November 6, 2008
He spent another sweaty day in denial, his routine anchored in the familiar rhythms of his garden. By late afternoon, though, he cast those illusions aside, eager to ascend into the unknown. Usually, he would have taken the time and care to clean his tools and stow them away; today, he didn’t bother. They felt irrelevant now—beneath him. Clutching only the few items that mattered, he slipped out of the solarium and crossed into the lower lobby, where he stepped into the elevator. He fished the skeleton key from around his neck and slid it into the keyhole just below the button marked “P.H.” Turning it clockwise, he marveled at how effortlessly the mechanism clicked into place. Then he pressed the top button.
Unlike the rest of the Imperial—where a unifying aesthetic governed everything from the grandest scale to the smallest detail—the Penthouse of Karl von Eberhardt was far less cohesive. It was a hodgepodge of movements from the early twentieth century to the 1930s, with Art Nouveau dominating the living quarters. By his count, there were twenty-two rooms in total. Six were larger and far more lavish than his primary residence downtown, each with thirteen-foot ceilings, a fireplace large enough to stand in, and French doors opening onto the terrace. If that wasn’t enough, there was a private movie theater, plenty of less glamorous rooms—servants’ chambers, he guessed—and, for some mysterious reason, four strictly off-limits rooms.
The master bedroom was a testament to sheer luxury. Nothing in the hotel came close, not even the presidential suites. Its most decadent feature was an en-suite bathroom with a sunken bath. Instead of behaving like a museum custodian, treating everything reverently, he made himself at home. Taking off his boots and dirty coveralls, he ran the water.
Later, muscles soothed by bath salts, he reflected on the turn of events. Here he was, soaking in surroundings fit for an emperor, and he felt astonishingly at ease—as if every trial, hardship, and hovel had been leading to this. The old man was right; he was home. He belonged here.
Now what?
The answer would come soon enough, he figured—in the days and weeks to follow. For now, why not enjoy the ride?
More salt, sire?
Don’t mind if I do.
The thing about baths, Roman or otherwise, is that there’s only so much soaking a man can take—especially for someone unaccustomed to loafing. With the novelty short-lived, he climbed out, tramping across the marble with his wet feet.
In search of a towel, it dawned on him that, unlike the original occupant, he had no servants to wait on him hand and foot. Whatever mess might manifest, he’d be cleaning it up. Yes, he would live here, but not like a king. His Spartan ways would continue, even if it meant sleeping in one of the servants’ quarters.
There would be perks, however. For example, after locating the towel closet and drying himself, he discovered a bottle of cologne nestled nearby. Curious, he uncorked the crystal decanter and took a sniff. The fragrance was subtle—a whisper of orange blossoms, undercut with something earthier, like copal incense, perhaps? He dabbed a bit onto his wrists and rubbed them together, though how he’d known to do that, he couldn’t say.
“Saw it in a movie, maybe?”
Back in the master bedroom, still naked, he stood before the wardrobe. He recognized it as a Louis XIV armoire—the serpentine inlay and carved feet were dead giveaways. How he knew, again, he hadn’t a clue. The ebony doors opened wide to reveal clothes from a not-so-distant past that were spotless and wearable, as if they had been just delivered from the dry cleaner’s. Even more astonishing, from the silk shorts to the slacks, shirts, and suits, every piece was made from the finest materials—and they all fit as if they were tailored for his large frame.
Fully attired, he admired his reflection in the mirror. It wasn’t just the wardrobe that made the man; it was his trappings and possessions as well. For all intents and purposes, he looked like a figure from a Fitzgerald novel—someone from a genteel and romantic past—his grotesque visage and the sound of a chopper circling the neighborhood the only persistent reminders of the present.
Since everything else was perfectly preserved, he wondered whether the food would be too. When he checked the enormous pantry, though, he was quickly disappointed. Still hungry, he went down to his own apartment for a meal. Stomach satisfied, he returned and resumed his exploration.
***
In the private cinema, he made his way to a booth, where, within the confined space, a projector and a cache of film canisters sat. A movie collection—home movies, vintage porn—he was curious to see it all, but where to begin? Film stock from the ’20s and ’30s wasn't something to be treated casually. Made from nitrate, this film stock required great care to run through these old contraptions or risk a conflagration.
Luckily, a maintenance manual, along with a box set of specialized tools, was tucked away in a corner on the shelves. The fact that the projector—a sturdy Bell & Howell, with its narrow gate and take-up reels—was designed for 16mm film offered some clues. 35mm was typical of feature films, so nix on Gone With the Wind or The Philadelphia Story. Eager to satisfy his curiosity, he picked up the manual, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work.
It took until late evening—threading the brittle leader carefully through the gate and sprockets, adjusting the exciter lamp to avoid scorching the stock—but when he fired it up at a cautious 16 frames per second, he caught a flicker of the reel and grinned: it worked, silent but steady.
An hour later, back in a bathrobe and silk pajamas, he turned on the projector and descended from the booth to the sitting area to enjoy his private screening. Sinking into a plush chair, he reached for a bag of popcorn—a must-have treat that he’d trekked to the Million Dollar Movie Theater to acquire. Since concessions required entry, he’d paid the price of admission to some Hollywood blockbuster, foregoing the flick.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Keeping a fire extinguisher close at hand and the booth door cracked for ventilation as the nitrate unspooled, he dug into his buttery treat, snacking between sips of Coke. The night’s entertainment was not what he expected. Instead of Greta Garbo or some other screen legend of that era, it was a black-and-white home movie of sorts—difficult to view at first due to its amateurish camera work and crude editing; the footage jumped from shot to shot, the inherent grain and flicker of the reversal stock adding to the ghostly feel.
Two young men on a ship’s deck, hamming it up for the camera while crowds on the pier waved farewell below. From the style of the clothes—particularly what the women wore—he guessed it was sometime during the Jazz Age. The men looked to be in their early twenties, fresh-faced and bright-eyed, bubbling with enthusiasm, but something about that past generation made them appear older and more mature. Was it their clothes, the way they had comported themselves, the pipes they had smoked? The lads were clearly excited about the voyage—but from where to where?
He looked for clues. Was that a British flag hanging from a flagpole?
The scenery changed—they were now on the high seas, and there was little to view but broad expanses of ocean. Inside the cramped cabins, the landscapes were plentiful, drawn from one of the men's imaginations. At this point in the journey, the camera technique was becoming more skillful; it panned over a watercolor of a river and a jungle, with verdant tropical mountains in the background. As the camera passed over more landscapes, the paintings' style became recognizable. The art must have been the work of the man whose home and clothes he now occupied.
The camera focused its lens on one of the travelers, whom the caretaker suspected was the architectural titan himself. He had never seen an actual photo of the man, but with his movie-star good looks—tall, blond, and broad-shouldered—and his commanding presence, it had to be him. The footage documented Karl Von Eberhardt going through his daily routine: morning coffee with eggs and toast, followed by jogging and calisthenics on the deck; then letters and journaling, followed by a lunch of sardines and kippers, an aperitif, an afternoon nap, a cigarette, more coffee, and finally planning and map-making.
At night, the footage took a bizarre turn. No longer convivial or smiling, the camera now captured Eberhardt in a trance-like state, his pencil scribbling madly. As the film's technique evolved—much like a movie—it cut from the sketchpad to the architect, who, with his eyes closed, remained fully capable of rendering a detailed depiction of a tropical setting. It ended the sequence on the completed drawing, then cut to the actual location.
Eberhardt and his companion were now on land—in the jungle—dressed in khaki and pith helmets. They trekked onward as the camerawork returned to its choppy, haphazard style, documenting their expedition as best it could under challenging conditions. The two adventurers paddled down rivers, hiked through muddy trails with mules in tow, and were assisted by local indigenous men.
At camp, they unrolled Eberhardt’s paintings and sketches, treating them as both references and wayfinders. He realized the other blond—far less impressive—man in the film must be Augustus Hellmann, the 108-year-old who had bequeathed him this trove. In every frame, Augustus’s younger self fawned over Eberhardt as though the man were a demigod, trailing him on an impossible quest like Sancho Panza after Don Quixote. Yet he—Augustus—must have been the benefactor, the financier of this likely folly. The power should have flowed the other way. What spell did Eberhardt hold over Augustus, he wondered, to wield such authority?
As the expedition pushed deeper through the luxuriant growth, the evening’s entertainment evolved from a documentary to a cinematic spectacle that D.W. Griffith might have directed. No longer amateurish, the camera snaked through the rainforest with cinematic virtuosity until, in a wide shot, it revealed the temple-pyramid—now erected in the garden at its original site.
Through a sequence of seamless cuts and the syntax of cinema, it becomes clear to the viewer that this is the Mayan ruin—the one so elegantly rendered in Eberhardt’s painting. Somehow, he had manifested its existence in his dreams, despite being the first European to have set eyes on it since the ancient builders laid the first stone.
The montage also expresses Augustus Hellmann’s reaction—one of awe at the discovery and at the prophet who led him there—while the native porters cringe in fear. It was clearly a reenactment, with lighting, makeup, and performances that weren't too realistic. Still, despite the stylistic flourishes and the fashions of the times, even in its engulfed state, nothing could diminish the uncanny power of the stone temple, a brassy recorded score amplifying those raw emotions.
Then the film cuts abruptly to a grand building in flames—its burning timber collapses and cascades to the ground, heralded by triumphant music and a theatrical mid-Atlantic voice:
“Crafted from a forest of Oregon timber and an army of carpenters and masons, the Imperial Hotel—erected by railway magnate Bartholomew Hellmann—is reduced to ashes in a single night. But from the green hell of Guatemala, like the prodigal son, Augustus returns with a singular vision to build a new edifice for the ages.”
Back at the tropical site—where the jagged ziggurat once sat, there is only a gaping, painful wound—and all about, men toil with ropes, pulleys, and mules, loading the intricately incised stela, with its spiritual motifs, onto a newly minted narrow-gauge railcar.
“And like a phoenix rising from the ashes! The Imperial is reborn!” the narrator’s voice booms. “Commissioned by Augustus Hellmann, designed top to bottom by the architect-wunderkind Karl von Eberhardt, and inspired by their exploits in Mesoamerica!”
The film cuts to a newsreel of the hotel's grand opening. As spotlights slice the night sky, Karl and Augustus climb out of a sleek Duesenberg—all chrome curves and headlamps, like the starlets on their arms.
“From the terra-cotta feathered serpents on the ceiling to the furnishings in the rooms and the china and silverware, every facet of the new hotel bears Eberhardt's stamp.”
A voice-over delivers the line as Karl and Augustus pause for a moment on the red carpet while flashbulbs explode. They continue as more of America's who's who pull up to the curb, joining the procession. “Now, who is that? Why, it’s the Sheik himself, and his date, America's sweetheart… ”
Starting with a wide shot of the ballroom—stuffed with so many people that there is barely any room to move—and a jazzy score, the newsreel footage picks up the pace. "And with the Inaugural Ball," the narrator’s booming Mid-Atlantic baritone continues, "the party of Hellmann and Eberhardt never stops, not even after Black Tuesday, when the country goes into a tailspin." The silver screen turns grim with a depressing montage of breadlines, soup kitchens, dust bowls, and Okies. "Despite that, under the New Deal, Hellmann Industries prospers by erecting rail stations, factories, and skyscrapers, all designed by Karl von Eberhardt with the blessings of FDR." For a time, it seems that nothing can stop this dynamic duo until 1939, when tragedy strikes.
"Karl von Eberhardt jumps from the balcony of his beloved penthouse, killing himself. In the wake of his suicide, rumors swirl of a tryst between the industrialist, the architect, and one of Hollywood's leading ladies," the narrator spoke in a hushed tone, "or of the love that dares not speak its name or, more ominously, even of whispers of the occult. Whatever the truth may be, the public never receives a satisfactory answer. And within days of his dear friend's death, Augustus Hellmann shutters the Imperial for good, sealing it like a Tutankhamun's Tomb along with all of its dark secrets."
(Recap CW: Same as pre-chapter—mild historical/occult references only.)
See you in the next one!
Which part of the film’s story fascinates you most?
