Seaman nodded silently from where he sat huddled in his chair. He had achieved the best scene of his career, yet for some reason he was discontented.
I refused Sir Ranalf’s suggestion. ‘I have to consider my reputation,’ I said. ‘I am not sure the engineering world would trust a man who showed his bare bottom to the kinema public.’
They laughed at this. The public would receive only a hint! Of course, I would have a perfect right to see the rushes. I would note how subtle the shots would be.
In spite of my deep desire to continue with the film, I could not bring myself to agree. Paramount in my mind was my need to get our footage safely back to America and edit it properly. Only if it won the approval of America would it be a true success. The more intimate scenes would not appear in the United States version but their rumour would attract millions. It was also probably true that the rest of the world would not respond prudishly to such natural portraits which were almost necessary for a film’s success, in France, for instance. Yet what held me back was the dilemma of my shame - or rather my father’s shame - my missing foreskin, removed for hygienic reasons almost before I was sentient. Again, with good grace, I refused to accept their logic.
Sir Ranalf seemed only a trifle disappointed. ‘Just as you like, dear chappy. I take it, however, that you aren’t averse to turning up for some extra shots this afternoon?’
I told him, with perfect truth, that this film meant everything to me. I would do nothing to harm it.
When Sir Ranalf took Esmé back to the Winter Palace for lunch I was rather relieved. It was difficult at present to face her in real life, our rôles had grown so intense. Profoundly disturbed and thoroughly confused, I was grateful when Professor Quelch showed some of his brother’s old affection for me and suggested we try another pipe or two before work began.
‘To calm you down, old boy. You want to be on your best form, don’t you? And it certainly worked yesterday. What superb shots they were!’
We sat together in the cabin we shared while Quelch read to me from Browning and some more modern writers. But it was impossible to give my attention to the written word. I struggled to find a language to describe my dilemma. At last I admitted that, while I had every understanding of their logic and needs, I wanted neither Esmé nor myself to perform further nude scenes. ‘It is not what we mean, it is how it will be interpreted,’ I said. Quelch dismissed this. He assured me that only certain bluestockings in America would object while in Europe I would become a household name. An honoured artist! A great engineer! But I remained uncertain. There was another problem, I said; a question of my operation. He became sympathetic. He did not know I was bothered by such a thing. A scar? He did not recall a scar. The scar, I said, was secret and indelible. And then, because I had borne this lonely burden on my soul for so long, I told him how my father, a socialist, a physician and a Modern Man, had performed the barbaric surgery which was to dog me all my days and which more than once had almost cost me my life. Quelch was deeply understanding. He had heard of the operation. Children in England were given it all the time, these days. He understood it even to be fashionable amongst the lower classes. I was foolish to worry. This was not a stigma. Everyone would understand. ‘Besides,’ he laughed, ‘your bald gentleman would go quite unnoticed in this country, don’t you know!’
This was far from being any consolation! But he went on to tell me how such a thing meant nothing outside Ukraine these days, that it was quaintly old-fashioned of me to worry. Nobody would take me for something I was not. This was the time to put all such stupid thoughts and fears behind me. ‘After all, my dear Peters, fortuna favet fortibus!’
Fortuna favet fatuis, they say also. Would that I had been the fool Fortune favoured!
That evening I came to the set in my light overcoat. I had already donned my costume so that I need not risk further awkwardness. I was a little bleary. Some of the earlier details of that evening have gone but I know we were to re-enact the scene in a ‘tomb’ created in a small ruined Coptic chapel on the outskirts of town, its walls freshly covered with paintings supposed to depict the life and death-journey of our mythical Queen. Esmé will be chained into the coffin in place of the mummy. It will be her fate to be sealed there forever, fulfilling her ambition to take the place of the queen she dared challenge. We will shoot alternative scenes. In one I will stab her. In the other I will reach longingly towards her lips, my body tensed as if I mean to release her. Then I will crush one kiss upon her and turn to flee down the rather ramshackle cardboard corridor representing the tunnel from the tomb. Again I am brought to an Esmé already stretched upon the slab, her legs pressed against the warm stone, her wonderful little body writhing in the most lifelike display of terror. I am proud of her. I am aroused. I have never felt such a peculiar power. I never wanted it. But it will not leave me. The beast stirs and stretches within me. There is metal in our womb. I draw back, conscious of the electric ambience. I turn to Seaman. ‘I cannot,’ I say.
‘You must.’ His voice is quiet and urgent. There seems to be fear in it. ‘You must.’
I begin to shake. Sir Ranalf comes up. ‘My poor dear old fellow, are you sickly?’
I cannot do the scene at all. I will never do it. He asks if I am nervous. I do not know. I am trembling. Sir Ranalf speaks more soothing words. He gives me into the professor’s care. Morphine and cocaine help me get a grip on myself. Now I feel very guilty. I have not been professional. It is completely against my self-interest to let down my potential patron.
When I return to the set, Esmé is calmer. Her eyes are closed and she pants almost in natural sleep. Distanced, she becomes another creature, a lovely animal, even more desirable. Now I am much steadier, almost gay, as I adjust my costume, let the Ethiopian put finishing touches to my make-up and advance towards the altar. All the gods of Egypt are looking down on me. As Seaman rolls the camera I stare in sudden awe at Horus and Anubis and Osiris and Isis, at Mut and Set and Thoth and the hosts of animal-headed demigods surrounding us. Beast blends with man, woman with beast. I feel the power of the beast in me. I feel that terrible power which can inhabit every one of us who invites it in but which it is our duty to control. I would have controlled it. I have controlled it since. Then Esmé begins to cry, a strange little sound, a dreaming sound, and I turn to see her face shift through a dozen expressions, almost as if a series of masks emerges, one beneath another, and her eyes open and she smiles at me. She thinks I can save her.
‘Now, Maxie, now!’ whispers Sir Ranalf from somewhere behind Seaman. ‘You do not know whether to kill her or whether to ravage her. You are torn. The knife is in your hand! But you cannot immediately kill one whom you have loved so passionately. How to take your final revenge?’
And I press myself upon her, kissing her, fondling her, thrusting my body upon her soft, shivering flesh. Her cries are now almost guttural and they frighten me. I continue to kiss her and caress her, but slowly my inspiration again fails me. I stand up, my leg steadied against the rasping granite, and tell them that I will do no more.
‘But that is not possible.’
It is the negress who speaks. A deep, vibrant voice; gorgeously sensual. ‘We must have our rape, I think, or there will be no proper resolution. And the public demands resolution.’