Inexpressible Island Read online

  50

  The Dungeon of the Haunted Warlord

  THE NEXT MORNING SHE WOKE UP EARLY, SPENT A LONG TIME in the bathroom, and informed him she wouldn’t be needing a ride to work because she was running off for a quick appointment with Zakiyyah who would drop her off at Warner’s afterward. “But you better show up at eight,” she said. “It’s beautiful out. We’re definitely shooting today.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it. What appointment?”

  “I don’t know, Jules,” Mia said. “I don’t ask questions. Z needs me to go with her, I go with her.”

  “Like a doctor’s appointment?”

  “You know what, we are going to respect other people’s privacy,” she said, “and not put them on the spot.”

  “Me asking you a question is putting Zakiyyah on the spot?”

  “Privacy, Jules. Boundaries.” She texted her friend. “Oops, gotta go, see ya.” She gave him a peck, ran out, got into Z’s Chevy Cruze, and off they sped.

  At nine she was back on set but, before Julian could say a word to her, was whisked into hair and makeup. Because she was late, they were scrambling to get her made up and dressed so they could shoot before noon. Julian paced outside her trailer. There was some commotion, back and forth, walkie-talkies, the costume designer in and out. They were looking for something for Mirabelle to wear that would pop in the scene, but they couldn’t find the right thing. Shoes, umbrellas, belts. “How about a beret?” Julian said to the stressed and out of ideas assistant director, castigating the befuddled costume girl.

  The AD perked up. “What color?”

  “Red. Red leather. Gucci. Vintage.”

  “That might work. I’d have to see it. Do you have it?”

  Julian called Ashton. In ten minutes, Ashton was on set, holding out the red beret to the AD. “It’s not for sale or for keeps, though,” Ashton said. “It’s a free rental to the production. Sign it in, but I need it back as soon as you’re done.” The AD and the costume girl carried off the beret on a tray in front of them like the head of John the Baptist. Ashton and Julian waited outside Mia’s trailer. Mia loved it, the director loved it. It was a go. It was the final touch they’d been looking for.

  Ashton was beaming, in an unusually good mood even for him.

  “It’s a beret, dude,” Julian said, rolling his eyes. “Calm down. It’s not a holy relic.”

  “It is literally a holy relic, you incorrigible misanthrope,” Ashton said. “It carries the physical remains of a holy site and a holy person. It was given to the man who saved my father from a burning house during a world war, given to him by someone else for whom it had been a sacred object. And then I gave it to you, and it saved your stupid stubborn cynical ass. It’s like you know nothing. Relics contain spiritual links between life and death, between the soul and the body. A relic is a sacrament. Every church must contain a relic on its altar. Way to go, Jules, way to respect the treasures of the faithful.”

  Shaking his head, Julian crossed his arms on his chest. He didn’t want to tell Ashton how unfathomably often he dreamed of that one-armed man and his vagabond throng on the war-torn streets of London.

  The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, watching six people primping Mirabelle’s hair under and around the beret.

  “I must say,” Ashton said, “I admire their attention to detail. Every fucking thing has to be right.” He knocked into Julian. “I gotta go. We’ve got somebody coming in fifteen for the Donkey Kong machine. And I sold another Jeannie bottle this morning. Can’t keep them in stock. Later. I’ll be back for your ten-second close-up—maybe even with Z.” He smiled wide. “When do you think, maybe five, six hours?”

  “Kill me now. How do they do it?”

  “How? Because it’s so much fun. Look how much fun it is.”

  And it was, it was fun.

  The worst day on a film set is still better than the best day anywhere else. Julian would be wise to remember that as he chafed outside Mirabelle’s crowded trailer.

  “Okay, ladies,” the AD called, “let’s hurry with that makeup, we gotta shoot sometime this century. Julian, come with me.”

  He took Julian over to the finally finished set. The director wanted him sitting in place until Mirabelle was ready. One less thing to worry about.

  The set was built as somebody’s idea of a modern London street, yet with something old in it. A somebody who’d never been to London, or seen London in a film, or maybe even a photograph. The windows in all the shops were tall, like in Century City, except for the quaint rustic coffee shop in the middle of the street, a coffee shop that was supposed to be uniquely British but which still sported L.A.’s skyscraper-height windows, though the production department had fitted it with a golden awning. Was that British? The street was built wide so that the fake red double-decker bus—all frame and no engine—could be rolled down it on a pulley. At the end of the set there was a hint of a fake park, a dress shop façade, and a florist. Shae the production assistant was lovingly arranging the flowers for maximum dazzle. The bus and the chunky black cab stood in the corner, waiting for their own close-up.

  There was something uncomfortably recognizable about the street. Julian’s sense of déjà vu was never stronger. He had no idea why. He was sure he’d never been on a street like this before. On the way to the bistro table, Julian assessed the familiarity. What was it? Did he catch a glimpse of something like it in one of his dreams? He would’ve remembered. The London of his dreams—messy, clanging, enormous, full of life, sometimes under punishing duress—was never this clean, this sunny, this empty.

  The director and the cameraman surveyed the scene, analyzed it through their lenses and remained unhappy with it. They said it didn’t look true. They obsessed about the red bus. Something was wrong with it. After twenty minutes of their hand-wringing, Julian had to step in.

  “This isn’t the story of the bus,” he said to them. “This is the story of the girl who gets hit by the bus.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Emphasis,” Julian said. “Priorities.”

  The director and the AD agreed with Julian in theory, but they still couldn’t let it go. Something didn’t feel right. They couldn’t figure it out. They had a bus, a cab, a green bag from Harrods, what was missing?

  What was missing? White granite townhouses, a river, twenty bridges, the dome of St. Paul’s, a Roman wall, chip shops, newsagents, roundabouts, bookies. And ten million people. “Rain,” Julian said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to find his patience. “When is the sidewalk ever dry in London? You’re not making a fantasy. You’re making horror. And horror has to be solidly grounded in reality. Rain is a must.”

  They extolled him for the suggestion. As if by magic, a water hose appeared. They asked Julian to step away while they sprayed down the metal table, the sidewalk, the road, the vehicles. They sprayed the awnings and the flowers. It looked much better, and Julian’s sense of déjà vu got stronger. He returned to his table and sat in his toweled-down chair, the metal legs scraping against the fake concrete.

  “Well done,” the director said to him, coming over to adjust the collar of his jacket. “Thanks for the consult.”

  “I’m curious,” Julian said, “why did you set the film in London, if you’ve never been?”

  The director, a young eager kid named John Pagaro, making his film debut, smiled. “It’s supposed to be a magnificent city, that’s why. I once read a Sam Johnson quote and have never forgotten it. When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, for there is in London all that life can afford.”

  Julian shrugged. He wished his nightmares weren’t so squarely set in London.

  “How’s Mirabelle feeling?” Pagaro asked.

  Julian was instantly on edge. “Why? How should she be feeling?”

  “Well, she fainted yesterday. You didn’t know?”

  Julian stood up. Unsteadily he sat back down.

  “I’m sorry,” Pagaro said. “I shoul
dn’t have said anything.”

  “Did she faint,” Julian said, “or did she faint and fall?”

  Pagaro admitted she fainted and fell. “She was sitting, so she didn’t have far to go, but she did hit her head a little. But just a little,” he added hurriedly, off the expression on Julian’s face. “She didn’t bleed or anything.”

  Julian’s hands shook. He looked down into the full cup of coffee.

  “How was she this morning?” the director asked.

  “Okay, I guess.” Julian wouldn’t look up.

  “Well, she’s back at work, and looking spry, so everything must be fine. Don’t worry. I’m sure it was nothing. She’s going to be great in this.”

  “Yes,” Julian said. “She’s great in everything.”

  “We’re very excited to have her on board. And you’re doing great, too, by the way, sitting there.”

  “The job I was born to do.”

  “I like your costume.”

  Julian was wearing jeans, a white shirt, black shoes. And a jacket, to show that it was a cool rainy day, not sunny and 90. “Thanks.” He’d picked out the ensemble from his own closet this morning.

  Pagaro stood up. “Hang tight. We should start soon.” Crossing his fingers and then himself, he rushed away.

  Julian texted Mirabelle. Hey. What he didn’t write was, I knew you had a secret. I could taste it on your lips.

  She didn’t reply. It was nearing noon. Julian watched Pagaro on the sidelines, with his full crew, tearing his hair out. This was the first scene in his movie, and they were already running four days behind schedule. It didn’t bode well for the future. But then what did.

  At the far end of the street, Mirabelle appeared. She was ushered into place.

  Her gaze searched for Julian, and when she caught his eye, she smiled.

  And finally—ACTION!

  He sits in a chair at a metal bistro table on a wide sunny street. The noon sun is blazing. He sits and he waits.

  A cup of coffee stands on the table. The cup is full and cold. He hasn’t touched it. He never does.

  There she is, gliding toward him. Her dress shimmers. In her swinging hands is a pink umbrella. The red beret is on her head, tilted to the side.

  She waves to him when she sees him, her fingers splayed, a jazz hand. She floats forward, joyous and smiling, as if she’s got news she can’t wait to tell him.

  He smiles back.

  He can hear her heels click on the pavement—

  “CUT!” Pagaro yelled. “Good, but let’s try that again, Mirabelle, this time without the jazz hand. Just the smile will do. Places, everyone! From the top. Take two. ACTION!”

  The set was so hyper-real, it felt realer than life. Everything in it was as it should be, every bronze standpipe gleaming, every prop in place, the flowers misted and the tall windows wet, reflecting the red double-decker bus and black cab.

  After five more takes, they were done with that camera angle, and a glowing Mirabelle walked up to Julian and sat at his table.

  “How was I?” She was flushed and in heavy makeup. Her expertly tousled chocolate hair was held into place by a pint of hairspray.

  “You’re a very good walker,” Julian said. “But, Mia, why didn’t you tell me you fainted and fell yesterday?” Intensely he stared into her eyes.

  Looking sheepish, she was about to answer when the director interrupted.

  “Okay, girls and boys,” Pagaro shouted, “we’re resetting, and then we go again from a different angle. Mirabelle, Julian, stay put, we’ll be ready to go in a jiff. Shae!” he barked to the nearby production assistant, “don’t just stand there, get them some water, will you?”

  “Jiff is film-speak for five hours,” Mirabelle said, with a conciliatory smile.

  “Aren’t you an optimist,” Julian said, not smiling.

  Chewing her lip, she considered him a moment, then got up from her chair and went to him. Standing behind him, she gathered his curly hair away from his face into a small tight ponytail and secured it with a rubber band, leaving a bit of hair out at the nape of his neck. She kissed the back of his head, murmuring some endearment, but her hands on his shoulders were trembling. She sat in his lap, draping both arms around his neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, Jules. Yesterday you were so jumpy. I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “You fell and hit your head. That’s cause to worry, no?”

  “It was an accident. I hit my ankle, put my head down for a second, next thing you know, bam.”

  “Bam.” If she told him she needed brain surgery, he would not have been surprised. If she was knocked down by the double-decker in the next scene, he would not be surprised. He patted her hip. She pressed her face against his head.

  “Mirabelle, please!” the AD yelled. “Stop that! Don’t kiss him! We have no time to reapply your lipstick or wipe it off him. And now your beret is all askew! Ugh. Just take your seat—please. I’ll send Gladys to fix you in a sec.”

  She returned to her chair but was agitated. Her face was flushed; her eyes blinked rapidly; her hands were fidgety.

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Great!” she said too loudly. “Amazing.”

  “Amazing,” Julian repeated. Was she overcompensating?

  “But, listen . . . I do want to tell you something.”

  He hid his clenched hands under the table and gave her his best poker face. All the broody silence from him in the past. It was like he’d been training his whole life for this moment.

  “Jules, please, don’t look like that.”

  “Like what,” he said in a leaden voice.

  “Like a brick fell on my head. I’m fine.”

  “Okay, you’re fine.”

  “Can you calm down, I beg you.”

  “I’m calm,” he said.

  “I’ll admit, Pagaro was a little worried,” Mia said. “His star—that would be me—hitting her head and all. He asked me to go see their doctor this morning, get checked out, just in case. That’s where Z and I went.”

  Julian’s features were frozen like they’d been dipped in stone.

  “I would’ve had you drive me, Jules, but I didn’t want you to panic. I only went to appease them, for their insurance, you know how they get. Don’t be upset with me.”

  “I’m not upset with you, Mia. What did the doctor say?”

  “He poked and prodded. Took some blood, shined a light in my eyes, asked me if I had breakfast, you know, life and death questions.”

  “What did the doctor say?” Julian repeated slowly.

  “Nothing.” Mia took a breath. “But, Jules, guess what he told me.”

  “I thought you just said nothing.”

  “I mean he said nothing about my fainting.”

  “Don’t make me guess. Just tell me.” Trying not to look away from her face, Julian clamped his hands together.

  “He said, congratulations, Miss McKenzie, you’re going to have a baby!”

  The sound left Julian’s head.

  “Jules, can you hear me?”

  I can hear you.

  “I know, right? Can you believe it?” She inhaled, then let out a thrilled laugh. “I can’t even. My mom’s gonna have a heart attack. Julian, you’re white—are you shocked? But shocked like amazed, right?”

  Did he nod? Or did he just sit there? He swayed.

  “I’m feeling so many things at once, I don’t know what to feel first. I hope we can finish shooting this thing before I become blimp-like, though the way this is going, the Haunted Warlord is going to be dragging a huge-bellied, knocked-up matron to this dungeon, because maiden certainly won’t be the right word for me . . . my mother’s gonna die. As soon as I have my lunch break, I have to call her. You want to call her with me?”

  Did he nod? Or did he just sit there?

  “I know your mom has like seventy grandchildren, but mine only has me and she’s waited her whole life for her baby to have a baby. It took her
so many years to have me, trying and trying again, and you and I have been married five minutes, and we didn’t even have to try!” She emitted an elated cry, and then lowered and thickened her deathless voice. “It’s because I’m drowning in your love, Jules.” She blushed. “Oh my God, how do you feel, you’re not saying anything.”

  Julian opened his mouth to say something. She didn’t let him get a word in.

  “I know it’s a lot to process. Look at you, seven weeks ago a carefree bachelor—and today! No wonder I kept falling all over myself yesterday, tripping and slipping and sliding. Literally the gravity in my body was shifting, and I didn’t know it.” She chortled. “I told you 49 was my lucky number, and you didn’t believe me.”

  Julian opened his mouth to say something.

  “My body was telling me my life was about to change. Oh my God, I’m going to be a mother,” Mirabelle said and burst into tears.

  She wiped her face. The foundation came off on her hands. Her cheeks were streaked. “They’re going to be so mad; I was three hours in makeup today. Oh, whatever, I can’t help it, I’m completely overwhelmed.” She laughed. “One second crying, the next laughing. Now I know why we couldn’t get around to buying any furniture. It’s like the universe knew we were going to be needing different kinds of furniture. We’ll convert one of your offices into a nursery? You don’t need two offices and a work-out room, do you, Jules? One of those rooms can be for the baby? Or we can keep it in the bedroom with us at first, my mom did that with me. Oh—but I’m warning you, she’s going to want to move in. She’ll need her own room. Maybe she’ll marry Devi, and they’ll both move in.” She laughed again. “A wife, a baby, a mother-in-law and a step-grandpa. You’re pretty shocked, aren’t you?”

  He tried to nod.

  “I know—it shocked the hell out of me. I said to the doc, it can’t be, it can’t, it can’t be conception, I’m using twelve kinds of contraception, I’m being responsible, in control, dependable, I told him I’m like the Fort Knox of anti-baby protection. And do you know what he said? There’s no protection against a miracle. If it can, the good doctor said, life always finds a way. For our baby’s sake, I hope the dude has a degree in medicine as well as philosophy. Oh, no, Jules, I just realized—you and I have never even talked about whether you wanted kids. We’ve had absolutely no time! Too late now, I suppose, to have that conversation, and it does seem kind of soon, but—you do want children, don’t you?”