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“What?” I said, incredulous.
“Forgetful Christian! The Last Supper was not the Last Supper. It was the Penultimate Supper! Days after the Crucifixion and entombment, Simon called Peter, on the Sea of Tiberias with the other disciples, experienced the miracle of the fishes. On shore, they witnessed a pale illumination. Approaching, they saw a man standing by a spread of burning charcoals and fish. They spoke to the man and knew it was Christ, who gestured and said, ‘Take of these fish and feed thy brethren. Take of my message and move through the cities of the world and preach therein forgiveness of sin.’ ”
“I’ll be damned,” I whispered.
“Delightful, yes?” said J. C. “The Penultimate Supper first, the da Vinci supper, and then the Final Final Last Last Supper of fish baked on the charcoal bed on the sands near the Sea of Tiberias after which Christ departed to stay on forever in their blood, hearts, minds, and souls. Finis.”
J. C. bowed his head, then added: “Go rewrite the books, but especially John! Not mine to give, only yours to take! Out, before I rescind my blessing!”
“Have you blessed me?”
“All the while we talked, son. All the while. Go.”
31
I stuck my head in Projection Room 4 and said, “Where’s Judas?”
“That’s the password!” cried Fritz Wong. “Here are three martinis! Drink!”
“I hate martinis. And anyway, first, I got to get this out of my system. Miss Botwin,” I said.
“Maggie,” she said, quietly amused, her camera in her lap.
“I’ve heard about you for years, admired you a lifetime. I just have to say I’m glad for this chance to work—”
“Yes, yes,” she said, kindly. “But you’re wrong. I’m no genius. I’m … what do you call those things skate across ponds looking for insects?”
“Water striders?”
“Water striders! You’d think the damn bugs would sink, but they move on a thin film on top of the water. Surface tension. They distribute their weight, stretch out their arms and legs so they never break the film. Well, if that isn’t me, what is? I just distribute my weight, stretch out all fours, so I don’t break the film I skate on. I haven’t sunk from sight yet. But I’m not the best and it’s no miracle, just plain dumb early-on luck. Now thanks for the compliment, young man, put your chin back up, and do as Fritz commands. The martinis. You’ll soon see, I’ve worked no wonders on what comes next.” She turned her slender profile to call quietly toward the projection room. “Jimmy? Now.”
The lights dimmed, the screen hummed, the curtains parted. The rough cut flashed on the screen, with a partially finished musical score by Miklos Rozsa. That I liked.
As the film advanced, I snuck glances at Fritz and Maggie. They looked as if they were bucking on a wild horse. I did the same, pushed back in my seat by a tidal wave of images.
My hand stole one of the martinis.
“Thatsa boy,” whispered Fritz.
When the film finished, we sat silently as the lights came up.
“How come,” I said at last, “you shot so much of the new footage at twilight or night?”
“I can’t stand reality.” Fritz’s monocle blinked as he glared at the blank screen. “Half this film’s schedule now is sunset. Then, the day’s spine is cracked. At sundown, I heave great sighs: survived another day! I work until two each night, without facing real people, real light. I had some contact lenses made two years ago. Threw them out the window! Why? I saw pores in people’s faces, my face. Moon craters. Pockmarks. Hell! look at my recent films. No sunlit people. Midnight Lady. The Long Dark. Three A.M. Murders. Death Before Dawn. Now, child, what about this goddamn Galilean turkey Christ in the Garden, Caesar up a Tree!?”
Maggie Botwin stirred despondently in the shadows and unpacked her hand camera.
I cleared my throat. “Must my narration paper over all the holes in this script?”
“Cover Caesar’s ass? Yes!” Fritz Wong laughed and poured more drinks.
Maggie Botwin added, “And we’re sending you to discuss Judas with Manny Leiber.”
“Why!!?”
“The Jewish Lion,” said Fritz, “might enjoy eating an Illinois Baptist. He might listen while he pulls off your legs.”
I slugged down my second drink.
