Manuel Munoz - What You See in the Dark

The Mexican men stared at her as Dan parked the truck, and she realized they would be the ones to tell Cheno, even if it wasn’t the truth the way she would tell it. Dan kept the motor running and she went to the door, package in one hand, key in the other. They followed her with their eyes. They knew her. They knew about her. They knew all about her.

By the time the Director and the small crew reached Bakersfield at two in the afternoon, even the Actress knew that the day was wasted. A flat tire had delayed them on the drive over from Los Angeles, and the whole reason for coming — a quick day trip for rear-projection road shots and site scouting — had to be rethought. They would have to shoot the scene first thing in the morning and, if time allowed, have the photographer set out on his own with specific instructions about what to look for.

The Director phoned her room. “Would you have an early dinner with me, say about five thirty or so?”

She agreed, and when she met the Director downstairs, she was surprised when the clerk stepped from behind the desk and showed them to a small room off the lobby — a meeting room, she realized, for the oilmen who came through town. A few round tables sat unadorned, but one was covered with a simple tablecloth and place settings, and the clerk led them to the chairs, pulling one out for the Actress.

“You can take away the third setting,” said the Director. “My wife decided to rest instead.”

“We can have a plate sent upstairs if you’d like.”

“Just soup,” said the Director. “And salad and bread. Very light. She’s not feeling well from the trip.”

“Is she all right?” asked the Actress.

“Perfectly fine. More agitated than anything else after sitting in the car all morning.”

The clerk poured them each a glass of wine, but the Actress put her hand up before hers was full. “I didn’t know the hotel had a kitchen,” she said to the clerk.

“We don’t, actually,” he responded. “A few dishes are coming over from Ruby’s Steak House, just down the street.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” said the Director, “but I went ahead and ordered for you. A steak, medium well, and a little salad with dressing on the side in case it’s too tart, as some dressings tend to be.”

“It sounds lovely,” said the Actress, nodding at the clerk.

“Send my wife a bottle of this,” said the Director, having sipped the wine.

“Very well,” said the clerk. “The food will be here shortly,” he said, and exited the room.

The Director unfolded his napkin and sighed, clearly agitated. “What a waste of a day.”

“It must be frustrating.”

“We won’t have a lot of time. Or money. When the full production starts, I’ll have little patience for setbacks like this.”

“I was explaining to the driver during lunch that our shoot had to take place in the morning because of the quality of the light.”

“You had lunch with your driver?”

“Yes,” she answered. “At the café just across the street.”

“He did nothing untoward, did he?”

“Of course not!” She smiled at his suggestion.

“Of course not,” he said. “That’s a good man, after all. It’s not polite to let a lady eat alone.” He seemed to recall the loss of the day’s work and shook his head. “If we’d been here on time, we could have had a lovely lunch somewhere with my wife. She would’ve been in good spirits, too. Good company. She enjoys yours very much.”

“Enjoys what, exactly?”

“Your company. She’s a smart lady, my wife. Very sharp. She appreciates intelligence in others. She says it radiates from you. Starlight, if you will.”

“That’s very generous of her.”

“Oh, come now,” he said. “Take a compliment.”

They both turned at the sound of the doorknob being handled almost apologetically, as if the clerk didn’t want to interrupt them, and he peered in as if to announce his presence before wheeling in a cart.

“I’m famished,” said the Director. The clerk served them the plates, the steaks simple and a bit thin, but steaming hot, the bread warm and covered, in a small basket. The Director sliced into his steak with a guarded delight, not taking a bite until the clerk exited once again, and if he was unhappy with the tenderness of the meat, he didn’t let on.

“It’s too bad there isn’t a window in this room,” she said. “A little natural light would’ve been nice.”

“Yes, indeed,” he said. “I’m grateful the hotel had such a room available. It would’ve been most intrusive to go out unannounced to a restaurant and have a gawking public watching us eat.”

“Oh, they’d recognize you, but not me necessarily.”

“I don’t believe that for one minute. They surely would. Did no one do a double take in the café when you had lunch?”

She smiled. “Perhaps.”

“I would think so. Small towns are filled with people who notice every little detail. They make the best kind of audience in some ways, limited as their viewpoints might be.”

“I’m a big-city girl now.”

“Sophisticated,” the Director agreed. He served himself a little more wine, and even though the Actress had not touched hers, he moved to pour the rest of her glass. She did not stop him, not wanting even her small gesture to appear disagreeable to him in any way.

“Yes, indeed, sophisticated,” he said. “You know, it pleases me quite a bit to hear you talk about light.”

“Light?”

“The quality of the sunlight. Explaining to your driver why we absolutely need to shoot in the morning to keep to the script.”

“I think you may have mentioned that to me at one point. Something about the angle of the sun in the sky and the shadows.”

“Precisely. Some people are quite discerning when it comes to natural light. They have an eye for it. They seek continuity. If a scene takes place in the morning, the eye wants morning light. The best critics especially. They look for any reason to dismiss a project outright. That’s why I’m so meticulous about setting and being proper about it.” He looked at her. “That doesn’t make you nervous, does it? Does it make me sound demanding?”

“Not at all,” she said. “It’s to be applauded, I would say.”

“I’m guilty of judging a picture harshly myself. I can’t bring myself to forgive even television. One evening, I was watching an episode of I Love Lucy with my wife. Very harmless and comical. Do you like her?”

“Oh, very much so.”

“She’s a genius really, though I have to tell you that, as a director, I wouldn’t know what to do with someone who is so gifted physically. It’s a whole other element to bring to an already complicated task. In any case, the episode had Lucy and her friend planning to steal John Wayne’s footprints from Grauman’s Theatre in Hollywood—”

“I remember that episode. She was quite funny!”

The Director laughed. She felt relieved to hear him let loose, a good, wholesome chortle, easygoing, and it made him lose the sharp edge he had, the silent, watchful scrutiny that she had already observed from him in their previous meetings. She ate a little more freely and took some of the wine.

“Very funny indeed. Yet as I was watching, I was appalled that such a marvelous sketch had such terribly shoddy sets. When the two girls get ready to steal the footprints, they hear someone coming, so they hide in a set of bushes tucked to the side. Pure convenience! I know Grauman’s. They have no such landscaping. And that got me thinking about the time of day. They were stealing the chunk of sidewalk in the evening, yet the lighting was incorrect, and there was hardly an effort to disguise the fact. Inexcusable, even if it is television.”