STORM CLOUD, Chapter Two, i.

Philip and Marie are the same Philip and Marie during their after-dinner meander about the hotel lobby, and yet they have a glow of neatness and cleanliness that only comes with money lavishly spent. As they meander, they pass a circular stairwell of narrow width, given the grandeur of the lobby as a whole. Because it leads into darkness, it arouses Philip's sense of mystery which sends coursing through him a spark of energy strong enough to make him bound up the stairs in a flash.

Marie's head whirls around as she finds herself suddenly left alone. "Philip!"

He runs back down even more excited. "Marie, it's a big ball room filled with people and I heard someone say it's a party for Sarro!"

She snaps into action. "Wow, what luck." She steadies him and looks into his eyes. "Calm down. We look good. If we look like we know who we are and where we're going, we'll be O. K."

Upstairs, two clicking Flamenco dancers provide entertainment, especially for Philip whom they have riveted. Marie urges him to look this way and that way. "Another famous person. He's in my favorite soap opera." Then she shakes Philip. "Celebrities surround us and they all know Sarro. He is definitely our man."

A lean, cynical-eyed man walks by wearing a button that reads, BRING BACK SOUIEL. He underhandedly offers Philip a copy of the button. Philip asks, "What's this?"

The response is sarcastic, but demanding. "You want him back, don't you? Wear it." He walks off as if toward a destination.

The button carries more mystique than offense, so Philip pins it to the shoulder of his shirt.

Marie mingles to eavesdrop. She picks up talk of who is and who is not favored for a Pyramid, of the last ditch attempt to revitalize the failing Beledon by employing the golden touch of Thomas Sarro, and of the amazingly successful release of the Vargas/Souiel film, Friends. Gleeful with apprehension, she passes by and overhears the conversation of two especially vigorous women coming in loud and clear.

"I can't begin to measure my gratitude for all dear Thomas has done for me."

"Me too, not only in the way of connections, but also," and here there is a pause, "in the way of compassion."

Marie interrupts with a comrade's smile. "Excuse me, you must be talking about dear Mister Sarro."

"Doctor Sarro," the younger and more confident of the women corrects. "He has his Ph. D."

This error dreadfully upsets Marie. She looks distracted and walks away, saying, "Oh . . .," as if she forgot something.

Philip's eyes remain glued to the dancers as Marie pulls him by the arm. "Come on, Philip. Best we be going now. I think I blew it."

The music and conversation subside. All eyes are directed toward a figure at the summit of a long, wide flight of steps.

Marie takes this lull to notice the unusual button on Philip's shoulder. "Where did this come from?"

"Marie, will you look?" He points. "That's Sarro."

The band provides a trumpet fanfare followed by grand incidental music of pomp and circumstance as the figure, with arms outstretched, begins his descent. Applause erupts throughout the hall.

Marie gasps and says, "I believe you're right."

The cheering settles as Sarro reaches the bottom of the stairs. He shakes hands and exchanges kisses while walking toward a large, circular table with a prime view of the dancers who are again staking out each other as the rhythmic music resumes.

Sarro is tall and fully framed. He wears delicate black tortoise shell glasses and they rest naturally upon his face. His smile is magically disarming. He takes a seat beside a thin, expressively attractive girl and talks with her as if they are continuing a conversation begun earlier. They intimately lean close to each other, he touching her head with fatherly fondness.

"Do you suppose that's his wife?" asks Philip.

"Could be. She's so beautiful and well dressed." Marie is spellbound.

A shorter, rumpled man, also displaying a BRING BACK SOUIEL button, walks over to Philip and socializes. "Some entrance, huh?"

"Incredible," Philip agrees. "Who's throwing this party?"

"The Beledon Corporation, for their wonderkid, Sarro, since his birthday was a few days ago; but it's the Pyramid Awards that brought this crowd together."

"How old is he?"

"I don't know. Forty? Say, do I know you? What's your name?"

"Philip. I'm a friend of Kevin Vargas."

"Yeah. I don't see him here tonight. You can't expect him at a party for anybody but himself. Oh, I'm Bob Bryant."

"How do you do."

"Well, thanks. Helen, she's my wife, is around here somewhere. I was just, oh. There she is. Catch you later." He winks and departs to relieve withdrawal symptoms.

Marie has remained oblivious to all except Sarro and the girl next to him seated together so splendidly across the dance floor. She decides aloud, "We have to speak with him."

"How?"

"Maybe we should just walk over there."

"No. He's busy. Why don't we wait a while?"

"He's always going to be busy. Look! She's getting up. Hurry, before someone other than you sits in her place. Come on. Now or never."

She pulls Philip onto the polished wood parquet dance floor. It is like an ocean surrounded by heavily populated land and its surface is serenely empty except for the pair of dancers who maneuver about like two black pirate ships with flapping sails, readying to loot each other.

Marie and Philip disrupt the mood of anticipation by rushing across in the hopes of getting quickly and safely to the other side.

Meanwhile, Sarro is patted on the back by one of his assistants. They begin to chat.

Because of the gathered crowd around Sarro's table, Philip and Marie are forced to remain docked on the dance floor where they are noticed as obstructions to the floor show.

"Sit down. Move!" cries an assailed observer.

They have no place to run except back where they were. Marie whispers in Philip's ear, "Look right through him, Philip."

A more mature gentleman politely explains, "Please. You see, you are blocking our view of the dancers."

Marie continues to ignore the comments, but Philip finds her suggestion irritatingly ridiculous. He takes it out on the wrong person, sarcastically asking, "We're looking through you; why can't you just look through us?"

Marie takes a napkin and throws it at Sarro. "Oh, I'm sorry. It just got away from me. Mister Sarro, I, how do you do? May I introduce you to Philip, my husband?"

Philip would not have made the politer viewer quite so angry had he not opened his mouth. "What is this looking through us shit?" He motions he is about to get up. "Listen, kid. Move that ass of yours now before it gets kicked out of the way."

Philip, stung by words, plods off like a programmed automaton while Sarro asks Marie, "Your husband? Who are you?"

"I'm Marie. Excuse me." She whispers loudly, "Philip, get over here!" Alas, he is programmed and can not heed her. She speaks as though disillusioned, but the show must go on. "Well, that's my husband, Philip, walking away. He's got lots of talent. He sings, dances, acts. He's got a great voice."

"You don't say?" Sarro's face seems benign and amused but his tone merely implies that what he has heard makes grammatical sense.

She remembers, "Oh, um, uh. We're friends of uh, Kevin Vargas. He recommended us to you."

"Kevin usually knows how to pick his friends," says Sarro in an effort to say nothing. A lady seated at the table turns to ask, "And where is Mr. Vargas this evening?"

Sarro does not answer. His face is still but the man beside him, Henry, one of the directors trying to work with Vargas at the Beledon, is smiling while examining Marie.

She is respectfully nodding. She asks, "Do you have any work for Philip? I'm willing to back anything he has a part in."

Sarro speaks politely. "I don't think I have anything worthy of his numerous talents but, if you like, bring him down to the Beledon tomorrow at ten. Enter through the Executive Entrance. The theatre is reopening in a few days and we're right now in the process of hiring pages. That should be good for a start, and I promise to keep my eyes open for him."

Marie is overwhelmed with gratitude. "Mister Sarro, thank you. I don't know what to say. I'm going to look for Philip now." She backs away.

"Good-bye. If you see Kevin, tell him to call me."

Henry admires her spunk. "That's the way to do it; just get out there and do it. She's like that tap dancer I was telling you about. Another pretty girl."

Sarro agrees. "Yes. What's she doing now?"

ii.

Marie drifts across the dance floor hitting her forehead with the palm of her hand as if her brain is not running properly. She says, "Stupid. Stupistupistupistupistupid."

She joins Philip at the lonely back entrance steps that originally led them to the ballroom. Philip says, "I'm sorry, Marie."

She is angry only at herself. "It's Doctor, not Mister. God, how embarrassing. How could I have done such a thing. I really made a fool of myself."

"Come on, Marie. Let's go to our room."

They depart, so they miss the entrance of the mindlessly gleeful tap dancer whom Kevin sought to escape at the cafe. She erupts out of the big birthday cake. She is Henry's surprise for Sarro.

It rains all that night and all the next day, during which Philip and Marie attend to their business at the Beledon and join the crowds seeing the film, Friends; however, it does not rain on the morning of the following day.

It is on this sunny Thursday morning that Kevin finally emerges from a blue limousine that has pulled up in front of the Clairol. He graciously nods to the two bellboys who assist him to his feet and, after taking a few wobbly hesitant steps, he runs up the stairs into his wife's arms, like a man discovering he is not crippled after all.

Birds tweet above their heads from a bird-made sanctuary in the entrance awning. Several tourists and bystanders have gathered and watch from the side rails. Beyond them is a colorful confusion of people and cars that meld into the busy sidewalks and streets of this elegant sector. Nearby buildings are either hotels, legendary stores, cafes or movie theatres. The theatre across the street is showing Kevin's film, Friends.

The shimmering view compounded with his wife's nearness and fashionable spring attire affect Kevin in a positive way, especially her soft long leather cloves and suede conical hat. Her manner minimizes the surroundings. Her eyes follow Kevin as if nothing else exists. This same focus of attention was directed toward Sarro when she sat with him at his party two nights ago. It is misleading for she is acutely aware of being watched.

"How do you like it here?" Kevin cheerfully asks.

"The accommodations are easily gotten used to, and wait 'til you see our rooms. It's the same layout, but they've been completely redecorated since the last time."

"And when was that, Lynn, my lovely, darling and most beautified wife?" He holds his breath for the anticipated response.

"Why silly, you remember." She blinks and pretends to swoon. "That was on our wedding night."

Kevin catches her in his arms, watching with distant amazement as she smiles with lots of teeth. The birds tweet above their heads like loose belts in a machine.

He exhales, "Of course, of course," and, arm in arm, they enter the lobby through the swinging glass doors.

It is as if they have taken the center exit off the ancient Greek stage. Kevin assumes a less flamboyant attitude, more suited to offstage chatter. "How's the TV in our room?"

Lynn remains smiling but does not appreciate the question's urgency. "I haven't turned it on."

"Did you tell them we want all the movie stations?"

"Fit that into your schedule." Lynn decides that, despite his brief display of vigor on the entrance steps, her husband is actually in one of his more despondent moods, his television mood. When he feels the vanity and futility of all action in this world he worries about passive diversions like watching TV. This mood often sets in around midmorning on those middle-of-the-week days when he has no specific activities planned. Left to his own devices he, through lazy and unimaginative considerations, exhausts himself into this mood and, once it infects him, he rarely greets new plans with excitement. Lynn chooses to inform him of his appointments in the hopes that they will force him into becoming something more than the shell of a person that he presently seems.

"Don't withdraw yet," she says. "Sarro was emphatic about wanting you to attend a meeting at his office today at one. Also, your favorite, Peepleepoo magazine asked for an interview at your convenience. They suggested this morning at eleven and I agreed so, unless you want to cancel, you haven't time to watch TV until this evening."

Kevin nods at something to do. "That's fine. I only hope they won't focus on my old films, again."

"What else is there to talk about?" She is grateful for the interview for it should be especially effective in making Kevin solidify. The more questions he is asked about himself, the more of a person and less of a shell he, if only temporarily, becomes.

As they stroll through the lobby looking everywhere but at each other, their eyes are caught by the exquisitely crafted artifacts displayed behind a window of one of the hotel shops.

"Look, Lynn. How quaint. Little furniture." He is referring to a half-scaled replica of a Victorian sitting room.

Lynn says, "Obviously for midgets. We ought to try out the love seat. It may be comfortable." It is not that they are small. They are about 5' 10", but together they only weigh two hundred pounds and are, therefore, not very wide. Oddly, this pleases them.

A voice sings out Kevin's name. He swings around and is face to face with Marie. "How's this for coincidence?" she announces. "We're staying at the same hotel!"

"Good. It's always nice to know somebody when you're away from home." He looks around the lobby and spots his wife next to him looking into another display window. She is admiring a jade beetle. "Oh! This is Lynn, my wife." She turns around. Kevin continues to make the introductions. "And, uh . . .." He does not even try to remember. "I'm sorry. What was your name, again?"

"Marie."

He well remembers when he hears it. "Ah, yes. Marie. Lynn, meet Marie; Marie, Lynn."

Her eyes enlarge as she recognizes Lynn from Sarro's party. "This is a pleasure," she says. "How do you do?"

"Hello."

"Philip is here, too," Marie says knowingly to Kevin.

"Good. You two are married, yes?"

"Yes." She is puzzled. "Are you two also married?"

"It will be three years this June." He starts to feel rushed. "We must bid you adieu. I have some unexpected appointments and I'd like to first get settled upstairs."

"Are you only this minute arriving?" Marie asks. "I've seen your wife about the hotel. I must say I've greatly admired her taste in clothing."

"She was a model," he says, in justification of her good taste.

"Lynn adds, "There are more days when I don't see my husband."

"Oh, you poor dear," Marie declares, sympathetically. "I so hate when Philip is out of my sight even for a moment."

Lynn shrugs. Kevin appears unimpressed but suddenly remembers and misses the sight of Philip himself.

Marie continues. "You really dress so well. If you go shopping during our stay, could I come?" Then she touches the loose fitting collar of Lynn's creamy turtleneck shirt and asks, "Is it silk?"

"Yes. I could introduce you to my designer, if you'd like."

Marie is pleased and grateful. They exchange room numbers and go their separate ways.

Lynn and Kevin board the elevator, adding to it their insignificant weight. As they soar, Kevin wonders if Lynn had been haunting the halls while he was gone, or what exactly had she been doing? She startles him by enthusiastically clasping his arm and saying, "I'm so happy I've found a friend here."

"Yes, I'm happy too," he says with surprise. Then he dully adds, "I do hope she can afford it."

Marie is placing a call in one of the lobby booths.

"Hello. May I speak with Philip Vine in administration, extension 242?"

"Just a miniote," sings the receiver, followed by a loud brrring, brrring and a crackly indignant voice saying, "Hello? Hello? Who is this?"

Marie is surprised. "Philip!" she says. "Who do you think this is? It's me, Marie. And what kind of a way is that to answer the phone?"

"They're in the conference room having coffee. I'm here alone covering the phones. Gee, Marie. What 'dja call for?"

"For your information, Kevin Vargas has just now arrived at the Clairol. And I met his wife, the same woman with Sarro at the party. How 'bout that? I think we hit it off."

"That's nice." There is no expression in his voice.

"Philip, what's the matter? How's the job?" She speaks rapidly, accusingly.

"Okay."

"What are you doing? Does he have you at work on anything important?"

"I only met him for a second after the speech he gave all the new pages. You may find this interesting. He told us time is valuable and we should set short term and long-term goals and how this job could be great experience and the start of something big for us all, and then he rushes off and nobody knows what's going on so, like a jerk, I ask this big lady, what's there to do? All of a sudden I'm in this room stuffing envelopes. I stuffed about a hundred so far. There's still another ten thousand. Then, guess what? They have to be rubber stamped. Here's one now. 'The Beledon reopens April Twelfth with an exciting all new, all live entertainment, The Dieledon Experience. Special group sales rates available.' This letter gets sent all over to any place that sounds like it could muster a group."

"Oh, that's good, Philip. He has you working," she says, encouragingly, as if in agreement with Sarro. "I hope you're doing a good job."

"It's not very challenging. In fact, the big challenge is keeping myself from jumping out the window. And I told you, Sarro has nothing to do with assigning me here. It was this woman who likes to order people around. So for fun I stuff a rubber band or pennies or little pieces of scrap paper in with the letter. It's sort of a surprise trip for these things."

"Philip." Her tone reprimands. They have yet to learn of the surprise trip Sarro has in store for Philip.

He interjects, "Oh, there's a meeting in his office . . .."

"Whose, Sarro's?"

"Yeah. I just remembered. It's at one and he invited me to attend."

"Why, Philip, that's great! A meeting, you say? I'm so proud of you. Now don't speak unless spoken to, but when you do," she gives the air a little punch, "show them how on the ball you are. The Beledon is owned by Maxwell House University. Yup! I overheard two of the security guards talking after I dropped you off. There's talk of turning it into a dormitory and you don't want that. No, sir. You want it to stay the showplace of the nation. Got that?"

"Yeah."

"Anyway, I just called to say, Kevin has arrived and you should have seen it. There were lots of people gathered around to watch and he and his wife looked so beautiful and stately up there at the grand entrance. And then, when they walked in, I ran around the side entrance and casually met them in the lobby. That's what I've been doing and I have my fingers crossed. I just know something good is coming for you. I'll drop by later with your lunch. Maybe I'll crash the meeting." She laughs confidently, "ha ha," and adds, "I love you, Philip. See you later. Oh, and remember. Doctor Sarro. Bye."

iii.

"You know, Marie is cute but that husband of hers . . .." Seeing Marie in the lobby has reawakened something in Kevin. He paces while undressing.

Lynn is seated on the bed, half-listening, legs crossed, elbow on her thigh, and chin resting thoughtfully in her hand as she judges her shoes.

"Let's see." He speaks hesitantly and theatrically. "Aside from the usual beautiful features set down in gold since the days of the Pharaohs: a sharp, well-defined face with large sloe-eyes set widely apart, just reaching the cheekbones which, in their turn, curve directly to the thin edges of the wide, full mouth . . .." He outlines on his face and continues. "A sculpted aquiline nose proportionate to the rest of the face -- it seems to arise as a natural extension of the crescent of the eyebrows; a prominent set of pearly teeth readily displayed at the slightest parting of the lips . . .. You know, the usual."

Lynn raises her hand in casual agreement, "Yes please, bartender, the usual," and nods, deciding her shoes do not match her outfit as well as they might. Kevin's sudden alertness over this Philip person is making her despondent.

Kevin persists. "There's something beyond that. What could it be?" He removes his sweater and shirt and undoes his pants, still continuing to pace the room.

Lynn decides to change them, saying, "I hate having the time with no reason to be a perfectionist." She saunters over to the closet, shoes dangling from one hand, fingers of the other snapping suavely.

"I see you're ready to dance the night away, barefoot," he says, acknowledging her mannerisms.

"You should have seen me last night," she explains.

"If you have a better pair of shoes, by all means put them on. You have a reason. Peepleepoo."

"Oh yes. I told you so I forgot. Well," she reconsiders. "Not much of a reason."

"I'm answering my question now."

"Oh, I meant to ask you: What are you talking about?"

"Philip. He's Marie's wife, or husband. I . . .."

"Why are you telling me?"

"I'm just reminiscing, and you're my wife. I want to tell you everything. You help formulate my ideas as I hopefully do for you. It's that he's frail," he continues. "I like that."

Lynn, now on her knees searching the closet floor, turns to note her half-naked husband's pre-pubescent frame. "You're not exactly Mr. Atlas, yourself."

"There's hidden power in frailty," he warns as he steps out of his pants.

"Sure, if you have some other talent to compensate, such as the ability to fly or play piano. Ah, here they are." She has found the lighter shade of shoes.

Kevin has moved to the window. Standing in his underpants, hands on bony hips, staring out at the park, he says dreamily, "His eyes are deeply decrepit."

"Huh?"

"Like they've been hardened --" he turns to her, "-- from seeing the world in all its colors. It's as though they encompass both life and death."

"Not unlike your own inscrutable eyes. Well, God creates man in his own image." She compares and decides to wear the lighter shoes for they are absolute perfection. She walks to Kevin for a closer look at his expression which does not entirely convince her. In these heels she is slightly taller than he.

Kevin nods slowly. "Man creates God in his own image. That's more like it." He searches expectantly out the window for the eloquence he needs. To the right he sees a helicopter land on the roof of a tall building. "They are the eyes of a dethroned child prince, not comprehending the common world into which he has been brutally thrust, but with a gaze at all times aloof, like a prince. However, time has taught him the hopelessness of regaining his lost position and it has etched a removed desperation in his manner, and his eyes, which I find completely enthralling."

"Better not let him talk too much or he may spoil your creation."

"I've not been restrictive. He can only improve upon it."

"Do you plan to star him in a movie?"

"I diagnose that he deserves at least two hours of observation."

"But what you really want," she says for him, "is to be observed with him as you live through a movie together. Have someone else direct and photograph it, and let chance decide how it's to end. You've done it before."

"That's what friendship's all about."

"Why Kevin, he might be your salvation, the cure for your television slump."

"Maybe," he says, catching sight of a second helicopter buzzing over the park. "Did you see us fly by here on Tuesday morning?"

"I missed it, not arriving 'til that evening for Sarro's party. Sorry. Were you piloting again without a license?"

"Crystal was with me. We were giving a prospective buyer a joyride." His face makes a pained oppressed twitch which Lynn catches.

"What's that for?"

"The same guy joined Philip and Marie just as I was beginning to have conversation with Philip. Only then did he recognize who I was. He had feelings for my work which he took that opportunity to divulge. It was so exasperating. He brought up Souiel and called me shtrange, right in front of everybody. That was at Cafe Arnold's during lunch." He heads for the bathroom, shaking his head.

"Don't worry," she says for the curative effect it will have. "After you receive your award, you won't just be notorious. You'll be respectable and nurds like that won't matter. Then you can star Philip in a film of your very own and, who knows? If your feelings for him are real and sincerely heartfelt and not just a constipated transferal of self-love, and if you don't forget entirely about your audience, you may create a smashing independent success of your own. Then you can put the Vargas/Souiel days behind you and the weight of the past will be lifted from your shoulders.

Kevin is superficially comforted. "Maybe, but for fast, temporary relief, I always take a quick shower."

He enters the shadowless, soft-white bathroom tiled with glazed porcelain, and he sets the tub valves for full force. When his hand feels the water reach a steady, warm temperature, he pulls the center knob, rechannelling the flow upward so that it rains from above, and he steps into the tub. Tingling pressure, spraying with the full force of a fire hose, rapidly enraptures his body. He releases an "Ohhh."

Lynn walks in, yelling to be heard over the shower's noise. "I thought you'd be here by yesterday." Through the forming cloud of steam she observes Kevin's changing shape.

"I would have, if I'd remembered this shower. Were you lonely?"

"No. On Wednesday I met with Norton Simone. We had dinner, followed by a forgettable but highly acclaimed musical. After dessert, we capped off the evening with a nostalgic visit to Mission Control, the discotheque, where dancing all night to lights and records was somehow the equivalent of eight hours sleep. It was fun. And yesterday I joined the Bryants to witness one of your old films."

"You don't say. Which one?" he yells, concentrating on the water beating down on him, his sensation focussing on a bubbling central radius. He forges forward, only to be blown back against the wall, much to his passive delight.

"The latest release, Friends. It has that bleached scene of you and your friend trying to get comfortable on an embalming table. I hadn't seen it since college and I must say it was less upsetting then, when it wasn't a hit. The violence is too graphic to watch with the general public." She adds, to get his attention, "I must congratulate you, though, on the acting ability you displayed in those days. It was easy to believe she was driving you crazy."

Kevin slides into the tub, the water from the shower fixture landing squarely between his legs. "All in a day's work. I'm sorry I wasn't with you. I know how demonstrative Bob can be about loving that one. Wow," he adds. "This is fantastic."

"Yes, any one of the four elements can be a formidable foe. Don't you think it urbane, though, that instead of a river, like Achilles; or an ocean, like Odysseus; you're battling a shower of tap water?" She bites her lip at the grotesque spectacle. "I'll join you."

"Just pass the scrub brush. I have to get this over with." He is hopelessly floored against the far end of the tub.

"You're losing. Shall I stop the fight?"

"Not now."

"What if I were to just, uh, switch it off?" She reaches for the converter knob.

"No, don't. Please."

She mumbles, "Not while you're getting killed," reaches for the cosmetic bag, and tosses an abrasive scrub brush mitt into the tub.

The room is steaming as water sprays about.

Lynn takes a seat by the tub and asks, in a nasal monotone, "So, Vargas, where were you? Why didn't you come to the hotel sooner? You even missed Sarro's party. Why?" The questions are put forth rapidly, as if she devised this whole procedure in order to extract vital information from a double agent.

"I was busy with the show. I didn't want any extraneous stimuli to interfere."

"Ha! When you found time to fly that stupid plane?" She watches intently.

"That was a business transaction. Mostly it was those sets. We were rehearsing with them." He is lying on his back, knees raised, pattering water rolling off his drum skin stomach, his eyes closing tightly and then bulging open as if he is being tortured. Gasping, he says, "It's this tinted acrylic that's got to slide across the stage during entrances and exits. Alright, alright. I admit it. We finished work yesterday; we stayed the night to play with it. Oh, Lynn!" He splashes about and repeats, relieved, "Oh, Lynn," turning to look at her, resting his chin on the hard lip of the tub, his eyes rolling into place. "Wow. What time is it?"

She stares coldly back and presses the converter knob which switches the shower to a bath with a kerplosh. "Yes, how time can fly." She checks her watch. "It's one minute to eleven."

The phone rings.

Kevin unwraps a soap bar, sudses the mitt and violently scrubs himself.

En route to the phone, Lynn catches a glimpse of herself in the full length mirror mounted on the bathroom door. She resembles a wilted flower.

"Hello? Yes, we're expecting him. Could you tell him Kevin will call down when he's ready? We'd greatly appreciate his patience. Oh. He's on his way up? Thank you." She calmly replaces the receiver.

Kevin has heard. He rings his head with a towel. "On your mark," he says.

"Get set, go!"

They scramble, Lynn throwing off her wet clothes, Kevin searching for new underwear. She yells, "With no time, whatsoever. Good! That's the way I prefer to dress."

iv.

Mr. Swinson from Peopleview -- not Peepleepoo -- knocks lightly on the door. He is tall and self-assured with a face given to limited reactions. Only his eyebrows are expressive. They rise slightly in apprehension.

Lynn, newly clad in a white undershirt and black corduroy jeans that hug her legs from thigh to ankle, whisks open the door and greets him with familiarity. She grandly leads him to the far end of the sun-drenched living room where several soft chairs surround a low-set coffee table.

Kevin is standing, back turned, looking expectantly out the window, studying the park while zipping his pants. He and Lynn are clad identically. He turns and greets Swinson with a hearty handshake. Suddenly there is a growl.

Kevin creases his brow, hand on his stomach. "I say, I'm hungry. Are you? I awoke so early today, or was it late? Every day starts later and later for me so I think I travelled full cycle and lost one along the way. I realize it's only," he checks his watch, "eleven oh two, but I've been up since four-thirty and I could really do with some lunch. How about you?"

"Coffee is fine."

"Aw, have a sandwich."

"Anything. Thank you."

Lynn clasps her hands and says, "Why don't you two do what you're supposed to do, start talking. I'll call."

"Miss Gurney?"

"Lynn."

"Lynn, I hope you'll join us in the conversation."

"Fine. Shortly."

"Tell them to send up a Caesar Salad, cold cuts, and a pot of coffee," requests Kevin. He and Swinson seat themselves by a table opposite each other as Lynn walks into the bedroom.

Kevin further explains, "Because of my early start, I figured this was the day to come to the Clairol and socialize. I've kept away in an effort to finish work on a project and gather my thoughts. Not that I did, but life moves on and so must I. Here I am, ready to answer anything."

Swinson squeezes his little tape recorder as he stands it on the table. "I'm speaking with Kevin Vargas. It's Thursday, April Fifth. Kevin, may I take this opportunity to congratulate you on your Pyramid Award and also, to welcome you back to Dieledon, you're home town, is it not?"

"Yes. Though we've since moved to the cliffs of the most northeastern seaport, I'll always consider myself a Dieledonian."

"In a few short days you'll be receiving a special Pyramid award for meritorious achievements in cinema. In your own words, how does it feel?"

"Naturally, I appreciate the great honor, even if it is for work done over five years ago. I've changed so much in all that time that it's almost like I'm accepting the award for another person."

"In a way, you will be with Souiel still gone."

"No doubt. It's as much his award as it is mine." Kevin laughs lightly. "There's one for each of us so we needn't argue over custody."

"Any inside word on Souiel?" Swinson's face is still except for his eyebrows which show a significant rise.

"I can't seem to impress this enough on people. I actually haven't heard from him for five years, so I'm not even sure of his well-being, let alone whether or not he's aware of recent developments. What we have done, myself and Sarro, is place ads in papers and on news broadcasts throughout the world asking him to contact us. There is still hope that we'll get him back in time to receive his award in person, but the chances get slimmer as the moments pass."

"So, as of now you haven't heard a thing?"

"That's right."

"Do you suppose he's dead?"

"I prefer, rather, to attribute his silence to an unsociable disposition. After all, that was the reason he went into exile in the first place."

"So I've read, but didn't you two also have a disagreement of sorts?"

Kevin pauses to consider phrasing. "I stayed; he thought it best to leave. That's a difference of opinion right there."

Swinson's brow takes and unsatisfied turn, causing Kevin to continue.

"And, yes. I think we grew apart in other ways, too. We were subversive film makers, subverting others for the sake of our own personal vision. We subverted backers, actors, crew, friends, everybody. It was inevitable we subvert each other as well. It wasn't the vision, it was the subversion we thrived on. That way of life can't last too long."

"What is your reaction to the positive public response those films are stirring today?"

"I leave it to the sociologist to explain how the world is such that people can appreciate or accept or at least attend these films. But then, only a small percentage of the population needs to attend a film to make it successful." Kevin leans forward, as if to let Swinson in on a delightful secret. "Not withstanding, it is phenomenal. Do you realize that of the three films distributed internationally over the past three years, each has grossed double the previous, and Friends has only been out two weeks."

"Do you plan to unveil more of these Vargas/Souiel ventures?"

"Not for a while. It's surprising the amount of work that must be done on any one of a number of films to be considered before it's fit for release. It must be professionally re-edited, printed on larger film stock, and treated for higher contrast. The longest and most creative process, though is the rerecording of the sound track, which becomes a work in itself, what with the layering of sixteen tracks of music, sound effects, re-dubbing, et cetera. It's like making a pop album. That's how much care we take.

"Then," he continues, "Besides all that veneer is the marketing question of the wisdom in releasing another of the films. How much more can people take? They're all rather similar. That subversive element that ruled the two of us in making the films, where the inclination was to turn against those to whom we should feel closest; that element has also played an integral part in the content of all three of the films that have been released so far. Insomniac, for example, is about a person whose ability to sleep has been upset by either too much L.S.D. or too much herbal tea. It's open for discussion. He can't even blink because of the frightening picture imbedded on his eyelids, which is of a claustrophobically cloudy, glowing ocean-green liquid that is tremoring from little jagged monsters that dart about like water-bugs."

Swinson interrupts to clarify, "Didn't you play the insomniac?"

"Yeah. I hate to say 'I' all the time. Oh well. As time without sleep passes, my appearance alters for the worse, as does my mind. This becomes evident in the way I spend my time. It take to wandering the city on a twenty-four hour basis, alone, until I meet a classmate who, for some odd reason, is concerned and tries to help me, and who keeps me company throughout the rest of my tormented sojourn."

"That was Crystal."

"That's right, and the name stuck. Well, my lack of sleep causes his concern and love for me to grate like thorns on my nerves so, in an uncharacteristic move, I rape and beat him to death. The exertion exhausts me. Sleep follows at last at the foot of the subway stairs to that dreamy harp concerto, which allows for the vision on my eyelids to peacefully creep up and engulf me in a nightmare, the likes of which compare with Hubert van Eyck's vision of hell in his painting, The Last Judgment. I don't know how well we succeeded on such a low budget, so I always like to point the audience in the proper direction. There's a point here. In Insomniac, he turns on his friend, a person who has shown him nothing but kindness and with whom he should otherwise have been closest. Then he turns on himself, going insane, relatively speaking."

"Do you consider yourself religious?"

"Why? Do you think that may be a reason for the subversion?" He speaks as though from a pulpit. "Because man without God is a sorry creature indeed. He can only feed on mankind. Without God, he's left with no choice but to gnaw at his heart and the hearts of others like him. He needs a god to chew out every now and then." He resumes a normal, off the cuff, conversational tone. "Maybe."

"I asked because of the retribution at the end of the film. The insomniac seems to go to hell."

"I don't really go to hell. In the end I'm still alive, it's just that at that point, for all practical purposes, I'm no longer qualified personnel. If I my speak about myself in the present tense, I do have a god who watches over me. He's my private god. Whatever he decides about my life is best. I'm completely passive in his hands. He is my master. His name is Kevin Vargas, too. I don't know, though, where that leaves you. As for my parents, my mother was bathed and my father was washed so I had an ecumenical upbringing but I've since rejected all their beliefs in cleanliness. When will you, uh, stop me?"

"Don't worry. Before going to print we always edit our interviews. What about your father, is it true he ran a funeral parlor?"

"No. Check your references. That was Souiel. My father was an engineer. Wait a minute. Don't you want to hear the rest of my once in a lifetime examination on this like really neat thread of subversion that runs through the films?"

v.

"Kevin, have you been running off at the mouth again?" Lynn has returned. She takes a seat by her husband and tells Swinson, "You'll have to excuse him. Whenever he channels thoughts from the nether regions of his brain there's always a runoff at the mouth."

"Hi, Lynn. Wow. What were you doing all this time, preparing that statement?"

"I was on the phone."

"I hope you made more than one call."

"I made several."

The door knocks. Room service has arrived. In walks a waiter with a serving cart. He flamboyantly prepares the Caesar Salad. Lynn watches him add the egg yolk and it reminds her, "Oh, Kevin. I spoke with my mother. She says Kevin Junior has come down with a touch of the flu."

"Lynn, please. I was in the middle of something. Let's see. In The Bear That Walks Like a Man there are two guys again, Lamont as Mr. Security, and me as Vargas, his insecure friend. The girl I'm living with is also his lover. For a mysterious reason, she kills herself. Me and Mr. Security are brought together at her funeral. We knew each other casually before that and the suicide of our mutual friend draws us closer. As the film progresses, it becomes evident that it was his granite personality that did her in, and he nearly drives me down the same path because it turns out we reenact his relationship with her. It's an involuntary subversion; there's that kind, too. Mr. Security can't help who he is. Maybe it's a defense mechanism he developed against being hurt; who knows, only it seems his stability and inner strength attracts and upsets those people who are most unstable and insecure. It's like he's a cursed statue. His visage makes them turn on themselves."

Lynn bids the waiter farewell during this synopsis. "We'll see to ourselves. Thank you."

Kevin continues, "And in the latest one, Friends -- which we actually made prior to The Bear -- the focus is on the subversion of another person for the pure sake of one's own erotic stimulation. Boy meets girl; girl meets boy. They dream of killing each other, what?" He looks around the room for the answer. "Seven times in that film."

"Hm," says Swinson. "You've been quoted on other occasions as saying that," he reads, "'relationships are wars between two people. The fighting ground is the mind. The winner retains his sanity, such as it is.' Then, on a televised interview you said, and correct me if I'm misquoting, 'I can't stand a relationship to be stagnant. In order to keep it interesting one must push it forward so that it might be taken to its inevitable conclusion,' which, later in the show, you hinted was murder."

"Yes. I remember trying to strangle myself during the commercial breaks. That was a difficult period for me."

"In the light of the films you've made, how does this apply to your relationship with Lynn."

He suddenly rises and rubs his hands together, growling, "Hm. It makes me hungry." He walks to the serving cart as if he is a guest at a party and layers a sandwich while speaking with Lynn as if he just registered what she said about their son. "The flu? They're living in that sanitized stuck-up co-op down south. How could he get the flu again? That's incredible. Who else did you speak to?"

"Margaret. Are you still hot for her?"

"No. There are other interesting people in this world. Remember before when I was telling you of one?"

"I told her hello for you, anyway."

"That's planning ahead."

"And I spoke to people you don't know about things you know nothing about."

He imitates a brogue. "Oh, I don't know, eh? Good; it implies a life of your own."

This type of conversing is unique between Kevin and Lynn in that it requires the presence of a stranger.

Swinson takes advantage of the interim, while making a sandwich and pouring coffee, to ask Lynn, whom he hopes will supply more direct answers to his questions, "Are both your parents still living?"

"Yes. Down south. My father remains active as a surgeon, but the weather here was getting to be such that they had to move."

"Is your son living with them on a permanent basis?"

"For now, yes. It's better that way."

Kevin adds, "As soon as he's three, I'm sending him to dream school."

"I never heard of it."

"It's still in the developmental stages. Sleeping and waking; they're trying to blend the two. I don't want it to be such a trauma for him to wake up in the morning, or whenever, the way it is for his father." He declares, "Oh the things I would have done if it didn't take me so long to shake off the sleep and get to the same point of awareness I'd reached the night before. I swear, every day's a new day. My bed keeps giving birth to the same confused baby."

Swinson attempts to pick up lost threads. "About your relationship with Lynn . . .."

Lynn says, "I just don't see him that often."

Kevin explains, "It's given that the time we can spend together is limited, like having only so much money in the bank. By not often being together, we don't spend our time all at once. We can stay married a lot of years, that way."

"Which of the two do you think is going to come out alive," he asks, facetiously.

"Time will tell, and it's possible we may only lose limbs or sizeable portions of our bank accounts."

Swinson sighs. "I don't know whether or not to take you seriously. You seem to describe such a spurious relationship. To further a questionable metaphor, don't you believe in investing your time in another person?"

"I think investing time is bullshit. What are you going to get back from time, more time? You still have to run out. Just live; survive."

Swinson argues back, "I'm sorry for you, Kevin. Invest your time in a child, whether it be yours or not, and you've invested in the future. You're a father. You should know that."

"Hm, that is interesting." Kevin's tone has reached the sarcastic stage.

Now that Swinson has him riled, he tries to get inadvertent answers to customarily commentless questions. "So, while we're on the topic of relationships and their outcome, what's going on between you and Crystal?"

"I spend a lot of time with him, but that's 'cause we're working for the same guy."

"And what is your response to rumors that hint at something more intimate?"

"May I refer you to the track record. I've been close to Crystal for over ten years. Obviously it is not a sexual relationship. How about this being enough on my personal life?"

"Fine. What work have you been doing since the Vargas/Souiel days."

"I'll answer that. Let's see. After we parted company, I set to work on an independent film venture called Plants. It was colorful and had lots of close-up photography, filters and pretty music. Despite, or because of, its lack of anything worthy of comment, it's been intensely disliked by the few who've seen it. Then, a couple of years later, when I got some money from the re-release of Insomniac, I set to work on an original cartoon, Garfield and the Arctic Surprise; but once I assembled together a good group of animators, they collectively fell in love and formed their own company, their first resolution being to scrap the project and concentrate on animating pop tunes. They still exist. They're called The Magnificent Seven . . .," and he leans toward Swinson to add in a whisper, ". . . Dwarfs."

Out loud, he continues, "When Lynn and I moved up North, I wrote, produced and directed a play called Hello, It's Me. It was a difficult subject about a guy trying to express himself in order to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he's an asshole. I meant it to be a comedy but the critics up there didn't think so. They thought it was more like pop tragedy. Young man becomes unwarranted success due to talents of friend -- that type of stuff.

"Since then I've taken an interest in the reopening of the Beledon especially since Thomas Sarro was appointed president. He remains a dear friend and advisor. I assisted him in the public relations involved in getting the Pyramid Awards presented there. It'll be the first year they're being held at such a big auditorium, and it's about time. I've been working on the show itself in various capacities, and also on the forthcoming Dieledon Experience, parts of which I will have directed, including a musical number devised by myself.

"Then, of course, there's the post-production marketing work on the ol' Vargas/Souiel films which is highly elaborate and which we've already discussed. Their publicity campaigns have become extensive, so they have me travelling all over the world to attend openings and give interviews. In short, I keep busy."

"And aren't you a licensed pilot, as well?"

"No. Crystal and I just bought a new plane together, but he's the pilot. I don't even have a driver's license."

"Do you play any sports?"

"Life is my sport. No, I don't. I should have a sport. I'll have to think about it."

"What do you do for recreation?"

"I go to sleep and dream. That way the events of the day come back to me in a surreal recreation."

"If I may return to your earlier films and the reactions they've generated . . .."

"Go ahead." He notices Lynn falling asleep on his shoulder.

"What is your response to those people who get something that seems -- and I almost shy away from using the work in your presence -- positive. Some pro-Vargas/Souiel critics have suggested that your films depict characters especially vulnerable to emotion; that they are, in fact, very sensitive people." Again, he quotes, "'Characters on the fringe of a cold loveless world of ambitions and paranoiac securities, reaching out in desperation for human contact.' It's as if to say that behind all the 'subversion' of which you speak is the very real and intense need to be joined with another person."

"Yes but for what? -- to express what? I don't know. To me, all the films have a very bleak sense of hopelessness to them."

Lynn stretches herself across his lap, making him uncomfortable, although she herself seems content. As he strokes her dark blonde hair he is reminded of a Siamese cat.

Swinson presses on for more of an answer. "Perhaps. Insomniac ends in terror, and deservedly so, but in The Bear, the character you portray -- the insecure one -- at the last minute prevents himself from being consumed by his friends coldly self-secure demeanor. He is to be admired for breaking away and not changing in his susceptibility to feelings. And, in Friends, it's only in the couple's imagination that these crimes of passion take place. Its quiet and hopeful ending has you two talking and touching with precious affection. What relief from loneliness, what happiness is in store when you relate to each other, not as sex objects, but as what? -- as human beings."

He squirms, disturbing his wife's catnap. "Yes, but after what passes . . .. I'd best be quiet now. You can talk to Lynn. I'll finish eating and then I have to leave." His heart has been made to pound from Swinson's remarks.

Lynn stands to stretch and yawn, displaying her simple attire. She strikes a professional pose and asks Mr. Swinson, "How do you like it? It's the latest fashion." Her arms are raised, lifting her undershirt to reveal her golden brown waist and perfectly scooped belly button.

"You look stunning, Lynn. I'm sure our readers are interested to know how you keep that figure."

"That's easy. You should ask Kevin the same. He's always eating."

He quickly swallows and explains, "Simple. I never eat alone."

"I guess that's it." She offers her method. "Me, I don't eat much, never meat. I'm active. I swim often. I'm taking Karate."

"Karate? How wonderful, but tell me. Why give up modelling?"

"Simple," she confides. "I hate it. Modelling makes you feel dismal about yourself and contemptuous of others. I wasn't about to resort to heroin to get through the day. I modelled for money. However, I enjoy being fashionable. My evening wear is still designed by my dear friend, Norton Simone."

"Has anything taken the place of modelling in your life?"

"I can't say I've found the definitive substitute, though it isn't being a mother, at least not yet. I like karate but not as a career. I've gotten interested in taking snapshots. Perhaps I'll be a fashion photographer."

Kevin looks up from his plate, raises his eyebrows and frowns, stretching his face.

"This seems to come as a surprise to your husband."

"That it is," he confirms, "but I like the idea."

"I bought a new camera," she says with enthusiasm. "Allow me to show it to you. Hold on."

She opens a large, deep bureau drawer and pulls a camera from its case. "Here, Kevin, smile." Click.

He is caught swallowing the last bit of the sandwich as the picture is taken. He pulls on a jacket over his undershirt and bids farewell to Swinson and Lynn.

Swinson hurriedly asks, "One more question before you go. A lot of talk has circulated about whatever became of some of the other actors and actresses in your films, especially Diane Heyday whose memorable performance in Friends is only today coming to light. Has she done any other acting since that film? If not, can you tell us what became of her?"

He pauses to look at the two people in the room and then says, "Though she inspired the subsequent film, The Bear, after Friends she dropped out of the camera's eye and I haven't heard from her since. I'll let you in on a secret, though. I like to think she's with Souiel, wherever that may be." He winks and walks out the door.

-- and out of the Clairol into the overexposed brightness of the city's bustling midafternoon. He decides to continue walking to Sarro's office, smiling at passersby along the way, not minding a jot that he will be late for the meeting, though it will bother him when he gets there.

Chapter Three

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