Métis Beach Read online

  For G.

  Let us cease being presumptuous, cease believing that the fights we lead are definitive. History is a series of cycles, marked by struggle and victory, victory and struggle.

  — Dana Feldman, The Next War

  All the characters in this book are the fruit of my imagination and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. I took liberties with places and names, beginning with Métis Beach, to which I added an accent for fictional purposes. To my friends in Métis-sur-Mer, who were so helpful as I researched this book — you’ll find yourselves nowhere in these pages.

  C.B.

  Table of Contents

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part 2

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part 3

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part 4

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part 5

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part 6

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part 7

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  I

  GAIL

  1

  The past is like a gun in the hands of our enemies. What we’ve said, what we’ve done, whether deliberate or not, the mistakes we’ve made when we were kids — sooner or later someone will find out about them and point them at your head.

  I made a promise to myself I’d never write again; I’ve paid too high a price already. And if I find myself wandering through this story now, my own story, it’s to establish the truth and hope that with it, I might regain those I loved and lost — through my own fault.

  On that morning in October 1995, I woke at dawn, still on edge from the previous night’s meeting. A grey light filtered through the window. It was too early to take in the hills on the other side of the canyon, along with their great white lettering, still hidden by the thick smog that rose from the city. The sight of that sign was the consecration of my success, a feeling of revenge experienced every time I contemplated it from my office window, in my house all the way up Appian Way.

  In the car on the way home, I had unleashed my anger on Ann, who’d been troubled by the intensity of my words. I saw the way she stiffened in her seat, and I regretted it instantly, “If that’s success, I want no part of it! What are they trying to do? Silence us? Take away our freedom to write? It’s the money, goddamn it, the money that’s making us cowards!”

  She touched my arm, and with that soft but unyielding voice she used in such moments, when she wished to calm me down, said, “It’s okay, Romain, forget what just happened. It won’t happen again, you’ll see.” And I thought, How can you be so sure?

  It was Chastity’s abortions that had provoked the most violent responses. Letters, calls, sometimes threats, not to mention the small groups of demonstrators that had begun parading silently in front of the La Brea studio we called The Bunker, their anger a burning ember, the colour of painted blood splashed on their signs. Gloomy looking pro-life demonstrators would arrive early in the morning, icebox and folding chair under their arms, as if they were going to a baseball game, and leave late in the evening with, or so I imagined, the feeling of having accomplished something. They ignored us, and we ignored them. We did our job, they did theirs. Each of us defending our own understanding of freedom of speech in this country, though always keeping a distance from the other, in a show of feigned but civilized respect. To me it wasn’t a problem; to me that’s what America was all about.

  Chastity was a character in my television series In Gad We Trust. I had finally succeeded in selling my first script after years of disillusionment and struggle, at a point when I’d pretty much stopped believing it would ever happen. “When perseverance pays,” the newspapers had said. Success at the ripe age of fifty, which wasn’t a common story in Los Angeles, made me into a sort of celebrity that was apparently mocked, or at least that was what some large, drunken fellow from ABC had told me at a party, his warm hand on my shoulder, a dumb smile on his lips, “Have you heard what they’re saying about you? That they ended up saying yes to you for humanitarian reasons.” I had no qualms about it. I’d even learned to laugh at my own expense, speaking with derision of a miracle worked by Gad himself, adding sometimes, “Like a pregnant woman who thought she was sterile her whole life.”

  Don’t get me wrong though — the story I’m telling you here isn’t a comedy. This scriptwriter hasn’t laughed in a long time.

  It was a stimulating and exciting time, despite the whining from various quarters. Complaints told us we were on the right track — boldness doesn’t always please. At least that’s what we told ourselves, until the attacks became more personal and the head office of our network, It’s All Comedy!, became preoccupied with remarks made by an influential columnist with the Los Angeles Daily News. We were in the middle of filming the second season, surfing on the instant success of the first, which had put wind in our sails and given us enough arrogance to ignore the negative comments. But this, this was different. The criticism had turned into a vicious mess.

  “These Hollywood types never go after Jews. But Christians — why not?... Would these eager defenders of freedom of expression have been so eager to defend Julius Streicher’s anti-Semitic pamphlets in Nazi Germany? Of course not.”

  And of course, within “of course not” sits the malicious intent of the author. So much so that after the text was published, the author was interviewed on a popular talk-radio show, and the putrid wind — Jews, money, Hollywood — blew once again through the town’s populist media. And Josh Ovitz, president of It’s All Comedy!, felt himself the target of these cruel atta
cks.

  I told Josh, “Don’t let it distract us. We know what this disgusting propaganda is all about. Another reason not to give a single inch.”

  The whole affair had shaken the crew and provided the impetus for a series of long discussions among the staff, How far is too far? It’s around that time that a certain scene, which hadn’t been thought of as problematic after a first read, had suddenly become so. And Josh had asked all of us over for a meeting. On a Sunday afternoon.

  In production meetings, I had the reputation of being pugnacious when defending my ideas. We’d wanted dark comedy, we had dark comedy. A handful of complaints from saggy sanctimonious nothings in Orange County wouldn’t paralyze us.

  “Okay, Roman …” Dick, a producer friend, was speaking. “But the stuff on God.…”

  Flabbergasted, I stared at Dick. I suddenly wondered if the complaints, which until that point we’d treated with either indifference or amusement (hadn’t we popped a bottle of champagne in honour of the first one?) — and now these fallacious newspaper articles — would complicate our task. Censor myself? No way! Sure, what we had undertaken was edgy, but it wasn’t revolutionary in any sense — the American public was ready for it. The Simpsons on Fox had opened the way. Now, new cable outfits had taken the baton and run with it, taking greater and greater risks. To me there was something a hundred times worse than sedition: vulgarity.

  And here was Josh Ovitz, an intelligent young man, a bit over thirty and intrepid, a pure product of East Coast education, out of arguments. Without much resistance, he was signing on with Dick and all the others around the table, including Matt, a man whose work I admired, and Ann, who’d participated in the writing of the series. Ann? You agree with them? Before my astonished air, she lowered her eyes, while Josh’s assistant distributed photocopies of the scene in question, which I was asked to read out loud. I staggered through it without the enthusiasm with which I’d written the thing:

  Season 2 / In Gad We Trust / episode 4 / scene 14: interior, Paradise Church, day

  (After a particularly lucrative religious service — the faithful had once again been generous — Gad Paradise and his son are chatting in the room behind the altar. Gad takes off his preacher’s garb.)

  GAD PARADISE

  You know, God, he’s like a Mafia Don. God-Bonanno. God-Al Capone. God-Lansky. God-Father. D’ya get it? God-Father! If you go behind his back, God can have you dead any time, any place. Divine prerogative, right? You following me? (Gad picks up the collection bags filled to the brim, and begins opening them.) But if you work hard for him, well, well (he snaps his fingers), he’ll be generous right back! (Gad empties the bags on the ground.) Everything that falls to the ground is ours. If God wanted any of it, he should have reached out from Heaven and held out his hand!

  God, what a schmuck!

  Around the table, total silence. Dick shook his head. “You can’t call God a schmuck, Roman. You know me, I generally don’t give a shit. But that, even I can’t abide.”

  “We’re not the ones saying it, a character is.”

  “It won’t fly. No one is okay with it. It’s just … anti-American.”

  “Anti-American! Having a laugh at God is anti-American?”

  No one reacted. I was stupefied. Matt, a tall man with a deep voice, added, “It’s a small phrase. It doesn’t have an impact on the story.” Everyone nodded and Dick added, “Right, a small, blaspheming phrase.”

  I went on, indignant, “You, Dick? Nagging me about blasphemy? You can’t say two words without cussing!”

  Dick pressed his lips together, no doubt keeping some choice words to himself at that very moment. Ann was facing me, her back straight, looking at me as if to say, They’re right. The series is explosive enough. They’ll never be able to accuse us of deference. Just let it go.…

  “Blasphemy hasn’t been a crime in this country since 1971! We’ve got the Constitution on our side, for crying out loud!”

  Josh grabbed a pen and drew a line over the phrase in his copy. He stood up, avoided my eyes, and spoke to the room as if I’d already left, “Good, we’re all agreed, then. We’re filming the scene tomorrow without the phrase, okay?”

  All agreed. “Wait!” I protested. Josh looked sorry now, sincerely sorry. Who was behind this censorial operation? The board? The shareholders? And no one thought to inform me about it before now? Finally, I found my words, rage filling me, “Today, it’s just one phrase. And tomorrow, what will it be? What are we going to be shooting for our fifth season? The Waltons?”

  Josh rubbed his hand in his hair. “We’re wasting our time, Roman. How many of us around the table? Eight? So it’s seven against one.”

  “I’m the writer!”

  I glanced over at Ann, and she put on a brave smile. My heart tightened. Josh continued, “Please, Roman, in the future, let’s try to avoid easy formulas and simple phrasing, okay? I’m sure you can find something better to write. In fact, I can’t see how it affects the scene. Really.”

  Avoid easy formulas?

  If I was being honest, I’d have admitted that Josh was right on this one. The phrase certainly wasn’t the best one I’d written in my career. But considering the circumstances ... not saying anything? Because that was the whole point of this improvised — though not so much when I came to think about it — intervention: to shut me up. Ann watched me, imploring me with her eyes to not say anything. She knew how angry I could be, knew that the simple idea of being muzzled sent me back to my childhood, which I didn’t like to talk about and which she didn’t entirely understand. A childhood made of bitter and unpleasant memories, like a dish you hated as a kid and promised yourself never to eat again when you grew up. I’d spent my entire life fighting for a way to express myself, with total freedom, without concessions or constraints, and I wouldn’t, at my age, fifty years old for crying out loud, let myself be told, you can’t say that! Especially just because a gang of fanatics might feel offended.

  “Shit, guys!”

  I glared through the window, still annoyed. I’d left the windows without drapes on purpose, so I’d never miss a moment of the view — though there wasn’t much to see this morning. I’d been so hostile to them, as if they’d let me down.

  They said yes to you for humanitarian reasons.

  What idiots, those ABC suits. The way they had of avoiding your eyes, those big network types, incapable of looking at you square and telling you they don’t like what you’ve written. Searching for ready-made formulas as if clutching a handrail. “We regret to inform you we can’t purchase your script.… Doesn’t correspond to the mandate we’ve chosen.…” Their sorry smiles, fixed in scornful pity. Their empty, hurried words, assuring you of an admiration they don’t feel. Almost twenty years of constant refusal.

  I smiled. All of it was over. Now I was working with Josh and It’s All Comedy!, a young, specialty outfit, audacious and visionary (it would produce Jungle and My Way, two of the most popular cable shows of the 2000s). They might not have paid as much as the big networks, though I had received four percent in capital actions in addition to the rights and the seventy thousand per episode, including episodes I didn’t write myself but supervised. No, I wasn’t suffering horrible deprivation.…

  So, did you make it, then?

  I heard Ann upstairs, drying her hair. My watch showed seven-ten. Staff was scheduled to meet at the La Brea studio at eight-thirty. With traffic, it would be a good hour to get there, perhaps more. You could never really tell in this city. A city built for cars, an automotive paradise — though more often than not it was automotive hell. Before going to bed I’d promised Ann: yes, I’d join the majority and accept the amputation of Trevor’s dialogue — Trevor, the young actor who played Dylan Paradise, Gad’s son. Yes, I’d make sure Trevor heard nothing of the previous night’s discussion. I’d put my arm around his shoulder and take him away from the group, two men
speaking, two men with important things to take care of, and I’d tell him something like, “You see, Trevor, I’ve reconsidered.… The phrase isn’t exactly the find of the century.… What if instead you answered Gad with a simple: ‘Right …’ you know, with a devilish smile, a gangster’s smile.” And I’d wink at him, maybe give him a slap on the back, friendly, complicit, and Matt and Dick would silently thank me, you can always count on Roman. And it was true, you could always count on me. The actors knew it as well — if there were black eyes to be handed out, I was always first in line. It was my problem. Not theirs.

  Ann appeared at my door, car keys in hand. Seven-forty, we were already late. Giving me a surprised look, as if I hadn’t been the one waiting, she exclaimed “You’re not ready? You know Dick, he’s going to kill us.”

  I thought about the word Dick had chosen the night before: anti-American. Like others had said sacrilegious in a different time. Or antichrist. Or heretic. A loaded word, calling forth pyres and excommunications. Using the Flag, the Cross, to reduce you to silence. A warning: You’re anti-American … your scripts are anti-American.… Be careful.…

  As if I wasn’t American myself. What more did they want from me? What did I still have to prove? I, Romain Carrier, a.k.a. Roman Carr, arrived in 1962, naturalized in 1979 under President Carter, a few years before, “Born in the USA,” an anti-Vietnam song I’d come to hate for the way it had been used by Republicans, misinterpreted, becoming a patriotic hymn for aggressive beer-guzzlers, reminding you that if you weren’t born here you weren’t really American.

  “Ready, Romain?”

  Romain. The name my parents had given me and that Ann insisted on using. Her sexy way of saying it, the oh-so-slightly exaggerated uvular trill, almost a caress against my skin when she was in a flirtatious mood. She took my buckskin coat off the chair and handed it to me. “Please hurry, okay?” On my work table, the photocopy that Josh’s assistant had handed out, the offending sentence crossed out in blue ink. She glanced at it with concern. Then she smiled and the phone rang. She made a small gesture telling me she’d wait in the car.