The House of Sleep (17 page)

And so there was a ‘lost’ Ortese film! Terry felt a sudden thrill as he read these last sentences. He knew at once that it would become his obsession to trace both the known and the unknown work of this director. On Monday morning he called in at his supervisor’s office and received her permission to make Ortese’s life and career the subject of his third-year dissertation.

Obsessions, of course, can never be shared. Over the next few weeks, whenever he tried to explain his feelings about these films, or arranged screenings for his friends in the projection rooms on campus, he came up against a solid barrier of boredom and incomprehension. It was on one such occasion, late in the spring term, that he had a minor quarrel with Robert over aesthetics.

‘Why don’t you ever like cheerful films?’ Robert asked him, as they left the film department and walked through the campus car park. ‘Why do you only like films that are miserable and depressing? Why aren’t your favourite films the same as
everyone else’s – like
Casablanca
, or that one with James Stewart at Christmas?’

‘Because they’re not the work of real artists,’ said Terry. ‘And there’s no mystery about them, no enigma.’

‘Oh, but that’s so elitist. In fact you’re the ultimate elitist, aren’t you? Because you’re convinced that the only film worth seeing is one that nobody can ever see.’

It was true that although he had sent out more than twenty letters about Ortese to archives and resource centres all over the world, Terry had so far been unable to locate a single viewing print of his most elusive film. None the less, this had not stopped him working on a 5000-word essay entitled ‘Screening the Unscreenable: A Case Study of Audience Responses to Salvatore Ortese’s
Latrine Duty
’, which his supervisor had adored, and which he was now preparing to submit – with her encouragement – to a prestigious national film magazine called
Frame.

‘And that’s another thing,’ said Robert. ‘I think it’s ridiculous that you’ve written an article about a film you haven’t even seen.’

‘But has anybody seen it? That’s exactly the point. Does it even exist?’

‘I think you’re going mad. I worry about you, you know. I worry for your mental health and your physical well-being.’

‘
You
should talk,’ said Terry. They had reached his car, and he searched his pockets for the keys. ‘You’re the one with the weird fixation.’ He realized this sounded harsh, and asked more kindly: ‘Robert, when are you going to get over her?’

‘Why should I want to do that?’

Terry sighed, and eased himself into the driver’s seat. ‘Are you not coming with me, then?’

‘No. She said she might be eating at Jonah’s. I think I’ll go and look for her there.’

‘It’ll end in tears,’ said Terry, starting the engine. ‘I’m warning you.’

Robert remembered something. ‘There was a guy looking for you this morning. A strange little guy. American accent.’

Terry grimaced. ‘Not Joe Kingsley?’

‘That’s the one. Said he had something important to ask you.’

‘I’m sure it can wait,’ said Terry, and drove off along the campus ring road at irresponsible speed, glancing into his mirror only once to see the figure of Robert, still standing in the car park, rooted, forlorn.

8

For many years now, Terry had not given a moment’s thought to Salvatore Ortese or his mythical ‘lost’ film. But when he left the Clinic on Tuesday morning and took the bus on to campus, he was astonished by the speed with which those memories came rushing back; astonished by the sharpness and immediacy with which he experienced, once again, those ancient pangs of hunger for forbidden knowledge. They began to steal over him as soon as he entered the library. Its doors slid open automatically with a noise like a seductive exhalation of breath (another instant reminder of his student days), and soon he found himself standing by the old familiar shelves: the rows upon rows of green-backed volumes he had once pored over so fanatically that he had almost learned them by heart:
Positif, Film Comment, Sight and Sound, Cahiers du Cinéma.
It was here, he remembered, that the search had begun, when he had trawled through every yearly index to these publications and followed up even the tiniest reference to Ortese and his films. How passionate he had been, in those days; how driven. In his interview with Dr Dudden, Terry had described it as a period of depression: but he realized now that this was wrong. Maybe he had been sleeping for almost fourteen hours a day, but at least he had had an objective then, a goal. When did all that energy become dissipated; when did he allow it to be swept away by randomness?

Terry brooded over this question as he succumbed to an illicit cup of coffee in the empty restaurant attached to the campus Arts Centre. He had been hoping for a nostalgic visit to Jonah’s, the old self-service cafeteria, but it seemed to have
disappeared. There had been many changes to the university in the last twelve years: this restaurant itself was new, brand-new, shiny with mirrored surfaces and chrome furniture and the reflecting glass of a dozen colourful abstracts. The cinema next to it was new as well, and there was a new concert hall and theatre, called the Stephen Webb Centre: a detail which might have given Terry pause for thought, had he actually noticed it. But he was far too busy contemplating the mystery of his lost ideals; too busy trying to remember, among other things, the last piece of research he had done on Ortese. It must have been during his trip to Italy in November 1984. Terry had been to Milan, to write about the making of a film – although
Frame
had never used the article – and had then travelled down to Rome for a few days, where he talked his way into the
Cinecittà
archives by diligently courting the sweet and sexy brown-eyed receptionist whose job it was to keep the likes of Terry at bay. Finally she had granted him access to the stills library, and there, after spending more than a dozen hours knee-deep in transparencies and eight-by-ten black-and-whites, he had found (and yet he had forgotten this; how
could
he have forgotten it?) almost what he was looking for. He had found, at any rate, proof that the film existed; proof that it was more than the product of mere rumour and journalistic speculation. He had found a photograph.

One photograph. A poor memento, perhaps, of the film which to Terry’s fevered imagination had become the artistic equivalent of the Holy Grail: but all the more precious for precisely that reason. And what had become of it? This was the incredible part: Terry could scarcely remember. He had brought it back from Italy with him, certainly, and must have stashed it away somewhere, but he had changed addresses at least six times since then, and had no idea whether the photograph would have survived all of these moves. The idea that it might be lost suddenly horrified him.

How could his attitude towards this priceless relic have
become so cavalier? If
Latrine Duty
had run for two hours, at twenty-four frames per second, this meant that out of the 172,800 images which made up the film, he had obtained (stolen would be the more correct term) what was quite possibly the only surviving remnant. Today, for the first time in twelve years, the hugeness of this realization returned to him. He began to doubt whether he could wait until the end of his stay at the clinic before rushing back to London and searching for it, amongst the boxes and files full of junk that nowadays passed for furniture in his flat.

Terry ordered another cup of coffee, then found to his surprise that he couldn’t finish it. He thought that perhaps it was too bitter, and added some sugar, but this didn’t help. He noticed that his hands were starting to shake. He felt wide awake, but with a strange, nervy, artificial excitement that interfered with the more deep-seated restfulness he had felt settling upon him during the last few days. He decided, most unusually for him, that it was time for a walk.

He walked for most of the afternoon: into town, at first, in search of old haunts which he was not surprised to find long vanished. The Café Valladon was gone, replaced by a Christian bookshop. The Planetarium was gone, replaced by a Tourist Information Centre and a scrawny museum offering interactive local history. The library was still there, though, and so was The Half Moon, and so was The Crown Hotel where his parents had sometimes stayed, and so was the cinema which was currently showing, he noticed with a micro-flicker of professional interest,
Toy Story, The Birdcage
and
Chalk and Cheese 4.
There was still a faded air about the place, a mustiness like the faint odour of sad memories you find when opening a long-disused drawer. Very soon he began to feel thoroughly depressed. And so he set off along the cliff path, the route back towards Ashdown which he had always indolently disdained as a student, but which now beckoned irresistibly with its promise of vigorous exercise and a cleansing sea breeze. Terry calculated that if he made good time, he
would arrive ten minutes early for his five o’clock appointment with Dr Dudden.

∗

As Terry strode purposefully along the cliffs in the direction of Ashdown, Sarah was making slower, more meditative progress through the park on her way home from school. It was the day after her encounter with Ruby, and she was still preoccupied with the memories it had stirred.

Summer was yet to assert itself, this last week in June. A few isolated, freakishly sunny days had been enough to persuade most Londoners that a heatwave had arrived, so that singlets, shorts and T-shirts were much in evidence today, even though the sky was cloudy and a skittish northerly breeze threatened to scatter thin raindrops. Sarah was beginning to shiver, even in her work clothes; and her first thought, when she saw Alison Hill sitting alone on a bench, was that she looked not just bored and lonely, but cold.

It was sports day at school, so there were no lessons that afternoon. Sarah had watched the first few events and then decided that her presence was no longer required; and those pupils who were not taking part had been given the option either of staying to watch or going home for the rest of the day. It was a slightly alarming surprise to discover that Alison had done neither.

‘Hello,’ she said, standing over the small, frail figure on the bench. ‘What are you doing here, all by yourself?’

‘Just sitting,’ said Alison placidly.

‘Well – do you mind if I sit with you for a minute?’

Alison – not having much choice – shook her head.

‘Not watching the sports, then?’ said Sarah, as she settled beside her.

‘No.’

‘Bit boring, you think?’

‘Mm.’

‘So…’ Sarah wondered how best to approach this. ‘Do you live near here, then? We must be nearly neighbours.’

‘Quite near here,’ said Alison. She pointed towards one of the park gates. ‘We live over there. Not
on
the main road, but quite close by.’

‘The Seven Sisters Road, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s not far from my house,’ said Sarah. Technically a lie, but justified in the circumstances, she thought. ‘Would you like to walk home together? Only, it’s not always a good place to be by yourself, this park.’

‘I can’t go home, yet,’ said Alison. ‘Mum’ll be at work.’

‘Don’t you have a key or something?’

Alison shook her head. ‘I thought I did, but I can’t find it. It’s supposed to be in my satchel. I think I might have left it at home.’

‘But – what time will your mother be back?’

‘Seven o’clock, she said.’

This was not for another four hours. Having established, quickly, that there were no neighbours or relatives for Alison to call upon, Sarah came to an inevitable if reluctant decision. Abandoning her half-formed plans for a shower, a nap, a few chapters of her Lorrie Moore novel followed by a serious assault on the assessment forms, she said to Alison: ‘Well, how would you like to come home with me for the afternoon? You could come back and have some tea and watch some telly.’

Not seeming too excited by this offer, Alison bowed her head and nodded. ‘OK.’

‘Come on then.’

They got up and walked towards the park gates in silence. Sarah was wondering why Alison had not made any reference to her father, and tried to recall the few details of her family background she had picked up from a dimly remembered conversation in the staff room a few months ago. In fact there
was
no father, she was fairly certain. There had been some speculation – inconclusive, as far as she could remember – over whether there had ever been a father on the scene, or
whether he had left only recently. At which point, the oddness of Alison’s poem came back to her, and a suspicion began to form.

‘That was a lovely poem you read out in class the other day,’ Sarah said. ‘What gave you the idea? Have you got your own telescope? Do you like looking at stars?’

Alison shook her head shyly. ‘No, I just… started to write it, and the words came out…’

‘It was very sad,’ said Sarah. ‘I felt sorry for the two stars by themselves, after the big one had died. Did you mean to write such a sad poem?’

‘Well…’ Alison began, but went no further.

Sarah realized that this line of enquiry was not going to lead anywhere, and realized too that she could not cope with the idea of Alison being in her house all afternoon, perched on the edge of the sofa, subdued and fearful, nibbling biscuits or sitting glassy-eyed with boredom in front of children’s T V. And so, as an interim measure, they detoured via the nearest McDonald’s, where Sarah had coffee – or something like it – and Alison had Fillet-o-Fish and a chocolate shake. It seemed to cheer her up slightly, although she became no more talkative; after fifteen minutes their conversation dried up altogether.

‘We’d better go now,’ Sarah said, looking at her watch. ‘But first of all, I want you to have one last look for this key. Are you
sure
it isn’t in your satchel?’

As Alison opened the bag and rummaged through it with a resigned, dutiful air, Sarah saw something that instantly chilled her.