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Authors: Robert Sheckley
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there. But I figured someone was listening.
“Messieurs et mesdames,” I said, “thank you very much. It has been a pleasure to entertain you. What about a nice round of applause for the orchestra?”
From the darkened auditorium there came the sound of one person clapping. The houselights came up. There was only one man in the audience. He stood up and walked toward the stage, his steps slow, deliberate, theatrical.
When he got to the stage, I saw that he wore a dark blue blazer with a white pullover under it. He was perhaps in his forties, a tall man with a look of intense intelligence. I needed no introduction to know that this was the famous Gerard Clovis, enfant terrible of French cinema.
“Excellent,” he said. “You are American? I congratulate you on your air of bewilderment, your projection of naïveté. I especially liked the way you stumbled over the power cable. Your face, too, has that homely innocence that identifies you as a fall guy. All in all, you are a perfect type, one who might have sprung full-blown from the forehead of the estimable Jim Thompson.”
“Who?” I asked.
Clovis’ lower lip curled in an indescribably derisive expression of scorn. “You do not even know the works of America’s premiere writer of policiers noir , the famous Jim Thompson?”
I conceived an instant dislike for Clovis, along with a grudging admiration for his effrontery.
“No, I don’t know any Jim Thompson,” I told him. “I’m trying to trace a friend of mine who has gone missing. I was told that you had hired him for your movie.”
“What is his name?”
“Alex Sinclair. An American.”
Clovis’ expression brightened. “Ah, of course, my newest discovery. He was quite perfect for the role. Do you bring me word of him?”
“I was hoping you knew where he was.”
“He began working for me a few weeks ago. He didn’t come to a costume call last week. He doesn’t answer his telephone. And I begin shooting day after tomorrow. Frankly, I am in trouble over this.”
“Sorry to hear it. I’ll call you when I find out anything.”
Clovis nodded in a vague sort of way. His mind was already far from Alex. He gave me a penetrating look. “Might I know your name?”
“I’m Hobart Draconian.”
“Do you have any acting experience, Mr. Draconian?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Acting’s not my line at all.”
“Perfect,” Clovis said, pronouncing it “parfay.” “I despise the so-called professionals in this business. Big stupid faces and mincing diction. Antonin Artaud pointed the direction. I am the first to take it. Mr. Draconian, I would like to cast you in my movie.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but it’s out of the question.”
“Never accuse me of being kind,” Clovis said. “I have been called a pragmatist of the transcendental. And why is it out of the question? Do you have something more pressing over the next week or so than to participate in a film that is certain to make cinematic history?”
“Well, gee, I’d like to,” I told him, “but I really have to find Alex. It’s not only friendship, Mr. Clovis. It’s a job.”
Clovis mused. “Alex was very friendly with my camera crew. One of them might know something. And you should really talk to Yvette, the script girl.”
“Great. How do I meet them?”
“That is a little difficult,” Clovis said. “Everybody is scattered over Paris at present setting up my locations. But you will meet them all while you are working in my movie.”
“Mr. Clovis, I admire your persistence, but I’m not going to be in your movie.”
“But of course you are,” Clovis said. “You seem to me a rational man. Working on my movie will give you access to all the latest Parisian gossip. You will meet several people who knew Alex well. I myself will assist you with your enquiries. And there is this to consider: perhaps some agent or producer will see your face when the movie is released, and will come to you with
“Messieurs et mesdames,” I said, “thank you very much. It has been a pleasure to entertain you. What about a nice round of applause for the orchestra?”
From the darkened auditorium there came the sound of one person clapping. The houselights came up. There was only one man in the audience. He stood up and walked toward the stage, his steps slow, deliberate, theatrical.
When he got to the stage, I saw that he wore a dark blue blazer with a white pullover under it. He was perhaps in his forties, a tall man with a look of intense intelligence. I needed no introduction to know that this was the famous Gerard Clovis, enfant terrible of French cinema.
“Excellent,” he said. “You are American? I congratulate you on your air of bewilderment, your projection of naïveté. I especially liked the way you stumbled over the power cable. Your face, too, has that homely innocence that identifies you as a fall guy. All in all, you are a perfect type, one who might have sprung full-blown from the forehead of the estimable Jim Thompson.”
“Who?” I asked.
Clovis’ lower lip curled in an indescribably derisive expression of scorn. “You do not even know the works of America’s premiere writer of policiers noir , the famous Jim Thompson?”
I conceived an instant dislike for Clovis, along with a grudging admiration for his effrontery.
“No, I don’t know any Jim Thompson,” I told him. “I’m trying to trace a friend of mine who has gone missing. I was told that you had hired him for your movie.”
“What is his name?”
“Alex Sinclair. An American.”
Clovis’ expression brightened. “Ah, of course, my newest discovery. He was quite perfect for the role. Do you bring me word of him?”
“I was hoping you knew where he was.”
“He began working for me a few weeks ago. He didn’t come to a costume call last week. He doesn’t answer his telephone. And I begin shooting day after tomorrow. Frankly, I am in trouble over this.”
“Sorry to hear it. I’ll call you when I find out anything.”
Clovis nodded in a vague sort of way. His mind was already far from Alex. He gave me a penetrating look. “Might I know your name?”
“I’m Hobart Draconian.”
“Do you have any acting experience, Mr. Draconian?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Acting’s not my line at all.”
“Perfect,” Clovis said, pronouncing it “parfay.” “I despise the so-called professionals in this business. Big stupid faces and mincing diction. Antonin Artaud pointed the direction. I am the first to take it. Mr. Draconian, I would like to cast you in my movie.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but it’s out of the question.”
“Never accuse me of being kind,” Clovis said. “I have been called a pragmatist of the transcendental. And why is it out of the question? Do you have something more pressing over the next week or so than to participate in a film that is certain to make cinematic history?”
“Well, gee, I’d like to,” I told him, “but I really have to find Alex. It’s not only friendship, Mr. Clovis. It’s a job.”
Clovis mused. “Alex was very friendly with my camera crew. One of them might know something. And you should really talk to Yvette, the script girl.”
“Great. How do I meet them?”
“That is a little difficult,” Clovis said. “Everybody is scattered over Paris at present setting up my locations. But you will meet them all while you are working in my movie.”
“Mr. Clovis, I admire your persistence, but I’m not going to be in your movie.”
“But of course you are,” Clovis said. “You seem to me a rational man. Working on my movie will give you access to all the latest Parisian gossip. You will meet several people who knew Alex well. I myself will assist you with your enquiries. And there is this to consider: perhaps some agent or producer will see your face when the movie is released, and will come to you with
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