The Sixteen Burdens by David Khalaf Page B

don’t have MGM’s mainstream sensibilities.”
    Mayer poked Chaplin in the chest with his fat finger.
    “What you need is more action. More special effects. Folks love that stuff. Maybe some Technicolor. Color is the new sound!”
    A conspicuously young woman approached them and slipped her hand around Mayer’s arm. Her dark hair was parted down the center and it flowed into dark curls.
    “Which horse is yours, Mr. Mayer?” she asked. She had a crisp European accent.
    “Mayer’s Majesty,” he said.
    Mayer pointed down to a great white stallion being led back to the pen. It was a massive beast, the kind whose image would be cast in bronze for the public square of some Soviet city.
    “Charlie, this is Hedy Lamarr,” Mayer said. “She’s going to be the next big star at MGM.”
    “Oh, Mr. Chaplin!” Lamarr said. “I’ve been such a fan of yours, ever since I was a little girl.”
    “Since last year?” Chaplin asked.
    “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see a bit of your act!”
    “I’m afraid I’ve left my mustache at home,” Chaplin said. “But I could use a drink.”
    Chaplin picked up an empty champagne flute someone had set down nearby. He began swaying back and forth on his feet.
    Chaplin bowed deeply to Lamarr, so deeply in fact that he fell over into a somersault, landing on his rear end with his legs splayed out in front of him. Other people turned to watch. Chaplin himself hiccupped. The champagne glass rolled onto the floor.
    “That fella’s spifflicated,” someone said.
    Chaplin’s hat had fallen away from him, underneath a large woman at the buffet who was stacking a Tower of Pisa’s worth of finger sandwiches on her plate. Chaplin crawled underneath the woman and bumped her legs. She let out a gasp and yanked off her giant sun hat to beat him. Chaplin scurried backward, with the woman’s hat still on his head. People began to giggle.
    Gray recognized Chaplin playing the Inebriate Swell, his famous vaudeville character who drinks so much he can’t seem to keep himself upright.
    Half blinded by the woman’s giant hat, Chaplin tried to pull himself up. But he slipped and grabbed a passing waiter for support. What ensued next was an awkward dance as the waiter twisted and struggled to keep his tray of hors d’oeuvres from toppling over. The waiter slipped on the fallen champagne flute, but Chaplin leapt through the air and caught the waiter’s tray, landing gracefully on one knee in front of Lamarr. He held it up.
    “Shrimp cocktail?”
    Everyone roared with laughter.
    That’s when Gray saw it. The giggles and guffaws quivered through the air. They looked like tiny, buzzing molecules, as if he could see the air itself. Only Gray appeared to notice. The laughter vibrated everything around them. The people, the balcony, even the horses down below. It was as if everything within earshot had been struck like a tuning fork.
    Everyone began clapping for Chaplin; Gray was surprised to find his hands doing the same.
    “Final bets!” a man shouted to everyone in the balcony.
    “This will be our race,” Mayer said. “You going to bet, Chaplin? My horse is a winner.”
    “I’ll take that bet,” Chaplin said, straightening his suit.
    He tugged at Gray’s arm.
    “Now’s our chance.”
    He dashed toward the betting counter. Gray followed.
    “What was that?” Gray asked.
    “What was what?”
    “The air kinda buzzed. Everything around you seemed to vibrate when people laughed.”
    “Interesting,” Chaplin said, but he didn’t elaborate.
    The man at the betting counter smelled as if he were already halfway through his second pack of cigarettes.
    “Good morning,” Chaplin said. “What are the worst odds in the next race?”
    The man pulled out a packet of paper and began flipping through them.
    “Mayer’s Majesty is running in it, and he’ll destroy anyone he’s up against.”
    He scanned the list.
    “Ah, here. Big Boy. Eighteen to one.”
    Chaplin pulled out his wallet and