“I’m tired,” says Vikar.
“I’ve been a bartender all my life!”
“I—”
“Hey, go ahead and get some sleep. It’s been a long night.”
Vikar looks at the room around him.
“Hey,” the burglar says, “on my honor as a foot solder in the armed struggle against the white oppressor, I’m not touching anything. Go ahead and get some sleep. I just want to see the end of My Darling Clementine. What do you say.”
Vikar returns to the couch. In his sleep, he hears sirens again. When he wakes two hours later to daylight coming through the window, the other man is gone and so is the television.
51.
In Vikar’s dream, the horizontal rock, open and gaping, draws him in, while lying across the top of the rock is someone unknown yet utterly known, awaiting a judgment. The bright night of the dream is always dazzled by an unseen full moon, in the light of which Vikar can, with every passing recurrence, read across the top of the rock something carved in a glowing white, ancient language.
52.
After seeing his first film, Vikar forsook divinity school for cinema. He was transfixed by the sight of a beautiful nude woman painted entirely gold; her body was discovered by the spy who seduced and thereby doomed her. It was difficult for Vikar to be certain just how bad the spy felt about this. In another movie, a private eye fell in love with the blonde he was hired to follow. The blonde was haunted by past lives and the memory of once having committed suicide by flinging herself from an Old California mission steeple; when she described the steeple, the private eye recognized it, and told her she had seen it not in any past life but this one. But it was the private eye who didn’t know the truth, a truth he could never suspect.
53.
As his graduating thesis at Mather, Vikar designed the model of a small church. He woke one morning seeing the church perfectly in his mind. He saw the church’s unusual steeple and its carving of a crowned lion holding a gold axe, with which a beautiful nude woman might be struck and turned to gold herself. Vikar’s vision of this church was so perfectly realized in his mind that he worried it was something he had seen and forgotten, as though in a past life.
When the review committee became angry at Vikar’s presentation, at first the architecture student believed it was for some sacrilege having to do with the crowned lion and its golden sacrificial axe. In fact the committee chairman’s fury had nothing to do with the lion or axe but with the fact that the small model church had no door. “There’s no way in!” the chairman thundered, and even as the years passed, by the time Vikar got to Los Angeles he couldn’t be sure whether leaving out the door had been inadvertent: “I believe,” Vikar had answered in all innocence, “it’s more that there’s no way out.”
54.
For a moment Vikar thought that, in his fury, the committee chairman might hurl the model to the floor and shatter it.
If he had, the committee would have seen that where an altar should be was a tiny blank movie screen, blank because the image that belonged there was from the movie of his dreams, the scene of the mysterious figure lying on the horizontal rock.
55.
That was the night Vikar shaved his head. The tattoos would come later, at a bus stop on the outskirts of Las Vegas, on the road to Hollywood.
56.
After finishing a Jack Lemmon comedy, Vikar is assigned by Paramount to a love story about a rich boy and a poor girl. At the end of the movie, the girl dies. “It’s like A Place in the Sun except reversed,” Vikar whispers one afternoon on the set to a tiny older woman who has about her the smell of bourbon. “In A Place in the Sun, he’s poor and she’s rich and he dies at the end.”
“You look stupid and rich,” the actress says to the actor in the scene that’s shooting.
“Well,” the actor answers, “what if I’m smart and poor?”
The older woman next to Vikar smokes a cigarette and looks at him dead-eyed. “Yes, it’s like A Place in the Sun,” she whispers back, “except she,” pointing at the actress, “isn’t Liz Taylor and he,” pointing at the actor, “isn’t Monty Clift and,” glancing at the director on the other side of the set and dropping her voice even lower, “no disrespect to poor Arthur, but he’s definitely not Mr. Stevens.”
“I’m smart and poor,” says the actress.
“Well, what makes you so smart?” says the actor.
“Mr. Stevens?” says Vikar.
The actress answers, “I wouldn’t go out for coffee with you, that’s what.”
“Well,” says the actor, “what if I wasn’t going to ask you to go out with me?”
“Well, that’s what makes you stupid.”
On the other side of the set, the director calls for a cut. The woman next to Vikar rolls her eyes. “Still think it’s like A Place in the Sun?” she says to Vikar.
57.
Vikar says, “You knew George Stevens.”
“He’s still with us, you know,” the woman says. “He’s not past-tense yet.” She puts out her cigarette on the arm of a stranded chair. “Saw him about eight months ago over at Fox, as a matter of fact, making another picture with Liz. Monty,” she says, “Monty’s not still with us, of course. It’s Warren in the new one. Liz will survive all her men,” then, thinking a moment, “except maybe Warren.” She reaches her hand out to Vikar. “Dotty Langer,” she says, and as they shake hands she reaches up and gently rubs Vikar’s bald head like the little old mother she appears to be, before walking off to a nearby trailer and closing the door.
58.
For a week Vikar watches Dotty Langer go in and out of the trailer during and after each day’s shoot. The next time they talk, an exterior street scene which Vikar helped build is being shot with the same actor and actress. The actor has so little presence it seems to Vikar as though at any moment he’ll disappear into thin air. Vikar is more captivated by the actress, whose brown eyes remind him of a faun.
Dotty stands by the door of her trailer talking to a burly black-bearded man. In red bermuda shorts and an unbuttoned white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he smokes a cigar; his Volkswagen bug is parked in the distance with a surfboard on top. When they finally walk over, Dotty says to Vikar, “Place in the Sun, meet Red River.”
“What do you say, vicar,” the bearded man laughs, sticking out his hand. Vikar has no idea why the man calls him this; he’s never been called it before. “Viking Man,” the bearded man introduces himself.
Dotty rolls her eyes. “The ‘Viking Man’ here is writing a Western for Huston over at Warners.”
“Quiet on the set!” someone yells.
“Quiet!” someone else yells. The set goes quiet. “Action,” calls the director.
“I forgot my key,” says the actress.
“Jenny,” answers the actor, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t. Love means never having—”
“Cut,” calls the director. He consults with the A.D. in the chair next to him, who consults with the script supervisor in the chair next to him. “You’re writing a movie for John Huston?” Vikar says to the black-bearded man.
“Ali,” the director says to the actress, “the line is ‘not ever.’”
“What?” says the actress.
“You said ‘never’. The line is ‘not ever.’ ‘Love means not ever.’ Let’s try it again.”