Chapter 15
L
ights, camera, action
. Three men slouch in easy chairs, smoking cigarettes, watching the stage, which is only a floor cleared of furniture, with lights trained on it from above. Portable metal spotlights clipped onto heating pipes. One camera records everything. My auburn hair brushes my white throat and the shoulders of my black leotard as I swing my head. I smile at the men, then I smile into the camera.
“Her lines are exquisite,” one man, the American, is saying.
I am a ship, a yacht, a white sloop slicing the waves off Napatree Point.
“Okay. We are rolling. Una, how do you feel?” Emile Balfour asks, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. I see it disperse in the bright light.
“Great. Just fine.”
“Turn your face to the left, there,” he says. “Now to the right. You ready to talk?”
“Yes.”
“Go ahead.”
I take a deep breath.
“Just say whatever comes into your mind.”
Whatever? Another deep breath. Okay, whatever. “Zoon, zoon, cuddle and croon,” I say, remembering one of Lily’s favorite nursery rhymes, and then I think of Hecate and the three weird sisters. “‘When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurly-burly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.’” The battle. Battle scars. I think of Nuremberg. I am a young mother, a secret Jew. No one knows. I’m coming home from the market; my bag is heavy with fresh milk, eggs, and crackers. Some bittersweet chocolate given to me at the Resistance meeting. Those Resistance members always seem to have contraband. I cannot wait to give it to my children, little Eric and Susie. But my house is gone. There is a gap where it stood this morning. Plumes of smoke rise from the rubble, and flames lick the timbers. A siren wails. Neighbors hurry toward me, take my bag, push me down on the curb. They press my head to my knees; I am going to faint. All the while I am saying, “Eric…Susie.” I am in a trance and tears run down my face.
“Good. Whatever that is, it is good,” the American calls.
I had forgotten them, my panel of judges. Not forgotten, but transcended. Here I am, improvising like a graduate. The American said it was good. But now my concentration is shot. I can’t think of Nuremberg anymore. I’d better come up with something else.
“Tell me, what does your husband do, Mrs. Spock?” Emile Balfour asks. The other men giggle.
“Mah husband?” I ask in a southern drawl, letting my hand dangle in front of my breast. I pat my hair, adjust my collar, let my hands flutter. “Whah, he’s a scab. Crosses picket lines all day long. No matter where you got a strike, you just call Ralston, and he’ll take the job.”
“A
scab
?” Emile asks one of the men.
“Let her go on,” the American says, laughing. “So he’s a scab. What about you? You work?”
“Yes, I promote birth control.” Where did that come from? I feel myself get hot.
“But you have kids, right?”
“Kids? Do I have kids? Honey, you must be joking. I am one of the leaders of the movement. I practice what I preach. No kids. No kids whatsoever.”
“No, but you like to get laid, right?”
“Well, of course. Of course. I am a natural woman. Nat—”
“Okay, take it to Italy, babe,” the American says. “Do it for Emile. He’s a little fuzzy on the Alabama stuff. You’re on the boot. In Rome or somewhere.”
Italian. I could do an Italian voice. In New York I had an Italian friend who worked for the Metropolitan Opera. She wished to sing, but she worked in the wardrobe, preparing costumes for the divas. She always had a threaded needle stuck through her lapel. During her free time she sculpted in pink clay. She had had several exhibits in SoHo, and she was terribly imperious.
I screw up my face and slash the air with my hand. “Why do you copy Picasso, Gauguin? You must learn to be
o-reeginal
.”
“But I want to be an artiste,” Emile says, falsetto. He slouches low in his vinyl seat.
“This is not art. Now…to sculpt in pink clay.
That
is art. That is o-reeginal. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do.”
(Impatient wave.) “He doesn’t understand.”
“Tell me, Angela…” Emile pauses while the other men giggle. “Are you in love?”
I bow my head, covering my face with one hand. I come up smiling shyly. “Oh, yes. He is a sailor. He is away for many months, and then I meet him at the wharf. We
cry
together.” I roll my
r
’s when I say “cry.” “I bring him to my house where I cook him pancakes because he is so sick of fish.”
“Okay, Una. Break now.”
The camera stops whirring. I blink my eyes as I step out of the bright light. The men remain low in their chairs. A full ashtray sits before them on the low table. They look at me, waiting for me to speak. Finally Emile rises and shakes my hand.
“Thank you. Now we must wait to see you on film.”
“That’s it?”
Everyone laughs. The man who has not spoken stands and kisses both my cheeks. “What, did you think we would say, ‘Hey, you’ve got the job’?”
I scowl, but I turn it into a smile. Of course I did, you pompous French creep. “No,” I say. “I just wondered what you thought.”
“But that is highly subjective,” Emile says, his forehead creasing with amusement. He brings the tiniest nub of a burning cigarette to his lips with a gold toothpick. “We have not had a chance to get together and discuss it. Perhaps I loved you, but Jean hated you. You must give me the chance to say, ‘But
why
did you hate her? You must love her because she has the spark, the life…’ You know?”
I nod my head so loosely it flaps. My expression says, “Oh, I am so naive!” It makes all three men laugh. Emile steps a bit closer. He stares directly into my eyes. “Later?” I say.
“At the Crillon.”
Although it was just one and a half weeks since we had left Paris, the city seemed colder, more autumnal, full of the rasping sound of leaves blowing down the avenues. At the flower market, where I had sat to write a letter to Sam, I saw bunches of colored leaves and dry grasses instead of the brilliant summer flowers. Autumn is my favorite season; it renews me. But that week I felt tired, as if I might be coming down with the flu.
To reward us for such a successful publicity tour, Chance Schutz had insisted that Jason and I spend three days in Paris, compliments of him and Billy. It was another example of Chance’s boundless generosity. He believed in rewarding people for work well done. Our work was finished; I had expected to pay myself for the time I spent auditioning, and Jason had no reason at all to stay in Paris. But we accepted. My new room at Hôtel de Crillon faced the Place de la Concorde; traffic flowed past on the avenue, but no sound penetrated the sealed windows. I tried to open them, the way I had my windows overlooking the interior courtyard, but apparently guests were not to be subjected to street noises. I sat in my Louis XVI chair and rummaged through the desk for stationery. When I found it, I closed the drawer without taking any out.
I paced the sleek room. The heavy architectural details were set off by shades of brown, cream, and black. I should have been wearing a Chanel suit with alligator sling-back shoes. I was in desperate need of an ebony cigarette holder. The room’s sophistication daunted me. I grabbed my blue jeans and pulled them on. I didn’t even brush my hair. Grabbing my black bag, I hurried down the hall and knocked on Jason’s door.
“Yes?” he said, leaning against the doorframe in his silk robe. In my apartment the fine fibers would have caught on a splinter or a rough spot, but the Crillon’s heavy enamel paint made the wood as smooth as metal.
“Let’s bust out of here,” I said.
“And go where?”
“I don’t know. You know Paris, don’t you? Will you show me a few sights?”
“Darling, dressed like that you are barely fit for the Latin Quarter. I mean, the Ugly
American
. Is the Latin Quarter what you had in mind?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“She who just auditioned for Balfour the Great One,” he said, and I didn’t reply. “Okay,” he said dubiously. “Give me a bit to get ready. We’ll take separate elevators down, if you don’t mind. You are really too, too déclassé.”
“Why don’t I just meet you on the wall by the fountain? And spare you the embarrassment.”
“Fine. Thirty minutes.”
It took fifty minutes, but I didn’t mind. I leaned on the concrete wall by the Place de la Concorde and shivered in the chilly air. I felt excited, the way I used to feel when my family would travel to Washington, D.C., for spring vacation and we would prepare to tour the Lincoln Memorial by night, the Smithsonian by day. Cherry blossoms, the Spirit of St. Louis, the Capitol Rotunda, the Botanical Gardens. One time we had seen the Washington Senators play a twilight doubleheader.
Jason’s mother was French; he would know all the good places to go. Leaning on that wall, my head tossed back to view the obelisk against the blue sky, I felt independent. The trouble had been (I told myself) that I depended too much on my sisters. On boyfriends. I had not developed a circle of good friends. There was Susan, of course, but soon she would go on tour with
Hester’s Sister
. Besides, Susan alone could not be considered a circle of friends. I thought of Sam, and the pain I felt was fresh. I had stopped wondering what had happened to his letter: it was probably lost in the mail, held up at the airport (but which airport? It had to pass through so many), the address smeared and unreadable. It didn’t matter.
I
was pulling back. I was the one who didn’t trust my old feelings (“Oh, those old things?”). Or the strength of his. Better to simply rise on the crest of a movie audition.
Jason, looking like a smash in his supple leather jacket and matching pants, walked along the promenade. He wore a maroon scarf around his neck and smoked a black cigarette. The wind blew his brown hair straight back, accentuating his receding hairline, but he still looked strikingly handsome.
“My, you’re so continental,” I said.
He bowed. “And you look like a rube.”
“I’m sick of riding in limousines and feeling
très élégante
. Take me somewhere meaty.”
“Somewhere meaty? Let’s see. The Rive Gauche…over by the Sorbonne.”
“Is that very blue collar and grimy?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s very Greenwich Village. Where the bourgeois mingle with the intellectuals and pretend they’re bohemian.”
“I’d rather go somewhere different.” I wanted him to take me to visit his mother. I could just imagine how thrilled she would be to see us. I pictured her: a stooped old lady, frail, white hair, lace doilies everywhere, a portrait of De Gaulle hanging above the mantel. “Didn’t you say you have relatives here?”
He gave me a sharp look. “No, we are
not
going to visit them. My old aunts. They would die if they ever saw me coming.”
“Your old aunts?”
“Yes, my mother’s sisters. And that’s all you’ll get me to say about them. Didn’t you say you wanted to see the Rodin Museum?”
“Wait, your mother had two sisters? Three girls?”
“Yes, three girls, just like you insufferable Cavans. Now drop the subject, and let’s walk. I’ll take you to see
The Kiss
.”
“Jason, is your mother still alive?”
“No, dear. Not since I was twenty-six.” Taking my arm, he led us toward the Seine. A breeze followed its banks, blowing my hair into my mouth. We crossed a low stone bridge; a sightseeing boat chuffed toward us, the guide’s voice wafting out of a loudspeaker.
“Well, I seem to have gotten you onto the Left Bank,” Jason said, the instant we stepped onto land. “We’ll go to Les Invalides.”
Les Invalides. The name reminded me of Nuremberg, of the Holy Ghost Hospital. Jason and I walked through the square, the huge hospital buildings towering overhead. The heels of his boots clicked on the cobbles.
“There,” he said, “is the Hôtel Biron. Inside is the Rodin Museum. Rodin had his studio there at one time. Isn’t it perfect?” Jason regarded the building with one eye closed, as though it were his own architectural masterpiece.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said, trying to remember every detail so that I could tell Margo. Just as in Vicenza I had visited the Church of San Lorenzo, so that I could tell Lily about the frescoes by Montagna and Buonconsiglio. My private art historians.
Jason and I toured the museum, and I bought postcards and a book for Margo. “You mind if I run to the men’s room?” Jason asked when we were standing in the sculpture garden.
“Not at all.” I sat on a bench. I pulled a pen out of my bag. I looked through the postcards I had just bought; there were two of
The Kiss
, that most passionate sculpture of two lovers entwined. On the back of one I wrote:
Dear Sam,
I am back in Paris, thinking of you. Soon I shall return to New York. I saw this sculpture, and I remembered Watch Hill. The thunderstorm in the turret room…I can’t wait to see you. Your letter never arrived in Nuremberg.
Love, Una
Then I found a French stamp in my wallet; I had bought twelve from the concierge on my last visit. I fixed it to the card. Jason returned a moment later, touching his fly to make sure he had closed it. The motion was surreptitious; he had not intended for anyone to see. But I saw. We walked toward the Latin Quarter. I dropped the card into the first postbox we passed.
That night Emile Balfour came to the Hôtel de Crillon to buy me dinner in Les Ambassadeurs, the hotel dining room. I wore a sapphire jumper over a black body stocking. My eyes were rimmed with matching blue shadow, and my eyelids looked like bluebird wings. I had never seen my eyes themselves look bluer. Nothing was too outrageous in Paris; I wanted to make heads turn. Just before Emile rang my room, I tried to reach Sam in New York. His phone rang fourteen times before I decided he must still be uptown, at his Columbia office.
Les Ambassadeurs, just off the hotel lobby, is spectacular. It is paneled in ten different varieties of marble and has the most extravagant flower arrangements I have ever seen. Emile’s hand rested lightly on my waist as we passed through the room, beneath the crystal chandeliers and a ceiling medallion painted with clouds. A frieze of cherubs ran around the room; I glanced up at the fat little angels instead of at the tables full of people who were watching us and pretending not to. Little angels watching over me and Emile Balfour, protecting us from evil forever and ever amen. I thought of them as agents of my father. Would he approve of this meeting? Yes, as long as I didn’t invite Emile upstairs for a nightcap.