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Alex turned back to the young women behind the desk, who were waiting for his questions about Ben: they were used to these questions. They had evolved their own ideas about Ben. One said that he had been in a mental hospital, he was a rich person, and had been sent here with a minder. Another said he was obviously a heavyweight wrestler. A third believed some experiment had gone wrong in a laboratory, and said Ben gave her the creeps. All were protective of Ben, helped him with advice, in English, and with gifts of their time, going with him to his room to make sure he had a bowl for his fruit, or to find something — once, his passport, which for a frightful morning he had thought he had lost. That passport now seemed all that stood between him and being nothing — without it who would know that he was Ben Lovatt, from Scotland, thirty-five years old, a film actor?
Now these smiling helpful faces were concealing a determination to shield Ben from this film director. Dubious and even cruel exploitations were imminent, for they knew Ben to be helpless. When Alex asked, 'Who is he?' one said, 'He's from London,' and another, 'He's on holiday here.' But there was the third person, who did not believe Ben was in films, and who didn't like Alex, and she said, 'He's in films.'
Alex said, 'Forget that booking. I'll stay around a bit.' He went over to Ben, sat down, introduced himself.
Ben's grin held, and his eyes darted about, in fear, but then Alex's friendly ease reminded him of Richard and even of the old woman, and the terrified grin went, and his smile came. Alex took Ben out for a meal, and then to a cafe, and so that all went on for a day, and then another, and then a week, and all this time Alex, with that vision or dream in his mind of the dwarfs, or whatever they were, was thinking that he would make a film with Ben. But he did not have a story, and above all, no money either. Ideas for stories came and went, each one taking over his imagination for the time they stayed. He was possessed by those creatures — who? — what? — not beasts, for Ben inhabited the forms of everyday life, used a knife and fork, went every day to have his beard clipped and his hair done, changed his clothes — which were begi
Ben knew that this friend, who was going to look after him, wanted to make a film with him in it: he really was a film actor. He did not like films, they filled his eyes with light, and made him sick. Alex took him to a cinema, a film carefully chosen, as for a child, a good strong story, excitement, danger. But Ben sat with his eyes closed, opening them in quick desperate attempts to see, but he could not see, the clashing invading light was too much for him.
Alex took Ben to an oculist to get glasses: he was sure the dark glasses were wrongly prescribed. Ben preferred the dusk of evening to light, never sat in the sun, and his eyes were often squeezed up, or squinting. This oculist too seemed nervous. When he emerged from the testing room to speak to Alex, for he had failed to communicate with Ben, he said that these were unusual eyes. They did not adapt well to changes of light. The oculist's ideas about Ben were nearest to the girl at Reception who said he was a failed laboratory experiment, but he wasn't going to say so, and get himself into trouble. He said the dark glasses Ben had were probably as good as any others might be, but suggested glasses tinted less dramatically than the very dark ones. Ben's eyes were watering badly; he was gri
When Alex heard that Ben's hotel was paid for, for another week, and heard about the money in the safe, he was relieved. Every little helped. He had to get money for development from somewhere. He spent hours on the telephone to Los Angeles, New York, other places where films were bred, and finally persuaded the producer who financed his last film to give him enough. He did not have one story: he had several. When he described Ben there was enough of bafflement, of wonder, of excitement in his voice to extract that development money.
And now Alex had to find his story. The trouble was nothing that appeared in his mind as film matched in seductive strangeness that vision of the band of creatures in the cave mouth, looking across chasms of time — millions of years? — into the face of Alex, their — he supposed — descendant. If he was. Did their genes linger in his body somewhere? Did Ben and he share genes? Sometimes he thought that of course, yes, but there were moments when he understood how alien Ben was to him. Alex was saying quietly to himself that Ben was not human, even if most of the time he behaved like one. And he was not animal. He was a throwback of some kind. If the company of ancient men were only a kind of animal how was it that Ben could live the life of human beings — well, for most of the time?
What made Alex uneasy was that when the film was made, when all that was over, there would be Ben, and he needed looking after. For the time being it was all right. Ben spent his days with Alex and part of his evenings. Alex had friends along the coast, and in the little towns up in the hills and he did try to take Ben on visits, but it was difficult and strained and he did not try again. And what did Ben do, on the evenings when he was abandoned by Alex? He went into the town carefully, as if hunting or stalking, to look for a female. He did find one, but again was called bete and cochon, but he knew only that he was being rejected.
And now Alex had an idea. He would go back to South America to make his film. This time, Brazil. He knew people there, had even made a little film, had directed a play. He would set his story not in Northern Europe, with its association of dwarfs and gnomes and trolls, and brownies, and — more delicately, fairies and elves — he would jettison all that cargo, and go south, into forests where . But he had not worked it out, no tale lingered in his mind. He would go to Rio, and take Ben out into those forests where butterflies the size of thrushes flew about and where the history was as ancient and savage as in Europe — and then he would let what visions come into his mind that would.
He described South America to Ben, described Brazil, and Rio. As always he did not know what Ben understood. He got into the habit of watching for that grin that said so much. Ben asked if they were going on an aeroplane, and said he had been on a plane, a little one. He described looking down on London. He had seen where the old woman lived and the street where Johnston worked — where he had worked but he had gone away. He did not mention the plane from London to the South of France because he could not be persuaded he had been on it. Was Brazil far away, he asked? Far away from where? Alex wanted to know, but did not ask. He was feeling guilty about what he was doing. Well, he promised himself, he would see that Ben came back, either to here, or to London, where his friends would care for him.