by Arthur Slade
“You’re blushing, dear sister.”
“I’m angry.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“Nothing.” Beatrice hugged her pillow. “Well, he asked about the orphans. Jolly and all the other ones.”
“Oh. That was a million years ago.”
“It was three years.”
“Nine movies ago. And Jolly was mouthy. She had her own opinions about things. And she was nosy, too.”
“Nosy? About what?”
“Oh, she asked me too many questions about Mr. Cecil.” Isabelle switched to a falsetto voice. “‘Where is he from?’ she asked me. ‘Old musty Europe,’ I said. ‘How did he lose his finger?’ ‘In a card game.’ That stumped her. Ha! Get it? ‘And what does Mr. Cecil eat?’ She even asked that.”
“Maybe she had a scientific mind.”
“A nosy-posy mind. Anyway, why would ol’ Rob ask about them?”
“He said the orphans vanished after the orphanage was closed.”
Isabelle shrugged. “I’m sure Mr. Cecil found homes for them, that’s all. Well, except Jolly, of course. That part was kind of sad.” She sniffed slightly. “Did the mighty Robert Russel have anything else to say?”
“He said I was a unicorn.”
“Wow. What a line.”
Beatrice ran her fingers along the cover of the magazine. It was an image of a man with a telescope. “It wasn’t a line. He was happy to find me.”
“Don’t let Mr. Cecil know Rob saw you. He likes to keep a close eye on those reporters. And you. And me. And, well, everything. He’s—”
There was a knock on the door. “Sorry to bother you,” Mr. Cecil said. “May I come in?”
“En-tray vooz!” Isabelle answered without missing a beat.
Mr. Cecil opened the door. A nocturnal visit was not unusual, for he had read to them when they were younger. The fact that he’d left the party to see them must mean it was important. The sisters sat up.
“My talented darlings,” Mr. Cecil said. “I’m sorry to intrude. I’ve read how twins need togetherness time.”
“It’s no bother,” Isabelle said. “Beatrice and I were just gabbing.”
“Ah, gabbing is great practice for an actress.” He glanced over at the wall. “And Beatrice, you’ve hung up my gift! Wonderful.”
“Yes,” Beatrice said. “I plan on studying it every morning. What’s its scientific classification and where did it come from?”
“Those are mysteries I’ll leave your inquisitive mind to discover.”
“Why are you bringing her gifts and not me?” Isabelle asked. “I mean . . . don’t feel like you have to get me a bug. But pearls would be nice.”
“Well, I come with pearls of wisdom. Tomorrow will be a great odyssey into the world of Frankenstein. Beatrice, I’ll be taking your sister with me. Do I have your permission?”
“Yes. Just bring her back in one piece.”
“I will. I must deliver on my promise of releasing the first film with sound.” He placed his hand on Isabelle’s shoulder. “And that means that you, Isabelle, will have to act with even more depth and authenticity than ever before. It’ll be a trial.”
Isabelle saluted. “Private Thorn reporting for duty.”
Mr. Cecil returned her salute. “You both have bravery in spades. But I want to put a coat of armour on you like Joan of Arc’s. Please get out of bed.”
Isabelle stepped onto the floor. She came up to Mr. Cecil’s shoulder. It was as if she’d grown several inches during the course of the party. The hem of her nightgown hung an inch below her knees.
“Did you know that once upon a time I was a mesmerist?” Mr. Cecil said.
“Was that after you were a magician?” Beatrice asked.
“Oh, it was years before that. And long before Freud and Jung began using hypnotism to explore the subconscious. I would unlock people to help them discover their inner potential. All I used was this simple tool.” A golden watch on a chain appeared in his hand. “Train your eyes on the watch, the pendulum of time, the moments slipping by ever more slowly. Slowly. Slowly. They are drops of water in a vast ocean. Future. Past. Present. Each together. Each one.”
Isabelle was quiet, her lips tight as she gazed at the watch, and Beatrice herself could not stop staring at the pendulum-like movement. “Future. Past. Present. Each together. Each one,” he repeated. His voice grew as soft as the sound of falling grains of sand. “The doorways inside you are opening as I count. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.”
Beatrice blinked—it was the slowest blink she’d ever experienced. When her eyes opened again time had skipped ahead. Her sister was as immobile as a butterfly in amber. And Mr. Cecil was looking at her and at Beatrice at the same time as though he had two faces.
Janus, Beatrice thought. The god with two faces. The god of doorways. Of openings.
She blinked a second time. Mr. Cecil was whispering into Isabelle’s right ear. Beatrice strained to hear. He continued to stare at Beatrice with his second face and he did not blink. All animals have to blink, she thought.
Then a blank space.
Beatrice shook her head, a slow, slow motion. The pendulum watch had stopped swinging. She blinked again at full speed and Mr. Cecil now had only one face.
“You are unlocked,” he said to Isabelle. “You will become Rosella Frankenstein. Now wake, wake, wake, my dear, and join the world. Your armour is on.”
Isabelle opened her eyes. Her knees gave out and Mr. Cecil gently grabbed her under the arms. “Sit on the bed. Sleep, child. Tomorrow is the start of a grand adventure and you’ll need your rest.”
He helped her into bed, then tucked her in and playfully shook his finger at Beatrice. “I almost had you, too, didn’t I? You felt time slow.”
“Yes.”
“But you kept your own thoughts.”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“Interesting. Very interesting. Tomorrow, time will speed up. We’ll be filming as many hours as possible to meet the deadline. You’ll need your forty winks, my dears. Sleep well. Sleep. ‘Sleep, perchance to dream.’”
He bowed slightly and left the room, closing the door behind him.
“I feel different,” Isabelle said. “All charged up. I’m more alive.”
Beatrice wasn’t certain what she felt. Mr. Cecil couldn’t have altered time. Her mind did sometimes play tricks on her—when she was reading a book or watching a film, time seemed to slow down.
She could not stop her eyes from closing.
She awoke, moments later, to screaming. Beatrice snapped open her eyes and shot into a sitting position, her heart hammering against her chest. She turned, for she was certain it was Isabelle who was screaming, but her sister was lying as calm and serene as a figure in a mausoleum. One lone dot of perspiration rested on her forehead.
It must have been inside my head, Beatrice thought.
There was a long groan outside, then a wail, then laughter. The party wasn’t dead yet. But it was getting quieter and the music was done, replaced by the endless lapping of the waves on the beach.
Beatrice listened to the waves. It took her a long time to sleep.
11
The next morning at five her sister, uncle, aunt, and Mr. Cecil took the Lincoln Town Car to the studio. Beatrice found the energy to stand at the window and wave, then she returned to bed. She woke up again at seven and dressed, pausing when she opened her drawer of the dresser she shared with Isabelle. Inside that drawer was a picture of her father, and a few of his war medals, but on the very top was a collection of coloured-pencil drawings that Raul had made: a rose, a monarch butterfly, and one image of her scarves. He had not drawn the scarves flat on the desk like she’d asked, but had composed them as if they were around her head. Her face was blank. She looked like an invisible woman. Or as if she could have any face.
She set the drawing down, grabbed a pair of stockings, and pulled on her shoes. She ate breakfast alone. It was a school day, which meant that Mrs. Madge, the governes
s, taught her mathematics and science. She was a woman who was all angles and straight lines: her cheekbones; her thin, wiry arms; her lack of discernible hips. And she delivered her material in a drone.
Later, Beatrice filled the afternoon looking for insects and making faces at Raul as he worked alongside his father.
By evening, she had two thoughts on her mind: How is Izzy doing? and Did Robert Russel’s report on the party come out? But the mail was late, and it wasn’t until after seven that a mechanical buzzing indicated the delivery boy was rumbling down the road on his motorized bicycle. Beatrice slipped out of the house and stepped into the shadow behind a large planter decorated in Roman patterns. She peered through the ferns. The boy putted up to the front door, jumped off his bicycle, leaned it against a column, and flipped back his goggles. He was a gawky long-armed kid with red hair and a flat nose. He took their mail and a package of newspapers out of his saddlebag and set both in the gold-plated mailbox. Then he got on his bike and glanced in Beatrice’s direction.
She ducked and held her breath until she heard the bike start up and the delivery boy put, put back down the road.
Beatrice leapt up to the mailbox. She pushed aside the cloth bag that would have a portion of Isabelle’s fan mail in it (a young woman in a studio office answered the rest of it, including signing photographs to be mailed to fans; Isabelle had even received a letter from President Calvin Coolidge once). There was a smaller pile of letters for Uncle Wayne, including one with a red lipstick kiss on it and three or four fan letters addressed to Aunt Betty.
Beatrice snuck the New York Times out of the stack of papers. She then slipped into the China room and sat on the bamboo bench next to a giant jade dragon. She took a deep, long draught of air and opened the newspaper.
What if he mentions me?
Well, she decided, that would be a disaster. But she would finally be more than Oh, and Isabelle has a twin sister whom no one sees. She would be stepping out, so to speak. In words at least.
It occurred to her that perhaps, just perhaps, Robert Russel would communicate directly to her through his report. Using words that would have a secret meaning for her. Maybe he’d say something about seeing a unicorn. Or about a wonderful young woman with the most amazing scarves. It couldn’t be too much of a mention, because then Mr. Cecil would guess they really had talked. Just enough to let people know she’d been at the party! That she was real.
Her heart thumped a little harder when she flipped to his article.
The New York Times
Saturday, August 30, 1926
The Russel Hollywood Report
Great Big Grand Party to Announce the First Sound Film from Cecil Productions
The party at the Cecil Estate was big. It was grand. And it had one of the biggest announcements in Hollywood history ever.
Mr. Cecil of Cecil Productions will have sound in his next film. Sound! Isn’t that amazing?
The film will be called Frankenstein and stars twelve-year-old Isabelle Thorn, already a big star, as the daughter of Frankenstein. It guest stars Wayne Michaels (who is her real-life guardian).
Beatrice paused. The writing wasn’t as interesting as his usual fare. He’d said that he never touched alcohol at work, but maybe he’d broken his own rule and this boring prose was the best his fuzzy brain could come up with.
“It’ll be the first popular film to use sound,” Mr. Cecil announced to a crowd of big stars and celebrities, including Mayor George Cryer of Los Angeles and Archduke Leopold of Austria. “It will set the world on its ear.”
The popular director is a very funny man.
Isabelle Thorn herself was there in a very special black dress (the other actors all wore white). There was also an orchestra and a game of polo played on camels. Camels! Only in Hollywood!
The party was declared a grand success (such a success that Robert Russel is yet to return from the party, which is why I, William MacRoberts, cameraman, am filing this story—if anyone has seen him, turn his mug in our direction and send him home).
Beatrice dropped the paper on the floor. Too drunk to write his own article!
“So unprofessional,” she hissed. An image of her stomping on the paper flashed in her mind, but she chose not to make it reality. Maybe when he finally sobers up, he’ll write something worth reading.
She decided to pick up the paper. The article still belonged in the scrapbook. She put the Times under her arm and walked into the front hallway.
The door opened and Mongo, in his grey driving suit, was standing there. Which meant her sister was finally home. The Lincoln Town Car was behind him in the driveway.
He nodded at Beatrice, mute as always. The walking tongueless mountain, Beatrice thought.
It was a mystery she had not been able to solve: Why had Mongo’s tongue been cut out?
1.He had taken part in an ancient secret ritual.
2.He had seen something he shouldn’t have. A murder.
3.He had a cancer.
One must examine all possibilities. It was the scientific method.
Isabelle, Aunt Betty, and Uncle Wayne climbed out of the car. Isabelle leaned on Betty’s shoulder as they walked up to the main door.
“Welcome back, weary travellers,” Beatrice said.
Isabelle took three steps into the mansion and threw herself onto the nearest leather armchair, her blue dress splayed across her legs. “Ah, what a day—I’m beat! Mongo, carry me to bed.”
The driver took a lumbering step toward her and Isabelle rolled her eyes. “I was kidding, you monstrous brute. Go back to your cave.” Without a change in his facial expression, he nodded and left, closing the door gently behind him.
“Ah, Beets,” Isabelle said. “I command thee to carry me to bed.”
“Sure! One body part at a time, starting with your head.”
“Beatrice!” Aunt Betty said. “Don’t joke about that.” She was clutching her mail, which she had retrieved from the side table.
“Oh, Auntie, don’t get cross.” Isabelle waved her hand. “Beets has an odd-duck sense of humour. She spends her time pulling the legs off bugs.”
Uncle Wayne wagged his index finger. “Help your sister, Beatrice. She worked hard. Get her a glass of water.”
“We have servants for that,” Beatrice said. “I just want to know how the day went.”
“Hard.” Isabelle let another sigh escape her body. “Good night, Auntie. Beets will see all my body parts to bed.”
“Well, I have pictures to sign and that sort of thing. You aren’t the only star in this house, Izzy.” Aunt Betty patted the side of her head to be sure her hair was still in place. She had enough coconut oil in it that it wouldn’t move until long after she was dead. “Remember, Beatrice. Isabelle needs her sleep. Make sure she gets it. There’s another big day tomorrow.” Her shoes click-clacked as she walked toward the east wing.
“You reading the reports on the party?” Uncle Wayne asked, pointing at the paper under her arm.
“No. Just the science articles.”
“Ha, right,” he said. “I forgot who I was talking to. They could have filled the whole paper with party news. I was the last man standing. Not even the gaffers could outdrink me. It was the best bash of the year. The best ever. I was still half ossified this morning.”
“I should’ve been allowed to stay up until the end,” Isabelle said.
“There are things little girls shouldn’t see. Even the newspaper men were blotto. That snot from New York tried to drink me under the table. He failed. It’s the oldest trick in the book: get the actor drunk and get him to spill his beans. He machine-gunned me with questions about both of you.”
“He asked about me?” Beatrice said. Isabelle gave her a wink.
“Oh, he was sniffing he was. But I kept talking nonsense until he passed out. New Yorkers can’t hold their alcohol, it’s a known fact. I grew up on the strongest hooch in existence—Lethbridge Lightning. Speaking of that, I think I need another hair of t
he dog.” He walked down the hall.
Isabelle let out a third sigh. “Neither of them did much today but complain about their headaches. I had to find the scenic truth that Mr. Cecil keeps barking about.”
“It’s harder at the beginning of a shoot, isn’t it?” Beatrice said.
“Yes. It’s like I have to learn to act all over again.” Isabelle held out her hand. “Help me up. I need sleep. Real sleep.” Beatrice guided her up the stairs to their room.
“I’m so glad I have you,” Isabelle said. “You’re always so . . . so solid.”
“I’m made of flesh.”
“And plain, too. Plain-speaking, I mean.” In the light of the room it was clear that Isabelle’s whitening greasepaint had not all been washed off. “It’s going to be a grand film, Beets.”
“You say that every time.”
“I suppose I do. But Mr. Cecil has outdone himself this time. You know the big hangar studio? He built a castle inside. It’s as if you’re walking into the olden days. There’s fog and a bright red electric moon and everything. And the castle has courtyards and stuff. And he’s switched to inkies.”
“Inkies?”
“Incandescent lights. They don’t hum, so the sound won’t be picked up on the Cinétone. And the makeup has to be all different for the lights. It’s cutting edge.” She wiped at her eyelid, smudging her eyeshadow. “Help me get my shoes off.” She put her feet up on the bed.
“Take your own shoes off.”
Isabelle kicked off her black shoes and wiggled her toes.
“How did the filming itself go?”
“Mr. Cecil made us work hard. Not a moment’s rest. Aunt Betty plays my dead mother. That’s why she was on ice. Uncle Wayne is Dr. Frankenstein, and he wants to bring her back to life. But his first experiment goes all wrong and . . . I shouldn’t spoil it.”
“A monster chases you, I bet.”
“Well, at some point yes. But this is where it gets interesting. We had sound people there. They’re not capturing all our words, just getting ready for the scream scene—I mean the Release of the Inner Pain of Life scene. Mr. Cecil had me practice and he played back some of the recordings. It was eerie. All those screaming lessons have paid off. The hairs on the back of my neck are still standing up. To hear your own voice played back to you.” She gave Beatrice a pitiful look. “Rub my shoulders. I really need it.”