Soon Johnny and Katie were following his lead, their fingers flying, “answering” him, laughing like kids. Graus drew them into one more group hug.
I began to slowly back away. I was getting fed up with their mood swings. Also, I liked information more, and yelling and physical pain less, than they.
The filming started again. I figured that that would buy me some time. I saw only Katie turn and casually notice I was gone.
The time for fooling around was over. I headed quickly back to the B&B. If Graus had anything to tell me, I might find it in his room.
SNEAKING INTO SOMEONE’S PLACE WAS MORE FOR THIEVES THAN DETECTIVES. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
I waited until the chambermaid started doing her rounds.
Graus’s door was left open, after the woman, barely more than a teenager, entered. I walked soundlessly on flowered carpet until I reached the threshold. Peeking in, I soon saw that she had entered the bathroom, and that her back was to me.
I slipped inside.
Recognizing that the room was identical to my own—bed, table, TV/VCR, not much else—I knew just where the closet was. So it didn’t take me long to open and then close its door over me.
Graus’s clothes smelled of all kinds of smoke.
It was almost dusk, and fading light streamed in through the slats in the door. Standing straight in the compressed space, I could only bend my head slightly and I couldn’t move my arms at all. I hoped the maid would be finished soon.
Then someone else entered the room.
Graus was already home. I shouldn’t have been surprised; his behavior had suggested he wouldn’t be long for the set. But my heart pounded deafeningly as he shut, then locked, the room’s door.
He greeted the maid by her first name.
She gave a startled little cry, then a muffled laugh. I stared through the skinny openings in the closet door. It was hard for the girl to be heard with her mouth buried in Graus’s neck.
The actor used to like chambermaids, and, apparently, his taste hadn’t changed. I saw glimpses of the two grappling, the girl yipping, Graus growling. Then they moved to the—out of sight—bed.
Starting to sweat a little, I thought that Gene Hackman had replaced George Segal who replaced Michael Moriarty in Lucky Lady.
The sounds of brutal sex play continued, grew in volume and intensity—slaps, bites, and “I am Graus!”—until they subsided.
Then the complaining began.
Even though he spoke in German, I could tell Graus was bitching about the day’s work. The phrases Fassbinder and video pig were unmistakable. The girl whispered to calm him down, then did something else in silence, and it seemed to work. In a second, his comments were quiet, grateful, and almost inaudible.
Then I heard him rise.
Through the closet, I now saw terrifying glimpses of a naked Graus Menzies. His bulging eyes, barrel gut, and hairy back rocking my world, he came right toward me. Then he started to open the closet.
I backed up through Graus’s aromatic wardrobe, flattening myself against the closet wall, hidden by slacks, shirts, and ties. Crouching, the actor reached a stubby hand in and grabbed a bag up off the floor. Then he pulled back, without seeing me, and shut the door again.
I stepped forward and groped my way out of the silk and wool curtain. I pressed my face right up against the closet slats. Simian in his nudity, Graus now took a videotape from the bag, shook it from its box, and stuck it into the VCR. Then he moved out of view, back to the bed, to watch with his friend.
The TV faced away from the closet; I couldn’t see the screen. So I directed my ear to a slat, trying to hear any sound from what I assumed was a porno flick.
I heard nothing. Then, after a while, there came a voice.
It was Graus’s. He was mumbling. Then he was screaming, incredulously, in perfectly audible English.
“Home movies?” he said. “Home movies!”
Furiously, he approached the TV. Nearly punching the machine, he popped the tape out. Then he jammed it, cursing a blue streak, back into its box.
I recognized the tape as mine. Or, more precisely, as Dena’s father’s.
There was frenzied dressing, as Graus barked at his playmate to hurry. Holding his shoes and socks—and the tape—Graus fled the room, followed by the maid, clutching her clothing closed. After a second, the room door shut.
I waited, fearing their return. Then, after a proper interval, I ran from the place myself.
—
On the top step of the stairs that led to my own hall, I stopped again. Graus was banging on my door.
“Come out, little scum boy!” he was saying. “I know what you did!” Then he added, with mockery, “Don’t worry! I won’t hurt you!”
Finally, disgusted, fuming, he walked away.
Cautiously, I sneaked in.
I raced around my room, not sure what I meant to do. Instinctively, and irrationally, I started to pack, prepared again to flee.
The tape had been stolen. It wasn’t Clown; it was, most probably, footage Dena’s father took of her as a child. Graus had been surprised to see it, so he wasn’t a suspect. He thought I had replaced his porn with it. But why would I have done that?
I was pretty sure I knew who had.
