Alison Lurie - The Nowhere City

“I’m sorry,” Iz said in a not-sorry voice. “But I’ve never let any woman make a fool of me twice.” With his free hand he took hold of Katherine’s hair at the back of her neck, and turned her face forcibly towards his. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” He spoke in a friendly, reasonable tone, almost as if he were dictating a report. “I’m going to give you what you came here for. Don’t play coy with me. If you won’t take your clothes off, I’ll tear them off. If you won’t lie down, I’ll knock you down. If you won’t make love with me, I’ll rape you.”

He smiled, but behind his dark-rimmed glasses his pale gray eyes were serious, looking into hers. Katherine began to tremble violently.

“No,” she said. “Please, no.” Iz put his arms around her.

“Ah, Katherine,” he said, holding her. “You don’t have to be frightened. You’ll see. It will be a good experience.”

PART FOUR

Hollywood

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17

THE EMPTY SOUND STAGE was like the inside of an immense dark cardboard box; a vast cube of obscure space. Against the distant walls hung painted drop cloths representing in meticulous detail the landscape and architecture of the imaginary planet Nemo, setting of Glory’s current picture, a science-fiction musical comedy. Assemblages of platforms and steps rose here and there in the darkness like hillocks on a plain, among herds of folding chairs. On the dusty ground, black electrical cables and wires of all sizes were coiled and crossed, in some places resembling a nest of enormous snakes. Steel and aluminum skeletons supported the spotlights and floods, and the immense cameras on their traveling booms. More hanging lights, microphones, ropes, flats, and cables disappeared into the shadows far above.

All these lights were dark now; the only illumination came from the long strip of hot sunshine slanting in from the open doorway, fading as it fanned across the cement; and from the electric bulbs around the make-up mirror in Glory’s trailer dressing-room.

It was hot everywhere today; densely hot and smoggy outdoors; only a little less so where Glory and her agent Maxie Weiss were sitting in front of her trailer on two wooden chairs. Glory’s makeup was caked with sweat, for she had been working for three hours, rehearsing dance numbers; or standing about waiting in the excruciating boredom of film-making while other members of the cast rehearsed, or while the choreographer conferred endlessly with the director, the assistant director, the musical director, the dance coach, the man in charge of the extras, and his and their assistants. The tower of pink-blonde hair, though skewered to her head with innumerable pins, had begun to fray at the edges; her rehearsal clothes (black tights and loose sleeveless white top) were wrinkled and damp.

She sat in the naturally graceful pose of a dancer, one leg tucked under her, the other pointed out along the floor, drinking from a Thermos bottle a health-food drink called Frozen Tiger’s Milk. Maxie was eating two pastrami sandwiches which had been wrapped in waxed paper; he looked hot, fat, and worried. He would have been lunching at Scandia, an air-conditioned restaurant near his air-conditioned office on Sunset Strip, and Glory would have been at the studio lunch-room, if they had not had to confer about a crisis.

The trouble had all started yesterday. It had been a bad day for Glory, an unlucky day. While she was eating breakfast, her girlfriend, a starlet named Ramona Moon, had called up to warn her that Pluto was square with Neptune in her tenth house and she ought not to engage in any new or important professional ventures. Also she should avoid all occasions that might lead to serious emotional conflict; in fact about the best thing she could do would be to get right back into bed and stay there. Glory was not, like Mona, a follower of astrology; all the same, it would have been better if she had listened to her.

The first thing that happened was that she broke off one of her fingernails starting the T-Bird. The traffic on the way to the studio was hell, and when she got there Roger, the best make-up man, was out sick. Then, while they were waiting around between takes, Petey Thorsley, a little dancer who was playing one of the other natives of Nemo, came over. He leaned on the back of a chair, in his green rubber costume with pink polka-dots and webbed hands like a duck, and remarked to Glory that Dr. Einsam had been seen eating cheesecake in Zucky’s out in Santa Monica with a brunette, and what was the story? “You tell me, don’t ask me,” Glory said, thinking that Mona had been right. “Gee, that’s all I know,” Petey said, his wire antennae quivering. “Listen, don’t let it get you down. My friend said she was nothing anyhow, kind of an intellectual type. ... Aw hell, Glory, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, Petey, it doesn’t bother me,” she had replied, manufacturing her smile.

Her real mistake had been to think that the stars were through with her after that one. She grew careless when nothing more went wrong on set the rest of the day; when she even got off early and beat some of the traffic driving home. She forgot about astrology; she had a big evening ahead.

There was a première that night of a picture called Dancing Cowboy, starring Rory Gunn. Rory was also the star of the musical that Glory was making now, and in which she had for the first time what might be called a second female lead, even if she did have to play it with antennae and green hands. As it was, naturally, top priority that Rory Gunn should be well disposed towards Glory, ever since the picture started Maxie had been putting out stories about how much she thought of him as an actor, and what a tremendous thrill it was for her to have the chance to play with him. For that evening he had arranged that after the showing, when Rory was on his way out of the theater, Glory would rush up to him and kiss him in a spontaneous demonstration of her admiration; kind of kooky, but lovable, and really sincere. He had cleared this with the studio and with Rory’s agent, and alerted the local papers and also two wire services. Glory had a new dress for the occasion, short white bouffant satin printed with pink roses, and she had borrowed a white mink stole from the studio. So it was all set.

Rory Gunn came out of the theater first, right on schedule, taking it slow and giving the crowd behind the ropes a good look at his profile. Glory was close behind him, but at the door of the lobby she held back a couple of seconds, waiting for a good clear space to open up between her and the photographers. Then she stepped out, saw Rory, did a big take—excitement, adoration—and began to run.

She had waited a moment too long. As she approached Rory, a girl in the crowd, one of his fans, broke through the police line and also started racing towards him. They got to the star about the same time, and Glory stepped in front of the kid, but before she could open her mouth to speak this juvenile delinquent put her hand in Glory’s face and gave her a violent push. Glory staggered back on her three-inch pink satin heels; tripped, screamed, and fell on her ass on the sidewalk, with a noise of ripping cloth. From this position she saw the girl fling her arms around Rory Gunn and kiss him passionately, while he just stood there looking dumb. Without stopping to think, boiling with fury, Glory scrambled up in the ruins of her dress, one shoe off, limped forward, and slammed the kid in the jaw. Even as the blow went home she knew she had made a terrible mistake; she heard a louder howl rise from the crowd and the flash bulbs popping, like all Mona’s unlucky stars machine-gunning her down together.