Night Film(85)

“It was a bright day. Once you turned onto the property you continued along a long drive through woods. And at the end, the house rose up, an enormous manor commanding the hill like a castle out of a fairy tale. It was deserted. Billy and I pounded on the door and wandered around the house and the gardens. There was no sign of anyone. Finally, after twenty minutes, the massive front door opened and a Japanese man stood there. He’d just woken up and didn’t speak any English. He was wearing green silk pajamas and a sword around his waist, and he wandered out, rubbing his eyes, yawning, saying something in Japanese as he beckoned for us to follow him. He led us down to the lake. That’s where everyone was. A group sitting on white blankets under white umbrellas. Everyone was there, except Cordova. He was working that day. At least, that’s what they said.”

She took a deep breath. “It was like wandering into a painting. A dream sequence. There were movie stars, Jack Nicholson and Dennis Hopper, but they weren’t the star attraction. There were astronauts talking about deep space. A former member of the CIA living off the grid who kept in his wallet the New York Times article reporting his death. A famous playwright. A local priest who’d wandered the world for fifteen years and come home. Cordova’s son, Theo, was there. He was sixteen and gorgeous, photographing everything with an old Leica camera, standing waist-deep in the marshes to capture shots of warring dragonflies. He was having a very intense love affair with a woman named Rachel, ten years older than he. She was there, too. I remember someone saying she’d been in one of Cordova’s films.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t remember.” She smiled wistfully. “Cordova’s set designer had built the family a fleet of brightly colored sailboats—pirate ships, everyone called them—to sail around the lake. There was a pack of dogs, half wolf. One of the guests told the story of how the Cordovas had rescued them in the middle of the night from a farmer who’d been breeding them for dogfights. These were the true stories they were telling. Cordova’s mother was there. She didn’t speak English, was dying of cancer. They were so gentle with her, folding her into a deck chair so she could sit under an umbrella, drinking Limoncello. I swore to myself if I was ever so lucky to have a family, I wanted it to be like that. It was the living experience of a fantasy. I spent most of the afternoon with a philosopher from France and Astrid, who was teaching everyone to oil paint. We all had our easels along the lake’s edge, standing in the wind, painting. When Billy and I left, the sun was going down and I felt a terrible sense of mourning, as if I’d spent the afternoon on an island paradise and now the ocean was pulling me out to sea and I’d never be able to make my way back.”

“Sounds like Shangri-la,” I said, when she didn’t go on.

She glanced at me distractedly, saying nothing, and I regretted speaking, for fear I’d punctured the spell she’d been under, recounting that day. The words had sputtered, then to my immense surprise blasted out of her like a fountain, one that’d been dry for years. Now she seemed sorry that she’d said anything at all.

“What year was this?” I asked nonchalantly.

“The year of Isolate production. Spring of ’93, I think.”

Ashley’s birthday was December 30, 1986. If this was the spring before, then she was six years old at the time.

“Did you meet Ashley?” I asked.

Peg nodded, reluctant to go on, but then, it seemed she couldn’t leave such a vibrant question dangling in the air.

“She was beautiful. Short dark hair, almost black. Like a sprite. Pale gray eyes.” She smiled, suddenly animated. “I was seventeen. Wasn’t into kids at all. But totally out of the blue, Ashley took my hand and brought me down to a deserted part of the lake where there was a willow tree and tall grass, the water emerald green. She asked me if I could see the trolls. I still remember the names. Elfriede and Vanderlye. By the time she let go of my hand and took off across the field chasing a butterfly—a butterfly that was huge, bright red and orange, like this property had their own insects—I believed in trolls. I still do.”

She fell silent, seemingly embarrassed by her zeal. Sam, I noticed, was staring at Peg, listening intently.

It was dark now in the park, the strangers standing along the fence, faceless. The giant elm trees with their outstretched limbs were sinking deeper into the darkness, slipping away. The pack of dogs was still going strong, a white-and-brown blurry squall of panting and flying gravel.

“I’ve held on to that day,” Peg continued in a thin voice, “like some faded postcard. Something you put in a scrapbook to remind yourself of perfect happiness—that it does exist, for one moment, like a sudden streak of lightning through the sky. When I read what happened to Ashley, I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know her at all, but … it seemed so sudden. And wrong. If you have a family like that and you still can’t withstand this world, what hope is there for the rest of us?”

She smiled sadly, looking away.

“What was he like to work with?” Silently I cringed at the probing question. Thankfully, she just shrugged.

“I had such a small part. I was only on the set for two days. I understood nothing that was going on, really, because the crew was Mexican and Cordova’s assistant gave them all their directions in Spanish.”

“His assistant—you’re talking about Inez Gallo?”