The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [191]
As he waited for Dick Nevern to appear with the day’s output of film, he ran his fingers idly over the keys of the beautiful Bechstein grand, recalling those lonesome nights in the dark back room behind the pawnshop. He rarely dreamed of the past anymore, though his mother’s silver candlesticks were still displayed proudly on the dining-room sideboard. He lived for the present, each day for itself, but as he stared around at his lovely house and his tasteful possessions he would have traded it all just to feel the way he had when Missie O’Bryan first came into his life; to have his heart jump at the sight of her, to stare out of the window waiting for a glimpse of her passing by, to have the clock ticking away the hours and then the minutes on Fridays until she would fling open the door and, smiling, hand him her two dollars. And he thought he would have given ten years of his life to be sitting opposite her again at the Ukrainian café and see her smile at him with those violet eyes.
“Hi, C. Z.,” Dick called, startling him from his dream. He patted the reels of film under his arm. “Just the usual. But later I’ve got somethin’ real special to show you.”
C. Z. nodded briskly. “Let’s go,” he said, leading the way to the basement projection room.
A table with brandy, beer, and sandwiches was set up next to the comfortable armchairs and Dick helped himself as C. Z. threaded the first reel. They watched the shorts first, commenting on the lead players and the camera angles and making notes, and then they did the same with the rushes from the two big films in production.
“Pretty good,” C. Z. said in his newly acquired accent less American. “Raoul’s doing a great job on Imperfect Pair, and as usual you’ve got it spot-on with Broadway.”
Dick wound back the reels and said eagerly, “C. Z., I reckon films are gonna have to get more realistic, now that talkies are here to stay. There’s got to be a new look about them as well as a new sound, fresher, lighter, a different style of acting. We’re gonna need some new faces, C. Z., and I think I may just have found us our first new star.”
Zev smiled. Dick’s enthusiasm was one of his greatest assets. He could carry you away with it if you weren’t careful. That’s why they were such a good team: one the crazy, artistic creator and the other the down-to-earth pragmatist. “So? Show me,” he said, pouring himself a brandy.
Dick set up the reel and doused the lights. He took another sandwich and stood at the back, munching chicken as the magic unfolded on the screen.
There were no props, just an empty stage and a young blond girl, head bowed, her hands crossed gracefully over her chiffon skirt. Slowly she raised her head and began to dance, floating across the screen, her long hair streaming behind her as she pirouetted and turned to the faint strains of a Debussy nocturne. The music faded and she walked gracefully toward the camera. The clever backlighting created a halo from her platinum hair, casting soft shadows beneath her high cheekbones, and her light, slumbrous eyes captured all attention as she smiled nervously and said, “My name is Azaylee O’Bryan. I am fifteen years old and at Hollywood High School. All my life I have wanted to dance and most of it I’ve wanted to be in the movies. Thank you for giving me a test, Mr. Nevern.”
As the film went blank C. Z. put down his glass with a shaking hand. His heart fluttered in his chest and he clasped a hand to it as if to stop it jumping.
“There’s more,” Dick said, rolling the film on. “I had her do a little scene.”
“Sign her,” C. Z. said abruptly. “A thousand a week. We’ll sign the contracts tomorrow.”
Dick stared after him, astonished, as C. Z. stood up and made for the door. He looked ashen and he seemed unsteady on his feet. “But … are you sure you’re all right, C. Z.?” he said, striding quickly after him. “I mean, you don’t look so great….”
“I am sure. I meant what I said. A thousand a week and we sign tomorrow.” They were in the