Flicker (10 page)

There was one more conversation I recall, the weirdest of all. It
started while Sharkey was showing me how to clean the film gate of the projector. It occurred to me to ask him about the mechanism that caught the film by its sprocket holes and shoved it forward frame by frame. It's called the Maltese cross gear.

“You said LePrince invented that,” I remarked.

“No, no. He was the first one to take it out in public—as part of his projector. You know why it's called a Maltese cross gear, don't you? Because that's the shape of a Maltese cross. And that's no accident.”

“What's no accident?”

“That the most important part of the machine is shaped like a Maltese cross. You know about Malta, don't you?”

Of course I didn't know about Malta. I had no idea what he was talking about. So, as usual, I let him ramble on casually while he swabbed away at the innards of the projector.

“That's where the Hospitalers set up shop. Ran the island for two or three centuries. You've heard of the Hospitalers?”

Again, I hadn't.

“Medieval knights. Crusaders. All like that.” Then, as if it were the main point: “They're the ones who got the Templars' loot. Plus all the secrets.”

I stared back at him blankly.

“You know what happened to the Templars? Knights Templar? Shafted but good. By the pope himself. For heresy. Wiped out. Totally. Torture, disemboweling, burning at the stake … somebody ought to make a movie. By the time the old pope got finished, you couldn't find one hangnail of a Templar left. Except for those who hid out with the Hospitalers. Let's see—they went to Cyprus, then to Rhodes … or Sicily, was it? Finally to Malta. That's where they came up with the Maltese cross. The story is: the pope wiped out the Templars, but not the secret teachings. The Hospitalers got those. They held out on Malta until Napoleon put them out of business.” With another wink: “And where did the teachings go after that, eh? Nobody knows.”

I asked the obvious question. “What's all this got to do with the projector?”

Sharkey gave me the royally elevated eyebrow of surprise. “Well, where do you think this machine comes from? The whole thing depends on that gear. And who invented the gear? See, you got to get the cause and effect right, or it all comes out ass-backward. The cross
didn't come first. The
gear
came first. The cross was based on the gear. Like a kind of emblem among the
cognoscenti,
get it?”

I was close to exasperation. I expected my banter with Sharkey to be amusing. This wasn't amusing, just mindless. “Sharkey, what the hell are you talking about? The movies are a modern thing … since Edison. Okay, let's say since LePrince. That's 1880, 1890.”

“So the books say.”

“You think the books are wrong?”

“Wouldn't be the first time. Look what they say about Houdini's dog.”

I let that item pass. “So you think the motion picture projector was invented by … medieval knights … on Malta?”

“Why not?”

“Oh, come on! It's an electrical machine. It needs electricity. It needs a carbon arc.”

Sharkey shrugged. “Not if you're running off ESP. I'm telling you, Jonny, these Templars and Hospitalers—they were like Rosicrucians. They were in touch with powers. Man, wouldn't you love to see some of them medieval movies! Tra-da-da-da-de-da!
The Return of Genghis Khan.”

“Is this more of Father Rosenzweig's stuff?”

“Some of it, some of it. I looked a lot up myself. I got a great book on the Templars you can borrow. Heavy-duty scholarship. Story is they were in league with the devil. At least that's how the authorities want us to remember it. Black mass, virgin's blood, all that jazz.”

“And you're telling me they invented the movies.”

“Well, let's just say something like. Say a combination magic lantern and Zoetrope. Ran it off psychic energy, who knows? Maybe the old Templars were making movies out of pure astral projections.”

“Sharkey, do you really believe any of this?”

“I keep an open mind,” he answered.

“What about Clare? Have you ever talked about these things with her?”

“Hell, she knows about it. She met Rosenzweig. They argued the whole business every which way. But beyond a certain point of weirdness, Clare puts on the blinders. She's a bright lady, but she has her limits. She calls them her ‘standards.'”

“And you don't believe in standards.”

“Standards are for sluggers. Clare's a slugger. She likes a good fight; it's meat and drink to her. Me—I just lay back and enjoy. Don't
get me wrong. As far as I'm concerned, Clare's the greatest. Only difference between us is, I think there's more to movies than meets the eye.” Then with a wink and whistle, “Like with the vampire guy, right?”

“What vampire guy?”

“Old Slapsy-Maxy von Castle.
Feast of the Undead.”

“Oh, that. What about it?”

“You think Maxy didn't know a thing or two about it?”

“About what?”

“Medieval movies. That was a medieval movie if I ever saw one. Any guy who can latensify a film like that has got to be in touch with powers. You wouldn't think black could get that black.”

“You saw the picture?”

“Sure. First thing it came in. There were some plenty hot shots in that flick. How about that bedroom scene? Wow, wow!”

“Yeah, Clare told me.”

“She didn't run it for you?”

“Not really. I just got in on the last part. Can't really say I saw it.”

“Movies like that, you don't have to see more than a part. Like an ocular bouillon cube, you know? Pow! Comes through full strength.”

“Funny thing about that film. Clare destroyed it.”

Sharkey took the report in stride. “Not surprised. Must've scared her shitless.”

“Come on. It wasn't that scary. There was hardly any blood.”

“I'm talking about aesthetic principles. Which for Clare is more important than blood. You saw that impaling scene at the end? What's all her in-tel-lek-chul chit-chat up against a brain-bender like that?” Then, noticing my interest, Sharkey issued a warning. “Take my advice, don't mention any of this to Clare. She'll throw you out of bed. I speak from experience.”

But I did mention it to Clare; I couldn't keep from doing it. Seeking to broach the subject as obliquely as possible, I decided LePrince might be the safest place to begin. But the man's name was hardly out of my mouth than she did in fact give me a look that made me fear she very well might drive me from the bed.

“You mean the guy who fell out of the train and was never heard from again?”

“Well, I gather nobody knows if he fell out of …”

“Of course he didn't. The Jesuits got him, right? Or was it the
Spanish Inquisition? Or the Rosicrucians? How did Sharkey tell the story this time?”

“You mean he made it up?”

“What do you think?”

“But there was a LePrince. I looked him up.”

“Sure there was. And he disappeared. So what? That doesn't mean the flying saucers got him. My uncle Osbert disappeared. Ran off with the butcher's wife.”

“But you did meet this priest, didn't you—Rosenzweig?”

“In the first place, he wasn't a priest. He
said
he was a priest. He was a crackpot is what he was. And in the second place, why don't you just shut up before I get sick?”

“Sharkey says Rosenzweig belonged to some sect that's been tailing you ever since you left Paris.”

“Oh, sure! That's because I've got the secret of the thirty-nine steps.”

“Well, are they?”

“Once or twice somebody came around… .”

“Aren't you worried about it?”

“If I had to worry about every nut case that wanders into The Classic … ”

“Didn't this guy Rosenzweig try to kill Henri Langlois?”

“Yes, well … let's say I like to live dangerously.”

“Sharkey says you had a couple big arguments with him. So I just wondered … ”

“Argument! I don't waste my time arguing with crazies. My job was to bounce him out of the Cinémathèque when he came around. The man used to throw things at the screen. And he stank to high heaven.”

“So you don't think there's anything to what Sharkey says … not at all?”

“Ha! Did he tell you about the Maltese cross?”

“Yeah.”

“You know what that is? That's his seduction line. He uses it to pick up girls. Like the old one about the submarine races. ‘Come up to the projection booth, let me show you the Maltese cross gear … well, well, isn't it hot in here? Why don't you take a few things off.' It usually works with bashful virgins, if they're nuts about movies.” Clare gave me a suspicious squint. “I don't know what he's
up to with you, but if he asks you to start taking showers with him after the show, watch out.”

“Sharkey says that vampire film you had here,
Feast of the Undead,
was sort of what Rosenzweig was concerned about.”

“Oh, is that what Sharkey says? Well, we do have to pay close attention to what Sharkey says, don't we?” Her voice was beginning to smolder.

“Well, I just wondered … ”

“Three more words and you will be doing your wondering on the couch in the living room for the next few weeks.” With that she turned away, curled up armadillo fashion, and pulled the covers over her ears.

I never brought up any of Sharkey's conversations again, but I did borrow the “heavy duty” piece of scholarship he'd mentioned. It turned out to be a fat pulp paperback with a gaudy cover showing scowling medieval knights whipping and branding seminude victims. The letters of the title,
Terror of the Templars,
were shaped from daggers of dripping gore. “Now At Last It Can Be Told,” the cover copy announced. “The Unexpurgated True Blood-Chilling Story.” Well, what else did I expect
ex libris
Don Sharkey? The closest the book came to having an author was a microscopic acknowledgment on the back of the title page: “Abridged and adapted from the original work by J. Delaville Le Roulx.” For all the sensationalism of the edition, the text that bled through the translation retained a reasonably factual, at times stuffy, quality. Reading on and off over the next few months, I managed to stick with it all the way through. And damned if it wasn't a good story.

The voice on the phone was so breathy-confidential that Clare thought it might be an obscene call.

“Who the hell is this?” she demanded suspiciously. “Marcel? Marcel
who?”

“Marcel, Chipsey Goldenstone's private secretary.”

“Oh,” Clare answered with more disgust in her tone than if it had been a masher on the line.

“Chipsey would like you to be apprised as to the fact that he is having a few
intime
friends around this Saturday one
P.M
. He will be making a large selection of filmland memorabilia available for acquisition from his late father's extensive private collection. We do hope you can join us on the occasion.”

“By available for acquisition, I suppose you mean for sale,” Clare said. “No freebies from Chipsey.”

“Yes, you might put it that way.”

“So Chipsey is cashing in on his old man's loot. Let's see—how long has Father Goldstein been moldering in the ground? All of a week, isn't it?”

“Mr. Ira Goldstein has been deceased for nearly a month.”

“That long? Look, Marcel, I'm afraid I'm not in the market for filmland memorabilia. Unless, of course, that includes
films.”

“Oh, it does. A large selection of such.”

In a split second, Clare's expression shifted from indifferent to eager. “Are you serious?” she asked.

“Perfectly. As you may know, Mr. Goldstein
père
was an avid film collector.”

“I know, I know!”

“Now, this is strictly confidential. A sizable proportion of Mr. Goldstein's films will be offered for purchase on Saturday to Chipsey's most
intime
friends.”

“Does that include me?”

“I expect that it does. You
are
on the list.”

“I'll be there,” Clare promised. Then, beaming with excitement, she turned to me across the room. “The Goldstein Collection,” she announced. “It's up for sale.”

When Ira Goldstein's obituary appeared in the papers, Clare had given it about as much attention as the weather report. Movie moguls like the elder Goldstein were part of a world she despised. But when Chipsey's secretary mentioned movies for sale, she sat up and took notice. Old Ira was rumored to have one of the world's great private film libraries stashed away in the family vault. Clare kept close track of such holdings; she claimed to know every major collection in the country and many abroad. If she caught word of sales or auctions in the area, she was sure to attend and mingle. Even if she couldn't afford to buy—and she never could—it was useful to know who owned what, just in case they might be willing to rent. Her special interest in Ira Goldstein's films wasn't hard to understand. Notoriously, he never rented, he never screened. He held his films for purely speculative purposes and discussed them only with other, always well-heeled, collectors. This made his holdings a complete mystery, only now to be revealed. Clare would have had to be hospitalized to miss a chance at sizing up the Goldstein Collection.

I never expected to see anything connected with Chipsey Goldenstone have such an uplifting effect on Clare, least of all an arrangement that required her to identify herself as one of his
intime
friends. Chipsey was among the more exotic fauna of the local art film community. In conversations between Clare and Sharkey, his name had wafted past me several times before I asked who he was.