Missing Reels (40 page)

It turned out, however, that were some instances in life where sounding like Laurence Olivier was not an asset. Matthew called, reluctantly, the home put Leon on the phone, and it soon became clear that the two men had something approaching complete mutual incomprehension. She blocked the office door with her back so students wouldn’t keep barging in. As the conversation stalled Matthew sounded more Masterpiece Theatre by the minute, his volume rising until he was almost shouting into the phone.

Finally, Leon put a nurse on the line, and she explained that his hearing aid didn’t work well for phone calls. They agreed to stop by on Monday for visiting hours. The journey involved two fares, subway and bus, and Matthew, who’d been to Turkey and Japan and Australia, behaved the entire time as though she’d insisted they go backpacking in the Arctic Circle.

At the bus stop, two women with high heels and high-teased hair were having a loud conversation. “I told him, I said, you were standin’ right there with your hand on her ass and you’re tryin’ to tell me there’s nothin’ goin’ on here? What am I, a moron or somethin’?”

“That’s it right there, Lisa. He thinks you’re a moron. No respect.”

“No respect at ALL. So I says to him …”

“I wonder if everyone out here sounds like Leon,” said Matthew.

“You understand them, don’t you?”

“Barely. He was worse. Like something out of
Mean Streets
.”

Matthew still hadn’t gotten over Leon’s reaction to the accent, she thought, with amusement. “That was Little Italy,” she told him, to see his face get more annoyed.

They asked the bus driver to tell them when they got to the stop. The bus meandered down a highway, across a park, down rows of identical brick houses. Finally they pulled up to a stop and the driver yelled, “You getting off or what?”

The home was easy to spot, a wide, tall building in a block of single stories. They were led to the visiting room, a pink-carpeted, ammonia-smelling holding cell, furnished with stuffed, flounced, floral-fabric chairs. A fake-bamboo dining set showed the streaks of the last cleaning still smeared across the glass-top table. A big TV in the corner was switched off at the moment, and besides them, not another soul was there. The nurse told them to sit at the table because it would be easier for Leon, and Ceinwen wondered if that meant he was in a wheelchair. But a few minutes later he entered, and he had one of those canes with the four feet on the end. His shoulders were hunched, he was unevenly shaven, and he was wearing a tracksuit that smelled as though it had been worn several times in the past few days. Leon shook hands; the nurse helped him settle into a chair and left.

“Glad you two could come out,” said Leon. He had a tremor in his head that made his voice shake a bit, but the accent wasn’t that bad. It really was pitiful, being stuck out in a place like this.

“Not at all, it’s very kind of you to meet us. I hope you aren’t having as much trouble understanding me now,” said Matthew.

Leon touched his hearing aid. “Nah, loud and clear. It’s the phone, I tell you. Years and years I spent on the phone, makin’ deals. Now I can barely use it.”

“You did understand what we wanted to talk about?” Matthew was speaking louder than normal, but not by much.

“Yeah, movie days. Project for your college, right?”

“Yes. NYU.”

“I only worked on three movies. Went out to Hollywood in ’27 because, I, ah, had some connections. My cousin was married to Frank Gregory, ran a studio name of Civitas. Nobody’s heard of it now.”

“We’ve heard of it,” Ceinwen assured him.

“Yeah, every once in a while someone has. I got a job dressin’ sets. You got a room, you gotta put stuff in it to make it look lived-in, right? That’s what I did. Wasn’t hard so long as you didn’t make too big a fuss about it. You go in, you throw around some vases and candlesticks and stuff, you’re done.”

Emil must have loved Leon to death.

“And that’s what you did for Emil Arnheim,” said Matthew.

“Yeah, except he was a pain in the neck about it. Like he was about everything.” He cleared his throat with a loud, wet rumble. “Arnheim? You wanna talk about him? That’s what I thought you were sayin’ before, but then I figured maybe I heard wrong.”

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” said Matthew. “We’re interested in
The Mysteries of Udolpho
and what happened when he died. As long as you still remember.”

“I remember fine, I’m sorry to say,” said Leon. “I don’t guess you mind my askin’ what for? This place isn’t exactly crawlin’ with people wantin’ to ask me about Emil Arnheim.”

“We’re working on an academic paper about lost films,” said Matthew. “And we decided it would support our point if we focused on this one.”

“Lost films.” Leon ran his tongue over his teeth.

“Meaning,” she said helpfully, “ones where no prints survive.”

“Uh-huh. Don’t think Arnheim’s your man.”

“Why not?” burst out Ceinwen. Matthew squared his shoulders and she knew that meant “put a sock in it.”

“First off, ’cause he had no talent. His movie stiffed. Cold. You know that, right?”

Matthew’s voice was rolling smoothly along before she could even inhale. “In all fairness, it’s difficult to know how good it would seem now. Tastes change.”

“Yeah, and crap stays crap,” said Leon. “But second of all, that picture’s not lost.”

She held still.

“We haven’t spoken to anyone who saw a print past the movie’s release.”

Leon wheezed. “I had one. Haven’t had it for about fifteen years. But somebody’s still got it.”

“Who?” Ceinwen almost yelled. Under the table she felt Matthew drum his fingers on her knee. Leon pulled back in his chair and gave a phlegmy laugh.

“Nobody ever wanted to know,” he said. “Well, almost nobody. Trouble is, I don’t know exactly where it wound up. I can tell you why I don’t have it anymore, but that’s it.”

She willed herself not to throw her purse across the room. With a flourish, Matthew pulled his pen and memo pad out of his pocket. “What you know is what we’re here to find out,” he said cheerfully. “How did you happen to get a print?”

“Long story,” said Leon. “You know I worked on
Mysterie
s, right? Worst seven weeks of my life. First off, you’re working on the decorations, everybody figures you’re queer. Even the queers. Like the assistant director. Big sissy-la-la.”

“Norman Stallings?” Steady voice, she told herself. Not angry, steady. “You’re saying he made a pass at you?”

Leon snorted. “Nah, he knew I’da clocked him. He kept telling me my work showed a nice delicate touch.” Ceinwen failed to suppress a chuckle. Fortunately Leon took it as a show of support. “Exactly. How the hell else am I supposed to take that? And him and Arnheim, always off in a corner talkin’ Kraut. I’da thought those two were an item, but Arnheim was bangin’ the lead actress, even though she was young enough to be his daughter. What a set. He kept us working all hours of the day and night. But I tried to be polite, because that’s how I am. I’m a
friendly
person.” He paused for affirmation.

“I can tell,” said Matthew.

“Arnheim couldn’t. Every time I turned around he was yelling at me.”

“I heard he didn’t yell,” protested Ceinwen.

Leon shrank a bit in his chair and his voice took on a querulous note. “Not loud. Question of the way things sound. Maybe not real yelling, but cold. Sarcastic. ‘Would you be so good, Mr. Whitman …’ ‘If you’re sure it isn’t too much
trouble
…’ That kinda thing.”

“Maybe,” said Matthew, “we should skip ahead to how you came by the print.”

“Got it the day he died,” said Leon. “Got a call from my cousin.”

“Gregory’s wife,” said Ceinwen.

“Yep, Sally. Callin’ to gossip, that’s all. But I got to thinkin’ maybe it would be worth goin’ over to his house. I was already decidin’ movies weren’t for me, and the real money in California was real estate. So it occurs to me, it was a pretty good house. Maybe they’d have to sell it in a hurry. Worth checkin’ out, anyway.”

Matthew gave her another micro-glance, but she knew she shouldn’t open her mouth, for fear a word like “ghoul” would pop out.

“Guess I got there before lunch and there’s all these people there and I kinda wandered in and looked at the layout. Nice spread. Guess that’s why the creditors were the first ones to show up. So eventually I got to his bedroom out in the back of the house. I wasn’t really lookin’ for anything, I was curious. I mean, the movie, it wasn’t much good, but it had all kinds of, what would you call it. Where you’re talking about dirty stuff but tryin’ to seem like you’re not.”

“Innuendo,” said Matthew.

“Yeah. That. Hope you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

“No worries. We’re all worldly adults here.”

Leon grinned at Ceinwen, revealing teeth that made her want to stop smoking. “Yeah. A guy who’s got sex on the brain like that, who knows what his bedroom looks like, know what I mean? But it was all normal stuff. And that didn’t seem right. I figured, hell, he’s gotta have some whips or something in the closet. At least some magazines.”

Creepy little nobodies Emil wouldn’t have let past the front walk, Miriam had said.

“I opened up this big wardrobe thing he’s got there. And whaddya know, there’s the film. All labeled and everything, pretty as you please. And there’s a coupla suitcases in there too. And I started thinkin’, maybe somebody’s gonna want this. I mean, the studio couldn’t know he had it. Technically all the prints belonged to them. It was already stolen property, so I figured passing it along once it was hot already wasn’t that big a deal. Civitas wouldn’t wanna use it anyway, after the bath they took on that thing. If I knew Frank, he was still so mad, he might melt it down for the two bucks’ worth of silver in the nitrate. So I took the suitcases and I loaded them all in. Jesus, they were heavy. And here’s how crazy it was that day. I lugged that thing out inta the hall and nobody looked at me or said a word, except Eddie Kenny. He was walkin’ in right then. I don’t know what he was doing there, movie’d been over for ages and I know for a fact he hated Arnheim too. If you ask me, he was hopin’ to give Arnheim’s skirt a shoulder to cry on. Anyhow Eddie says, ‘What have you got there, the silver service?’ And I told him ‘None of your goddamn business, I’m taking back somethin’ that belongs to me.’”

“Did you try to do anything with it?” asked Ceinwen. Matthew shook his head at her, almost imperceptibly. But Leon was already well warmed up.

“Oh yeah. Now if I went to the studio they were gonna make me give it back just on principle, and that didn’t do me any good, I’da darn near thrown my back out for nothin’. I already had an idea, see. I waited a couple of weeks and I called up the actress, Miriam her name was. And she never called me back. So I went over there one day and her mother answered the door and I said I was there to pay my condolences. And her mother takes me to the parlor and I wait and I hear ’em arguin’ and then the Miriam dame shows up and she stands there. Doesn’t say a thing. I told her I knew there’d been some bad blood while we making the movie, but I wanted her to know it was all water under the bridge, and it was too bad to see a man cut off in his prime like that. She says something like, ‘I can’t tell you what it means to see you here.’ Yeah, she was almost as snooty as her boyfriend. I told her I had something of Arnheim’s I thought she’d want. And she put out her hand like I was gonna give to her. And I said, no, it was a big something and it was a lot of work and so maybe, you know, for my trouble and all, she’d be willing to compensate me a little bit.

“And holy mackerel. You never saw such a change. You never heard such screamin’ in your life. Starting yellin’ that people like me were the reason the guy was dead. Sure thing, doll, he had
nothin’
to do with that himself. Said anything of his I touched was automatically filthy … no, not just filthy, what was it. Big fifty-cent word.” He stuck his tongue in his cheek.

“Contaminated?” suggested Ceinwen. “Corrupt?” Matthew’s jaw, clenching. One more. “Profane?”

“Profane! That was it. Anything of his I touched was filthy and profane and she couldn’t stand the thought of it. What a nutcase. Huh? I ask you.” He paused again for the expected agreement.

“High-strung,” was Matthew’s contribution.

“You can say that again. I’m tryin’ to get a word in while she’s screamin’ her fool head off and then her mother comes in, and if you ask me the mother was even screwier, and she points her finger at the door”—Leon was trying to mime a big Victorian gesture, but his arm was trembling—“and she says I’m not welcome in their house. I tried one more time to tell them, and the girl kinda doubles over with her arms over her head and the mother says, ve-ry dramatic-like, ‘Mr. Whitman, can’t you see that my daughter is on the verge of a nervous collapse?’ Yeah, lady, I figured that out all by myself. So I left. Not much else I could do.”

“And then you were stuck with the print,” said Matthew, in a commiserating tone, as though Leon hadn’t been able to return a defective dishwasher.

“Yep. You got it. I was so mad I left it in a back closet for a good long while. Nobody wanted it, nobody asked about it. And I went into real estate and I got married and I coulda gotten rid of it. But my wife, she was all impressed that I’d worked on some movies, even though I made more dough selling houses than I ever would have runnin’ around decoratin’ sets. I thought maybe my son would like to see it one day, but he was never interested.”

“What was he interested in?” asked Ceinwen.

“Dunno. We don’t talk. Once me and his ma got divorced in ’58 I never heard from him.” Leon wheezed slightly. “Meanwhile my sister Lauren, she’s all proud of our family connection, that’s what she called it, the family connection to the movies. And she starts buying all this old-movie stuff, what for I don’t know. All that nostalgia crap doesn’t appreciate, not like real estate. I’d moved the print around with me and I kept it out in the garage and I didn’t think about it much until Lauren started buggin’ me. Why didn’t I give it to her. She knew how to store it. So finally I said fine, hang onta it for me and if I ever find somebody who’s interested in payin’ some real dough for the thing, she had to hand it back over. She says fine.