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The engine started again, obedient to fright.
It is not easy to back up at sixty miles an hour.
We did.
4
I sat up half the night looking around at my ordinary living room with ordinary furniture in a small safe bungalow house on a normal street in a quiet part of the city. I drank three cups of hot cocoa but stayed cold as I threw images on the walls, shivering.
People can’t die twice! I thought. That couldn’t have been James Charles Arbuthnot on that ladder, clawing the night wind. Bodies decay. Bodies vanish.
I remembered a day in 1934 when J. C. Arbuthnot had got out of his limousine in front of the studio as I skated up, tripped, and fell into his arms. Laughing, he had balanced me, signed my book, pinched my cheek, and gone inside.
And, now, Sweet Jesus, that man, long lost in time, high in a cold rain, had fallen in the graveyard grass.
I heard voices and saw headlines:
J. C. ARBUTHNOT DEAD BUT RESURRECTED.
“No!” I said to the white ceiling where the rain whispered, and the man fell. “It wasn’t him. It’s a lie!”
Wait until dawn, a voice said.
5
Dawn was no help.
The radio and TV news found no dead bodies.
The newspaper was full of car crashes and dope raids. But no J. C. Arbuthnot.
I wandered out of my house, back to my garage, full of toys, old science and invention magazines, no automobile, and my secondhand bike.
I biked halfway to the studio before I realized I could not recall any intersection I had blindly sailed through. Stunned, I fell off the bike, trembling.
A fiery red open-top roadster burned rubber and stopped parallel to me.
The man at the wheel, wearing a cap put backward, gunned the throttle. He stared through the windshield, one eye bright blue and uncovered, the other masked by a monocle that had been hammered in place and gave off bursts of sun fire.
“Hello, you stupid goddamn son of a bitch,” he cried, with a voice that lingered over German vowels.
My bike almost fell from my grip. I had seen that profile stamped on some old coins when I was twelve. The man was either a resurrected Caesar or the German high pontiff of the Holy Roman Empire. My heart banged all of the air out of my lungs.
“What?” shouted the driver. “Speak up!”
“Hello,” I heard myself say, “you stupid goddamn son of a bitch you. You’re Fritz Wong, aren’t you? Born in Shanghai of a Chinese father and an Austrian mother, raised in Hong Kong, Bombay, London, and a dozen towns in Germany. Errand boy, then cutter then writer then cinematographer at UFA then director across the world. Fritz Wong, the magnificent director who made the great silent film The Cavalcanti Incantation. The guy who ruled Hollywood films from 1925 to 1927 and got thrown out for a scene in a film where you directed yourself as a Prussian general inhaling Gerta Froelich’s underwear. The international director who ran back to and then got out of Berlin ahead of Hitler, the director of Mad Love, Delirium, To the Moon and Back—”
With each pronouncement, his head had turned a quarter of an inch, at the same time as his mouth had creased into a Punch-and-Judy smile. His monocle flashed a Morse code.
Behind the monocle was the faintest lurking of an Orient eye. I imagined the left eye was Peking, the right Berlin, but no. It was the monocle’s magnification that focused the Orient. His brow and cheeks were a fortress of Teutonic arrogance, built to last two thousand years or until his contract was canceled.
“What did you call me?” he asked, with immense politeness.
“What you called me,” I said, faintly. “A stupid,” I whispered, “goddamn son of a bitch.”
He nodded. He smiled. He banged the car door wide.
“Get in!”
