HOLOGRAM

CHAPTER ONE

May 1987: Boulder, Colorado

I swear, when I turned forty a rat toothed voice hissed: “David Leone’s losing his virility.” And a trash talking porcine tattled, “Hah! He’s got that itch.” In one bleak moment I noticed my arms looked like planks of cheapo poached salmon. Dammit! I’d started dumpling, too, above my belt. “Love handles.” Gimme a break! Until that dismal fortieth, my sense of my own mortality was like a teenager’s—nada. Now it was like all my cells cast digital death signals twenty-four-seven. I cursed my youth genes for waving their little white flags on the front lines of that fateful forty. A couple of days, weeks, and whammo! I noticed my decay suddenly. Like a toothache.

On the evening of my fortieth, my wife Jeanie (queen of the eye roll) and teenage son Eddie dragged me to the Hotel Boulderado. It wasn’t my first time there. Guys from OPTIKS and I used to hang out on the second-level Mezzanine when there was a decent jazz quintet. But Jeanie squelched my partying a few years back. The beauty of the Victorian architecture in the white-pillared lobby stunned me anew. Liqueur-rich cherrywood everywhere, including the wall paneling and a cantilevered five-story staircase. Above, a long skylight canopy of stained-glass. Savvy visitors know about the special drinking fountain with the faux gold bubbler head just outside the public restrooms. There you can imbibe the sweetest, purest water you ever tasted, piped in from the Arapaho Glacier. There you can also walk on the original mosaic tile floors.

While we waited outside the hotel’s restaurant for the maître d’, I tried conversing with my son. “I heard Calamity Jane ran a brothel in the Hotel Boulderado.”

Jeanie glared at me. “That’s really what you want to tell Eddie?”

“She died in 1903,” Eddie said. “Before the hotel was even built.”

I couldn’t believe it. “How can you possibly know the date?”

“Her real name was Martha Jane Canary.”

“Canary,” I said. “Okay, what about the rumor there’s haunted rooms on the top level?”

Jeanie shook her head. She then spooned a couple of little pink mints into her hand from a porcelain dish on top of a pulpit-like stand. Then she helped herself to a few white mints.

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “They won’t let people stay up there because of a rocking chair that rocks by itself.”

Jeanie laughed. “Well, I happen to know that Benny Goodman and Louis Armstrong stayed here.”

I put my arm around her. “That’s because you’re so musical.” Over the years I had learned that a little flattery went a long way with my wife. I continued: “And there’s a myth about a woman in a long gold dress standing up there by the balcony rail.”

“I can confirm that,” Eddie said. “A young woman jumped off the balcony to her death. The newspaper clippings said her gown was ‘daffodil-yellow’.”

“Daffodil.”

“We should order champagne,” Jeanie said.

The maître d’ seated us by an open window on a covered porch outside the main dining area. The late-Spring air teased my skin. On Spruce Street, Yellow Cabs pulled up, and tourists heading back to Denver International defended their luggage from rowdy passersby. An occasional car snailed by, its “hangry” couple hoping for a miracle spot in the glutted parking lot across the street. Wispy chains of intermingled smoke separated above the miniature hurricane lamps on our table. Beads of condensation drizzled down our water glasses.

Eddie swabbed his fingers on the supple thigh of his dress jeans. My son had a way of turning nonchalance into a shield for whatever mischief he wished to embrace.

Jeanie noticed this little travesty. “Use your napkin, Eddie.”

“Oh, let your men be Cossacks for one night,” I said. But I knew that when we got home… My prime rib was superbly broiled yet gave me no joy. The fresh baked dark wheat bread and al dente asparagus tasted photocopied. On my tongue the champagne flattened like an un-pettable cat. Recent fantasies of my high school sweetheart Lucille Muhr had hijacked my palate. Lu was the girl I lost. She is also now a famous movie star. I never understood what Lu saw in me. I’m five-foot-ten, with kinky brown hair and smallish blue eyes a little too close together. True to my surname, I have a big Italian nose.

For just a few moments I let my former hometown honey steal the spotlight from my ho-hum life. While Jeanie and Eddie chatted and noshed, I wished Lu was sitting there. I plunged headfirst into flashbacks of Lu, which made me feel alive again. I thought only of Lu now. While in high school, Lu and I necked and kissed for hours at the drive-in movie theater just outside Circleville, Ohio, in my 1956 sky blue and white Chevrolet sedan. I didn’t care that kissing Lu made my metal braces sting the insides of my lips. We barely came up for air to peek at the big outdoor screen in front of row after row of cars. On chilly autumn nights the metal heater that hung on the inside of Lu’s passenger window was a joke. Everyone’s car windows steamed up while we all ignored the triple features we guys paid for.

My memories of Lu were not just lusty. Her essence, her bearing, bagged me forever. I prized the way Lu coasted through a room, chin held high. She was regal yet obliging. Striking, with no hint of conceit. Alluring...and oh so vulnerable. I fell in love with that Lu, and I stayed in love with her. Just recalling Lu’s mahogany eyes jellied my insides. I longed to see her on screen. I just knew watching her on film would ease this ache. But early on, Jeanie had threatened divorce if I saw any of Lu’s films. I often wondered how my wife would even know. What a wimp I was to obey her. The love friction caused by Jeanie’s jealousy was catalytic. And damned near cataclysmic. Like a juvenile delinquent, I acted out. I hid my rebellion at home but let it rip when I thought no one was looking.

My work at OPTIKS, a private research foundation in Boulder, had also grown stale. I’d been shining laser light, bending it, and bouncing it off mirrors so long that it was second nature. Mostly, I’d let holograms entertain me. And I still found it challenging to do a multiplex hologram with a full 360-degree parallax. But now I wanted out. Out of my doldrums, out of my dull marriage, out of my same ol’ same ol’. I tried to deny I could ever reach some point of no return. Until a little me-voice said: Got to do something drastic to get that asshole’s attention. (Emphasis on asshole.) Tell him he better do something weighty before his time runs out. I was caught in a time warp, meeting myself coming and going. I felt locked in a loop where ditched dreams might crash into events and define my purpose.

They say, “Be careful what you ask for.” Smack in the middle of my crisis I accepted a holographic challenge. The result: a scientific discovery that would make me famous—for all the wrong reasons.

The switchboard at OPTIKS transferred the phone call from Denver millionaire Harcourt Raymond III. “I read the interview with you in last month’s Sunday Camera,” Court said. “Impressive. Do you ever freelance? I want you do a hologram of my daughter.”

I panicked. All I felt like doing after work these days was drink a few Coors beers and watch Cable TV in my basement hideaway. I spluttered, “I’m sorry if I got carried away with something that just popped into my head in that interview. I’m an industrial holographer, Mr. Raymond. Not an artist.” I could hear Court breathing at the other end of the phone line. He said nothing. Just breathed. It was clear that he was waiting for me to “get” something. I had no clue, so I tried to outwait him. It was no use. I said, “Okay, but to me the project’s the most important thing.”

Court finally spoke: “I wondered if you’d welcome a chance to elevate your work. You want an extraordinary life, don’t you?”

This threw me for a loop! I pictured myself at the top of a rocky cliff, about to swan dive into a turquoise pool thirty feet below me. Too much to ask. Here was a king of Denver business, challenging me to transcend the banal. Hoping I’d recast myself from cliché to creator. I could feel a herd of crazy-ass chickens stalking me, staring at me with their bifocal Jurassic eyes. They cackled in my face, full-throated and full-throttle, about what a specimen of poultry I was.

Court spoiled my luxurious self-flagellation. “We’re both busy men, Mr. Leone. If you need more time to decide—.”

“Yes,” I said. “I will make the hologram for you.”

“You don’t strike me as a man who needs a dress rehearsal. So just know you’ll be making a holographic portrait of my daughter and her groom at their wedding reception. It’s in two weeks, I’ll have my secretary call you with directions to our home. When you get here, the logistics will be up to you.”

The freedom Court had just given me to do his project scared me as much as it inspired me. It took until 3:00 a.m. the next morning for me to figure out how to pull off something I’d never tried before. After my third can of Coors beer I had it: I would use a brief film sequence to create a spectacular little moving hologram.

Two Weeks Later

I had slept only a few hours before driving to Denver in my beat up 1978 Ford Bronco. My SUV was muted green and white, with faux wood paneling on the sides. I called my truck “Woody” á la Beach Boys’ surfer slang. My drive to central Denver would take about thirty-five minutes. For a change, traffic was light in the sharp curves of “the mousetrap” interchange between I-25 and I-70. A sweet, rare thing. My destination was just a few blocks from the original Victorian home of the “Unsinkable” Molly Brown on North Pennsylvania Street. During a Channel 4 news story, anchor Bob Palmer claimed Molly’s own mother saw the ghost of a dead servant ascending the front stairs. People have also seen a ghost cat prowling the mansion’s rooms. Though I’d read about ghosts, I didn’t believe in them.

I drove up a long pale pink brick driveway past a carriage house on the left. As Court had asked, I parked behind his mansion. I surveyed the palatial main house before knocking on the door of a private entrance that was just off a huge cordon bleu kitchen. Harlan, Court’s butler-chauffeur met me there. He smelled like freshly laundered sheets flapping on a clothesline in Rocky Mountain breezes. Harlan was less imposing and younger than I’d imagined. About fiftyish, just under six feet tall, he wore a navy blue sports jacket and gray dress slacks. With Jeanie’s help, I had managed a wheaten twill blazer with a white shirt and brown-check tie but, well, my chinos…

Harlan brought me down a long hallway that was lit from above with ceiling spots. From a distance I could hear Melissa Manchester’s fervent “Through the Eyes of Love.” Harlan led me past the open doors of the mansion’s vast ballroom, where guests slow-danced and drank potent (I assumed) mixed drinks and champagne. Clever lighting made the ballroom seem filled with candlelight. Some of the guests propped themselves up with their elbows on the linen tablecloths of side tables. Not as rumpled, others managed to sit upright in their ornate white wrought iron café chairs. I could smell the Sterno keeping entrees hot on the teeming buffet tables. Also: eau de scallops, crab cakes, bleu cheese, capers, and red onions made my passage savory.

Harlan showed me into Court’s study. He then closed the French doors behind him. There I saw Court—a stately man with gray, slightly thinning hair, white at the temples. He sat in a burgundy leather overstuffed chair. He was on the near edge of portly. The large irises of his eyes left little room for the white sclera around each, making him look unnatural. During our conversation Court seldom met my eye. Rather, he often looked up and around himself as though expecting rain. He gestured toward a highly lacquered oak table and deep rose colored swivel chair about six feet away.

Court’s sweeping gaze finally netted me. “Do sit down. Just to be clear, I want the hologram mostly for its novelty, though I have a keen interest in the optics side of science. When I was young, I wanted to be a research scientist. Or a classical pianist. Having aptitude for neither, I decided to make money instead.” Here Court paused. “But back to the matter at hand. About my daughter Reynie. She is a champion horsewoman. She was an Olympic hopeful. Reynie still rides almost every day, but she no longer competes, thank God.”

By nodding, I hoped to convey I understood. I did note the intensity of Court’s “thank God.”

“When Paul LaSalle—that’s Reynie’s groom—proposed, she quickly recovered from her disappointment at failing to qualify for the U.S. team.” For the first time, Court smiled. “And Paul is not the only one who’s relieved Reynie is no longer jet-setting all over the globe to compete. She’s a glorious handful,” Court added, “and I wouldn’t change a thing about her.”

I wanted Court to feel comfortable with our project. I asked him how much he knew about making holograms.

“The bare minimum.”

“Do you have time for me to explain? Just the basics.”

“I do have time.”

“Okay then. A gram is writing about, or drawing a record of, something. Holo means that it’s a whole, complete, or entire record. Making a holographic plate is in some ways like shooting with photographic film. But when you make a hologram you split a laser beam so that part of the beam reflects off a mirror and the other part off a subject.” I asked Court to stand up. “This will help me explain.”

Court stood up.

“Say you are the ‘subject’ of my hologram. A laser beam projects onto you. Then the hologram records what’s called an ‘interference pattern’. You, planted there, create that interference pattern in space. It’s like standing waist deep in a still pool of water and then starting to move. Ripples form around your body and create patterns in the water. A picture of that wave pattern in the water shows how the movement of your body interferes with the water around you. Simply stated: A hologram reflects how a subject interferes with the movement of light.

Court grinned. “You would make a good teacher, David.”

I didn’t let on that teaching was my idea of hell. Stuck in a classroom with a tribe of the pimple-faced semi-literate. After all, I had been one of those students. I remembered how often I looked at the big wall clock during lectures under the glare of fluorescent lights. I sat in the back in case I fell asleep.

Court encouraged me to continue.

“So to ‘play back’ a true hologram, you illuminate the holographic plate from behind with the same coherent laser transmission. ‘Coherent’ means the laser light’s frequency and wavelength don’t vary. When you replay a hologram of a person with the laser beam aimed at a precise angle, the image of that person seems to hang in space.”

Court looked excited. “Is that what you’ll be making today?”

“I’ll be making something even better. Fusing cinematography with holography to make a moving hologram.”

“But How?”

“Basically with 35mm film. The result won’t be a hologram in the purest sense. It’ll be what’s called an integral. A holographic ‘cheat’, lit from behind by plain incandescent white light. A transmission hologram. But the result won’t disappoint you.”

“I suppose I’ll understand better when it’s finished,” Court said. “How will I view the hologram?”

“You’ll stand three feet in front the hologram. It will seem so real you’ll want to touch it. It will look like a beautiful sculpture of light. Or seem like a vivid memory. But here’s the thing: if you saw a hologram of yourself it would freak you out. Seeing your reflection in a mirror or in a photograph is not the way other people see you. Looking at a hologram of you is like seeing a stranger across a street who reminds you of someone. It seems to call out to you, as they say some ghosts do.” I shifted in my chair when I heard myself say the word “ghost.”

Court got that I was anxious to start. “Shall we begin then?”

I released myself from my chair’s comfy embrace. “Where do you want me to take the hologram, Mr. Raymond?”

“In the foyer. Under the skylight. And please call me ‘Court’.”

My excitement almost made me miss Court’s invitation. Outside his study I stopped. “Could you ask your daughter and Paul to follow my instructions to the letter? Or else they’ll ruin the hologram.”

Court looked worried. “I’m sure they’ve had a lot of champagne, but who could blame them?”

We reached the expansive foyer. “Maybe start them on coffee?

“Splendid idea,” Court said.

“But also have them bring two champagne glasses.”

Court looked surprised. “I won’t ask why. Because I figure you must have a good reason. I’ll have Harlan fetch your equipment.”

“Just the turntable and motor platform. I’d rather bring in the delicate instruments myself.”

Court looked at me for a full fifteen seconds. It was the first time he had met my eyes directly. Now the irises of his eyes showed. “This means more to me than…” He seemed embarrassed.

“I won’t disappoint you, Court” I answered.

An Hour Later

High on myriad alcoholic spirits, guests babbled softly in the ballroom. Their hammered languor was contagious. I longed to take a nap. Suddenly the Kahlúa-and-coffee voice of the DJ urged the guests to “groove” on the next song. The Cars’ “Drive” began to play.

Who’s gonna tell you when

It’s too late?

Who’s gonna tell you things

Aren’t so great?

Soft blue lighting bathed the guests who were still vertical. Wrapped like wreaths around each other’s bodies, they danced to their personal mystic songs. I focused on rebounding from what the lyrics to “Drive” had done to me. Made me wonder how a life with Lucille Muhr might have been. The tune made me long to hold her. But I had no right. I had betrayed her.

From inside the ballroom, Harlan watched me and waited. His entire visage inquired: “Are you okay?”

I looked away. Then Harlan whispered something to Reynie and Paul. Fancy coffee cups and saucers in hand, they followed him off the dance floor.

To me, Reynie Raymond did not resemble her father. Her strawberry blonde hair looked like it might ignite any second. And her tawny brown eyes reminded me of cat’s eye marbles I kept in a little chamois cloth drawstring bag when I was a kid. Micro expressions of mischief darted across her face. The numbers of twitches at the corners of Reynie’s mouth told me she had a sensitive “B.S. detector.” Her groom, Paul LaSalle, looked like a cover model for Esquire Magazine. He was tall, attractive, clean-cut, and masculine. Unlike many Denverites who had ski goggle face tans, Paul looked to be bronzed all over. His hands and wrists, his neck. And his beautifully cut brown hair was sun-streaked. Perhaps he was a corporate lawyer? He was subtle but also sharp. I almost missed him sizing me up.