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Authors: Philip Caveney
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‘How do you do it?’ he asked again.
‘How do I do what?’
‘Know stuff about people. And make things appear. And swap cheapo watches for nice expensive ones. Are you like a … magician, or something?’
Mr Lazarus smiled. ‘It’s as good a description as any. I think all projectionists are magicians. We take the stuff of dreams and we put them up there for all to see.’ He gestured at the blank cinema screen.
Kip looked at the screen for a moment and then back at Mr Lazarus.
‘I’ve got some more questions,’ he said.
Mr Lazarus smiled. He ushered Kip into a seat and then took the one next to him. ‘Fire away,’ he suggested.
Kip frowned, not exactly sure what to ask first. Every question that appeared in his mind sounded stupid. Finally, he decided he had to start somewhere.
‘Are you … are you
really
over a hundred years old?’ he asked.
Mr Lazarus laughed.
‘Hard ones first, eh?’ He seemed to consider for a moment. ‘I was born in 1890,’ he said. ‘In Naples.’
Kip did a quick calculation in his head.
‘Flippin’eck!’ he said.
Mr Lazarus seemed unperturbed.
‘My father was a travelling salesman and my early years were spent moving from place to place. When I was around your age, we moved to Paris and it was while I was there that I first met the man who would influence my whole life. His name was Georges Méliés.’
‘The film maker?’ asked Kip.
Mr Lazarus looked at him, shocked. ‘You have heard of him?’ he gasped. ‘I must say, I’m surprised. It was a very long time ago.’
‘Well, I don’t know much about him, but I read this article in a film magazine. It reckoned he was the father of science fiction.’
Mr Lazarus nodded.
‘He has been called that. It’s funny you mentioned magicians earlier because that is exactly what he did for a living before he discovered film-making. He taught me a few things.’ Mr Lazarus lifted a hand and made a gesture. A white dove appeared in his palm and fluttered towards the roof of the cinema. Kip gazed up at it open-mouthed. Meanwhile, Mr Lazarus went right on talking. ‘I was perhaps sixteen years old when I first went to his theatre and saw a film called
A Journey to the Moon
…’ He paused for a moment. ‘Do you still have my business card with you?’
Kip nodded. He reached into his back pocket and took it out.
‘It’s getting a bit creased,’ he said.
‘No matter.’ Mr Lazarus drew the card between his thumb and forefinger and suddenly, it looked as though it had been freshly ironed. Then he tapped it once. Instantly, a grainy black and white image appeared on it – a round full moon, that appeared to be made from melting wax, floating in a black sky. The moon had a face, a jolly smiling face: the eyes moving, the lips pouting and smiling. The moon began to grow bigger as though a camera was tracking towards it. Then, quite suddenly, a huge bullet-shaped spaceship struck the moon and buried itself in the face’s right eye. The moon’s tongue came out of its mouth and it winced in pain. Then the image flickered and was gone.
‘The most famous image from that film,’ explained Mr Lazarus. ‘Primitive by today’s standards, but at the time, audiences were astounded. And I was in one such audience! Afterwards, I stayed behind and asked if I could speak to George. I told him that I was fascinated by what I had seen and I would very much like to work for him. He was kind enough to take me on as an apprentice at his studio and, in time, I became his chief projectionist.’
‘But …’ Kip was shaking his head. ‘You couldn’t be
that
old, could you? I mean, people of seventy and eighty are old wrecks. But you, you’re well over a hundred and you don’t look so bad.’
Mr Lazarus smiled. ‘I will take that as a compliment,’ he said. He went back to his little history. ‘In nineteen-thirteen, George’s company was put out of business by other, bigger
‘How do you do it?’ he asked again.
‘How do I do what?’
‘Know stuff about people. And make things appear. And swap cheapo watches for nice expensive ones. Are you like a … magician, or something?’
Mr Lazarus smiled. ‘It’s as good a description as any. I think all projectionists are magicians. We take the stuff of dreams and we put them up there for all to see.’ He gestured at the blank cinema screen.
Kip looked at the screen for a moment and then back at Mr Lazarus.
‘I’ve got some more questions,’ he said.
Mr Lazarus smiled. He ushered Kip into a seat and then took the one next to him. ‘Fire away,’ he suggested.
Kip frowned, not exactly sure what to ask first. Every question that appeared in his mind sounded stupid. Finally, he decided he had to start somewhere.
‘Are you … are you
really
over a hundred years old?’ he asked.
Mr Lazarus laughed.
‘Hard ones first, eh?’ He seemed to consider for a moment. ‘I was born in 1890,’ he said. ‘In Naples.’
Kip did a quick calculation in his head.
‘Flippin’eck!’ he said.
Mr Lazarus seemed unperturbed.
‘My father was a travelling salesman and my early years were spent moving from place to place. When I was around your age, we moved to Paris and it was while I was there that I first met the man who would influence my whole life. His name was Georges Méliés.’
‘The film maker?’ asked Kip.
Mr Lazarus looked at him, shocked. ‘You have heard of him?’ he gasped. ‘I must say, I’m surprised. It was a very long time ago.’
‘Well, I don’t know much about him, but I read this article in a film magazine. It reckoned he was the father of science fiction.’
Mr Lazarus nodded.
‘He has been called that. It’s funny you mentioned magicians earlier because that is exactly what he did for a living before he discovered film-making. He taught me a few things.’ Mr Lazarus lifted a hand and made a gesture. A white dove appeared in his palm and fluttered towards the roof of the cinema. Kip gazed up at it open-mouthed. Meanwhile, Mr Lazarus went right on talking. ‘I was perhaps sixteen years old when I first went to his theatre and saw a film called
A Journey to the Moon
…’ He paused for a moment. ‘Do you still have my business card with you?’
Kip nodded. He reached into his back pocket and took it out.
‘It’s getting a bit creased,’ he said.
‘No matter.’ Mr Lazarus drew the card between his thumb and forefinger and suddenly, it looked as though it had been freshly ironed. Then he tapped it once. Instantly, a grainy black and white image appeared on it – a round full moon, that appeared to be made from melting wax, floating in a black sky. The moon had a face, a jolly smiling face: the eyes moving, the lips pouting and smiling. The moon began to grow bigger as though a camera was tracking towards it. Then, quite suddenly, a huge bullet-shaped spaceship struck the moon and buried itself in the face’s right eye. The moon’s tongue came out of its mouth and it winced in pain. Then the image flickered and was gone.
‘The most famous image from that film,’ explained Mr Lazarus. ‘Primitive by today’s standards, but at the time, audiences were astounded. And I was in one such audience! Afterwards, I stayed behind and asked if I could speak to George. I told him that I was fascinated by what I had seen and I would very much like to work for him. He was kind enough to take me on as an apprentice at his studio and, in time, I became his chief projectionist.’
‘But …’ Kip was shaking his head. ‘You couldn’t be
that
old, could you? I mean, people of seventy and eighty are old wrecks. But you, you’re well over a hundred and you don’t look so bad.’
Mr Lazarus smiled. ‘I will take that as a compliment,’ he said. He went back to his little history. ‘In nineteen-thirteen, George’s company was put out of business by other, bigger
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