Land of Dreams: A Novel (12 page)

It was stranger still outside, where the station entrance opened onto a gaping, dusty road. I saw a tram and cars passing, but very few people. It seemed they were all inside the station reading their newspapers! I had been given to understand that the train was arriving in downtown Los Angeles, and so had been expecting a busy urban scene, but there were no taxis, no shops and precious few pedestrians. Desperately I looked around for somebody to ask where the taxi stand was, but there was nobody except for a bum some twenty feet down the road. On his haunches and with his head down, he was doubtless searching for cigarette butts and, given the lack of action here, I was guessing that he wouldn’t have much luck. A polite query from an Irishwoman with a kind face and a big bag might encourage him to follow me, and I had enough troubles already.
When I was younger,
I thought,
I would have relished this adventure,
although in reality I was not nearly as adventurous as I gave myself credit for. Otherwise I would have made this journey before now, and not waited until I had to go chasing off after an errant son. I had made the two big journeys in my life, across the Atlantic, out of necessity. There was no point in fooling myself that this trip was any different.

I looked around for a taxi, up and down the road, but there was nothing. Opposite the gaping, dusty road was a large building, maybe a church, with steps leading up to it and a few tall, spindly palm trees around it. Beyond them, as I squinted against the failing light, I could make out one or two tall buildings and signs of civilization. For all that, I felt as if I had landed in some godforsaken no-man’s-land. I sighed heavily with irritation and, having left my cart in the station (although, in all likelihood, I thought, nobody would have looked up from their newspaper if I had taken it), hauled my heavy bag across the road toward the church.

Cars appeared without warning and almost ran me over, twice. The drivers didn’t honk their horns or holler at you first, like in New York. Their vehicles just materialized eerily next to me with a sharp stop, and gave me a fright. I did not like this place. This was not like America at all, not the America I knew. My America was full of crowds and smells and traffic, and there was every convenience on your doorstep! This was like another country, and not one that I cared to be in.

On the other side of the road I was barely recovering from my ordeal with the cars when I heard music—a sign of life. It was coming from in front of me, and I followed a brightly dressed family, who had appeared from behind the large building with the steps, into a courtyard. Quite suddenly I was in Mexico; at least, that was how it felt: stalls hung with every kind of religious gewgaw, banks of rosary beads, statue upon statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Children chewed on strange-looking buns, which I later learned were
burritos
, while their mothers knelt keening at an outdoor altar; among the chaos of people wandered little dark-skinned angels—girls dressed as brides in elaborate costumes. This was a First Holy Communion festival. Goodness me! I had not even registered that it was Sunday. Everyone around me seemed excited, arms waving, drunk with the religious fervor that was so very attractive in other cultures, yet had been so somber and punishing in my own Irish Catholic upbringing. I looked around to see if I could spot a man who might drive a taxi; this was a charming scene indeed, but it was not why I was here.

I went up to a woman of around my own age and said, “Taxi? I need to find a man who has a taxi?”

She obviously didn’t speak English, but shouted in Spanish above the crowd and grabbed my arm, dragging me through a door to our left. There was gold everywhere: a gleaming gold altar, gold panels inset with religious imagery—the whole place glowed. Inside, the church was considerably quieter than outside, but there wasn’t a stifling reverential silence. Some people prayed, others talked quietly, some men even looked as if they were there doing business—one person at least was looking for a taxi driver.

I stopped at a side altar where there was a statue of Our Lady and a few people kneeling at her feet, clutching their rosary beads, their mouths moving in prayer. Her shoulders and hands were lavishly draped with gifts of jewelry that people had left as offerings; curious to think that this selfless Virgin would be impressed with such trinkets, but then that contradiction ran deep in the Catholic Church wherever you were in the world. In Ireland our priests ate like kings while the rest of us starved; in Mexico Our Lord’s mother wore diamonds and pearls like a wealthy socialite. Yet we kept coming back. The woman who had been guiding me stood back reverentially as I took off the simple gold wedding band from my marriage to Charles and put it in a small, clay pot at the Virgin’s feet. I did not kneel and pray. I did not need to; the Virgin mother and I both knew what I wanted.

The woman’s husband (or brother, or uncle) spoke a little English and, in any case, knew where Chateau Marmont was. His “taxi” had no sign on the roof and, as I got into the back, I found that I was sharing the journey with a couple of chickens crammed into a cage.

“Chateau Marmont,” I said to him, repeating myself in case he should be in any doubt as to where I was going. My journey was, hopefully, nearly over, but this drive seemed interminable. My first impression of Los Angeles was of an enormous, ugly suburb—long, wide roads messily lined with low, sprawling buildings. The daylight was almost gone, and illuminated signs began popping into view advertising Coca-Cola and pharmacies. Dim streetlamps threw scant light on apartment complexes, but there was no way of seeing what lay behind the security gates. Everywhere there were tall, uniform desert trees in unnaturally symmetrical lines, as if planted as an afterthought to make the place look less barren. There seemed to be no center, and each road looked the same as the next. From what I could see of it, this was a place lacking in character and heart.

Already Los Angeles was giving me the creeps. I would get Leo and go back to New York as soon as possible. We would have three days on the train to talk everything out. It could work out for the best that he had taken us both on this foolish adventure, because it would offer us an excuse to spend some badly needed time together. I had neglected Leo, left him to his own devices. He was lost, and now I was here to find him again and bring him home.

At last a sign on my right read “Chateau Marmont” and behind it was a tall white building with turrets. We drove for a few yards up a steep hill, the driver tipped his hat to a security guard at the narrow gateway and we were in a small, cobbled courtyard with a brick wall on either side, topped with high fencing and with a locked gate to my right. In front of us was an open porch leading to the left, with a couple of large palm plants on it that looked as though they belonged to a private villa. It certainly did not have the air of a great hotel like The Plaza or The Waldorf, or one deserving of such a grand French name, but then I was looking for a man who called himself “Frederick Dubois.” I paid the driver and, carrying my own bag, went onto the porch to find there was no reception desk or even names and apartment numbers—this was very annoying. I was in a hurry to find my son. There was a lift, but I opted to drag my heavy bag up a dark, Gothic staircase. I didn’t have the time to get stuck in an elevator in a place I did not know.

On the first floor there was a reception desk, and a large lounge area opening onto a terrace. The Gothic theme was continued with monastery-like arches and lots of dark wood. It looked like a decadent cathedral, and was emptier than any hotel lobby had a right to be at this time of evening. There was nobody at the desk, so I rang a bell and eventually a man appeared—a concierge, I supposed.

“I am looking for Frederick Dubois,” I said.

“He’s out,” the man said, looking at my case, “but he should be back soon. You can wait out by the pool, if you like?”

“Fine,” I said, “he must have forgotten I was coming.” My heart was pounding. Leo was here. The concierge indicated for me to follow him as he reluctantly picked up my case.

“Have you seen a boy with him,” I said, “Leo Irvington?”

“Fred has a boy hanging around with him all right.” He shrugged.

I wanted to grab the man, shake him urgently and tell him to get my son—NOW! But I held on to myself. I knew it would not be good to let my emotions get the better of me. I had to stay calm, find Leo and bring him home.

We walked down the stairs and back out to the porch, then the concierge used a key to open a door that led into a tropical garden. It was dark now, but balmy, and the narrow path was sprinkled on either side with small lights. There was thick vegetation all around and the heavy scent of tropical flowers everywhere; small chalets nestled amid the growth, visible only by the occasional window light. I felt as if I was in the midst of a secret, and I did not like the feeling. We walked down some steps as they opened out onto a lit, decked swimming pool—a small and intimate area, pretty and peaceful.

“Dubois is in chalet nine,” the man said, nodding in the direction of another hidden pathway, “but he’ll have to come through here on the way, so you can grab him then. There’s a gang in from Paramount, so it looks like things are gonna start getting pretty rowdy around ten. If you want something to eat, you’d better let Fred know—we’re closing the kitchen early.”

When he had gone I sat on the edge of a lounge chair and waited. Somewhere behind me I could hear music and, in the distance, talking, muffled by the heavy vegetation all around. This was a strange and eerie place. On the surface of the water I thought I could see the white globe of a full moon, but when I looked up I saw it was just trickery—a lit window beaming down from the Chateau itself.
Perhaps I should go in search of number nine myself?
I thought.
Perhaps Leo would be there on his own, and I could bustle the child away without even having to meet this Frederick cad
—although now that I was here, it would be a shame not to give him a piece of my mind. The mere thought of him made me feel angry again.

I heard laughter and chatting, as a young couple—the girl in a pretty summer dress and a young man in a light-colored suit—came down the steps in front of me. Their arrival made the decision for me, so I stood up to go and find chalet number nine after all. In any case, I didn’t want to interrupt some young lovers’ romantic tryst.

I turned quickly to make my getaway before they registered my presence and, in my haste, banged straight into another young man who was coming up the path behind me.

“Mother?” he said.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Leo looked no different from when I had last seen him, not quite three weeks before on Fire Island, yet he did not look like my little boy anymore. He was, instead, an elegant young man, perfectly well suited to this environment. He did not seem in the least frightened or overawed or, it had to be said, especially pleased to see me.

“Leo! I have been out of my mind with worry! Leaving me no word of where you were going! Have you any idea what I have been through?”

I could have left it at that, but four days of anger and worry came tumbling out. “We’ve all been beside ourselves—Bridie, Maureen . . . all of us!”

Leo pursed his lips and his jaw hardened. I could tell he was shaken to see me, but was more afraid of how I was embarrassing him in front of his friends.

Nonetheless, I was his mother and I had come a long way to have my say.

“And Julian is in the most dreadful trouble for helping you—why, his father will probably beat him to within an inch of his life, and it will have been your fault, Leo. Your fault! What on
earth
did you think you were doing, running away from school like that!”

“School?” the other young man said, his voice sounding genuinely horrified.

“Oh,” I said, turning on him, “Frederick Dubois, I presume? Well, don’t you play the innocent—a man of your age should know better than to snatch a boy from his school, away from his family . . .”

I trailed off, partly because the expression “a man of your age” barely applied to Frederick, who, while he looked a little older than Leo, was far from the depraved, middle-aged cad I had been expecting, and partly because the young woman in our company had put her arm through Leo’s, as if comforting him from my harsh words. She was also a little older than I had first imagined. Not mature exactly, but somewhat worn. A hardened broad—not suitable company for my son.

“Yes, well,” I went on, uncomfortable at the way these strangers were gathered around my son, leaving me out in the cold, “it’s done now.”

“Oh, man,” Frederick said, “I had no idea he was in school. He said he was nineteen.”

“Well, he’s not,” I said. “He’s only sixteen years of age.”

“Oh, right—sixteen.” The young man nodded as if it wasn’t so bad after all. “Am I in trouble then?”

“Can we go and have something to eat now, Freddie?” the girl whined. She hooked her arm into his and slithered into his side, making it clear they were a couple.

“I’m starving,” said Leo suddenly, having recovered from the shock of seeing me. “Will we go around to Greenblatt’s and get corned beef and coleslaw again?” Then, as an afterthought, “Maybe, Mam, you could come too?”

The girl looked over at me, her pretty, expressive face easily read as she pouted nastily as if she did
not
think that was a good idea.

This encounter was not going at all how I had expected it to. Not at all.

“Shall we start again?” the other young man said. “Freddie Hickey,” and he held his hand out to me. I took it and he smiled, a lovely broad, innocent smile, full of possibility. “Hollywood talent scout and impresario—at your service.” Then he added apologetically, “Dubois was made up. You know how it is in Hollywood.”

Freddie carried my case up to reception, where he arranged a room in the hotel for me for that night. I stood with Leo and the girl, who eventually introduced herself as Crystal.

Another fictional name, but I said nothing.