The Cutting Room: Dark Reflections of the Silver Screen (6 page)

The Wicked Witch smiled.

She raised her claws to meet the deluge running across her body, black rags clinging to her stick frame. The shape beneath was suddenly too skeletal and bulged in all the wrong places, cancerous and demonic. She licked the stagnant moisture off her lips with a leprous tongue, slurping at the algae.

“Yeah, right,” she said. “Like no one’s ever tried water before.”

I ran but a tree stopped me. Not one of the apple trees. Those were back by the cabin.

The Wicked Witch screamed—“Get him! I won’t lose two today!”— and I looked over my shoulder, trying to spot a pursuer. When I turned forward again, I ran face first into a lightning-split oak.

As I lay there dazed, my audience assembled.

“You can’t get away, Michael,” the Wicked Witch said.

“What do you want?”

“I was thrown out of my land a long time ago and I can never go back.” She gestured at the forest, the ramshackle cabin, and the rotting orchard. “This is my home. This is my reality. This is my dream.”

I shook my head. “A dream?”

Dorothy wiped her face and left fingerprints in the wet mascara and rouge. “More than a dream. We play our parts, we keep her from loneliness.”

“Stan was one of us,” the Tin Man said. “He served his time. When she tired of him, she let him serve her outside.”

“Be quiet, beehive!” said the Wicked Witch, pushing him aside. “You’ll learn my ways soon enough, Michael. You’re going to replace him.”

“You’re crazy!” I pulled myself up against the split trunk. “I’ll never do anything you want!”

“That’s why I love you, Michael.” She motioned towards the tree. “Lift him up.”

A noose dropped over my head and cinched tight. At the other end, hidden among the leaves, an orangutan jumped into the air, guiding its descent with spread wings as it hauled the rope across a thick branch.

My neck snapped.

The Witch’s obsession traps us here, and her magic forces us into these forms. When I dream I’m still in my old life, but it fades as her obsession burns, tarnishing the memory. She watches and we try to amuse her. When she tires, I may stop hanging myself. And someday I will escape.

Her madness is contagious.

IT WAS ONLY HIS first morning there. But, very early, he was awakened by the ringing of a bell.

So soon? he thought.

Well, it was about time. . . .

He rolled over and fumbled the receiver out of its cradle.

The ringing continued.

He lay on his back for a moment while his senses reassembled. One of his legs tingled, as if he had slept with it twisted under him. He could hardly feel it. But he swung his feet down, climbed out of bed as best he could and went in search of the sound.

As soon as he opened the drapes and staggered outside, it stopped.

He squinted and tried to clear his head.

From the balcony of his room at the Holmby Hotel, he had an unobstructed view of a sea of evergreens rolling away in tufted waves toward Sunset Boulevard and the Palisades beyond. Above the treetops clouds parted like curtains framing an electric blue proscenium, clean and vibrant with promise. He stood with his hands on the railing, his face tipped back, and awaited the warming rays of the sun as it passed on its way to the Pacific.

Now the sound resumed, drawing his attention to the driveway below, where it became the distant bleating of an automobile security alarm.

He braced his arms and leaned forward. The alarm was cut off as a door slammed and a desperate woman in a white jumpsuit hurried to the carpet in front of the hotel, swinging a bulging Sportsac like a stuffed armadillo. A valet tipped his cap at her heels, opened the car door, slid behind the wheel, closed the door and guided her black Mercedes away from the curb and into the underground garage. As the sedan glided out and turned into darkness, the insignia of the hotel was revealed in the macadam beneath. The roof of the carport covering the loading zone was dull and weathered, but the inlaid coat of arms was readable even through the yellowed Plexiglas.

VAYA CON DIOS, read the circle of tiles. BEVERYLY HILLS, CALIFORNIA.

He had not noticed it before.
Go with God?
he thought. Was that really what it said? Decipherable in its entirety only from above, the message must have been designed exclusively for visitors on high, like a mysterious hieroglyphic invitation to the gods of the Nazcas. Reeling from a sudden rush of vertigo, he grasped the railing with both hands and forced himself to step back.

He wondered if the management had considered the possible effect such a logo might have on guests of suicidal inclination. It was conceivable that someone on the upper levels would see the emblem as a target. An image came to mind of a despondent man hurtling down, executing a perfect swan dive as he crashed through the panes to take the place of the Mercedes dead-center on the mosaic. From this height a body would fall like a stone, straight as a plumb line. The thought left him dizzy.

He took a deep breath and lifted his face again to the morning light. Somewhere a radio was playing a transient popular tune; it came from the other side of the building, from the high-priced bungalows or perhaps the pool. Was that the sound of another telephone ringing? No, only the whine of a power saw fading in and out like static on the breeze. On a nearby balcony glasses clinked. A scent of orange juice ripened the air. He opened his eyes.

The sky remained clear above the trees, though the expanse of blue invited some new pattern to take up the slack. If more clouds did move in to clot the horizon, he would not be surprised in the least.

He was sure of only one thing.

Once, a long time ago, someone had taken from him something irreplaceably valuable. He couldn’t remember what it was. And no one would admit it.

But now, today, all that was about to change.

He finished dressing. The message light on the telephone was still dark. He dialed the desk. No calls for him yet. He took out a pack of cigarettes, picked it open, set it down, fingered it again and dropped it into his pocket, then put it away in the drawer and made himself leave it there. Trying to shake a vague feeling that he was forgetting something vital, he slipped into his sandals and rode the elevator down.

There were no messages waiting at the desk and the lobby was empty. The soft pink cushions on the antique divans were still undented, and a copy of
Architectural Digest
lay unread on the polished tabletop near the mock fireplace; the photograph on the cover showed a room remarkably like this one but without the vase of fresh flowers to add a tropical touch to the decor. He left word that any calls be directed to the wet bar, and stepped out through the French windows as carefully as a visitor to a closed and extremely restricted movie set. He reminded himself that the contract in his suitcase would serve as his pass to the Holmby and places like it from now on. As soon as he had taken care of one very simple formality.

He followed the signs that pointed the way to the pool.

He passed a Latin maid in a spotless white uniform, her cleaning cart color-coordinated to match precisely the green of the walkway and the trim around the doors. He noticed that she was munching a crisp snack of some sort. The dining room was open but he was too edgy to hold down breakfast. The maid smiled at him familiarly. She knows, he thought. Already! Was that a copy of
Daily Variety
on top of her sheets and pillowcases? She must read the trades, he realized with satisfaction, and continued on under the stucco arches.

The walking path led him between discreetly-spaced cottages where the blinds were still drawn, heavy Spanish tile roofs ruddy and shimmering under the perpetual sun. Shamelessly large potted palms trembled in the belvederes, shading rows of shy hydrangeas that filled the dampened beds. In alcoves along the way photos of visiting dignitaries hung like icons; an oversized frame near a particularly isolated suite displayed signed glossies of Princess Grace of Monaco and her daughter Caroline, a memento of the final unpublicized stay. At once he recognized the haughty features of the former actress. He hesitated briefly to pay his respects, nodding and smiling back in reverence and complicity. Then he moved on, basking in the glow, his own chin elevated a few degrees.

Trusting the signs, he descended deeper into the most secluded portions of the grounds, levels he had never before penetrated without Joe Gillis at his side. The film star knew the junglelike terrain as intimately as a tour guide, had stayed here so often at the height of his popularity that he was now venerated by the establishment as an old and valued friend. The front table in the dining room would be his for as long as he lived, the headwaiter would never forget to hold the salad for the final course. After the first few business lunches Wintner began to envy such treatment, and longed for the day when it would be his by association. Tonight, whether or not Gillis stayed on for dinner, he would at last dare to request the front table for himself as if it were a foregone conclusion.

He was no longer sure of his exact location but pressed bravely ahead along the winding path.

At the bottom of a terraced embankment he came upon a workman carrying a load of lumber on his shoulders. The man was on his way toward a gazebo that overlooked the fishpond. Wintner passed him on the narrow footbridge without a word, pretending interest in the signs that labeled the subdivisions of flora. Hand-painted lettering identified each variety with the care of a horticultural exhibit, white crosses marked with both popular and scientific names staked into the soil or nailed to the trunks of the oldest trees. He paused to study the placards, like a tourist intent on memorizing every detail of a long-awaited trip.

A few seconds later he was startled by the wail of a buzz saw. The back of his neck bristled as if a stranger had screamed his name. He shot a glance back through the foliage and saw the carpenter busy cutting a hole in the roof of the gazebo. A plywood circle dropped out of a spray of sawdust and a clear spot of sky shone down like a blue moon. Wintner could not imagine what the hole was for. He turned away, picking up the pace as he crossed the bridge to the other shore.

On the far side the path took him by a grouping of bungalows completely hidden from the other bank. Their separate doorways connected to an elevated wooden deck, where a long table was already set for lunch. Each crystal water glass was topped by a cloth napkin folded into the shape of a bird. Reflected in the facets of the cut glass were inverted images of the adjacent pond, where just now a cloud of white light seemed to be descending, the miniaturized movement of a napkin unfurling from the skies like wings. Wintner focused past the glasses to the pond. There an enormous white swan glided up out of hanging vines, tucking its feathers and neck back into a pose as graceful as an arrangement of folded linen.

Impatient, Wintner climbed the bank and cut through a glade of Italian cypress. He came out into a totally unfamiliar area, dense and overgrown. Here a cluster of redwoods filtered the light into bands of premature dusk. He made a mental note of the turns he had taken so that he would not make the same mistake after dark. Maybe Joe Gillis could draw him a map. But that wasn’t necessary. There were guideposts all around, situated conspicuously along every route in the botanical gardens.

Everywhere except here.

Quietly the shrubbery closed like a wound behind him. Now it was all the same. He turned, turned again, trying to find the sun. The tops of the redwoods spun.

He was tempted to call out for help, to ask someone, the workman, perhaps, for directions. No. He would never be taken seriously on these premises after that. Word would get out. He visualized the headline in Army Archerd’s column tomorrow morning: PRODUCER CAN'T FIND HIS WAY TO SWIMMING POOL. And the sidebar:
Can He Find Financing for Gillis Project?
He would never live it down. He had gotten this far on his own, hadn’t he? He couldn’t give up now.

“Is that anybody?”

A queue of tiger lilies whispered at his back. He faced them. Their hungry orange throats seemed to be speaking to him. There was a suggestion of movement, a silken rustling, close and yet separated from him.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Oh! I thought so. Ec-excuse me.” The lilies stopped moving and a giant, waxy jade plant shook and murmured with a female voice.

“I hear you,” he said. “Only I can’t—”

“Are you the carpenter?”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” He concentrated and zeroed in on her thin, reedy voice. He thrust his hand between bamboo stalks, took a chance and stepped through.

And there. He was out. It was easy, after all. He felt foolish. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He shaded his eyes. “I just stopped to—to admire the orchids.” Were there orchids? He hoped so. He was still disoriented.

Her eyes widened but she stood her ground. She tilted her head diffidently and he could almost see the wheels turning behind her forehead, clicking into place as she arrived at a decision. The pool enclosure began a few yards farther up the path, a white enameled fence; through its bars a bright oval of water sparkled like an azure teardrop.

“Buy you a drink?”

“Hm? Oh, no. Th-thank you.”

“Well, think I’ll have one. Today’s a very important day. It’s—”

“I know. But I think you’ll have to wait awhile longer.”

“What?”

“The bar. It’s not open yet.”

He sighted past her. She was right. The wet bar was bare. The glasses had not yet been set out and there was no bartender in view. At her back the water was still and crystalline. She pulled a string and loosened her outer garment; the top sloughed off one tender shoulder. He settled back into the chaise and extended his legs so that one foot nearly touched her. She did not move away.

“Do you stay here a lot?” he said, already guessing the answer. Her skin was pale as alabaster.

“Hm? Oh, for the winters, mostly.” She seemed distracted. “I had to come early this year. Sometimes everything takes so long. I wish it didn’t.”

“I know what you mean,” he said sympathetically, choosing not to press her for details. When in Rome and all that. It was the way people spoke out here, a tantalizing game of one-upmanship. A game he must learn to play. A lazy breeze filtered through the windbreak, feathering the surface of the water. “I’ve been waiting a long time myself. I mean, I only checked in last night. But this deal has taken years to set up—longer, if you count finding the right script, lining up the backers . . .”

He let his voice trail off. No need to get ahead of himself. There was all the time in the world. She studied him impersonally, neither advancing nor retreating. He was sure he had said exactly the right things. He lay his head back against the white strands of the chaise and folded his hands confidently across his lap.