Guy Vanderhaeghe - The Englishman’s Boy

“Oh, Jesus.”

“That’s the trouble with pretty men. They put too much store in their looks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, I should know better, shouldn’t I? So much for a thing of beauty is a joy forever. Joy with DeShane only lasted weeks.”

“Is that the reason for your condition?”

She avoids answering the question. “You really ought to come back to the office, Harry. You cheer me up. We’re the only ones who prefer Thomas Hardy to Scott Fitzgerald. When you’re living the jazz age why would you want to read about it, too? But nobody else gets my point.”

“You better get some sleep, Rachel.”

“Maybe. But you had a reason for calling. Something about help?”

Now is not the time. “It can wait.”

“Come on, Harry. Shyness is one of your endearing traits but you can overplay it.”

Then I recall the book Chance gave me. He even marked passages with a red pen. Georges Sorel’s Réflexions sur la violence. The only problem is I can’t read French.

“Look,” I say, “Chance gave me a book to read while I work on the script. But my menu French isn’t up to deciphering it. From the number of times the words prolétariat and socialisme crop up in it, I thought it might be up your alley. If I sent it over, do you think you could give me a précis?”

“I could give it a whirl.”

“All right, then. Thanks.”

“Come back to the office, Harry.”

“Soon,” I tell her.

I am not entirely satisfied with my photoplay, but I’ve got close, and the deadline for the script is tonight, nine o’clock. Rather dramatic in its precision, but that’s Chance. However, I fear some mistake has been made. The driveway is filled with vehicles parked bumper to bumper and the house is lit up like I’ve never seen it before, brash yellow light streaming from every window on every floor, and the tinny, nasal sound of gramophone jazz trumpeting inside. Lately, Chance’s nerves have been badly frayed. A mix-up over still photographs of prospective shooting locations earned Fitz the dressing-down of his life. I can still see the big Irish moron standing on the carpet, head hanging down like an illustration from a Sunday-school paper – the boy caught pinching nickels from Mother’s handbag. Maybe in the midst of all the planning for the picture, the deadline has slipped Chance’s mind.

Nothing slips Chance’s mind.

Feeling uneasy, I decide to ring the bell, hand the envelope to Yukio, and get the hell out of here. However, in a brightly lit window I see three women with cocktail glasses in their hands – Mary Pickford, Gloria Swanson, Pola Negri. Change of plan, I’ll go around to the back. To dance attendance upon such a big party of celebrities, he’ll have hired caterers. I’ll give the envelope to the kitchen staff and avoid encountering any of his classy guests.

I begin to fumble my way to the rear, brushing past rosebushes emitting a thick, heady fragrance, hugging the darkness like a housebreaker, dodging the splashes of light on lawn and shrubbery where the shadows of Chance’s guests dart, fishes in a pond. From the house, laughter spills, mingled with mirthless shrieks. Blindly feeling my way among the flower-beds I sneak glances at the lighted windows, catch glimpses of revellers inside. Clara Bow, Colleen Moore, Barbara La Marr.

Turning the corner of the house, a constellation of Japanese paper lanterns blazing against the night sky surprises me. Yukio teeters on a stepladder while Chance stands on the lawn directing the positioning of lanterns on a cord strung between two palms. An intruder, I instinctively freeze to the spot.

“Now the red one,” says Chance, “next to the green.”

In the warm glow of the lanterns, Yukio’s face shines like rubbed brass. Beyond the two men, the swimming pool gleams intensely green in a blanket of soft light, liquid jade. A woman is swimming in the pool, sinuous water rolling smoothly over her shoulders, the surface of the pool undulating faintly behind her as she plies the breast-stroke. Completing a length, she turns without a splash, glides back. Chance pays her absolutely no attention; face raised and forehead lined with attention, he studies the lanterns dangling like coloured concertinas drying on a clothesline.

I clear my throat and he wheels around, peers hard to where I stand one foot in the shadows, one in the light.

“Harry!” he exclaims. He comes forward eagerly, pointing to the manila envelope tucked under my arm. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He checks his watch. “Punctual to a fault,” he says, taking the envelope. The girl in the pool begins another lap. The water flows around her thickly like heavy green syrup. A burst of laughter rings out from the house, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Chance ignores it, or doesn’t hear.

“Let’s go in,” he says.

“No, really, I don’t want to crash your party.”

Chance puts a hand on my shoulder. “But the party is for you, too. A little treat for working so hard.”

“I’d feel out of place among such a distinguished crowd.”

Chance throws back his head and laughs. “That’s right. Don’t spoil it. I get your meaning.” He steers me to the rear entrance. Over my shoulder I peek at the woman in the water. It is as I thought; she’s stark naked.

He leads me through the kitchen, past a number of rented waiters in dinner jackets toiling over trays of canapés, and down a passageway which delivers us into one of Chance’s empty, blank rooms. A very odd setting for a party, just a few ladder-backed chairs marooned on a parquet floor. A waiter is serving drinks to two women; a man’s muffled shouting can be heard further back in the house. The two women are Gloria Swanson and Clara Bow.

“It’s a very small affair,” explains Chance, completely ignoring two of Hollywood’s greatest stars. “By coincidence some of Fitz’s boon companions from New York are in town and I indulged him by inviting them along. Fitz is like a boy with a new train set; he wants to show it off.” He taps the envelope. “I’ll take this up to the study and give it a look. It’s quieter there. Until I need you, consider yourself to have been given the keys to the city. Miss Lillian Gish is dying to meet you.” With that cryptic comment he exits the room. As soon as he leaves, Gloria Swanson and Clara Bow advance on me, heels clicking like castanets on the hardwood. It’s now I become aware that Gloria’s sequinned dress, skeins of pearls, and beauty mark are right, but her chin isn’t. It’s pronounced, but not pronounced enough. Seen up close, Clara Bow, the “It” girl, isn’t It either. The eyes are set too close together and the eyelids don’t droop the way the Jazz Baby’s do in the pictures.

I laugh with pure relief.

“Is it a man, or a hyena,” snarls Gloria.

“Be nice,” cautions Clara.

“The rest are hyenas, why’d he be any different.” Gloria tips her glass and drains it.

“So what is this? You girls doubles? Stand-ins?”

“That’s rich – stand-ins. We don’t do much standing.” Gloria consults her companion. “More like lay-downs, wouldn’t you say?”

“Lay-downs,” giggles Clara and then covers her mouth coyly with her hand. Some of her teeth are rotten.

“What is it with this Chance?” asks Gloria, gloomily surveying the barren room. “He run out of money before he got the decorators in?”

“You’re a card, honey,” says Clara. “A regular card.” She appeals to me. “Isn’t she a card?”

“How come nobody’s interested in La Swanson?” demands Gloria, sullenly angry. “My stock falling with the movie-going public?” She turns on me. “What about you, sport? You interested in a little movie magic?”