Читать книгу On the Edge of a Dream - Michael Wiese - Страница 8

Chapter 1

TIBETAN SEAMSTRESS

San Francisco 1969

It’s midnight. Full moon. I stand at the back of the Chinese theater. The flickering light from the projector is heavily filtered through sweet-smelling smoke. Shadowy figures stand against the walls. Two thousand people dream together in North Beach.

On the screen, a rugged young man traverses a difficult mountain pass carrying a sacred scroll. A Tibetan seamstress floats above and whispers ‘messages’ on which he must rely or perish.

The audience is into it. My stomach churns. So much is at stake. We’ve been showing Midnight Movies here for a year, but never our own film. Until now. I want it to last. I want it to be over. I can’t take it anymore, and go out into the lobby. Adrian follows, pacing back and forth.

Just then, the electronic music Crescendos. The audience cheers. “We did it, we did it!” he cries.

The doors into the lobby burst open. I am suddenly adrift in a sea of feathers and fur. Bottles of champagne pop. Someone pours a bottle over my long hair, dousing my tiedyed velvet suit. My friends from film school stand around and laugh. Joints are passed through the crowd.

This is a real ‘coup.’ We premiered “The Various Incarnations of a Tibetan Seamstress,” a twenty-five minute 16mm black-and-white student film, and the whole town showed up.

Most of the costumed audience has, is, or is about to partake of their hallucinogen of choice. Besides hippies and artists, the San Francisco society set is here, dressed in velvet, fringed leather and fish-net stockings, as well as opening night gowns and tuxedos. It’s the scene!

I spot Jean-Luc, the program director for the Cannes Film Festival.

“Well?” I ask.

“Fantastic, fantastic.”

“Then you’ll show it in the New Director’s Program?”

“Of course, my boy, of course.”

I get out a quick thanks before I am pulled away by Burt, a Montgomery Street financier. His face is red and puffy from drinking.

“I don’t know what it all means, but they like it.”

“You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

“Hell, no! I smell money. And when I smell money I move. Come and see me next week and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

“Fantastic, Burt, thanks.”

Adrian comes up.

“Well? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Cannes is a done deal.”

“All right! And the money?”

“Adrian, my lad.…start writing!”

“Hey, this filmmaking thang is not so hard,” Adrian says.

“Yeah,” I say, my thoughts pulled elsewhere.

“Hey forget it. Besides, you’re 4F if I’ve ever seen one. Come on…”

More and more people shake my hand. Pat my back. Pour more champagne. A blonde actress of Amazonian proportions appears.

“I am in your new film, aren’t I? I’ve told all my friends it’s about the power of the goddess.”

“Yeah! Sort of…”

I give her a two-minute kiss until she has to pull away to catch her breath. I glance up. Sonny stands on the stairs to the balcony. She shakes her head and smiles, then flips me the bird.

Several members from the Jefferson Airplane and Big Brother have put together an impromptu band. A wave of psychedelic rock fills the lobby. A dancing frenzy carries me outside to the ticket booth which is decorated with Indian carpets and religious artifacts. The Chinese owner is counting the evening’s take. He is very happy. He has seen our Midnight Movies “sold out” for the last year.

“Big night, Nick. You have much success.”

At the end of a red carpet, in the street, are several klieg lights which splash light in the sky over Chinatown, North

Beach, and Nob Hill. What a night!

A group of white-faced mimes are dancing. Photographers take pictures of me and Adrian with our actors in front of the theater marquee. More champagne is poured by harlequin servers. There are jugglers, fire-eaters, and fortune-tellers who have been hired for the premiere. Rock musicians, drag queens, artists, and models pass joints and trade phone numbers.

Eddie, an old friend from high school, surprises me with a crushing handshake, smiling his irresistable smile.

“Hey! What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I got your flyer. You know I wouldn’t miss your opening night.”

“You still playing music?” I ask.

“Not much time with my studies.”

“You didn’t come all the way from Salt Lake..?

He nods.

“Still studying theology?” “Trying to.”

An assistant yells to me over the music that reporters from the San Francisco Chronicle, the Haight-Ashbury Oracle, and Berkeley Barb want a quick interview.

Hours later, about twenty of us are still partying through the North Beach after-hour bars along Columbus Avenue. Only a handful make it to Enrico’s for an espresso at dawn. Boy, are we a tired mess.

I look like shit. All the better to beat the draft. This morning I have my physical at the Oakland Induction Center. Bummer.

Adrian paints on more makeup, “You’re gorgeous,” he says as he eyes his handiwork and laughs. “You look like our Tibetan seamstress!”