The Last Story (13 page)

"Hollywood is all about ego," Henry said. "But I agree with Roger, I think you can play the role. The camera is not as frightening as you think. It just takes pictures."

"That millions of people see," I said.

"We hope millions will see this movie," Henry reminded me.

"Shari," Roger said, taking my hand. "Your fear of the camera will vanish quickly. In this scene the camera is hardly ever focused on Mary. She's just reacting with the others. She has two lines. Think about it—we can shoot all day if you can say those two lines."

I considered. "Will I have to wear a bikini?"

"You'll look funny if you're the only one dressed like an executive producer," Henry said in his most helpful manner.

I grumbled, yet inside my heart was racing. Me, in the movies? What a thought. Besides being absolutely terrifying, it was also terribly exciting. If I was good, I thought, maybe I'd get work in other films. Films other than my own.

Anything was possible, especially for a cosmic Wanderer like myself. I burst out laughing.

"All right, I'll do it," I said.

Roger patted me on the shoulder. "Good."

"This better not be a setup to embarrass me," I told him, pinching his darling face.

Roger grinned. "I know better ways to do that."

"I bet you do," I said, catching his eye.

"Who gets to fire Lucille?" Henry asked.

I glanced at the weeping girl. "I think she's ready to quit."

An hour later we were ready to shoot again.

Lucille hadn't been happy about leaving, but she was reasonable enough to see that we had no choice. Of course, we had her safely off the set before we announced I was taking her part. Bob was the only one to burst out laughing. I felt like throwing something at him.

"This is turning into a B movie," he said. "Who told you you can act? Your money?"

"Why don't you at least let me make a fool of myself before ridiculing me," I said.

Bob nodded. "But then I have your permission to ridicule you?"

Roger came up and stood at my side. "You don't have my permission," he said.

Bob gave him a dark look. "You know, I could sue you for punching me out."

Roger held his eye. "You could, but then you'd

have to suffer the consequences. And I don't mean in court."

"All right," I said, stepping between them. "This is all make-believe. We don't need hard reality here.

Andy, are you ready to roll? Good. Lights. Camera.

Action. Let's do it."

So I made my acting debut and I was damn good—in one out of nine of the takes we shot. But, hey, it only takes one great slice of celluloid taped together with sixty other great slices—to win an Oscar. And it wasn't as if I was bad in the other eight takes. In four of them someone else caused Andy to yell, "Cut!" We each took turns screwing up, except for Roger, who was the consummate pro.

Andy said he would have the camera on Roger more than on anyone else. It wasn't until later, when I saw the dailies, that I realized how much the camera loved Roger. His strong jaw line, his dark eyes—his face seemed to leap off the screen. A star is born, and it was happening before our eyes.

I didn't look bad either. I enjoyed acting. It was like being a kid and playing let's pretend.

I knew how to pretend to be Mary because I had created Mary. She was me—she was a part of me. And I suppose that made me her God. Yeah, stepping in front of the camera went straight to my head. Yet, even though the experience gave me a huge rush, it didn't bring the deeper contentment that writing did. Acting was emotional for me, but constructing a story out of nothing—more spiritual.

I thought of the yogi as we watched the dailies,

and wondered how Peter and Jimmy were doing with the kriya and meditation. My headache had receded, somewhat, as the afternoon went on, but it never really left me. Once again, I wished the yogi was staying in Los Angeles a few days longer. Even though I wasn't taking his course, I planned to try to see him that evening. But Roger headed me off as I was leaving and asked what I was doing that evening. We were alone in the parking lot. The sun was still up but close to the horizon. The orange light on his face played up his strong features.

When I explained where I was going, he didn't laugh as I thought he would.

"I know I must have sounded like a smart-ass at his lecture," he said. "And the way he pushed my buttons at the end did embarrass me. I admit it. I also admit that in his own way, he is a brilliant speaker. He has something special—there's no denying it."

"I think so," I said, pleased that he was being open about the subject.

"But," he said, "let me explain where I was coming from, and see if some of what I say doesn't make sense. I've had to fight for everything I've ever gotten in life. No one's ever given me a thing.

In a way, I think that's good. It's made me a strong person. When I raised my concern about giving up my personal power, I meant it. I think our world is a jungle and we have to struggle for what we can get. I'm sorry if that doesn't sound as idealistic as the blissful creation the yogi talked about, but I

think it's reality. When I challenged him on that point and he maneuvered around it, it made me mad. I think you can understand why."

"I don't think he maneuvered around it," I said diplomatically. "I just think his point of view is different from yours. It doesn't mean that you're wrong and he's right."

Roger took a breath. "All right, let me put it another way. He's a monk. He says he's just here to help people and I believe him. That's fine as far as it goes. Maybe he isn't interested in money, I don't know. But because he is a monk, he lives in a different world from the rest of us.

He doesn't have to go to work every day and scrape to make a living.

Do you see what I'm saying?"

I wondered what had happened to Roger's affluent background.

"Sort of," I said.

"Let me be specific. The people around him obviously look up to him as a Master.

Although he doesn't come right out and say he is one, he never denies it. As he travels around the world, he collects followers. God knows half the people at the lecture last night signed up for his course. I even saw that sitting outside. Now as time goes by, these people will idolize him more and more. They hang on to his every word already. But what happens when he gives the wrong advice? I'm not saying he's going to tell them to drink poisoned Kool-Aid or anything like that.

Comparing him to Jim Jones or David Koresh was unfair on my part. But I'm saying he's a human being like you and me. He's not perfect."

"I suppose he could make a mistake," I muttered.

"Exactly. The trouble is the people around him think he's perfect. That's my main complaint. They stop looking to themselves for guidance and put their trust totally in him. I don't like that. I think it's dangerous."

"But he did say that a true Master will always teach a person to think for herself or himself. I don't think he wants to interfere with our personal lives in any way. I don't think it's his style."

"You're missing the point. He says one thing, which he may sincerely believe, I don't know—but something quite different is happening around him. Look at your friend Peter. If that yogi told him to jump off a cliff, he'd do it."

"But Peter can't jump," I said softly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. But Peter's known this guy—what? Three days? And already he stares at him like he's Jesus returned to Earth.

That kind of adulation disturbs me. You're smart, Shari. In your books you write about how people behave, how they fool themselves. Surely you can see that Peter's fooling himself?"

I hesitated. "Much of what you say is reasonable.

I think blind faith can be dangerous. I'm suspicious of cults and always have been. But I know from my own experience that the yogi made me feel better.

Not just mentally or emotionally, but physically as well. I had a terrible headache when I went to see him and he took it away."

Roger flashed a nasty smile. "Well, I know how to get rid of headaches, too."

I giggled. "You do? How?"

He touched my shoulder. "A long back massage with warm oil to start."

I blushed. "I don't know. That sounds dangerous.

You might do that and I might jump when you say jump."

He continued to stroke me. His dark eyes so big, so friendly. "A full body massage is especially effective at removing stress. You feel so relaxed afterward, you feel you can do anything. What do you say?"

I blinked. "To what?"

"Dinner."

I shook my head. "I don't know. I'm pretty tired.

I should take it easy tonight."

"But you weren't going to take it easy. You were going to go see the yogi. Remember?"

"Yeah. I guess you're right."

He moved closer, spoke softly in my ear. "Why don't you see me instead? I won't tell Peter."

I leaned against him. "I don't know. I feel funny about it."

He stroked my hair. "Fun is good. It's good fun."

"But I did want to see the yogi. He's only here for a short time."

He lightly kissed my ear. "What will you do with the yogi? He'll say wise things and you'll nod your head and go home and feel a little more spiritual.

With me you won't even have to speak. You can just lie there and feel wonderful."

I giggled again. "You make it sound tempting."

He lightly kissed my cheek. "That's what I'm here for—to tempt you."

I nodded. "I believe it."

He kissed me then, on the lips, in the middle of the parking lot, with no one around. The setting sun lit his hair on fire. He kissed me long and deep—and deep was the operative word.

Because I felt as if I were falling as I sank into his arms. Down a long dark tunnel, at the end of which a white light shone, or a purple light smoldered. Which it was, a path of light or one of darkness, I didn't know. And suddenly I didn't care.

I only knew that, once again, I was going to miss seeing the yogi.

CHAPTER

XII

H^/VER THE PAST THREE YEARS, because I have been so busy, Peter and I have often communicated via our telephone answering machine. At dinner with Roger, drinking wine and eating steak, I excused myself to check on my messages. I knew Peter would leave me his evening schedule, and I wanted to plan my time with Roger around that schedule.

To my surprise, Peter had left me a message saying he was going to a program with the yogi, and that he wouldn't be home until eleven o'clock. It was almost as if he were giving me permission to cheat on him.

And that was the question of the hour, wasn't it?

Was I going to betray my dear friend? Was I going to let Roger seduce me, as he clearly intended? For all my internal dialogue concerning my situation, I had not decided where I wanted my relationship with Roger to lead. God knows I was feeling horny.

I hadn't had sex since I'd been in my last body.

True, Jean had had a few good times in this body,

but those memories only whetted my appetite for more. A million fantasies of being alone with Roger ran through my head. What would it be like to have him give me a full-body massage? It was better not even to think about it, not while standing up. But what would it be like to sleep beside Peter after I'd had sex with another guy? Somehow, I didn't think I could bear that.

/ will never find another Peter.

Yet when Roger asked me where I wanted to go as we left the restaurant, I said, My place.

It was eight-thirty.

Honestly, I thought it was safer to go to the apartment than his room. If we went to the Beverly Hills Hotel, we would just end up in bed. I thought at home I wouldn't let things get out of hand.

Yet when we got there Roger asked me if I wanted a massage.

I said yes.

It was nine o'clock.

Honestly, I didn't know he would actually take off my clothes. He just pulled up my shirt to start, and then he got some baby oil, so I had to take off my shirt because I didn't want to get oil on it. His hands felt so good, moving up and down and around and around, pressing all the sore and sensitive spots. I don't remember exactly when I took off my pants, but I do remember when he started kissing me again, and how it felt like the most delicious act imaginable in all of creation. His lips, his tongue, his hands—they were what I needed. If this was sin, then maybe I belonged in

hell. I felt so good. Soon the oil was over both of us.

The hot sweaty oil.

Suddenly I didn't know what time it was.

Until I heard someone standing behind us.

I sat up with a start.

Actually, I almost leaped out of my skin.

Jacob was standing in the doorway of my bedroom in his swimming trunks, dazed and confused, his white cane in his pitching hand. In an instant I understood what had happened.

Peter had dropped Jacob back at the apartment so that the young man could relax and use the pool and sauna. Jacob had said something earlier about wanting to try them out. I had not forgotten that Jacob was staying with us, but had just never thought Peter would leave the blind boy home alone. Yet Jacob was seventeen; he was used to being out on the streets. Once Peter had shown him how to get from the pool back to the apartment, Jacob was more than capable of taking care of himself. Indeed, the possibility should have crossed my mind when I reentered the apartment.

The door had been unlocked, and Peter never left without throwing the dead bolt.

In either case I had been caught with my pants down and I felt as terrible as a human being could feel and still be breathing. Before Jacob appeared, I realized how loud we had both been groaning, me in particular. Yet we hadn't had sex yet, although we were as close as two people could get. Jacob turned away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to intrude. I didn't know you were home—Shari, Peter."

Hastily I put a finger to my lip, signaling Roger not to speak. Grabbing a robe from beside the bed, I threw it on and chased after Jacob. I found him sitting on the couch, trembling, on the verge of tears. Obviously, even if he had the participants confused, he knew what we had been in the middle of, so there would be no point in trying to deny it.