Christina Ch 04

The next morning I was awakened by what to me had become a strange sound: the ringing of the telephone. As I went to answer it I realized with a start to what extent Paul and I had isolated ourselves from the world around us. We had, in effect, completely cut ourselves off from friends and social life, at first out of happiness with the self-sustaining contentment of our relationship (god, how I hate that word), but later out of some perverse desire to nurture our misery in private.

Now, as I heard Xavier's clear voice on the other end of the line, I sighed with gratitude. There was no one I would rather have talked to that morning. In fact, had he not called me I would probably have called him, as a natural place to begin looking for information about this ' contract ' of Paul's.

"Well, " he said in an uncharacteristically jovial tone. " I hear you've been given the chance to climb back out from between your lovely buns."

I didn't even bother to wonder how he had found out, and found out so quickly. Somehow Xavier had always known instantly what was happening. It was positively uncanny. Had he not been born filthy rich, he would have made a superb gossip columnist.

"Delicately put, as usual, " I said, " but it's good to hear your voice."

"What's even better, " he counted, " is to hear that your Marcel Marceau has finally taken a walk. "

"It's a bit more complicated than that, " I shot back.

"Well, don't snap at me, " He said. " I'm only trying to provide you with a little information."

"What are you talking about?"

I heard him sigh on the other end. " There's a screening tonight, " he said. " I want you to come with me. "

"Xavier, will you stop being so dammed oblique?" I said. " What is going on tonight?"

"I'll pick you up at seven thirty, " was his only answer. " wear your black dress."

My protest was interrupted by a click as he hung up the phone. I started to dial him back, but gave up in midnumber. It was useless trying to pry information out of Xavier when he was being mysterious, and I knew that I would only frustrate myself by trying. There was absolutely nothing I could do but wait until that evening and hope that he would be a little more lose tongued.

He arrived at seven thirty on the dot -- another shock, I had never known Xavier to arrive even within an hour of the allotted time -- wearing a bill blasé jumper suit and a heartening smile. He handed me a bouquet of American beauty roses, and took my hand.

"You see?" he said. " I still love you, even in your terrible foolishness."

"The flowers are lovely, " I said. " but I'd prefer an explanation."

"All in due time," he said, comically stroking a nonexistent mustache. " All in due time."

Xavier was full of surprises that evening. When we went downstairs, the car that was waiting for us was not his Lamborghini Countach, but a studio limousine with black tinted windows.

"So that's it," I said when I saw the car. " You've finally decided to go to work for a living. You've become a producer."

"Close, darling," he said, opening the door for me, " but no tiparillo. Besides, there's no such animal as a producer who works for a living."

"True enough," I said. It felt wonderful to be bantering with Paul. We carried on a verbal fencing match punctuated with laughter all the way to the borders of bel-air, parrying and thrusting and giggling just as we had in the old days, so that the short ride with Xavier turned out to be better than a dozen hours with some somnolent psychiatrist.

The screening was a private affair in the home of Reese Jacklin, who, like Xavier, was one of those mysterious figures who never seem to do anything much but are always at the very center of movie land affairs. Reese's function was to be trusted friend, confidant, and harbinger of fresh news to the power elite of Hollywood, a job he performed with great relish and obvious natural ability. On the side he sold the juiciest tidbits about his friends romantic failures to the American reader, that scurrilous little rag that maintains the largest readership in the country by picking at the bones of the rich and famous.

Jacklin's home was magnificent, a twelve-bedroom Old Spanish mansion designed by George Washington smith, with fresh flowers in the courtyard fountain and an observatory with what Xavier described as ' the world's only horizontal telescope.' Jacklin was one of the few remaining bel-airians who maintained uniformed servants, and his kitchen, which occupied what must have been a full acre in the basement, was famous on both sides of the oceans.

Reese met us at the door, dressed as usual in a kimono and loafers with no soaks. At his side was Wanda pearl, the country singer whose popularity was much more a function of her elephantine breasts than her thin and rather irritating voice.

"Hello, my love, " he said when he saw me, leaning over and giving me a peck on the check. " wonderful to see you back in the pool."

We all exchanged greetings and stood at the door chatting for a moment, until Wanda said, " Reese, honey, don'tcha think we oughta get back? Mah throat's so dry."

"Cottonmouth," Reese explained to us with a wink. " Poor Wanda just can't smoke that afghan boo without a bottle of Boone's farm to wash it down."

"Now Reese honey, you apologize," she drawled, her voice raising half an octave in irritation. " You know I don't drink no Boone's farm no more. Only mutton cadet."

"Mouton cadet," Reese corrected, throwing us a weary look over his shoulder as he guided us down the first leg of his labyrinthine system of hallways.

After what seemed an endless trek through art-bedecked passageways, we finally arrived at the screening room. Nowadays most private screening rooms in bel-air are simple affairs, comfortable and relaxing, Jacklin, however, was not a simple man. He had disguised his screening room so that it looked like the book-lined study of an oxford don (even though everyone knew that Reese never read anything but variety and pornographic fotonovelas imported from Acapulco). Full of leather easy chairs and crystal brandy decanters but with no screen or projection equipment in sight. When Jacklin pressed a button -- usually with no warning whatsoever to the assembled guests -- the entire floor descended, chairs, guests, and all, into a room one story down where all the screening equipment was kept. It was a dramatic enough experience the first time one underwent it, but by the second time it already seemed like nothing more than a boring and childish piece of ostentation.

Still, one was expected to ooh and aah, so I oohed and aahed dutifully as the floor carried us down to the screening room itself. The other guests -- among them bill and Dorothy page of roman a clef, perhaps the best restaurant in America, perennial squash champion haroun ahmed, with an Egyptian boyfriend who I did not know, and neurosurgeon miles O'Rourke with his wife rhea -- were all apparently making the descent for the first time, and neither Xavier nor I had the heart to make the withering comments that were so obviously appropriate.

Once the floor settled and the lights went dim, I completely forgot my surroundings and my companions. I have always been a pushover for the movies -- as a little girl, they were my basic means of escape from my mundane Vermont childhood. I've been such a pushover, in fact, that I remain one of the most unreliable critics I know. I can find something I like in any film, even the cheapest and most grotesque, if nothing more than the saturated brightness of color itself or a single expression on the face of one ham actor. In addition, the dimming of the lights was also like a time machine to me, speeding me back to those careless Sundays at my father's side in a darkened theater.

Just before the screen came alive with the titles, Reese Jacklin's voice cut through the darkness. " This film is going to be the biggest grosser since star wars. They're pulling out all the stops on this one."

"Why?" I heard Xavier say.

"The male lead," Jacklin replied. " I talked with George d'antonio over at regal studios, and he said this guy's going to be the hottest thing since free pussy. They're already billing him as the next Paul Newman."

"Hmmm, " I thought to myself, and promptly forgot everything Reese had said as the magic of the titles closed everything else out of my mind. The movie was called ' quicklime ', and it starred Randall Stearns -- who I assumed was the new heartthrob Reese had mentioned -- Cindy Paxman, and Gloria Richards, an old favorite of mine. It was apparently one of those grand prix movies, which for me always manage to capture the glandular appeal and sheer speed of the sport while blithely ignoring the precision and unglamorous hard work that go into the making of even an average race driver, to say nothing of the freaks who rule the world of formula one.

I knew that world well, and now the first roar of the sound track thrilled me as if I were one of the drivers once again. When the picture got to the point of putting me in the cockpit of an ice blue elf-Tyrell special, I forgot the calm maturity that had caused me to leave racing in the first place and wished that I could be plummeting once again down the long straight at hockenheim, gearing the car to take that breathless leap over the flugplatz.

I followed with pounding heart as the car in the movie finished its practice lap at what looked like the short course at Sebring, then I let out a long and probably audible sigh as it pulled into the pits. I smiled nostalgically as the driver stepped out of the car, remembering the unutterable and beautiful fatigue one felt after muscling a formula one car around a circuit for two hours.

Then the driver pulled off his helmet, and I got the shock of a lifetime that had already had more than its share of shocks. I drew in my breath with a loud gasp and stared open mouthed at the screen, hardly daring to believe what I was seeing.

For the driver, this ' Randall Stearns ' that Reese and the studios had been crowing about so loudly, was none other than my recently departed lover, Paul Bayard!

There is no way I can convey the paralyzing effect that the sight of Paul on the screen had on me. The impact of it was so stunning as to numb my senses almost entirely, and the only reason I now know what I did next was that Xavier recited it to me later in great and embarrassing detail.

The only thing I actually remember is running like a loon down the dark bel-air drive that led away from Reese Jacklin's house, running and sobbing and yelling, " no, no!" into the serpentine main line of sunset boulevard, and the cars were honking and swerving to avoid me.

When Xavier finally found me I had run almost to doheny, a distance, I'm now told, of about five miles from Jacklin's mansion. He leaped out of the limo and grabbed me around the waist, dragging me kicking and screaming into the waiting car. I thrashed wildly in his captive embrace, and I was later mortified to learn that I accidentally broke one of his teeth with my failing elbow.

"Now calm down, Christina," he said in an even tone but through clenched teeth as he held me in a grip that was surprisingly strong. " Just calm down. Jesus, if I had known you were going to react this way I would never have done it. Please, Christina, come to your senses, will you?"

I finally stopped thrashing and fell limp in his grip, my heart pounding and my chest heaving with exertion. He put his arm around me, and my head fell against his shoulder like a rag dolls. I broke down entirely, and for the second time in two days I found myself weeping and bawling like some cuckolded schoolgirl, wailing out my heartbreak in the comforting shelter of Xavier's arms.

I heard him order the driver to move on, and when we hit the bright lights of the strip I was grateful to have the tinted glass to keep out the inquiring stares of the tourists in front of the Roxy. By the time we reached Schwab's, I had calmed down considerably and was finally able to ask the question that had been ringing in my brain since the moment I had seen Paul's face on the screen.

"Xavier," I said, my voice breaking as I spoke, " what happened?"

"I don't know much more than you do, " he said in a low, soothing voice. " I found out entirely by accident. I ran into his agent, who's a friend of mine, and we just got to talk. When she told me, I called the studio immediately and they told me Reese had a print of the film. So I asked him to set up a screening for you. Believe me, I had no idea it would do this to you. You must really love this boy, bozo though he appears to be."

"Paul has an agent?" I asked. I could hardly believe it. He had always avoided agents like the plague, complaining that they were parasites and bloodsuckers who had no inkling whatsoever of what it went to be an artist. He absolutely refused to put his career in one of their hands, even though he knew that without one he would probably remain an known outsider.

"Katy Gleason," Xavier said. " The hottest talent pusher in town. " he gave me an even look. " What Reese said was no joke, lover. Your boy is going to be an enormous star. They've already paid him more for this picture than any other newcomer has ever gotten, and they gave him top billing over Cindy and Gloria, who are no small potatoes. The studio is hyping him like they haven't hyped anyone since Brooke shields. He's going to be enormous, Christina. More than you ever imagined."

Although it was very difficult for me to make sense of all this -- my high-minded, classical Paul, selling out to the movies, peddling his flesh in the meat market like all the other ambitious pretty boys -- I had to admit that explained a number of the mysteries that had been troubling me so. His long absences, for example, must have coincided with the shooting of the films, with story conferences, publicity engagements, principal photography and the hundred other steps that go into the making of a movie. And his tight lipped depression, it must have been caused by shame, shame that he had sold out his ideals in the crassest way possible, shame over his inability to admit to me that he had forsaken his own art -- and possibly his soul as well -- for the questionable glory of temporary stardom. It also, of course, explained the nature -- if not the source -- of his mysterious contract.

It was something of a relief to have all that explained, but it didn't make me feel any better. For one thing, it neither brought Paul back nor gave me much of an opening to try to get him back -- if, in fact, that was what I wanted. And I still hadn't the faintest idea as to the most important question of all, why? Why had he done it? Why after all those years of proud struggling, after all the discipline and the mind breaking labor of perfecting his mime routines, did he suddenly give it all up to go in a direction that he seemed never even to have considered before? Why had he sacrificed everything he knew and loved -- me included -- for probably nothing more than a little fame?

Xavier, of course, had none of these answers, and I didn't want to involve him any more than he already was in an affair that was so obviously distasteful to him. It was enough that he cared about me sufficiently to want to inform me despite the fact that he thought Paul useless and decidedly beneath me.

I asked him to drive me home and he did so, dispatching me at my door with a kind embrace. I spent an hour or so at home on the phone, trying every place I thought Paul might be staying, but I turned up nothing but complete blanks. No one had seen him, no one had heard from him. It was as if he had already gone into hiding in anticipation of his impending stardom. Finally I gave up -- for that evening, at least -- and fell into an exhausted sleep on the couch without even bothering to remove my black dress.

The next morning I called Katy Gleason. Apparently she knew me by reputation (or perhaps knew of me through Paul), for she took the call immediately.

"I want to talk to you about Paul," I said. I was in no mood for niceties.

"Not on the phone," Katy said. Her voice was rich, and had an almost honest quality to it that encouraged me. " Come to my office in two hours. "

"I'm coming right now." I said, and hung up the phone without giving her a chance to protest.

Within half an hour I was walking through the door of Katy's office, which was in the prestigious artists and writers building in the heart of Beverly Hills. The outer office was sumptuous in an understated way, a muted sort of high tech decor that looked as if it had been lifted whole from the pages of the architectural digest. When I told the receptionist who I was, she announced me immediately and I was told with no further ado that I could go right in.

Katy's office was a glass and metal wonderland, positively agleam with those shiny alloys that are so admired by American industry. It had a hard edged look to it that put me off a bit, but my critique of her taste in interior design was forgotten the second I laid eyes on Katy herself.

I am used to the company of beautiful women. My mother spent half her life turning down the photographers and agents who were constantly begging her to enter this beauty contest or pose for that magazine. Beauty, in fact, is taken almost entirely for granted among my friends and acquaintances -- it's one of the first prerequisites for permanent membership (as opposed to the temporary variety, which can be obtained with mere wit, brains, or achievement) in what the world's journalists are so fond of calling the haut monde.

But I had never seen a beauty like this Katy Gleason. She had one of those triangular, Siamese cat faces, with the hollowed cheeks and oversized eyes that make one think immediately of a high fashion model. But where a model's beauty often has a porcelain, hand's off quality to it (one imagines her splitting up the middle if asked to spread her legs too far), Katy's was substantial and firm without being overly athletic. Her hair was deep black and her eyes brilliant green, and when she stood up I saw that she had the kind of body that makes men moan in the dark -- full, yet somehow lithe at the same time, and positively rippling with sexual energy.

I could not help but wonder if the explanation for Paul's mysterious behavior lay right here in this office. Certainly she looked to be woman enough to turn any man's head, and I could rather easily imagine her seducing Paul right out of his art and right into the movies. But there was something about her that made me think this unlikely, and it wasn't long before I discovered that my hunch was right.

"Hello," she said in that melodious voice. " Paul certainly wasn't exaggerating when he told me how beautiful you are."

"You have me at a distinct disadvantage," I said. " You see, Paul never told me about you at all."

"I know that," Katy said. " And he swore to me that he never would."

"I'm not surprised."

There was a brief, awkward silence which under the circumstances made me extremely uncomfortable. So I simply blurted out, " I want to know who's responsible for what happened to Paul."

"You don't waste time, do you?" Katy said.

"Not when something's as important to me as this is."

She nodded. " I understand." there was another long pause, at the end of which she looked me squarely in the eyes, holding mine with her's in a steady gaze that very quickly turned into a sort of caress. " I don't know very much," she said, " and before I tell you what I do know, I'd like to get to know you a little better."

Now I understood at least this much, Paul had definitely not left me for Katy. She was unmistakably on the gay side of the sexual fence, and now she was unmistakably trying to seduce me. I didn't mind. I go to bed with whom I please in this world, and if a lovely woman happens to catch my fancy I have no qualms whatsoever about indulging a sexual appetite that is decidedly bipartisan. In fact, some of the lushest of my erotic adventures have been with women -- I am reminded of the island of Antigua, of the wonderful month I spent holed up there in the admiral's inn (where lord nelson once trysted with lady Hamilton) with the sculptor Eloise Bryant, and of an absolutely sensational night with a lady politician (who shall remain forever nameless) after a party for the president at Sardis's.