As a boy he’d loved the surrealism of the Babelsberg lot, the street fronts and women in Marie Antoinette wigs, and sailing ships beached against a wall at the end of a street. Now what struck him was the blur of activity. Outside, in the dusty orange groves and parking lots, things moved at a desert pace. Here everyone seemed to be running late—grips pushing flats and carpenters and extras filing out of wardrobe, everyone hurrying while the sunny oasis over the wall stretched out for a nap.
The look was utilitarian—no country club flower beds or Moorish towers. Lasner hadn’t even bothered with the Spanish touches the other studios couldn’t resist, the arcades and fake adobe walls. Here buildings were whitewashed or painted a cheap industrial green. The only visible trees were the bottle brush palms up in the hills and a few live oaks behind one of the sound stages, probably the western set.
Inside things were sleeker—modern offices with metal trim and secretaries with bright nails and good clothes. He thought of the offices in Frankfurt, the piles of unsorted papers and drip pails and girls with hungry, pinched faces. This was the other side of the world, untouched, not even a shortage of nail polish. The war had only made it richer. Everyone in the hall smiled at him.
Room 200 was the corner, presumably Lasner’s office, and Jenkins was next door. Ben was shown in and announced without even a preliminary buzz, clearly expected. Or had the guard called up from the gate?
Jenkins was slight, with a boyish unlined face, sharp eyes, and hair so thinned that he was nearly bald. He came out from behind the desk with the easy grace of a cat, as smooth as his camel hair sport jacket.
“I’m Bunny Jenkins. Mr. L asked me to get you settled. He’s on the phone with New York,” he said, implying a daily ordeal.
Ben looked at him more closely. “Brian Jenkins?” he said.
“Yes, that Brian Jenkins,” he said wearily. “Which dates you. The kids on the lot haven’t the faintest. Not exactly a comfort.”
“But—”
“Well, we all change,” he said, a put-on archness. “I’ll bet you used to look younger, too.”
Just the voice, still English, would have placed him. Faces wrinkle but voices never change. He was still the boy in The Orphan, then the reworking of Oliver Twist and the other fancy dress adventures that had followed. Ruffled shirts and wide liquid eyes, everybody’s waif.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Never mind. It has been a while. They don’t know Freddie, either. Funny, isn’t it? They brought me over to keep Jackie in line and then they brought Freddie to keep me in line. I mean, really. Freddie. They could have saved a ton and just let the hair do it.” He touched his head.
“Freddie Batholomew?”
“Mm,” he said, glancing up, as if Ben hadn’t been following. “With all his wavy curls. Still, I hear. And much good it did him. They don’t know him, either,” he said, nodding toward the window and the anonymous kids on the lot. “Well, let’s get you started. I’m the tour guide. He wants me to show you Japan, which means the serious tour. I gather you’re here to give us some class.”
“He said that?”
“I’ve seen your budget. You might want to explain the project to me a little. I’ve already had Polly Marks on the horn. I said, ‘Darling, if you don’t know, how would I? He hasn’t even arrived yet.’ But she’ll be back. Walk with me. Oh, and you’re expected for dinner. Saturday. That must have been some chat the two of you had on the train. He never has line producers to the house—not this soon anyway.”
“That’s what I am, a line producer?”
“Well, you have your own budget and nobody seems to be in charge of you.”
“Not you?”
“Me? Oh, I’m a glorified assistant. Technically, vice-president, Operations, which is a nice way of saying I do whatever he needs me to do. You know, you grow up on a set, there’s not much you don’t learn. About the business, I mean.”
“In other words, you run the place.”
Bunny looked at him. “No. Mr. L runs the place. Every nook. You wouldn’t want to make a mistake about that.”
They were almost in the hall when the phone rang. Bunny stopped, glancing over at his secretary. She covered the receiver, mouthing a name at him.
“Hold on a sec. I have to take this.” He went over to the phone. “Rosemary, I thought you were being fitted.” He listened for a while, concentrating. “But, darling, she’s the best. I asked for her. Have you looked at the sketches? Forget the mirror. We never see ourselves, not properly. I tell you what, I’ll swing by in an hour, all right? But meanwhile all smiles, yes? You don’t want her to— Yes, I know. But she used to work for Travis. She sewed for him.” A pause. “Travis Banton. He dressed Marlene, Rosemary. Now go have a ciggie and calm down and I’ll be over later. All smiles.”