Midnight Snack and Other Fairy Tales, Page 2

  The door opened, and the second prince came back in, smiling slightly. “A year to find one dog?” he said. “I guess these people never heard of eBay.”

  The first Prince turned to glance at him. “Second thoughts?”

  “Can’t leave you to decide which of our parts has the best stuff in it,” said the second Prince, amiably enough; and I saw the director and producer flicked a glance at each other, neither one revealing. I could just imagine the Prince’s agent repeating over the phone, loudly, what his residuals package was going to look like on this project, assuming that it got made with him in it.

  “So,” said the producer. “Should I go on?”

  The first two Princes nodded; the third just smiled slightly.

  Sal cleared his throat again softly and started to read again. “But it’s about the youngest that we’re going to hear. He was young, and gay, and handsome—”

  The Standards and Practices guy glanced up. “We’re bucking for an ‘R’ rating here before anything’s even happened,” he said.

  The first two Princes smirked at each other. The King studied his nails. The youngest raised his eyebrows, and smiled slightly. “I’m not afraid of being stereotyped,” youngest Prince said. “Just don’t expect me to swish.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said the first Prince, still wearing some of the smirk that he had earned on Prince Number Two. “It can be fun to camp it up– “

  “Not that kind of gay,” said the producer. “The writer’s language is a little antiquated, that’s all. Anyway. He was young, and gay, and handsome, and knew everything that a prince ought to know—”

  “I just bet he did,” said the second Prince, grinning at the first.

  The King rolled his eyes again. “I have another meeting in an hour,” the King said. “Can we please—”

  The producer opened his mouth, and the door opened almost in synch with it. “Sorry I’m late,” said the Beautiful Princess, “but you wouldn’t believe the traffic on Santa Monica this morning. That next-top-model show is shooting on Rodeo, and everything from Beverly to Cañon is jammed with crew trucks and rubberneckers.” She pulled out a chair and slumped into it, her crown slightly askew. She tried to push it back into place. The attempt failed, and even if it had succeeded, the effect would still have been poor in combination with the bright pink cashmere Juicy Couture sweats. “Have I missed anything?” she said. “Where are we?”

  “PG-13 and rising,” said the S&P guy, glancing at her cleavage, for the zipper of those sweats was down a long way.

  The producer shot him a look. The Beautiful Princess’s eyebrows went up, but more with a pleased look than an annoyed one. “I can do adult,” she said, and looked at the three princes. “Who’s the lucky boy?”

  The first two princes looked away. The third Prince simply threw the Beautiful Princess a knowing look… and she caught it, and simpered. It’d been a long time since I’ve seen a good simper: and it boded well, because this was the Princess we needed.

  The producer caught my eye and signaled me with a glance. I pushed the spare reading copy of the script over the Princess. She picked it up, paged through it with a trained eye, and within a second had found the page where the others’ scripts lay open. “Okay,” she said, “let’s go.”

  “The youngest prince knew everything that a prince should know… and as for his courage, there was simply no end to it.”

  “Courage,” the princess said, and smiled. “So it’s an actioner? Well, if we’re not going to have the other kind of action…”

  The producer reached out for his coffee and drank a good deal of it. It was a good thing it was cold. What are their agents telling these people? I thought.

  “All right,” said the producer. “So the youngest Prince went off and started buying dogs. Big ones, little ones, greyhounds, spaniels, lap dogs, you name it. No sooner would he buy one than he’d find a prettier one somewhere else; after a few days he’d have so many dogs that he’d have to get rid of some of them, and always he’d keep on traveling further from home, convinced that there was a prettier dog out there somewhere. Finally he hardly knew where he was any more, and he and the ten or so dogs he had with him at that point took a short cut through a forest. Or he thought it was a short cut. He got lost, and it got dark, and then it started to rain; and he and the dogs wandered around in the stormy, gloomy woods until finally he thought he saw a light some ways off. With difficulty the youngest Prince made his way toward it. And what should he find but an immense castle, all by itself in the woods. It had a golden door all studded with rubies: the glow of these (for apparently they were magic rubies) was what had led him to the place. And as he lifted his hand to knock at the door, it opened—and he saw an immense white marble hall paved with lapis lazuli, and hanging in the air, hundreds of hands…”

  The Beautiful Princess’s eyebrows went up. “Kinky,” she said softly.

  “No bodies?” said the first Prince.

  “Just hands?” said the second Prince.

  “CGI,” said the director.

  The calculating look in the First and Second Princes’ eyes suggested that they were both wondering whether their agents had got them enough for this part, if the effects budget could take that much strain.

  “The hands escorted the prince inside,” the producer said, ignoring them. “Voices which seemed associated with them said, ‘Don’t be afraid; nothing here will harm you.’ And the hands ushered him through room after room, each more splendid than the last, until the Prince found himself in a sitting room where a fire sprang into life in the fireplace as they entered. The hands removed the Prince’s wet, muddy clothes—”

  “Woo woo,” said the youngest Prince. The Beautiful Princess shot him a look out of the corner of her eyes, and said nothing, but smiled slightly.

  “PG-17 for sure,” said the S&P guy under his breath, making another note.

  “And dressed him in new ones embroidered richly in gold and precious stones. When he was ready, the hands led the Prince to a splendid dining room, on the walls of which were painted the history of Puss in Boots and many other famous cats. The Prince was led by the hands to the main table, to one of two places which were laid with golden plates and utensils. He looked at the second place, wondering who it was for, and waited. A nearby door swung open to the sound of invisible trumpets: and in came a tiny figure in a long black veil, escorted by two cats wearing black cloaks and carrying swords. Behind them came a large party of cats carrying musical instruments and various covered dishes.”

  “More CGI?” said the King.

  “No,” said the producer, “just magic. For some of this stuff, it looks better.—So there stood the prince, astonished: and the little figure walked up to him and threw back its veil to reveal the most beautiful little white cat he’d ever seen. ‘Good evening, Prince,” said the White Cat. ‘You’re very welcome. Will you join us for dinner?’”

  “‘Absolutely,’ he said, and sat down—”

  “Excuse me,” said the Beautiful Princess. “This is my character? A cat?”

  “Yes,” said the producer.

  “And I spend how long as this cat?” she said, riffling through the script.

  “Until the spell’s broken,” said the director.

  “That’s almost the whole story,” said the Beautiful Princess. “Do I really want this on my CV? That I spent a whole story as a cat?”

  “It’s a tremendous ending,” said the producer. “Trust me. Besides, everybody knows the cat’s not really a cat. Even the prince knows it. Think of how the suspense will build. When the audience finally sees you, they’ll never forget it.”

  She raised her eyebrows again. I held my breath. “Well, I don’t know,” she said. But at the same time, I saw her steal a glance at the youngest Prince: and as she did, she saw that he was stealing a glance at her, with just the slightest smile.

  The moment held. “All right,” she said, letting her gaze fall to the script again, “let�
��s see what happens—”

  I let the breath out. It was going to be all right…

  “So dinner was brought in, and the two of them started to talk, and the Prince discovered that they were both interested in the same kinds of things…so that they were so busy talking, they nearly forgot to eat, and sat there until late in the evening, while the musicians played. Then finally the White Cat reluctantly rose, signaling that the evening was over. The youngest Prince rose with her, and knelt to take her paw and kiss it; and as he bent over it, he saw that on a bracelet there she wore a miniature painted with the face of a man who looked much like him. For the time being, the Prince said nothing, but bade her good night, and went to the bedroom to which the hands conducted him.”

  “Right,” said the youngest Prince. “A lookalike? A prophecy? A curse?”

  “All three,” said the director, “and he catches on as fast as you have. It’s in the backstory: fairies had it in for her, intended her to marry another guy, she fell for this prince in the miniature instead, he gets killed and she turns into a cat until she finds another prince who looks like the first one and’ll fall in love with her.—So the next morning the Prince gets up and finds that she’s prepared a hunt for him. Off they go, and after the hunt there’s a feast, and after that, a ball back at the palace; and the Prince and the White Cat become inseparable. He gets another look at that miniature, and the guy might be his twin. But he doesn’t say anything for the time being.

  “The next day is like the one before, full of entertainments that the White Cat prepares for him: and the day after that, and the week after that, and the month after that, the same. They’re never bored. Every night they’re up late talking, every day they’re out together having a good time, until the Prince finds it really hard to keep in mind why he came to her castle in the first place.”

  “Somebody else must be taking care of the dogs,” said the First Prince.

  “They are,” said the director. “I should put in a note about that.” He pulled a pad over and scribbled on it.

  “And when the Prince does remember his quest,” said the producer, “he says to himself, Oh, it’s all right, I’ve got eleven months left. Or ten. Or whatever. I’ll deal with it shortly. But he never does. And then one day at dinner, the White Cat says to him, ‘You know, Prince, in a week you’re scheduled to be back at your father’s palace with the prettiest little dog imaginable.’

  “She’s right, of course. He’s horrified that he’s let things go on this long. But at the same time he hates to leave her. She just laughs at him, though, and says, ‘It’s all right. If you leave tomorrow, you’ll be back in time. And I’ve got your perfect little dog right here.’

  “So the Prince is relieved. The next morning, after breakfast, the Cat tells him to get ready for his journey: and she meets him out front of the palace with some of her cat-courtiers, who lead up a white horse, all beautifully saddled and bridled. ‘This horse goes like the wind; it’ll bring you home by lunchtime,’ she says. ‘And here’s your little dog.’ And she hands him a walnut.”

  The First Prince and the Second Prince snickered. “She’s got a sense of humor, I’ll give her that,” said the Youngest Prince.

  “No,” said the producer. “She says, ‘Hold it up to your ear!’, and the Prince does, and he hears barking from inside. ‘Trust me,’ she says. ‘I will never steer you wrong. When your business at the court is done…come back to me.’

  “And he does trust her. He bows over her paw, gets on the magic horse, and rides away, and sure enough, he’s back at his father’s palace half an hour before lunch.”

  “So now finally we get some screen time,” said the First Prince.

  “Oh, yeah,” said the director. “It’s a huge scene. The two older princes have found these gorgeous little dogs that must be worth millions. And the King can’t choose between them. And then the youngest Prince opens his walnut, and out comes a dog that you practically need a magnifying glass to see. And everyone’s amazed; and he just says to his father, ‘Well, you did say little…’”

  The Beautiful Princess chuckled. “You have to watch what you ask for in these things,” she said.

  “All too true,” said the producer. “So now the King’s in a quandary. He says that he just can’t decide, and besides, he doesn’t feel like giving up the throne right this minute—”

  “The old weasel,” said the first Prince. “What did I tell you?”

  “So he sends the sons off again, this time to find a piece of muslin so fine it can be drawn through the eye of a needle.”

  “This guy is so passive-aggressive,” said the second Prince. “Instead of playing Textile Treasure Hunt with them, why doesn’t he just tell them, ‘I’m not done here yet, go take a gap year or something and I’ll talk to you later?’”

  “I’d say rather,” said the King, “that he’s a complex man, conflicted by the stresses of his roles as ruler and father. Give him a break.”

  The two older Princes rolled their eyes. The youngest Prince became very interested in pouring himself a paper cup of coffee.

  “So it all happens again, doesn’t it?” said the Beautiful Princess. “He goes back to the White Cat and tells him what his father wants this time, she says to him, ‘Don’t worry about it, I handled the last thing and I can handle this next one,’ yadda yadda yadda. And he spends the next year with her.”

  “More character development between the leads,” said the director. “Lots of it.”

  “Maybe even a dream sequence or two?” said the Beautiful Princess. “Hinting at the reality to come?” She didn’t quite bat her eyelashes at him, but she came close.

  “Hmm,” said the director, and made notes, or pretended to. “Interesting thought—”

  “PG-17 for sure,” said the S&P guy, in a slightly warning tone.

  “All right,” said the King. “Whatever. My character’s got to do it to the princes once more, right? That’s always where the payoff is, the third iteration.”

  The producer nodded. “This time he sends them off to find and bring back the most beautiful princess in the world.”

  The Beautiful Princess preened briefly—then paused and shot the producer an astonishingly hard look. “The other two,” she said. “They’re not going to be anywhere near as beautiful as me, are they?”

  “Well,” the producer said, “they have to be fairly beautiful. Otherwise no one’s going to take the ending seriously. But of course, not as beautiful—”

  I could see the trouble coming down the line—someone demanding a raise in her salary—but that was going to be long after the casting stage: it’d be the producer’s problem then.

  “All right,” said the Beautiful Princess, with the air of someone reserving judgment. “So the youngest Prince goes back to her, and tells her what his father wants this time, and she says, ‘No problem!’”

  “That’s right. And another year goes by. And the day before it’s time for him to go back, the White Cat has dinner with him, and then they go out on the terrace by themselves…”

  “And he kisses her, and she turns into me!” said the Beautiful Princess.

  “No,” said the producer.

  “Oh. He has to fight something, then. A monster, maybe.”

  “Not as such,” said the producer.

  The director was doodling desperate squiggles on his notepad: he wouldn’t look up. “Oh,” said the Princess, sounding a little disappointed. “This is going to be one of those symbolic endings.”

  “Not as such,” said the producer. “The White Cat tells him that if he wants a beautiful princess to take home, he has to cut off her head.”

  The Beautiful Princess’s jaw dropped.

  “She. Does. What??”

  “It was worse in the first draft,” said the producer, rather casually. “He had to cut off her head and her tail and throw them in the fire. Seemed a little excessive.”

  “Uh, I have to agree with B.P. here,” said the youngest
prince. “It does seem like the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I mean, come on!” said the Beautiful Princess. “These two are in a relationship! I mean, nothing kinky, you know that, this is strictly platonic with these two at this point—”

  “Except maybe for the dream sequence,” said the First Prince.

  “Never mind the dream sequence! No way is he ever going to chop off her head! What a terrible, dumbass idea! You should fire the writer!”

  “We can’t. She has script veto.”

  “You have to! She’s a fruitcake!”

  “She’s a countess.”

  “Fine, then she’s a fruitcake with royal icing, but she’s still a fruitcake! No one is ever going to believe that. I mean, look at this!” She nailed one perfectly-laminated fingernail to the open page in her script. “‘No matter what he says, he cannot convince her. And so—’ So what does he do? Does he walk out of that castle and say ‘No, sorry, I don’t care what you say, you’re delusional to think I would ever hurt you?’ Of course not. Instead he wimps so far out that he actually agrees with her, he chops off her head! It’s just too, too—”

  “Gross,” said the youngest Prince.

  “Inappropriate,” said the Beautiful Princess.

  “Unsuitable for children under twelve,” said the S&P guy, scribbling. “Imitable behavior—”

  “Listen,” said the director, starting to sound annoyed, “you can’t have a love story without some sacrifice!” His sudden intensity made me suspect that he could already see his production bonus winging its way out the window.

  “Yeah, but a sane sacrifice,” said the youngest Prince, “a sacrifice that doesn’t mean that both the principals are psycho!”

  The argument started to fill the room. The director was getting red in the face. The youngest Prince’s handsomeness had gone chilly without him seeming to have moved a muscle in his face: it was an effect I looked forward to seeing in performance some time, but right now it scared me, and I wondered if were had just lost both our leads—