Panasonic flat-screen television (suspended on a wall) came to life. After a second, Godard’s skewed futuristic classic filled the screen. I hit the back button on the screen. The alphabet appeared again. I touched
C
and selected
Citizen Kane
. Within seconds,
Alphaville
had ended, and I was watching Welles’s classic opening tracking shot – the high sequestered walls and gates, behind which lurks the vast mansion of a modern day Kubla Khan.
But Charles Foster Kane never had a toy like this on-command movie system.
A knock came at the door. When I shouted ‘Come in,’ Meg entered.
‘Mind if I unpack your things now?’ she asked.
‘Thanks, but I can do that myself.’
‘It’s all part of the service,’ she said, hoisting my bag. ‘I am your butler.’
She shot me the slightest of smiles – one which just hinted at a trace of irony behind the casual, yet highly professional, facade.
‘See you’ve figured out the movie system. Kind of nifty, isn’t it?’
‘Just a little. It’s an amazing selection of films.’
‘Mr Fleck has everything,’ she said, disappearing into the adjoining dressing room with my bag. I went upstairs to the office area. I unpacked my laptop and plugged it directly into the Internet link. As Meg had promised, this fibre-optic system was just a little faster than a single exhalation of breath. Within a nanosecond, I was online and retrieving my e-mail. Among the messages from Brad Bruce and Alison was the one I was hoping for.
Darling:
It’s crazy here. But I am still holding my own.
Missing you.
S.
I had several immediate thoughts about this e-mail. The first was:
well, at least she did make contact
. The second was:
well, at least she did say she was missing me
. And the third was:
why didn’t she sign it ‘love
’
?
Then the rational side of me kicked in, and I reminded myself once again that she was in a major L.A.-style
sturm und drang
. And in Hollywood, a professional crisis of this ilk was immediately transformed by all involved into something approaching the siege of Stalingrad.
In other words, she was preoccupied.
There was another knock on the door. A woman in her early thirties, with short-cropped black hair and a deep tan, walked in. She was also dressed in the regulation
Saffron Island
tee shirt and shorts. Like Meg, she also looked like one of those clean-limbed, fresh-faced women who probably once did time as a sorority sister at some Big Ten University, and no doubt dated a fullback named Bud.
‘Hey there, Mr Armitage,’ she said. ‘I’m Joan. You settling in okay?’
‘Just fine.’
‘Hear you’ve got a script for us to type up.’
‘That’s right,’ I said, grabbing the screenplay out of my computer bag and heading downstairs to the living room. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the original disk . . . ’
‘No worries about that. We can retype the whole thing.’
‘Won’t that be a lot of work?’
She shrugged. ‘Things have been a little slow here recently. I could use the work.’
‘You’re going to have to decipher my hieroglyphics,’ I said, flipping open to the third page and pointing to my numerous excisions and additions.
‘I’ve seen worse. Anyway, you’re going to be here for a few days, right?’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll call you if I get stuck anywhere.’
As she left, Meg came out of the dressing room, carrying two pairs of my trousers.
‘These got a little crushed in your bag, so I’ll get them freshly pressed. Now are you in the mood for a proper dinner or just something light?’
I glanced at my watch. It was nearly nine pm, though my brain was still four hours behind on LA time. ‘Something very light, if it’s no trouble . . . ’
‘Well, Mr Armitage . . . ’
‘David, please.’
‘Mr Fleck likes us to use Mr with his guests. So how about a dozen oysters and a bottle of . . . ’
‘Gewurztraminer. But just a glass.’
‘I’ll get the
C
and selected
Citizen Kane
. Within seconds,
Alphaville
had ended, and I was watching Welles’s classic opening tracking shot – the high sequestered walls and gates, behind which lurks the vast mansion of a modern day Kubla Khan.
But Charles Foster Kane never had a toy like this on-command movie system.
A knock came at the door. When I shouted ‘Come in,’ Meg entered.
‘Mind if I unpack your things now?’ she asked.
‘Thanks, but I can do that myself.’
‘It’s all part of the service,’ she said, hoisting my bag. ‘I am your butler.’
She shot me the slightest of smiles – one which just hinted at a trace of irony behind the casual, yet highly professional, facade.
‘See you’ve figured out the movie system. Kind of nifty, isn’t it?’
‘Just a little. It’s an amazing selection of films.’
‘Mr Fleck has everything,’ she said, disappearing into the adjoining dressing room with my bag. I went upstairs to the office area. I unpacked my laptop and plugged it directly into the Internet link. As Meg had promised, this fibre-optic system was just a little faster than a single exhalation of breath. Within a nanosecond, I was online and retrieving my e-mail. Among the messages from Brad Bruce and Alison was the one I was hoping for.
Darling:
It’s crazy here. But I am still holding my own.
Missing you.
S.
I had several immediate thoughts about this e-mail. The first was:
well, at least she did make contact
. The second was:
well, at least she did say she was missing me
. And the third was:
why didn’t she sign it ‘love
’
?
Then the rational side of me kicked in, and I reminded myself once again that she was in a major L.A.-style
sturm und drang
. And in Hollywood, a professional crisis of this ilk was immediately transformed by all involved into something approaching the siege of Stalingrad.
In other words, she was preoccupied.
There was another knock on the door. A woman in her early thirties, with short-cropped black hair and a deep tan, walked in. She was also dressed in the regulation
Saffron Island
tee shirt and shorts. Like Meg, she also looked like one of those clean-limbed, fresh-faced women who probably once did time as a sorority sister at some Big Ten University, and no doubt dated a fullback named Bud.
‘Hey there, Mr Armitage,’ she said. ‘I’m Joan. You settling in okay?’
‘Just fine.’
‘Hear you’ve got a script for us to type up.’
‘That’s right,’ I said, grabbing the screenplay out of my computer bag and heading downstairs to the living room. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the original disk . . . ’
‘No worries about that. We can retype the whole thing.’
‘Won’t that be a lot of work?’
She shrugged. ‘Things have been a little slow here recently. I could use the work.’
‘You’re going to have to decipher my hieroglyphics,’ I said, flipping open to the third page and pointing to my numerous excisions and additions.
‘I’ve seen worse. Anyway, you’re going to be here for a few days, right?’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll call you if I get stuck anywhere.’
As she left, Meg came out of the dressing room, carrying two pairs of my trousers.
‘These got a little crushed in your bag, so I’ll get them freshly pressed. Now are you in the mood for a proper dinner or just something light?’
I glanced at my watch. It was nearly nine pm, though my brain was still four hours behind on LA time. ‘Something very light, if it’s no trouble . . . ’
‘Well, Mr Armitage . . . ’
‘David, please.’
‘Mr Fleck likes us to use Mr with his guests. So how about a dozen oysters and a bottle of . . . ’
‘Gewurztraminer. But just a glass.’
‘I’ll get the
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