Dreams Are Not Enough

by Jacqueline Briskin

  “That heroin pusher got through to her so much?”

  “It’s not Lang.” Beth’s face grew hot. She found sex difficult to discuss even with Irving—only with PD had “it,” and the nimbus of accompanying vagaries and symptoms, seemed a natural part of life. “When she got back to the tent I noticed she was, uhh . . . staining.”

  “Jesus!” Hap’s apathy and inebriation vanished and he jumped to his feet. “I’ll radio for a plane! We’ll get her straight to Nairobi Hospital!”

  “Hap, there’s no cramping, she’s resting—”

  “She needs proper care!”

  “They’d only put her to bed.”

  “Damn it, she can’t stay here!”

  “It happened to me and I just stayed home.”

  “Medication—”

  “Doctors used to prescribe stilbestrol to prevent threatened miscarriages. But the women turned out to have cancer-prone daughters. So now the OBs are afraid to use it.”

  “She could die!”

  “Hap, the baby’s in danger, not her.”

  “How can you be so positive? You’re not a doctor.”

  “For tonight, believe me, a doctor would only order bedrest.”

  “We’re getting her to the damn hospital!”

  “You know as well as I do that no plane can land or take off from here at night.” Nocturnal animals foraged on the level area they used as a landing strip.

  “We’ll find a pilot who can handle it.” Hap’s pacing safari boots crumpled and dirtied the strew of production papers.

  “I have a charter arranged for tomorrow morning—I’m going into Nairobi to put through a call to Irving.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine.”

  “Nine!” Lines cut deep into Hap’s tanned skin. “That’s twelve hours!”

  He still cares, Beth thought. Does Alyssia still care?

  Hap was saying, “. . . and line up the cars and buses so the headlights make a runway.”

  “Hap, be reasonable,” she said gently. “Frightened animals maybe would barge in, hit the propellers and then you’d have a plane wreck on your hands.”

  Hap hit his fist into his palm, then sighed. “What can we do?”

  “Radio the hospital and ask their advice. Then radio Wilson—” Wilson, the smaller of the two Nairobi airports, catered to charter companies. “Tell them to have my plane here by first light, at six. I’ll have Derek arrange for a doctor in Nairobi.”

  • • •

  Alyssia was in the white-tiled bathroom of the suite at the Norfolk that she and Beth were sharing. Dr. Jozef Kazimir, whom Derek, the White Hunter, had alerted, had just ended his hotel call. Kazimir, an emigré Pole with dyed black hair and courtly manners, had felt her torso with his soft hands, then passed his cold stethoscope up and down and across her abdomen. “My dear Miss del Mar,” he had finally pronounced, “I am most delighted to inform you that the little one is safe in his snug nest.”

  With Alyssia’s distrust of the medical community in general, it was not Dr. Kazimir with his overblack hair and ornate English who reassured her, but the fact that the bleeding had stopped entirely.

  She turned her profile to the long mirror, pulling her silk robe close to show the bulge.

  The outer door opened and closed. “It’s me, I’m back,” Beth called. In the hopes of garnering more obstetrical information, she had walked Dr. Kazimir across the tropically planted courtyard to the hotel’s broad veranda.

  Alyssia went into the living room. “What else did he tell you?”

  “Nothing. He just repeated that you’re both fine but you must be very cautious.”

  “That’s for sure. No more corset. Hap and I’ll have to work it out.” Catching a flicker in her sister-in-law’s eye, Alyssia added, “Before I say anything to him or anyone, though, I’ll get the dope on Barry’s progress.”

  “You’ll tell him,” Beth said with firm fondness. “The baby’s more important than any novel.”

  “Shhh.” Alyssia held a finger to her lips. “Never say that to a writer—or a writer’s wife.”

  “Why don’t you lie back down? I’ll tell the desk to put in the call.” Beth had already booked her call to Irving.

  • • •

  The call from Belleville-sur-Loire came through first. The sisters-in-law were having tea, and Alyssia, who was stretched on the couch, set down her plate of thin-sliced watercress and cucumber sandwiches, going into her bedroom for privacy.

  “Hon, what a coincidence!” Barry’s voice emerged tinny and exultant. “I was about to cable you. Exactly eleven minutes ago I typed The End.”

  “Barry! How fabulous!”

  “Of course there’s still the copy editing and the galleys.”

  “I have some news for you,” she said.

  “How is the movie progressing?”

  “This is about us.” She swallowed. “I should have told you before.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s dumb, but I can’t say the words.”

  “You’ve faded away.”

  “I’m going to have a baby.”

  “What?”

  “I’m having a baby.”

  The line crackled loudly, then there was a hum.

  “Barry, are you still there?”

  “Should I present my congratulations to anyone in particular?” Barry sounded as if he were in his cups, sullen, petulant.

  “Don’t be angry.”

  “Tell me what other response I could have?” he shouted. “You and I, we haven’t been in proximity for over three months.”

  She held the phone tighter. The previous night she had determined that her child would have all that she had been denied, and a father was the main advantage.

  “I’m sure that’s an eminently negligible fact, of course,” he barked.

  “I’m in my fifth month, Barry.”

  “Oh? Well I accept that the male plays a minimal role in the drama of parturition, and therefore you haven’t said a word to me. But what about the press? I get the papers and the trades here. I read the rumors about disasters on the Baobab Tree location. Thus far, though, I haven’t seen one infinitesimal hint about the star’s pregnancy.”

  “I’ve felt life,” she persisted.

  “And everybody there is too astigmatic to notice your advanced condition?”

  “I’m sorry, really sorry. I didn’t say anything because I wanted you to finish Spy.”

  “My ever self-sacrificing spouse.”

  “Yesterday I had a little problem, so I can’t work so hard. I’m going to have to tell them.”

  “It’s the least you can do.”

  “Barry,” she said, forcing the pleading note from her voice. “The book’s finished. Why don’t you come down and we’ll make the announcement together.”

  “They’re laying the parquet.”

  The baby needs a father, so don’t scream at him. She drew a shaky breath. “It would look better if we both tell the press.”

  “Oh, indubitably it would look better!” he shouted.

  She heard the click and knew he’d hung up.

  The hotel courtyard was centered with an aviary of brilliantly plumaged Kenyan birds, and she lay on the bed listening to the harsh caws and trills of alien fowl.

  When the phone rang, positive it was Irving, she let Beth answer in the living room.

  “It’s Barry,” Beth called. “He said you were cut off.”

  Alyssia picked up the extension. “Barry?” she whispered.

  “You took me by surprise,” he said apologetically. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  • • •

  The sisters-in-law had retired to their bedrooms when Irving’s call finally came through.

  Beth said, “I was getting worried if I’d reach you, dear.”

  “My Beth . . . how good to hear your lovely voice.” The connection roiled Irving’s words, as if passing them through mountainous waves. “I’ve missed you so.” />
  “I’ve missed you, too. And Clarrie. How is she?”

  “She’s not well.”

  Beth leaped up, standing by the bed. “I knew something was wrong! I knew it! The fever?”

  “Yes—a fever. For a couple of days she’s had a fever.”

  “The same as the last time?”

  “Higher.”

  “How high?”

  “A hundred and three.”

  “Oh my God! Is it connected to her last illness?”

  “They aren’t sure. Maybe.”

  “Do they know what it is this time?”

  “Her arms and legs are weak. The neurologist says it’s a form of encephalitis—”

  “Encephalitis?” Her voice rose in terror. “Brain fever? Sleeping sickness?”

  “Beth, it’s not that bad—”

  “I should have been with her! Oh, Irving, how could you not tell me?”

  “Bethie, I sent the cable today. She only got sick the day before yesterday.”

  “You should have radioed me immediately!”

  “Listen to me, Beth. Clarrie’s Clarrie. There’s nothing we can do. And they have the encephalitis diagnosed, so everything’s in hand—”

  “I’ll be on the first flight I can get.”

  “You’re already ticketed on the Pan Am flight to New York. It leaves Nairobi at six A.M. I’ll have the jet at Kennedy to meet you. Beth, I don’t want you all frantic. The doctors say there’s no reason on earth to think the worst.”

  “Oh, God. Why wasn’t I there?”

  As Beth hung up, she saw the reason.

  Alyssia stood in the doorway, the lights behind her shining through her sheer nightgown to display the fecund curves below. Beth’s entire body shook with surges of mortal fury. This sister-in-law—this cheesy creature, this brassy bitch who had risen to world fame by flaunting her nakedness—had needed a curb against her whoring. That was why she, Beth, wasn’t with her desperately ill child.

  “What is it?” Alyssia asked. “You’re all white. Beth, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?”

  “Clarrie’s got encephalitis. She’s burning up with fever,” Beth said tautly. “I’m leaving first thing, so I have arrangements and packing. If you’ll go back to bed, I can get started.”

  55

  ALYSSIA DEL MAR’S HUSBAND JOINS HER ON LOCATION IN MASAI MARA

  —Kenya’s The Nation, February 6, 1980

  Alyssia del Mar and her husband, writer Barry Cordiner, are expecting their first child sometime in May. Good news for the long-married couple, but just one more problem for already problem-beset The Baobab Tree, which is being shot in the wilds of Kenya. The film is already reportedly in excess of $30 million over budget.

  —CBS Evening News, February 8, 1980

  Budget fizzles and tempers sizzle as Harvard Productions’ The Baobab Tree approaches its third month on location in Africa. More delays expected because of Alyssia del Mar’s anticipations.

  —The Hollywood Reporter, February 8, 1980

  Meadstar, financing Harvard Productions’ The Baobab Tree, has sent in two veteran producers.

  —Daily Variety, February 11, 1980

  A Land-Rover bounced to a halt near the small kraal erected for Alyssia’s scenes with the Masai, and a mismatched twosome climbed from the back seat. The small man with narrow shoulders and thin gray hair wore the first dark suit seen on location, while his outsize companion’s superfluity of flesh was stuffed into a creased but new-looking bush jacket.

  Alyssia pulled away from her hairdresser’s ministrations to go to the open door of the trailer.

  Barry came up behind her. “Who are they?” he asked.

  “I never saw them before.”

  “Definitely not tourists. What tourist comes to a game reserve in a business suit?” Barry snaked an arm around her waist, resting his hand fondly on her stomach.

  “I wonder if. . . . Maybe Lang sent them.”

  Barry released her. “What about Lang?”

  “When he was here he threatened Maxim and Hap that if we didn’t speed up, he’d send in his people.”

  “Watchdogs, you mean?”

  “Exactly.”

  Barry picked up a shiny, red plastic loose-leaf notebook. With a long, penetrating glance at the two dissimilar men, he began to write rapidly.

  He was keeping a journal. Alyssia, warmly grateful that his acceptance of their child had escalated to proud pleasure, was delighted that he’d discovered something to occupy himself. (There is nothing more stultifyingly boring than being trapped on somebody else’s location.) He wandered around chatting with grips, electricians, wranglers, the assistant directors, the cameramen, the script supervisor, the bit players, and over dinner at the long trestle table he initiated earnest discussions about the delays and production problems with his cousins.

  • • •

  The newcomers’ first meeting with Hap and Maxim took place that night in the production tent. Paul Trapani of the wild hair and overstuffed bush jacket lounged back in his chair: a diamond-surrounded gold Piaget adorned the thick wrist of the hand that held a quart bottle of Tusker’s beer. He had volunteered nothing about himself beyond his name, so his connection with Meadstar remained hazy. However, the man in the suit, Herrold Jones—he had spelled his Christian name twice—had informed them that he was the company’s vice president and treasurer.

  Jones tapped his index finger on a shooting schedule that he’d just unrolled on Maxim’s desk. “Mr. Lang has worked out how you can leave this location by the nineteenth of February.” He articulated each syllable.

  “You realize, of course,” Hap said, “that gives us only a week. We need a minimum of twelve more days here.” Moving to the schedule glued to the canvas tent-divider, he pointed. “This sequence will take four days at least, probably longer. Difficulties are bound to crop up when you deal with so many animals and unskilled extras.”

  “Mr. Lang specifically mentioned that sequence. He believes it’s extraneous.”

  “It’ll run behind the opening credits,” Hap said in the same unruffled tone. “It’s our way of letting the audience know that they’re watching an epic-scale film.”

  “We estimate a million dollars to shoot it,” Jones said.

  “I want this straight,” Hap replied. “The sequence stays. It’s non-negotiable.”

  Herrold Jones adjusted his bifocals. “Mr. Lang asked me to convey his respect and understanding for your artistic dedication. However, The Baobab Tree had a shooting schedule of sixty-six days, which is eleven weeks, and you have already been here for longer than that with the English scenes still to shoot.”

  “I told Lang that he can replace me anytime,” Hap said icily.

  Jones glanced at his associate.

  The chair creaked as Trapani sat forward. “Mr. Lang’s poured a bundle into this movie, Cordiner. You’re finishing it. And you’re splitting from Africa in one week.”

  “You can tell your boss that we’re already shooting as many setups per day as we possibly can and still maintain quality.”

  “Better figure out a way to get what-all you need in seven days,” Trapani said. “Because that’s how long we’re staying here with the jungle bunnies.”

  “We?” Hap asked.

  “You, me, Jones and the rest of the two hundred people.”

  Jones, who was fastidiously polishing his glasses with a felt cloth, looked up. “Two hundred and thirty-four,” he said.

  Trapani took a gulp of beer, wiping his mouth. “The way I see it, Cordiner, you better get every one of them overpaid slobs working. No more sitting around on your fat asses.”

  Hap moved a step closer to Trapani.

  Maxim said hastily, “I’ll see to it we’re on our way to England in a week.”

  • • •

  Cliff Camron had finished his scenes ten days earlier, and—with his retinue—was already in Los Angeles doing a film for Paramount. Jones and Trapani took over the tent he had vacated. Each e
vening the two of them strolled to the radio tent, where Jones sent a report to Nairobi that would be forwarded by cable to Las Vegas. So many pages of script had been shot, so many feet of film exposed.

  Maxim was everywhere, ensuring that the newest schedule was being adhered to.

  He did not have to cajole Alyssia to be on time. Since the arrival of Jones and Trapani, she had forsworn her program of short workdays. Despite her bone-weariness, she rose before five for makeup, and on two nights shot until after ten. She had no control over her attacks, and suffered three fairly substantial ones during the week, but prodded herself back to the set in less than a half hour. On a certain level the hectic pace suited her. She had no energy left to brood about her disastrous relationship with Hap.

  • • •

  They filmed the final Kenyan sequence amid special-effects rifle shots, swirls of fuller’s earth, a melee of big game, Masai warriors and actors dressed as white hunters.

  On the eighth day after their arrival, Jones and Trapani, along with The Baobab Tree principals, boarded a flight to London. (The crew, who would not be able to get work permits in England, were returning to California in a chartered plane.)

  Alyssia sat sipping the warmish milk that the stewardess had brought her. She couldn’t shake her doom and gloom.

  56

  The English interiors would be shot in the Pinewood Studios. For the exteriors, which were scheduled first, Hap and Maxim had rented the grounds of a small, romantically turreted manor house in Sussex. The English crew were bused in from an inexpensive modern hotel in the seaside resort of Worthing, while the upper echelon stayed at a charmingly restored old inn near the location.

  While they filmed, drizzle fell unabated and a plague of colds descended.

  • • •

  Alyssia, awakened by a coughing spell, was reaching for the tin of blackcurrant pastilles when the phone jangled. “Hello,” she said, stifling a cough.

  “Alyssia—is that you?” her brother-in-law inquired.