What You See in the Dark - Manuel Munoz [12]
No matter how small the role was going to be, it would have been foolish to say no to the Director. He was in the midst of doing something extraordinary and uncanny with some actresses, finessing their star wattage and burnishing it into a singular, almost iconic image. That was the way the Actress saw it anyway, mesmerized by how he was stripping out all the trappings of the industry and pushing these women toward something beyond even acting, something nakedly cinematic—postures, poses, gestures, as if the women were in magazine ads come to life for just split seconds at a time, just enough motion for the public to remember them as images and not characters. It was like opening up a jewelry box she had had many years ago as a young girl, fascinated by the tiny plastic ballerina in the center and its brief circle of motion. She had closed and opened that box endlessly, even though the ballerina did nothing differently. But even now, in a black sedan carrying her over the Grapevine back toward the Valley, where she had grown up, the Actress could close her eyes and remember the golden lace of the ballerina’s costume, the full circle of her deliciously patient twirl, her perfect timing with the delicate chime of the music box’s single tune. And that was the way the screen worked, too, she had discovered. Every actress’s trajectory carried a moment like that, and the Director was staging them effortlessly.
She could feel the car’s engine release a little—the upward climb was ending, and the road was leveling out briefly before the inevitable decline. She peered over the bench seat to get a look out the front window, but so far they hadn’t reached a place where she could see the horizon of the Valley stretching out before them.
“We’re almost there, ma’am,” the driver said. “Probably another hour or so.”
“Oh, I hope I didn’t look impatient,” she said. “There’s a point in the road where you can see for miles across. I thought I had missed it.”
“You’ve been on this road before, ma’am?”
“Absolutely. Does that surprise you?”
“Well, mostly it’s people going the other way,” the driver said. “Getting away from Bakersfield, Fresno, all those little towns in between. Everyone wants to go to Los Angeles. I don’t see any reason why anybody would be going into the Valley.”
“Fruit buyers. Cotton. Oilmen, too. There’s money to be made down there.”
“You’re a smart lady. I’m from the Valley, you know, and most people don’t think of this place that way.”
She said nothing in response for a moment, not wanting to reveal much about herself. She had learned to be careful over the years. She studied the back of the driver’s head, his careful concentration on the road. “I was born here,” she finally offered, “over past Fresno.”
“Is that right?” he said, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. “I’m from Stockton myself, born and raised.”
“Do you still have family there?”
“Yes, ma’am. My parents are still there, but they’re getting on in years.”
She smiled at him when he glanced at her in the mirror, but did not respond. But the silence wasn’t awkward. He went back to the task at hand; she knew how the studios laid down the law on drivers, on crew, even on extras. She studied the back of his head, a handsome square with a clean line from a fresh haircut. Ever so slightly now, the sedan was beginning to pick up speed, the road taking a gradual slope downward, but she resisted leaning forward again to catch a view.
“I hope you won’t think I’m being nosy,” said the driver, “but I hardly think you’re on your way to do a musical.”
She laughed a little and shook her head. “No, nothing like that. Not in Bakersfield.”
“Well, it is a big music city, you know. Lots of country. I’m sure there’s a good story in there somehow. With a country music star and all.”
“Maybe,” she replied. “But you couldn’t see me as a cowgirl, could you?”
“I sure could!” He was beginning