he: A Novel(13)

What will you do? Mae asks, but he has no answer for her. The fault, he feels certain, lies with him. He has failed Isadore Bernstein, failed Carl Laemmle, failed Hal Roach. It is not enough to want to be a star. It is not enough to hunger for it. The fire that blazed in Chaplin, the spark that has ignited in Harold Lloyd, appears dormant in him, or absent entire.

A diary sits on Mae’s dressing table. It contains the details of bookings confirmed and yet to be confirmed, of living without being alive. The Pantages Circuit. He reads the names now of theaters and towns, a litany of the tiredly familiar: The Regina in Brandon, Manitoba.

The Orpheum in Detroit, Michigan.

The Margaret in Anaconda, Montana.

The Capitol in Logan, Utah.

A.J. is wrong. Some names possess no poetry, or none better than doggerel. He can already smell every venue, and they all smell the same.

We’re okay, you and I, says Mae.

I can’t do it, he tells her, not anymore.

– What choice is there?

– I have another offer.

– You didn’t tell me.

– I didn’t want to.

– Why not?

– It’s a step back. No lead. No name above the title. Maybe no name at all.

– Sennett?

– Vitagraph.

Vitagraph, and Larry Semon.





28


At the Oceana Apartments, he sits at his desk. On it stand a clock, a lamp, a black telephone, and a typewriter to answer the steady flow of correspondence from those who remember him as he once was.

In the face of such demands, Babe would have fled the room.

Babe does not enjoy writing to fans. Babe does not even like signing autographs, not when there are bets to be placed, and rounds of golf to be played, and football games to be watched, and hands of poker to be won. But Babe is also ashamed of his lack of education, and Babe fears to see it confirmed in his writing.

This is important, he tries to explain to Babe, as a pile of photographs appears on the table before them, each one requiring two signatures.

– Not one. Two.

It’s not important, says Babe. Only what appears on the screen is important.

Babe works, and works hard. Babe sits up long into the night memorizing scripts and visualizing scenes in his head. Babe wants the pictures to be the best they can be.

But when filming is done, so too is Babe. Babe is practical. Babe never really wishes to be a star, never expects it. Babe desires only to be employed. If this were to end tomorrow, Babe would go back to playing bit parts and heavies.

And now, at the Oceana Apartments, he watches Babe’s shade rise from a studio table and put on his jacket, the pile of photographs left untouched.

You’re afraid, Babe says, that if you don’t sign for them, they won’t come to see the pictures anymore.

– Yes.

– They’ll still come. Maybe a signature will make them love us more, but the lack of one won’t make them love us less. If you start thinking any other way, you’ll be calling on each one in person to shake his hand.

– Perhaps you’re right.

But he signs the photographs after Babe leaves, and knows that Babe will eventually add a signature alongside his own, even if the studio publicist has to put a gun to Babe’s head.

But Babe is right. He would, if he were able, go to every picture house and personally thank each member of the Audience. He might even offer to buy them all a drink. Because he does not want it to end, and he fears that if his concentration lapses, even for a moment, the whole edifice will collapse, and his obituary will read:

Formerly in pictures.

Sometimes he replies to letters while sitting on his balcony, gazing out on Ocean Avenue and the Pacific. He knows that he is fortunate to have such a view, just as he and Ida are lucky to have secured a good deal on the apartment.

Each morning he dresses in a shirt and tie, with a handkerchief folded carefully into the pocket of his jacket. He takes care of his appearance, because visitors often arrive, sometimes unexpectedly. Every guest is invited to sit, even the ones who neglected to call first. He does not mind. He is happy that he has not been forgotten.

Like Larry Semon.

He has not thought of Larry Semon in many years. He associates Larry Semon with Babe, because Babe, too, accepts supporting roles with Vitagraph, and works there alongside the man they call The Comedy King.

Larry Semon comes from a family of magicians. His grandfather, Emanuel Semon, emigrates to the United States from Amsterdam and teaches the business to his son Zerubabel Semon, Larry Semon’s father. Zerubabel Semon tours the East Coast and Canada circuits as a magician named Zera the Great. Zera the Great has one leg shorter than the other. For the tougher crowds, Zera plays up the limp. Nobody wants to be seen to give a hard time to a cripple.



Zera the Great.

Zera the Wonderful.

Zera the Marvelous.

Zera the Unrivaled.

Zera Semon has more names than a war memorial, but Zera Semon tries to live up to all of them. Zera Semon is a conjuror. Zera Semon is a ventriloquist. Zera Semon dances with marionettes. Zera Semon works up a phony spiritualist act with his wife, Irene. Zera Semon promises a gift to every member of the Audience, and Zera Semon delivers: a set of knives, a slab of ham, a sack of flour. No one has any idea how Zera Semon manages to make a dollar on the circuit, Zera Semon gives away so much. Zera Semon is the only magician who pays the Audience to show up, although Zera Semon is not above stiffing his suppliers when times are tough.