Ten Days in the Hills - Couverture rigide

DAY ONE
Monday, March 24, 2003
Max was still sleeping, neatly, as always, his head framed by the sunny white of his rectangular pillow, his eyelids smooth over the orbs of his eyes, his lips pale and soft, his bare shoulders square on the bed. While Elena was gazing at him, he sighed. Sometime in the night, he had turned back the white comforter; its fold crossed him diagonally between the hip and the knee. The morning sunlight burnished his hands (right on top of left), and sparkled through his silvery chest hair. His cock lay to one side, nonchalant. Elena smoothed the very tips of his chest hair with her hand so that she could just feel it tickling her palm, and then circled his testicles with her index finger. She was sleepy herself, probably from dreaming of the Oscars. What she could remember were more like recurring images of the bright stage as she had seen it from their seats, smiling figures walking around on it, turning this way and that, breasting the audience suddenly as if jumping into surf—not unhappy images, but not restful. The bright figures had stayed with her all night, sometimes actually looking frightened, or turning toward her so that she had to remind herself in her dream that they were happy, well fed, successful.

She sat up quietly, so as not to disturb him. She saw that all of their clothes—his tux and her vintage gold silk-velvet flapper dress—were draped neatly over the backs of a couple of chairs. Her silver sandals and her silver mesh evening bag lay on the windowsill where she had set them when she walked in the bedroom door. He had taken her to the Oscars and then to the Governor's Ball, because she, of course, had never been, though he himself had an invitation every year—his movie Grace had won Best Screenplay in the 1970s (and in fact was listed on three "hundred best films of the twentieth century" lists that she had looked up on the Internet: seventy-seventh on one, eighty-third on another, and eighty-fifth best on the third). At fifty-eight, Max had a certain sort of fame in Hollywood: most people had heard of him, but lots of younger ones assumed he was dead.

Elena, who wrote self-improvement guides (she was currently working on Here's How: To Do EVERYTHING Correctly!, chapter four, "Eating and Drinking"), had also managed to earn herself a house, but it was a bungalow in the flats of Beverly Hills, not a mansion that cascaded down a mountainside in Pacific Palisades, looked across Will Rogers Memorial Park at the Getty Museum, and had five bedrooms, a guesthouse, and a swimming pool down the mountainside (three flights of stairs) that caught the morning sun. There were two gardens on other levels--the herb garden and flower garden, one level down from the kitchen, and the Japanese garden, twenty feet below the swimming pool, which was utterly cool and silent, as far away from Los Angeles as the island of Honshu.

Elena put her feet on the floor and thought of the war. The war had begun on Thursday. As soon as she thought directly of the war, which had been until this moment of her day a presence but not an object, her fragmented, Oscar-colored mood jelled into a general feeling of shame and fear. The fact was, the war was going forward no matter what, no matter how threatening and dangerous it was, no matter how many people were certain to die, no matter how many people protested and complained, no matter what a bad bet it looked like. Other people could understand the war and explain it—there was, indeed, something reasonable about the war that other people seemed able to comprehend—but for Elena the war was entirely counterintuitive. She supposed it came down to that very word—"war," a word she had avoided reading, saying, looking at for a number of years when she was a child during the Cold W—, when "war" meant annihilation, mutually assured destruction, better dead than red, except that as a child she had understood "dead" much better than "red"—she had understood "dead" perfectly. Elena remembered herself at eight, standing in the kitchen with the radio on and her fingers in her ears, blocking out the sound of the television in the living room that was reporting the random progress of various threats to her life. One name she remembered was "Francis Gary Powers," a man who endangered everyone by spying. After more than forty years, Elena could still remember that name and see his snowy black-and-white figure, a tall man with dark hair, being hustled from one room to another by other, more shadowy figures. She remembered him because she had known that there was a train of circumstances that could begin with Francis Gary Powers and end with her death. Even then, even at eight years old, Elena had understood that tipping over into mutually assured destruction would have been an accident. This war, though, was not an accident but an intention. People who knew people whom Elena knew planned to visit assured destruction on other people whom Elena didn't know. She sighed so deeply that Max turned toward her and opened his eyes. He said, "Did you have fun last night?"

"Yes, but I dreamt about the stage all night. What I liked best was that so many people were happy to see you."

"The troll emerges from under the bridge." He pulled up the coverlet. "It's always a pleasant surprise."

"It looked to me like they were genuinely happy to see you. Actual smiles that included their eyes. Involuntary twinkles and sparkles and body twitches."

"They're actors. Nothing is involuntary."

"Well, thank you anyway for taking me."

"The best part was them wondering who you were and where you got that dress." Now he rolled her into his embrace, right up next to his shoulders and chest. He kissed her between the eyebrows and pulled the quilt over her. "The worst part is that I think we have a house party shaping up."

"Isn't your friend Charlie Mannheim coming soon?" She had met Charlie the previous summer with Max on a trip to San Francisco. She had observed then that with men you often didn't quite understand why two people who became friends when they were ten years old remained in contact almost into their sixties.

"That, plus Stoney has to vacate his place while the floors are being redone. And Isabel wants to visit all of a sudden. I guess she broke up with Leo and he won't leave their apartment."

Stoney Whipple was Max's agent, a position he had taken over from his father, Jerry. Elena hadn't known Jerry. She'd met Max in the cheese section at Gelson's last Easter, when Max was buying a Piave and Elena was buying a Gruyère de Comté and their hands touched as they both reached for the Epoisses. Jerry had died by that time. She had come to understand that Jerry Whipple was, by all accounts, a legend. Stoney Whipple was sweet, Elena thought. He was in and out of Max's house in a way that reminded her of her Midwestern roots, and so she felt friendly with him for that and also because his career didn't seem to be shaping up into a legendary one.

But Isabel! Isabel was Max's daughter, whom Elena had not met. She said, calmly, she thought, "That's three. That isn't so bad. It isn't bad at all."

"Stoney can sleep in the study. He's going to be in and out."

Without wishing to, she felt a surge of nervousness. The spacious peace of this luxuriously sprawling house to be broken! Although Elena loved to contemplate pork roasts and thread-counts and bottles of spring water on bedside tables, having to provide them made her anxious. She said, "At least we got rid of Simon." Simon was Elena's own son, a senior at UC Davis, who, Elena thought, was spending too much time in L.A. and too little time in Davis. He had left only a week ago, after twelve lazy days of vacation during which he did not look for post-graduation employment.

Max said, "What do you want to do today?"

"Hide out from the war."

"Oh, that." He frowned and flopped over on his back. Max's feelings about the war, she knew, were compounded less of shame than of anger. When Elena said that the war was stupid and then Max replied that, yes, it was stupid, she then went on to point out that those prosecuting the war didn't comprehend the chaotic and agonizing nature of war, and he went on to exclaim, "What's the plan? It's evident they have no plan!" As a movie director, he had directed Bull Run in the late 1980s, an epic Civil War movie that ran three hours and five minutes, had taken eight months to make, employed hundreds of extras and horses, and had, perhaps, killed the studio that made it. When he talked about planning, she was sure he was thinking about projects he had planned and executed over the years. And he was thinking of the army, since he had been in Vietnam.

She lifted the quilt, then let it drop. She said, "The war is too much for your cock."

"I admit that."

"Say, did you notice that when I spoke to Michael Moore after the ceremony, about his speech, he seemed a little shocked by the booing? You don't expect Michael Moore to be shocked by anything. I was disappointed. I mean, if Michael Moore is intimidated by a little booing, what's going to happen to the rest of us?"

"But who was booing him? Studio executives. You don't want to be booed by studio executives, even if you are filled with contempt for them. Anyway, I bet by this time you're the only person in the world who knows he was shocked. I bet even he doesn't know he was shocked anymore. And who's to say that they were booing his remarks about Bush? Maybe they were booing his remark about having Canadian financing."

Elena smiled, then Max smiled. He said, "I want Canadian financing, too."

"What for?"

"A ...

“A tour de force novel that showcases [Smiley’s] vast cinematic lore, reminding us why she has earned a reputation as one of the greatest entertainers in American letters. In Ten Days in the Hills, Smiley cleverly borrows the narrative set-up of Boccaccio’s Decameron to allow her readers to eavesdrop on a 10-day house party among members of Hollywood’s second-string players. . . . [A] marathon of Woody Allen-like conversations . . . and Oscar-worthy dialogue . . . witty enough to keep readers chuckling . . . The thinking person’s Big Chill. . . . Throughout her career Smiley has demonstrated a genius for thrusting readers straight into the heart of her characters’ emotions, and this time it feels as if she’s adjusted the lens and taken us in for an even closer look. Just how does she make us care so deeply for these people? . . . Readers will be amazed.”
–Andrea Hoag, The AARP Magazine

“[Ten Days in the Hills is full of] merriment, movies and mating, and, in tone, is akin to [Smiley’s] lively and humorous Moo. But careful readers might notice, at times, a touch of sadness beneath the mirthful atmosphere. . . . Smiley’s rich prose manages to turn a simple kiss into something wondrously poetic. . . [Her] artistic facility with prose and creating scenes is evident. . . . [The] stories and conversations are as colorful as [the characters’] backgrounds. . . . Through flashbacks and dinner party stories and revelations, Smiley peels back the layers that have been buffering the relationships of all gathered during [the] 10 days [over which the novel takes place]. . . . A sharp-edged comedy of manners.”
–Dorman T. Shindler, The Denver Post

“A talky, bawdy book that says a lot about Hollywood and even more about the humanness of the 21st century American . . . Smiley has taken a step toward rejecting the traditional novel’s story arc and instead moved toward a form that is both old and new. It’s all about the story . . . Ultimately, her message here is one of art and its ability to free the artist. Forget the idiots in Washington: Get naked; make art; tell stories. Could there by any saner advice for the age we dwell in?”
–Joe O’Connell, The Austin Chronicle

“Ten Days in the Hills is a novel about intercourse. Talk and sex. All kinds of sex. But mostly talk . . . [The characters] talk a lot about the Iraq war. They also ricochet off a vast number of other topics . . . The topic that animates the group most, though, aside from sex, is movies . . . Sprinkled throughout the 10 days are some wonderful stories. Deft characterizations abound. Lovely apercus proliferate . . . [Turn] the volume off and enjoy this book–which is so concerned with film–as a silent movie. The actions will speak louder than words. Especially actions amorous.”
–Sarah Bird, Chicago Tribune

“A spicy, steamy sexalicious slice of life.”
–Kim Baer, The Free Lance-Star

“[The characters in Ten Days in the Hills are] a talky, highly sexed, often contentious bunch, and Smiley proves herself their skilled ventriloquist. As her characters struggle with what plagues them–how to hold on to fame and love; what to eat–her own sly humor, and humanity, emerge. Smiley avoids taking potshots at her indulged and indulgent cast. She even manages to show us they’re worth caring for.”
–Jean Nathan, Vogue

“[The characters in Ten Days in the Hills] tell stories in order to ward off the decline of western democracy. And do these people know how to talk. They talk like people under siege. Every bit of it seduces the reader. Just as she takes us inside movies, Smiley takes us inside sex. No writer has ever been more eloquent about [it] either. It’s the opposite of pornography, when you get right down to it: not visual, but tactile. At the same time, Ten Days turns out to be one of the most political novels ever written by an American author. You would think that by now Hollywood would be worn out as a subject of satire. Smiley, however, brings something fresh to her brand of parody: characters who feel real.”
–Mary Welp, Louisville Courier-Journal

“The latest from Jane Smiley, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of A Thousand Acres, follows the exploits of one small enclave in the hills of Hollywood as they react to the Iraq War over the 10 days following the 2003 Oscars . . . Smiley writes with cinematic verve and is nearly without equal when it comes to crystallizing the vagaries of a woman’s inner narrative–musing, meandering, and weaving as it does, free and insouciant even in the face of the withering male ego. [Her character] Elena’s narrative is shot through with frank talk that results in a fresh, oddly romantic way of approaching sexuality–and there is as much action as there is talk.”
–David Cotner, Village Voice

“Compulsively readable . . . Smiley describes the frequent sexual encounters among the characters in explicit detail and with gusto.”
–Margaret Quamme, The Columbus Dispatch

“Dazzling . . . [It] is [Smiley’s] delightfully unpredictable range [as a novelist] that makes her one of our finest contemporary writers . . . Smiley’s sex scenes can be lyrical or matter-of-fact, quietly erotic or bawdy, and she can also bring a wickedly satirical edge to the subject . . . . This is not to say that Smiley’s characters are unable to be surprised by love. Rather, it is a different kind of love that takes people by surprise in Ten Days in the Hills–not passionate carnal desire, but a tender love that promises to be more sustaining.”
–Lauren F. Winner, Books & Culture: A Christian Review

“When social historians look back at 2003 to discover America’s psychological state as 9/11 gave way to the Iraq War, they’ll learn more from Jane Smiley’s decadent fantasia Ten Days in the Hills than from the period’s cable news or talk radio . . . . As one character obsesses about the arguments she’d have with Condoleeza Rice if only she could, the devastating ‘Why?’s that would cut through the administration party line, the disconnection and powerlessness felt by millions of Americans become incarnate in the dreamlike Hollywood hills.”
–Donna Bowman, The A.V. Club / The Onion

“Ten Days in the Hills proves Smiley’s greatness . . . [In the novel], Smiley shifts perspectives, dexterously exploring how self-perception varies from the perceptions of others. The characters pass the time watching and talking about movies, as well as taking about the war and having sex. Indeed, sex is rampant in Ten Days in the Hills, and Smiley presents it in myriad forms while seeming to wink at the reader . . . Smiley does a tremendous job delineating each character’s idiom and point of view . . . [She] is among our most talented writers.”
–Rob Cline, Cedar Rapids Gazette

“A diverse group of attractive folks take refuge from tragedy in a hillside villa, where much merriment, bawdiness, and storytelling ensue. Boccaccio’s Decameron? Yes, at least transplanted to 21st-century-America in this sly and sexy comic novel . . . . During an eventful week and a half, the [characters’] political tensions, family arguments, anecdotes, gossip, and lovemaking make up a satirical frolic reminiscent of the Pulitzer Prize—winning author’s Moo, though here with more emphasis on Eros than academe.”
–Starr E. Smith, Library Journal (starred)

“It’s a kind of magic . . . Jane Smiley’s latterday Decameron is . . . thoughtful and sensuous, [and] it gives a subtle and often funny account of the relations between a group of finely individualized people. It takes us into their thought processes and shows each of them from multiple viewpoints, as one character after another becomes–as it were–the view-finder. It opens out into their past lives as they tell each other stories . . . It tells us what they eat and how they cook it (Smiley is wittily observant of modern culinary fads). It frankly describes what couples do in bed . . . . South America has given us magical realism. In this richly entertaining and surprising novel, Smiley gives us the North American equivalent–realism, substantial and salty, with a transformational spice of magic.”
–Lucy Hughes-Hallet, The Sunday Times, UK

“[A] highly entertaining yet thoughtful examination of postmillenial America, this is Jane Smiley’s Decameron, just as A Thousand Acres was her King Lear.”
–John Burnside, The Times, UK

“Sex, movies, current events and conversation all come together in [this] wickedly enjoyable novel. Although movie culture dominates the book . . . mostly, the characters tell each other stories . . . And as they talk, dine, watch DVDs and go to bed, the subtleties of their relationships and opinions of one another develop with complexity . . . [Ten Days in the Hills] has as much sex as you’ll find this side of an adult bookstore . . . Smiley writes of picking up The Decameron at a terrifying moment and finding [that] its compulsive storytellers offer ‘much more than escapist fun . . . it was a reminder of human resilience–not merely that humans survive, but that as they survive they can’t help recreating complex culture, which includes aesthetic, moral, political, sexual and sensual ideas.’ That dream of regeneration drives  Smiley’s romp in the hills as well . . . So c...