Scatter the Stars, page 26
Finally, they closed the house. The head boss boy was put in charge. A friend of Mac’s, a white man who ran a small business in Madang, promised to go out and check on Paradis when he could.
They set sail on the Sorcerer. Randy took Talia’s Massim figurine and a photo of them both, him laughing into the camera, she smiling with flowers in her hair.
And Mac took her bird, Beefcake, who sat on his shoulder or in a sheltered spot in the wheelhouse during the day and was taken below at night where it slept on the top shelf of the galley.
They sailed in any direction, each day charting their course as the mood took them. Whichever direction they went didn’t matter to either of them now because it was always a journey without purpose.
ELEVEN
Los Angeles 1998
‘This is truly decadent. I love it.’ Janie smeared her fork through the last of the mudcake and cream.
Michael laughed and poked his wooden chopsticks into a carton of leftover chop suey. ‘I’m not a sweet eater. But it’s great being with someone who loves food. Barbara was always watching what she ate. Even when we went out. No fun at all. Shana is a bit the same. I worried she was anorexic for a time there, but when I mentioned it to our doctor, he said she was just being faddy. She seems healthy enough now. Though the whole body image attitude with young women is a worry. I don’t find those scrawny models the least bit sexy.’
‘I’ve always loved food. I’m lucky my metabolism can cope so I don’t gain weight.’
‘Talking of weight gain. What’s happening with your baby plan?’
‘I’ve made my decision. Chosen the dad. His name is Peter. He’s twenty-six. IQ 140. Personal and family medical history superb. Plays the piano, likes theatre, old Hollywood musicals on late night TV and can cook pasta.’
‘Christ, you know more about him than I knew about Barbara’s background, or her mine, when we got married.’
‘That’s the idea. Once you ask for a profile of a prospective donor you get their ethnic background, physical characteristics, religion, hobbies, family history back three generations, even their Scholastic Aptitude Test scores. Some of them do audio tapes as well. No photos though. This cryobank is thorough, comprehensive and very confidential.’
‘Where do they get the guys from to donate sperm?’
‘Nearly all are uni students. But it’s a rigid screening process – so to speak!’ she laughed. ‘Less than five per cent who apply are accepted into the program. For five minutes with a Playboy magazine they get a hundred bucks.’
Michael looked slightly shocked. The idea of a young man possibly fathering dozens of children with different mothers disturbed him. ‘Can the father make contact with the child . . . children? And what if later the child wants to meet his biological father? What are you going to tell your child?’ The ramifications of the whole idea began to hit Michael. ‘Janie, are you sure about this?’
She threw the paper plate like a frisbee into the kitchen sink and didn’t answer.
‘Good shot. You’ve perfected that. Is that what you do at home every night? Watch TV and hurl the dinner plate into the sink?’ asked Michael.
‘I do have a life, Michael. Sometimes I give quite nice dinner parties. I even cook. Well sort of.’ She became serious and spoke quietly. ‘Yes, I have thought this through. The sperm bank keeps all records of donors and recipients in case in fifteen or twenty years’ time a child wants to find out about their biological father. But it only happens if it’s by mutual agreement. That issue is a long way off.’
‘Okay. Like I said before. If you want me to help you, I will.’ He glanced away. ‘In a practical best friend way.’
She knew what he was, or wasn’t saying. Don’t ask for his sperm. She wondered if he’d been gay, or if he’d had no children, would he be willing. She’d heard of people who had used gay male friends as donors. ‘Unless it’s a committed and loving partnership, maybe it works best with an anonymous father.’
Michael still looked concerned. ‘Peter, the donor, isn’t totally anonymous. You know a lot about him. But who will be the male role models your child will need later on?’
‘Aren’t we getting a bit ahead of the game here?’ Janie tried to lighten the atmosphere. ‘For a new best friend, you’re doing just great. The best.’ She got up. ‘Let’s have coffee and get on with sharing the details of Randy’s life.’
‘Okay. I’m still interviewing Randy. I’m in the New Guinea stuff now. What a fascinating place. I’d kinda like to go there though it’s been no South Sea island paradise for Randy. He told me he’ll never go back there, Janie. He finally talked about the great love of his life, Talia. A half-native girl, killed in a volcanic landslide. I don’t think he ever got over her. He said that was when he turned off from the realities of life for a long time.’
‘I didn’t know about her. It must have changed him. That’s great for your TV profile but not what Pat Jordan wants as a tribute to his career in films. By the way, this studio launch sounds huge. Sydney is being turned into Hollywood on the harbour.’
‘So how are you going with the research for Pat Jordan’s secret film project?’ Michael spooned honey into his coffee.
Janie’s eyes brightened. She reached for a pile of papers in her bag and slipped a paperclip on them. ‘It’s a fantastic story, the true story of Casanova, as Hollywood has never attempted it. I’ve written some notes. Do you want to read it? I’d love your opinion.’
‘What about your pledge of secrecy?’
‘I’ve explained to Pat how you’ve helped me with the Randy project. I’ve told her I trust you. I know you won’t discuss the Casanova film with anyone until she’s ready to announce it.’ Janie looked him in the eyes. ‘Meanwhile I’d appreciate your feedback before I submit the first research report.’
‘At least it’ll be a change from news and current affairs.’ Michael tucked the Casanova papers into a drawer in his desk. ‘Now let’s get to work.’ And they sat together on the floor going through the available film and interview clips that gave a precis of Randy’s career.
Later, before going to bed, Michael stretched out on the sofa, switched on some ambient music and began reading Janie’s notes on the life of Giacomo Casanova.
Born in Venice, April 2, 1725. The son of theatrical parents, he made the world his stage. In his memoirs he makes the claim however, that he believes his biological father to be the patrician Venetian Michele Grimani whose brother, the Abbe, later became Casanova’s guardian.
At the age of eight, in the care of his grandmother – his mother pursuing her theatrical career – Casanova was taken to a sorcerer to cure his nosebleeds. The subsequent ritual aroused in him a fascination with the occult that stayed with him for life.
His mother was widowed at thirty-six and being pretty and talented she continued in the theatre, at the same time becoming the mistress of many influential men. Casanova appears to have had little affection from his flighty mother. He found refuge first in studies of ecclesiastical law, dabbling in medicine and chemistry. Art was another major interest for him, his brother being a fine artist.
Casanova was more than just the great lover he is famous for, he was a lawyer, mathematician, poet, librarian, composer and a language translator fluent in several languages and dialects. As well, he was a man of manners, a scoundrel, a snob, a gambler, a trickster. A superstitious believer in magic and astrology at the peak of the age of reason and decadence, he was a brilliant writer and an extraordinary traveller who was at home throughout Europe. He was a self-confessed libertine, sexual bon vivant, wheeler dealer, a spy and a cabalist. His escape from Venice’s Leads prison – from which no man had escaped before or since – remains unsurpassed in legend and fact.
Janie then quoted from Casanova: A New Perspective, one of the works of J. Rives Childs, the world expert on Casanova:
‘That he was a genius is indisputable; that he wasted his extraordinary talents is equally unquestionable – which brings us to the curious paradox that had he not been an adventurer and, in many respects, a wastrel, he would be today completely forgotten. Had he led a conventional life, with regular employment, it is doubtful if the material of the occasion would have been given him to write the immortal Memoirs.’
Janie had then written that there had been doubts raised as to the truth of the Memoirs. But scholars like J. Rives Childs had now concluded they were true.
Janie also described how the story written by Casanova of his life also brilliantly illustrated the mores, morals and manners in the framework of his times – so very different from this century. His love affairs made up about a third of his Memoirs, the rest of his writing concerned with intellectual matters more than the flesh. Furthermore, the other volumes he’d written were praised for their standard of erudition and style that has rarely been bettered. Yet he is best known for the Memoirs on which, wrote Janie, his reputation has rested because he was so damned frank!
Janie listed the chronological details, the travels and many highlights of Casanova’s life and then gave samples of potential filmic moments.
He’d lost his virginity with the Abbe’s sister, four years his senior; he’d seduced two virgin sisters, who’d flirted yet withheld their favours. This flouting of female wiles became a fascination that he studied throughout his life.
At one stage he’d dressed as a woman and attended a grand Venetian ball, seducing a contessa and a chambermaid in his ballgown.
On one occasion as a young woman stood on a balcony, chaperoned by her aunt, Casanova, at the girl’s rear, had had his way with her under her skirt and petticoats, while the women watched the slow disembowelment and torture of a criminal being put to death in the square below.
He was the clever manipulator whose creative enterprise established the first state lottery in France which made a fortune for the state and which continues today.
And then there was the famous duel between Casanova and the Polish count, who drove up in splendour in a carriage with six coachmen, two grooms leading saddle horses, two aides-de-camp, two hussars, four servants, a lieutenant-general and an armed footman – all to face a lone Casanova. The subsequent high drama and farce, as Casanova won the duel and escaped in a peasant’s sleigh, made Michael laugh aloud. What a scene! And there were scores of them in a life that had crossed paths with the great men and women of the time – Louis XV, Voltaire, Madame de Pompadour, James Boswell, Benjamin Franklin, Mozart.
Concluded Janie in her notes: ‘He was a Christian philosopher, a social historian, a gifted writer illustrating the panorama of an era, revelling in secrets, allowing the universe of his life to simply happen. He dipped his toes in freemasonry, the theatre, spying, the army, the law, the church, the underworld. Never able to establish his father’s identity, he’d learned early on to rely on himself, using his intelligence, his wits and his energy and his sense of fun to beat the world on its own terms and come out on top.’
Michael lifted his head and exclaimed aloud, ‘My God, there are ten movies in this!’ No wonder Janie had been carried away with her subject. The more he thought about the character of Casanova, flawed genius that he was, the more parallels Michael could see between this man and the life of Randy. And Janie, too.
For Janie, was it their shared lack of knowledge of their birth father? And was it Casanova’s loss of a mother’s love, the streak of humour, the larrikin, devil-may care, joie de vivre that reminded him of Randy?
The next day Michael called Janie. ‘I loved the notes for Casanova. I can see how it will work on screen – some wonderful visual moments. Can’t wait to read the rest of it. Who’s doing the final script?’
His question touched a deep nerve in Janie. Flushed with feelings of great creativity – maybe it was the thought of the child she would have – she’d had an idea that she should write this script rather than merely facilitate the creation process for someone else. For the first time, her sense of self-esteem had begun to flower.
Janie always appeared confident and capable and she was very efficient in whatever she did. But beneath the surface was always a feeling of insecurity and doubt about her self-worth and ability. Why should she be content with being a researcher? She did the detective work, the homework and then distilled it into digestible, visual, clearly thought out chunks and sequences for the eventual screenwriter. She’d written things, a few documentaries, voice-overs and promos, but an epic adapted to the screen with the necessary arcs and peaks and beats that give a film its pace and rhythm? That was another kind of challenge.
‘You know, Michael, I always thought people more talented and creative than me did things like write a brilliant major movie script. But now, for the first time, I’m thinking, why not me? I can do this.’ Her voice then contradicted her words. ‘I mean, do you think I’m mad to attempt it?’
Looking at the Casanova story, the way it was coming together, he realised that her suggestions for the storyline and characters were in fact the bare bones of a brilliant script. ‘Janie, it’s here. You can do it. You’re giving Pat Jordan far more than just research notes. Why shouldn’t you have a bash at a first draft? Or write a scene or two. This is excellent, what you’ve given me. Go for it.’
The relief in her voice rushed down the phone. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve decided to have a go at it, before the research goes the round of writers’ agents. Pat Jordan wants to see the bones of the story first. She has checked out the old films made about Casanova. She says this film will be different. What she wants is a complete chronological breakdown of his life. That’s where she wanted me to start.’
‘Well, I’d say you’ve got a blockbuster romance here. And you should definitely write the script.’ He changed the subject. ‘So when can I get together next with my best friend? I’m going down to the beach on Sunday. I’ve left a message – one of many – for Shana, and so help me she rang back. Very cold, hasn’t forgiven me for the incident at the House of Blues, but at least she made contact. Probably wants money.’
‘Don’t judge her in advance, Michael. That last time you saw her, as you described it to me, didn’t sound like a major incident.’
‘The trouble is she doesn’t believe I wasn’t there with Beanie.’
‘So what did she say to you?’
‘She’s agreed to have lunch with me on Sunday. I was thinking . . . maybe you could come along?’
‘Are you mad!’ laughed Janie. ‘I’d be considered yet another girlfriend taking her mother’s rightful place. You’re afraid to be alone with her. Don’t be. That communicates.’
‘You’re not a girlfriend, you’re my pal. But you’re right, I am nervous. I’m not sure where to go with her. I don’t want another scene.’
‘Michael, that’s easy. It’s just come to me. Divine intervention. Take her to Ojai. Great little restaurants and shops, Bart’s Bookshop and you can just happen to drop into Randy’s. Call him and set it up. See if Beanie can be there. Might help sort things out in Shana’s head.’
‘You’re brilliant. Hope we survive the trip. Still she can’t leap out on the 405 freeway.’
Janie was glad he liked the idea. ‘A long drive in a car can be an intimate sharing experience. Part of our American culture.’
Michael chuckled. ‘Yeah, I’ve had a few of those. Like on long plane flights. Tell your life story to a stranger.’
‘Take plenty of CDs.’
‘She doesn’t like my music. What do you suggest?’
‘I’m two decades ahead of her, I don’t know. Ask Randy to ask Beanie or hit a hip assistant at your local Tower Records.’
‘Yes, boss. What would I do without you, Janie?’
‘Stuff up by the sound of it.’
‘So what plans do you have this weekend?’
‘Working. And going to the drugstore for the ovulation and pregnancy-testing kits.’
Michael burst out laughing. ‘My God. Well, I did ask.’ Then he became concerned. ‘Are you okay? I mean how close is the big event?’
‘Next week, probably. I have to pee on the ovulation card and if it’s the right colour, I have around forty-eight hours to be impregnated.’
‘Are you excited? Nervous? Scared?’
‘None of that. And all of that. I try not to think about it,’ sighed Janie.
‘So what do I do? Come and hold your hand, take you for coffee, champagne, pace up and down outside the doctor’s office?’
‘You are sweet. I think it’s easier to go on my own. You might be my best friend but seeing me on my back with my legs in the air while some man pushes a tube into my uterus would put our friendship on an unacceptable level, I feel.’
‘Janie, I mean it. I wish I could be there for you . . . in the way you want . . . but I just can’t . . .’
‘I understand, Michael. I really do.’
‘Dealing with Shana is hard enough, the thought of going through this again . . . I feel a bit of a failure as a father. I can’t make any commitment to myself at this stage, let alone anyone else.’
‘Michael, stop beating yourself up. You’ll blow Sunday thinking like that. Let it go. Treat the day as a what-the-heck-happens day. Try to enjoy yourself. Think of her as a friend. Someone else’s daughter you’re stuck with for a day and you’re trying to get to know her. No preaching. Promise?’
‘Promise. And I’ll be on standby if you change your mind about my driving you to the clinic.’
Saturday morning, Janie followed the instructions and found she was definitely ovulating. She did the test again with the same positive result. The card changed to bright green. Positive. She rang the cryobank to check that her chosen donor’s sperm was available. Then she made an appointment for 9.30 a.m. Monday morning with her fertility doctor. She wrote the two appointments in her Filofax list of things to do on Monday. She normally scratched out the items on her list once they were done, otherwise they carried over to the following day. But she decided those two entries would stay legible. A record. A souvenir. Something to paste in the baby book, she kidded herself.
