Missing Reels (21 page)

Andy went off on Raoul Walsh and was suddenly on another side of the room, taking part of a stack of folders and putting it on top of another stack, and pulling out a folder that was full of stills. He hadn’t searched at all, he just knew where it was.

“I’ll hold these up too, since you’re still eating.” He displayed the photos like flash cards, barely giving her enough time to take in Douglas Fairbanks on the flying carpet before Anna May was there in her slave costume. He put the stills back in the folder and reassembled the stack. He perched on the edge of his chair, so far toward her it seemed he might slide off.

“You know,
The Eagle
is on at the Thalia this weekend. Valentino and Vilma Banky, I don’t know if you remember me mentioning her.” He leaned in. “They had a magnificent screen partnership.”

“Gosh, really? I’m so disappointed. I work on the weekends, you know. Nights too.”

The doorbell sounded. Andy gave a start and Ceinwen found herself doing the same. No. Had to be the super or a neighbor or something.

Another ring. He went to the door. From where she was sitting her view was blocked by the stacks of folders, but she could hear everything, including Andy’s soft, unenthusiastic greeting. The other voice got louder as it came further into the room.

“I’m late, I know, sorry. Had to cancel office hours and couldn’t seem to get hold of Angie. Don’t know if it was lunch or she was just out.” The top of his head had appeared over the stacks. She focused fiercely on her paper plate. “Wound up going over myself, then some of them wanted to talk anyway, and I had to reschedule so they wouldn’t get themselves worked up about it. Finally put up a sign to say ‘bugger off.’ Nicely, of course.” She picked up an egg roll and took a bite. “Hello, have you been here long?”

“Ceinwen didn’t mention you were coming,” said Andy.

“We weren’t sure I could make it, were we?” She chewed. “We didn’t think you’d mind my tagging along. Ceinwen told me she was coming here to talk about silents and look at some of your, ah, holdings and I just invited myself. Couldn’t pass up a chance like that. It’s extraordinary, I never thought much about old movies until I came here, but she and Harry have me hooked. Can’t seem to get enough.”

She had spent eighteen years of her life in Yazoo City. And even if she wasn’t much good at it herself, she’d always assumed Southerners were the undefeated champions of social lying, able to tell straight-faced absolute whoppers about how the farm was doing, how the food was, how your hair looked, how your wife looked. Now she reflected, as Matthew nudged some papers aside on the couch with more deference than he’d probably show a cat, that she’d been wrong. The English swept the table.

He sat down. “Chinese?”

“It isn’t pastrami,” said Ceinwen.

She felt a little sorry for Andy. He knew this wasn’t on the level, but he didn’t have the equipment to fight off a frontal assault of British. “I only placed orders for two,” he said, “but there’s some left. Would you like a plate?”

“No idea this was a food occasion, or I wouldn’t have eaten. Had a sandwich before I left for Courant. I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as good. Did you get tea with it, by any chance?”

“No,” said Ceinwen.

“Pity. I don’t suppose you have any lying around, Andy?”

“I might.”

“Hate to be a bother.”

Pause, as Andy tried to grasp what was being asked. “You’d like me to get you some tea?”

“Super. Ceinwen, how about you?”

“No thanks.” She grabbed a box and forked some more rice onto her plate. Andy stood for a second, then headed for the kitchen.

Matthew surveyed the rows and rows of folders, the bookshelves, the poster tubes, the stacks of loose papers and magazines, and said, “This is more or less precisely what I was expecting.”

“I thought,” she whispered, “that you were expecting to find me locked in a closet.”

He’d stood up and was opening folders. “You’re not very enterprising, just sitting there with the fried rice. Have a look around, isn’t that what you came for? What’s this?” He held out a sheet of stiff paper with a picture on it.

“It’s called a lobby card.”

“
Queen of Sheba
. Seen that one?”

“It’s lost.” She hated to admit it, but he had a point. She should at least see what was on the bookshelves. She crossed to a point on the shelves as far from him as possible, wondered how she could manage to see Andy’s bedrooms, squelched the thought, and felt her inward shudder turn into a burst of fury. “How was St. Moritz?” she hissed. She looked at his profile and told herself she couldn’t stand the sight of it. “Snow nice and deep? Chalet comfy?”

“It was a hotel.” He held up another lobby card. “
Ten Commandments
. Didn’t realize there was a silent version.” She pulled out a few books to see if they were doubled-shelved; amazingly, they weren’t. He spoke quietly. “I called at least three times. Don’t tell me you didn’t get the messages.” She gave him the meanest look she could muster and put back the books. “I must say, last time Talmadge outdid himself. He said, ‘Ceinwen’s presence is required at work. She is the jewel in the navel of Vintage Visions.’”

She dropped to the floor and tried to get a look behind a stack of papers. “They told me you called. I just couldn’t figure out why. What did you have to say? ‘Oh Ceinwen, please, let me explain.’”

“I’ve nothing to explain. I haven’t lied to you.” There was too much to see in here, yet oddly there wasn’t a single thing that even resembled film. Too bad. She could use a reel or two, if only to wrap them around his head.

He’d moved to stand nearby, and she refused to meet his eyes looking down at her on the floor. “I wanted to hear how you are,” he said. She fixed her eyes over his head, made a big here-I-am gesture, then crawled over to look behind another row. He squatted next to her and said, even lower, “I wanted to hear your voice.”

She stood up, kept her eyes on the floor and walked to the couch. Andy was coming back in with a mug. He looked at the spot where Matthew had been sitting and paused.

“Over here. Thanks,” said Matthew, standing up. “I was giving Ceinwen some space.”

Andy seemed to accept giving Ceinwen some space as normal practice. He handed over the mug and perched again on the edge of his chair. “I could hear you two chattering away in here,” he said, with a note of reproach.

“We were talking about a movie,” said Ceinwen. Not exactly an inspired response, but she was having trouble concentrating.

“Sound movie,” continued Matthew, checking the bookshelf behind him, then carefully resting his shoulders against it. “Hope you don’t mind. Maybe you know it.
The Collector
? Used to pop up on the box all the time.”

Screw it. She was going to focus, she was going to get something out of this lunch, and then she was going to leave, and when she did, he could take his friendship and stick it on his office door along with his bugger-off-students note.

She had to say one thing for Andy, abrupt subject changes didn’t faze him one bit. “Eh. Late-period William Wyler. I didn’t bother with it. His
Ben-Hur
wasn’t very good. Absolutely travestied the chariot race. In the Fred Niblo—”

“Actually, Andy,” she said, “I have a confession to make. We were looking in that top folder over there. My curiosity got the better of me.” He swiveled around to look at the stacks as though she’d told him somebody had a hand on his wallet. “I really hope you don’t mind.”

“The lobby cards. You were looking at the lobby cards.” Like she’d said they were rifling his underwear drawer.

“Yes, and do you know what was the first thing we saw?”

“Top folder?
Queen of Sheba
.” Of course he knew.

“Yes, and I was telling Matthew it was lost.”

“Heartbreaking,” said Matthew, pulling on the string of the teabag as though trying to determine how it got there. “Looked like my sort of thing.”

Andy wasn’t buying it. “How so?”

“The two-piece costumes, for one …”

“It’s so sad,” sliced in Ceinwen, “that it’s gone. And it reminded me of another lost movie I was curious about.
The Mysteries of Udolpho
.”

“Emil Arnheim!” Andy exclaimed. “I must say, Ceinwen, your knowledge just becomes more and more impressive to me. That one’s known mostly to scholars. May I ask how you happened to hear of it?”

“In a book.” For once Andy appeared to be waiting for her next thought. She could sense Matthew’s eyes on her reddening chest; he’d figured out where she blushed, and when, some time back. “A big book.”

“Big as in, famous?” asked Matthew. “Or big as in, large and hard to carry?” Andy had gotten up and walked over to a stack of folders.

“It had a lot of pages and I don’t remember the title.” She better not sound too crabby, Andy might notice. She turned up the accent a bit. “That’s the thing about me. I remember movies better than books.” Andy slipped his hand inside one of the tallest stacks, about one-quarter of the way down. She put a hand up to her neck, then forced herself to drop it in her lap.

“I’m happy to tell you,” said Andy, “that I do have two stills from that one. Would you like to see them?” His hand had emerged with one of the folders.

“By all means,” said Matthew, before she could get out a word, and he set down his mug and settled on the couch. Andy paused slightly, slid his eyes to Matthew, then took out a still by the merest sliver of an edge.

“Because of the rarity of these photos, I’m going to hold them up for you. Fingerprints can be terribly damaging.” Matthew scooted to within a few inches of her thigh. She crossed her legs away from him and folded her arms.

It was a master shot of the castle, tall and towered, with a carriage in front of it. No Miriam, no actors at all, but exactly the sort of thing she’d have taken to her room and pored over just a few years ago, imagining herself in the castle. Maybe she’d do that even now.

“Well done,” said Matthew. “Looks real.”

“I do not consider ‘looks real’ to be a compliment,” said Andy, “but yes, it’s very well done. A matte shot. This was a big production for Civitas, but they didn’t build the exterior castle set, to save money.”

He put it back and held up the other. Jackpot.

A medium shot of Miriam, in another Empire-waist dress like the one in her publicity photo. She was sitting next to a handsome actor, her head slightly down, eyes looking up at him with shy yearning. They were on a bench in a garden. He was holding her left hand, looking down at her upraised palm as though he were reading it, his eyes seeming to care for nothing but the skin in front of him. Miriam hadn’t liked Edward Kenny, but that didn’t show in the still, not at all. It was as erotic as a kiss. She found herself checking Matthew’s reaction. His expression was the one he wore at the chalkboard in his office when he was working out another equation. “She looks familiar.”

She put her eyes back on the still.

“Here,” said Andy, “of course, are the two leads, Miriam Clare as Madeleine and Edward Kenny as Valancourt. Although I very much doubt, Matthew, that you have seen Clare in anything else. This was her sole substantive role. Kenny, on the other hand …”

“You’d be surprised,” said Matthew. “I’m good with faces. For a mathematician.” His eyes moved to Ceinwen. “Miriam,” he said. “Not what you’d call a common name these days.”

“I’m afraid your supposed memory is all but impossible,” said Andy, with lordly finality, “unless you remember every face you’ve ever seen in a crowd scene.” He pulled the still away and replaced it in the folder; it was like watching someone snatch away your dinner. “According to Professor David Gundlach, who wrote a monograph on this film, Clare’s other credits amount to bit parts.”

She knew this lunch was a good idea. “There’s a whole book on this film?”

“A monograph, as I said. Not a long one, due to the film’s lost status, but Gundlach reconstructs some of the shoot, speculates about the look of it, gives as many names as possible for the cast and crew, and tries to place it within the context of Bazin’s theory of the spectator and the ways in which people watched silent films made on the cusp of sound. Which, of course, was a very sad era—”

“Have you read it?” She shouldn’t cut him off, but how else was she going to get anywhere?

“Why yes. I have a copy.” She reminded herself to breathe out. Doing that reignited her awareness of Matthew and she used the excuse to jump up.

“Would you mind showing me?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, then, “I don’t see why not,” he said, standing up with his hands clasped together, gracious as a cardinal giving an audience. “I’m curious about your interest. Arnheim made two movies at Ufa, is that the hook for you, so to speak?” He walked to the shelves and she followed as close behind him as she could stand to get.

“I’m afraid you’ll think I’m silly,” she said, “but the truth is, I just love that novel.” A kind of throat noise near her shoulder. Matthew was right behind her.

“How marvelous. Shows what an unusual sort of intellect you have,” said Andy, scanning the shelves.

“I read it too,” said Matthew. “What I remember is a catastrophic number of commas.”

Andy pulled out a slim volume, the cover creased, frayed and darkened, and held it for her to see.
In Search of the
Mysteries,” by Professor David Gundlach, University of … oh come on, fingerprints weren’t going to damage this.

“Do you mind if I take a look? I’ll be careful.” Andy placed it gently in her hands, as though passing along a gardenia. She immediately opened it to the middle. No photos. “Who was Professor Gundlach?”

“Cinema studies at USC. He died a few years ago,” said Andy. “I was fortunate to acquire this copy shortly after it was published.”

“So this is all the information that exists,” she said. An annotated complete cast and crew in the back.

“Oh no, there’s also the fragment at the Brody Institute.”

Breathe, breathe. “A fragment? Of the film?”

“Yes, just over two minutes. Saw it a few years ago, during a day in which I was catching up with some of the rarer acquisitions. Most intriguing.”

“Which part is it?”