The Diviners (32 page)
“Uh —”
“So this is a proposal that confronts thirst on a historical basis, but it’s also a proposal that actually slakes thirst. What you’ll notice, Mr. Maiser, is that as you begin to contemplate the proposal, you’ll see greater and greater conjunctions in your own life. Things will begin to line up. For example, I know that when I began thinking about thirst, and about how I needed to place this call to you directly, Mr. Maiser, as I began to see that you and you alone needed to receive this call, to have this electrifying opportunity to finance a miniseries that could change television history, that could change the distribution system, that could give independent cinema the place it rightly deserves in the history of cinematic storytelling, at the moment it couldn’t escape my notice, Mr. Maiser, that a certain young performer was really born to play Nurit, the daughter of a Jewish shopkeeper and the love interest in this story. What is thirst, Mr. Maiser, but another name for erotic need? Am I right, Mr. Maiser? When we have the itch, we need it scratched. Why else, Mr. Maiser, are we so thirsty ourselves, here in this land rich with water? Where does this thirst come from? Why else those advanced embraces? Why do they leave us so in need of a good swim and a cool drink? I know you know, Mr. Maiser, and I know that you know how a certain young performer could bring in the teenage audience that so badly needs to slake this particular kind of thirst. We want young, charismatic performers, we need them, the perfect curve of a breast, that ephemeral thing that only lasts for a few years, the rippling muscles of a young buck striding across a high-definition screen, and this is the story that can really deliver to the network a teenage audience because every generation has an attractive thirsty teenager who finds the truth with a forked stick, do you hear what I’m describing, Mr. Maiser?”
“Listen, I —”
“The hydrophobia passage in, what was that movie, with the,
To Kill a Mockingbird,
right? The dog is mad? Right, it’s a hydrophobia passage, serving as a metaphor for exile, the exile that the African American characters feel from white society. The hatred of water? The recoiling from water, such that water creates a kind of madness in the person or animal until they go wild, trying to spread an illness, after which they themselves die. Did you know that it has two phases, Mr. Maiser? Hydrophobia? The dumb phase and the furious phase, exactly coincident with the two kinds of political disenfranchisement? Well,
The Diviners,
Mr. Maiser, is a story that does the opposite. It works a metaphor of inclusion, a metaphor of, well, I guess you’d call it spiritual renewal, like night swimming, Mr. Maiser, a spiritual renewal that fully recognizes the importance of carnal appetite. We’ll be getting a prominent A-list writer to bring to the screen the thirteen two-hour episodes we’re proposing for this miniseries, Mr. Maiser, and we know, because we have admired your accomplishments at UBC, that you are the man for the story, the man who recognizes thirst as a historically urgent theme and who knows how to bring this story, with modern music, a sound-track spin-off, maybe some divining-rod merchandising opportunities at some of the fast-food chains, like maybe we could have a McDonald’s promotion that would feature divining rods with the hamburgers, Mr. Maiser, or a Krispy Kreme divining rod, a little plastic divining rod that has some knots carved into it so it looks like a bough from a birch tree or a maple or something. What do you think, Mr. Maiser? Do you realize what an opportunity this would be for your company, especially since it would bring you close to the world of independent cinema, which has the critics and pundits on its side? Don’t you and your friends want to get involved with a project that will lend you indie credibility
and
a mass audience? Can’t you see a poster for a project like this, Mr. Maiser? Isn’t a poster for a project like this materializing in your mind right now, a poster that can be run on the crowded subway lines of New York City and on city buses across the nation? Can’t you see tie-ins, movie spin-offs, novelizations? Can’t you see magazine profiles, the front covers of weekly newsmagazines, Mr. Maiser, can’t you see third-world feature films, can’t you see spinning off
The Diviners
into a thirteen-part cinematic extravaganza to show in all the relevant countries, like Hungary, or perhaps in countries like Bulgaria that can’t afford the rental fees for new Hollywood releases? What about an edited, feature-length edition of
The Diviners
? With voice-over commentary for the DVD release? What about a director’s cut with nine hours of additional footage? Don’t you think, Mr. Maiser, that this is an opportunity that your company can’t afford to miss? Can’t you imagine that if you turn down this opportunity some other network will instantly jump on it, such that your job with the president of the network will be jeopardized and your stock will plunge and you will go down in history as the man who refused to sign up
The Diviners
when he might have, Mr. Maiser? Don’t you just want to say yes now, Mr. Maiser? Don’t you want to say yes now to this historic television narrative?”
“Stop!” Maiser cries out. There is approximate silence, cellular phone static standing in for silence, a stunned, faintly sublime silence. “I’ve got stuff to do. Just send me the damned proposal, for godsakes. I’ll get back to you on Monday.”
After which, Vanessa again takes to her bed.
It’s Monday midday in Santa Monica, and Melody Howell Forvath, writer of novels of international intrigue, doesn’t give a goddamn what anyone thinks. She’s going ahead with the party. Melody Howell Forvath hasn’t given a good goddamn for many years, except about the state of her pool, the newest restaurant in her neighborhood, and the best beaches within driving distance. And this is because she has paid her dues with novels of international intrigue. She’s published twenty-seven, the first twelve she wrote herself, up until
Double Dutch
(1973), the one about the twin spies operating as prostitutes in an Amsterdam brothel. They broke open a heroin case, et cetera. Then, beginning with
Envoy of Desire
(1975), she hired a string of well-educated and presentable graduates of Smith and Wellesley to write the books according to her instructions. Here’s how she works. Melody goes to the magazine store and plucks from a well-thumbed
Travel & Leisure
a few promising locales. Then she sits down with whoever is the ghostwriter, and they hash out a thrilling story that features adultery, champagne, a hail of bullets, and a sexually independent woman. That’s her stipulation, that the novels have sexually independent women in them. She’s certainly not writing these books for men, who only care about how big the warheads are.
In truth, Melody Forvath’s job is the job of advance woman for a corporation called Melody Howell Forvath. After she goes over the proofs, her only genuine responsibility is to undertake the book tour, something she rather likes. She goes to the good hotels, the Ritz in Boston, the Carlyle Hotel of Manhattan. She greets bookstore owners and employees, the names of whom she carries with her in a leather book. After each event, on the plane, she writes postcards thanking every local benefactor.
From modest beginnings in Kansas City, Melody Forvath has become a writer any publisher would love to have on her list and a hostess of renown in the Los Angeles area. She has lots of friends, and there are still others who’d like to be her friends, and that’s why she’s the logical person to mount the gathering being thrown today on behalf of Iveshka Maevka, MD, whose practice has been a great comfort to her now that her profile is not the promotional tool that it might once have been. As you know, it’s tough for a woman of a certain age. Melody Forvath made the acquaintance of Iveshka Maevka, MD, through her daughter, Ellie, who works as a buyer for a stylish boutique in town. Iveshka Maevka is a swashbuckler who wears double-breasted suits and surgical gloves, and he is up-to-date on the latest techniques, and he is eager to live a life of opportunity here in his adopted land. Melody Forvath wants to make sure Dr. Maevka, in his new line of business, receives the social introductions he needs. To this end, she has written a few words on one of those pink sticky pads.
Dr. Maevka has followed the progress of this medication through the Food and Drug Administration. He argues forcefully that a substance that is basically a toxin can nonetheless be a boon to modern medicine, though he recognizes that this medication, or its raw material, is still going to cause the occasional health emergency, when foods are not protected properly or when canned goods are spoiled, things of that nature.
As Melody Forvath understands it, eye twitches, excessive perspiration, and spasticity were among the first applications for the medication. (And before you make fun of people with twitches, let’s just point out that Melody Forvath has known a friend or two with these kinds of problems, and they are no picnic.) From there the cosmetic uses became obvious. She’s eager to get this part of medical history into her next book, if possible. Maybe a detective who is also some kind of dermatologist. A glamorous dermatologist.
From the treatment of excessive perspiration, the medication soon became widely available as a treatment for some of the humbling signs of advancing years, namely the wrinkles that appear around the eyes or the forehead.
This is what Dr. Maevka has told her, during their one-on-one treatment sessions. Dr. Maevka has long been known as an expert in surgeries that tighten the face or hoist a sagging buttock, also in the removal of unwanted liver spots using laser beams. Melody Forvath has, in fact, suffered the attentions of his blade. But no longer. She doesn’t want her husband to have to see her with the bandages and wearing the hooded sweatshirts. Dr. Maevka is the first to admit that the medication in question is less invasive, and already there are many actresses, some as young as their late twenties, who are worried about lines on their forehead. They are all getting the treatments. It’s no big drama anymore, it’s just a step that a lot of women will be taking. Women are always ahead of men on these kinds of things. Later, men will get the bug, and the men will do it in secret, so that no golfing partner ever finds out.
The hors d’oeuvres are little dainty sandwiches for people who like to eat when they’re nervous, and then there will be iced tea, fruity and minty, with fresh leaves drifting lazily in pitchers from Steuben. Dr. Maevka is willing to prescribe tranquilizers for people who are hesitant, but he’s hoping that there’s not going to be a lot of drinking, because that just isn’t medically sound. When you have a lot of drinking at a party, then people get sloppy. He’d rather sell the reputation of the medicine among the sober and alert, because with anything that causes paralysis, there’s bound to be misunderstanding.
Wouldn’t you like to know the names on the guest list? She’s not so indiscreet as to give away information like that. People in this neighborhood depend on their anonymity. She will admit, however, that the wife of one of the major studio heads will be there, also the wives of several hot-shot entertainment lawyers and a few screenwriters.
Melody has these parties because it’s a nice way to give back to the community. In fact, she says this to one of the cater-waiters, an attractive young girl who is almost certainly an actress. She says, “I really like to have parties like this occasionally because it’s a good way to give back to the community.” She asks the cater-waiter to hold out her hand, and she notices that the nails of the cater-waiter are lacquered maroon, a shade Melody also favors, Bordeaux or maybe California Bing. The girl places a Tiffany platter of canapés on a nearby table and she takes from Melody the item that is being offered, which is a lilac-scented eye pillow. Just like the ones that will serve as party favors this afternoon.
Melody asks, “Do you think it’s too much?”
The gap-toothed cater-waiter, bless her heart, knows exactly what an eye pillow is for. She leans back and sets the eye pillow across the bridge of her pretty little nose and she takes pause. The sound of industry is so reassuring around a house, the mustering of hospitality, the caterers layering saucissons onto little sandwiches, the stirring of aromatics into the iced tea, the preparation of the smart little bags with the favors in them, including cleansing lotions admixed by Dr. Maevka himself, as well as the lilac-scented eye pillows, selected by the hostess. The cater-waiter lingers in the center of the room with the eye pillow across the bridge of her lightly freckled nose.
She says, “I can definitely feel a nap coming on.”
“Then you keep that one for yourself, sweetheart. For when the party’s over.”
The cater-waiter smiles and curtsies, both earnest and playful. But there’s no time for playacting because now there’s the chiming of the front door and the party is begun! Melody Howell Forvath would continue in a discursive vein on her thoughts about botulinum toxin and the history of cosmetic surgery in California, or partygoing in general, but she barely has time to complete a sentence because each close personal friend is now immediately followed by another. Here, for example, is Darlene, with whom she plays tennis, Darlene who always makes a questionable call or two but has perfect ground strokes; and here is Lois Maiser’s ex-sister-in-law, she comes on like a freight train, and before Melody even has time to ask her about her son the skateboard champion, she starts in with the doubts she’s having. “Doesn’t the toxin cause dystonia?” Melody pretends not to hear, sweeps out of the foyer, grabs the cater-waiter, points her in the direction of the office, “Look up something for me:
dystonia.
” In record time, the cater-waiter, who certainly does resemble the celebrated gap-toothed Wife of Bath, comes trotting out of the office, the planes of her cheeks faintly flushed. Fewer than half a dozen guests have slipped past her when the answer comes: “Involuntary contractions of the musculature.” She says it to Lois’s sister-in-law with the forgettable name. How horrible to forget the name of someone she knows so well. Then, abruptly, it comes back to her. “Actually, Janet, dystonia is what it’s used to
treat,
but you can ask these questions of Dr. Maevka, whom you’re really going to like, sweetie. He’s a dish.”