A ruling passion : a novel, page 45
"No, I do not," Valerie said angrily, and then, turning, saw the arched eyebrows and open smile of Al Slavin, the other direaor for whom she worked.
"Let's finish these," he said, pulling up a chair. His beard and hair were flame-colored and as he bent over the letters Valerie saw a small bald spot at the top of his head. He gave each letter a cursory glance, put it in the proper pile, and took up the next. "Can't take too long on these; anyway, they all sound alike after a while."
"Are there always this many?" Valerie asked, skimming the letters almost as fast as he did.
"Every day. We get eight, nine hundred a week, sometimes more, and we diwy them up, a hundred or more a day. The adoring fans get an effusive thank-you; the worried ones get a written answer or they get one on television."
Valerie looked up. "How?"
He wagged a reproving finger. "You're giving yourself away. Never
admit in public that you don't watch every episode of every show produced by Sybille Morgen Productions. It means death at dawn. Just between us, Lily has a show every Wednesday night at ten, called 'At Home with Reverend Grace,' when she sits by a cozy fireplace with lilies and candles on the table, and answers some of her mail. Reads the letters aloud, no names of course, gives advice, dispenses wisdom and encouragement, smiles at the camera with love and tenderness—^"
"You don't like her."
"On the contrary. I love her. No one can't love Lily. I just don't want her managing my life or my country, and I get worried when people fall in love with an image on the screen and think it can translate to political or moral leadership."
Valerie nodded, not really paying attention. She wasn't that interested. At another time she would have been intrigued enough to learn more about Lily Grace, but now, with so much to think about, she didn't have enough energy to try to understand a young preacher who had no part in her life. "Done," she said. "Shall we get some coffee?"
"I'll get it; you ask Gus what he wants done next."
"I meant we could go to the coffee shop downstairs."
"I know what you meant. We don't take breaks. The coffee machine is in the kitchen; I'll show you later."
Valerie contemplated him. "Is this an act you two put on? He's the bad guy and you're the good? He makes people unhappy and you go around smoothing ruffled feathers?"
He grinned at her from the thicket of his red beard. "You are one smart lady. It's not an act; ifs an accommodation. He gets more work out of people, but I keep them from quitting. For a while at least."
"Do you like him?"
He shrugged, "We're a team; we're used to each other. Go on, now, find out what he wants next; I'll get some coffee."
They were like two halves of a whole person, Valerie thought, and it was Al Slavin who kept her from despair a dozen times in the next three weeks. There was a streak of cruelty in Gus Emery that puzzled her; he was so good at his job that she would have thought he could afford to relax. But he never did. He drove himself and those around him; he seemed bitter toward everyone; and with his whiplash tongue and cold cynicism, he seemed indifferent to anyone's opinion.
Except Sybille and Lily. With Sybille he was smooth, smart, cool and admiring, never deferential but never harsh. With Lily he was cautious; it was as if he tiptoed around her, careful with his vocabulary.
soft with his voice, fatherly with his directions and smiles when they were taping a sermon or "At Home with Reverend Grace." He had made himself indelibly a part of Sybille Morgen Productions; but almost no one but Sybille and Lily liked him.
It was Al Slavin whom everyone liked, and soon he was Valerie's closest friend in the company. In every spare moment, he taught her the details of production: how a rough script was transformed into a final, taped program. He taught her tape editing and the workings of the control room; he explained satellite pickups and transmissions, camera and lighting techniques. And he often called on her to help him in the studio.
The soap opera, "The Art of Love," was taped every day, following a rehearsal in the morning. A weekly game show, "The Winner's Circle," was taped before an audience every Monday. Another game show, "Top This," was taped with an audience every Thursday. "At Home with Reverend Grace" was taped on Wednesday morning for airing Wednesday night; and Lily's sermon was broadcast live, and simultaneously taped for reruns, on Sunday morning at eleven.
Al was in the control room; Valerie was in the studio. She stood to the side, wearing headphones and holding her clipboard and pencil, ready to do what she was told. They were in the final rehearsal of an episode of "The Art of Love" before taping that afternoon.
"Lola's scarf is crooked," Al said to Valerie through the headphones, and she walked onto the set to straighten Lola Montalda's scarf.
"And tell her to fasten the third button on her blouse; what is it with her? Ask her how much she had to drink at lunch."
Valerie smiled at Lola. "Al would like you to button your blouse. And he says you're looking very lovely today."
"Of course," Lola said. "I always do. My button?" She looked down. "How strange. It must have done that by itself"
"Valerie," said Al, 'Sve're all waiting."
"Lola," she said, "everyone is waiting."
"Of course," Lola said. "They always wait for me." She buttoned her blouse and took her place beside the sofa, holding a painted ceramic vase.
"Okay," said Al. "We're going to try it from 'You treat me like a slave.'"
"Lola," said the floor director as Valerie withdrew to the sidelines, 'Sve're taking it from 'You treat me like a slave.' And this time, aim for the middle of the fireplace."
"His head is higher than that," Lola said haughtily.
"Your aim is bad; if you aim at the fireplace, you'll get close to his head."
"My aim is perfecto!"
"Let's go," said the floor director.
"You treat me like a slave!' screamed Lola, and threw the vase with wild passion in the general direction of Tom Halprin's head. The vase sailed three feet above him and crashed against the top of a window in a freestanding wall, causing it to tremble and sway.
"Damn it," Al breathed. "Valerie, another vase. And see if she dented the window frame. And make sure the crew sweeps up all the pieces; we don't want it to look like a tornado went through there; only a lover's quarrel."
"Pete," said Valerie to another assistant as she crossed the set to check on the window frame, "get another vase."
"Not me," he replied. "I only take orders from Gus."
She swung on him. "Do what I tell you! Now!"
He backed away from her sharp voice. "Right," he said, surprising himself "In the prop room.>"
"On the bottom shelf Bring two."
"Right," he said and was gone.
Valerie examined the window frame and found it undented. She paused to watch the crew sweeping up broken glass, and then she returned to the sidelines. She felt better than she had in a long time; she'd given an order and it had been obeyed. Briefly, wonderfully, it had brought back the past, when staffs of servants had stood ready to carry out her orders. It's a lot better to give than receive, she thought wryly. She wondered if she had sounded like Gus Emery giving orders to her. Maybe she had; and maybe Gus felt just as good when she jumped to obey him as she had just now, when Pete went off to the prop room. We all want somebody below us, she reflected, watching Lola pout because the floor director was telling her yet again that she always aimed liigh. Even if we only have a chance to have power over one other person, we grab it. She wondered if that was why people had children. Then she wondered if she would ever have children. And that reminded her that she was single and without money, and working for someone else, and that made her aware of Al's voice in her headphones, speaking to the floor director.
"I want Tom to duck whether she gets close or not. If we use camera three we can probably fake it. She's trashed eleven vases so far; she isn't going to get a lot better."
"Got it," said the floor director, and set up the scene again.
"You treat me hke a slave!" screamed Lola and hurled the vase. Tom Halprin ducked as it flew two feet above his head and crashed against the wall over the mande. Lola went on in full stride. "I hate you! I gave myself to you; I moved into your house like you asked me—"
^^'As you asked me,'" Al said in the headphones.
The floor director put up his hand. "Lola, ifs ^as you asked me.' That's the right way to say it; it's what the script says."
"I know what the script says; I changed it. Nobody talks like that." She pursed her lips and tilted her head left and right. "'As you hoity-toity la-di-da-di asked me.' Who talks like that anyhow.^ Not me. I know how people talk; they talk like me and I talk the way I feel good."
The floor director looked up, in the direction of the control room.
"WTiat do you think, Valerie.^" asked Al.
Surprised, Valerie thought about it. "If she said 'when you asked me' there wouldn't be a problem."
Al's chuckle came through the headphones, making her feel warm and useful. "I like that. Let's try it."
The floor director conferred with Lola and she picked up where she had left off. "I moved into your house when you asked me, so I could be around when you wanted me! Doing what you wanted! Anything you wanted! And now you think you can tell me you found somebody better? And you won't always be here.'' 'Cause you're gonna see her, too? Well I won't be here! If you think I'll just be hanging around, you're crazy! You're—" She looked around for something else to throw, and at that Tom Halprin strode across the set, grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her down to the sofa.
He held her down with one hand and ripped open her blouse with the other. She wore nothing underneath, but Tom's bulk and the angle of the camera allowed nothing more than teasing glimpses of her full breasts.
"No!" Lola cried. "I don't want—you can't—!" She struggled as Tom pinned her hands above her head. "Stop!" she screamed, but the scream became a whimper. Tom's mouth was on her breasts; his hand was beneath her skirt. The camera's eye slid to the floor, lingering on the shards of the broken vase before the fireplace, moving slowly back along the floor to the sofa, where Lola's hand now hung limply, the fingers just brushing the rug. "Tom," she whispered. "Anything you want..."
Valerie stood at the side, rigid with anger. She had never watched "The Art of Love"; no one had told her that it was soft-core pornogra-
phy. The worst kind, she raged inwardly: a woman adoring die man who rapes her. Why would Sybille do it?
Because there was an audience for it. Valerie knew "The Art of Love" had been bought by stations in thirty-five markets so far, and it was beating the network soap operas in its afternoon slot. When Sybille found an audience, she would cater to it, no matter with what kind of program. She would provide what people wanted, or she would create a demand by offering what no one else did; that was how she made her money
I wonder what she wouldn't do for money, Valerie thought.
But then she wondered about the rest of them: Al Slavin, Lola and Tom and the entire cast, the floor director, the camera crew... and Valerie Sterling. All of us working on Sybille's pom. We're all just as bad as she is.
No, she thought; that's not quite true. It's our job, and probably every job has something we'd rather not do. Who am I to think people ought to quit rather than work on one piece of porn? It's Sybille who has the real choice; for the rest of us, it's more complicated.
The next scene was being set up, and Al's voice came through the headphones. "Valerie, could you get that telephone table closer to the bed? And make sure that rug is out of the way so the camera can move in on the bathroom; God forbid we shouldn't see Tom's buns in the shower."
She did everything she was told, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Never before had she given any thought to people who had to work, whether they liked it or not, whether they had to compromise their beliefs to keep a job they couldn't do without. But now she was part of that world, and she was stunned by how many adjustments had to be made. Why didn't anyone complain? Al seemed happy in his job; so did Gus Emery. Lola and Tom did what they were told—whether it was fighting, raping, being raped, or eating breakfast—with a casual air that made it seem not much different from being a salesclerk or an accountant. Everyone did the work that had to be done, and none of them seemed unhappy.
Maybe because they were earning good salaries. I should be paid more, Valerie thought at the end of that day, when the studio was quiet and a crew was setting up scenery for the next day's rehearsal. If Sybille won't let me do what I want, at least I ought to get paid enough to live on.
But this time she would not storm into Sybille's office. She had to pick the right time. In the meantime she did the jobs for which she
had been hired, annoyed and bored because they were so simple-minded: running errands, telephoning for prizes to be given on the two game shows, checking props for "The Art of Love," making coffee, bringing in sandwiches for lunch, making notes for script changes, telephoning to get permission letters for the use of copyrighted songs and articles, and making endless Xerox copies of prop lists, lighting schedules, scripts, and production schedules. She was the only assistant who did all those jobs; secretaries did them for other directors. And it was always more than she had time for.
"He wants me to fail," Valerie said to Al at the end of her third week. "Just because I had money once."
Al shook his head. He was sitting at his desk nearby, jotting down suggested lighting changes for "The Hour of Grace." "There's more to it than that. It has somediing to do with Ms. Morgen. I think he's jealous."
'Jealous?"
"She pays a lot of attention to you, walks over here a lot, just walking through, you know, but you're the one she's watching. In fact it's like she's always watching you, whatever you're doing, even when she's in her office. You must have seen it; everybody else has. I think Gus may be worrying about you taking his place; not directing, but you being the one she talks to, instead of him."
Valerie gave a small laugh. "Tell Gus he's safe. Sybille and I aren't close."
"But you knew her before she hired you?"
"Yes." She didn't want to talk about it, even to Al. She threw down the pages of a script she was collating. "I'm so sick of this; any eighth grader could do it. I've got to get a different job, Al, something I feel good about, something I like to do."
"Most of the world wants that," Al said gendy. "Give us a chance, Val; you haven't even been here a month. We'll find something interesting for you. Tell me what you'd like; I'll try to fix it."
Valerie smiled at the earnesmess of his brown eyes. He was a good friend, happily married, with a large family, which made it easy for her to think of him as someone she reUed on, and loved. "Thank you, Al. I think Sybille doesn't want me to do anything very complicated right now, but if something occurs to me I'll take you up on that."
Gus Emery walked by and gestured to Al. "I need you on Sunday to do the Lily."
"No problem," Al said easily. "Anything special?"
Gus shook his head. "The usual. The crew can get the equipment
trucked up to the church, and tape the show; they know it by heart. All you have to do is run the control room and get the sanctimonious shit out to the faithful. Piece of cake."
"What about you? On vacation this week?"
"I've been drafted to help the queen bee. She bought a horse farm in Middleburg; wants me to carry stuff out."
"She's already got a horse farm. In Leesburg, is it?"
"She bought a bigger one. Sterling Farms." Gus turned to Valerie. "Any relation?"
She was sitting as if frozen. "No." They were both looking at her. *1 have work to do," she said numbly and stood up. She looked around, as if wondering where she was, then moved away, toward her desk.
Someone else will have it now; Fll never walk through those rooms again, or ride the horses through those fields, or cut flowers for the dinner table in the£fardens and £freenhouses. ..
She kept walking, past her desk, past all the other desks, and down the corridor to the large studio. It was chilly and dark, empty until a taping would bring it to life the next morning. She can't have it; no one can. Ifs mine.
But it wasn't simply that someone had bought Sterling Farms. What staggered her was that it was Sybille.
Still, what difference did it make who bought it? Yesterday she didn't know who it was; today she did. What difference did it make when the most important thing was that she had lost it and could never live there again?
It made a difference. She had the eerie feeling that Sybille had been stalking her for years, trailing her into boutiques, cosmetics shops, skeet shooting, horseback riding, hunting—even Nick, she thought with icy clarity—and now Sterling Farms. At first Valerie had thought Sybille wanted to mimic her way of life; now it seemed she wanted to take over everything she ever had.
As if she wants to punish me. But what did 1 do to her? I thought I helped her; she came to me in New York and I...
No, she thought suddenly. Not New York. Before that. A memory tugged at her.
Stanford.
She'd done something... no, said something that made trouble for Sybille. It had been such a little thing, but the result was that Sybille had been expelled. That was why she had befriended her in New York; she'd felt guilty. And she'd apologized.
She stood still in the center of the studio, her thoughts spinning upon themselves.
That was thirteen years a^o.
She began to pace near the sofa where Tom Halprin had raped Lola Montalda and a steady stream of sex scenes was played out day after day except when the sofa was used as a part of the set for "At Home with Reverend Grace." / did something stupid, and thirteen years later she still remembers, and she wants to punish m^. My God, if she's been waiting all this time for a chance...
She had almost forgotten the pain of losing Sterling Farms. What else does she want? If I had a husband I suppose she'd want him. But I have none; I haven't anything else she could possibly want. I wonder if that means she's satisfied.
