Free Dreams from Bunker Hill by John Fante Page B

by now and scarcely heard her as she moved on to Lew Ayres, Frederic March, Jean Harlow and Mary Astor. When she pulled up in front of Frank Edgington’s house she was well into a reminiscence of Franchot Tone, and I had to sit there patiently until the tale was told. Then I stepped out and she drove away.
    The next day I drove out Benedict Canyon to Velda van der Zee’s French chateau. It was nestled in a grove of birch trees, white and serene and aristocratic. Twin towers with slate roofs guarded the front entrance, and a great oak door stood between Doric columns. A housekeeper answered the summons of the lion’s-head knocker. She was a middle-aged black woman in a maid’s costume.
    “I’m Arturo Bandini.”
    “I know,” she smiled. “Please come in.”
    I followed her through an entry hall and into the living room. The place was awesome, intimidating, crowded with Louis Quinze furniture and huge beaded lamps. Over the mantel hung the large oil portrait of an elderly man with a white beard and mustache.
    “Who’s that?” I asked.
    “Mr. van der Zee,” the maid said.
    “I guess I’ve never met him.”
    “You can’t,” the maid said. “He’s dead.”
    “He must have been very rich,” I said.
    She laughed. “You’d be rich too if you owned half of Signal Hill.”
    “Oh.”
    Down the grand staircase came Velda van der Zee, afloat in a diaphanous hostess gown. Silken panels floated behind her like attendant cherubs, and a cloud of exotic perfume enveloped me as she offered her hand.
    “Good morning, Arturo. Shall we go to work, or would you like to see the rest of the house?”
    “Let’s work,” I said.
    She took my arm. “That’s what I like about you, young man, your dedication.” She guided me into an eerie room.
    “This is my den,” she said.
    I looked around. It was indeed a den. Every inch of wallspace was crowded with autographed photos of film stars. The beautiful people. So handsome, so full of buoyant smiles and glittering teeth and graceful hands and beautiful skins. But it was a sad room too, a kind of mausoleum, a display of the living and the dead. Velda looked at them reverently.
    “My beloved friends,” she sighed.
    I wanted to ask about her husband, but it seemed inappropriate. She crossed to an elaborate French provincial desk, a typewriter upon it.
    “My favorite desk,” she said. “A Christmas present from Maurice Chevalier.”
    “It’s a beauty,” I said.
    Velda pulled a red bellcord beside the doorway. A bell rang and the maid appeared. Velda ordered coffee. I went to the desk and sat before the typewriter.
    “Have you read the script?” I asked.
    “Not yet. I plan to do it this morning.”
    She crossed to a divan and sat down.
    “Shall I tell you something very interesting about this room?”
    “Please do.”
    “This is where I signed my first contract with Louis B.Mayer. He sat exactly where you are and signed the papers. That was ten years ago. He’s a wonderful man. One of these days we’ll have a party and you can meet him. If he likes you your future is assured.”
    “I’d love to meet him.” I pulled the script from my coat pocket. “Let’s get started.”
    The maid entered with a coffee tray. Velda talked as she poured. “Lots of famous people have graced this room throughout the years. Do you remember Vilma Banky and Rod La Roque?”
    That started her off. Vilma Banky, Rod La Roque, Clara Bow, Lillian Gish, Marian Davies, John Gilbert, Colleen Moore, Clive Brooke, Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, Wesley Barry, Billie Dove, Corinne Griffith, Claire Windsor. On and on she sailed through clouds of reverie, sipping coffee, lighting cigarettes, dreaming the absurd, invoking the glamour of enchanting lies and impossible worlds she had made for herself.
    I sat listening in quiet despair, thinking of ways to escape, to run out of there, to leap into my car and drive back to the reality of Bunker Hill, to scream, to jump up and scream, to beg her to shut