Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

“Called News from Nowhere .”

“I love that. Would I be able to see it? ‘For my eyes only.’ Or, if it’s too personal—”

“Not at all. I have it somewhere, hidden in the house. Give me a day to find it! Become somewhat of a rabbit warren here, I’m afraid.”

“You know, Gus really loved meeting you. He mentioned something to me that might be kind of an amazing opportunity. I think he’s interested in doing a film about you.”

“A film?”

“Did you have a chance to see Good Will Hunting ?”

“Not since you spoke of it. Been a bit derelict. Toulouse and I were going to rent it.”

“You really should look at it.”

“Katy said it’s quite marvelous.”

“It’s a wonderful film— aside from the fact that it’s Gus. Good Will took a lot of people by surprise, because it was mainstream without really being mainstream. And this from the man who made Drugstore Cowboy and My Own Private Idaho . Not exactly Middle America! Gus can do it all.”

He screwed up his eyes and said, “Now, what do you mean, John, when you say he wants to make a film about me?”

“Gus was incredibly moved by your story — your journey. He’s looking for something to do next. He wants to do something ‘smaller,’ and I think this could be it — though this might be a little ‘bigger’ than what he’s looking for … but I think it could totally work. There’s a book called A Beautiful Mind , have you heard of it? At one point, Gus was interested in developing it — it’s a pretty amazing story. Ron Howard did it. Russell Crowe. It’s about a professor at Princeton — a true story — who kind of dropped out for twenty years because of his schizophrenia. They let him roam the campus, that sort of thing. He wasn’t violent or anything — is it weird for me to be talking about this?”

“Not at all, John! Talk away!”

“Then he had this incredible recovery and they wound up giving him the Nobel Prize in economics.”

“I don’t think there’s a likely chance of such a thing happening in my case,” said Marcus sardonically. “Though if they gave a prize for walking, I might get one.”

“I mention it because I think that while Gus is drawn to that kind of screenplay or book — stories with certain ‘elements’—the fact that this one, your story, is so personable … and I don’t think he wants to do the whole campus thing again, which he’s done and which A Beautiful Mind kind of heavily gets into. He wants to go more the Charlie Kaufman route. But what I needed to know, what I wanted to ask was, would you be interested in him pursuing that? Because Gus was very specific about not wanting to offend or intrude. And I , certainly, as your friend — and possible agent! — wouldn’t want you to become involved in anything that’s going to make you uncomfortable. I wouldn’t even bring something like this to the table if it was anyone but Gus. He expressed the interest; I didn’t pitch him. Gus is a genius. He gets it. He’s an artist. And Good Will made about $250 million! I asked if you’d written anything for two reasons. One, because that’s something I would be interested in reading personally and possibly passing to someone in New York if we felt there was a book there, or if you felt a book could be something that might help you or be valuable in your recovery or journey or process. Or even if you just wanted to do a book to see what it felt like to be an author who suddenly has a book on the shelves. Because — bam! — you’re a bestselling author. The agency could do that. And, two, because Gus would be totally open to you writing the screenplay.”

“Me? John, you’re kidding!”

“There’s a tremendous ‘independent’ focus, and we are very strong in that area. Gus bridges both worlds. Do I think that with his help you could write a great script? Absolutely. The old rules don’t apply. And, Marcus: if you write the same way you talk, the potential is amazing.”

“Well, I’m flattered, John — I think.” He chuckled. “And if you’d like me to meet with Gus, I’d be more than happy to. A very interesting man, very humble. I like that.”

Marcus walked Burnham to his scintillating Facel-Vega. They chatted about their kids, and the agent asked after his father-in-law.

“Marcus,” said Burnham. “Would you please come by?”

“Come by?”

“The agency — whenever it feels right. I think it’d be great, or interesting anyway, for you to see the changes that have happened since you were away.”

“You’re not going to offer me a job, are you, John?”

“It crossed my mind.” They had a laugh. “Seriously, though, lots of people you knew are still doin’ their thing. Doing very well, too. Let me throw you a little coming-out.”

“Ah. The medicated debutante.”

Burnham smiled as he switched on the engine. “Gus called me four times the day after our dinner. He was really moved — that story you told about the dream you had … about the ‘disembodied’—”

“The Chairman of the Disembodied.”

“The Chairman of the Disembodied! G reat title, don’t you think? You could call the book or the movie that— The Chairman of the Disembodied . I love that. Anyway, it really blew Gus’s mind.”

“Well, it surely blew mine,” he said. Burnham waved good-bye, then mischievously peeled some rubber.

Marcus repeated the words sotto voce: “it surely blew mine.”

†Of late, Katrina allowed herself the occasional social drink; and while it may seem politically incorrect to note, her decision was — and remained — a most sober one.

Toulouse and Amaryllis returned to the maze to complete the tour interrupted months ago. They strolled within its tall borders, and had no fear of becoming lost. Pullman lay at the entrance, supremely bored.

He confessed his indiscretion with Lucille Rose on the eve of her crossing “the Pond” (as his cousin liked to put it), and Amaryllis didn’t seem to mind; she had won the war, so it was easy to concede a battle or two. She kissed him deeply, in front of the inset Rodin, to show her willingness to forgive and forget.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” she said. “And I don’t want you to make fun of me.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“I’ve been thinking about John Paul.”

“John Paul George and Ringo?”

“I told you not to make fun of me.”

“Sorry.”

“I was talking about the pope. I used to do a lot of thinking about John Paul, and I had this idea … you promise you won’t make fun?”

“I won’t. I swear.”

“Well for a long time — a long time — I wanted to be a saint. I wanted him to make me a saint. But I thought only Catholic people could be made into saints and they had to have lived a long time ago. Like centuries. Then I found out it wasn’t true and John Paul wanted to make as many saints as he could, so he changed all the rules. Now you only need one miracle for beatification, and one for canonization — that’s when he makes you a saint.”

“You don’t have to be dead?”

“I thought you did, but John Paul says no. John Paul is rad! He even made eighty-seven Chinese people saints. And he canonized a society lady from Philadelphia — someone just like Joyce.”