«You're sorry?»
«Zelda, I know you're going to think I'm crazy, but…»
«Go ahead, be crazy.»
«Zelda, in the old days when they made films around L.A., they used lots of places, right? Like Venice, Ocean Park…»
«Chaplin did, Langdon did, Harold Lloyd, sure.»
«Laurel and Hardy?»
«What?»
«Laurel and Hardy, did they use lots of locations?»
«Palms, they used Palms lots, Culver City Main Street,' Effie Street.»
«Effie Street!»
«Don't yell, Bella.»
«Did you say Effie Street?»
«Sure, and God, it's three in the morning!»
«Right at the top of Effie Street!?»
«Hey, yeah, the stairs. Everyone knows them. That's where the music box chased Hardy downhill and ran over Him.»
«Sure, Zelda, sure! Oh, God, Zelda, if you could see, hear, what I hear!»
Zelda was suddenly wide awake on the line. «What's going on? You serious?»
«oh, God, yes. On the steps just now, and last night and the night before maybe, I heard, I hear-two men hauling a-a piano up the hill.»
«Someone's pulling your leg!»
«No, no, they're there. I go out and there's nothing. But the steps are haunted, Zelda! One voice says: „Here's another fine mess you've got us in.“ You got to hear that man's voice!»
«You're drunk and doing this because you know I'm a nut for them.»
«No, no. Come, Zelda. Listen. Tell!»
Maybe half an hour later, Bella heard the old tin lizzie rattle up the alley behind the apartments. It was a car Zelda, in her joy at visiting silent-movie theaters, had bought to lug herself around in while she wrote about the past, always the past, and steaming into Cecil B. DeMille's old place or circling Harold Lloyd's nation-state, or cranking and banging around the Universal backlot, paying her respects to the Phantom's opera stage, or sitting on Ma and Pa Kettle's porch chewing a sandwich lunch. That was Zelda, who once wrote in a silent country in a silent time for Silver Screen.
Zelda lumbered across the front porch, a huge body with legs as big as the Bernini columns in front of St. Peter's in Rome, and a face like a harvest moon.
On that round face now was suspicion, cynicism, skepticisms, in equal pie-parts. But when she saw Bella's pale stare she cried:
«Belle!»
«You see I'm not lying!» said Bella.
«I see!»
«Keep your voice down, Zelda. Oh, it's scary and strange, terrible and nice. So come on.»
And the two women edged along the walk to the rim of the old hill near the old steps in old Hollywood, and suddenly as they moved they felt time take a half turn around them and it was another year, because nothing had changed all the buildings were the way they were in 1928 and the hills beyond like they were in 1926 and the steps, just the, way they were when the cement was poured in 1921.
«Listen, Zelda.There!»
And Zelda listened and at first there was only a creaking of wheels down in the dark, like crickets, and then a moan of wood and a hum of piano strings, and then one voice lamenting about this job, and the other voice claiming he had nothing to do with it, and then the thumps as two derby hats fell, and an exasperated voice announced:
«Here's another fine mess you've got us in.»
Zelda, stunned, almost toppled off the hill. She held tight to Bella's arm as tears brimmed in her eyes.
«It's a trick. Someone's got a tape recorder or―»
«No, I checked. Nothing but the steps, Zelda, the steps!»
Tears rolled down Zelda's plump cheeks.
«Oh, God, that is his voice! I'm the expert, I'm the mad, fanatic, Bella. That's Ollie. And that other voice, Stan! And you're not nuts after all!»
The voices below rose and fell and one cried: «Why don't you do something to help me?»
Zelda moaned. «Oh, God, it's so beautiful.»
«What does it mean?» asked Bella. «Why are they here? Are they really ghosts, and why would ghosts climb this hill every night, pushing that music box, night after night, tell me, Zelda, why?»
Zelda peered down the hill and shut her eyes for a moment to think. «Why do any ghosts go anywhere? Retribution? Revenge? No, not those two. Love maybe's the reason, lost loves or something Yes?»
Bella let her heart pound once or twice and then said, «Maybe nobody told them.»
«Told them what?»
«Or maybe they were told a lot but still didn't believe, because maybe in their old years things got bad, I mean they were sick, and sometimes when you're sick you forget.»
«Forget what!?»
«How much we loved them.»
«They knew!»
«Did they? Sure, we told each other, but maybe not enough of us ever wrote or waved when they passed and just yelled „Love!“ you think?»