“Good boys,” he said. “Solid boys who can hit the mark.”
“You intimidate me when you’re like this,” she said.
“I’ve never been like this,” he said, looking past her as the swinging doors opened and five of the crew came in, standing awkwardly just inside the door. The sound man walked over to find out what was going on.
“I’m going to try for another point of view,” Wesley said. “A Nagra would be best because I might want to drift around the room with the sixteen. If you can’t go small, then set up the best you can.”
“Is this a test?” the cameraman asked, sullen about the whole thing.
“It’s not a test,” Wesley said sharply, the sudden rush from the cocaine, a substance he rarely used, making him raw and impatient. “And it’s not a rehearsal. I just want to take a quick slant away from the story for a while. If that’s okay with you?”
“I don’t care one way or the other,” the sound man said and walked away.
“I’m going to get someone to drive me back to the hotel,” Evelyn said.
“Stay. Please ,” he implored her, motioning to a grip standing nearby.
“Set up a minimal amount of light,” he told the grip, swinging his attention back to Evelyn: “I want you to be in this.”
“In what?”
“This footage. Tonight.”
“Why?”
“Why? Do I have to know why? Because I need you to be here.”
She nodded, retreating into the refuge of her own silence, a gesture that in the first days of their relationship Wesley had been drawn to, even obsessed by, as if he had recognized in her sudden withdrawals the raw stoicism of his own family, the internal solitudes of that dark land he had run so far from and lately had felt such a pull toward. Only now he felt Evelyn’s silence as an abrupt refusal to comment or participate on any level and he took it as a rejection.
The prop man entered, followed by two Mexicans carrying a case of liquor and bags of potato chips and fried chicken. Behind them trailed three local whores dressed in brightly flowered print dresses, snapping their fingers and trying to get stoned or drunk as quickly as possible. Everything was flat and stale and awkward.
Wesley stood up and walked over to meet the second unit cameraman coming into the saloon with the mariachi band.
“Are you set up?” Wesley asked.
“I can shoot right now,” the cameraman said, setting down an equipment case and taking out a 16mm camera.
“I don’t want you to think about the script,” Wesley said.
“I would prefer that,” the cameraman said. He was young and unhealthy and obnoxiously alert, moving around in his safari jacket as if on a combat mission.
“Pan across the bar to my wife sitting at that back table,” Wesley directed. “Then move with me up to the table as I sit down, give me a brief two shot, and then it’s all on her, no matter what she says.”
As they moved toward the table, the mariachi band broke into “La Cama de Piedra” and one of the whores in a loud abrasive voice translated the lines to the prop man: “I have a stone bed and a stone pillow. The muchacho who lives with me has to be true . . . . ”
Evelyn watched them come, despair clouding her dark eyes.
“I don’t like this, Wesley,” she said as he slid into a chair beside her.
“What don’t you like?” he asked.
She looked at him, her eyes suddenly flat and hard, wanting to hurt him for the first time. “I don’t like your fear. I don’t mind your rage but I don’t like your fear. It makes me despise you.”
“What do you think about this film?” he asked.
“I think this film is pathetic and I think the way you’re trying to do yourself in is bullshit.”
The camera held on her as she walked away, through the door and into the street, and then panned back with the drunken arrival of one of the Mexican drivers dressed as Pancho Villa as he walked up to Wesley to find out what was going on.
EVELYN walked down the street, the sad trumpet from the
“You intimidate me when you’re like this,” she said.
“I’ve never been like this,” he said, looking past her as the swinging doors opened and five of the crew came in, standing awkwardly just inside the door. The sound man walked over to find out what was going on.
“I’m going to try for another point of view,” Wesley said. “A Nagra would be best because I might want to drift around the room with the sixteen. If you can’t go small, then set up the best you can.”
“Is this a test?” the cameraman asked, sullen about the whole thing.
“It’s not a test,” Wesley said sharply, the sudden rush from the cocaine, a substance he rarely used, making him raw and impatient. “And it’s not a rehearsal. I just want to take a quick slant away from the story for a while. If that’s okay with you?”
“I don’t care one way or the other,” the sound man said and walked away.
“I’m going to get someone to drive me back to the hotel,” Evelyn said.
“Stay. Please ,” he implored her, motioning to a grip standing nearby.
“Set up a minimal amount of light,” he told the grip, swinging his attention back to Evelyn: “I want you to be in this.”
“In what?”
“This footage. Tonight.”
“Why?”
“Why? Do I have to know why? Because I need you to be here.”
She nodded, retreating into the refuge of her own silence, a gesture that in the first days of their relationship Wesley had been drawn to, even obsessed by, as if he had recognized in her sudden withdrawals the raw stoicism of his own family, the internal solitudes of that dark land he had run so far from and lately had felt such a pull toward. Only now he felt Evelyn’s silence as an abrupt refusal to comment or participate on any level and he took it as a rejection.
The prop man entered, followed by two Mexicans carrying a case of liquor and bags of potato chips and fried chicken. Behind them trailed three local whores dressed in brightly flowered print dresses, snapping their fingers and trying to get stoned or drunk as quickly as possible. Everything was flat and stale and awkward.
Wesley stood up and walked over to meet the second unit cameraman coming into the saloon with the mariachi band.
“Are you set up?” Wesley asked.
“I can shoot right now,” the cameraman said, setting down an equipment case and taking out a 16mm camera.
“I don’t want you to think about the script,” Wesley said.
“I would prefer that,” the cameraman said. He was young and unhealthy and obnoxiously alert, moving around in his safari jacket as if on a combat mission.
“Pan across the bar to my wife sitting at that back table,” Wesley directed. “Then move with me up to the table as I sit down, give me a brief two shot, and then it’s all on her, no matter what she says.”
As they moved toward the table, the mariachi band broke into “La Cama de Piedra” and one of the whores in a loud abrasive voice translated the lines to the prop man: “I have a stone bed and a stone pillow. The muchacho who lives with me has to be true . . . . ”
Evelyn watched them come, despair clouding her dark eyes.
“I don’t like this, Wesley,” she said as he slid into a chair beside her.
“What don’t you like?” he asked.
She looked at him, her eyes suddenly flat and hard, wanting to hurt him for the first time. “I don’t like your fear. I don’t mind your rage but I don’t like your fear. It makes me despise you.”
“What do you think about this film?” he asked.
“I think this film is pathetic and I think the way you’re trying to do yourself in is bullshit.”
The camera held on her as she walked away, through the door and into the street, and then panned back with the drunken arrival of one of the Mexican drivers dressed as Pancho Villa as he walked up to Wesley to find out what was going on.
EVELYN walked down the street, the sad trumpet from the
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