Steve Erickson - Zeroville

“The humor?”

“I heard a bizarre story,” she laughs, pointing at the TV, “about someone who went to see this because he had been told it was not a comedy. He sat through the entire film wondering why everyone was laughing.”

Vikar is silent.

“This is the brilliance of Sturges, that someone could sit through one of his films under the impression it is a tragedy.”

“I own this movie,” he says.

“You own it?”

“I own a print of it, and prints of other movies.”

“You own a print of this film?”

“Many. Perhaps more than a hundred now. I keep getting more.”

“How do you get these films?”

He considers his response. “I steal them. Some of them. Some of them I’ve been allowed to steal. Can you say you actually stole something when you were allowed to steal it?”

“Do you watch these films you stole?”

“I don’t have a projector.”

“So it is just to have them? Like your own theater but you cannot watch them?”

“Sometimes,” he says, “I believe I stole them for another reason I don’t know yet.” Together they watch The Lady Eve in silence and then she says, “You should sleep. You have your press conference.”

“I don’t want a press conference.”

“It is not for you, it is for the press and your company. Well, it is for you, too.”

“That’s not my name and I don’t know what to say.”

“ That is what you say. ‘ That was not my name, this is my name, I wish to discuss it no more.’ By the time you leave France, everyone will know your true name.”

“Setting the record straight,” says Vikar.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Vikar frowns. “Were you paid to leave?”

“Forget about that, chéri. I will stay or go as you like.”

“I would like you to stay.”

“As you like then,” she says, and turns off the TV.

Before he falls asleep, he says, “I don’t know where Falconetti is buried.”

“She is not buried,” comes the answer in the dark, “she was cremated. Fitting, non , for someone who played Joan of Arc?”

198.

Two hours later, Vikar wakes suddenly and turns on the lamp next to the bed.

He staggers over to the small writing table in the corner of the suite and grabs a small pad of paper and pen. He sits on the bed next to the lamp. “Do you want me to leave now?” Maria murmurs half asleep from her pillow.

He doesn’t answer, absorbed in his transcription.

She raises her head long enough to look. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry to wake you,” he says.

“ Qu’est-ce c’est ?” says Maria.

“For a long time now,” Vikar answers, “ever since I saw my first movie, I’ve had this dream. Every time, there’s an ancient writing.” He shows Maria the pad of paper on which he’s transcribed the ancient scrawl. “I’ve seen it many times, and this time when I woke I could still see it in my head.”

She glances at the paper. “It is Hebrew,” she says, plopping her head back down on the pillow.

Vikar looks at it. “Are you sure?”

“I do not know what it says,” she answers into the pillow, “I cannot read it and I do not understand it. But I know it is Hebrew.”

197.

Vikar arrives at the press conference in the Palais’ grande salon the next morning a little before ten o’clock. Because he has no other clothes, he still wears his black tux pants and open white shirt. He’s greeted by the same barrage of flash bulbs as on the Red Steps the night before; already Mitch Rondell and a translator are seated onstage behind a gold-clothed table with a bank of microphones. Lining the edge of the stage before the table is a row of small potted greens that seem out of place, and behind the stage hangs a large crimson banner that reads FESTIVAL DE CANNES. Rondell says to Vikar, “You’re late.”

196.

Vikar says, “I don’t want a press conference.” Four hundred seats are filled and as many reporters stand around the room and at the back.

“Monsieur, we will begin now?” the translator on the other side of Vikar says, and then says something into the microphone in French. The new onslaught of camera flashes is accompanied by an outburst of exclamations in other languages. The translator raises his hands as though trying to impose order, which only provokes a new wave of questions.

195.

One rises from the din. “Monsieur asks,” the translator relays to Vikar, “what is your reaction to the special award to you, and …” pausing to follow the question with another, “… what is your response to those who disagree with it?”

“I’m setting the record straight,” says Vikar. “My name is Vikar, with a k. That other name is not mine. I wish to discuss it no more.”

Only when it’s clear to the translator that Vikar is finished does he translate what Vikar has said. He turns to Vikar. “But about the question asked?”

“By the time I leave France, everyone will know my true name,” Vikar says into the microphone. “I’m setting the record straight.”

A momentary silence is followed by more questions. “Uh, it is asked,” says the translator, “what is your philosophe —philosophy — of mise-en-scène ?”

“What?”

“ Mise-en-scène .”

“I don’t have any philosophy like that.” Vikar turns to Rondell. “Should I tell them about how all time is in the movie?”

Rondell seems dazed. He doesn’t answer, nervously chewing his lip as other questions explode around them. Gleaning one from the racket, the translator asks, “How do you feel about the attention from the festival, and how do you feel about the journalists and all their questions?”

“Mussolini was a journalist,” Vikar says.

This doesn’t seem to need translation. There’s a stir among the crowd. “What do you think,” the slightly agitated translator interprets another question, “of the other films that won prizes …?”

“I believe everyone in Cannes knows of cinema,” says Vikar. “I met a nice woman last night who knows more of cinema than anyone. I believe the monkey movie sounds like a very good movie though I didn’t see it. I believe Italians like to make movies about bicycles and shoes.”

The translator stares at Vikar as though a challenging mathematical equation has formed on his forehead. He translates what Vikar has said, which seems to inspire more confusion out among the lights; Vikar is happy to hear a question in English. “What do you think”—he can’t actually see the questioner—“about the American film industry’s new preoccupation with expensive escapism, such as outer-space movies and blockbusters about monster sharks and comic-book supermen who fly?” The translator seems relieved not to have to translate to Vikar, but he translates the question into French for the other reporters.

“I want to see the flying superman one,” says Vikar. His thoughts drift back to a night at the beach years before. “It has a girl I know, the crazy one with the tits.”

There’s a smattering of laughter but mainly more confusion. Vikar can make out in the next question something about “place in the sun.” Slightly shell-shocked, the translator says, “How do you feel about A Place in the Sun ?”

“I believe it’s a very good movie.”

Another question. “Monsieur asks,” says the translator, “what are your favorite films?”

“I believe The Lady Eve is a very good movie. I believe Belle de Jour is a very good movie. I believe Now, Voyager is a very good movie. I believe The Battle of Algiers is a very good movie. I believe Written on the Wind is a very good movie. I believe The Devil is a Woman is a very good movie. I believe Detour is a very good movie, and Kiss Me Deadly . I believe Splendor in the Grass and Strangers When We Meet and Pretty Poison are very good movies, and the actresses in them are very attractive. I believe The Third Man and The Shop Around the Corner are sublime movies that existed before they were made. I believe the movie about the car keys is very good. I believe the movie where the attractive Japanese actress says ‘Beast needs beast’ is very good. I believe My Darling Clementine is a very good movie. I believe The Searchers is a wicked bad-ass movie whenever my man the Duke is on screen, evil white racist honky pigfucker though he may be. Emmanuelle is shit, though Emmanuelle 2, Emmanuelle ’77 and Goodbye, Emmanuelle may be very good movies. I believe The Long Goodbye is a very good movie.”