"Foster, Alan Dean - Cat-a-lyst" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)
Carter saw that Melrose was staring at him. He sighed. "Well, since you ask, no; I don't think this guy would sacrifice himself under those circumstances. Not if he had a family. If he didn't have a-" "There, you see?" said his fellow actor, not letting him finish. He was
more angry than grateful. "It's like I've been saying all along. How come
I gotta die? How come it's always the black guy who's gotta sacrifice himself? Shit, man, let him throw himself in front of the damn bullet! He's the one with the thing for the chick. Me, I'm supposed to have a
wife and two kids back in Brooklyn. Why can't the white guy do the noble death number for a change?"
It required a visible effort for the director to control himself. "Because -that's-not-the-way-it-is-written," he said very slowly. "That is not what it says in the script." He smiled humorlessly. "You remember the script, don't you? The big wad of colored paper everyone is carrying around? The script you read months ago and agreed to follow?" "Look, jack," said the actor, "my agent read the script, see? He's the one told me I should do it. I don't want to be difficult. Soon as I heard it was a Civil War pic I knew I wasn't bein' hired to be the lead. Like, unless Spike Lee or one of the Hudlin brothers is the director, no black actor is gonna get the lead in no Civil War flick. I passed on four weeks in Vegas to do this little epic. "But I still don't see why I gotta die, especially under these circumstances." He shook his head. "I just can't do it, man. I'm an actor, but there's times and lines a man's just gotta deal with, and this is one of 'em. Ever since I saw The Dirty Dozen as a kid, saw Jim Brown sacrifice himself to save all his white buddies . . . I mean, I just can't do it." He brushed past Carter and the director. "I got some heavy thinking to do, man." "Listen, you guys make up your minds what you warma do, but I can't take this anymore." The woman was gathering her soiled costume around her. "All this yelling and shouting has wounded my karma enough as it is." She looked around desperately. "Where's Siddarthee? Where's my Guide?" "Here, little one." A black-bearded scarecrow clad in a long beige robe shuffled forward to place a reassuring arm around the actress's bare shoulders. With his free hand he took one of hers.
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"Everything will be all right. Just close your eyes and breathe deeply. Have good thoughts. Think of the wind in the trees, making music with the leaves."
The director muttered a curse in Arabic. "Somebody get that fake holy man off my set. We're trying to make a movie here." "Siddarthee is no fake," said the actress with wounded dignity. "He is my Guide. If he goes, I go."
The scarecrow raised an arm heavenward, imploring in Hindi. "I do not ask for anything for myself," he added in English. To the actress he murmured, "Come, little one. We must allow time for the discordant vibrations to settle." As he led her off the set she turned to the director and concluded sweetly, "And you tell the jerk with the revolver, the ugly little fart with the brown eyes, that if he doesn't keep his hands off my ass during shooting I'm going to kick his nuts out through his nose." "Amanda. Dear, sweet Amanda." The director trailed his leading lady and her mentor off the set. "These Union deserters are attempting to rape you. If you will kindly enlighten me as to how to stage such a sequence while completely avoiding physical contact I will be most happy to do SO." "That's your problem," she snapped. "You're the director. I'm just telling you that if that creep puts his hands under my costume one more
time he's the one the captain and corporal are gonna have to rescue. You hear me good, Nahfoud?" "That's in your contract too, I suppose." The director's voice faded as
the trio marched in lockstep toward the actress's trailer. "That you're not supposed to be touched?" "I can't take this, man." Melrose Fleet was leaning against a fake boulder, incinerating a cigarette. "This was supposed to be a quick shoot. They told me Nahfoud was fast. I mean, I know there's a lot of action." He saw Carter standing nearby, gestured to him. "Those lines, man; nobody can say lines like those with a straight face today. On top of that we gotta deal with that crazy bitch and her fruitcake guru mumbling mantras while the rest of us are trying to rehearse." He flicked the cigarette butt aside, reached into his pocket, and extracted a vial. "You want some Seconal, man?"
Carter shook his head, smiled noncommittally. Fleet nodded, popped a
couple of the pills, and slipped the bottle back in his pants. "I don't have to take this. Contract or no contract. I got a Tony, man.
I've done Shakespeare."
6 Alan Dean Foster
Carter came over to put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "This isn't Othello, Mel. It's just a job." "Yeah, I know, I know." Fleet removed his Union cap. "I know I shouldn't let it get to me. I know there's times everyone's got to be the professional regardless of personal feelings. But dammit, sometimes you gotta take a stand." "It's just one scene," said Carter soothingly. "It's always 'just one scene,' man," his colleague muttered. "Always just one more scene. I know it seems like I'm making a lot of noise over nothing. But you walk into a theater full of brothers and sisters and that's your face up there twenty feet wide in the dark and those words are
coming out of your mouth, you're the one who's gotta listen to the comments afterward." He stared at Carter. "You don't have to go through that, man. You'll never have to go through that. Look at you: big, blond, good-looking. You got a great voice, muscles, the women are fallin' all over themselves to get next to you. You can say anything you want and you'll never come off stupid." "Maybe not," Carter replied, "but that doesn't mean there aren't plenty of times when I don't feel stupid."
Fleet's gaze narrowed. "I can't figure you, man. I can't figure you at all." He gestured at the outdoor set behind them. "You just walk through this like it's nothing." "It's my profession," Carter said softly. "That's not what I mean. You got everything, jack, but I've been watching you. You got it all and you don't seem happy. Not as happy as me, not as happy as that dumb broad with the measurements bigger than her IQ. What's with you, anyway? What're you after?" "I'm just trying to practice my craft," Carter told him. "Yeah, well, maybe you're right. Maybe I'm overreacting. But sometimes you gotta overreact to get anything changed in this business. You gotta take a position."
Car-ter was nodding understandingly. "Sure you do. Everyone does. But you have to pick your stands carefully if you want results, and I'm not sure that this piece of carefully crafted commercial tripe is one of the right places to do it." "Hey, whose side are you on, anyway? Mine or Nahfoud's?" Fleet nodded in the direction of the actress's trailer. "Yours. I'm just saying that based on what I've seen of this production so far, you're not going to change anything here." He hesitated. "You know, I'd give my right arm to play in Othello." "Yeah? Well, why don't you, man?" "Nobody'll cast me. Look at me. Do you see me as Iago? It's the way I
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am. My face doesn't have enough 'character.' Not dirty enough. I auditioned for Shakespeare in the Park once. Julius Caesar. I thought they might give me a shot at Brutus. "Know what they wanted me to play? One of the guards. They wanted to stick me in a leather bikini and armor and have me carry a spear. I had one line. "That's why I'm in this epic. I've got the lead. I get to act, even if the words aren't by Hecht or Mankiewicz." "Yeah, well. One line of Shakespeare versus the lead in this, I ain't sure which is better." "I don't have any choice," Carter replied. "This is the only kind of part I can get. You at least have a choice. They hired you for your acting ability, because of that Tony." He inhaled sharply. "Look. I'll talk to Nahfoud after he's finished with Amanda and he's settled down some. Maybe we can try something a little different." "Oh, yeah. Like what?" "Sound effects. Maybe we.can blur some of the lines that are bothering you. Or speed the whole interchange up. You know . . . overlapping dialogue. I'll discuss it with Amanda." "That crazy bitch? Shit, ever since she made the break from porno films she thinks she's some kind of cross between Stanwyck and Monroe. That chick is spacey, man." "Maybe Nahfoud's right," said Carter. "Not only do you want to be the writer, you want to do the casting too."
Fleet started to snap off a reply, then caught himself. A sly grin started to spread across his face. "You know, Carter, you're all right. A little slow, maybe, but all right." "She's got the best pout in the business," Carter told him. "You have to admit that much." "Good thing, too. It's her only expression. That and total confusion." "We have to work with her, Mel, just like we have to work with the script. Remember, the producer's nephew is the screenwriter. I'll talk to Nahfoud. I don't think this picture will hurt your career." "We're not talking about my career, jack. We're talking pride. We're talking about my dignity as a human being." "If pride and dignity are important to you, you ought to get out of the movie business." "Yeah, right." Fleet chuckled softly. "Okay, man, you got a deal. You talk to Nahfoud. And if you can't do anything, hell, I don't want to get you into trouble, or hold this up any more than I have to. The sooner it's a wrap, the sooner I can get out of here. But I got my pride, man."
8 Alan Dean Foster
"There's a time for pride and a time for professionalism. Think about it." "I will, man. You take it easy. I'm gonna get me a sandwich." Technicians and gofers gave Fleet a wide berth as he headed for the catering truck.
His promise to his fellow actor had not been an empty one. He would talk to Nahfoud, though he didn't expect to make much headway with the director. Probably Nahfoud would reshoot the ending with Fleet's stunt double, then dub in the requisite lines later. That didn't bother Carter. By then his own involvement with the picture would be over.
He considered what to do next. If they were on a studio lot Nahfoud would probably call a break to allow everyone to cool off, but they were on location. Too expensive to call a halt. The next scene involved a tender reunion between the captain and his beloved. Given Amanda's current state of mind Carter was certain he had an afternoon full of traumatic retakes ahead of him.
As he started for the caterer he found himself beginning to shiver. The long, complicated Steady-cam shot had exhausted him and he was still sweating heavily. The local TV weatherman had predicted the onset of a chilly fall for central Georgia. As a freshening breeze cooled his face Carter could well believe it.
He'd gone halfway when an insistent voice interrupted his reverie. "Mr. Carter, Mr. Carter!" Not now, he thought tiredly. Turning, he saw the diminutive form of Trang Ho hurrying toward him. She held her microcassette recorder out in front of her, much as the fictional Union captain had carried his saber. A saber, of course, was far less lethal. He had long since come to the conclusion that the recorder was not a separate instrument but was in fact a small rectangular appendage of the woman's body. Swollen and black, it protruded threateningly from her right hand.
The tabloids she sold her stories to were invariably not worth the trees slain to print them. Indeed, he often wondered why they bothered with reporters at all, since their tales were invariably based on unauthorized photographs, pure hearsay, and innuendo. An actor ignored them at his peril. To do so meant inviting a front-page story along the lines of, "Jason Carter . . . Antisocial Star Despises Fellow Actors! Worst Film in Cinematic History, Carter Implies!"
You couldn't win with such people, he knew. If you told them the
cat-O-L t 9 YS
truth they misquoted you; if you told lies they printed them as the truth; and if you said nothing at all they invented something twice as horrible to fill the void. Privately he wondered if the North Vietnamese still operated any of their infamous "reeducation camps," and if they might accept someone like Trang Ho on scholarship. He knew many colleagues who would be eager to contribute to such a fund.
She caught up with him as he was fi1ling a plastic tumbler with iced tea from the large canister marked "Sweetened." "I hear there was some trouble on the set." Her recorder quivered beneath his lips like some exotic African parasite seeking a path to its host's innards. Her eyes were agleam. She smelled conflict, Carter knew, the way a sheepdog could smell a dead lamb half a mile away. "Nothing happened," he muttered. "That's not the way I heard it, Jason. I heard there was a real blowup." "Sorry. Nobody died."
She didn't look disappointed. There were plenty of deaths in Georgia she could somehow work into a story. "I hear that Melrose Fleet stormed off the set and refused to finish his scene."
Carter sipped tea. "It's been a tough shoot. Mel got a little tired, that's all."
He needed for this picture to end. Maybe the next one would be better, he told himself. If he kept calm and did his job, kept throwing himself wholeheartedly into crap like this, he might finally be offered something worthwhile. A role where he'd be given the chance to act instead of pose, to do something more significant than reveal his chest and declaim heroically while flashing his famous smile.
He could always black out his teeth. Envisioning Nahfoud's reaction to that made him grin. "Something funny?" Trang Ho inquired hopefully. "Nothing you can use." He glanced down at her. Her elfin face and stature gave her the appearance of a harmless waif, but the nonthreatening image was deceptive. Speak softly and carry a big tape recorder, he mused. "I can use anything. Come on, Jason," she prodded him. "Give me
something I can use. I'll be good to you. When they print the pictures I'll make sure they only show your best side."
I don't have a best side, he thought. I don't have a bad side, either. That's what all the cinematographers kept telling him. He wished fervently they'd quit photographing him like he was a refugee from Mount Rushmore.
10 Alan Dean Foster
"Give me a break, Trang. I've never done anything to you. I'm trying to build a career as a serious actor." "Serious actor?" She almost but fortunately for her did not giggle. "I know your credits by heart, Carter. The Toxic Waste Monster. Crack Slashers of Manhattan. And what was that Academy Award winner you did last year in Italy? Hercules Meets Jesse James or something?"
Carter counted slowly to five. "The British don't have this problem. An actor can do Lear one week and pratfalls on The Simples the next. The important thing is to work." "Sure. Listen, Carter, you help me and I help you. I'm just trying to get some ink. I get paid by the column inch and page." She looked across
to the trailer which housed the film's leading lady. "Personally I consider this opus to be a step up in your career." Her voice fell to a conspiratorial murmur. "Now, if you could just give me something really interesting, something of serious import for our readers." "Something juicy?" said Carter.
She was practically salivating. "Yeah." "Something like, 'Jason Carter Fathers Amanda Peters's Two-headed Baby'?"
She didn't blink. "That would fly," she deadpanned. "But since I haven't seen any evidence of babies on this set, two-headed or otherwise, I'd settle for a clue to whom she's sleeping with." Black and clawlike, the recorder hovered below his chin. "Not Nahfoud . . . she hates his guts. You? I know she's got the hots for you, Carter. Every woman in the crew has the hots for you." "Well, I don't have the hots for anybody," he shot back. "I'm just trying to do my job."
Her eyes widened hopefully. "Fleet? Or the guy playing the big rapist, maybe?" "I don't know whom she's sleeping with," Carter said tiredly, "and I don't care."
Mercifully the lamprey-like mouth of the recorder retreated. "And if you did you wouldn't tell me, I know. Or would you? God knows this picture could use some PR."
Carter eyed her wonderingly. "Is this what your parents became boat people for? Is this why they fled a tormenting and corrupt regime?" "No. They did it so they could come to the land of the free and the home of the brave. So they could raise three kids on tacos and apple pie and burgers. So their daughter could graduate cum laude from UC Irvine with a degree in journalism. "But since the editor's chair at the New York Times seems to be occu-
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