the photographs and dies in the fire. Her clothes burn off first. How does that sound to you?”
“Dumb.”
“That was what we thought when we saw it. So we fired the director and recut it and did an extra day’s shoot. Now she’s wearing a wire when they make out. And when she starts to fall in love with him, she finds out that he killed her brother. She has a dream in which her clothes burn off, then she goes out with the SWAT team to try to bring him in. But he gets shot by her little sister, who he’s also been shtupping. ”
“Is it any better?”
He shakes his head. “It’s junk. If she’d let us use a stand-in for the nude sequences, maybe we’d be in better shape.
“What did you think of the treatment?”
“What?”
“My treatment? The one I sent you?”
“Sure. That treatment. We loved it. We all loved it. It was great. Really terrific. We’re all really excited.”
“So what’s next?”
“Well, as soon as everyone’s had a chance to look it over, we’ll get together and talk about it.”
He patted me on the back and went away, leaving me with nothing to do in Hollywood.
I decided to write a short story. There was an idea I’d had in England before I’d left. Something about a small theater at the end of a pier. Stage magic as the rain came down. An audience who couldn’t tell the difference between magic and illusion, and to whom it would make no difference if every illusion was real.
That afternoon, on my walk, I bought a couple of books on Stage Magic and Victorian Illusions in the “almost all-nite” bookshop. A story, or the seed of it anyway, was there in my head, and I wanted to explore it. I sat on the bench in the courtyard and browsed through the books. There was, I decided, a specific atmosphere that I was after.
I was reading about the Pockets Men, who had pockets filled with every small object you could imagine and would produce whatever you asked on request. No illusion—just remarkable feats of organization and memory. A shadow fell across the page. I looked up.
“Hullo again,” I said to the old black man.
“Suh,” he said.
“Please don’t call me that. It makes me feel like I ought to be wearing a suit or something.” I told him my name.
He told me his: “Pious Dundas.”
“Pious?” I wasn’t sure that I’d heard him correctly. He nodded proudly.
“Sometimes I am, and sometimes I ain’t. It’s what my mamma called me, and it’s a good name.”
“Yes.”
“So what are you doing here, suh?”
“I’m not sure. I’m meant to be writing a film, I think. Or at least, I’m waiting for them to tell me to start writing a film.”
He scratched his nose. “All the film people stayed here, if I started to tell you them all now, I could talk till a week next Wednesday and I wouldn’t have told you the half of them.”
“Who were your favorites?”
“Harry Langdon. He was a gentleman. George Sanders. He was English, like you. He’d say, ‘Ah, Pious. You must pray for my soul.’ And I’d say, ‘Your soul’s your own affair, Mister Sanders,” but I prayed for him just the same. And June Lincoln.”
“June Lincoln?”
His eyes sparkled, and he smiled. “She was the queen of the silver screen. She was finer than any of them: Mary Pickford or Lillian Gish or Theda Bara or Louise Brooks She was the finest. She had ‘it.’ You know what ‘it’ was?”
“Sex appeal.”
“More than that. She was everything you ever dreamed of. You’d see a June Lincoln picture, you wanted to . . .” he broke off, waved one hand in small circles, as if he were trying to catch the missing words. “I don’t know. Go down on one knee, maybe, like a knight in shinin’ armor to the queen. June Lincoln, she was the best of them. I told my grandson about her, he tried to find something for the VCR, but no go. Nothing out there anymore. She only lives in the heads of old men like me.” He tapped his forehead.
“She must have been quite
“Dumb.”
“That was what we thought when we saw it. So we fired the director and recut it and did an extra day’s shoot. Now she’s wearing a wire when they make out. And when she starts to fall in love with him, she finds out that he killed her brother. She has a dream in which her clothes burn off, then she goes out with the SWAT team to try to bring him in. But he gets shot by her little sister, who he’s also been shtupping. ”
“Is it any better?”
He shakes his head. “It’s junk. If she’d let us use a stand-in for the nude sequences, maybe we’d be in better shape.
“What did you think of the treatment?”
“What?”
“My treatment? The one I sent you?”
“Sure. That treatment. We loved it. We all loved it. It was great. Really terrific. We’re all really excited.”
“So what’s next?”
“Well, as soon as everyone’s had a chance to look it over, we’ll get together and talk about it.”
He patted me on the back and went away, leaving me with nothing to do in Hollywood.
I decided to write a short story. There was an idea I’d had in England before I’d left. Something about a small theater at the end of a pier. Stage magic as the rain came down. An audience who couldn’t tell the difference between magic and illusion, and to whom it would make no difference if every illusion was real.
That afternoon, on my walk, I bought a couple of books on Stage Magic and Victorian Illusions in the “almost all-nite” bookshop. A story, or the seed of it anyway, was there in my head, and I wanted to explore it. I sat on the bench in the courtyard and browsed through the books. There was, I decided, a specific atmosphere that I was after.
I was reading about the Pockets Men, who had pockets filled with every small object you could imagine and would produce whatever you asked on request. No illusion—just remarkable feats of organization and memory. A shadow fell across the page. I looked up.
“Hullo again,” I said to the old black man.
“Suh,” he said.
“Please don’t call me that. It makes me feel like I ought to be wearing a suit or something.” I told him my name.
He told me his: “Pious Dundas.”
“Pious?” I wasn’t sure that I’d heard him correctly. He nodded proudly.
“Sometimes I am, and sometimes I ain’t. It’s what my mamma called me, and it’s a good name.”
“Yes.”
“So what are you doing here, suh?”
“I’m not sure. I’m meant to be writing a film, I think. Or at least, I’m waiting for them to tell me to start writing a film.”
He scratched his nose. “All the film people stayed here, if I started to tell you them all now, I could talk till a week next Wednesday and I wouldn’t have told you the half of them.”
“Who were your favorites?”
“Harry Langdon. He was a gentleman. George Sanders. He was English, like you. He’d say, ‘Ah, Pious. You must pray for my soul.’ And I’d say, ‘Your soul’s your own affair, Mister Sanders,” but I prayed for him just the same. And June Lincoln.”
“June Lincoln?”
His eyes sparkled, and he smiled. “She was the queen of the silver screen. She was finer than any of them: Mary Pickford or Lillian Gish or Theda Bara or Louise Brooks She was the finest. She had ‘it.’ You know what ‘it’ was?”
“Sex appeal.”
“More than that. She was everything you ever dreamed of. You’d see a June Lincoln picture, you wanted to . . .” he broke off, waved one hand in small circles, as if he were trying to catch the missing words. “I don’t know. Go down on one knee, maybe, like a knight in shinin’ armor to the queen. June Lincoln, she was the best of them. I told my grandson about her, he tried to find something for the VCR, but no go. Nothing out there anymore. She only lives in the heads of old men like me.” He tapped his forehead.
“She must have been quite
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