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Another short story in the Quirky Short Story section of the billybodmanauthor.com Blog.

You  Ain’t  Heard  Nothin’ Yet.

Self-delusion, Louise reflected heavily, is such a contagious commodity that it should not really have come as a surprise that she became infected like everybody else around her. She had always viewed herself as a sensible, honest individual, and yet she had lied to herself with such veracity it had taken some time for the sense of guilt to wear off. Yet when the scales fall from the eyes and the resounding crack of realism shatters those fabled, rose-coloured glasses, it is remarkable how swiftly good old-fashioned common sense reasserts itself.

When she had cried herself out, and not all the tears had been attributed to self-pity – this damned place certainly brought out a veritable welter of ‘self’ adjuncts – she forced herself to take a giant step backwards away from her present situation and to calmly and methodically take stock of her situation. That, after all, was her forte, her talent; to see the Big Picture. She found to her horror that she, or that alien, brainless creature she had become, had been teetering on the edge of professional extinction trundling along with all the other lemming-minded individuals. And all self-inflicted – there we are again, Ego-Ville – out of some utterly misguided conception of being in love.

She had tried to look at herself through another’s eyes, through his eyes to be precise, as critical an examination as any she had conducted in her professional capacity and saw less to be pitiful about than she had anticipated.

She was no Pearl White of course, but her bathroom mirror told her she wasn’t altogether plain either. She had been exploited, yes that was true, but around here that was par-for-the-course behaviour, and he had been particularly ardent in his overtures. A pair of baby-blue eyes batting helplessly at her from a Douglas Fairbanks style of a face at an especially vulnerable time in her life, and all caution was thrown to the winds. But how she had come to convince herself of being hopelessly in love was not a subject she wished to pursue this side of a psychoanalyst’s couch. It had been schoolgirl crush wedded to motherly concern and, well, her bed had been a lonely little island and he did so like to act the urbane seducer. It was the cruel lies that had finally crushed her.

Life often seems to just run along, seamlessly flowing from one set of circumstances into another, but every now and then episodes do end and bridges are burned and fresh starts do beckon. That is where she was now, at a junction in, if not a life a career.

You could not really have a set goal in this business; there was far too much constant change and innovation for that, unless you were one of the genius visionary sorts that gravitated to this patch of California, currently addressed as Hollywoodland, although that was clearly just a transient domain, but she had more or less stuck to the path that attracted her and was reasonably happy that she was near enough at the centre of the action.

By a circuitous but rigidly controlled route, Louise Browne – she had tacked on the E to her surname – had found her way to the studios of Radio Keith Orpheum, RKO, as a film editor with a very desirable CV. Although a female in a predominantly male industry, notwithstanding that one of the very few women directors in the industry, the extremely charismatic Dorothy Arzner resided there, Louise had been allocated to one of the host of reasonably successful, in-house film directors, Arnold Peadie, who balanced his directorial duties between a series of standard cowboy flickers and South Sea Island adventures, but had it not been for the editing skills she employed combined with the strict cost-paring she applied in order to meet the budgetary constraints imposed by the Studio, her boss and subsequent lover would have been hauled up before Executive Producer, William LeBaron and a harsh review of his contract. You treated the great God, Profit, lightly at your peril.

As it was, his reputation had risen as the B-movie offerings became ever slicker and more vibrant and the prospect of being handed projects offering a much higher profile. He had in no way altered his modus operandi, but it was her astuteness that made his efforts look so much more appetising as well as economic.

He had known instantly what a gem he had in her, and lathered her with all the attention and charm at his disposal. OK, so she had not been fooled, at least not gulled, but in playing the game she made sure that she received her share of the credit; she had learned how to ‘schmooze’ with the best of them.

As much as she loved the intricate process of editing, (Arnold’s cinematic offerings were all so much alike in plot and background that nothing artful was necessary after the first few sightings) her real aim was to get behind the camera and film. What was more, she had arrived in Hollywoodland utterly convinced of the direction that the world of cinema must follow. In her book, Silent-movies were finished. The future was in ‘Talkies’ and the sooner the entire Industry was converted the better as far as she was concerned.

And that was where the trouble lay.

Not only was Arnold utterly intractable as far as talking pictures was concerned – a passing fad he’d said dismissively, even though four years had passed since Warner Brothers, in 1927, had startled the world with Al Jolson speaking to the audience in ‘The Jazz Singer’, and a year or so since Greta Garbo’s first venture into the genre in her first talkie ‘Anna Christie’ – but so was their boss William LeBaron. When, at her interview, he had aired his famous motto ‘a picture paints a thousand words’, that is precisely what he meant; no words, and he steadfastly maintained that stance ever since. Not even the runaway success of their musical ‘Rio Rita’, and the plaudits engendered after ‘Cimarron’ had won best-picture Oscar could sway him. He did nothing to build on the successes and simply went back to his old ways, and only offered up token gestures as a sop to the management.

‘Chaplin hasn’t fallen for it,’ he had time and again pointed out, ‘And neither has Buster Keaton. You mark my words, as soon as the paying public get fed up with the novelty, it will be back to the good old favourites. They prefer to be shown not told.’

He then proceeded to reinforce his views by snapping up as many of the Silent movie stars, who were being cast off by their particular studios because of their unsuitability to satisfy the needs of this new medium, at what he and Arnold considered to be bargain basement prices. She herself had been instructed to consult her wide range of contacts for someone to take the female lead in a reasonably successful stage play that Arnold had been asked to film as his debut ‘talkie’, someone with such star quality that the dividends when he reverted to the status quo would elevate him to a new level.

‘It’s like the blind leading the blind,’ he had enunciated gleefully as yet one more studio took their previous money-spinning stars out of contract.

She had been totally dumbstruck and utterly dismayed. Yet she persisted, because the way forward was obvious, and she had begun to believe that bit-by-bit she was winning the argument. Her naivety had been pitiful as she took her lover’s earnest promises to advance her pleas at face value.

‘You are such a silly goose,’ had been a particularly irritating brush-off that still irked. Well, she told herself vengefully, this goose was about to concoct an extremely tart sauce for that particular gander.

Gossip and title-tattle were the fuels that drove the engine of this close-knit village, and Louise had quickly deduced that it paid dividends to cast moral judgements aside and join in the fun of listening-in to privately whispered asides and to eavesdrop at doorways or on discretely made phone calls. The art of it did not come naturally to her, but she saw the necessity for playing the game as a means of ‘belonging’, but her natural proclivity to disseminate information ensured that, every now and again, a gem would be un-earthed amongst the idly-speculative froth.

Her recent stroke of unbelievably good fortune resided in a neat and fortuitous combination of all these elements.

She had found herself one night, while Arnold was away on location with his ‘Liana, Queen of the Islands’ offering, at a ‘gathering’ and in a group of like-minded auteurs when they were joined by David O Selznik, tagged by the Newshounds as ‘the boy-genius’ of cinema. The interaction had resulted in one of the most stimulating evenings she could remember and, while being careful not to denigrate her bosses too pointedly, had contributed more than her share of opinions.

To her amazement, towards the end of the evening, she had been handed a card bearing the Selznik Productions logo and asked if she would care to meet with the genius himself for coffee a few days later. She had known intuitively that one of the more speculative snippets of rumour that she had thought worthy of storing away had far more substance than was generally accepted. David O Selznik, it was whispered, had been approached to take over the responsibilities of Executive Producer for RKO Studios with a remit to reorganise the whole filming structure in his own image.

‘Carte Blanche’ too, they murmured, ‘Carte Blanche’.

Her head had spun with the possible implications of the move, being well aware of reports on his ruthless and arrogant style of management.

Then came the bruising hammer blow that, while crippling in the first bolt of pain, eventually cleared her mind and brought her to her senses.

Her first vow, after reviewing all her options was to test the truthfulness of the old adage ‘revenge is a dish best served cold’.

Arnold had been anxious to view the latest batch of editing on the ‘Liana’ film and so, keen to sound him out about the strength of the rumours, decided to deliver the package in person with the idea of a relaxing weekend of romance to bolster her decision.

She had gone immediately to see William LeBaron’s secretary to confirm her movements and arrange the flight details as a matter of propriety. Louise had located her in her office in the company of Mildred, the head of the typing pool finalising her end of day report. While imparting the information, she happened to catch a snatched glance between the two women that spoke volumes about shared secrets.

She made her farewells, walked away and crossed the empty typing-pool room. New habits are as equally difficult to cast off as long-standing ones and so, when she reached the exit, performed the old trick of slamming the door shut and slyly staying on the inside. Quickly skirting the room, she leaned against a filing cabinet and casually listened to the resultant exchange, hoping it would be about the David O Selznik chatter. She had never been so shocked as the following words burned into her brain.

‘I wonder if I should have warned her?’

‘No, let her find out for herself. It’s laughable; she thinks no-one knows about her and Peadie’s little assignations. He gives Mr LeBaron a regular blow-by-blow account, although not so regular lately as you might guess.’

‘Who is this new one? His latest leading lady? Reena La Rey is it? Jesus, she’s probably Gertrude Kowalski from Nantucket. Peadie’s got more notches on his gun than Hoot Gibson. It might suit his book to let her catch them in close company if you get my meaning. She might take umbrage and resign, save him and Mr LeBaron the trouble. I heard him telling Peadie the other day that she’s way out of line over this talking picture business. Whatever happens, she’s not got long in this job.’

How she had crept out so noiselessly was a mystery to her, but she did have the presence of mind to send the off edits by an assistant.

By the time she presented herself for the meeting at Selznik Productions, the old, dedicated and career-committed Louise had asserted herself and, after David O Selznik had confided to her that he had definitely accepted the new position at RKO, had offered her the job of Editor in Chief with the freedom to innovate at her discretion.

The written offer was in her bag ready for the day.

As she stood now staring at her ex-lover pacing the carpet nervously, she could not help but marvel at the way the cards had fallen her way so fortuitously. Her timing too had been immaculate. By this time tomorrow the whole cinematic world would be in possession of the insider knowledge to which had been privy, and so far not a word of the arrangement had slipped out.

It had just given her sufficient leeway to make her plans.

One of those little snippets that Louise had ferreted away as having more than a kernel of truth to it had been the curious demise of silent screen idol, John Gilbert, although the rumours had been swiftly stamped on as though they were State secrets.

He was in her opinion far handsomer than Valentino, and judging by the public response more popular. His films, not to mention his relationship with Greta Garbo, made headline news the world over, so she was as shocked as anyone when the sound tests he made for MGM were pronounced inadequate. When the single, one-take recording was replayed to the entire Executive, the voice they heard was so high-pitched as to be almost effeminate and that one hearing finished his career completely. Yet she had heard him in conversation on a couple of occasions and had found him to have a reasonably baritone timbre. Why no-one thought to query the discrepancy was a mystery to her, but the tit-bit she had squirreled away about the recording being tampered with suggested to her that he had done something unforgivable to the studio hierarchy. On the other side of the coin, she would have bet Dorothy Arzner’s pin-striped suit and cravat that Greta Garbo, with that mangled accent of hers, would have be been rejected instantly by the avid film-goers.

What a triumph then for MGM’s publicity machine when they persuaded the public that they were witnessing something extraordinary with their ‘Garbo Speaks’ mass advertising campaign. It had been that remarkable tale that formed the basis of her inspirational scheme.

‘She’s a star for goodness’s sake,‘ she said wearily to her shortly-to-be ex-boss. ‘She’s entitled to be late.’

The star in question was the premier silent movie star of the Korda studios in London, Cynthia Vernon, billed everywhere as the English Pola Negri.

‘I can’t help it,’ Arnold replied nervously. ‘Until I actually see her in the flesh, I won’t believe that Alexander Korda has let her go. This could be the coup of the decade, Louise. I’ve seen every one of her films and she is nothing short of sensational. I’ll be able to write my own ticket after they see her in that ridiculous Talkie I’m obliged to direct. Then it will be back to the good old favourites and the prospect of limitless budgets with Miss Vernon as the star. OK, so the price was heftier than I’d expected, but she will pay for herself many times over.’

‘I wouldn’t pin my hopes on that if I were you, Arnold,’ Louise broke in mildly, timing her intervention perfectly.

‘Why ever not? You wait till I present her to Mr LeBaron. He will be mad with envy. I’ll have the freedom of the studios and the pick of the projects.’

‘Do you remember that silly rumour about who was supposed to be taking over the studios that you and your Executive Producer were giggling over recently?’ she said slyly. ‘I don’t think you’ll be laughing too hard come tomorrow morning.’

‘What, the O Selznik thing about taking over? Don’t be silly, Louise. They would never do that after he promised to not produce another silent movie. That would be the end for Mr LeBaron for sure and he’s far too important. It won’t happen, my dear.’

‘I have it on very good authority, Arnold. My source is unimpeachable. The boy genius takes over in the morning. Tomorrow morning.’

Louise stared closely at the suddenly frazzled director, storing the image of terrified panic that suffused his body for future consumption.

‘Well, if that’s the case, although I’ll believe it when I see it, it’s a good job I had the foresight to sign Miss Vernon to contract,’ he responded. ‘That will be a feather in my cap that will stand me in good stead.’

Louise gave him her fondest smile and indicated the flashing buzzer on his desk.

‘I believe your leading lady has arrived.’

Arnold all but tripped over himself in his rush for the door. Unable to wait he flung it open and stood there gaping like a love-sick schoolboy as the Star herself entered, every bit as ephemerally beautiful as she appeared on screen. Taking her hand and simpering foolishly, Arnold planted a kiss on her fingers with Ramon Novarro ardour.

‘Hello again, Miss Vernon,’ Louise said, introducing herself with a broad smile. ‘We spoke on the telephone.’

‘How do you do,’ the actress responded with a cinematically elegant wave.

Arnold sat with a fixed grin of adoration planted on his face.

‘At last, Miss Vernon, we meet. I am such an admirer of yours. I do believe we can look forward to a very rewarding association.’

‘Oh, pleath, do call me Thynthia.’

Arnold gave a quick, startled glance towards Louise, but she was staring at the English rose with rapt attention.

‘In my humble opinion,’ Arnold continued, valiantly banishing the frown that had momentarily clouded his face, ‘There is no-one on this side of the Atlantic that can match the exquisiteness of your acting. You have such presence.’

‘I can thing and danth too, if need be’ the Star interjected brightly.

Arnold stood as if stung.

‘I have ordered some tea, Cynthia. I’ll just see where the hold up lies. Louise, would you pop outside for a moment? Shan’t keep you a moment, Cynthia.’

He led the way stiffly to an adjoining room, before exploding with repressed rage.

‘What’s this? She’s got a goddam lisp. You must have noticed.’

‘Yeth, ‘ said Louise cutely.

Arnold’s body jerked as though he had found himself in a particularly horrific nightmare.

‘I can’t put her in this Broadway adaptation I’m supposed to do,’ he wailed. ‘Not with that speech impediment.’

He stared helplessly at Louise.

‘That was a lisp wasn’t it? She wasn’t sucking a barley sugar or some…’

‘No,’ said Louise slowly and pointedly. ‘That wath definitely a lithp.’

‘What am I going to do, Louise? I just spent my entire budget on her. You’ll have to help me out. Couldn’t you use your contacts with the Korda studios to take her back? We’re in this together after all.’

‘I’m afraid not, Arnold. I’ve joined the modernisers. Mr O Selznik has made me a very sound offer.’