The Cutting Room by Laurence Klavan Page A

neurotic assistant. This was no climbing costar. Or former agent. Or bulimic wife of a friend. This was, well, it sounds corny, but this was a connection to a past in which he had been a simpler, purer man. And maybe a link to the same kind of future.
    Ben proudly showed her his autographed picture from Webby Slicone, the singer-turned-conservative congressman to whom he had contributed money. (“Back at you, Ben!—Webby”) But Erendira had only been in the country a brief time, and could not place him.
    “So, I want to tell you about my secret project,” he said. “Well, what secret, right? It’s already been leaked by that goddamn geek on PRINTIT!.com!”
    “What is that?” she said.
    And why should she know? This was no bimbo, peering through the trades every morning. So, patiently, he explained about his Orson Welles idea, about the history of the Internet and what it was used for, about Abner Cooley, that powerful loser whom he hated, and about
The Magnificent Ambersons
, though he left out the part about Annie Chin, Gus, and “Her-Man,” because it might reflect badly on him. Finally, he spoke at length about his identification with Orson Welles, a genius who had been no hero in his own land.
    Ben did not know for how long he spoke, but Erendira’s attention never seemed to lag. This proved what a real and wonderful woman she was.
    “See, my first idea,” he said finally, “was to remake
Citizen Kane
—and that secret, as I already said, got out. But what nobody knows is that I actually have
The Magnificent Ambersons
, the entire thing—”
    “What’s that? Another movie?”
    Ben smiled. Where she came from, they probably didn’t even have TVs that worked! So Ben explained about that, too, as much as he knew, anyway, since he was still having Beth do coverage on Welles.
    “So, what I’m going to do is remake
that
one, the whole thing, the parts that nobody’s ever seen. Then I can say I went Orson Welles one better. Somewhere, I think that he’s smiling down on me.”
    She thought a minute, then asked, “And what is it like? The whole film?”
    “I haven’t watched it yet. I’ve never gotten through the earlier cut version, to be honest. But I will. I’m going to rise to the occasion.”
    Kissing him, Erendira seemed sure of it. He did not tell her of his plan to destroy the longer Welles version, have it lost once and for all. He wanted the long
Magnificent Ambersons
to be
his
idea,
his
brainstorm. But he was sure she would have understood, had he told her.
    “Let’s watch it now,” she said.
    “What?”
    “Let’s see it now, I’m very curious.”
    “But—aren’t you tired? And aren’t there . . . ‘other things’ . . . we could be doing instead?”
    Ben felt sleazy at that moment, not “natural,” but he couldn’t help himself. He told her that he didn’t feel like watching the movie now, he’d see it later, or maybe have that Beth transcribe it for him.
    But Erendira was insistent.
    “If it means that much to you,” she said, “I want to see it.”
    How could he say no to that? She was saying “Put up or shut up, be the better man, the artist you know you are and that I know you are.”
    So Ben set up the projector and screen he had stashed there, the ones on which he sometimes ran vintage stag films that were not on video. Then he broke out the incredible new pot that Stu Drayton had delivered to him. Stu was his dealer and the one who hired the kids from the barrio to make deliveries for him, who gave them “opportunities.” That boy tonight had been one of Stu’s.
    He wasn’t sure how Erendira would deal with the drugs, but he was relieved by what he heard.
    “Where I come from,” she said, “there is no sin in this.”
    Yes, what a woman she was.
    They set up the film and were about to turn it on. But the pot was so strong that, within ten minutes, Ben was laughing uncontrollably, and within fifteen minutes, he was asleep.
    When he awoke in the morning, the