But I was still unconvinced of any authentic reason to undress. The chance that my father’s ‘hygienic’ operation might be detected and the obvious appalling conclusions drawn was, I must admit, my chief fear. Again Malcolm Quelch was commissioned to take me aside to mention certain precedents in certain paintings, the great myths of fertility and rebirth we hoped to examine through our film. In another part of the temple he helped me light another calming pipe and soothed me with his scholarship, his talk of high aspiration, of the world’s attention. ‘This could be your guarantee of immortality.’ He helped with a match to coax a flame. The kif was especially pungent and I think now that he had made what was known as a cocktail, perhaps with opium and something else. It had the effect of bringing me back to my deep self, my fundamental beliefs, my sense of self-worth. This would, he murmured, be merely the means to an end. When The Follies of a Pharaoh made me world-famous every other reward would fall into my lap. At this point I became convinced, yet still insisted I must have my own little changing-space, a curtain drawn across a corner of the ruin. Quelch agreed. He helped me as, a little unsteadily, I disrobed. Then, in ‘ritual apron’ and the rest of my rather gorgeous costume, I presented myself again upon the set.
I had not expected to find another figure standing with Steeton in the shadows of the pylons. An enormous bulbous negress, a gauzy veil scarcely hiding her huge lips and flat nose, blinked extraordinarily long eyelashes, like a cow’s. From the way she met my glance she clearly believed herself attractive. Was she some sort of nurse brought to give proper decorum to the scene? Eventually Sir Ranalf came over to murmur that this was a ‘very highly placed personage who could finance all our ambitions’. I was dreamy by now from the pipe and I smiled and bowed to the negress, whose response was to withdraw almost coquettishly into the deeper shadows. It did not for a second occur to me who or what she might actually be.
Her own first glimpse of the woman seemed to startle Esmé, who moved cautiously on the slab, as if testing her bonds. But then she looked to me and seemed reassured. I guessed from her manner that she had already encountered the negress with Sir Ranalf at one of the ‘meetings’ I had innocently encouraged her to attend.
My anger surged back. I stepped forward, calling out to Seaman. ‘Can we start them rolling, soon, Mr Director? I have other duties, you know, besides acting the leading part and writing the scenario.’
Seaman scuttled towards the camera and placed his hand on the poker-faced Greek who stood ready to turn the crank. Checking lights and angles in only a fraction of his normal time he nodded to me with a shout of ‘Action’.
Knife in hand, I advance towards my treacherous child. O, how I have worked for her, lived for her, suffered such agonies for her. And this is to be my reward! Reminded of my own folly, of the fruitless idealism that tried to turn a dungheap weed into a perfect rose, now all I wish is to ravage her, to terrify her until she begs for my forgiveness. I long to hurt her in every fibre of her being as I had never hurt her before. I am not proud of these feelings, but they are any man’s normal emotions in the circumstances and I have never been one to resist the truth. The drugs brought a drumming to my ears. It was as if the bodies of a huge crowd pressed close around me, their humid breath upon my back, their dreamy eyes upon my every action. They were willing me to take vengeance, to take vengeance for them, for every act of betrayal Woman ever served on Man since Eve betrayed Adam, since God expelled them from the Garden.
Seaman’s voice grows suddenly animated, as it does only when he knows he has a singular shot. ‘That’s it! That’s wonderful! You go towards her. You love her. You hate her. You want to kill her. You want to save her. She is yours. She is everyone’s. You are expected to sacrifice her. That’s right. You raise the knife. Good. But your hand stays. You cannot move. You cannot bring yourself to kill her - not before you have ravaged her. Yes. You will rape her. You will take her. You are heedless of her cries. Of her struggles. This is what she offered you. What she owes you. This is the debt you will now claim - and then appease the gods with her blood.’
Bile rose in my mouth. I was terrified, certain I must vomit, yet I was completely committed to the scene, knowing what an incredible sensation it would create on screen. I flung my body on hers. Peering into her terrified eyes, I realised that she too was drugged and was genuinely afraid of something. I pulled back. I leaned to spit into the sand at the base of the rock.
‘Cut!’ cried Seaman.
We would try another take, he said, later. Perhaps tomorrow, when we had seen the rushes. I apologised for my condition. The heat was proving too much for me again. Sir Ranalf was solicitous. ‘We must get you back to the boat, dear little chummy. You were wonderful. It must have drained so much out of you. But this is how we will make our film not merely good, you know, but great.’
I remained for the rest of the evening and the night in my cabin, sleeping and dreaming. The image of my chained fiancée recurred frequently and with it that same swamping, horrible lust, a kind of bleakness. Then I would recall the image of that huge negress. What was she? A princess of the ruling blood? Some royal shame? Or a mere brothel-keeper? She had seemed to approve of me. The pale delicacy of my spreadeagled child and the engulfing embrace of the negress merged in a single sudden sensation gripped my genitals and caused me to wake gasping for breath, crying out. I was alone in my cabin as it rocked gently on the water. Outside, far away, came the call of a jackal to its mate. The dreams did not stop. I had soaked my sheets.
Next morning I was aroused by a cheerful Quelch. ‘Come along to the viewing-room, dear boy. You did wonderfully. It’s all developed and ready to watch.’
Still bleary from the opium, I allowed him to help me wash and get my clothes on. Then I followed on padding feet through the hot, yellow daylight to the stern where the company was already seated in semi-darkness waiting for Seaman’s projector to roll. The rushes appeared, flickered, focused and gave us very suddenly three powerful minutes. Now I saw why everyone was so excited. They were incredible shots. All my fierce lust and rage and hatred had been captured. Esmé’s terror had been genuine. There had never been scenes to rival these in the power of their emotional statement! I was at once perturbed and proud. Surely this ravishment would do for me what Valentino’s tango did for him. ‘And yet,’ said Sir Ranalf, after they had all congratulated us, ‘we still have a little way to go before our movie reaches its perfect peak!’ I said I thought we had reached the pinnacle. But he laughed heartily. ‘No, dear, dear chum, we have hardly begun to climb! Isn’t that so, Professor Quelch?’
‘Indeed. We are still, as it were, in the foothills of the ecstatic element of our film. The metaphysical element, shall we say. After all we are seeking to record the insubstantial, the indescribable!’
The English have always had a singular admiration for the insubstantial in everything but religion. Their composers and their painters, their fashionable writers, they are all so happy to substitute mysticism for experience. It is not quite the same thing as our Russian ‘soul’. However, I was convinced. The scenes possessed artistic and intellectual authority. I began to feel quite proud of what everyone but myself and Esmé described as my acting.
‘And, too, remember we have Dame Commerce to placate,’ added Sir Ranalf, shaking his head at the crudeness of our world. I wondered if he referred to the negress. ‘We must ensure that we have enough properly sentimental scenes as well as, I think, a few more “fun scenes”. To give substance to our spectrum, you know. To show that no aspect of human life is left unexamined. This afternoon, Maxie, my good fellow, I want you to consider, perhaps, ripping aside your ritual apron as you advance on the helpless vampire. It will not be photographed directly, of course, but it will help with the ambience, will it not, Mr Seaman?’