Hollywood, 1903

1.

Field of grape vines. Crooked lime tree. A grove of painted oranges.

2.

Hollywood, as it is called, lies west of the river, silent and pale. A post office. A small hotel (like a mission church). Two markets and a single streetcar. The streetcar rattles dust along the boulevard.

3.

Motion picture men come here from the East. It is said they want to escape the tyranny of Thomas Edison and his "rules of production."

4.        

Mr. Harvey Wilcox, town founder, is a tall thin man. He lost the use of legs some years ago to Typhoid. Now, instead of rolling about in a wheel chair, he can be seen strapped and standing in a pair of tin legs, pushed along by an Ecuadorian dressed in white linen. Mr. Wilcox shouts orders to the men breaking ground for his new hotel, The Cecil.

5.

I have been hired, in my capacity, to investigate an odd acre that stands a mile or two south of Hollywood-Land. It is the supposed location of a commune known as Der Himmel (from the German, "The Heavens").

6.

The man who hired me is in search of his son, Thomas Whitmore. The boy was a hopeful and handsome youth who came to Hollywood to see about acting in the pictures. Having no luck with that, he went off to Der Himmel. His father has not heard from him since.

7. 

Noon. The day of my arrival. I interview the wife of Mr. Harvey Wilcox in the tea garden of the old hotel. She wears a yellow dress with a high collar. A shade tree looms over her. The tree is covered in pink blossoms that look like human faces. "A German," Mrs. Wilcox says, moving the warm air with a Japanese fan. "That's who it was that bought up all the land to the south. My husband was not pleased, Mr. Samuels. Not one bit. People said the German built a little town down there. He had an old stone village and a snowcapped mountain and a miniature castle too. But, soon enough, others started saying that wasn't true at all. There was nothing down there to the south but fig trees. Rows and rows of fig trees. And those who had seen the little castle and the village and the mountain said they couldn't imagine where all of it had gone. Had the old German torn it down during the night? People are so strange here in California, Mr. Samuels. They come for the oddest of reasons. Health cures and love cults. There are even those who think they might have a chance of meeting men from another planet. Venus is what they say. Venus! Isn't that a curious way of thinking?"

8.

A horse-drawn train takes me south to Der Himmel. I am the only man aboard. The driver wears a burlap sack over his head so as not to breathe the foul dust in the air. We arrive at an iron gate in an open field. Beyond the gate are the fig trees mentioned by Mrs. Harvey Wilcox. 

9.

A small red-framed building the size of an outhouse stands near the gate. A very old man with a white beard is asleep inside. I tap on the window of the little house, and the old man awakens in stages. By the time he finally looks at me with odd gray eyes, I am not sure if he is actually awake or if I am now located inside one of his crusted dreams.

10.

After some conversation, I am granted permission to enter the grove. I pass through the iron gate. There is no path of any kind. California sun filters down through the fig leaves. A lake glitters in the bright distance.

11.

Halfway to the lake, I hear someone whistling. The tune is one I almost remember.
     A tall young man—maybe eighteen or nineteen years of age—appears, pushing a wheelbarrow full of dead tree branches. The branches look like human arms. He is dark-haired and strong. He reminds me of someone I once knew. Maybe he looks like one the young men I became friends with during my first years in Chicago. There were so many handsome boys back then. We used to venture out at night to the dance halls on old Broadway Street.
     I call to the young man through the fig trees.
     He lowers his wheelbarrow and turns in a slow circle as if he has no idea where the sound of my voice came from.
     "Over here," I say.
     Finally, the young man sees me.
    "I'm wondering if we might talk," I say. I walk toward him then, but the young man raises his work-stained hand, gesturing toward the lake.
     We walk together. I glance between the fig trees, trying to see if there's anyone else working in the grove. But we appear to be alone.
     The lake is large, placid. We sit on a flat rock beneath a tree. "I'm looking for someone," I say. "Thomas Whitmore. Likely your age. From Chicago. Do you know him?"
     The young man stares at me. There is something in his eyes that is not exactly like dread. I realize he does, in fact, look nearly identical to one of the young men I knew in my early days. The boy's name was Samuel. Samuel was the son of a farmer from southern Illinois. He had big shoulders, a kind smile. We used to joke that, if he married me, his name would be Samuel Samuels.
     Looking at the young man in the fig grove, I feel suddenly heavy. I wonder how many years it has been since I danced with those boys in Chicago.

12.

Birds sing in the fig trees. A gentle breeze moves the water of the lake.

13.

"Is this a manmade pond?" I ask the young man after a time.
     "What pond?" he says. He has a deep voice. A good voice.
     "Right there," I say, pointing at the lake.
     The young man looks at the lake but says nothing.
     "Have you ever been to Chicago?" I say.
     "You should probably talk to my boss."
     "The old German?" I say.
     "He isn't a German," the young man replies.
     "Just point me in the right direction then."
     The young man points at the lake.

14.

I walk to the water"s edge. The lake looks made of quartz. The longer I stare down at the water, the more I begin to realize there might be objects beneath the surface. They're difficult to comprehend at first because of the way the sun plays on the ripples. But, soon, I think I can see a little village sunk beneath the water. And there, in the distance, is a castle. And beyond the castle is a snow-capped mountain. All of it looks like the memory of a memory. Gray and black. Then passing softly into yellow.

15.

I turn and look at the young man. He raises a big hand once more.
     "Are you telling me this doesn't look like a lake to you?" I ask.
     The young man says nothing.
     "Are you Samuel Samuels?" I say. I cannot stop myself from asking this question.  He looks so much like my old friend. "Or are you the boy called Thomas Whitmore?"
     "My boss is just up ahead," the young man says. "He"ll talk to you."
     "I can't go down there," I say. "This is a lake."
     "It isn't," the young man replies.

16.

I take a step into the water. It's cold. So very cold. I remember the old dance halls. The way Samuel Samuels and I used to move together. Body against body, in the dark. The smell of wheat on his skin. The taste of it. 

17.

Images beneath the lake begin to flicker, as if they are made of light projected on a screen. 

18.

There are people in the little village. I see them now. 
     Young men and old, talking together. 
     I take another step into the cold water in the bright summer sun. And, soon enough, I see Samuel Samuels, my farm boy, down beneath the water. He's gazing up at me through the ripples. He looks happy. Thank God he looks happy. And there is young Thomas Whitmore too. He isn't missing after all. 
     I take two more steps into the lake. 
     I see another man there on the cobbled street of the little village. He's beckoning to me with a gray hand, asking me to come down and talk with him. To walk the streets of the little village at his side. 
     I turn and look back at the young man on the shore of the lake.
     Only it isn't a young man at all, I realize. 
     It's a fig tree, growing there amongst the rocks.

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