Josh raised his hand.
“Actually, have any of you heard of the ’60s filmmaker Bobby Desoto?” he said. “Desoto made a series of films from 1968 to1972. Many are on Super Eight, and some of them use dolls, or clay figures, in hand-done stop-action. They look amazing: beautiful in their own right, with that Lotte Reiniger sort of primitive-intricate animation, pinhole lighting and paper effects, but also with these very funny absurd political voice-overs, like La Chinoise, Godard’s film with the speeches about the Vietcong recited in flat, singsong tones by French beauties in miniskirts. Where the tone is such that you are never sure if the extreme didacticism is being satirized or espoused. It is both. Mix Godard with Gumby and Georges Méliès, that’s what Desoto’s films are like.” Josh smiled at the group of perplexed but nonchalant cineastes staring at him.
“Desoto clearly was way ahead on all of this. Including copyright stuff. He made several films out of other films and news clips. He looped and sampled found clips, juxtaposed things for various effects. A prankster, as well. He also did some straightforward documentary stuff, not nearly as successful as the other things. He even got Jean-Pierre Léaud to narrate one of them, half in French and half in highly accented, rough English.”
“Are his films available on video?” a girl asked.
“No, but there is this sort of neo-Luddite group, the Formatters?” Some of the people nodded. “They are all about retro formatting. They preserve and disseminate stuff in its original format, like eight-millimeter, Super Eight or sixteen-millimeter film. Vinyl records, eight-track tapes, even laser discs. As long as it is obsolete, it’s included. No digital remastering or video transferring. You can also buy projectors from them. Anyway, they deal largely in bootleg stuff, so it is semi-illegal. All the Desoto stuff is bootlegged.”
“So the artist doesn’t get any money for it?” asked Miranda.
“Well, Desoto, as it happens, was involved in some terrorism, bombings related to weapons manufacturers, I think, toward the end of the Vietnam War, and he went underground. He is still a fugitive. So there is no way for him to get any money.”
Nash glanced in Josh’s direction, and then he raised his right hand with his index finger and middle finger together and extended. A reluctant gesture. Josh nodded at him.
“So, how did you find this neo-Luddite bootlegger group?” Nash asked.
“On their website,” Josh said and then smiled widely at Nash.
“Naturally,” Nash said, “on their neo-Luddite website.”
“There are actually quite a few of those. They are finally not really antitech. They are kind of tech fetishists in a way. When you think about it.”
“The Formatters, huh?”
“Desoto was a genius.”
Nash shrugged. “Sounds to me like they just value whatever is obscure and difficult to access. Obscuristas. Seems elitist.”
After the group meeting was over and everyone had left, Miranda reappeared, either not having left at all or returning. Nash did the inventory. This meant a clipboard and a title count of all the books on the shelves. It meant counting all the backup books in boxes. It also meant reshelving the books the kids put in the wrong place. He did this once a month, working all night. He liked it, usually — concentrating but not thinking. Making order. He listened to his music — Thelonious Monk tonight. Miranda watched him work until he finally paused.
“I’ve missed having you around,” he said.
“I’ve been in New York. I’m moving there, actually.”
“I heard about that. Great. That’s great.”
They both nodded at each other. Coleman Hawkins blew down the last verse of “Ruby, My Dear.”
“Can I help you do inventory?” she asked.
Nash shook his head.
“Can I hang out for a while?”
“Of course.”
She watched him mark his clipboard. After ten minutes or so, she took out one of her hash-laced cigarettes and lit up.
“Smoking in the store?” he said. She just laughed and inhaled, holding the smoke in her lungs. She held the joint out to him. He walked over and took it from her.
“You still bite your nails,” he said. He took a drag. She sat down on the floor and crossed her legs.
“I should put that nasty nail polish on, the stuff that tastes awful, so I won’t bite them.” She pulled him next to her. He sat on the floor and took another drag.
The hash made the music expand and deepen around them. Nash found the intensity almost unbearable. The music wasn’t meant to be background.
“Are you upset about something?” she said.
He handed her what remained of the hash cigarette.
“I’m moving with that guy, Josh. He went to my high school, you know.”
“I’m not—”
“I don’t mean you are upset about me and Josh, I just meant you seemed upset about something—”
“I didn’t know you went to high school together.”
“—and then I said that about me and Josh next because it was on my mind.”
There was a long, piano-filled pause between them. Nash laughed, nervously. He stood up. “I have to finish inventory. Unfortunately, my concentration is so fragile I can’t talk and count. And with the hash, I may yet drool all over the books.”
Miranda nodded but didn’t move or get up to leave.
“And that crap cinema pseudo meta-provo group has got to go,” he said, mostly to himself and his clipboard.
“I thought they were ecto-provo.”
“That has no meaning, you realize that, don’t you? Still, that’s probably the best thing about them,” Nash said.
“You don’t like Josh, do you?” she said.
“He is a very bright guy. A little overenamored of his finely calibrated sensibility perhaps, and maybe also contrary for its own sake, and definitely more cynical than he could possibly have the right to be. But, all in all a sharp kid.”
“You don’t like him.”
Nash smiled at her as he marked something on his clipboard.
“We are moving to New York for a project Josh is working on. Top secret. I think it will be cool.”
She started to say more, but as Nash began silently mouthing his count, she stopped herself.
“No, I don’t like Josh,” he said, but she probably didn’t hear, because she was already out the door. After he realized Miranda was gone, Nash sat for a minute. He leaned back and lay on the bench by the bookshelves. He closed his eyes and listened to the music.
PART SEVEN. 1982–1999
Rules of Engagement
IT WASN’T THAT she no longer loved Augie. She felt increasing affection for him. It wasn’t that she found him repellent in any way. Objectively she would watch him from across the room when he went to get another beer from the bar. He was pleasing in a gentle-bear way. Nice muscles covered by an easygoing layer of soft fat. No edges, no offenses. But somehow the initial excitement of sleeping with him left with no warning. It didn’t wane or dwindle. It just disappeared for her altogether.
She liked him, his hair, his large eyes, his bumped-up hands, his open face. She thought he smelled just fine — not at all bad. Sometimes she noticed his breath, but not too often. That was not it. There was nothing specific in his person that offended her or put her off. Everything was fine, even pleasing. So why then did she suddenly have no desire for him? He still desired her. He wanted lots of sex, and she complied as much as she could. But sometimes he took so long, and her generosity would fray. She would catch herself thinking, Come on. And he would nearly come but not quite. He’d want to switch positions. And the thing of it was Louise knew she could never betray her impatience. She couldn’t say “hurry up” because that didn’t help at all. No, the best thing was to feign enthusiasm, to act as turned on and enthusiastic as possible to peak his desire and make him come. But it was a fine line: if she feigned too much enthusiasm, he might try to hold back longer, to prolong her enjoyment. Often she flicked her tongue at his ear suddenly, or whispered a hushed cliché to him at a crucial moment. She knew to stroke his back but not in too distracting a way. It wasn’t that she minded his being inside her, but the artifice and the effort required, that was tough. He relaxed after and looked at her in adoration. He didn’t know, did he? She was ashamed and terrified to think that he might know. But maybe he didn’t. She had become so good at arousing him, at the micro-modulations that worked his desire. She had paid attention, it was true, but just not for the reasons he believed.