Stardust

by Kanon, Joseph

  “Watch this?” Bunny said.

  “What am I watching?” Lasner said.

  “The way she moves. It’s the first thing I noticed. Like a dancer. Watch how she gets up. You know who does that? Cary Grant.”

  “He was an acrobat,” Lasner said, “not a dancer.”

  “Same thing,” Bunny said, still fixed on the screen. “Now the hands. Watch her with his arm, she just grazes it.”

  The way she might have touched Ostermann, a gesture Ben had seen her make, protective.

  “Listen,” Bunny said.

  “I’m hearing?”

  “Someone who went to school.”

  The clip ended.

  “With an accent,” Lasner said.

  “Never mind. That’s part of it. Stay with me. Watch it again.”

  He asked the projectionist to rerun it. This time neither of them spoke, paying attention. Lasner was quiet afterward.

  “A nice girl,” he said finally.

  Bunny nodded. “Exactly. She looks like she could actually play the piano.”

  “So? What was with the piano, by the way?”

  “You don’t miss much, do you? Vegetable oil. You spray it on and the lights pick it up.”

  Lasner shook his head, delighted, another magic trick.

  “They don’t line up for nice.”

  “This is something else, Sol. Maybe another Bergman.”

  “You’re serious about this?”

  Bunny picked up the phone. “Run the other one.”

  “You made two tests?”

  “Nice with something behind it. Watch.”

  Liesl was on a terrace now, outside a pair of French windows, about to kiss Dick Marshall. It was a night scene, their faces lit by moonlight, her white skin glowing in a low-cut dress.

  “You used Dick in a test?”

  “Watch.”

  Marshall kissed her and she responded, then began kissing his face all over, devouring it, an eruption of kisses that seemed to well up out of her control. When Dick pulled back, breathless, the camera went to her, leaning forward, still eager, her eyes darting all over his face, as if she were kissing him now with her eyes.

  “Somebody’ll see,” Marshall whispered.

  “I don’t care,” she said, her breath a gasp, moving up to kiss him again.

  Ben’s own breathing stopped for a minute, hair bristling on the back of his neck. Not just the same words, the same face.

  “Turner does that with her eyes,” Lasner was saying.

  No, Ben thought, Liesl does that, a look printed in the back of his head, just for him. When her lips reached Dick Marshall, he knew how they would open, the same soft yielding. He felt his hand tighten on the armrest. An actress borrowed from life. The look in her eyes now was real, as real as it had been with him. But what if it hadn’t been? Maybe it was just the way she played the scene, with him, with Dick, acting both times. How had she played it with Danny? Something he hadn’t allowed himself to think about before. The same expression, the same eyes all over his face? Or had it been different with him, a different acting, or not acting at all. The way they felt about each other.

  “How do you like her with Dick?” Bunny said as the clip ended. Ben scarcely heard him, his mind flooding with scenes—in the pool, on the chaise, her hand reaching up to his neck. Had any of them been real? None of them? Didn’t everybody react this way when they saw someone they knew on film? They seemed the same because the gestures came from the same place—a protective pat on a father’s arm. But not the eyes. Intimacy wasn’t something you could carry away with you, turn into a character touch.

  “That’s why you used him?”

  “It works, the two of them.”

  “So she can kiss. There’s still the accent. You know what it would take? Smooth that out?”

  Bunny nodded. “But not yet. The accent’s part of it. Remember Dearly Beloved?”

  “The Klausner script. He brings the wife home and the mother makes trouble. I thought you didn’t like it for Dick.”

  “I didn’t. Too light for him—a meringue.”

  “And with her a strudel. Give it to Rosemary.”

  Bunny shook his head. “The problem’s always been, why does she put up with it? Why doesn’t she get wise to the mother? Rosemary’d be onto her in a minute. But if she were foreign—”

  “A Kraut.”

  “Dutch, whatever. The accent’ll pass for anything. A war bride. Dick brings her home.”

  “Now it’s okay for Dick?”

  “It’s time to get him out of uniform. He marries her over there. She’s crazy about him. Why not? He saves her. He’s taking her out of there. To heaven, she thinks. Then she gets here, and there’s mom. Before it’s a B about newlyweds. Now you’ve got GIs coming home, it’s about something. Dick can handle that. And she’d be perfect. A nice girl, you’re on her side when the mother starts in. And she gets him back in the end because he’s nuts about her—which you can believe,” he said, flipping his hand to the screen, the remembered kiss. He paused. “We need to get him into something right away.”

  “With an unknown. The biggest name we’ve got.”

  “She won’t be unknown when the picture opens. She’ll be his new friend. First time they meet on the set, sparks. Then the brush fire. You can see it on the screen, before your eyes. Polly will eat it up.”

  Lasner looked down, thinking. “How soon? To get it fixed?”

  “Get Ben Hecht to do a polish.”

  “A polish. He’s five thousand a week.”

  “That’s all he’d need. We could put it into production right away. A Dick Marshall for the holidays.” He paused. “We own it and it’s sitting there.”

  Lasner looked over at Bunny. “You really have a feeling about her?”

  Ben sat still, fascinated, the moment suddenly important. A feeling about her. Not Brecht’s factory, a casino, as imprecise as a white ball spinning round a wheel. Lasner sighed, a moment of theater, then lowered his voice.

  “Standard options. And you have to do something about the name. What are you going to call her?”

  “Linda. It’s close. You like ‘Linda Eastman’? Her name means Eastman in German.”

  “Now you speak German?”

  “Enough to know that.”

  Ben sat up. Enough to make a telephone call? But why would he?

  “Where’d you find her?”

  “At your house. She was at the dinner for Minot. With Ben Collier.”

  “Collier? Oh, Otto’s kid. What, he’s screwing her?”

  “His brother’s wife.”

  “The one who—”

  Ben cleared his throat, announcing himself. Both men turned. Bunny touched a switch on his armrest console to raise the lights.

  “You’re there all this time?” Lasner said. “Like a spook?”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt. I just wanted to see how she did.”

  “Dailies are by invitation,” Bunny said, frosty. “Anything you hear stays in this room, understood?”

  “It’s all right,” Lasner said, patting Bunny’s arm. “He’s with the studio.”

  “He’s also a relative.”

  “So when’s that a crime? This whole business is relatives.” He got up, facing Ben. “What’s the matter? You look funny.”

  “Nothing,” Ben said, also getting up. “Just seeing someone you know up there.”

  “What did you think?” Lasner said, walking up the aisle.

  “Don’t ask me—I’m family. Bunny’s the expert,” he said, a peace offering. “The scene with Marshall. Did they improvise the lines or—”

  “Improvise,” Bunny said, rolling his eyes. “On a test.”

  The words a coincidence, then, but not the face.

  “Bunny’s looking for a nice girl,” Lasner said, a tease. “A Bergman.”

  “She’s the biggest thing in pictures, Sol. Nice, but something underneath.”

  “What, underneath? She’s playing a nun.
”

  “One picture. You want to borrow her for Dick? It’s a fortune and you won’t even notice him. Somebody new, it looks like he’s pulling her. And we go into production right away.” Making a case.

  Lasner hesitated, for effect, then nodded. “One week for Hecht. And no color.”

  “No color,” Bunny agreed. “It’s not a musical.”

  Lasner glanced up. “Sam come to you yet? About the musical? Now he’s telling me she can sing, the new skirt. As if he would know— another Pasternak. He hears her humming on his dick, he thinks it’s a musical. A Bar Mitzvah coming up and he’s playing around with that. Well, Sam.”

  Bunny had been watching Lasner’s face, scanning a page.

  “You want me to put her in something right away,” he said flatly.

  “She’s busy, maybe Sam doesn’t think we’re Metro.”

  Bunny looked at him, then put a folder of notes under his arm. “I’ll find something.”

  “How long does it last with Sam anyway?” Lasner said, but Bunny had begun to usher them out, moving on.

  “The first contract’s always boiler plate,” he said to Ben.

  “Don’t worry, she’ll sign. She wants this.”

  “Everybody wants this,” Bunny said simply, turning to him, explaining something to a child. “Everybody in the world.”

  By the time Ben had finished copying the guest list, Bunny’s secretary had finally gone. He put the list back on her desk, then, an impulse, went through to Bunny’s office and glanced around the room, a more careful look than on that first rushed morning. Wood paneling, barrel chairs with metal trim, but none of the personal effects that usually filled shelves, no photographs of Bunny as a child star, no leather-bound favorite scripts—nothing, in fact, but the business of Continental, filing cabinets and in-boxes filled with waiting papers. It was as if his former life had receded with his hairline, leaving the front office to Mr. Jenkins.

  He walked over to the desk and ran his eye down the open calendar, tomorrow’s page crowded with appointments and reminders, as detailed and inflexible as a shooting schedule. He glanced up quickly to make sure he was still alone, then flipped back to Monday. Another full page, ending with Rosemary’s wrap party and Rushes with L, the usual last entry. Except he hadn’t stayed to watch them. Ben remembered him standing outside the sound stage, on his way somewhere, Lasner annoyed later when he couldn’t be found. Where? Just out of curiosity, Ben estimated the time between Bunny’s leaving and Lasner getting the police call. How long to the Palisades? Forty minutes, even with the wet roads, maybe less. He could easily have been there. But why would he be? He wasn’t someone in her past, like Danny. He’d probably helped arrange to bring her over. Why ask now for a secret meeting? Still, hadn’t Lorna thought at first the call was from the studio?

  When he got home he found Liesl in the screening room, watching one of the Partners movies. The light pouring through the open door had startled her, someone caught in a guilty pleasure.

  “You know this one?” she said. “Car Trouble? It’s from life, when our car broke down. In Laguna. They’re all from life. I never realized before. I never paid attention. The premiere, all you can think about is the audience, do they like it? But he took everything from life.”

  Their life, the one they had together.

  “I’ll let you finish,” he said, backing away.

  “No, turn it off. It’s enough. I just wanted to see you. What you were like. Well, what he thought you were like,” she said, her voice offhand, plausible.

  “And how was I?” he said, moving to the projection room.

  “Serious. A great believer in justice,” she said, playing with it.

  He switched off the projector and raised the lights.

  “What made you run it?” he said, coming back. “You weren’t trying to see me. Eddie’s not me.”

  “You don’t think so?” she said, an evasive shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe for Daniel. Maybe I wanted to see what was on his mind. You tell me things—you make me think I never knew him. So who was he?”

  “Any answers?”

  “No. Maybe in the one he didn’t make.” She nodded to the box Republic had sent over.

  He picked a script out of the box.

  “You’re late again,” she said.

  “I’ve been watching you,” he said with a sly smile. “They liked the test.”

  “Yes?” she said, lifting her head, alert.

  “Lasner, Bunny. They liked it.”

  “Tell me,” she said, excited. “What did they say?”

  “Get an agent.”

  “Yes? They want to make a contract? Well, Kohner, I can call him,” she said, suddenly practical. “He knows my father. They really liked it?”

  “Bunny wants to give you a buildup.”

  “A buildup,” she said, translating it.

  “Publicity.”

  “Oh, to make me a movie star,” she said, skeptical. “With my accent. Daniel said it was impossible. With my accent.”

  “Times change. He sees you as a war bride. Dick Marshall’s.”

  Her eyes widened. “His wife? It’s a real part?”

  Ben nodded. “Also his girlfriend. Off screen. At least at Ciro’s, places they take pictures.”

  “They can do that?”

  “It’s a personal services contract. That’s part of the service.”

  “Oh, will you be jealous?” she said, coming over to him, putting her hands on his arms.

  “That depends what happens after,” he said, playing along.

  “That’s not in the contract, too, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” she said, reaching her hand up to his neck. “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

  She smiled, her whole body warm against him, eyes darting across his face, just the way they had when she said, “I don’t care.” And suddenly he didn’t care, either. Maybe it was always acting. He thought of the girls in Germany—there’d been no pretense there, a warm mouth for a few cigarettes. No one thought of sex in the back of a jeep as making love, just something you did while you waited to go home, to real intimacy, a cry that wasn’t fake. Her eyes moved over him now, the way they had in the test, but did that make it any less real? He was already hard, wanting to be seduced, wanting the touch that reached inside you, when the eyes were only for you, the way it was in the movies.

  LIESL BECAME Linda Eastman, suddenly swept up in a storm of wardrobe fittings and blocking rehearsals, and Ben moved out of the house. It wasn’t a question of propriety. He was family, easily explainable to the photographers, but why raise questions at all? She was supposed to be lonely, waiting for someone like Dick to come along.

  He wasn’t superstitious about the Cherokee. Danny may have died there, but he had never actually stayed there, and there was still part of a month already paid for, with the next now paid in advance to Joel. It was convenient, just a few blocks’ walk to drugstore counters on Hollywood Boulevard if he didn’t want to eat in. Still, there was a haunted feeling to the place, especially at night when the thin sound of a radio playing downstairs came in through the window, like smoke. He never saw his neighbors and after a while he began to feel that no one really lived there—they were all just passing through, drinking or washing out nylons or memorizing lines, all waiting, the way they did in Hollywood, for the phone to ring.

  Even with his things hung in the closet and books and papers in a small heap on the desk, the room seemed empty. He paced through it, door to kitchen counter to balcony, an animal staking out territory to make it his own. The balcony especially needed to be claimed, swept free of ghosts. He looked down, seeing the body in the photograph again, the huddled neighbors, Riordan hanging back, surprised. If he had been. If he hadn’t been upstairs, racing down with the others to gape. The photograph was real, but everything else was a story you chose to believe. You couldn’t be certain, not of anybody.

  Even someone you thought you knew. He’d
seen that going through Danny’s reports in Minot’s office, a paper trail of little betrayals, no one ever suspecting. Just listening and passing on, but violating, too. As Ben flipped through folder after folder, he felt he was no longer looking for leads, but for something else, a reason.

  At first Riordan hadn’t wanted Ben in the files at all. “It’s not somebody we know, it’s somebody we don’t know, remember?” But Ben had insisted—it was his bargaining chip, a matter of trust—and Riordan finally agreed, but only at night, after everyone had gone. He steered Ben to files that used Danny’s reports—Ostermann, Brecht, the émigré circle. There were even notes on Werfel and Salka and Thomas Mann. Everyone. Danny appeared simply as the initial K in the margins, identifying him as a source on the memos Riordan had written up, Bureau style.

  “Subject [Ostermann] requested sign position paper Latin American Committee for Free Germany sponsored by exile group, Mexico City (see Seghers, et al.).” Brecht’s sexual relations with secretary Ruth Berlau were known to wife, Helene Weigel. “Guest Viertel home Santa Monica (arranged Brecht). Numerous visits Brecht.” Kaltenbach had met with Kranzler, Aufbau. “Kranzler under Bureau surveillance after visit Eisler (known CP). Purpose: discuss English translation of subject’s works. No decision reached (K).” According to the files, Kranzler visited other German writers, then the Highland Lounge, “popular with deviants. Entertained US serviceman overnight at Roosevelt Hotel.”

  There were more. Brecht’s arguments with Fritz Lang on Hangmen Also Die, Kaltenbach’s finances, Ostermann’s intention to apply for citizenship after the five-year waiting period. Could anyone have taken these seriously? Written down, recorded, sources put into code so that the files themselves became secrets about secrets. Were they all like this? Ben thought of the FBI, the GPU, any of them, with their archives and hundreds of legmen, filling folders with items no more damaging than onions in Winchell. But there were other items, too, from other sources, requests for surveillance, possible new informants, now vulnerable to approach, everyone caught in a fun house hall of mirrors. In Germany files like these had killed.