Read Online Wake Up and Dream by Ian R. MacLeod - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ian R. MacLeod
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corner in a bar, he asked if there might be any kind of work going, and they agreed that he might be of some help shifting scenes, he was already hooked.
By now the main dishes had come and gone. So had the second bottle of Champagne, and April Lamotte had ordered a third before he could wonder whether it was a good idea. She seemed to have mellowed as she leaned across the table, working her hands around her neck and then up into the roots of her hair, even though she’d been filling up his glass more often than hers.
“ Everyone in this city is hooked. The people here…” She gestured, and leaned forward some more. “Or the bus station whores. Me. I mean, I wouldn’t be here, would I—not one of us would—if it wasn’t for the dream. Or nightmare. I sometimes wonder. I mean, even today… What the hell’s it all for?”
He watched her blink away the glitter that had formed at the edges of her eyes. What the hell’s it all for? In this business, in this city, nothing ever changed. By this time in the evening, the same question would be asked at many of Chateau Bansar’s other lit tables, and in thousands of cheap lodging houses, and down at the bus station by the whores.
“Not that Dan can help the way he is. He’s sweet. He’s brilliant. But, God, he’s hard work . No one knows what it’s like to live with a writer—I mean, it never gets into the stuff they write, does it? Or even the biographies… What about Mrs Shakespeare, eh? What about Mrs fucking Dickens? They sat at home, they took the shit, they peeled the potatoes and made the bed and put the meals on the table and told the kids playing out front to shut up because their genius husband’s writing. Or trying to write. Or quite possibly not writing at all…”
The glitter came again. It spilled from her eye and soaked into the powder on her cheek. She rubbed it away. “This was supposed to be a celebration. I’m sorry.”
He took her hand. “No. It’s okay.” She gave a louder sob. Her elbow knocked her glass, and Champagne glittered across the table.
Looking up, he saw that a waiter was already hovering at the edge of their alcove, looking dumbly concerned. Taking April a little closer in his arms, he told him to get them some fresh napkins, and the bill.
TWELVE
I T WAS FULLY NIGHT NOW, and the waiting Delahaye’s engine was already running, and the inky blue sky shone in rivulets along its long cream flanks. Clark took off the tortoiseshell glasses and gave them a wipe with his DL monogrammed handkerchief as if to get rid of some kind of blurriness. But what he felt was clear-headed. Anyone would, having glimpsed the size of that bill.
“Why don’t you drive?” Less tearful now, April Lamotte let go of his arm. “Like I said, Dan, it’s your car.”
The pull of the engine. The way the suspension rode. He was doing fifty just on the curving driveway out of Chateau Bansar.
“Which way?”
“No hurry. Your car’s down by Los Felice isn’t it, so why not try Mulholland? We can drive up through the mountains and cut down through Ventura.” She laid her hand over his on the gearstick as they waited at the turn. “It’s the kind of night for a drive.”
The smog had blown away in a light wind from off the ocean. The city spilled below them like a box of glittering jewels.
He’d forgotten. He really had. He’d been living and working in this city—at least, the fringes of it—for all these years, and he’d been like someone asleep. Fairyland didn’t stop with those last views in the rearview of Chateau Bansar’s turrets. Up here, driving a car like this above Hollywood, you felt you were traveling pretty much as high and as far as it was possible to get in this world.
He re-found Cahuenga and lost most of the traffic by turning east along the wide detour of Mulholland Drive. The dials twitched. His hands turned easy on the wheel. The Delahaye took the switchtails like a salmon taking the rapids on its way to
By now the main dishes had come and gone. So had the second bottle of Champagne, and April Lamotte had ordered a third before he could wonder whether it was a good idea. She seemed to have mellowed as she leaned across the table, working her hands around her neck and then up into the roots of her hair, even though she’d been filling up his glass more often than hers.
“ Everyone in this city is hooked. The people here…” She gestured, and leaned forward some more. “Or the bus station whores. Me. I mean, I wouldn’t be here, would I—not one of us would—if it wasn’t for the dream. Or nightmare. I sometimes wonder. I mean, even today… What the hell’s it all for?”
He watched her blink away the glitter that had formed at the edges of her eyes. What the hell’s it all for? In this business, in this city, nothing ever changed. By this time in the evening, the same question would be asked at many of Chateau Bansar’s other lit tables, and in thousands of cheap lodging houses, and down at the bus station by the whores.
“Not that Dan can help the way he is. He’s sweet. He’s brilliant. But, God, he’s hard work . No one knows what it’s like to live with a writer—I mean, it never gets into the stuff they write, does it? Or even the biographies… What about Mrs Shakespeare, eh? What about Mrs fucking Dickens? They sat at home, they took the shit, they peeled the potatoes and made the bed and put the meals on the table and told the kids playing out front to shut up because their genius husband’s writing. Or trying to write. Or quite possibly not writing at all…”
The glitter came again. It spilled from her eye and soaked into the powder on her cheek. She rubbed it away. “This was supposed to be a celebration. I’m sorry.”
He took her hand. “No. It’s okay.” She gave a louder sob. Her elbow knocked her glass, and Champagne glittered across the table.
Looking up, he saw that a waiter was already hovering at the edge of their alcove, looking dumbly concerned. Taking April a little closer in his arms, he told him to get them some fresh napkins, and the bill.
TWELVE
I T WAS FULLY NIGHT NOW, and the waiting Delahaye’s engine was already running, and the inky blue sky shone in rivulets along its long cream flanks. Clark took off the tortoiseshell glasses and gave them a wipe with his DL monogrammed handkerchief as if to get rid of some kind of blurriness. But what he felt was clear-headed. Anyone would, having glimpsed the size of that bill.
“Why don’t you drive?” Less tearful now, April Lamotte let go of his arm. “Like I said, Dan, it’s your car.”
The pull of the engine. The way the suspension rode. He was doing fifty just on the curving driveway out of Chateau Bansar.
“Which way?”
“No hurry. Your car’s down by Los Felice isn’t it, so why not try Mulholland? We can drive up through the mountains and cut down through Ventura.” She laid her hand over his on the gearstick as they waited at the turn. “It’s the kind of night for a drive.”
The smog had blown away in a light wind from off the ocean. The city spilled below them like a box of glittering jewels.
He’d forgotten. He really had. He’d been living and working in this city—at least, the fringes of it—for all these years, and he’d been like someone asleep. Fairyland didn’t stop with those last views in the rearview of Chateau Bansar’s turrets. Up here, driving a car like this above Hollywood, you felt you were traveling pretty much as high and as far as it was possible to get in this world.
He re-found Cahuenga and lost most of the traffic by turning east along the wide detour of Mulholland Drive. The dials twitched. His hands turned easy on the wheel. The Delahaye took the switchtails like a salmon taking the rapids on its way to
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