Jack O'Connell - The Skin Palace

“I was just walking through here,” she says. “I was just heading home after an errand. This thing just broke out around me. I stopped for a second to hear Boetell speak—”

“Boetell?” he asks, straightening in his seat.

“The preacher. The guy on top of the Cadillac with the microphone.”

“Of course,” he says. “Of course. Go on.”

“That was it. I stopped for a second and all hell broke loose. It was like someone put a match to a gas tank. One minute the crowd is all mumbles and sneers, the next they’re tearing each other apart. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He looks at her doubtfully. “Please, Sylvia. Who is so innocent today?”

“I mean up close,” she says. “It’s different than TV. It’s different from seeing pictures in the paper. I mean, to feel it on your body. It’s a completely different thing.”

He nods agreement. “But the camera—”

“I usually have a camera on me.”

“So you are a photographer?” he says, slightly excited.

She takes another sip of absinthe, finishes the glass. “That depends,” she says, “on who you ask. Do I take a lot of pictures? Yes. Do I make a living at it? Absolutely not.”

“Do you wish to make a living at it?”

The question hits her, but somewhat differently than when Perry asks it. “I really don’t know. It’s a strange thing. I feel kind of like once you start doing it for money … Jesus, listen to what this sounds like.”

“Yes?” he says, barely repressing a smile.

“It’s just … It’s a little hard to explain. I feel a little like if I started to sell my pictures, I’d start taking different pictures. Like I couldn’t help it, you know? Like it would happen subconsciouly. I don’t know. It’s difficult to explain. It sounds so …”

“Mystical?” he offers.

She laughs. “I was going to say pretentious.”

He dismisses the word. “Not at all. I have to tell you, I have a very clear idea of what you’re saying here. I’ve struggled with this myself. The prostituting of the muse. The schizophrenia of commerce and art.”

“Well, that’s not exactly—” she starts, but he continues.

“It’s the nature of the time and the place we work in. The breach is symptomatic of something much darker. I know exactly what you are saying here, Sylvia.”

She doesn’t say anything. She wishes he’d offer another drink.

“I think,” he says, “that it’s fortuitous we met today. In the way we did. I promise you neither of us will forget it, yes?”

“You really saved me out there,” she nods. “I owe you one.”

“Think nothing of it,” he says, a hand flat on his chest. “All things in good time.”

He reaches over and takes the glass from her hand, gets up and moves to the window. “They’re turning fire hoses on the crowd,” he says.

Sylvia gets up from the couch to look, then decides she doesn’t want to. Instead, she glances around the office. On the wall behind Schick’s desk are seven framed movie posters. They look like every other movie poster except that all of them show semi-naked people wrapped into various lewd poses. The titles are El Jefe & the Whip, Night of the Amateur, Wynona’s Tree Duck, My Solitary Diamond, Flo’s Happy Ending, The Wolf Inside Sharon and Don Juan Triumphant.

“I’ve made hundreds of films,” Hugo says, now sitting on the window ledge and watching her study the posters, “but these are the ones which will last. These are the works I will be remembered by.”

He seems lost in thought for a second, then walks over and says, “It occurs to me, Sylvia, while you’re here waiting, perhaps, if you’re feeling up to it, of course …”

“Yes,” she says, trying to prompt him.

“Well, I wonder if possibly you might enjoy a tour of the theater.”

She’s not sure how to answer so she says, “Thank you, Mr. Schick, really, that’s—”

“Hugo, please.”

“Thank you, Hugo, that’s kind of you, but I should probably just wait here until—”

“You do know the history of this building, don’t you? It’s the oldest functioning theater in the city.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that, but—”

“Built by Hans Herzog in 1935. At a cost of the entire family fortune. Do you know the Herzog tragedy? Are you familiar with the story?”

“I may have read—”

“Acht, read,” he says, disgusted, it seems, with the printed word. “Come. Up now. Come with me, Sylvia. Allow me to give you the tour. I’ll show you things that will make the incident outside a vague memory.”

It’s clear he won’t hear no, and she does owe him for pulling her to safety, so she gets up from the couch and follows him to the doorway. He gestures her into the corridor and closes the door behind them and asks, “Where are you from originally, Sylvia?”

“I was born right here in Quinsigamond,” she says as they start down the hall.

This seems to surprise him. He looks at her for a second as he continues to walk, then says, “Is that right? Most of my people, the people I work with, they come from somewhere else. I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone who was originally born here.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Our line of work,” he says. “We are a mobile people.”

They come to a stop back at the balcony area that looks down on the lobby. It’s an impressive sight. The ceiling rises up about twenty feet and the floor runs about forty or fifty feet long. The walls are curved so dramatically that when viewed from above like this, the foyer has the feel of a huge bowl. Everywhere there are mirrors and gold leaf, marble and bronze edging. It’s genuinely one of the most beautiful buildings Sylvia has ever been in.

“God,” she says, staring at the patterns in the tile floor, “you would never know—” and then she stops herself.

But Hugo tilts his head and smiles and finishes for her. “That they showed dirty movies inside, yes?”

“No, I just meant—”

“That’s exactly what you meant, Sylvia,” he says, but he doesn’t seem upset.

“It’s just,” she tries, “I mean, I knew, I’ve read, that it was a significant building, you know, historically—”

“I thought you visited,” he says. “With the boyfriend.”

“I did, but, I don’t know. We were self-conscious. We just bought our tickets and ran inside. I didn’t look around.”

He nods, maybe a little patronizing. “I’ve been attempting to restore it. Very gradually. One project at a time. As the money becomes available.”

She looks back down on the lobby. “You should get the historical society down here. You should get some grant money.”

He barks a laugh that fills the whole gulf before them. “The city fathers,” he says, “will tolerate me as long as I stay fairly quiet and remember them at fund-raising time with an anonymous donation. I’m afraid, my dear, the care of this marvel has been left to Schick alone.”

He puts his hand on the brass railing and takes a tight grip. “She is sixty years old. Designed for a year by a protégé of Donald Deskey himself. Young man named Rejlander. He used all the new materials — aluminum and Bakelite. Spent over three million dollars. This when money had a value that we can no longer comprehend in our shabby age.”

He takes her by the arm and steers through a set of huge double doors into the theatre proper and Sylvia looks up to see enormous naked people coupling on the screen.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Hugo whispers in her ear. “The customers were already in the house when the rioting broke out. We’re rerunning the feature until it’s safe for them to leave.”

“It’s all right,” she whispers back, but she’s completely unprepared for this display.