Dracula Cha Cha Cha (Anno Dracula #3) 6

CINEMA INFERNO

Kate expected to go through all manner of mendacity in order to get into Cinecitta, and had worked up her press credentials to suggest a reason for being in the film studio. But, mingling with a chattering crowd of girls who were massacre extras or makeup assistants, they just walked onto the lot. A relic of the fascist era not repudiated in modern Italy, Mussolini's purpose-built Hollywood-on-the-Tiber was a chaos of people.

'How do we find the Argonauts?' Genevieve asked.

Kate looked at the streams of people heading for the various stages. A troop of French cavalrymen, circa 1812, trotted double-time towards one set of thirty-foot doors, packs and rifles jingling. A circus elephant was led past by a man on stripy-trousered stilts and a woman in spangled tights.

'I imagine we should follow that, Gene.'

A shining sheepskin the size of a sail was being carefully carried past by four stagehands. Its gold paint was still wet. The Golden Fleece was carried on to Teatro 6. A blackboard by the door was scrawled with the legend 'gli argonauti'. A ragged group of weatherbeaten, false-bearded ancient Greeks loitered by the stage, smoking cigarettes and bragging in Italian about their sex lives.

They walked to the warehouse-like building. The Argonauts managed the obligatory whistles, gestures and comments, calling Genevieve 'eh, blondie' and Kate 'arance rosse'. Red orange juice. Very flattering.

They made it onto the stage.

The vast stage was as crowded and purposeful as a riot. Her experience of film studios was confined to press calls at Ealing or Merton Park, pleasant strolls around the lot accompanied by deferential publicists, always timed to coincide with the tea break. She was overwhelmed by the noise of Teatro 6. Films were shot here as in the silent era: several different musical combos playing in disharmony, a building site symphony of hammering and sawing and swearing, the booming cannons of Napoleon's Retreat on the next stage, everyone shouting at once.

Genevieve spotted Orson Welles, raised up from the studio floor, clinging to the plaster prow of the Argo  -  which could only be shot from one side because only half the ship had been constructed  -  and looking up to the painted Heavens.

This Argo was a blind navigator, eyes covered by cataract lenses the colour of spoiled milk. Tears of pain ran through Welles's makeup, blobbing around the lower slopes of a monumental false nose. His real schnoz reputedly looked absurd on film, a tiny thing lost in a CinemaScope face, so he retreated behind enormous blobs of putty.

A torrent began. Rainfall from sprinklers above was whipped by vast wind machines. Water was dashed into the shipbuilder's face, drenching his robes. He clung desperately to the Argo and cursed the Gods.

Welles cursed in English. The Gods replied in Italian, German and French.

Actors from many countries, each a star in his or her own territory, had been carefully cast to give Gli argonauti 'international appeal'. In dialogue scenes, they all counted slowly up to a hundred in native tongues, a different emotion conveyed by each number. Lines were dubbed in later, often by other actors. Even Welles might lose his unmistakable canyon-deep voice and come out like Mickey Mouse.

A horde of technicians held the big sparkly blue canopy that lapped against the side of the ship, pumping their arms up and down like a synchronised weightlifting team to make waves. Water formed pools in the dips of the canopy and spilled through rips, soaking the poor souls underneath.

Argo was joined at the prow by Jason. Kirk Douglas thrust his dimple into the artificial wind, and clapped the shipbuilder on the shoulder.

'If we don't get that rug, fat boy,' he said, with feeling, 'it's your ass.'

'I'd back my ass against your chin any day of the week, play-actor,' Argo replied.

Eddy Poe was supposed to be the writer of this script, and that didn't sound like his style. More heroic lines would be provided later.

Argonauts hauled away on the oars, which battered the sea-canopy, swatting a few technicians to their knees. Curses and cries of pain rose from the depths. A divine voice from on high commanded the crew to keep rowing. In heavily-accented Austrian-English, God ordered extras to put their backs into it. Lesser gods translated the instructions into several European languages.

The torrent was a real downpour now. Some of the sprinkler-heads fell from the studio-skies, and ropes of hosewater lashed the set, twisting in the blast of the wind machines. Douglas supported Welles and water poured off them. That Argo's nose stayed stuck on was a miracle.

A carnival head broke the surface of the canopy by the boat and reared up on high-tension wires, squirting yet more water from its mouth and nostrils. Kate supposed this was supposed to be Poseidon, or one of his fishface cronies. It looked like a Gargantua-sized glove puppet, with finned ears and lobster-antennae bristling over its big rolling eyes.

The mechanical monster's fishy lower jaw hooked on the sea, and tore a section of it. A reservoir of prop water spilled through and dozens of feet slipped on the wet floor. The sea collapsed all around the Argo, falling away from the oars, exposing the scaffold that held up the half-ship.

Toby Dammit, the English matinee idol cast as Theseus, was discovered sneaking a crafty fag in the cutaway diagram bilges. He looked like something from the bottom of the sea, colourlessly unhealthy, pupils shrinking in the light, cheeks bulging with the internal pressure of his body. Kate had an idea there was more than tobacco in his roll-up.

'Cut,' boomed the voice of God.

Suddenly, all noise shut off. Even the quiet trickle of water wound down.

Genevieve tapped Kate's shoulder and pointed upwards. A chair on a crane descended from a platform where a motion picture camera was mounted like a siege gun. In the chair was an old man in jackboots and an open-necked shirt. One lens of his glasses was blacked-out. He carried a megaphone the size of a dustbin.

'Who let the sea get wet?' God  -  Fritz Lang  -  demanded. 'They are fired.'

Genevieve laughed, more in surprise than humour. Her chuckle echoed in the enormous space.

'She who laughs is also fired,' decreed God.

Genevieve shrugged and stifled further giggles. Kate looked reproach at her.

An Italian master technician sauntered over to Lang, hands in pockets. He spieled at length, gesturing with expressive shoulders. The director bobbed around twenty feet above, considering.

Finally, he raised his megaphone.

'We break for fifteen minutes,' he said, like a supreme court justice declaring a recess. 'While the sea is fixed. No one is allowed to leave. That is all.'

The chair ascended again, to the studio roof. Everyone started shouting at once, an explosion of babble. Some people even began working. A crew of seamstresses appeared and began to sew the sea back together. They wielded the kind of thick needles and strong twine oldtime mariners would have used to fix rent-apart mainsails. When she saw The Argonauts in the cinema, Kate would look out for stitches in the sea.

With an enormous sigh, Welles settled in a straining seat and popped the white rinds from his eyes. They'd found a cafe adjacent to the Argonauts set, and Welles  -  remembering them from the Palazzo Otranto  -  had consented to talk with them.

This must have been a disused stage, converted into a cafeteria. The building was the size of a dirigible hangar, with a street winding through it and smaller buildings contained by it, like ships in the stomach of a giant whale. A row of sidewalk cafes was apparently doing great business, most tables crowded with busy young people. A tinny transistor radio played 'Dracula Cha Cha Cha', not a song Kate had good memories of. One table over, a bull-headed shape-shifter was boasting to a couple of party girls. She could imagine the role he was playing.

Welles's costume was still damp, but he was one of those men who seem comfortable in any situation. He dripped on the concrete floor.

Kate was less sure now than when the idea had been proposed that this would be at all useful. After all, Welles was an actor, not a real seer. But he'd been there when Dracula died, and was enough of a magician to see through most tricks.

What she was worried about, she admitted, was that he'd explain how she had done it. Everything between her descent of the cliff and Genevieve finding her covered with il principe's blood was red fog. Someone  -  this Mater Lachrymarum  -  might have taken her mind and made use of her body. The only thing that really argued against it was the evidence. The silver scalpel, with its traces of burned vampire skin. The unmarked palms of her hands. If Welles could understand the plot of Mr Arkadin, could he not also come up with a story that made her a murderess and a mind-puppet?

The cafe was busy but no one came to take their orders.

'Two charming vampire ladies come a-calling,' Welles summed them up, fixing each with an eye. Underneath the face makeup and doughy flesh, currently further encrusted by a ginger-dyed beard, was a mischievous little-boy smile. 'This is an honour rare in the life of Old Prospero.'

'Mr Welles, we want to ask you about the ball at Palazzo Otranto,' said Kate. About the murder.'

Welles rubbed his magician's hands together.

'You seek me out in my capacity as a detective. I was Sherlock Holmes once, and the Shadow.'

He wasn't very wraith-like now.

Kate had met the real Sherlock Holmes, during the Terror. She'd even run into a flier in the First World War who might well have gone on to be the vigilante they called the Shadow. If there was any role in the tangle of crime and detection fit for Welles it was Sherlock's brother, the much-missed Mycroft. Welles might well be able to fill the broad seat set aside in the smoking room of the Diogenes Club for that worthy gentleman.

'Actually, we seek you out more in your capacity as a witness,' Genevieve said.

'I'm here in my capacity as a suspect,' Kate put in. Making a joke of it did not prevent her heart cooling.

Welles's brows knit. A thin line appeared between his eyes as the top of his nose came loose.

'Oh,' he said, disappointed. 'In that case, I'm afraid I've little to add to what I told the police.'

Genevieve had played him wrongly. Kate realised her friend's directness and honesty were pre-Renaissance. Welles was a genius, a prince, a magician. He needed to be courted, flattered and cajoled. For him, a thing must be complicated or it was not worth bothering with.

'As a master of Holmesian method, Mr Welles, what impression did you form of the author of the atrocity at the Palazzo Otranto?'

The pettish genius raised an eyebrow at Kate and decided he liked her. She caught this at once and threw in a little simper that would have made Penelope proud.

Welles puffed up as he drew in a breath, cogitating visibly. A spectator in the rear circle would have seen the lines thought drew on his face. His nose was alarmingly loose, flaking away from the grooves in his cheeks.

'My first deduction was that the murderer must be a fellow of mine.'

An American?' Genevieve queried.

'No, my dear,' Welles flapped a huge paw. 'A showman. You must concede it was a stroke of genius to arrange Dracula's head just so, with the cloak propped up around him, the lighting effects. It was a moment of revelation. In which you played a fine part, by the way. It seemed designed less as a crime than as a coup de theatre.'

'It is the sort of spectacle you are famous for,' Kate said.

'Indeed, indeed. I had expected the police to make more of that, to think me a suspect. It is my belief that the murderer or murderess intended that. I was supposed to be the fall guy. I have already directed Dracula in my head. I might have staged his death similarly. I intended to film Stoker's book once, in 1940. Before Kane. The studio became nervous. I wanted the camera to be Jonathan Harker. I did it on the radio, with the Mercury Theatre, playing Harker and the Count.'

'Others at the palazzo that night might be called theatrical,' Genevieve said. 'John Huston, Cagliostro, Elvis Presley, Samuel Beckett.'

Welles waved away all the names. 'In that crowd, it'd be hard to find someone who wasn't addicted to the big gesture. Dracula himself was first of all a master showman. Consider his predilection for public mass executions. His sudden, cloaked entrances from nowhere, popping up through the vampire trap. His many marriages, all for publicity or political gain. No wonder he and Hitler couldn't stand to share a continent. They were too much alike.'

'You said this was your first deduction,' Kate said. 'That suggests you have had a second, or a third?'

Welles laughed, enormously. 'You're a fine one, Miss Reed. A rare thing indeed. Have you ever acted? You'd do for Mistress Quickly...'

Thank you very much, she thought.

'. no, I'm wrong. You should be Prince Hal. I'm serious. My Falstaff has never found a partner. You have it in you to play the boy, and become the man. A reversal of the traditions of Shakespeare's day. Women can play men. Bernhardt was a one-legged Hamlet. I hope to start filming next year or the year after, when the money comes together. All my great co-stars are Irish.'

'Your second thought?' Genevieve prompted.

Welles was dragged back to the moment. 'As I said, the greatest showman present, myself excluded, was the victim not the murderer. Dracula staged it all himself.'

'It was suicide?' Kate asked, wondering.

'I doubt that. No, it was fortuitous. Our murderer intervened in a spectacle already set in motion, and changed the script. Only the star's head was allowed to make an entrance. It was a calculated act of despoilment. In its own way, a moment of comedy. The intent was to ruin Dracula's entrance, to kill his reputation as much as his person, to break the spell he has held over the world for a century. I think our killer is not a showman, but rather a critic.'

He sat back, chair creaking, and expected applause.

A critic was a kind of journalist. Kate had written theatre and book reviews. And she'd certainly worked hard to ring down the curtain on Prince Dracula.

'Any names spring to mind?' Genevieve asked.

'Details bore me,' Welles declared. 'It should be a simple matter to fill them in, to ink over the sketch. I'm afraid I've passed on to other concerns. You may do what you wish with my insights.'

An assistant director hovered.

'Dear ladies,' said Welles, taking note of the man, 'if you will excuse me? I should be in sight of Colchis.'

He kissed both their hands and left them. Most fat men waddled, but he strode. The assistant director had to trot to keep up with him. He pestered Welles about his detaching nose.

Genevieve looked at Kate. She plainly thought this a waste of time. Kate wasn't so sure. Welles had made her think, and not about playing Henry V. In that buzz, ideas lodged. Some from him, and some he had stirred in her.

'We're not following a thread,' she said, 'we're being hauled in, like fish. People keep telling us things, as if they've been given messages to pass on. And we have these warnings, like the bird-thing in the library, to keep away from some areas and concentrate on others. He's right. It's as if we're being directed.'

'Service in this cafe is terrible,' Genevieve said.

The table was strewn with half-empty cups and glasses. No one had come to clean away or ask them if they wanted anything.

Kate picked up a glass of blood. She sniffed it.

'You aren't going to drink that?' Genevieve said, aghast.

'It's cold tea, dyed red.'

They looked around. None of the people at the nearby tables were actually eating or drinking, just raising glasses and sloshing liquid against their lips. They were laughing and talking, but the chatter was literally meaningless. The minotaur was real, but his head was plastered with swatches of painted newspaper to make him look fake.

The frontage of the cafe, which seemed to be contained within the studio, was actually just a front, propped up by poles. A few miles away from the real thing, the Via Veneto was recreated to the last detail. Kate wondered why anyone would go to the bother.

A camera on a rail advanced slowly through the tables and extras. A camera operator and an intent Italian director rode the mechanism, creeping up on a couple at one of the tables. The couple were brighter than everyone else, perhaps because there was a subtle spotlight on them.

The man wore dark glasses and shrugged as he smoked. The woman, redheaded and with an unflattering hairstyle, leaned over and complained at him, jabbing with an accusing finger. Kate's mind turned over. She could have been watching herself and Marcello. The man looked a lot like Marcello, and the woman might be an unfair caricature of her.

The camera glided past their table, ever closer.

'Don't look now,' Genevieve said. 'I think we're in the movies.'