Mount Terminus (25 page)

For three days, Bloom searched for her, and for three days, she managed to elude him. He wrote notes to her and left them about the house, in his room, in the gallery, in the parlor, all of them saying the same thing.
My dear Roya. Please come back to me
.
I am waiting for you at the pool.
And for three days, he waited at the pool's edge, much of that time spent looking at the still waters in search of a way into Gottlieb's scenario; but still, nothing came. On the third day, he reclined on the pool's ledge and fell asleep, and when he awoke to a tickling sensation on the tip of his nose, he saw falling over his face the canopy of Roya's hair backlit by the noontime sun. She sat beside him, lifted his head onto her lap, and when Bloom asked for her forgiveness, she stroked away the hair hanging in his eyes, bent down, and kissed him on his mouth. And with the sensation of that kiss, he recalled what had been lost to him in the years he'd spent away from the quiet rhythm of the estate. In the toil of work, in the tedium of labor, he had forgotten the profound pleasure he had once taken in Roya's quiet company; he forgot how uninhibited and free his imagination was with her at his side. As he did when he was a child, he spent the afternoon trailing after his silent companion through the rooms of the villa, sat with her over lunch in the parlor, and in the late afternoon, he meandered with her through the mazes of the front gardens, and there he shared with her the scenario Gottlieb had written for him, and there she showed him what he had been waiting to see. She climbed atop an empty pedestal on which a long-lost statue had once resided, and she playfully struck a pose for Bloom. And then another. At which point, Bloom began to envision in the darkness of his mind all the images that had refused to show themselves to him when he was alone in his solitude. He took Roya by the waist and gently lowered her to the ground. Thank you, he said. Thank you. And he took hold of her hand, kissed it several times, and walked with her to the courtyard, to his studio, where, for the next several weeks, she would keep him company in the evenings, late into the night, and there he would remain, shut away. With Roya's help, he conceived Mephisto's underworld as a hell bathed in white, white light, white walls, a world in which the food and décor, the complexions and garments were white on white on white, so absent contrast when the audience looked on, they would find themselves craving—not unlike Mephistopheles—the smallest divergence. He drew Mephisto dressed in Simon's style, white suit and shoes, white vest and tie. He would stare down a never-ending white corridor, declaring, Eternity! How tiresome! How tiresome! he would declare to the unchanging white horizon out a white window frame. How tiresome, he would declare to the face of a white clock whose white hands he would spend his time starting and stopping at will. At which point, his wife would declare: How tiresome
you
can be! Sweeping white dust from a white broom in his direction, she would proclaim him an idle layabout. Go! she would order, sweeping him off. Be gone! I can't stand the sight of you! Take a holiday! Mephisto would brighten momentarily at the very thought. He would pack a small case and kiss his wife goodbye. One rotation of the Earth, she would say, and not one revolution more. Mephisto, in that instant, would raise his arm and rise into a billowing white sheet, out of which he would emerge through a crevice in the Earth shaded in blacks and grays. In the world of the living, his white suit would turn charcoal, as would the lines about his eyes and the hair of his mustache and goatee. He would pass a picnic blanket on which a man as large as a sedan would be parked before a cornucopia of meats and fruits, cakes, pitchers of ale. Bloom drew an image of a man reclining on his enormous side, pointing a thick pickle at a cadaverous manservant. More! the man would order. The gargantua would rip away chicken legs with his hands, crunch with his teeth into the heads of squabs, take voluminous bites out of legs of lamb, from frosted cakes and crusty pies. Mephisto, as he witnessed the cheeks swell larger and larger, would be tempted to approach the glutton, but would restrain himself and proceed forward to a circle of men throwing dice. There he would watch as more and more money piled onto the ground, and he would witness a man shed from his finger his wedding band, and from his wrist his watch, and he would observe him go so far as to extract a gleaming crown from a tooth. For a second time Mephisto would refrain from conducting business, and move on, to find himself in a meadow, where he would be drawn to a fountain at whose top would stand a statue of a naked nymph. He would walk over the water collecting in the catch basin and run his hand over the pedestal, and with a wave of his finger he would bring the marble to life, and with another wave, turn the living stone to flesh. Together, he and his naked creature would set out arm in arm into a garden maze, where they would animate a general and his horse, an ancient god and goddess, a storybook maiden and storybook villain. He and his companion would shepherd them to a meadow, where, for a full day and night, they would dance and dine under the sun and the moon. Bloom conjured a stage on which each figure would perform a short pantomime, an allegory in which they would enact the plight of the seven deadly sins. And when the day would begin again and then wane into a second sunset, Mephisto's wife would appear in an agitated state. She would be so aggravated by her husband's antics she would freeze the statues in mid-reverie, and Mephisto along with them. With a flick of her finger, she would open a crevice in the Earth, take her beloved by his marbled nose, and drag him down into a pit of white light.

*   *   *

For two weeks and four days, Bloom went without sleep. In two weeks and four days, he drew and redrew more than eighty panels. And when he had completed the last of his drawings, he reclined for a moment in his armchair and fell asleep. He was shaken awake shortly after dawn, when he found Gottlieb holding up Bloom's work in his hands, and he said with a note of capitulation that made Bloom wonder if he wasn't dreaming, Perhaps there
is
something to you after all. Recover today. Tomorrow we make our plans. And off Bloom drifted back into slumber. When he awoke again later that afternoon, he was delighted to find Simon walking along the curved wall at the back of the studio, to which Gottlieb—he presumed—had tacked his drawings.

Simon?

Hello there, said his brother. Simon walked the length of the wall, and when he reached its end, he returned to the middle and stood facing an image of Mephisto clawing his way up out of hell, onto the Earth, his white suit turned black. With his back still to Bloom, Simon said, I've just been accosted by Gottlieb, demanding this and that, a budget, a crew, actors, stage time. It seems you've made quite an impression.

What do you think?

What do I think? He reached out and touched an image of Mephisto, ran his finger down the trim of his white suit. I think you've done wonderfully, he said after some time. In Gottlieb's hands, this will be something to admire.

So, then, you'll give him what he wants?

And then some, I'm sure. Simon now turned to face Bloom, and to Bloom, who had come to know the many faces of his brother, Simon appeared transformed, a version of him he didn't recognize. He stood looking at Bloom as if frozen in time, his eyes searching for something intangible. Like an image from one of Bloom's mother's miniature glass plates, Simon gestured to his brother with an extended arm and an open hand, looking as if he were in search of Bloom's understanding. A long and odd silence passed between the brothers as Bloom waited for Simon to utter whatever thought was lodged in his mind.

What is it? the young Rosenbloom eventually asked. Is everything all right?

Yes, yes, I'm sorry, I have a lot on my mind. That's all. Yet he continued to stand there, unmoving, still unaware his hand remained reaching out, its fingers splayed, like they wanted to grab hold of Bloom, but couldn't.

Simon?

Yes. Yes! He became conscious of his pose and lowered his arm to his side, retracted his fingers into a tight fist, and shook it at the wall of Bloom's images. The quiet here, it's filled you with precisely what you needed. You've done well, Joseph. Very well. Simon approached Bloom, put his arm around his shoulder, and when he gave him a tight squeeze, Bloom couldn't help but notice how he smelled sharp from worry. We'll celebrate the moment it wraps. As quietly as you like, he said with a palm to Bloom's cheek. Simon turned to go, but before he did, Bloom said, Are you sure there isn't anything I can do for you?

Do? Simon halted and looked off to the courtyard, over the pool and the lawn, to the tower's pavilion. No, he whispered to himself. No, he said to Bloom. No. You
are
doing it, aren't you? You're doing exactly what you were meant to be doing. Think of nothing else. Think of nothing more. But now Bloom couldn't think of anything other than Simon's bizarre turn.

*   *   *

Early the following morning, he discovered Gottlieb pacing in the parlor around Hershel Verbinsky, Hannah Edelstein, Percy Evans, Leonard Hertz, Claude Strauss, Levi Sexton, and a half dozen others. And where were you? said Gottlieb. It's time! From that moment on, they met early every morning and worked late into the night. In order to capture the domestic bliss of Mr. and Mrs. Mephisto, Mr. Evans erected white walls on one of the lot's open-air stages, on each of which Hannah Edelstein painted the optical illusion Bloom had devised to make it appear as if the room extended into infinity. Mr. Verbinsky dressed the front of the never-ending room with the white furniture and white props Bloom had drawn for their underworld home, and to a second stage, Verbinsky masterfully whorled a white sheet of muslin into which Mephisto, and later, Mrs. Mephisto, would ascend with the aid of wires, painted white, attached to a harness fitted under their garments. The seamstresses in the costume department sewed to Bloom's specifications a fitted white housecoat and apron for the missus, to which they matched a sensible pair of white pumps for the feet and a white-handled feather duster with white plumage for the hand; and for the mister, they pieced together a white suit and added to it all its accoutrements; they then duplicated all the garments in black. Into the grounds of the estate's grove a deep hole was dug and around this opening in the earth where Mephisto would emerge were set an assortment of rocks and boulders of varying size and shape. Adjoining the big hole was dug something akin to a gopher hole, through which steam would be pumped. Mr. Evans manufactured an enormous canvas-lined wooden catch basin for the fountain, built around it plaster walls, and re-created, from a plaster mold, the base of Bernini's Triton Fountain, in the middle of which a platform was secured to prop up the actress playing the marble sea nymph. When the fountain had been filled, Mr. Evans lined the basin with stones painted aqua blue so it would appear as if Mephisto were walking over the water's surface. Per Bloom's instruction, Claude Strauss devised pantomime routines that followed the themes of the seven deadly sins, all neither too farcical nor too serious, neither too lyrical nor too pedantic. Light humor, he said of it, yet cautionary. Pedestals were secured throughout Jacob Rosenbloom's sanctuary, his garden mazes, and a statue of a horse was driven around from one of the warehouses. The last location built was the stage on which Mr. Strauss's routines were to be performed. Opposite the fountain, Mr. Evans constructed a simple but elegant platform on whose corners he erected tall Corinthian columns. The actors were cast in their roles by Mr. Gottlieb, all except one—the rotund giant with elastic cheeks—who was left to Gus to scavenge from town. When they were all assembled, Mr. Gottlieb sent them off to be fitted in their costumes. The following day, when filming began, Bloom took to Mr. Gottlieb's side, thinking he would function as his silent shadow, but Gottlieb's method of teaching reflected the man himself, talkative, abrasive, and Socratic, and his method of filmmaking, it turned out, while full of noise and bluster, ran contrary to his obstinate demeanor. Rather, it allowed for the possibility of future indecision, for the likelihood of incertitude, after the fact. Unlike Mr. Abrams, he labored over each frame of film exposed. Using Bloom's drawings as a starting point, and all the time questioning him about what he had envisioned preceding and anteceding the moment at hand, he blocked and reblocked the movement of his actors, sent them through their paces in a cycle of eternal returns, positioned three cameras about the stage, and while the actors remained in their places, he supervised the setting of the scrims and, to Mr. Hertz's displeasure, positioned the lights himself, and only then would he call action and roll the film through the camera, taking no fewer than a dozen takes. When the formality of the scene was captured, he continued on to film cutaways and close-ups, what amounted to inspired, spontaneous acts. With his mind preoccupied with the scene, he walked the stage or the set with camera and tripod on his shoulder, as if with a divining rod, and when he felt moved, he planted the tripod's legs down, positioned his lens on a subject or an object, and rolled for fifteen, twenty seconds, never longer. And when this material was canned, that was a day, a process for each take he repeated for three more days, during each of which he set a new pattern of blocking, used different scrims and a new arrangement of lights and reflectors, repositioned the cameras, called upon all to action, over and over again, and again filmed more spontaneous moments, until there seemed nothing spontaneous about them whatsoever. For every drawing Bloom had presented to him, Gottlieb ran through the same routine, and for every fourth day Bloom worked at his side, Gottlieb asked him to block and light the same course of action in his own individual way. At the end of every seventh day, well known to all as Gottlieb's Sabbath—which just so happened to fall on a Thursday—Gottlieb invited Bloom to sit with him in the parlor to review the work they had done together, and when they had seen all the film they had run, which every week accumulated that much more, Gottlieb asked Bloom to map out the sequences—based on the blocking, the lighting, the quality of the acting—he thought worked most harmoniously. By abiding by Gottlieb's Talmudic method, a two-reel picture, that would have otherwise taken no more than five days to shoot under the direction of Mr. Abrams, took seven weeks, and because they had filmed the equivalent of four separate pictures, and, what's more, because Mr. Gottlieb's practice was to have multiple copies reproduced in the lab for each take filmed, he and Bloom would spend an additional month reviewing and compiling the already reviewed material, what, in this case, amounted to four final cuts, all of which Bloom thought magnificent and couldn't be more proud of, especially because each of the final cuts included at least half a dozen scenes he had conceived and directed. Bloom could now understand why Gottlieb was considered insufferable by the entire colony, why so many regarded him with disfavor and took no pleasure in working with him. If Bloom were an actor on one of Gottlieb's stages, a lighting technician, a cameraman, made to stand by in the heat of the day for prolonged periods of time, for reasons no one other than Gottlieb could immediately grasp, he could see in what way they would detest him. But Bloom felt nothing but admiration for Gottlieb's method, as he managed to command his people with an iron will, to keep them in place—to control them not unlike Mephisto did his statues—in such a way he was able to exercise the full capacity of his imagination in public, to work to excess in the same manner Bloom did in the privacy of his studio, cloistered and unseen. And for this feat, Bloom—who without Gottlieb at his side didn't think himself capable of taking such extreme measures—envied him; and he now knew why Simon revered Gottlieb, why Murray Abrams felt threatened by him. In the small realm over which he ruled, Gottlieb was nothing short of a Napoleon riding a monumental steed.