Mount Terminus (41 page)

Bloom encouraged her to search out a man named George Ritchie, an optician who had designed the enormous parabolic mirror at the Solar Observatory. He lived only a few hours away by car. She drove off one afternoon to meet with Dr. Ritchie, and when she returned, she reported to Bloom what she had found when she arrived, an aged and pathetic creature who complained of headaches and insomnia, of maelstroms in his head that plagued him so often he had named them. Whirligus, he called them. As fascinating as Isabella found the observatory and his diverse collection of mirrors and the designs he had made for an even larger telescope that had the potential to unveil that much more of the sun's surface and the unseen sky, she couldn't bear the disappointment she felt for the man himself, and after only a few visits she decided her fascination for the man's work wasn't great enough to tolerate his company. She soon searched out others whose discipline was closer to the work done by Dr. Straight, but in each instance reported a similar story to the one Bloom had heard when she returned from visiting Dr. Ritchie. Not one of the men whose work she admired, and would have enjoyed furthering, lived up to her expectations, not one equaled her memory of Dr. Straight, and finding all lacking in one way or another, after these few brief meetings, too disillusioned to search anymore, she no longer pursued what had until then been integral to her life.

Perhaps Bloom shouldn't have been surprised to see Isabella appear relieved to be free of the past, free from the tether of memory attaching her to Dr. Straight, from the diligence and discipline she had practiced throughout her youth. Perhaps he should have more readily understood when one afternoon she packed away the part of his father's collection yet to be recorded, and placed it back on the shelf to which it belonged. No more, she said to Bloom, I am done. And as soon as she had put away the elder Rosenbloom's artifacts, she said to Bloom, I want to become part of the world. I'm tired of being separate from it, observing it as if I were somehow less animal than the rest. And with this simple declaration, Isabella was Dr. Straight's protégée no more. Nor, it seems, was she content any longer with their quiet life on the top of Mount Terminus.

She had come to understand what Bloom already knew on that day he asked her to marry him. That the union of their commonality, their shared curiosities, had been undermined by all the bodily humors she had witnessed expelled from men, the horrors she had smelled and wretched on. He could hold her. He could ease her suffering. He could provide her pleasure and escape. Invite her into the world of his imagination. But Bloom didn't have it in him to thrill her, to provoke her, to charge her with the sort of electrical current she required to feel fully alive. When Bloom implied such things in the quiet of Mount Terminus's solitude, Isabella claimed this wasn't the case. Not at all. She had, by now, become better acquainted with Gottlieb and Simon; she had grown accustomed to their company, and they to hers, enough so Bloom's collaborator and his brother began to speak freely in front of her about her husband, about how it had been far too long for Bloom to have let his gifts lie fallow. And Isabella agreed.

So she would not be a hindrance, she began to take short excursions into town in Bloom's car, where, one afternoon while eating lunch at the Pico House Hotel, she recognized at the table beside hers, Nora Duncan, the actress who played the fountain nymph in
Mephisto's Affinity
. The two women had a pleasant chat, Isabella told Bloom in the parlor that same evening, and she made plans to meet with her at the theater the following night. The two regularly met thereafter for lunch, and, in small gradations Bloom hardly noticed at first, Isabella started to transform into a woman he hardly recognized. She opened accounts at the fashion houses downtown and spent a great deal of time shopping with Nora. She took up smoking and afternoon cocktails, and—Bloom would learn only after the fact—found a more than willing companion in her new brother-in-law, whom she would come to see much more frequently than Bloom did. Bloom probably shouldn't have encouraged it, but when he learned she and Simon were now circulating at the same dinner parties and nightclubs, Bloom insisted his brother do what he could to keep her entertained, to escort her to his premieres, to introduce her to his wide circle of friends and associates, to help her mingle with the new crop of motion picture colonists migrating here by the day. Simon didn't think it the best idea. He encouraged Bloom to join them. He would arrange for his tailor to visit the estate, to measure Bloom for a suit. He would send Murray Abrams to the estate to civilize Bloom in the ways of society, to practice him in the art of meaningless conversation. They could attend a few parties together, Simon suggested, and after an outing or two, who knew, perhaps Bloom would come to welcome the occasional night out on the town; perhaps he would even take a liking to someone outside his immediate circle. You should make the effort, said Simon. For her, you should make every effort. You do know, don't you, that she's not a woman you can take for granted?

I would only spoil her fun, said Bloom.

Joseph, she needs looking after.

Won't you look after her for me?

My dear brother, how it is you're able to depict the complicated motives of men in your art without truly understanding them will forever remain a mystery to me.

*   *   *

Several times a week, Isabella dressed in gowns that displayed the full extent of her beauty and developing tastes, and she and Simon would drive down Mount Terminus into the basin, where the extension of the city had become complete. Out they drove onto the grid filled with more and more elaborate homes, with green lawns and colorful gardens kept alive by aqueduct water flowing ceaselessly from the northeast. Soon enough, Isabella hired a driver and began accepting invitations on her own. Several evenings a week, she left for these parties unaccompanied to homes and hotel suites, beach cottages and ballrooms, and often didn't return to Mount Terminus until early the next morning, when, so as not to wake Bloom, she would sleep in the gallery with the door locked, and wouldn't emerge until late the following afternoon. Bloom would know where she had been only from the invitations that arrived addressed to them both. Otherwise, they never spoke of the parties or the people she'd met or what exciting distractions and entertainments existed in the widening city below. Rather, when she chose to give Bloom her full attention, she was some paler version of his Isabella, the Isabella who, for the time being, tolerated her reclusive husband, whose lifestyle he stubbornly clung to out of habit and fear of a world he couldn't imagine himself being part of. As he never questioned her or complained, she, for now, didn't question or complain to him. Instead, for the time being, when they were together, they talked of the subtle changes in the weather and the night sky, what news she had heard from Simon about his most recent conquests—his most recent acquisitions, the newest actors, actresses, directors under contract, how Bloom's preproduction of
The Death of Paradise
was coming along. And not frequently, but often enough that he didn't feel entirely deprived, they acted out—with more comfort and familiarity than excitement—the passion they once enjoyed together in the gallery.

*   *   *

The more estranged from Isabella he grew, the clearer Bloom's focus became in the studio. For years now he had been dreaming of
The Death of Paradise
, seeing it piecemeal, in fragments, but he had now begun to see it all at once, and knew if he shut himself away for a period of time, if he allowed the story to fully consume him, he would be able to bind all the disparate parts together once and for all, and finally be done with it. He thought perhaps once he was through, once he had put this final picture behind him, he could become more the man Isabella needed him to be. If she saw to what lengths he had gone in making this picture, he believed, she would appreciate the way her absence had affected him. She might see in the complexity of this work he planned on dedicating to Isabella, the complexity and the depth of the love he felt for her. Except to travel down to the new Mount Terminus Studios lot to oversee the construction of the larger sets—those on which the Spanish locales would be shot, the ship on which the Estrellas and their cohort would make their journey, the Mission Santa Theresa de Avila in which the priests would reside—Bloom remained behind the closed doors of his studio, drawing and thinking through the smallest of details, the lighting, the camera movements and perspectives, the blocking, the narrative and text for the intertitles. He wrote many pages of notes on the way he wanted the actors to perform, notes he would deliver to Gottlieb some weeks before they went into production. He feared that the picture, if not treated with the most subtle movements and gestures, could easily be reduced to overwrought melodrama. As was always the case when Bloom immersed himself in this part of his process, he rarely slept, paced a great deal, held elaborate conversations with himself about the elaborate scope of this picture. Its epic length he found stifling—the walls of his studio could hardly contain the many hundreds of panels he had drawn, and although Bloom had the ability to see and feel everything all at once, the energy it required to maintain this vision depleted him. He had grown so lost to his pursuit, Isabella had begun to notice the toll it had been taking on his health and appearance, and she felt it necessary one night to visit Bloom in his studio to express her concern. Bloom hadn't been aware of it, but Isabella had from time to time been observing him work from outside the studio window. What she had seen, she told Bloom, she found disconcerting. She was particularly upset by the sight of him talking with himself, speaking at times as if there were someone there beside him. She found herself haunted by the images of him listening and responding to that invisible someone. When she saw him like this, she told him, she felt something break inside her. She felt overtaken by feelings of shame, and she wondered if her neglect had contributed to Bloom's state of mind. If I'm hurting you by not being here, she said, I beg you to say so. Bloom rejected this idea. As long as she was content with the life she was leading, he refused to stand in her way. Although he most certainly missed her, and wished she would spend more time in his company, he wouldn't keep her from whatever life she wished to lead, no matter how unrecognizable she became to him. Given what he knew of her, knowing so intimately the insatiable hunger inside her, he wouldn't be the one to restrain her. He wouldn't risk being perceived as a barrier to her happiness. He wouldn't allow her to despise him for keeping her from doing whatever it was she needed to do for herself. To preserve and protect their love was his only purpose, and so he said, as a way to placate her, I promise you, you're mistaking my obsession for distress.

To this she said, I'm afraid for you.

I'm hardly in mortal danger.

Nevertheless, said Isabella.

It's true, I do lose myself to my work, but I'm not in any peril.

Isabella eased her head onto Bloom's chest and again said, Nevertheless.

I'm touched by your concern, but, really, truly, you needn't worry.

She then held Bloom for a while, and he could feel from the tightness with which she held on to him there was something more she wanted to say. I know how it goes against your nature …

What?

What would you think if we were to host a party here when you've completed your preparations? What would you think if we were to fill the gardens and the courtyard with music? I want us to dance together. I want to see you mindless and frivolous, if only for one night.

Bloom said, I'll dance you through the gardens right now if you like.

Please, Joseph. I'm being serious.

Bloom was reminded of
Mephisto's Affinity
, of Mrs. Mephisto ordering her husband to the surface for a well-deserved Sabbath.

Really, Joseph. It's a wonderful feeling to dance to music and feel yourself moving about with others moving beside you. Try to imagine it. Try to imagine the fascination you might feel for the strangers surrounding you.

You know I'm not inclined that way.

I know, but I want you to experience it for yourself—they're only people, not unlike you or I.

Bloom tried to imagine it, but he couldn't move in his mind beyond the images of faceless shadows pressing against them in the dark. But when Isabella then said, so disconsolately, I've missed you, Joseph, more than you could possibly know, Bloom was unable to say no to her.

Yes, he said, why not?… I'll rise to the occasion.

Do you mean it? Do you really mean it?

I'm a grown man, Bloom reasoned on her behalf. If I'm to be your husband, if I'm to be with you in every way, I can't remain apart from the world forever, now can I?

Isabella stopped clutching his ribs and pulled her face from his chest. I know you don't really mean it, but I do want you to try. I really do want you to give it a try.

Then I'll try. For you, I will try. He stood up and walked Isabella outside and down into the courtyard. They wandered together about the trunks of the grove and Isabella asked, You do still love me, Joseph, don't you?

Of course, I do, said Bloom. I'll always love you. Bloom turned to Isabella and searched the darkness for the contours of her face, but found his eyes unable to make out its lines. In that instant, Isabella had disappeared right before him.

*   *   *

In a month's time, Bloom completed his preliminary work on
The Death of Paradise.
Every image of the story had been imagined, every transition, every line of dialogue. He had sketched every costume he wished sewn, every prop he wished to have manufactured or found, wrote directions for how every set was to be dressed. He had mapped every movement to be made by his cameramen and his actors, every lighting configuration, for every track to be laid. He scheduled the dates they would appear on what stage, the order in which every scene would be shot. There were five volumes in all, all of which he neatly lined up on his drafting table and presented to Gottlieb, who, upon seeing to what lengths Bloom had gone, nearly wept with joy. I have produced in you, Gottlieb said with his usual hyperbolic flourish, a burning bush! What lives inside of you, Rosenbloom, is a mystery for the ages! And on this day, Bloom departed his studio with no plans of returning to it anytime soon. He bathed for a considerable number of hours. Afterward, Meralda shaved him and cut his hair, trimmed his nails. He dressed himself in a suit and a pair of shined shoes. And he went to Isabella and told her his news. And Isabella was pleased.