John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“The reports of your death have been premature.”

“Wishful thinking, I suppose,” says Niles, looking as penitent as possible.

“Hop in.”

Bramley is a game one, always up for high times, and probably made those threats purely for the sake of form. One’s sister is one’s sister, after all, and not to be trifled with. Niles sits next to him and he switches the pony into motion.

“If you’re headed to one of the coon houses,” says Bramley, “you’ll have to direct me.”

“ Touché .” For a time the lads had taken to calling him Nigger Niles because of his predilection, but as it was the kind of thing which would eventually reach the Judge’s ears he had curtailed the habit. “Actually, I was just taking a stroll.”

“Searching for poor girls to dishonor.”

Bramley is still smiling, watching ahead as they turn onto Dock.

“And how is your sister faring?” Niles asks, deepening his voice with concern.

“Extremely married.”

“To Horton Lassiter.”

“Yes.”

“That I am truly sorry for,” Niles says as Bramley stops the gig in front of Mitchell Bannion’s resort. “Is he as — as moist as ever?”

“A veritable swamp of a man. It is no wonder that Mae has been taken with the vapors lately.”

“I am a degenerate and bounder. But she is far better off without me.”

“No doubt.”

“You’re stepping in for your medicine?”

“Poker tournament. Quite a few familiar faces.”

“No thank you.” Niles had, in fact, been heading for the House of All Nations to see if the medium-dark one with the spectacular aftworks was still there. It was all Alma’s fault, really, or the Judge’s, for having her bathe him till he was old enough for schooling. The way the sweat would run down between her breasts, the sweet fullness of her lips, her voice—

“I’ve never known Niles Manigault to turn his back on a game of chance,” says Bramley.

Niles shrugs as he steps down to the street. “I’m tapped out, old boy. Tried to put the nip on my brother Harry, but he wouldn’t hear it.”

“And no chest of gold from the Frozen North.”

“I’m lucky to return with all my toes.”

“Hold out your hand.” Bramley digs in his coat pocket, then clinks five Morgan dollars into his palm. “With a touch of moderation, that should last you all night. Or until I win them back from you.”

“You would have made an excellent brother-in-law.”

“You’d have ruined me, Niles.”

Niles slips the coins in next to Harry’s bill and follows Bramley into the saloon. The House of All Nations stays open till dawn.

They stand and cheer for many minutes after, Harry sniffing back the waterworks, so moved that if he was of whole body he would rush out to find a recruiter and sign on for the fight. The orchestra continues to play as the curtain falls, and finally people begin to file out. Harry waits till the aisle ahead is mostly clear, then grabs his hat and hobbles quickly up to the stage. He tries not to use his cane in public, saving it for occasions that require a great deal of walking.

Peachpit is guarding the steps to backstage.

“Evenin, Mist’ Harry. Enjoy the show?”

The old man had smallpox as a boy, his cheeks and neck cratered with scars.

“I thought I might take a look at the apparatus.”

Peachpit begins to shake his head. “What they tole me, Suh, is—”

“I won’t bother the players. I’d just like to see that ship.”

“Well, if that’s all it is—” Peachpit steps aside and Harry climbs past him. Going down stairs presents more of a problem for him than going up. “I’s awful sorry to hear about your brother.”

“What did you hear?”

“Word is he was kilt by one of them polar bears in the gold rush.”

“He’s still with us, I’m afraid,” Harry calls as he steps around the curtain. “He was here tonight.”

“Praise the Lord,” says the old man, pressing his palms together in thanks. “Snatched from the jaws of perdition.”

Backstage, a gang of men slide the enormous scrim that made the ship’s hull toward the wings, its frame slotted into a groove set with bearings. Harry loses his balance trying to keep out of their way and stumbles backward into a small man who seems not to have a task among the swarming stagehands.

Teethadore steadies the fellow and leads him to a safer spot. He recognizes the type — a small-city Reuben dazzled by the footlights.

“I’m afraid that the young ladies aren’t receiving visitors,” he says. “They’ll be rushing off to get their beauty rest.”

“I was actually more interested in the device,” says the rube. There is something wrong with his legs, the sole of one shoe inches thicker than the other. “Whatever you used to make the background views.”

“Ah,” smiles Teethadore. “An aficionado of the illusory arts. Come with me.”

He wears a thicker sole himself, both sides equal, on his street shoes. Stature does not betoken character, of course, but at times the supplementary altitude is most welcome.

“Did you enjoy our little extravaganza?”

“Very much so.” The local fellow is still rubbernecking as they make their way through the maze of props and scenery. “Your turn as Roosevelt was striking.”

Teethadore beams. They all warned him not a soul in Dixie would grasp the reference. “You’re familiar with our former governor?”

“No, actually, I’ve never been to New York—”

“Never been? What a tragedy.”

“I expect I’ll be going there soon.”

“Bully!” Teethadore presents him with one of his cards. “If we’ve completed our tour of the southlands by that time, you’ll have to look me up.”

“ Teethadore the Great ,” reads the young man. “ Actor, songster, and dialectician. Stoddard F. Brisbane— ”

“My given name. Civilians call me Brizz.”

“Civilians—?”

“As opposed to thespians.” He winks. “We have our own little rituals. A bit like the Masonic Code.”

The young man offers his hand. “Harry Manigault.”

“A pleasure. And this,” he says as they come to the device, “is the font of all our magic.”

Harry Manigault bends, hands on knees, to peer at the apparatus. The beam remains fixed, pointing toward the audience, while the turret it is housed in can be cranked around in a complete circle, with a slot in which either a single diapositive can be fixed, like the flag or the cemetery scene, or the continuous vista of jungle made by gluing several views into a strip.

“The coloring was beautifully done,” says Harry, giving the crank a little turn.

“You’re a Kodak bug, no doubt?”

“I built my own stereopticon when I was twelve.”

“Impressive.”

Young Harry shrugs. “Merely an application of the principle of binocular vision.” He picks up the fan of colored celluloid the stagehands wave in front of the beam to project the fire. “I’m working on a machine now, something like a zoopraxiscope, only—”

“Reinventing the wheel, are we?”

“It’s a sound principal. And if you’ve only got access to normal cameras—”

“I know Dickson.”

Harry Manigault lays the color fan down. “Mr. Edison’s Dickson?”

Teethadore smiles. “Dickson, Brown, Paley, the whole gang of them over in Jersey. I made a comic view with them — portraying Governor Roosevelt on one of his hunting expeditions. Quite a droll scenario with a shotgun and a small bear in a tree.”

“I’ve never seen the moving ones—”

“We use them for entr’actes in our New York performances. But on the road — the equipment is difficult to maintain.”