Chapter 19
Here is the next chapter. So, a quick overview, not much is happening in this chapter. Just filling in some things that I feel I need to go over before moving on. For those of you who have not yet realized it. I want to be clear that this story is like a 60, maybe 70, percent slice-of-life, or at least that is what I am going for. The rest is Hollywood and business. So I am big on ideas being thrown around for me to think on. So always feel free to suggest things.
Taoist_yuri, that is a very true statement.
Poposwitch, I do plan for her to make a lot of war films, among them is Inglourious Basterds, but I will have her toe the line, so to speak. Make Nazi's look evil, like they are, but it can not be denied that the US was full of Nazi sympathizers. If Hitel hadn't declared war on us first, we most likely would have left him alone. It's a dark part of history no one likes to admit to. After the war, however, she goes hard on the attack. Pushing to have both the Nazi party and those affiliated designated as a terrorist organization. How successful she will be, I am not sure yet.
Roronoa2, as always, you're welcome. Saving your idea fyi.
D_eta015 I totally forgot to go over the principal photography. Maybe I can add it in the next chapter.
Darth_Vesha, you are very welcome.
That is it for reviews. Question at the bottom of the page.
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"I love art. I have loved it since I was a little girl, when my mother took me to an art gallery featuring an artist whose name I can't remember. That day ignited my desire to create my own artwork—something that would endure long after I was gone. I couldn't stop talking about it on our way home. I talked so much that my mother eventually called my father to get me a box of Munsell crayons, which were quite expensive at the time. But to see her little girl smile, she was willing to reach out to him just for me.
I can still remember holding those crayons in my hands. The excitement I felt that day is beyond words. I wanted to be the next Artemisia Gentileschi and often imagined my art displayed in the same prestigious places as the Mona Lisa or The Starry Night. The latter of which is actually part of my collection, thanks to my father, who acquired it for me. Unfortunately, I soon realized that while I was a decent artist, my drawings couldn't compare to those masterpieces. So, I decided to focus on movies instead.
That said, as a lover of art, I have consistently supported the arts around the world and will continue to do so until the day I die." — A Dream Come True by Ruth "Morris Lucky" Luciano.
-1940-
-Ruth POV-
As I sat across from a man engrossed in reading the script for "Raging Bull," I smiled and began filing my nails. I started with my index, middle, and thumb fingers, making sure they were short, round, and—most importantly—smooth while keeping the ring and pinky finger long and sharp. In the coming decades, this nail style would become commonplace and stereotypical within the lesbian community. Mostly because it made practical sense; after all, you wouldn't want long nails when you were using your fingers for intimate moments. That would only lead to trouble.
At this point in time, though, it was not yet a stereotype—it was simply a fashion statement I had adopted since I was a preteen. Nobody knew whether it signified anything or even had meaning, and frankly, no one seemed to care. However, recently, girls and young women of all ages started to mimic my style. While I wasn't as famous as Katharine Hepburn or Bette Davis, it was undeniable that I had something they lacked: infamy, though not necessarily in a negative way. Well, that would depend on who you asked, anyway.
You see, I had accomplished something that many women of my time had not and were not expected to do. I had stepped out of line and taken on a role typically reserved for men: I became a director. While there were other female directors, like Alice Guy-Blaché, who was a talented filmmaker largely unknown to the public, I had managed to achieve recognition. In addition to directing, I owned a movie studio, a significant accomplishment for anyone, especially a woman. Though there were other women who were wealthier and held more power than I did, they often preferred to remain in the background. I, on the other hand, chose to make my presence known—something women typically did not do in this era without being labeled obnoxious.
To quote a paper I had read not long ago, "Ruth Luciano is the perfect combination of what it means to be a lady and a queen. She is powerful without being overbearing, showing that a lady can indeed be powerful without being outrageous. For her, power is inherent to femininity; you don't need to boast about it—you simply are."
Not everyone agrees with this quote, but it emphasizes my impact on young women across the nation. They sought to emulate me as a form of silent protest for empowerment, asserting that I am a woman of strength, not just an ornament on a shelf. It was a quiet yet impactful movement. Yet as I mentioned, some people were not pleased with it, particularly conservative women who quickly expressed their outrage. Ironically, many of them didn't seem to understand what they were truly upset about, however. After all, it's not like I was making grand speeches about female empowerment and whatnot. Nor was I the only woman in the public eye who was wearing this style.
Liz, Judy, and even Hedy started copying my nail style. With Liz being the only one who knew what it meant, and let me tell you, she was not amused when I told her I came up with it because of our sex life. The other two simply liked the look and followed my lead. Gradually, my style began to spread, and while conservative women were calling it outrageous, they couldn't provide a solid justification for why it was outrageous. When asked why they disapproved, all they could manage was to imply that women should know their place and stay in the kitchen. They didn't say it outright, but that was the essence of their message, and they certainly looked foolish doing so. Even some male conservatives were left puzzled about what was wrong with my nail style. It didn't help that I remained silent, and the most anyone could extract from Liz, Judy, and Hedy was that I had come up with the style and they simply liked it. It was rather amusing watching those women stumble over their words and embarrass themselves.
As I was filing my nails, I closely observed the man sitting across from me. I truly despised him, but not because he had done anything to me. In fact, we didn't even know each other until today. However, he embodied everything I loathed, and I would have had no qualms about eliminating him if I thought it would make a difference. Fortunately for him, silencing him wouldn't change anything; he was one of those lucky few who were just important enough that people would listen to him, but not so significant that getting rid of him would matter in the grand scheme of things.
That man was William Harrison Hays Sr., the founder of the infamous Hays Code. I would have invited Joseph Breen instead, but I felt he would be more difficult to work with than Hays himself. As I watched Hays read the script for 'Raging Bull,' I could read him like an open book. He didn't try to hide his distaste for the script, yet he couldn't stop reading it. Such was the compelling nature of 'Raging Bull.' It was a classic for a reason, and while I had made some changes, the overall story remained the same.
After a few moments, he finished reading the last page, closed the script, and set it down. He then took off his glasses and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe them clean. He didn't say anything right away, which I appreciated; it showed he was the type of man who thought things through before speaking. A rare thing among most people. Even during this so-called time of manners and dignity.
When he did speak, it was only to say, "I see why you called me Miss Luciano."
"Please call me Ruth, Mr. Hays," I replied in a pleasant and kind voice.
With an easy smile, Hays responded, "Very well, Ruth."
Hays wasn't surprised by Ruth's openness. He believed that women are often friendlier than men, and although he, like nearly everyone else, knew who Ruth's father was, it was clear to him that she was nothing like him. The proof being that she had called him. Instead of going through with making the script into a movie, she paused and reached out, worried that certain elements of the film took things too far. A man, especially one like her father, wouldn't have done that. This was why he felt hesitant about sharing his thoughts on the script from the start.
"So what do you think? Is it too much? It's too much, isn't it?" I asked him in while faking a worried voice. After all, I was neither worried nor consoled by his opinion. The only reason he was here was that it would be easier to work with him than against him, and his little code. The latter of which was destined to die within a couple of decades anyway.
Hays didn't respond immediately; he interpreted her worried tone as sincere. Like many men, he had been taught to handle women with care and to choose his words carefully, especially when someone seemed troubled, as Ruth clearly did. So, he took a moment to think things through before answering.
"Well, it is a wonderful script," Hays began, and he genuinely meant it. While he had his own objectives regarding it, he could really feel the characters. He especially resonated with the main character, Jake, whom he honestly didn't like, but then again, that was the point, wasn't it? To hate this man was to hate everything he represented. The wild indulgence and wrongdoing he engages in throughout the film.
"May I ask what you wish to accomplish with this script, Ruth? I mean, the profanity alone makes me want to throw it out, not to mention the themes of adultery, drinking, gambling, and child abuse." Hays said.
Looking a bit uncomfortable, as if I had just been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, I replied, "Well, honestly, Mr. Hays, I've been thinking about the direction in which films are heading. I worry that we may not be adequately preparing our children for the realities of the world."
Hays looked puzzled, clearly not expecting such a response. "What do you mean, Ruth?" he asked.
I continued, "Right now, we are simply telling our kids that everything will work out in the end, that temptation is bad for them, and that the good guy always wins. But we both know that isn't the truth. After all, we lived through Prohibition." My tone was reasonable, but I mixed in a hint of concern.
Hays took a deep breath, recalling the failure of Prohibition all too well. "This isn't the same thing, Ruth."
"Isn't it? Let's be honest with each other, Mr. Hays. You know who my father is and how he made his money. Do you truly believe he would have become the man he was without Prohibition?" I pressed him.
The answer was actually yes. My father was one of those lesser men of destiny. He had a vision for the mob, and one way or another, he was going to reorganize it into what it is today. All prohibition did was speed up the process. Or at least that is how I saw it.
Hays paused for a moment before responding, "Perhaps not."
"I feel the same way. The only reason my father and those around him became as rich and powerful as they are now is because they grasped a simple truth: people hate being told what they can and cannot do. The more you try to control them, the more they want to break free. I worry that the Production Code, admirable as it may be, will do little to curb the vices of men," I said quietly, noting the narrowing of his eyes.
Hays clearly didn't like what I was saying; in fact, he was visibly angry at having this truth laid out for him—especially coming from a woman. Still, he wasn't a foolish man; he understood human nature and knew I was right. After all, he'd benefited from Prohibition himself, maybe not as a bootlegger, but in other ways. Even so, he wasn't about to admit his own oversight, and instead tried to counter by saying, "That may be so, Ruth, but I don't see how this script has anything to do with the Production Code."
Nodding, I say, "On the surface, it might not seem connected, but if you take a closer look at the script, it's entirely relevant. You created the Production Code for valid, admirable reasons, which I fully support. Yet, instead of discouraging sin, the Code inadvertently promotes it by preventing us from calling it wrong without proper justification. That's where my script comes in—we show exactly where vice and sin can lead, highlighting the tragic consequences that follow."
Hays rested his chin in his hand, mulling over Ruth's words. She had made a solid point. He didn't want to admit she was right, but he couldn't deny it either. As much as he wanted to push back, she wasn't wrong. If you only look at a problem from one angle and ignore the other, how can you really judge it? Were they just enticing the youth by condemning vice without explanation? Maybe it would be better to lay out the possible consequences of such choices.
After a brief pause, Hays says, "Let's say I agree to approve this film. It still needs to be toned down; the Catholic Church would be up in arms if we don't make some adjustments."
Smiling, knowing I had him hooked, I reply, "I understand, but if you'll hear me out a bit longer, I have an idea that I am calling a rating system."
"Rating system?" Hays responds with a hint of interest in his voice.
-Liz POV-
Shaking my head, I stepped out of the bedroom in my new home, wearing nothing but a silk robe, and wondered if I'd completely lost it. How did I keep letting myself get roped into things by that redheaded tart I called my girlfriend? It made no logical sense, yet here I was in a sheer white silk robe that left nothing to the imagination, about to do something I'd normally flat-out refuse. Maybe I'll never figure it out. She just had this uncanny hold over me, stronger than my own will.
Across the room, I spotted the tart standing beside a young man, both of them admiring a painting she had given me as a housewarming gift. I caught the young man saying, "It's 'Circe Offering the Cup to Odysseus' by John William Waterhouse."
"You've got a good eye, Norman," Ruth said warmly.
"I'm a fan of his work, but I never imagined I'd see one of his pieces outside a museum. How did you get it?" Norman asked, admiring the painting behind layers of bulletproof glass. It might seem a bit much, but that was just Ruth—she valued art deeply and went to great lengths to protect it.
"My father acquired several of his works at a private auction in the late 1920s," Ruth replied with a smile. She loved talking about her collection, and it was an impressive one.
"You have more than one?" Norman asks.
"I own five," Ruth replies, making me roll my eyes.
"Actually, it's six, love. You own six. I still haven't agreed to keep this one," I chime in from behind her, causing both of them to turn and look at me.
To his credit, Norman doesn't stare when he turns around. He just blushes a little and looks away like a proper gentleman. Even though he's probably seen plenty of women in various states of undress as an artist, he's clearly not a creep. My ever-loving girlfriend, on the other hand, is openly checking me out from head to toe. It's not hard to guess what's running through her mind, and I can't help but smirk. Ruth might be the dominant one in our relationship, but I take a lot of pride in the effect I have on her.
The moment quickly passes, as Ruth usually has impeccable self-control. She says, "Yet 'being' the key, love. You know you'll accept it eventually."
I arch an eyebrow and reply, "Will I? Maybe if you add Cleopatra to it, I'll agree."
Glancing at Ruth, Norman asks, "Do you own Cleopatra as well, Miss Luciano?"
Ruth pouted slightly, having adored that painting—it was one of her favorites. "I did, but it seems my love is in a difficult mood today," she said.
Glancing her way, I replied, "Consider it my payment for agreeing to do this portrait for you."
"You didn't have to agree if you didn't want to," Ruth shot back. With a small huff, I answered,
"As if you'd ever let me say no. Can I trust all the forms are signed, love?"
It is a weak argument. Yes, I had promised her I would do it in the heat of the moment. So perhaps it shouldn't have counted, seeing as it was kind of hard to say no when she had her fingers in my pussy. But at the end of the day, I had my own reasons for going through with it, even though I knew she wouldn't have pushed. She never pushed when I really didn't want to do something.
Ruth rolled her eyes and said, "Yeah, yeah, babe, relax. The NDA's signed, and Norman's already taken the payment. Now, let's check out the goods."
Ruth then claps her hands in excitement as if she hadn't seen me nude before.
I shoot my girlfriend a flat look and pause for a moment before Mr. Rockwell says, "Miss Luciano, perhaps it would be best if you waited in the other room."
Ruth narrows her eyes and asks, "Are you asking me to leave, Mr. Rockwell?"
With a kind nod, he replies, "That I am, ma'am. Some models don't handle pressure well, much like some actors, as I'm sure you know."
Ruth pauses to stare at him, then chuckles and says, "Well played, Mr. Rockwell. I'll be in the other room if you need me."
After she leaves, I turn to Norman and say, "Thank you, Mr. Rockwell."
"Please, call me Norman, Miss Scott," he responds.
"Alright. You can call me Lizabeth, or Liz for short," I reply with a smile. Too few know how to stand against the hurricane that was Ruth so the fact that he could get her out of the room when she clearly didn't wish to leave earned him some respect from me.
As Norman walks to his easel to ready his paints, he starts, "So, your girlfriend. She can be a bit…"
"Much?" I finish for him.
"I was going to say scary, but," Norman answers with a grin.
I laugh and say, "You might be the first person I've met who's picked up on that—at least among those who aren't close to her."
With a shrug, Norman replies, "I'm an artist. I see things others overlook."
I walked over to the chair, feeling at ease, and loosened the front of my robe, letting it fall open as I sat down. With the painting's details already agreed upon, I sat upright, back straight, legs crossed, the robe parted just enough to hint at my chest while still draped over me.
"Oh, and tell me what you see, Norman," I said with a smile, catching the way he looked up and flushed a deeper shade. Though I wasn't generally attracted to men, much like Ruth, I still relished leaving them momentarily speechless.
Shaking off the effect this strikingly beautiful woman had on him, Norman said, "It was her eyes. The light in them. They seemed a bit cold when they looked at me. Unlike when she looked at you, and I saw nothing but love and care."
Smirking at his comment, I say, "Don't forget, lust, Norman. Yes, they do, don't they? People say she has her mother's eyes, but I've met the woman. Hers are always warm and kind, while Ruth's… well, they're just like her father's."
"Have you met him? And hold still, please," Norman asks as he begins his work.
"No, but Ruth's told me plenty about him," I replied. Honestly, I had no desire to meet the man. Ruth might have painted Lucky Luciano as kind and understanding, but that was the view of a daughter who adored her father without question. In her eyes, he could do no wrong—and if he did, it didn't matter.
"Do you ever worry about him… You know, finding out about your relationship with her?" Norman asked.
For a moment, I stay silent, letting the weight of the conversation sink in. I'd rarely spoken to anyone about Ruth and me. In this line of work, you can never be sure who your real friends are. Even though we often went to certain clubs where people like us gathered, I almost never talked about our relationship. It felt good to finally speak openly about it.
"All the time, I know people wouldn't react well if they knew about us. As for her father, I'd rather not end up on that man's bad side. I have to admit, I'm surprised she found someone willing to do this for us," I say evenly.
"Well, the $2,500 she's paying me does help ease my conscience," Norman says with a teasing grin, making me smile slightly. "Besides, I know what it's like to keep certain things hidden."
"Oh?" I reply, a bit taken aback.
Glancing up from the canvas, he adds, "Don't get me wrong; I'm not homosexual, but I do have thoughts."
"Ah, so you're curious. I get it. I felt the same way before I met Ruth and had no intention of acting on those curiosities," I say, now fully understanding him and why he seems so at ease.
"What changed?" Norman asks.
I pause, thinking it over, then reply, "Not much, honestly. I could blame Ruth for nudging me to explore these feelings, but the truth is I would have gotten there eventually."
I'm slowly coming to terms with this realization. I'm not entirely certain I'd call myself fully homosexual, but I do know I'm far more attracted to women than to men. Sooner or later, I would have explored the softer sex on my own. The only thing Ruth did was make herself too tempting to pass up on.
"Is she at least the reason you're doing this?" Norman asks.
"I can admit that's entirely her fault," I reply flatly, still feeling irritated about the whole situation.
"You sound annoyed," Norman says.
"That's because I am," I reply in the same flat tone as before.
"So why go through with it?" he asks.
I pause briefly, then sigh. "Can you keep a personal secret?"
"From Ruth?" Norman clarifies.
"Yes," I answer.
"Sure," he replies.
I take a deep breath, ready to admit something I've never even told myself. "I'm not sure where things with Ruth are going."
He gives me a curious look and asks, "Are… you thinking about breaking up with her?"
It's a good question, one I've considered more than once. I reply, "No, but what I plan and what actually happens are often two different things."
Norman nods and says, "The painting—it's just in case."
I nod back and say, "I love her, and though I'd like to blame her for getting me to do something so… erotic, the truth is that if the worst happens, I want her to have something of me to hold on to."
We don't say anything else to each other after all, what else was there to say? The future is uncertain, and I'm not sure if Ruth and I will be together forever. I'd love to believe we will, but the world doesn't seem eager to make that easy. I'm not a hopeless romantic who'll promise something I know, deep down, is unlikely. All I can do is leave her with a piece of me to remember fondly if we ever part. It's the least I can offer the woman I love.
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Okay, not really a question, as I had always planned for Ruth to get into Art. What I need is a list of works and their net worth. Right now, she owns up to 100 different works of art. Will go over how in the upcoming chapters. Hint: it is a known trick used by drug dealers worldwide; only her art is worth something.