Page 42 of Lost Souls

What she does find a little more difficult to compute, or at least align comfortably in her mind, is how these clearly very jolly and extremely glamorous people might fit into her current benefactor’s world of educational and faith-based filmmaking. She can hardly envisage any of these lovely ladies taking on the role of Saint Joan of Arc or that sweet little Mother Teresa, or indeed imagine any of the men here, despite their pigmentation, giving their Bishop Desmond Tutus, but she has heard somewhere that actors can be extremely versatile.

As she is pondering this and taking in the scene with some considerable, yet far from judgmental, interest, the newcomers are all over Arnie, slapping and kissing, hugging and fondling, all the while muttering excited comments which she clearly finds some difficulty in fully deciphering. Arnie thanks every God for small mercies.

“Hey, guy, we didn’t see you at the awards,” says one of the back-slapping men.

“Naw, well, you know,” Arnie explainscomprehensively, checking in all the time with Noreen, who is thankfully still struggling. “Hey, well, it’s been so great catchin’ up with you…”

“Haven’t seen you since the wrap party forMalcolm Triple-X,” says one of the young women, throwing her arms and everything else around him, until all Noreen can see is a shiny globe of sweaty nakedness glistening under the lights, which could belong to any of them. She hopes Arnie isn’t going to suffocate, as she really doesn’t relish the thought of giving him mouth-to-mouth. Anyway, she has only ever done it on sheep, so it might not be the same.

A tall Latino man, who Noreen has to admit is rather good-looking, is inspecting her with unmasked curiosity.

“This your date?” he asks Arnie. Before Arnie can even half shrug, the guy continuessotto voceinto Arnie’s ear. “She’s gotta do something very special.”

Noreen does, in fact, hear this and is rather flattered that the attractive man can tell just by glancing at her that she is one for performing unsung good works back home.

Before Arnie can respond, not that he possibly could, another of the actresses bends down and French kisses him, her long and versatile tongue venturing so far inside his mouth and with such bulging freneticism that it looks like she is transferring food for him to store in his cheeks through the winter.

Noreen feels that she has to pose the question, because surely even in America a gentleman would introduce a dinner guest to his friends, as this gushing, exuberant throng would clearly appear to be.

“Who are these people, Arnie?”

“I never seen them before in my life,” says Arnie, towhich everyone laughs, even Noreen. Such a witty guy.

A strapping young man in a white sleeveless tuxedo and explicit arm tattoos smiles at Noreen. “He gonna put you into one of his movies?” he asks with what looks like a genuine interest.

“I-I can’t act,” stammers Noreen.

“Neither can I, hon,” a very pretty young woman laughs, “but I just won three Woodys!”

On this, she commences to draw out from a large bag a clutch of the distinctive golden awards we first met in Arnie’s office, which has to seem like an age ago but really wasn’t. With remarkable speed and a burst of tepid fettuccine, Arnie is up and shielding the offending items from Noreen’s curious gaze. He manages to push the well-won Woodys swiftly back into the surprised young lady’s bag.

Yet, even in this time of life-threatening crisis, Arnie Garth can’t help himself from wondering if these glittering prizes had in fact been awarded to productions from his own prestigious stable. Professional pride is a hard baby to tame.

Fortunately – or not – Arnie doesn’t have long to wait.

“YourShakespeare Trilogywon the Woody Supreme!” announces another pneumatic young star.

By now, the entire restaurant appears to be staring in the direction of this exotic group. Some of the female diners, however, are taking time out from their own gawping in order to check on exactly where their husbands’ and young sons’ bulging eyes are focused.

“You don’t say,” says Arnie, really wishing that they hadn’t.

“Shakespeare, Arnie!” says Noreen. “That is so wonderful. Do you know, at school I was very partial to Shakespeare. ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…’”

The gang all nod graciously, working really hard to decipher the words through the seriously screwy accent. One of the players finally gets there.

“You would enjoy these classics, ma’am,” he says. “Brothello!”

“Isn’t thatOth—?”

“Troilism and Cressida,” recalls another, blissfully. Arnie tries to cough but possibly not loud enough.

“Troy-what?”

“And not forgettingCoriol’s Anus!” announces another tuxedoed guy, with tears in his eyes.

“Coriolanus, yeah,” corrects Arnie, pedantically, with a fearful, games-up smile.

“Arnie…?” says Noreen, as she takes an even closer, rather more critical look at the assembled, admiring bevy.