Heaven
isn’t that heavenly. So many goody two shoes and so intense. You wouldn’t
believe how draining it is to listen to St Mark debating theology with Joan of
Arc. Ideally, one would speak in Aramaic, the other in a 15th
Century French patois and you’d be spared listening to the endless discussions.
But no. English is now the lingua franca in Paradise. Choosing a common
language had been a difficult decision for God, and Lord knows he’s judgmental
on most matters. Bach and Brahms had lobbied for German but Dietrich and Einstein
pointed out Germany had let the team down at least twice in the 20th
Century.
I
was restless and, admittedly, lonely. What I needed was a holiday. Or
“vacation” as JFK called it. What with his serial skirt chasing and Mafia links,
I could only imagine President Kennedy jumped the Pearly Gates queue because
he’s a Mick. I’d raised that matter sotto voce with the Buddha – between
his reincarnations – but he’d shrugged and whispered back: “Life is
unsatisfactory so what’d you expect of Death?”
Alright
– a vacation. Plus a chance to meet people who were less shouty. Try making
small talk with Moses.
I
asked around. Florence Nightingale suggested the Crimea – apparently it was delightful
this time of year if you avoided typhoid, cholera, dysentery and the Russian artillery
batteries. Abraham Lincoln mentioned Washington D.C. If you liked the Arts, it
had quite a vibrant theatre scene. Richard the Lionheart recommended a crusade
in the Holy Land but I couldn’t tell if he was being ironic.
Finally,
Captain Cook took me aside. Timing was key, he said. He’d visited the Hawaiian
Islands twice and everything had been rather jolly. For example, his crew had
traded iron nails for sex although Cook doubted the practice was still
commonplace. Then he’d gone back to the islands again by which time the locals
had discovered the English visitors weren’t gods. His mistake ended in an
unseemly squabble in which he’d been stabbed in the neck on a beach. Apparently
that took the spark out of his tropical break. Therefore, said Cook, pick a
peaceable time such as 1938, sitting nicely between one World War and the next,
and just long enough after the Great Depression that restaurant food was
passable if unadventurous. This from a man who provisioned his ship with salt
beef, salt pork, salted cabbage and, to add variety, salt.
“When
you say ‘peaceable’,” I asked, “isn’t ‘38 the year Hitler and Mussolini finally
got their own ways with Czechoslovakia and Ethiopia?”
“Neither
are here to confirm the dates, so why don’t you choose a sunny location in a
land well away from men in polished calf-length boots? Perhaps in the fabled
land of America.”
A
parchment map showed us that Los Angeles was as far away from the Old World as
I would get. So, L.A it would be.
The
sun was brighter than I was. I’d only asked for 24 hours on Earth. Feeling the
warmth of the Californian sunshine, I realised my mistake. Too late now. Just
one day. Fortunately, Charlie Chaplin had given me a Must See list. “You
might bump into me,” he’d added. “There’s an existential thought.”
I’d
popped into “the present” behind a bus shelter on Wilshire near Westwood
Village. A bus drew up, its door sprang open and a driver smiled down at me.
“I’ve
no money ...,” I began.
The
door closed in my face and off he drove. Welcome to L.A.
I
blamed the hellish admin in Heaven. There I was in a well-cut three-button
suit, soft collared shirt, silk tie, co-respondent shoes and empty pockets
except for a linen handkerchief with the monogrammed initials “J.C”. Nice of
Him to lend it. But no dollar bills.
A
car seemingly the length of the Boulevard slid to the kerb, almost brushing my semi-brogue
toe caps. I smelt him before I heard him. “Well, just look at you! You’re
positively glowing.” He was right. We call it the Halo Effect.
The
lavender and vanilla aroma of Pour Un Homme by Daltroff hung like
mustard gas over what I guessed was a Packard Speedster Eight Boat-tail
Roadster Runabout Convertible with top down and driver up for it. Without
leaving his seat, he held out a hand with a pinky ring the size of his enlarged
pupils. “Brandon Hirschfeld. Agent to the stars.”
Leaning
over the passenger door, I took his hand in mine, held it and introduced
myself: “Frank.”
Hirschfeld
quickly extracted his gripped fingers. “Easy, bud. We’ve only just met and
besides I pitch woo strictly at dames. But if you like it the other way, this
town can certainly accommodate you.”
I’m
being too needy, I told myself. Behave like the Living.
Hirschfeld
flicked open the passenger door. “Jump in, Frank. We gotta talk. With your
angel face and lonely eyes and my talent to light the blue touchpaper under
careers, this could be your lucky day.”
“Could?”
Hirschfeld
pressed the accelerator. The Packard’s slipstream dragged the word across the
car boot. Frank was going to Hollywood.
The
brakes were eventually applied on North Vine outside a single-storey building
with a Spanish Mission façade festooned with Brown Derby restaurant branding.
Flipping the keys to a valet parking attendant, Hirschfeld draped a linen
jacket over his shoulders and led me by the elbow into the high-ceilinged
interior featuring leather-lined booths, white jacketed waiters and the smacking
sound of arses being kissed.
A
menu magically popped into my hand and then disappeared. Hirschfeld handed it
back to the waiter. “Frank’s having the Cobb salad, if he has a chance to eat.
It’s time to work the room.”
Shoulders
were squeezed, air was kissed and handshakes as flabby as the owners were
delivered. Avoiding the movie stars dotted around the room – over there, Clark
Gable and Carole Lombard, a little closer, Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland –
Hirschfeld fluttered between David O. Selznick, Sam Goldwyn and Victor Fleming.
“Ignore those deadbeat actors,” he hissed to me. “They’re competitors. Only schmooze
studio heads and directors.”
Hirschfeld
did a final round before dropping back in our booth and stabbing his fork at
the Roquefort in my salad. “I’ve spoken with Vic Fleming. Can you throw open a
window in your diary at three today?”
“I
don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I …”
“Great.
I like my clients to be flexible. Your audition is on the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
lot. Vic’s shooting a little tale called ‘The Wizard of Oz’. You’re up for the
role of Tin Man. Fortunately, the actor who’d got the part – Buddy Ebsen – is
highly allergic to the aluminum dust used in the character’s make-up, so you’re
in. Unless the dust kills you.”
It
didn’t but the other actors did. I’d struggled through two lines of dialogue
and an itching face when the verdicts came in. “Too young,” said Ray “Scarecrow”
Bolger. “Too smooth,” said Bert “Cowardly Lion” Lahr. “So handsome,” said Judy
Garland. The latter comment did it.
“I
warned you to stay clear of actors,” said Hirschfeld.
“It’s
a movie. How could I avoid act… ?”
“Don’t
get so defensive, bubbeleh. Just because you made one mistake doesn’t
mean I’m giving up on you. Yet. We’re on our way to see a wannabe director
named John Huston. He plans to helm a private eye caper called ‘The Maltese
Falcon’ but he’s getting push back from Warner Brothers. Your fresh face –
although it looks a little raw and dusty – could get him over the line with the
studio.”
Tall,
well dressed, Huston was standing on a sound stage on the Burbank studio lot.
Pulling a slim cigar from a leather case, he thought about Hirschfeld’s
suggestion. “No. We’re a year or more away from shooting.”
A
gold Dunhill lighter materialised in Hirschfeld’s hand. He held the flame
beneath Huston’s cigar tip. “Even Bogart had to be discovered. This kid could
make your picture.”
“Only
because it’s you,” said Huston, signaling to the crew. “We’re trying some mood lighting
effects. Fred can be the stand-in.”
“Frank,”
I said.
“Close
enough,” cut in Hirschfeld.
On
the film set, the detective agency’s name – Spade and Archer – was
stenciled on an office window facing a painted backdrop of the Golden Gate
Bridge. “Lower the Venetian blinds,” called Huston. “And you, Fred, stay still.
Lights!”
Standing
there, trying to appear thoughtful, I heard a technician swear: “He’s throwing
no shadow.”
Huston’s
voice came out of the darkness. “Get it right. It’s not as if he’s a ghost.”
“Actually,”
I interrupted, “there’s something you should know.”
Five
minutes later, the Packard was streaking down West Riverside Drive. A cigarette
holder gripped between his teeth, the wind pulling at the jacket on his
shoulders, Hirschfeld’s voice was muffled: “Every actor needs something to
differentiate them and, boy, your’s is a doozy. Next stop: 20th
Century Fox.”
“But,
but … I’m due back soon.”
Hirschfeld
tilted his chin skywards. “Pshaw! This is showbiz. Heaven can wait.”
# # #
