

  “Couldn’t you tell, darling?”

  PD returned unobserved to his own small quarters. At dawn, after showering and dressing, he hot-wired the Harvard Productions pickup to go into Mendocino for early Mass.

  • • •

  Later that Sunday he was knocking at Alyssia’s trailer. “Our flight’s in a few minutes,” he said. “So I thought I’d drop in to say goodbye and to tell you again that you’re turning in a smash performance.”

  “Wandering On is a terrific film.”

  “You’ll have to learn to blow your own horn. Modesty’s no virtue in Hollywood.”

  “We aren’t staying. We’re going back to France.”

  “That’s a major mistake careerwise, Alyssia,” PD said soberly. “Hollywood’s where it’s at.”

  The door opened without a knock. Maxim came in. Touching a kiss to Alyssia’s hair, he grinned over her head at his cousin.

  “In case you haven’t guessed, Alyssia,” Maxim said, “old paisan is here to hustle you.”

  “Up yours, Maxim,�
�� PD said without rancor. He picked up his Vuitton bag. “If you ever need business advice, Alyssia, pick up the phone. As family, I’ll give you the straight dope. And there’s no strings.”

  21

  PD called the following day, Monday, to tell Maxim that the loan of $125,000 was set with his Las Vegas connections. In passing on the good news to Hap, Maxim neglected to mention who the lenders were, explaining instead that their financially astute cousin knew of some tax loopholes that made the deal highly attractive to investors.

  That night, Barry, Whitney and Maxim dined alone at the Three Rock Inn. The others were shooting a night scene—Duke and Cassie’s last tender moments before the redneck sheriffs’ climactic destruction of them and the bus. Diller’s on-camera forgetfulness had increased to embarrassing proportions, but mercifully the scene had no dialogue, so he couldn’t go up in his lines.

  After the first take Hap said, “That’s a wrap.”

  To transport cast and crew, Maxim had hired local people to chauffeur their own cars. Alyssia, so weary that her spine felt crumpled, drove the few miles in a Buick sedan. Her cottage was unlocked. Barry, cautious by nature, always secured it. He must’ve gotten really loaded at dinner, she thought. Pushing the door open, she heard her own sharp gasp.

  Maxim sprawled with one long, lean leg propped on the back of the sofa. Closing his paperback copy of Demian, he said, “You finished early.”

  “Where’s Barry?” she asked, keeping the fear from her voice.

  “With skullface—Whitney. He didn’t expect you home so soon. It seems I owe old Barrymore an apology. Apparently he can get it up.”

  Alyssia let Maxim’s information slide away to be dealt with later. She was remembering her rectum being torn, the degrading fear that she might soil herself.

  “Don’t take the action to heart,” Maxim said. “All sins of the flesh committed on location are automatically absolved.”

  “Maxim, I’ve been working fifteen straight hours and I’d like to get to bed.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “What do I have to do to convince you that I’m not interested?” She remained standing just inside the doorway.