Amber Sparks - The Unfinished World - And Other Stories

The men have made carvings for me and tell the story of their god, the volcano. It is, they say, a quiet god, for generations silent, and they spend much time appeasing him. Last week they killed a wild boar and held a great feast, and I must say, I have never tasted anything so delicious as wild pig roasted on a spit. You should try it, should you ever get the chance, though I suppose there are not many wild pigs where you live .

I shall stay here until Christmas; then, with a sad heart, sail for Hollandia, where I will wait for my English friend and his boat. Then we travel to America. I think I will eventually set out for the West. There is a magazine out there looking for someone to cover the pictures, to capture these new exotics, the film stars, and put them on display for the public to gawp at. I’m game! I’ll approach them like the wilder animals they are, these motion picture people. I’ll catch them out, spots and snarling teeth, and make them something of a modern-day miracle; something truly new .

Yrs, wandering in this wide forest, Gretel/Ingeborg

Inge lands in Set’s shadow long before he sees her. She knows of his reputation around the studio, a sort of junior ladies’ man, and she photographs several erstwhile girlfriends of his. Her curiosity is piqued. What a cad he must be, she thinks. She’s already made her mind up not to date picture people, but still she can’t help but be awed by how preternaturally lovely so many of them are.

She normally spends her days off holed up in her rented room, flopped across the quilt in her slip, reading the books that she borrows from the Hollywood Library. This heat is very different from the slow, languid heat of the tropics. It’s a dry heat, and it burns the throat. She waits until the iceman comes each Saturday and begs the landlady for a few slivers off the block to roll around on her tongue. Her landlady, the elderly widow of a former prospector-turned-respectable-businessman, calls her Worm, as in bookworm. The landlady’s son, a car salesman, is in love with Inge. He is forever trying to sell her love along with driving lessons. She laughs and tells him she’ll take the driving lessons, anyway. The landlady’s son is nearly fifty, with a blanket of fat and a wide, shiny part in his sparse pale hair. His eyes shine and he sweats, exudes , when he sees her. He reminds her of a sea slug. She has photographed him several times, a fascinating example of the local fauna. She knows how to flatter.

She is flooring it in the salesman’s brand-new 1922 American touring car, scattering birds and extras and pulling up hard to the studio gates. She leans out the window and waves to her friend, a wardrobe girl and sometime actress named Vicky. I’ll be blowed, says Vicky, bringing her new beau up to stroke the car like a big bronze cat. Look at this ride!

And who’s this? asks Inge, while the sea slug fumes in the passenger side. I thought you were with Adonis?

Oh, says Vicky, and makes a sour face. She’s a middling pretty English girl with an exceptionally pretty bosom, and marks time mostly in the big dance numbers. Sometimes they sponge her down with dye and put her front and center in the harems. Once she even kissed Valentino. He’s a cold bloke, that one. And only going after the big stars, Inge, so don’t get any funny ideas. He’s taken up with Lana Volcana.

Inge laughs. I don’t expect that’ll last long, she says. Nobody does with her.

It don’t matter, says Vicky. This here’s Tony. He does stunts, proper ones, falling out of windows and getting smashed with chairs and things. She beams. Tony is indeed a tower of muscle, tall and sinewy and broad-backed, with a pair of girlish brown eyes and a nice hard chin. He extends his hand and grins, and the horn in the touring car goes off, loud and abrupt and deafening. The sea slug is using it to demonstrate his displeasure.

Pleased to meet ya, says Tony. And if you’re looking for Adonis — he jerks his head — he’s over there. Coming out of the diner.

The salesman moves his hand to the horn again and Inge smacks it sharply. Lovely to meet you, Tony, she says. We’ve got to be going — ta, Vicky!

Ta, Inge, says Vicky, but Inge’s already backing out of the drive with a loud squeal, and the sea slug is breathing fast. His usual milky color has deepened to a disturbing pinkish-beige. You all right, love? Inge asks.

Eyes on the road , the salesman tells her. And they almost are on the road, her eyes, except for the moment when they pass the diner and Inge takes in the tall young man with the beautifully louche posture. He looks sad. Not like any Casanova she’s known. He glances at the car, and his fingers are long on his cigarette, and her face flushes, hands tighten on the wheel. Lana doesn’t bother her. But why this one? She seems to recognize something in him, something tragic in his lonely, unguarded look. She wonders if she’s making a mistake, if she might be misjudging him. Imposing her own sense of isolation.

But then, she’s always been a traveler. And here, she supposes, is an intriguing trip to take. She slams on the brakes and opens the door, leaves the sea slug salesman gaping from the passenger side.

Set laughs as this strange girl rushes him, the loneliness in his face melting imperceptibly into amiable reserve. Can I buy you lunch? she asks.

I’ve already had it, he tells her. And I should probably also tell you: I belong to Lana Volcana. Her exclusive property and so forth. He smiles.

Inge rolls her eyes. I just wanted to buy you a corned beef sandwich, not take you to bed, she says. People in this town.

He laughs now and it’s a lovely, musical sound to Inge’s ear. Light and sweet, almost girlish. I’m sorry, he says, and runs his fingers through his pomaded hair. How about a coffee, then? Inge knows she’s going to have to work to fall out of love with him now. She nods, and follows him back into the diner. The sea slug has since driven away, and damn, but she doesn’t suppose she’ll get another driving lesson now.

Set laughs because the creature flinging herself from the car reminds him, briefly, of Constance. But of course they are nothing alike except in impulsiveness, perhaps: this woman is short, all scent and hum, all soft, draped curves, and ample breasts and hips and gently rounded face. Her pale yellow hair is bobbed but escapes its style with a joyful sort of will. She is altogether unfashionable, like a girl from fifteen years ago, and he finds her deeply charming.

Now she sits across from him, dipping her toast in her tea and telling him unbelievable stories of photographing native tribal dances in the Brazilian forest. He has no idea whether he should believe her or not, though he supposes he has no reason not to. She seems smitten with him — the kind of utterly guileless person who doesn’t care to hide it, though there is something else besides frank need behind her soft hands and quick words. He catches her staring, several times, in what he might call pity, were there not so much recognition in the glance. Empathy, perhaps? He notices she has not once spoken of her family, and even when she spins her tales, they’re always in the present tense. He lights a cigarette and leans back, fascinated by this new creature.

And so they fall: Inge hard, like a character in a book; Set into something like a spell, a way of being at least caught if not quite in love. And so the trail of their time together grows.

Ticket stubs: Fairbanks’ latest picture, The Thief of Baghdad . Symphony concerts. Cedric’s last film, finally opening without him.