by Rex Baron
Ellen nodded her head in grateful understanding of what the forward-thinking young nun had told her.
“But what about something like a magic ring? I was just reading about rings that can be charmed to do different things… like make you physically strong… or make you invisible. What does the Church think of things like that? They aren’t in themselves evil, but could certainly be used that way if one were so inclined.”
A musical laugh escaped from Sister Theresa’s otherwise solemn presentation.
“A ring like that would surely come in handy,” she said with a smile. “In forms of magic, outside the realm of the Church, objects like rings and medallions of different metals are consecrated through magic to have a certain purpose. In our world, we have statues of the Virgin and Saint Christopher medals blessed by the Pope, so that they may be used for the specific purpose we desire. Good and evil are relative terms,” the young Sister added. “It’s like the old sayings… one man’s junk is another man’s treasure… or, one man’s meat is another man’s poison. Magic is magic. It’s all in how you use it.”
CHAPTER SIX
Lyceum Theater, Spring Street, Los Angeles
When the Duisenberg arrived, Claxton was already in the back seat. He was dressed in a midnight blue dinner suit and scarcely looked up from peeling an orange to say hello.
“I picked it myself,” he said, as Lucy took her place beside him.
“I thought Paulo was escorting me to the premiere,” Lucy said with alarm.
Claxton laughed, the juice from the orange running down the side of his face.
“Now now, relax… you'd think the prince had turned into the toad. He is escorting you, but he’s not riding with you. They always do it this way. They put the stars all in separate cars, so the fans get worked into a frenzy seeing them one by one.”
“But what about you? You're one of the stars of this film.”
Claxton laughed. “I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm not exploited for my looks or my effect on the hearts of our clamoring fans. I take the money and leave the jostling crowds to you great beauties.”
“You sound like the only sensible one around here,” Lucy said, eyeing him with dubious admiration.
“Our little Helen has decided to go for the glamour. She's managed to get a car for herself, and she's not even a featured player. I tell you that girl has something.”
“I could see you thought so the night you took us to that filthy place by the sea,” Lucy said with disdain.
“Oh, it was meant as nothing more than a lark. It was not too dark that night to see that you and Paulo had a rather special time. And from what I hear, your Paulo was no stranger to the place. In fact, one source claims they have a pipe with his name on it.”
Claxton laughed at her annoyance.
“Now now,” he said, “don't get mad and crack that perfectly painted face, after all, you have your fans to think of.”
He offered a slice of his orange to Lucy but she pushed it away.
“It'll probably be the last feed you get until the midnight supper after the showing.”
“I'm too nervous,” she lied.
His intimacy with her disgusted her. He had a way of placing insinuating words around her like lecherous hands, tearing away the cool and polished veneer of dignity that she had spent so long in building. Every unsolicited confidence seemed conspiratorial and entrapping. He had somehow drawn her into his acquaintance through this film, and she found his presence in her life, if even for a moment, suffocating and hateful.
•••
At precisely seven minutes past eight o’clock, right on schedule, the limousine pulled up in front of the Lyceum Theater on Spring Street. The movie palace had been adorned with thousands of electric lights and Lucy saw her name spelled out above a ten-foot high photograph of her face, painted in the silvery guise of stardom, flanking the grand entrance to the theater.
The cars with the principal stars were spaced out at seven minute intervals, exactly, to allow the crowd and photographers time to get a glimpse of each celebrity as they stepped out and walked the cordoned off carpeted runway that led to the doors.
The crowd pushed forward as Lucy was helped from the car. She smiled and waved, tossing her hatless cropped hair in Mr. Lasky’s direction. He bit down on his cigar and shook his head frowning.
A swarm of fresh-faced young girls rushed toward her and pressed against the velvet restraining ropes to push their autograph books within arms reach. With cropped hair and tanned skin, they looked like beautiful young boys. Lucy signed her name again and again as the metallic powder and chlorate oxidizer from the cameras flashed all around her.
As she scanned the crowd looking for Paulo, she noticed a policeman, who had been one of the actors on her film, then a woman with a child, and a fat man in a black toupee. It was apparent that the enthusiasm of the crowd was being stirred for the benefit of the local reporters by a handful of actors disguised as fans. One man threw himself onto Lucy's limousine, shouting his admiration, while a young girl apparently fainted at the sight of Claxton, a reaction which Lucy thought stretched the bounds of credibility to new dimensions.
It was nothing more than an elaborate show, and she wondered, sadly, if there was anyone present to view the film who had not been paid to take part in its presentation.
As she and Claxton reached the door of the theater, they were asked to turn and wave for one last photograph. At that moment, a shining white touring car noiselessly pulled up at the curb. The passenger door opened and Paulo emerged, waving.
The tide of people turned and rushed toward him. Paulo stretched out his hands to be touched, but this time the crush of the crowd was more powerful and deliberate. They screamed and chanted his name as hands, longing to touch him, grabbed and tore at his clothing in the crush of excitement.
Lucy grew anxious at the hysterical reaction of the crowd. The actors dressed as the policeman and the fat man in the toupee tried to assist in keeping the fanatics away from the handsome young man by pushing themselves to the front, but the pack moved steadily closer, tightening the space around Paulo.
From where Lucy stood, she could see him surrounded, strange arms and hands reaching out from the mass of the devoted, feeling his shoulders and tugging on the hem of his coat like lepers begging for a miracle.
Autograph books and scraps of paper were thrust out for him to sign. The shouting grew louder and the impatient hands pummeled and prodded him for attention.
Jesse Lasky leaned toward the security guards.
“Bring him in,” he said.
The guards fought their way through the wall of people and took Paulo by the arm, pulling him toward the entrance of the theater.
Lucy was amazed to see that he was smiling, although his jacket hung in tatters.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes,” he laughed, as his driver held up a fresh dinner jacket for him to slip into. “It's often this way.”
Lucy saw Jesse nodding his approval and understood why he had been so anxious to have Paulo escort her to the opening of her film. He knew that Paulo could create the excitement around the event that she, as an unknown in this world, could not.
How silly and remarkable it all was, she thought, as she took Paulo's arm and joined him in waving to the crowd. She was pleased, in an admittedly childish and selfish way, that the hysteria of Paulo’s entrance had completely overshadowed the arrival of Helen’s car, and she watched with a sense of secret triumph as Helen emerged and stepped into the tumult with scarcely a notice from the fans.
Lucy was relieved to find the film, in its completed state, silly and amusing for the very reasons it was intended to be lofty and cultured. The extreme dance-like movements, upon which the director had insisted, had not translated on film into “Art” as he had promised, but only succeeded in making Lucy look agitated, like someone who was terribly busy and under a great strain.
But however extreme or ridiculous
she might appear, it was certain that she could not be outdone by Helen, who could be found somewhere in nearly every frame, rolling her eyes expressively or tearing at her hair in a ridiculous mockery of seduction.
At one point, during the voiceless portrayal of Lucy's big aria, Helen lay writhing on her back on a bed of cushions, heaving for breath and pawing at the bodice of her costume, presumably enraptured by the beauty of the singing. It was apparent to Lucy that Helen intended to be noticed.
When the film was finished the audience reacted according to what had been planned. They rose to their feet and called for Lucy to be brought onto the stage.
Jesse, who was not in the habit of promoting all of his films with either a premiere or a party, announced to those present that this film was one of his greatest achievements. It was a historic occasion that marked the beginning of a cultural exchange between the theater world and that of moving pictures.
When asked backstage, after the screening, which opera was his favourite, he replied “Faust, that is, if it makes any money.” When asked which opera he preferred for the music, he puffed on his cigar. “Don't know. Never heard any.”
•••
Helen was one of the first to exit the theater. Anxious to make up for the less than overwhelming reception at her arrival, she strode toward the ranks of photographers with a gleaming smile, pulling down the neckline of her peacock blue scarf dress to reveal an ample portion of white skin. Her diamond necklace and earrings glimmered in the glow from the overhead electric lights that spelled out names other than her own. Nonetheless, she knew that she looked beautiful, and that this would be the first of many such nights that would matter for her. The photographers, recognizing talent when they saw it, were more than pleased to reach for their flash powder.
As she posed for yet another picture, the fans nearby began to shout her name, an action undoubtedly orchestrated by Lasky himself. At one point, as she raised her chin and turned her head to position herself to be more pleasing to the cameras, she caught a glimpse of Jesse, looking in her direction, biting down on his cigar and clasping his hands over his head, in a gesture more suitable to a prize fight.
Suddenly, the wave of attention upon which she rode was diverted in the direction of a handsome broad-shouldered man, dressed in a tuxedo with his hair slicked back and gleaming under the electric lights. Shouts went up from the adoring mass of spectators, and she recognized at once that it was Richard Barthelmess. He came close to where Helen was standing, all the while waving to the crowd.
“Well, Mister Barthelmess… how good of you to come and share in our adulation,” Helen said, as she continued to smile and wave to the fans.
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. One must never pass up an opportunity to be admired.”
“But you’re not in this picture,” Helen reminded him, with unmasked annoyance in her voice.
“The picture doesn’t matter… it’s the celebrity that counts. I thought I’d come by and bask in your glory. I don’t have a picture coming out for weeks, and you know that you can’t be out of the eyes of the fans for too long, or they tend to forget you… they’re fickle that way.”
Helen stepped out of the line of the cameras and retreated under the portico of the theater, as Lucy and the other stars of the film began to exit and make their way toward the chaos of the waiting fans. Barthelmess joined her.
“Say… I don’t think we’ve met. But I don’t mind telling you, you looked pretty good up there on the screen,” he said. “We needed something to look at while that singer carried on for far too long.”
Helen almost liked him for making that single comment, but she could not forget the contrary words he had used in describing her just two years before in New York. He had told her that she was cheap and had no possible future in his beloved moving picture business. It pleased her to think that she had proven him wrong. Here he was, complimenting her on her performance, and treating her as if she belonged with him in that rarified place in Heaven that was only populated by Hollywood stars.
“Glad you enjoyed the picture,” she answered coolly. “I didn’t have a big part, but I think I made the most out of the material.”
Barthelmess nodded approvingly. Helen could feel his eyes traveling the length of her peacock blue evening gown, surveying the landscape and judging the curves. She could not help but remember what a fiasco his pitiful attempt at seducing her had been when last they met. He had been vain and stupid in his dealing with her, and when she had made advances on him, the great screen lover crumbled into a limp and lifeless wand of flesh. Helen smiled to herself, enjoying the contempt it stirred within her.
“Are you going to Lasky’s party?” he asked, as he produced a silver case from his pocket, flipped the lid and offered her a gold-tipped Turkish cigarette.
She refused, knowing that it would wreak havoc on her lip rouge and that she could not afford a blemishing smear of color when the cameras came out again at Lasky’s.
“How about I share your car with you to the party?” he asked, in what he hoped would sound like a boyish and impetuous request.
Helen pondered for a moment. She knew that the car Lasky had sent was only on loan, so that she would be seen arriving at the premiere in style. It would most certainly be back at the studio garage by now, or was being used to drive some other hopeful starlet out to the casino, up the Coast Highway, for an assignation in the opium den.
“I’m sorry, but I’m driving to the party with Paulo Cordoba,” she lied.
“Bad luck for me,” Barthelmess replied coolly. “Well, maybe sometime we can grab a bite… go out dancing.”
“Maybe. Sometime,” Helen repeated his words.
“I just bought some paintings and antiques, brought over from France,” he added, to increase his pitch. “If you like art, with a capital A, I’ve got some really swell pictures to show you.”
“I think I’ve seen all your pictures,” Helen said, as she turned to walk away, leaving him on his own, in front of the cameras and the press.
“No, silly,” he called after her. “I don’t mean my moving pictures.”
“Neither do I,” Helen answered with a wicked little smile of remembrance.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lasky’s party, Los Angeles
Paulo and Lucy had been separated by the barrage of questions from reporters and other well-wishers. Lucy stood on her toes and surveyed the crowd. She could see him at a distance being pulled into his car and whisked away.
Paulo sat in the back of his white limousine listening to the excited chatter of the pretty dark-haired woman across from him. It was Helen. She had commandeered a ride to Lasky's party in his car, explaining to his driver that her assigned car had been sent back to the studio with engine trouble, leaving her without transportation for the rest of the evening. She had added to the story by suggesting that she should be taken in this particular car at Lasky’s own request. The driver did not hesitate to comply.
“It's really too bad about my car,” she said, “but I have no intention of missing this party... it's really the first one that I've actually been invited to as a guest.”
Paulo smiled charitably and sat back in the leather upholstery without offering a word.
A Santa Ana had blown up during the premiere, an eerie supernatural wind in its intensity, throttling the trees along the road and screaming through the open cracks of the car's windows like an elemental being wailing at the knowledge of what was to come.
Paulo drew his coat up around his shoulders and continued to watch Helen, allowing the howling of the wind to drown out the enthusiasm of her conversation.
She possessed a charming directness, a drive that he remembered from his own beginnings. She would make a good actress, he thought. She had something special, something fiery and sexual, which she exuded entirely without effort.
She had none of the coolness of nobility that Lucy possessed. Her features were dark and sensual, almost vulgar by c
omparison, but the quickness of her eyes and the polished sheen of her onyx hair made her fascinating to watch. Nervous fingers scratched away at sentences as she spoke, forming her thoughts in the air around her with her hands.
It was not her beauty that he became aware of, but the heat, the presence of her body in the closeness of the car. She pressed the side of her thigh against his leg and held it there. Although her prattling conversation continued uninterrupted, there was no doubt in his mind that the steady pressure exerted by her leg was the only message she intended to communicate.
“I have something for you,” she said, producing a small green silk sachet from her handbag. “I know it might be a bit presumptuous, considering that I don't really know you that well, but I just wanted you to realize how much fun it's been for me to spend time with you... and Lucy and Claxton,” she hastened to add.
Paulo took the tiny pouch from her fingers and shook its contents out into the palm of his hand. It was a copper disk the size of a dollar. Paulo looked at her and smiled.
“It's a medallion, a necklace. I'm making one for Claxton too,” she lied, “but I want you to have this one. I hope you'll wear it.”
“Of course,” he answered, more than flattered. He could not help but notice the fiery excitement in her eyes.
“Here, let me help you put it on,” she said, snatching it from his hand and slipping the chain over his head before he had a thought of resisting.
He held it in his fingertips and examined it closely.
“What do all these symbols and the writing mean?” he asked.
“It's a good luck charm,” she answered, caressing the medal and the chain leading to his throat. Her fingers barely touched the vein at the base of his neck, sending a shiver of excitement into his brain. Her breath was close and uneven as she leaned heavily against his body. Paulo smiled and tucked it inside his starched shirtfront.