A Lotus Grows in the Mud (18 page)

“Then there was the Green Grotto,” I exclaim. “We couldn’t believe the color…”

“I can still see it in my mind’s eye,” Patti adds. “Emerald. It was so cool.”

An image flashes across my mind. My sister’s red hair, streaked from the sun, blowing away from her face as we blast across the sea, sitting on the bow of a speedboat, heading for the Green Grotto.

“But we haven’t even told you about when we went back to Rome,” Patti cries, bringing me back to the present. “We got to the hotel, and they were on strike!”

“They were on strike?” my father interrupts, checking that his machine is still recording. “Everybody’s always on strike in Italy.”

“I know, Daddy, it was so funny. There were no rooms.”

“But where the hell did you sleep?” Mom asks.

“On the couches in the lobby.”

“On the couches in the lobby? Oh, that’s great.” She throws her head back and laughs like hell.

Patti and I catch each other’s eye and begin to laugh from a place deep within us that only we really understand. Our special time together is drawing to a close, and soon we shall be back on different sides of the country. But as we cling to each other, we both know that we have amassed a precious store of memories to feed on for the rest of our lives.

S
ometimes a jewel can be right under your nose and you don’t appreciate it. Then, one day you suddenly realize that it was there all along. Because of the history Patti and I share as siblings, sometimes we feel we don’t have to work at our relationship. It is so easy to overlook each other because each assumes the other is always going to be there.

The trip to Italy allowed Patti and me to discover each other as women, not just as sisters, because the sister thing can sometimes really get in the way. Here we were, away from Mom and Dad, away from sibling rivalry and all its attendant issues, just being a sister’s sister. And guess what we discovered? That sister or no sister, isn’t she a blast?

I was never supposed to be the successful one. This wasn’t meant to be. I was just a fluke of nature. Patti was the smart one. In the space of a few years, she must have gone from wondering if I was even going to get through school to being amazed that I was a regular on a popular television show and everybody knew my name.

Siblings don’t need much to feel threatened by each other; that’s a force of nature in itself. Then when success gets in the way, the ripples start to spread. There must have been times when all anyone ever wanted to ask her about was me. I mean, how many times do you want to answer the question “What’s Goldie really like?” or questions about whichever male movie star I was working with at the time.

I am sure she must have wanted to scream, “Yeah, Goldie’s okay, but you know what really ticks me off about her is…” and list my most
annoying traits. So, at times she must have felt as isolated from me as I did from her.

No matter how hard you try, success promotes guilt in the person who is successful—especially when you know that deep down, it can’t be making others feel all that good. It is a very tough thing to look at someone else’s good fortune and say, “Oh, I’m so happy for you.” Somewhere inside there has to be a voice screaming, “What about me? Why was I dealt this hand and you dealt that hand?”

What was important for me about taking this extraordinary journey with Patti was that I learned I couldn’t fool her. I couldn’t be who I was not. I couldn’t fake it. She knew me better than anyone. It didn’t matter what I looked like with Patti. I could go without makeup, or even tie my hair back off my face, and it didn’t matter. A lot of people arm themselves with who they think they should be so that they can become individuals and break away from what they have been in the past. But until you can be completely raw with someone—as happy as you want to be, as loving as you want to be, as mean, as helpless, as bereaved, as scared, as lost—then you can never really feel comfortable in your own skin. I can be that honest with Patti.

As life goes on, you realize that as siblings, you are the only people in the world who can reference your lives from a similar perspective. No one else has that ability; no one else lived inside those walls, knew your parents as people and is able to laugh or cry at the same things in the same way.

There will always be something about siblings that irritates or annoys you, but, as with any other relationship, in order to sustain it you have to learn to show tolerance for whatever they are going through. Just because there is a threatening situation or maybe anger bubbling beneath the surface, don’t overreact. There are ways to handle it. You might sometimes see your sibling acting out and you may not like it, but you have to know when it matters and when it doesn’t.

The relationship between siblings is about as deep as you can go. As your parents die and fall away from this earth, the bond becomes deeper, and, if you have honed it, massaged it, nurtured it, then on the day you
both become orphans you will be able to seek solace in each other and know that you are all each other has.

No one on the planet will ever know you better than your sibling. They know the good parts, the bad parts, and the secrets. It is a very powerful and valuable relationship. Don’t let it slip through your fingers. It is like going home in your heart.

So I
do
look the part! Playing a Russian ballerina in
The Girl from Petrovka.
(© Universal)

“B
ut I don’t look Russian!” I protest to Richard Zanuck and David Brown, who are sitting in my trailer on a film set somewhere deep in the heart of Texas.

“Oh yes you do!” they sing back in unison, perched on the edge of my couch. “Do you think we would offer you this part if we didn’t think you were perfect for it?”

Zanuck and Brown are the beloved producers of my fifth movie,
The Sugarland Express,
directed by Steven Spielberg. They look like Mutt and Jeff: Dick Zanuck, with his jaw sticking out, and David Brown, with his round teddy-bear appearance, always sporting a cigar. I’m crazy about these guys; they are the most dedicated producers, devoted to their films, to their actors, to their directors and to the goal we’re all trying to achieve. They defend their films with their lives, and they are a dying breed.

The rain beats down on the tin roof, drowning them out, as I continue to argue my case.

“People just won’t buy me as a Russian. I mean, I’ll have to speak with a Russian accent, and who on earth will believe me? I mean, really.”

They are trying to persuade me to accept the role of Oktyabrina, a Russian ballet dancer, in a new movie called
The Girl from Petrovka.
Based on the book by George Feifer, it is the true story of a young girl who falls in love with an American reporter before being banished to Siberia.

“Goldie, don’t underestimate your own talent,” they tell me. “Of course you could do this.”

“All right, guys.” I smile. “You’re wearing me down. I’ll tell you what. Let me go to Moscow and meet some Russians for myself and then I’ll see if I even look Russian.”

“Great idea!” they respond in unison.

I
t is October 1973 when I land with a
thud
on the tarmac of Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport. I am flying Aeroflot, which has the worst safety record in the world. The Cold War is in full bloom.

As I walk through the drafty immigration hall, I look right and left at the gun-toting soldiers standing guard, all buttoned up to the neck and as stiff as boards. It is the first time I have ever witnessed a military presence at an airport, and the sight chills me.

When I finally get through the endless process of checking my papers, I am met by the
Los Angeles Times
correspondent in Moscow, Murray Seeger, who has promised to help me. He reaches his hand out to me eagerly and introduces himself.

“Oh, great, great,” I say, taking his hand. “It’s good to finally put a face to your name.” He is open, friendly and warm.

Chatting to him as we make our way out of the airport, I find him something of a curiosity, for I have long wondered why anyone would ever choose to live in Russia. I frequently read his articles about Brezhnev and the cast of Cold War characters, and Russia didn’t seem like a fun place to live.

Outside, the gray air cuts my throat. The opening line in
The Girl from Petrovka
says the cold of a Russian winter can kill even a memory. I am beginning to understand.

Murray drives me down the wide-open boulevards of Moscow, lined with trees that are just about to lose their leaves. We pass grand architecture, great domed churches and opulent halls, beautiful onion-domed buildings erected during the reign of the csars and csarinas. I can smell Moscow’s pungent history.

“Have you ever read
The Girl from Petrovka
?” I ask brightly.

“Shhh,” Murray hushes me. Whispering, he adds, “The car’s bugged. Let’s talk about it later.” Seeing my expression, he laughs.

I am in shock. This isn’t part of any world that I have ever known. I can’t imagine not having the freedom to say what I feel. I dare not speak another word.

We pull up outside a building that is enormous and hideously ugly, a big cement block that sits in stark contrast to the older buildings around it. I get out of the car and stand staring up at it, thinking about communism and Trotsky and his band of brothers who really believed that they had all the answers.

“Is this my hotel?” I ask.

“I’m afraid so,” Murray says, fetching my bag from the trunk. “It’s okay, we can talk now. Everything’s bugged. It’s the way of life here. It’s funny, we talk about it quite openly. As soon as a new correspondent arrives, his vehicle is taken away to be ‘serviced,’ but everyone knows what’s really happening.”

He leaves me with a wave and promises to collect me later. I walk up the steps to my monstrous hotel, which looks like a Second World War bunker. Sad is one way to describe it. Devoid of spirit is another.

L
ater that night, Murray drives me to his run-down apartment block, where all the foreign correspondents live. It is a veritable village of antipropaganda. The building is very utilitarian, in a style I now know to be typical of communist architecture. Sitting in the lobby on a bench are three old women, chatting away among themselves. They remind me of my aunt Sarah and her friends chewing the fat.

“
Privyet.
Hello,” I say with a smile, but they don’t respond.

Murray takes my elbow and leads me away. “Those, my dear, are called informants.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they report when you come in and when you go out; who comes to visit you and what time they leave. They’re tattletales. They all work for the KGB.”

Upstairs, in a rather drab apartment, I am introduced to some of his colleagues. There is a British reporter who works for the
Daily Telegraph,
a Frenchman who works for
Le Figaro
and a rather dashing correspondent who writes for
Time
magazine. He is very cool and speaks candidly on the complex political relationship between Russia and the United States.

They smile and say hello and carry on with their earnest, intelligent conversations about the state of the Politburo and life in the Soviet Union. I join them, sitting around an oval table, eating a simple dinner cooked by Murray’s wife. Sipping vodka and drinking in the atmosphere, I listen as they share their experiences laughingly and speak of their strange lives as strangers in a strange land. Sometimes when they talk, they don’t make a sound, they just move their mouths and the rest of us have to lip-read. When I look quizzically at Murray, he laughs and points to the ceiling, and I realize that his apartment is bugged too.

“We have to be careful what we say,” he whispers in my ear. “They are always listening.”

I am endlessly fascinated by his guests’ stories and how they cope with living under KGB rule and dealing with a repressive government that doesn’t allow truth. They speak of the corruption of the Communist Party and how difficult it is to get information. I am in awe, and more than a little stimulated, in this place that is nothing like home, or anyplace I’ve ever been in my entire life. This is an interesting table, full of smart people, intellectuals involved in reporting world affairs. It is a million miles away from show business.

“Does anyone here ever see movies?” I ask, wanting to contribute.

“A select few,” comes the reply.

“Well, only the elite in the party,” another laughs. “And then only the films they choose.”

I have started them off talking about Hollywood, the subject that interests me the least. Some tell me they have seen
The Exorcist
on recent trips home, the hot film of the year. They ask me who I know.

“Has anyone here read
The Girl from Petrovka
?” I chime in softly, eager to change the subject.

The
Time
correspondent says, “Yes, I know the writer.”

“You do? Oh, I’d love to meet him.”

“George? Well, I’m sure that can be arranged. I’m not sure which country he’s living in right now, but I could make some calls.”

“And is it all true?” I ask. “Has the story been embellished at all?”

“Yes, it’s true. The girl was sent away to Siberia because they thought she was a spy when in fact her only crime was to fall in love with him. But, of course, the newspapers accused her of writing subversive material against the party. They said that was the reason.”

“Yeah, another lie. Poor girl.”

“Poor George. That was a hard time for him.”

“Oh, this might be interesting. I’m an actress, and I’ve been asked to play the girl,” I tell them. “But I don’t think I look like a Russian.”

The British reporter throws back his head and laughs. “I think you do, my darling,” he says as the rest of them nod in agreement.

“Have you been out on the streets yet?” the
Time
man asks.

“Not yet.”

“Well, have I got a day for you, girl.” He grins. “I’m going to take you out and show you a bit of Moscow you’ll never otherwise see.”

It is he who drives me back to my hotel later, and, as we are driving along, I notice a nondescript black car following us closely. I look round and then at the reporter, and he checks his rearview mirror.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “That’s just the KGB. They follow me everywhere. I don’t know what in the world they think I’ll be doing. They’re probably more interested in you than me tonight.
The Girl from Petrovka
is banned here.”

Safe inside my hotel, I pass through the cavernous lobby with hardly a stick of furniture in it and take the elevator to my floor. Facing me, sitting behind a desk, is an old woman who stares at me intently, logging in the exact time I returned. My own personal watchdog. A bit eerie. Closing my door behind me, I have a strange feeling. I wonder what she knows about me already.

The next morning, the
Time
correspondent collects me as promised and takes me into downtown Moscow. I am shown all the usual tourist sights—the Kremlin and Red Square, the Archangel Cathedral and
Lenin’s Mausoleum—and some of the not-so-usual ones, such as KGB headquarters and the state-owned GUM department store. I quickly learn to tell a Russian by his shoes—they are old and worn and far from stylish.

I am surprised to see the windows of the stores full of clothes and appliances.

“Don’t take any notice,” my friend tells me. “It’s all for display. There’s nothing inside.”

Dressed in a T-shirt and embroidered bell-bottom jeans under my heavy coat, I am completely out of place. What was I thinking? American jeans are very hot on the black market.

The journalist takes me to the house of a friend of his. “She’ll give you a sense of what life is like here as a young woman,” he says as we pull into the parking lot of her apartment building. “She’s not dissimilar from the girl you’re going to be playing, actually.”

“Really?” I say as we pass another trio of old ladies sitting on a bench. I wink at my friend and giggle.

As we climb the stairs, he tells me, “I’ve arranged for you to spend the day with her. It’s okay. She speaks English. Her sister just defected to the West, so she is alone.”

A woman opens the door. I am shocked. She is breathtakingly beautiful. She has jet-black hair and green eyes, a devastating combination. I take note. Uh-oh, I look nothing like her.

She thrusts her hand forward. “Hello, my name Kristina.” She smiles and welcomes me in. As I step into her tiny, one-room apartment, a two-year-old boy I assume to be her son dashes from the corner and hugs her tight around her legs.

My friend and I walk in, and Kristina turns to him and says, “They stole the book you lent me.
The Girl from Petrovka.
”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, they came when I was out. When I come back, it finished.” She shrugs her shoulders and laughs. “So, that’s living in Russia.”

Kristina is a single parent with no sign of any man in her life. As my friend departs and she turns back to the room, she sees that I am
shivering and runs for a sweater that she places over my head and insistently pulls down over me. She puts the kettle on, and the two of us sit on either side of her son by the stove in the corner of the room.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It is cold. But the heating in the building isn’t turned on until…”

Her final words are drowned out by a sudden terrible sound. What little light there is in the room is blotted out. I can see her lips moving but can’t hear her voice, and her apartment shakes violently. Instinctively, she reaches out and places both hands over a pile of dinner plates. Through the small window behind her, I see a freight train rush past so close I can almost reach out and touch it. All around me, the building shudders and jolts. The cracks in the peeling walls appear to be opening farther with each tremor. Then, just as soon as it began, the noise stops. The light returns through the window and all is calm.

“November one,” she says, finishing her sentence as if nothing at all has interrupted it.

Kristina is a true girlfriend’s girlfriend. I feel instantly connected to her. Hunched by her stove, we nibble cubes of chocolate from a small, flat bar she has bought specially for me. There is little else in her kitchen, and I am humbled by her hospitality.