Bruce Wagner - The Chrysanthemum Palace

“It’s so great, ” said Clea, really meaning it.

Then I thought it — and said it — and meant so too. And do, to this day.

Thad said Clea and I should coproduce; there was much to learn from his old friend Nichols. (Years back, delays on the Quixote shoot had forced him to bow from the director’s Lincoln Center revival of Waiting for Godot. ) He began to pace, voicing concern that because of its autobiographical nature he might have to dip into The Soft Sea Horse for material. He was afraid of legal repercussions, should Mordecai Klotcher wind up optioning the book. Clea told him not to get ahead of himself.

Returning from the kitchen with a sack of chips, Thad assumed the posture of a suave extraterrestrial with an absurd French accent. “I am Klaatu, from Alpha Centauri. That’s how my brother used to say it— très Brigitte Bardot. We’d do our little mise-en-scène in the garden. I’d be ‘sleeping’ and he’d enter stage left making the Theremin sound.” He imitated the instrument’s campily evocative pitch. “I’d open my eyes and he’d be standing there, beamed down from nothingness. Very Starwatch. What can I say? We were ahead of our time. I’d pretend to be shocked, then start to stammer and be a good Earthling host. Uh, have you been traveling long? Jeremy would say— intone —‘About five months. Five of your Earth months.’ You must have come a long way. ‘About two hundred fifty million of your Earth miles.’ He’d look around the yard — he was actually very good at the cosmic snob thing — he must have picked that up from his little Gstaad pals! — and Jeremy would say, ‘What do you call this sector?’ I’d tell him we were in a place called… Martha’s Vineyard. One day we were doing our thing (I have it in my notes) and Jeremy said the big reason he’d journeyed all those millions of miles was — and this is fucking genius —‘I’m most curious to board what I believe you Earthlings call a “yacht.” It is my desire to explore the exotic Isle of Capri.’ The exotic Isle of Capri! Priceless! Oh, he was good! Oh! He was very good. ‘I wish to meet the fascinating specimens you call movie stars.’ Jeremy could be a devil —he was a smart little fucker. He stands there saying he could tell by my aura I had ‘what you Earthlings call asthma’ and that he could easily cure me of this ‘petty ailment’—but not until he returned from visiting the Isle of Capri where he planned to learn ‘the ways of Hollywood moviemaking.’ See, evidently, that was the main thing aliens wanted to know! How to make Hollywood movies!”

Thad smiled a weary, memory smile. Then, with casual elegance, he contemplatively tucked hands into pockets, already rehearsing mannerisms for his tour de force.

HIS ENTHUSIASM WAS CONTAGIOUS.

If we threw enough at the ceiling, something was bound to stick — for somebody. Besides, I could always use a creative kick in the ass.

I forced myself to work on Holmby Hills. Clea finished a précis for her children of celebs sitcom. Thad immersed himself in the one-man show, which, seen through the lens of my own collegiate dabbling in avant-garde, already looked like some sort of outrageous classic-in-the-making.

There were lots of irons in the fire. In addition to Miriam’s misguided efforts on Thad’s behalf to novelize “Prodigal Son” (she was actually making headway), Mordecai Klotcher was drawing up an option on The Soft Sea Horse. As if that weren’t enough, Nick Sultan was in hot pursuit of making a deal for the actor-author to adapt his father’s novel to screenplay form. I kept forgetting to ask Dad — perennial holder of the Chrysanthemum rights — if Nick was really attached or if he’d ever broached the idea of Junior’s involvement, as claimed. (I guess part of me didn’t want to know.) It was all pretty incestuous — not that it hadn’t been from the beginning.

On a typical day, Mr. Michelet catnapped in a lawn chair in front of his trailer while Clea and I took over the bedroom, ostensibly to work on one of a thousand or so projects. The truth was, I had begun a leisurely read of the out-of-print Soft Sea Horse —ordered online just after the funeral, it had finally come — while Clea obsessed over Playboy. The current issue contained a witty photo essay by David LaChapelle featuring an old friend of hers, also the daughter of an icon of silverscreen, albeit one still living. Hefner’s people had a long-standing, lucrative offer on the table and with each new issue Clea contemplated blowing out the candles of her birthday suit afresh, before there were too many.

We were thus engrossed when inquiring voices disturbed our peace.

“Thad? Is that him?”

“Of course, it’s him. They said it’s his trailer. ”

The first again, louder: “Thad!”

We rushed forward and there they were, figures in a scary dream: Morgana Michelet and Mordie K, at the foot of the trailer’s entry, cautiously ogling the cubistic Morloch as fussy merchants might observe a transient dozing in the vestibule of their shop. Her eyes lit upon us as we appeared at the door; smiling awkwardly in our futurama getup, we felt the full sting of Morgana’s phaser, set eternally on Humiliate. Just then the sleeping Vorbalid stirred from his psychopharmacologically induced haze and, blinking rapidly, sat up with veteran professionality to exclaim — strand of spittle brocading his mouth—“Mother!”

“Freak!” cried Klotcher’s great-nephew, in admiration of Morloch’s impressive deformities. “That is so cool. ”

Clea stepped between Thad and the boy, as buffer.

Morgana gaped at the ambassador, not yet recognizing the girl underneath. Finally, the old woman eked out “Clea?”—like a dowager discovering that a new society friend was a sales assistant at Walgreen’s instead.

“Hi,” I offered, lamely bright, extending a mitt in the direction of Mordy/Morgana. With no takers, the hand retracted. In its place, I tendered a pathetic reminder—“I’m Bertie Krohn. My father created the show”—that we’d met on the Vineyard, blah. The M & Ms’ mouths widened but still said nothing; I suppose they were in shock though I wasn’t quite sure why. Standing in uniform, I felt a fresh wave of foolishness, as if me and my compatriots had been caught playing dress up. Or strip poker.

“Vorbalids!” shouted the horrid, gleeful boy.

I flashed on what it would be like to hit him so hard in the chest that he’d belch blood and expire at the moment of impact.

“It is you,” smiled the producer, eyes crinkling like the Tin Man’s. “I was beginning to think we had the wrong galaxy!”

“What are you doing here?” said Thad, now awake enough to be bemused. He addressed Morgana but Klotcher answered instead.

“Didn’t Miriam tell you I was dropping by?”

“That looks shitty, ” said the unstarstruck child, scrutinizing hours-old peel at the neck of our latex-grafted prince.

“I didn’t know you were in town,” said Thad to his mother.

“I’m taking portraits,” she finally answered. “For my book.”

“You’re kidding,” he said. (Curdled smile.)

“I’ve only been here a few days — at the Peninsula. Mordecai rang up and said he was coming to see you. I hope you don’t mind me crashing the party! I thought we could all have dinner tonight at L’Orangerie.”