The Lost Expert, page 15
She pushed away. Desperate to avoid her gaze, Chris looked down. Her bare feet were tiny, as if just born. Darlia giggled nervously. She wiggled her toes. “They centre me.”
Chris nodded, not getting it, smiling vaguely. Hawaii.
“That’s it? Nothing to say?”
He stopped smiling. What was he supposed to say?
“It’s freaking me out. It’s like you’re him.”
“Him?”
“That stupid Lost Expert.”
Chris looked down at her, suddenly aware of his abruptly over-large body.
“Let’s sit,” Darlia said. She gestured to the short couch and the club chair.
He sat down on the couch. “Can I get you something? I’ve got tea. Just herbal, though.”
“I’m good, thanks.” Chris swallowed hard. Darlia pulled the club chair close, so close that when she sat down, her bare knees brushed against his legs. She leaned forward expectantly.
“So,” Chris said cautiously. “You don’t like the movie.”
“No, no, it’s not that.” It struck Chris that she was the sort of person who couldn’t stand to be objectionable while objecting. “I love the movie concept. And Reed, Reed is really a genius, isn’t he? He’s just … it’s just …”
“You don’t know what it’s about,” Chris said with sudden inspiration. His voice was loud in the deep quiet of Darlia’s New Age country retreat.
Darlia nodded. She closed her eyes. She sighed deeply. Chris felt her breath on his face, warm and tinged sweet.
“Do you know?” she asked. “Do you know what it’s about?”
Chris shook his head. He proceeded haltingly, unsure of what she wanted to hear. “I think that’s the point, though. It’s like we’re all in the dark, groping around trying to find it. We know it’s there; we can feel that it’s there. It’s about trying to find that thing we’ve all lost, even though we haven’t really lost it, because it’s been there all along. It’s just that we’ve lost sight of it.”
“That’s really beautiful, Thomson.” She opened her eyes. “Who are you again?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but you really are like a different person. I don’t know if it’s the movie or what, but you’re so much more … Everything about you is different.”
Darlia seemed tired now, tiny cracks fissuring from the corners of her eyes, her glow fading ever so slightly.
“I don’t know,” she said. “My agent told me it was going to be an action picture, a cerebral action picture. Bryant Reed’s big comeback. And then he said you were attached. And I thought maybe if we worked together again, I could … And then I see that you’re so different now.”
“Hawaii,” Chris said, almost without thinking. The word, stuck in his head since that moment in Reed’s cabin.
Darlia jerked back as if hit. Then she laughed darkly. “A long time ago, right?”
Chris nodded. He had no idea what they were talking about. But he felt it, in the pit of his stomach, a troubled history between them, an inevitable truth he didn’t want to know.
Darlia stared darkly down at the ornate patterns beautifully stitched into the small Persian rug that adorned the seating area.
“It’s you,” she finally said, the misery in her voice terrible and palatable. “I took the part because of you. I wanted to try and understand … what happened. What happened to me. Then. What you did. It wasn’t right, Thomson. I was just a kid. Night Lighting,” she said sarcastically.
Night Lighting. Hawaii. For once Krunk’s endless rants and lectures were coming in handy. Action flick. Surfing. A volcano explosion. Holmes is the star. Darlia is the co-star and love interest. It’s her first big break. She gets trapped. Earthquakes. Floods. Volcanoes. Lava approaches. The Holmes character. He has to rescue her.
“And, honestly, it makes me sick, Thomson. You make me sick. I thought maybe if I worked with you again. After all this time. If I told you to your face what you did. What you did to me. My therapist — don’t you dare laugh! — she says I have to face up to my past, accept it, not bury it. Do you understand what I’m saying, Thomson?”
“Darlia, I’m —”
“And I know there was that agreement. But that was — Jesus, I was so stupid! I signed. I took the money. I kept my mouth shut. And for years I was afraid, Thomson. You know what? I was terrified.”
Darlia was weeping now. “I thought I could … move on. But it makes me sick, Thomson. It makes me sick to look at you.” She put her face in her hands.
The agreement. The agreements. The same weird cover-up? How many agreements were there? Thomson Holmes! What had he done? Chris felt it tangled up in him, a thick fabric of regret. Why? He hadn’t done anything. This had nothing to do with him. But there it was anyway, a knotted ball of wool, stuck in his stomach, slowly unravelling.
“I’m sorry, Darlia. I’m really sorry.”
Darlia looked at him, her eyes searching and open, tears running down her cheeks.
“Who the hell are you? Even your face. Around your eyes. It’s softer. It’s like you’re — I don’t know. Like you’re not you. Okay, it’s a role. But right now. Even right now. You’re so ….”
“Darlia.”
“And you’re listening!” Darlia said, almost spitting the words. “Thomson Holmes is actually listening.”
“Darlia! I’m not that person anymore. That was so long ago, and I’m so sorry about what happened. But, for what it’s worth, I’m different now. I am a different person.”
Darlia sobbed, and Chris felt the tears hitting him like a heavy rain. “On set,” she said through great gasps, “when we’re doing a scene, it’s like you’re in a trance. It’s like you don’t even see me.”
“I see you. I do. It’s not me.” Chris was thinking aloud now, following his own train of thought. “It’s the Lost Expert. The character. Right now, I don’t think he can see you. I mean — his wife. He can’t see her. He’s too focused.”
“And you?”
“Me?”
She leaned in close. “Do you see me? Do you see me now?”
“I see you,” he said quietly. “Of course, I see you.”
She looked at him, eyes streaming tears, regret and rage and embarrassment moving across her face.
“It’s not what happened,” Darlia said. “It’s what you did. You happened.”
Not sure what to say, Chris stayed quiet.
“For fuck’s sake, Thomson!” Darlia slapped him, hard, on the face. He felt it and didn’t feel it. “Get out. Just get the hell out of here!”
Chris stood up. Darlia, her face in her hands, her blond hair shielding her.
Had he made things worse or better? Thomson Holmes, predator, pig, problem solver.
How long? How long had this been going on?
“Darlia,” Chris finally managed. “I’m so sorry. You don’t have to accept that. You shouldn’t accept that. But it’s all I have. What else is there? What I’m hoping is you’ll stay. You’ll stay, and we’ll make something else. Something beautiful.”
Darlia raised her head. Tears glazed her cheeks. She wasn’t crying anymore. She stared at him, her expression empty but not blank.
Script 9
EXT. TANOQUIN FOREST RESERVE — NIGHT
A light rain falls outside. THE LOST EXPERT and MICHAEL sit under the crooked canvas tarp. Water drips through.
MICHAEL
(jerking spasmodically)
How did you find me?
THE LOST EXPERT
A lot of people are looking for you, Michael.
MICHAEL
(shaking his shaggy head, laughing crazily)
Looking!
THE LOST EXPERT
It’s time to come home, Michael.
MICHAEL
(increasing his agitation)
No, no, no, no, no, no.
THE LOST EXPERT
I can’t leave you here, Michael.
MICHAEL
No, no, no, no, no.
THE LOST EXPERT
You’ll die here, Michael. Let me help you.
MICHAEL
No.
Michael scrambles to his knees and pulls a knife out from beneath a tattered blanket.
THE LOST EXPERT
That’s not who you are, Michael.
Michael slashes at the air with the knife and begins to gently sob.
MICHAEL
No.
THE LOST EXPERT
Who’s talking to you, Michael? Who’s in your head?
The Lost Expert closes his eyes and hums a bit. He sings under his breath.
THE LOST EXPERT
The devil’s gone lost / God’s no better. / heads are rolling down / down underwater.
MICHAEL
(eyes lighting up, singing in a harsh whisper)
Think I’ll fall my way / think I’ll fall away / think I’ll fall / think I’ll fall …
MICHAEL AND THE LOST EXPERT
(howling together)
Aaaaaaa … waaaaaaay.
The sounds of their singing trail off and the distant but present noises of the woods reassert themselves.
THE LOST EXPERT
Put the knife down.
Michael lets the knife fall. He covers his face with his hands, weeping.
THE LOST EXPERT
Let me help you.
Michael falls onto his side in the fetal position.
MICHAEL
No, no.
Section 10
ALISON WOKE CHRIS AT 6:00 a.m. She knocked softly, then opened the cabin door and stepped in. Chris was already awake, but he pretended to be sleeping, luring Alison closer until she was leaning over him, her hair smelling of woodsmoke and strawberry, her breath a waft of pine. “Thom-son. Wakey-wakey, Thomson.”
It was their last day up north. Tomorrow they would head back to the city. Darlia had flown out early but promised to return to the movie after completing an elaborate session of personalized yoga, aromatherapy, and isolation baths. “She’s going to do a ‘speed round recalibration,’” Reed had told Chris, his complaints about the forthcoming bill his way of complimenting Chris for his efforts.
Chris made his own more modest ablutions in the large, empty communal camp bathroom. Graffiti was scrawled on the walls: Debbie Does Doofus. Camp Shab Forever! Mitch W. Was Here! Studying his face in a dirty mirror with a crack running down the side, he looked lean, angular, and unfamiliar. His blond-brown hair, slick from his shower, sat flatly on his head, emphasizing his jutting forehead and sharp eyes. Outside, he could hear the crew muttering, swearing, trudging through the campsite, hauling gear, getting ready to follow the Lost Expert wherever he had to go.
Where would they go that day? Reed kept pushing the crew deeper and deeper into the forest. What were they looking for? Reed had shown him rushes: billowing white clouds moving ponderously across skeletal vistas of bare branches, waves splashing over the deep centre of the silent and mysterious lake, at its depths still a million-year-old glacier, eternally melting. They were beautiful images, alive and true, but Reed sat watching them with his Penguins cap pulled so low it almost covered his dissatisfied smirk.
Alison was elusive, disappearing then reappearing just when he was wondering what could possibly have happened to her, popping up out of nowhere with piping hot cups of coffee from the camp cafeteria. She was an absent presence — where was she when she wasn’t leading him to the next place he needed to be? He found that he couldn’t function on the set without her. The rhythms of shooting eluded him. He didn’t know where to go, what he should be doing next. And the way she looked at him as she led him to and fro. Her liquid brown eyes, pools of inscrutable insight. No, he told himself. She didn’t know. Nobody knew.
Chris’s stomach rumbled, and he came back to himself. What now? Adrift without further instruction, he climbed back up his hill and planted himself on the picnic table like a king on his throne. The weather, consistently bright and cool since they’d arrived, had gone mercurial. It was warmer, and the sky seemed to be settling, a barely lit gloom pushing black-grey clouds. There was no sign of the sun, and Chris had no idea what time it was. A warmish wind picked up. All he knew was that he was hungry. Lately, he was always hungry. Hoping it was at least nearly breakfast time, he made his way down the hill toward the dining hall, the last of the fallen leaves spinning in gritty mini tornadoes.
Inside he was surprised to find Alison sitting alone on a bench nursing a cup of tea. She wore a white ski hat with a pink bow. “Hey.” She waved to him. Chris waved back. Had he missed breakfast? No, he realized, it was too early for breakfast. He filled up a mug of coffee from the giant percolator and sat on the bench across from his assistant. Empty tables and benches splayed out all around them. From the kitchen they could hear the cooks preparing the morning meal.
“I saw you up there, on your hill,” Alison said teasingly. “Meditating, maybe?”
Instead of answering, Chris took a sip of his coffee. The wind gusted, sending forest detritus bouncing against the thin wooden walls of the dining hall. Alison shivered.
“Are you cold?” Chris asked.
“I’m all right,” Alison said. She gave him a pale smile. “I don’t like storms.”
“I think it’s going to blow over,” Chris said, intending his pronouncement to comfort.
“I hope so.”
They listened to the gathering gale outside.
“Are you hungry? Would you like something?”
“Some cereal would be great. Rice Krispies? And a banana?”
Alison disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tray. Thomson peeled his banana and cut it into his cereal.
“Any milk?” he asked her.
“I thought you hated milk. Aren’t you lactose intolerant?” Alison looked at him curiously.
“Right. I’m off dairy.” There was an open strawberry yogurt next to Alison. “Can I have this?” Chris was already dumping the small container into this bowl and stirring.
Alison watched expressionlessly as Chris attacked his cereal. Her big eyes and small hands wrapped around her mug made her seem at once girlish and worldly, like a high-schooler coughing on a cigarette.
Bit old for you, isn’t she?
Grabbing his mug, Chris moved to the front to get a better look at the camp through the larger window. The looming black slab of sky was now pressing so low Chris felt he could reach out and touch it. There was action down by the beach, Reed and Clipboard Tina urgently conferring, the German gesticulating at an increasingly feral-looking grouping of techies and crew. Alison joined him by the window. The water of the lake surged in angry chops.
“They’re up to something,” Chris said.
Alison shrugged, smiling weakly. “Storm chasing.”
That was it, Chris realized. That was what Reed had been waiting for. “Thanks!” he yelled at a surprised Alison as he hurried out the front door of the dining hall. Fighting the wind, Chris pushed down to the lakefront.
By the time he got there, the discussion was over.
“Sorry, bud,” Reed muttered, looking past him.
“What? What is it?” Chris asked.
“She won’t let ya.”
Tina looked over them both imperiously. “You can do what you want,” she said to Reed. “But Mr. Holmes will be waiting this one out safely inside. We can get another director, but there’s only one star of the show.”
“Gee, thanks,” Reed grumbled. He looked at Chris forlornly. Thunder sounded from a distance. Reed perked up. “Is the crew ready?” he yelled. And then, frantically looking around: “Where’s the German? What’s the twenty on the German?”
“You’re with me, Mr. Holmes,” Tina said politely, firmly taking his arm.
Tina installed him back in his cabin. “Don’t move,” she told him before hurrying out. “Don’t move a muscle.”
Chris stepped briskly to the window, watching intently as the storm took possession of their little enclave, powerful gusts ripping at the newly naked trees. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d be banned from this culminating journey to the heart of the maelstrom. It was too dangerous. There was insurance. There was liability. He should sneak out, he thought. Krunk style, before Krunk went weak. Reed would want him to. Forget Reed! What would Thomson Holmes do? Chase the storm like a superstar! So where was he, then? Whitecaps surged, and the glass in the window rattled. Startled, Chris jerked back from the window.
Anyway, there was that guy. The stunt double. He’d kept away from Chris and Chris from him. Was it on purpose, an unspoken movie set superstition? You never met your double. You never watched the dailies on a Wednesday. The irony of being a movie star. You were eternal, yet perpetually on the brink of obsolescence. You had to keep upping the ante, Chris thought. What Alison had said: “I don’t like storms.” Who did? Reed, crazy Reed. Chris had never thought of himself as a risk taker. But now he felt a surge of energy inside him. Reed and the crew pushing triumphantly through the slashing winds. The lake writhed in anticipation. Orange buoys marking the swimming area jerked crazily from side to side.
The rain came, dull thuds against the walls and roof of the cabin like open-handed slaps from some impertinent god. Chris felt the whirl of the storm in the pit of his belly. He stood by the window, riveted, undecided, imagining he could still go, still find Reed and the crew, still make the bold, brave decision. The door to the cabin blew open. Cold rain lashed the side of Chris’s face. Numbly, he moved to close the door. But there was a visitor hovering at the doorstep. She was familiar to Chris, though he couldn’t quite place her. She was pale and plain, her doughy face scrubbed of any adornment. She looked rough, and Chris wondered if she’d been drinking. But no, there was something ghostly about her. Like she’d risen from the dead. Behind her, black sheets of rain spilled from the sky’s torrent. Wet leaves and broken branches whipped. The woman made a face, her mouth contorting like she’d lost language.
