The Best of Robert Bloch (43 page)
"It got so that for a while I was almost afraid to go see a show—figured I was cracking up. But now you've seen her too—"
I shook my head slowly. "Sorry, Jimmy. I never said that." I glanced at him, then gestured towards my car at the curb. "You look tired. Come on, I'll drive you home."
He looked worse than tired; he looked lost and lonely and infinitely old. But there was a stubborn glint in his eyes, and he stood his ground.
"No, thanks. I'm gonna stick around for the second show."
As I slid behind the wheel I saw him turn and move into the theatre, into the place where the present becomes the past and the past becomes the present. Up above in the booth they call it a projection-machine, but it's really a time-machine; it can take you back, play tricks with your imagination and your memory. A girl dead forty years comes alive again, and an old man relives his vanished youth—
But I belonged in the real world, and that's where I stayed. I didn't go to the Silent Movie the next week or the week following.
And the next time I saw Jimmy was almost a month later, on the set.
They were shooting a Western, one of my scripts, and the director wanted some additional dialogue to stretch a sequence. So they called me in, and I drove all the way out to location, at the ranch.
Most of the studios have a ranch spread for Western action sequences, and this was one of the oldest; it had been in use since the silent days. What fascinated me was the wooden fort where they were doing the crowd scene—I could swear I remembered it from one of the first Tim McCoy pictures. So after I huddled with the director and scribbled a few extra lines for the principals, I began nosing around behind the fort, just out of curiosity, while they set up for the new shots.
Out front was the usual organized confusion; cast and crew milling around the trailers, extras sprawled on the grass drinking coffee. But here in the back I was all alone, prowling around in musty, log-lined rooms built for use in forgotten features. Hoot Gibson had stood at this bar, and Jack Hoxie had swung from this dance-hall chandelier. Here was a dust-covered table where Fred Thomson sat, and around the corner, in the cutaway bunkhouse—
Around the corner, in the cut-away bunkhouse, Jimmy Rogers sat on the edge of a mildewed mattress and stared up at me, startled, as I moved forward.
"You—?"
Quickly I explained my presence. There was no need for him to explain his; casting had called and given him a day's work here in the crowd shots.
"They been stalling all day, and it's hot out there. I figured maybe I could sneak back here and catch me a little nap in the shade."
"How'd you know where to go?" I asked. "Ever been here before?"
"Sure. Forty years ago in this very bunkhouse. Junie and I, we used to come here during lunch break and—"
He stopped.
"What's wrong?"
Something
was
wrong. On the pan make-up face of it, Jimmy Rogers was the perfect picture of the grizzled Western old-timer; buckskin britches, fringed shirt, white whiskers and all. But under the make-up was pallor, and the hands holding the envelope were trembling.
The envelope—
He held it out to me. "Here. Mebbe you better read this."
The envelope was unsealed, unstamped, unaddressed. It contained four folded pages covered with fine handwriting. I removed them slowly. Jimmy stared at me.
"Found it lying here on the mattress when I came in," he murmured. "Just waiting for me."
"But what is it? Where'd it come from?"
"Read it and see."
As I started to unfold the pages the whistle blew. We both knew the signal; the scene was set up, they were ready to roll, principals and extras were wanted out there before the cameras.
Jimmy Rogers stood up and moved off, a tired old man shuffling out into the hot sun. I waved at him, then sat down on the mouldering mattress and opened the letter. The handwriting was faded, and there was a thin film of dust on the pages. But I could still read it, every word . . .
Darling:
I've been trying to reach you so long and in so many ways. Of course I've seen you, but it's so dark out there I can't always be sure, and then too you've changed a lot through the years.
But I
do
see you, quite often, even though it's only for a moment. And I hope you've seen me, because I always try to wink or make some kind of motion to attract your attention.
The only thing is, I can't do too much or show myself too long or it would make trouble. That's the big secret—keeping in the background, so the others won't notice me. It wouldn't do to frighten anybody, or even to get anyone wondering why there are more people in the background of a shot than there should be.
That's something for you to remember, darling, just in case. You're always safe, as long as you stay clear of close-ups. Costume pictures are the best—about all you have to do is wave your arms once in a while and shout, "On to the Bastille," or something like that. It really doesn't matter except to lip-readers, because it's silent, of course.
Oh, there's a lot to watch out for. Being a dress extra has its points, but not in ballroom sequences—too much dancing. That goes for parties, too, particularly in a De Mille production where they're "making whoopee" or one of Von Stroheim's orgies. Besides, Von Stroheim's scenes are always cut.
It doesn't hurt to be cut, don't misunderstand about that. It's no different than an ordinary fade-out at the end of a scene, and then you're free to go into another picture. Anything that was ever made, as long as there's still a print available for running somewhere. It's like falling asleep and then having one dream after another. The dreams are the scenes, of course, but while the scenes are playing, they're real.
I'm not the only one, either. There's no telling how many others do the same thing; maybe hundreds for all I know, but I've recognized a few I'm sure of and I think some of them have recognized me. We never let on to each other that we know, because it wouldn't do to make anybody suspicious.
Sometimes I think that if we could talk it over, we might come up with a better understanding of just how it happens, and why. But the point is, you
can't
talk, everything is silent; all you do is move your lips and if you tried to communicate such a difficult thing in pantomime you'd surely attract attention.
I guess the closest I can come to explaining it is to say it's like reincarnation—you can play a thousand roles, take or reject any part you want, as long as you don't make yourself conspicuous or do something that would change the plot.
Naturally you get used to certain things. The silence, of course. And if you're in a bad print there's flickering; sometimes even the air seems grainy, and for a few frames you may be faded or out of focus.
Which reminds me—another thing to stay away from, the slapstick comedies. Sennett's early stuff is the worst, but Larry Semon and some of the others are just as bad; all that speeded-up camera action makes you dizzy.
Once you can learn to adjust, it's all right, even when you're looking off the screen into the audience. At first the darkness is a little frightening—you have to remind yourself it's only a theatre and there are just people out there, ordinary people watching a show. They don't know you can see them. They don't know that as long as your scene runs you're just as real as they are, only in a different way. You walk, run, smile, frown, drink, eat—
That's another thing to remember, about the eating. Stay out of those Poverty Row quickies where everything is cheap and faked. Go where there's real set-dressing, big productions with banquet scenes and real food. If you work fast you can grab enough in a few minutes, while you're off-camera, to last you.
The big rule is, always be careful. Don't get caught. There's so little time, and you seldom get an opportunity to do anything on your own, even in a long sequence. It's taken me forever to get this chance to write you—I've planned it for so long, my darling, but it just wasn't possible until now.
This scene is playing outside the fort, but there's quite a large crowd of settlers and wagon-train people, and I had a chance to slip away inside here to the rooms in back—they're on-camera in the background all during the action. I found this stationery and a pen, and I'm scribbling just as fast as I can. Hope you can read it. That is, if you ever get the the chance!
Naturally, I can't mail it—but I have a funny hunch. You see, I noticed that standing set back here, the bunkhouse, where you and I used to come in the old days. I'm going to leave this letter on the mattress, and pray.
Yes, darling, I pray. Someone or something
knows
about us, and about how we feel. How we felt about being in the movies. That's why I'm here, I'm sure of that; because I've always loved pictures so. Someone who knows
that
must also know how I loved you. And still do.
I think there must be many heavens and many hells, each of us making his own, and—
The letter broke off there.
No signature, but of course I didn't need one. And it wouldn't have proved anything. A lonely old man, nursing his love for forty years, keeping her alive inside himself somewhere until she broke out in the form of a visual hallucination up there on the screen—such a man could conceivably go all the way into a schizoid split, even to the point where he could imitate a woman's handwriting as he set down the rationalization of his obsession.
I started to fold the letter, then dropped it on the mattress as the shrill scream of an ambulance-siren startled me into sudden movement
Even as I ran out the doorway I seemed to know what I'd find; the crowd huddling around the figure sprawled in the dust under the hot sun. Old men tire easily in such heat, and once the heart goes—
Jimmy Rogers looked very much as though he were smiling in his sleep as they lifted him into the ambulance. And I was glad of that; at least he'd died with his illusions intact.
"Just keeled over during the scene—one minute he was standing there, and the next—"
They were still chattering and gabbing when I walked away, walked back behind the fort and into the bunkhouse.
The letter was gone.
I'd dropped it on the mattress, and it was gone. That's all I can say about it. Maybe somebody else happened by while I was out front, watching them take Jimmy away. Maybe a gust of wind carried it through the doorway, blew it across the desert in a hot Santa Ana gust. Maybe there
was
no letter. You can take your choice—all I can do is state the facts.
And there aren't very many more facts to state.
I didn't go to Jimmy Rogers' funeral, if indeed he had one. I don't even know where he was buried; probably the Motion Picture Fund took care of him. Whatever
those
facts may be, they aren't important.
For a few days I wasn't too interested in facts. I was trying to answer a few abstract questions about metaphysics—reincarnation, heaven and hell, the difference between real life and reel life. I kept thinking about those images you see up there on the screen in those old movies; images of actual people indulging in make-believe. But even after they die, the make-believe goes on, and that's a form of reality too. I mean, where's the border-line? And if there
is
a border-line—is it possible to cross over?
Life's but a walking shadow
—
Shakespeare said that, but I wasn't sure what he meant.
I'm still not sure, but there's just one more fact I must state.
The other night, for the first time in all the months since Jimmy Rogers died, I went back to the Silent Movie.
They were playing
Intolerance
, one of Griffith's greatest. Way back in 1916 he built the biggest set ever shown on the screen—the huge temple in the Babylonian sequence.
One shot never fails to impress me, and it did so now; a wide angle on the towering temple, with thousands of people moving antlike amidst the gigantic carvings and colossal statues. In the distance, beyond the steps guarded by rows of stone elephants, looms a mighty wall, its top covered with tiny figures. You really have to look closely to make them out. But I did look closely, and this time I can swear to what I saw.
One of the extras, way up there on the wall in the background, was a smiling girl with long blond curls. And standing right beside her, one arm around her shoulder, was a tall old man with white whiskers. I wouldn't have noticed either of them, except for one thing.
They were waving at me . . .
L
OVE IS BLIND.
Justice is blind. Chance is blind. I do not know if Raymond was searching for love or seeking justice or if he came to me by chance. And I cannot tell you if Raymond was black or white, because I am only an oracle.
Oracles are blind too.
There are many like Raymond. Black and white. Angry. Militant. Every age, race, color, and creed. The Far Left. The Far Right. I do not know Raymond's position. Oracles are not political.
Raymond needed knowledge. Not wisdom—I lay no claim to that. Nor can I predict the future. Given certain facts, I can evaulate possibilities, even probabilities. But this is logic, not magic. Oracles can only advise.
Was Raymond insane?
I do not know. Insanity is a legal term.
Other men have tried to take over the world. History is a record of their efforts at certain times, in certain places.
Raymond was such a man. He wanted to overthrow the government of the United States by revolution.
He sought me out for advice and I gave it to him.
When he outlined his plan I did not call him insane. But the very scope of his program doomed it to failure. No one man can cope with the complex problem of controlling the federal government in a surprise move today.
I told him so.
Raymond then offered a counter-proposal. If not the federal government, how about a single state?
There was a man named Johnson, he said. Johnson was not a revolutionist and what he proposed was probably only parlor conversation, but it made sense.