The producer laughs shortly and shakes his head.
“You heard,” says the night watchman. “You did hear, didn’t you? I see it in your face.”
Douglas shoves the gun in his coat pocket. “Anything you listen for you can hear. I made the mistake of listening. You should have been a writer. You could throw six of my best ones out of work. Well, what about it—are you ready to come down out of here now?”
“You sound almost polite,” says the night watchman.
“Don’t know why I should. You ruined a good evening for me.”
“Did I? It hasn’t been that bad, has it? A bit different, I should say. Stimulating, maybe.”
Douglas laughs quietly. “You’re not dangerous at all. You just need company. It’s your job and everything going to hell and you’re lonely. I can’t quite figure you, though.”
“Don’t tell me I’ve got you thinking?” asks the old man.
Douglas snorts. “After you’ve lived in Hollywood long enough, you meet all kinds. Besides, I’ve never been up here before. It’s a real view, like you say. But I’ll be damned if I can figure why you should worry about all this junk. What’s it to you?”
The night watchman gets down on one knee and taps one hand into the palm of the other, illustrating his points. “Look. As I said before, you came here years ago, clapped your hands, and three hundred cities jumped up! Then you added a half-thousand other nations, and states and peoples and religions and political setups inside the barbed-wire fence. And there was trouble! Oh, nothing you could see. It was all in the wind and the spaces between. But it was the same kind of trouble the world out there beyond the fence has—squabbles and riots and invisible wars. But at last the trouble died out. You want to know why?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting up here freezing.”
A little night music, please, thinks the old man, and moves his hand on the air like someone playing the proper and beautiful music to background all that he has to tell. . . .
“Because you got Boston joined to Trinidad,” he says softly, “part of Trinidad poking out of Lisbon, part of Lisbon leaning on Alexandria, Alexandria tacked onto Shanghai, and a lot of little pegs and nails between, like Chattanooga, Oshkosh, Oslo, Sweet Water, Soissons, Beirut, Bombay, and Port Arthur. You shoot a man in New York and he stumbles forward and drops dead in Athens. You take a political bribe in Chicago and somebody in London goes to jail.
You hang a Negro man in Alabama and the people of Hungary have to bury him. The dead Jews of Poland clutter the streets of Sydney, Portland, and Tokyo. You push a knife into a man’s stomach in Berlin and it comes out the back of a farmer in Memphis. It’s all so close, so very close.
That’s why we have peace here. We’re all so crowded there has got to be peace, or nothing would be left! One fire would destroy all of us, no matter who started it, for what reason. So all of the people, the memories, whatever you want to call them, that are here, have settled down, and this is their world, a good world, a fine world.”
The old man stops and licks his lips slowly and takes a breath. “And tomorrow,” he says, “you’re going to stomp it down.”
The old man crouches there a moment longer, then gets to his feet and gazes out at the cities and the thousand shadows in those cities. The great plaster cathedral whines and sways in the night air, back and forth, rocking on the summer tides.
“Well,” says Douglas at last, “shall—shall we go down now?”
Smith nods. “I’ve had my say.”
Douglas vanishes, and the watchman listens to the younger man going down and down through the ladders and catwalks of the night. Then, after a reasonable hesitation, the old man takes hold of the ladder, breathes something to himself, and begins the long descent in shadow.
The studio police and the few workers and some minor executives all drive away. Only one large dark car waits outside the barbed-wire gate as the two men stand talking in the cities of the meadow.
“What are you going to do now?” asks Smith.
“Go back to my party, I suppose,” says the producer.
“Will it be fun?”
“Yes.” The producer hesitates. “Sure, it’ll be fun!” He glances at the night watchman’s right hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve found that hammer Kelly told me you were using? You going to start building again? You don’t give up, do you?”
“Would you, if you were the last builder and everybody else was a wrecker?”
Douglas starts to walk with the old man. “Well, maybe I’ll see you again, Smith.”
“No,” says Smith, “I won’t be here. This all won’t be here. If you come back again, it’ll be too late.”
Douglas stops. “Hell, hell! What do you want me to do?”
“A simple thing. Leave all this standing. Leave these cities up.”
“I can’t do that! Damn it. Business reasons. It has to go.”
“A man with a real nose for business and some imagination could think up a profitable reason for it to stay,” says Smith.
“My car’s waiting! How do I get out of here?”
The producer strikes off over a patch of rubble, cuts through half of a tumbled ruin, kicking boards aside, leaning for a moment on plaster façades and strutworks. Dust rains from the sky.
“Watch out!”
The producer stumbles in a thunder of dust and avalanching brick; he gropes, he topples, he is seized upon by the old man and yanked forward.
“Jump!”
They jump, and half the building slides to ruin, crashes into hills and mountains of old paper and lathing. A great bloom of dust strikes out upon the air.
“You all right?”
“Yes. Thanks. Thanks.” The producer looks at the fallen building. The dust clears. “You probably saved my life.”
“Hardly that. Most of those are papier-mâché bricks. You might have been cut and bruised a little.”
“Nevertheless, thanks. What building was that that fell?”
“Norman village tower, built in 1925. Don’t get near the rest of it; it might go down.”
“I’ll be careful.” The producer moves carefully in to stand by the set-piece. “Why—I could push this whole damn building over with one hand.” He demonstrates; the building leans and quivers and groans. The producer steps quickly back. “I could knock it down in a second.”
“But you wouldn’t want to do that,” says the watchman.
“Oh, wouldn’t I? What’s one French house more or less, this late in the day?”
The old man takes his arm. “Walk around here to the other side of the house.”
They walk to the other side.
“Read that sign,” says Smith.
The producer flicks his cigarette lighter, holds the fire up to help him squint, and reads:
“‘THE FIRST NATIONAL BANK MELLIN TOWN.’” He pauses. “‘ILLINOIS,’” he says, very slowly.
The building stands there in the sharp light of the stars and the bland light of the moon.
“On one side”—Douglas balances his hands like a scales—“a French tower. On the other side—” He walks seven steps to the right, seven steps to the left, peering. “‘THE FIRST NATIONAL BANK.’ Bank. Tower. Tower. Bank. Well, I’ll be damned.”
Smith smiles and says, “Still want to push the French tower down, Mr. Douglas?”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, hold on, hold on,” says Douglas, and suddenly begins to see the buildings that stand before him. He turns in a slow circle; his eyes move up and down and across and over; his eyes flick here, flick there, see this, see that, examine, file, put away, and re-examine. He begins to walk in silence. They move in the cities of the meadow, over grasses and wild flowers, up to and into and through ruins and half-ruins and up to and into and through complete avenues and villages and towns.
They begin a recital which goes on and on as they walk, Douglas asking, the night watchman answering, Douglas asking, the night watchman answering.
“What’s this over here?”
“A Buddhist temple.”
“And on the other side of it?”
“The log cabin where Lincoln was born.”
“And here?”
“St. Patrick’s church, New York.”
“And on the reverse?”
“A Russian Orthodox church in Rostov!”
“What’s this?”
“The door of a castle on the Rhine!”
“And inside?”
“A Kansas City soda fountain!”
“And here? And here? And over there? And what’s that?” asks Douglas. “What’s this! What about that one! And over there?”
It seems as if they are running and rushing and yelling all through the cities, here, there, everywhere, up, down, in, out, climbing, descending, poking, stirring, opening-shutting doors.
“And this, and this, and this, and this?”
The night watchman tells all there is to tell.
Their shadows run ahead in narrow alleys, and avenues as broad as rivers made of stone and sand.
They make a great talking circle; they hurry all around and back to where they started.
They are quiet again. The old man is quiet from having said what there was to say, and the producer is quiet from listening and remembering and fitting it all together in his mind. He stands, absentmindedly fumbling for his cigarette case. It takes him a full minute to open it, examining every action, thinking about it, and to offer the case to the watchman.
“Thanks.”
They light up thoughtfully. They puff on their cigarettes and watch the smoke blow away.
Douglas says, “Where’s that damned hammer of yours?”
“Here,” says Smith.
“You got your nails with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Douglas takes a deep drag on his cigarette and exhales. “Okay, Smith, get to work.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Nail what you can back up, on your own time. Most of the stuff
