Truman Belvedere

Nigel Waterhouse scaled the large marble staircase that led to two towering ivory doors closing in the walls of a fantastic mansion. Nigel knocked three good knocks with his small knuckles and stood back to wait, shifting his glasses on his nose. He looked at a birdbath that was dried up, as well as the withered roses that drooped beside it.

A bald man with a very long face and a very long nose pouted as he opened the ivory doors. “Yes?” he drew out the word for a very long time in a deep British accent.

“Hello, I’m Nigel. Nigel Waterhouse. I came to inquire with Mr. Belvedere. Is he here?”

“Hardly.” The bald British man opened the door with and warned Nigel with a glare he might regret his request.

Nigel followed the British man down a hollow hallway with tall ceilings and strange statues lining the walls. They entered into a library and approached a door with a crystal doorknob. The British man knocked very gently and leaned his small lips to the door.

“Mr. Belvedere, a guest wishes to speak to you.”

“Who?” a theatrical voice asked from within the room.

Nigel stepped forward to answer. “My name is Nigel. Nigel Waterhouse. I write movie pictures. I would like to talk to you about casting.”

There was a pause. “Which pictures, Nigel, are you credited with?”

“Most recently I wrote ‘The Lady On The Ferry,’ but my most notable is probably ‘Georgia Kiss,’”

There was a pause. “Bring him in.”

The British man twisted the crystal knob and opened it for Nigel. Sitting beside a fireplace in a dirty robe was Truman Belvedere. He sipped straight bourbon from an old glass that had stained residue on the sides from hours, if not days, of drinking. There was an Oscar tucked in the corner of the room, overshadowed by Truman’s disheveled appearance to draw any attention. Truman stood up and stuck his hands in his robe pockets and smiled a glorious smile.

“Mr. Belvedere,” Nigel said humbly.

“Call me Truman, please. And, Guy, won’t you shut the door on the way out?” The British man shut the door reluctantly as Truman reached down next to the bourbon and flipped open a cigarette case. He offered a cigarette to Nigel, who had hardly any time to refuse as Truman already lit a match and held the flame against the cigarette. Nigel inhaled and nodded, quickly exhaling the smoke forcefully.

Truman took a healthy draw of the cigarette and sighed contently. “So,” he started. His voice was smooth a theatrical, like a presenters. “There’s a role you’d like me to play, hm?”

“Possibly,” Nigel explained. “You see, my producers don’t think you’re... exactly what we’re looking for. But I have a sneaking suspicion you might surprise them.”

“Well of course I’m right for the part!” Truman exclaimed triumphantly. “There’s never been a better part for me!”

“With… all due respect, Mr. Belvedere – Truman, you haven’t read the script yet.”

“I don’t need to. I can see it in your eyes, I can tell by the way you carry yourself that you and I know this part is gold – gold! This is the part I’ve been missing!” Truman smiled as he puffed his cigarette. “Well tell me, tell me! What’s the role about?”

“It’s about an old actor…” Nigel said slowly.

“Go on,” Truman pressed eagerly.

“He’s washed up.”

Truman’s countenance dropped. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and shook his head in denial. “No. No I don’t think this is right for me after all.”

“Mr. Belv—Truman, will you let me explain?”

“So you think you can come into my home and have the gall to tell me I’m washed up?!” Truman shouted.

“I never said you were washed up, all I said was that the role—”

“You see that Oscar? That was only nine years ago! Don’t tell me I don’t still have what it takes!”

“Truman, please,” Nigel said calmly, hoping he, too, could calm Truman. “I meant no offense by it. But… you have to let me explain.”

“And ridicule me?”

“Truman…”

Truman breathed hotly. He rubbed his weathered forehead and downed his bourbon. He glanced back at Nigel and stuck the cigarette back in his lips. “What?”

“The story is supposed to be about a man, a man that everyone loved. He was an actor, famous and adored by the world. He’s looking for a comeback, something to put him back on the map and reclaim that success he had in his former days.”

“You’re sure this character isn’t also named Truman Belvedere?” Truman scoffed.

“That’s just the thing, you see. Truman, this type of character, an underdog – why, America loves the underdog. It’s one thing to make it up, it’s another to witness it in the real world. Perhaps we go through a casting process, find an older guy who’s got some acting chops, and we start shooting next month. But the audience might not relate. If they see your face – Truman you’ll win back the heart Hollywood.”

Truman stood by the fire and watched the flames flicker. He let his focus drift away as he stared at the hot yellow light, darkening his vision in his peripheral like a softening vignette. “What do they say… about me, Nigel?” Truman spoke softly. “Be honest.”

Nigel fixed his glasses nervously. “They don’t.”

Truman nodded ever so slightly, just to himself. He took a deep draw of his cigarette and threw it in the fire. “I’ll never forget the first time a stranger asked for my autograph,” Truman reminisced. “Her name was Ashley. Blonde hair, blue eyes. The most gorgeous blue eyes, like the ocean. She was alone. She had just seen my second picture, ‘The Road to Loneliness,’ and she asked if I played Sam Regal in the movie. She asked if I might sign this little notepad she had in her purse.” Truman looked up and smiled warmly. “No encounter was better than hers.” Truman looked over his shoulder and stared at Nigel. “Now I’m afraid to be seen in public.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Truman,” Nigel sympathized. “Perhaps all you need is a second chance.”

“I’ve had a good number of second chances, too many to make me believe anyone takes them seriously.” Truman plodded over to his empty glass and poured the rest of the bourbon in it, sipping remnants of bourbon drops straight from the bottle. He slammed the empty bottle on the table and took a healthy swallow of the bourbon. “I know this industry, far better than you’ll ever know. You have to climb your way out of the holes you dig for yourself. You know what I really need, Mr. Nigel?” he asked drunkenly. “A good role. One good part to play that will set my career back in motion, huh?”

Nigel looked around awkwardly. “Yes, Truman, I agree.”

“Something I can play sooo naturally that I won’t even have to rehearse. As if I was born to play that part. Hmm. Don’t you just love that expression? Born to play that role. Ha ha ha! Ahhh, as if any man was ever born to be someone else. What irony.” He took another healthy swallow of bourbon; which by those measurements, he only had one swallow left in the glass.

“Truman, is the part I’m offering something you’d like to consider?”

“Which part? Oh! Oh, you know what I have, Niles—em, Nigel? I have a script.” He took a long pause. “A scriptplay! I have a fan…tastic movie in that drawer right over there.” He hiccupped as he pointed to it. “Get it, go get it for me!”

Nigel cautiously moved to the drawer Truman pointed to and opened it. He pulled out a crumpled and surprisingly weighty screenplay. Nigel quickly flipped it over and read the page count. Almost 200 pages.

“Now that,” Truman said proudly, “is the part I was born to play. Do you know what it’s about? No, of course you don’t, you’ve never read it – of course. Do you know what it’s about, Niles? It’s about a… a… a farmer who tries growing a new crop – he’s actually known as a tomato farmer but he’d like to grow a new crop, you see. He’d like to grow wheat for a change. But it’s – oh! – it’s riveting! It’s symbolic of his change in his love affairs. One of the women is represented by the tomato, mhmm… and the— this new woman, because his wife dies – oh, I gave it away. Well, you’ll read it anyway! Because his wife dies, she is symbolized through the wheat. And oh… Oh! Nigel… that is the part for me.”

Nigel pitied Truman as he went on about his screenplay. He looked at the title and read it: The Harvest of Love. Nigel slowly set the screenplay back in the drawer.

“What are you doing?” Truman asked seriously. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

Nigel walked towards the door. “Sorry, I think I made a mistake.”

“Mistake with what? Wait til you read it, Niles! Wait til you read it!”

“I won’t be reading it, Mr. Belvedere.”

“Why not?”

“Because my producers were right. Goodbye.” Nigel twisted the crystal doorknob and left.