The Grin of the Dark (23 page)

'And yet she still kept all the films, even – all of them.'

'Even the horny ones, sure. She was brought up never to junk
anything, and she'd been through the Depression too, but I wonder
sometimes if there was another reason. My mom said once it was like
Leonora was afraid to let them out of her control. I figured she didn't
like the idea of people watching them any more.'

I can only conclude that the actress must indeed have performed in
her husband's less reputable work. What else makes sense? I've
watched more of his films in a single session than very probably anyone
else in the world, and the only noticeable effect is to leave me feeling
that I dreamed them and have already forgotten parts of them, if all this
isn't just a symptom of jet lag. 'You have, though,' I remind Willie.

'Most of them.'

I don't know why that makes me feel so solitary, but my retort
sounds accusing. 'Why not all?'

'So I've still got some left to enjoy.' Perhaps she sees I'm dissatisfied,
because she adds 'I never really watched any till I persuaded my
folks to let me have these. I did see
Crazy Capaldi
on television one
time, but it was missing a whole lot of footage. All the prints you saw
were uncut. I believe some weren't ever released that way.'

'Didn't your parents ever try to get them shown?'

'My mom inherited the frugality gene and that's the only reason
why we have them. My folks ran a sporting goods store and they used
to keep them in back with the guns and ammunition, but I don't
believe they had any kind of plan for them. They didn't want me to
watch them, only I guess they figured when I started making movies
it couldn't do me any more harm.'

I can't quite bring myself to ask whether they're aware of her
genre. Instead I say 'Did they know about his wartime work?'

'He worked with Rogers and Astaire, you ought to realise, but
he never got a credit. Their director was a friend of his. Orville
wrote a whole scene where Ginger's given a drug and she talks
crazy stuff on a radio show, and you can see where they cut it
because it was too weird.' Willie shakes her head and says 'You're
asking did my folks know he made fuck films? I highly doubt it. I
didn't till I watched them.'

Before she has said five words her bare knee rests against my
trousered one. I withdraw mine as gently as seems polite. 'So what
was it your parents didn't want you to watch?'

'Any of Orville's movies. My pop thought there was stuff in them
they didn't own up to was how he put it. He and mom only ever saw
the release versions of just a few of them, but they even thought some
of those were I guess you'd say blasphemous, though they could never
pin down how. They weren't as religious as Leonora got, but they
were pretty conservative. My mom once said Orville's movies were
like propaganda for a world where you couldn't depend on anything
and nothing mattered any more. Still, that's what she said about all
kinds of movies that were around while I was growing up.'

'I take it you're saying she was mistaken.'

'You'd think so, wouldn't you, when I've turned into the opposite
of just about everything she believes in.'

Have I triggered some buried guilt? 'You haven't told me your
view of his films.'

'I like them. I admire them. They're a lot of fun. They make me
laugh. I don't believe they deserve to be forgotten.'

'They won't be,' I say, which earns me her hand on my knee.
'Anything else?'

'Sometimes I wonder how much he owes to working with your guy.'

'He's not just mine,' I say and use that as a pretext to sit up in my
chair, drawing my leg out of reach. 'Do you know what Leonora
Bunting thought of them?'

'I understand she blamed your guy for all the problems Orville had
with censors and distributors, even on his sound movies after they
parted company. She used to say your guy got inside his head.'

'And did what?'

'Left him still trying to make the kind of movie your guy wanted
to make.'

'Which was...'

'I don't know exactly, but she thought he wanted to change the
world somehow.'

'I thought it was Chaplin who did.'

This brings Willie's reminiscence to an end, or the arrival of Mona
and Julia in the kitchen does. Both of them are as bare as their feet. I
flash them a grin and look quickly away. 'You were a long time out
there,' one says.

'Back to reality now, huh,' says the other.

I feel as if the air has grown insubstantially oppressive. The glare
of the desert and the parched sky through the window appears to
have intensified. It resembles the threat of a headache, which is aggravated
by the squeal of the legs of my chair on the tiles as I push it
back. 'If you'll excuse me,' I say, 'I think I'm ready for a nap.'

'Let us know if you get lonely.'

'Dream about us at least.'

'Girls,' Willie intervenes.

She sounds rather too maternal for my liking. She has made them
seem younger still. I hurry to my room and consider a cold shower, but
exhaustion overwhelms me at the sight of the bed. As I fumble the
blind shut the image through the glass appears to shiver with the heat
or, I could imagine, with the pulsation of the generator. I stumble
across the room and fall on the bed.

The next I know, I seem to be dreaming in accordance with
instructions. I look down my body to see who's mouthing my
erection. The face that rises into view does indeed belong to one of
Willie's performers. When I check again it's the other girl, and the
third time I see Willie herself. Despite her task, she's able to present
me with a grin – so much of one that it widens her cheeks, stretching
them luminously pale, along with the rest of her face. The same
condition has overtaken the girls on either side of her. All three have
Tubby's gleeful face.

I flounder out of the dream and off the bed, grabbing my watch as
I go. The seconds are urging the minute towards seven o'clock, but in
the morning or at night? Should I be heading for the airport? I stagger
to the window and claw the blind aside. The sky is dark, but the
streetlamps are lit. They show me pallid elongated buildings writhing
in the depths of a canal.

I feel as if my consciousness is drowning in the silent waves of the
canal. I can only cling to my question: should I be heading for the
airport? There are voices and the rumble of a wheeled suitcase in the
corridor behind me. I dodge across the small high room, which has
space for very little besides its furniture and my suitcase and me.
'Hello?' I shout as I fumble the chain out of its socket and open the
door in time to halt an overcoated man who is towing a suitcase that
bulges almost as much as its owner. 'Are you on the Heathrow
flight?'

His stare suggests that the answer isn't worth voicing, unless he
disapproves of my nakedness. The door hides most of it, including my
worse than irrelevant erection. I struggle to ignore that while I try
again. 'What day is it, please?'

Surely I can't have slept so long that the date becomes an issue, but
the man doesn't respond. As I open my mouth to repeat or reword the
question he shrugs and lets himself into the room opposite. I have to
assume he didn't understand, since the address on his suitcase is in an
entirely unfamiliar script. I chain the door shut and sprawl across the
bed to seize the phone. 9 is the key for the reception desk, and I nearly
triple the digit in my haste. It raises such a silence that I'm about to
jab it once more when a light genderless voice says 'Halo.'

I hope it only sounds like that, but I'm prompted to ask 'Do you
speak English?'

'Most certainly.'

'Forgive me, there was someone before. Can you tell me what day
this is?'

Perhaps that could be taken as another gibe at their abilities, but
that's no excuse for the receptionist to pause before saying 'This is Mr
Settler, yes?'

'It isn't, no. Nothing like. It's Lester. Simon Lester. Mr Lester.'

'Of course,' the receptionist says in a tone that suggests the
distinction isn't worth making. 'You are a passenger on the flight that
was diverted to Schiphol, yes?'

'That's me. I mean, I'm one of many.'

'We believe you are legion,' the receptionist says, presumably to
impress me with some obscure English. 'We are told no flights to
London are expected for at least twelve hours.'

Natalie may well be checking the arrival times, but I ought to let
her know. Frugojet is paying only for the room, and email will be a
good deal cheaper than phoning. I thank the receptionist and get
dressed from my suitcase. I retrieve my coat from the hook on the
door and remove the key from the slot that powers the lights. As I
step into the corridor, the tang of some especially potent cannabis
seeps out of a room.

I'm certainly in Amsterdam. I have to hold onto the unsteady
banister all the way down the stairs, which are so close to vertical it's
more like descending a ladder. In the token lobby two chairs with
tapestry seats confront the reception counter. The man behind it is so
tall and long-faced that he might have been selected to fit in with the
proportions of the hotel. As soon as I bid him good evening, which
makes me feel more adrift in time and space than ever, he says 'Ah,
Mr – '

'Lester,' I say to head off anything else. 'Can you tell me where's
the nearest Internet access?'

'Very close. In the street.'

As the glass doors toll behind me, an illuminated barge full of
sightseers trails its waves along the canal. I can't help wishing that the
similarity to the boats that pass Natalie's apartment would transport
me home, an instant link. An icy breeze that feels like a reference to
the blizzards that have much of Britain in their grip snatches at my
face as I step onto the cobbles. Ranks of pale skinny houses topped
by extravagant gables stretch in both directions to bridges bearing
cyclists and pedestrians. In a moment I notice the Internet sticker on
the window of the café next to the hotel.

It's the kind of establishment for which the city is renowned.
Before I've even pushed the heavy door open I'm greeted by an intense
smell of cannabis. The brightest light in the gloomily panelled room
is shed by half a dozen computer screens on tables just inside. Beyond
them lower tables are surrounded by padded chairs and couches
shaded by plants in pots, no doubt one reason why the place is called
the Pot of Gold. To the left of the entrance a blackboard behind the
counter displays the deals on varieties of marihuana and hashish. The
topmost and presumably most potent is called Waking Dream. A
large man in a moss-green pullover at least two sizes larger blinks
slowly but not unwelcomingly at me across the counter. 'Could I buy
some time on the Internet?' I ask him.

'Pay when you finish. Anything else for you?'

I'm tempted to enquire whether they sell single joints, but I don't
know how the effects might combine with my jet lag. 'Not just now,
thanks.'

He eases himself off his stool and immediately vanishes, opening a
section of the counter to reveal that he only just comes up to my
waist. He sways like a recently disembarked sailor as he leads me past
a monitor that shows an unnervingly young girl at solitary play and
logs me onto the adjacent computer. As he wanders off, sandals
flapping on the bare boards, I type my Frugonet password to find that
Natalie has emailed me.

Well, you are having adventures, aren't you? It's not like you to
fall asleep in a film, though. It was hardly worth waking up by
the sound of it. You might as well have stayed in case there was
anything else for you to do. Let us know if you get the chance
where you are now and for how long if it's going to make a
difference. Mark says he's got something to show you besides
him in the school play. He's hoping you'll be back for that at
least.

N/M

Perhaps she typed this in a hurry, but it isn't just the untypically
brusque signature that makes the message seem accusing. I have to
remind myself that I didn't give away too much in my hasty email
from the terminal beside the Chicago departure gate. Much that I
omitted resembles a dream, not least my being wakened by one of
Willie Hart's performers. 'Do we need to get you to the airport
anytime soon?' Both of them were in my room, and as I strove to
open my eyes I wasn't sure if I was more apprehensive of seeing
them naked or dressed – as cheerleaders, perhaps, or high-school
students. In fact they were wearing shorts and T-shirts, though not
a great deal of either. One of them proved old enough to drive a
Punto when I'd flung my belongings into my suitcase and thanked
Willie at length while returning the hug she was in no rush to finish.
All the way to the airport I was aware of very little beyond the girls,
the one in the rear seat leaning forward to rest her bare arm on my
shoulder, the driver's hand straying close to my thigh. Otherwise
I'm left only with the fancy that all the glimpses I had on my drive
to Limestones were replayed backwards. I may tell Natalie some or
all of this, but not now.

Dear N/M:

Looks like I'm grounded for at least the next half-day. Don't
worry, I'm behaving myself. Maybe I'll linger over a lonely
Indonesian feast if they do those for one, and then I may even
retire to my room. Mark, it's still two days until your play, isn't
it? They're bound to have cleared the runway at Heathrow by
then unless the world's reverting to an ice age. Which it isn't, so
you needn't start performing any rituals to wake the world up
or raise the sun or whatever people used to do for Christmas.

Love –

S

As soon as I've sent the message it makes me feel I was less than
awake. Instead of sending a revision or a postscript I check the
newsgroups, and at first all I can do is laugh.

So Mr Questionabble thinks everyboddy has to hush now he's
finnished making stories up about himself and commedians,
does he? I'll bet I'm not the only one that's noticced Mr
Questionabble spells Quotabble, er, Simon. (The er's because
he's not sure of his own name.) If everyboddy else wants quiet
I'll leave him allone as soon as he addmits he hasn't been telling
the truth. Let him say he hasn't got an edditor or a pubblisher
for any book. He just needs to be hummble and I'll wrap up my
sillence and send it him for Christmas.

Colin has responded.

Well, nobody or even noboddy can say Me, I'm Slime doesn't live
up to his name. How many things can you get wrong in one
post, Slimy? Simon's name isn't questionable, and it isn't spelled
like that either. I'll tell you how we can resolve this crap if
you've got the balls for it. Come and see me in my office at
London University Press and I'll prove I exist however you need
me to prove it. That's if you ever leave your computer and get
out of the house. Maybe you don't like anyone to see your face
because you think they're all laughing at you. Let's put you out
of your misery. They are.

I am, but partly at how Colin is aggravating the situation. Perhaps
I sound less than amused, because the man at the adjacent terminal
passes me the plump joint from which he has just taken a generous
drag. He doesn't exhale while I risk a polite puff – I don't know how
potent the contents may be, but I suspect very – and then, grinning
with the silent effort that turns his fat face paler, he gestures me to
have another. I don't until he breathes out, giving me the opportunity
to return the joint to him. The effects seem pleasantly mellow, and
I'm happy to back up Colin's response.

I'll second that. Let us know when you'll be visiting the office
and I'll make sure I'm there as well so you can see we're two
entirely different people. If you don't accept we'll know you
don't believe what you've been saying. I rather hope for your
sake that you don't, but then there's no reason for you to carry
on saying it, is there?

I might go through the message and double every consonant, but the
notion feels less like a joke than a threat of losing control. I post the
message and check my email again, but Natalie hasn't answered. The
hot puffy dimness is growing oppressive, and I'm unnecessarily aware of
the flicker of the screens, a pulsation that appears to be swelling my
neighbour's whitened face. I log out of my Frugonet account and hurry
to the counter.

I'm uncomfortably conscious of the shortness of the man behind
it. I have to rid myself of an impression that he's balancing on stilts
to bring his face on a level with mine. 'Anything else now?' he says.

'Just the session.'

'Five euros.'

I have only sterling and dollars in cash. He raises his eyebrows,
which appear to tug his expression blank, and lets me see the effort
required to push a credit card reader across the counter. I insert my
Visa in the slot and type my pin number, though I can barely distinguish
the request for it, never mind the keys. I have to crouch to be
sure of the next message, as if the faint flimsy letters are pulling me
down to them. AUTHORIZATION DENIED.

'Sorry, wrong number,' I say, feeling like an operator in an old and
irrelevantly suspenseful film. 'One toke too many, eh?' When the
small man contains his amusement, if any, I duck closer to the
luminous green keys and pause after pressing each of mine. By the
time I poke ENTER I could fancy that the task has taken so long I've
forgotten how it began. There's no doubt how it ends, however.
AUTHORIZATION DENIED.

'Third time lucky,' I declare and spend a moment, unless it's much
longer, in recalling how I chose the number. It's SL – it's 1912. I
thought of mixing up the digits to make it less obvious to thieves, but
I'm attached to it. 'That's what it is,' I assure anyone who needs
telling, though surely I didn't pronounce the digits aloud or even
mouth them. I pinch my lips shut with my free hand as I type the
number once again, so slowly that my fingers seem to be growing too
unwieldy to find the right keys. I press CANCEL, because I'm
suddenly nervous of having mistyped, and intone the digits inside the
hollow of my skull as I jab each key. I'm convinced they were
accurate this time, and I press ENTER before any doubts can
dissuade me. PLEASE WAIT, the scrawny screen advises, and lingers
over rearranging and multiplying the scraps of charred material with
which it composes words. AUTHORIZATION DENIED.
RETAILER RETAIN CARD.

I'm reaching to snatch the card out of the slot when the man takes
hold of the machine with a disproportionately large hand and plants
it under the counter. I mustn't panic – mustn't grab him and lob him
across the room. I dig in my pocket and slap my passport on the
counter. 'I can sign instead. This is who I am. That proves it's my
card.'

As I straighten up to take my shadow off the passport my photograph
appears to stir like an image on a miniature monitor, but he
scarcely glances at it. 'It needs your number. Everyone must have a
number now.'

'People like us shouldn't go along with that kind of corporate
global shit.' This hardly even earns me a stare, and so I try saying
'Anyway, you have to return my card. That's what the message said.'

He might be staring at an especially dull film. 'I must retain. I can
read English.'

'All right, I read it wrong,' I say and wonder if I did. I thrust my
swollen sweaty hands into my trousers pockets and drag out handfuls
of sterling and dollars. 'I'll pay you and you can give me my card,' I
tell him. 'Which do you want? How much?'

'No use. We are in the euro.'

'Where can I change these, then? Can I next door? I'm in the
Dwarf Hotel. Dwaas, I mean. Dwaas.'

After a pause that he clearly intends to be eloquent he says 'They
will not do it.'

'Where, then? Or where's the nearest hole in the wall?'

'You want a hole.' He mimes inspiration and says 'You want to
rob?'

'Your English isn't what you thought it was after all.' Surely I
don't say this aloud, but I don't care either way. 'An ATM,' I
translate. 'A cash dispenser.'

'Go out and left and left again.'