Missing Reels (13 page)

“That dress is spectacular. Did Matthew leave you here?”

“He’s off with Paru somewhere. I was talking to someone named Yoshi, but he’s disappeared.”

“Oh, yes.” Donna was pouring herself some wine. “I saw him heading out the door.”

“Out the door?” She’d driven the man right out of the party? She
liked
Hayakawa, she’d said so.

“Yes. But you mustn’t think anything of it, he does that.”

“Does what, just—leaves?”

“Yes, exactly. It’s nothing personal.” Donna leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Harry decided one night to take Yoshi with us and some other Courant people to a movie. Ozu I think. I liked it all right but I couldn’t tell you the title, they’re all so similar. Late Spring, Early Fall, Mid-Winter, I get lost. Anyhow we’re walking to dinner from the Bleecker Street Cinema, and one minute I’m talking to Yoshi, and the next minute all I see is his back, taking off across the park.” She started laughing. “And of course, when I asked what on earth was that about, they all acted as though I was the strange one for commenting on it.”

“At least I know it wasn’t me,” sighed Ceinwen.

“No, dear. With mathematicians,
never
assume it’s you. Don’t worry about Yoshi, he’ll be back. He rejoined us on the other side of the park.”

Harry was in the kitchen, kibitzing over Radha’s turkey, Donna said. They’d been arranging to go to Paris, for all of February. Harry had no classes next semester and the École Normale Supérieure was having a conference, but they were really going to visit their son. Ceinwen blurted that she hadn’t realized they had one, then tried to cover by asking if he was a mathematician too.

“No, no, not at all. He lives in Paris, he thinks he’s a painter. Oy. But he may be about to settle down. He’s living with a woman from Senegal, and I suppose he’s serious since he wants us to meet this one.”

“Does she sound nice?”

“She sounds employed, so I’m all for her. Works at a gallery. Uh-oh.” Ceinwen turned and got a brief impression of hair walking past them into the other living room. “There’s Andrew Evans.”

“The Andy you told me about?”

“The very one. Ceinwen, I’m sorry to abandon you, but I’m going back to the kitchen to see if I can keep Harry there for a while longer. Trust me, we want those two separate as long as possible. Will you be all right?”

“Sure,” said Ceinwen, “I’ll introduce myself.” This should be good.

“Go ahead,” said Donna. “You might find him interesting.” Ceinwen spotted the hair by the bookshelf and maneuvered herself into introductory position.

And there he was, Professor Andrew Evans, purchaser of Harry’s movies, a man so strange he stood out amongst mathematicians. He was dressed soberly in chinos and a v-neck sweater over a shirt, and he wasn’t scratching or talking to himself, but this was clearly a weird dude. His hair was down to just above his shoulders, a wiry mix of brown and gray, and his hairline crawled patchily back on his skull. His ears were so big they stuck out through the frizz.

He also appeared to be slightly pop-eyed, but it was hard to tell. Because Andy was staring at her. From time to time a man his age stared at her in the store, but not quite like this. She realized he had moved to shake hands.

“Andrew Evans,” he said, in a weedy little voice. She hated thin, high voices in men.

“Ceinwen Reilly,” she said. His hand was cold and slightly damp. She had it.
The Gold Rush
.

“So, how do you know Paru?”

The Little Tramp, she recalled, was in the mountains, snowed in by a blizzard. And his starving companion kept staring and staring, until he began to hallucinate that the Tramp was a giant chicken.

“I’m a friend of Matthew Hill,” she told him. Any minute now Andy was going to grab a knife and fork and lunge for her throat. He was certainly looking in that vicinity. No, lower. She pulled the shoulder of her dress back into place.

“Matthew. Yes. I know him. He hasn’t been here long. How did you two meet?”

Another social occasion, another lie she hadn’t thought to prepare. “I work in the neighborhood and we met … around,” she said. “We got to talking about old movies and then he wanted me to meet Harry.”

“Talking about old movies. That’s something of a surprise. I thought he only cared about new releases.” His speaking manner was bizarre too, fast, pause, fast, pause, like a cabbie rushing to the next stoplight, then tapping the brakes.

“Maybe he was afraid to bring it up with you. Harry says you’re something of an expert on silent movies.”

“Afraid. Matthew.” Obviously her lying was as polished as ever. Andy repeated her words like she’d told him Matthew had been wearing a toga.

“You know how the English are,” she said. “Never want to reveal any kind of ignorance.”

“I can’t say that’s been my observation.” Pause. “On the contrary, I find the English are always pretending ignorance, in hopes of gaining some sort of tactical advantage.” All righty then. Not exactly president of the fan club. “But I think it’s fair to say the silent cinema is something of a passion of mine. Do you know anything about silents?”

“A bit.”

He wasn’t waiting for a response. “… Because you remind me of a silent star, a great one. Vilma Banky. Do you know her?” Becauseyouremindmeofasilentstaragreatone pause. VilmaBankydoyouknowher? pause.

“The name’s familiar.”

Her input was wholly unnecessary. “She was discovered by Samuel Goldwyn and made a number of high-quality productions in the 1920s. Her acting skills were not inconsiderable, but she was famed primarily as a beauty. She was promoted as the Hungarian Rhapsody.”

A no-talent sex symbol. Was this a good place to say thank you? Evidently not, Andy was still going, and while she was dithering she’d missed the tour of Banky’s filmography. “… with Valentino, and
The Winning of Barbara Worth
, directed by Henry King. When sound came in she had difficulties, however. The accent, and she also had a bad case of what they called mike fright. So she retired. Luckily she’d taken good care of her finances, and she was happily married to an actor named …”

And here was another thing about Andy. He was a major space invader. As he talked, he inched closer. “But, like a lot of silent stars, more than half her movies are lost.” She took a step back. “I hope you don’t think it’s too forward of me to mention the resemblance.”

“Not at all. I’ll have to look her up when I get home. But it’s probably just the dress.”

“That is a very unusual dress. Quite authentic.”

“It should be, it’s from the twenties.” Where was Matthew?

“So you have an affinity for the silent era.”

“You could say that.” Another step back.

“That’s wonderful, just wonderful in a person your age. Have you seen many movies from the period?”

“Sure,” she began. “I saw
The Crowd
at Theatre 80. With Matthew. He liked it too.”

“Theatre 80? Oh no, not there! You couldn’t possibly have appreciated it there. Rear projection, 16-millimeter, it’s horrendous. And the projection speed of course is all wrong.”

She’d hoped throwing Matthew back into the conversation might discourage Andy, but instead she had opened the taps. Projection speed, it seemed, was the key to proper enjoyment of silent movies. Andy knew all about projection speed. The silent cameras were operated with a hand-crank and the speeds varied, but projection often didn’t. Sometimes it was too fast, and they were screened at sound-movie speeds of 24 frames per second in clips on television, making everything look like the Keystone Kops. But at Theatre 80 the speeds were a hair too slow. If you showed a silent movie at 16 frames per second … Where the hell was Matthew? She couldn’t see him anywhere … 18 frames per second, but Theatre 80 was slower than that, and it killed the … something. Undercranking. Overcranking. Adjusting to the rhythm of music played on the set during filming. It was all probably very important, but that voice, and those eyes, and how could anyone who cared so much about projection speed not have any notion of the speed of his own sentences?

Suddenly Matthew was at her elbow, and Andy wasn’t noticing: “… and I tried to talk to the Theatre 80 management, but they really don’t care that much about silents, so …”

“Forgive me,” said Matthew, “but it seems we’re going in for dinner. How are you, Andy.”

“I’m well. Thank you.” Ceinwen imagined Andy watching
The Crowd
at 24 frames per second. He’d eye the screen the same way he was eyeing Matthew.

“We should go find a seat,” said Matthew. “You don’t mind if I just borrow her for the duration, do you? I’m sure she’ll be happy to go back later to, what was it?”

“Film-projection speeds,” she said.

“That’s right,” said Andy.

“Ah. Sorry I missed that.” Matthew made a little after-you gesture and she followed, relieved that Andy was still nursing his drink.

“Where have you been?” she whispered.

“Over by the door, talking to Paru and watching Andy back you up across the room.”

“My hero.”

“Do you realize you started there”—he stopped to indicate a spot at one end of the bookshelf—“and wound up there?” He pointed to a spot about eight feet away, near the window.

“He kept stepping toward me. Doesn’t he realize New Yorkers need their space?”

“New Yorkers need their space. You need Yankee Stadium.” He pushed her dress back onto her shoulder. “Have a heart. Andy probably dreams of cozy chats with young Mary Pickford. And there you were, in that dress, with that hair. The answer to his prayers.”

“Shows how much you know. He said I reminded him of Vilma Banky.” They were keeping their voices low as the others filed into the dining room behind them.

“Who?” He was pulling out her chair.

“Vilma Banky. Silent movies. A sex symbol. They called her the Hungarian Rhapsody.”

He let go of the chair and coughed for a second, then resumed pushing her in. “Smooth-talking devil, that Andy.”

Harry blasted into the room with greetings for both of them, and he and Donna settled directly across the table. Ceinwen spotted Yoshi sitting way down at the opposite end and reminded herself Donna had said it was nothing personal. She heard Matthew say, “Looking for something?” He was addressing Andy, who was hovering nearby.

“Just trying to find a seat.” Andy sounded almost plaintive.

“You’re in luck,” beamed Matthew. “One right here.” He pointed to the empty chair next to hers. Andy quickly leaned past Harry to plunk his glass down at the spot, like he was saving a seat at the theater. Harry’s eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. Donna took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

Ceinwen had come to realize that Matthew had an extremely overdeveloped sense of mischief.

Still, things seemed to go all right at first, everyone passing plates and commenting on the food and Donna exclaiming over the cleverness of Radha putting garam masala in the stuffing. They talked about Paris and what it was like in February and whether there were any good exhibits at the moment. That led to Parisian moviegoing, which led to the Cinémathèque Française, which led back to silent movies, at which point Matthew asked someone to pass the wine.

She told Harry that the bad part of his silent-movie books was reading about a movie that sounded great, only to find out it didn’t exist anymore.
Four Devils
, for instance, or
London After Midnight
.

“The studios never thought they had any value,” growled Harry. “That’s what happens when you let raw capitalism determine which art survives.”

“I don’t disagree with that,” said Andy. “But I do think it helps to put things in a broader perspective.”

“What kind of broader perspective do you have in mind?” Harry said this way too calmly.

“Lost movies appeal to our sense of doomed artistry,” said Andy. It was safer to have him sitting down, thought Ceinwen, though there was still an awful lot of leaning. “The movies in your head are always much better than the movies you sit down to see. We build up heroic concepts of certain directors. Then, when their work is lost, we imagine what we’re missing as even better than the movies we have. In that sense, we need lost movies. They fortify our Romantic ideal of cinema, that’s cap-
R
Romantic of course.”

She was stymied. How did you find a polite way to say, “That’s just about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard”?

“Postmodern
poppycock
,” exploded Harry, pounding the consonants so hard a tiny bit of spit flew in the air.

“It isn’t postmodernism, Harry. It’s—”

“Rubbish. Nonsense. Have you been sneaking over to the humanities building?” Any minute now, Harry’s finger would be launched at Andy’s chest. “I’m not F. W. Murnau, I’m not Tod Browning, I’m not interested in my own puny concept of what they’d have done. I want to see those movies. I don’t want to get my kicks imagining little scenes with Janet Gaynor.”

“You’re avoiding the question of—”

“And furthermore”—there went the finger, only it was pointing between Andy’s eyes—“I
do
know what happens when some slob tries to reimagine a great movie. I know because I get to sit through the last twenty minutes of
The Magnificent Ambersons
and see just how Robert Wise stacks up against Orson Welles.”

“
Magnificent Ambersons
,” said Andy, who’d been trying to break in, “is a completely different instance, but now that you mention it, Harry, it actually supports my case. That’s a movie where we have fragments of the director’s vision. When you can see part of a movie, your imagination naturally fills the gaps. Your interpretation of what it would have been like becomes your experience of seeing it.”

“Reader-response theory,” said Matthew. “You
have
been playing with the humanities boys, haven’t you.”

Harry’s eyebrows were about to meet his cheekbones. “You’ve been unfaithful to us, Andy,” he intoned.

“Sneaking off at lunch,” said Matthew.

“Discussing Barthes at secluded tables in dark little restaurants.”

“Meeting Stanley Fish at the Washington Square Hotel.”

Andy’s hair was vibrating. “It isn’t my fault you need a certain vocabulary when discussing the arts.”