Mephista

by Maurice Limat

  “Yes. I liked the screenplay. The role was… But you know the kind of role which I usually play…”

  “And in which you are unrivalled, incomparable.”

  Edwige Hossegor stared at him for a moment. In a slightly different voice, she continued:

  “That’s right… Well, this time, I think there’s someone who will be better than me.”

  “None of your many admirers would allow it.”

  “Everything changed, Teddy. Anyway, what happened is this. I was about to start shooting principal photography; everything was ready to go, and just when I thought I was healed, free, the nightmares started again.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been fainting again.”

  “Not this time, no. I had dreams... Or rather, nightmares: scenes of battle, of murder, of torture, and all kinds of horror… That’s all I dreamed about, with my poor, tormented spirit…”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “Before… before this Mephista business, were you plagued by these kinds of dreams?”

  “Never.”

  “When you filmed all those horrible scenes in the past, did you ever dream about them afterward?”

  “No, never. I was never disturbed by them at all. I was simply doing my job as an actress, honestly. And I was happy because I loved it; yes, more than anything I loved playing these roles… Anyway, this time, when I started on Horror at Midnight, I was seized by fear. I felt like this new role was going to bring me trouble, that bad luck was looming, that…”

  She lowered her voice, instinctively, to finish.

  “...I felt like Mephista, the physical Mephista, not just the character on the screen, was going to start up her crimes again.”

  Teddy Verano listened attentively. He did not respond right away, but asked if she had a light. Edwige held out a huge lighter.

  “Isn’t it just anxiety after a few months without working?” he remarked. “You’re starting over again, in a way. It’s a little bit of stage fright, like they say in the theater.”

  “No, no. I see where you’re going. You want to reassure me no matter what. Listen, Teddy, I know stage fright; I’ve had enough of it in my career. I think it’s innate in every real actor, and you never dive into a new role without some fear of the outcome. Before every film, before every series, I was afraid. But it was purely professional.”

  She got excited as she spoke. She stood up and lit her own cigarette.

  “I never saw myself surrounded by so many ghosts,” she concluded.

  “It’s obviously the memory of Mephista acting up.”

  “The memory… No, Teddy, it’s not the memory.”

  “What then?”

  She approached him, graceful and still seductive despite being in her forties, which was no secret to anyone. She sat right next to him. He could smell the mysterious scent that some women’s bodies give off, that aura that makes men’s heads turn.

  “Teddy, I’m not scared of my memories. I know perfectly well that the spell-casting machine was broken and all the scientists were at a complete loss trying to find its secret.”

  “Let’s hope it stays that way, that they never find it.”

  “I hope so too… I also know that Verrier went totally mad after his dirty little tricks all failed and he’s locked up in a padded cell. No more wax women walking around in our world, looking and sounding like me, thanks to some strange mixture of sorcery and physics… And yet, I’m scared. No, wait, let me finish, Teddy... I’m scared of what’s coming.”

  Teddy Verano took a hit off his cigarette and a sip of the Americano.

  “Very well. In sum, you’re not dreaming of Mephista or of your past roles. What you’re scared of is a kind of premonition. You’re seeing things ahead of time, that haven’t happened yet.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “New crimes, all kinds of crimes, accidents, disasters… and Mephista is mixed up in it every time.”

  Leaning toward her, his hazel eyes sparkling, Teddy Verano asked:

  “In these visions, are there memories either of the tragic events a few months ago, or of scenes from Vampires, or even earlier films?”

  “No. It’s all scenes, so to speak, that I have never seen before. Everything is new… But I know they’re bound to happen…”

  “OK. So you say. You’re positive about it. But if everything is only happening in your imagination…”

  “You think I’m crazy, but…”

  Teddy Verano cut her off and protested loudly, but Edwige did not listen.

  “Can you guarantee that nothing will happen? Listen to me, Teddy, I’ve already talked to Doctor Sorbier, who cared for me with so much dedication and competence. He now thinks that I’m a pretty good medium.”

  “That means that your special sensibility—are you not a marvelous actress?—allows you to latch onto images of past or future deeds… I know… Likewise, it’s thanks to this particular disposition of yours that that wretch Verrier could affect you and snatch away your personality to animate his awful wax puppet, that mannequin. A mannequin that, unfortunately, looked exactly like you and acted like a normal woman.”

  “A mannequin that killed,” Edwige’s voice had suddenly turned hoarse.

  There was a moment of silence.

  Edwige lit another cigarette and continued:

  “So, I’m scared. I haven’t said anything to anybody except the baron and Dr. Sorbier. My first thought was to quit the film.”

  “Quit acting? But that’s crazy.”

  “Hold on, I didn’t say that. My career is important to me. It’s everything to me. It’s my life. But these damn roles are starting to scare me. I tell myself that I should’ve stopped playing them a long time ago. I tell myself that it’s insanity, after what happened, just to think of becoming, if not Mephista, at least some other diabolical creature…”

  “They’re only fictional creatures, characters from novels and screenplays.”

  “Yes, but who live, whose ghosts are projected onto all the screens in the world, big and small; characters who influence millions and millions of viewers, Teddy… Imagine the consequences… If I were dead—don’t interrupt me—if I were gone for good, which will happen someday, since I’m just a woman like any other… something of me will remain… not Edwige Hossegor, who always tried to be as kind as she could be, not I, who wanted, as far as possible, to work well with others in the studio, but that horrible image of me will remain… Mephista will remain… she and her demonic sisters... who are all Mephista.”

  “I think,” Teddy Verano said, “that you’re exaggerating. If you were right, nobody could make films, write books or put on plays unless they were sappy romances. The world needs something besides taffy and cotton candy. André Gide said that you don’t make literature from good intentions. Nor with bad, for that matter. But I think that, for a work to be worthwhile and have a certain moral impact, it needs a minimum of realism. If you want evil to be punished, don’t hesitate to show this evil in action, with all its dire consequences. I would even say that certain films, certain novels, which are not sappy, have had a positive influence on some perverted individuals and shown them the difference between good and evil.”

  Edwige Hossegor smiled.

  “Thank you, Teddy… You’re the kind of friend who knows how to make someone feel better. Seen in this light, the thing is, in fact, somewhat appealing. You’re almost making me believe that, by portraying these mean, cruel, demonic women, I’m doing charity work…”

  “Yes. Since all the films show the ultimate downfall and defeat of these vile heroines.”

  Edwige thought about this for a moment before saying:

  “Certainly… I’d like to believe… but I’m too scared, Teddy. I told Tragny, but he threw up his hands. Because he loves me, you know. And because he knows what my career means to me. Also, it’s a little funny, but that’s how it goes—he’s inves
ted a lot of money in Horror at Midnight. In short, when I told him about my decision, it was catastrophic to him.”

  “But I see that he’s accepted it.”

  “Yes, because Dr. Sorbier told him that my health, my mental balance, was at stake.”

  “I understand all this. That’s where Olga Mervil comes in.”

  “Ah, that woman…” said Edwige, sighing deeply.

  “She’s replacing you in the film. It’s her first role, it seems, except for some really minor parts. But if the photos don’t lie, she’s very beautiful… different from you, but very beautiful.”

  Edwige handed him copies of Cinémonde and Ciné Revue.

  “Different? You think so? Trempont and Tragny are of the opposite opinion. They chose Olga Mervil because she looks just like me. And believe me, the make-up artists are going to accentuate the likeness for the sake of the production.”

  Teddy Verano read an article illustrated by many photos that reported Marcel Trempont’s latest discovery.

  “Yes, I can see the similarities... But her eyes… No, they’re different...”

  “Teddy, Teddy... look closely! Aren’t those Mephista’s eyes? Not mine, not my interpretation, or the imitation created by Verrier… These are her eyes... Trempont calls her the perfect Mephista.”

  Teddy Verano put the magazine down.

  “So, let’s be clear. You think there’s danger here?”

  “Yes. But I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “In any event, you seem to be out of harm’s way.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes! Because someone else is playing the role that scares you. And by the way, it’s not even Mephista.”

  “No, it’s a very similar character. What I fear—oh, you’re going to think I’m crazy—is that Verrier has hatched another dirty trick, that all these pictures are oozing evil.”

  “Edwige…”

  “Teddy, don’t tell me I’m being stupid. I’m scared. That’s all. So… what should I do? And don’t talk about taking another vacation to the mountains. No, no, I can’t do nothing. I need action.”

  Teddy Verano stood up.

  “All this might just be in your mind, but we have to free you of it.”

  “How?”

  “By looking reality in the face. After all, maybe you’re right and burying our heads in the sand won’t solve anything. Therefore, I propose that you… and I…”

  Edwige looked at him questioningly.

  “They’re filming right now, aren’t they?”asked the detective.

  “Yes. For another two weeks. Trempont is delighted. Olga Mervil is keeping her promises and it seems that the whole studio is thrilled. Some even say they’re a little frightened… because they don’t often see an actress take her role so seriously.”

  “Except you, my dear.”

  “Thank you, my friend. So, what do we do?”

  “We’re going to go to the studio and watch this new Mephista filming. And we’ll find out if it’s only your imagination working overtime... In which case, you’ll drop this obsession in a heartbeat by seeing the truth…

  He paused briefly.

  “Or else, your instincts are right, and there is something evil at work here… and we’ll be better off knowing what.”

  CHAPTER V

  Laughter broke out around Henri as the stagehands of the Teleor studio outdid themselves teasing the young man.

  “Watch out, it’ll bring you bad luck.”

  “You never know, maybe you’ll end up marrying her.”

  “She’s built pretty nice…”

  “We can’t say that… But for a pretty little mouse, she’s a real fox.”

  “She’s not my type. I prefer Claudia Cardinale.”

  “Anyway, Henri, don’t kid yourself, she’s way out of your league.”

  “Besides, I’m telling you, I’m sure she’s got the evil eye.”

  Everyone exploded. Some complained, others shook their heads. The world of stagehands, just like the actors, also had its superstitions.

  The stage manager called out:

  “Break’s over, let’s go!”

  The men left the counter and went back to their various posts. The cameramen to their equipment, the boom operators to their “poles,” and the others to their various jobs.

  Robert, the chief cameraman, tapped Henri on the shoulder.

  “Come on, my boy, they’ve poked enough fun at you. Put it all out of your mind. Listen to an old man’s advice.”

  Henri sighed and, deep in his pocket, fondled the photograph. It was a photo of Olga Mervil, the new star of Horror at Midnight, who was performing to everyone’s satisfaction. A few malicious people whispered that Baron Tragny was becoming secretly interested in her, and that beautiful Edwige Hossegor was on her way out.

  “It’s normal,” they said. “She’s the same kind of woman, but 15 years younger.”

  Others claimed that there was nothing to it. Besides, Tragny seemed to be faithful to Edwige, although they never saw her at the studios anymore. Anyone could see that, from the start, since the cocktail parties at Teleor, after the press conferences given by Marcel Trempont, and all the interviews of the new star, the playboy was not fluttering around his new star.

  They saw her in nightclubs and some parties, but if Tragny was there, so too were the director and the screenwriters. Olga’s attitude also left no room for ambiguity. She remained alone, in the middle of everyone.

  They all knew that she lived with a friend. Some had smeared her for this “friendship,” but here again, the wagging tongues were cut short when they saw Martine, who now worked as Olga’s secretary. Her charming smile and beautiful pure eyes silenced all the vicious gossip.

  All this created something of a mystery. Despite the many romantic trysts the journalists had invented when Olga had met Jacques Brel, Yves Montand, or a few other celebrities (married or not), everything was swiftly set straight. Olga remained alone and seemed to live only for her work, for her first starring role, to which she brought her undeniable presence and unquestionable talent.

  The men in the studio had seen many other new stars before; however, one after the other, they all paid homage to the exceptional professionalism of Olga Mervil.

  The film would be a hit, no doubt about it. Photographers were having a field day, and articles flourished. More than one journalist had said of her, who was, after all, just a beginner, that she “had it in her blood.” She was just starting out, and already they talked and wrote about her as if she was a new Jeanne Moreau.

  It must be said that luck seemed to be weighing heavily on Olga’s side. Tragny himself could not get over it. As much as he knew what it usually cost to launch a new star, i.e.: to throw them onto a public that has not chosen them, he had to recognize that Olga Mervil was easy money, what with all the demands for photographs and autographs flowing in, and her fascination with both the journalists and the crowds promoting her in the trade journals.

  Among her admirers was young Henri, a cameraman at the studio, only 20 years-old, full of energy and innocence. He dreamed of her, of beautiful Olga, which had made him the butt of the more or less crude jokes of his older colleagues, with the exception of Robert the cameraman. After 30 years in the field, this veteran of the cinema had his own opinion on the subject, and he was the one who had said that Olga probably had the evil eye.

  Be that as it may, Henri had got himself a unique photo of Olga, thanks to a photographer whom he knew, and gave access to the studio near the actor’s dressing rooms. He was careless enough to say that he wanted to ask the budding star to sign it, and naturally the jokes had rained down on him. Young Henri was good-natured and took it all in stride. He had his little blue flower, his secret garden, so he just told himself that he had made a mistake in opening up to his rude colleagues.

  His plan was simple. After all, Olga was not going to gobble him up. He would go and ask her to sign the photo after they finished shooting the scene. He wou
ld go to her dressing room. Normally, this was forbidden, but Berthe, her dresser, knew his grandmother’s concierge (this made a connection) and would open the door for him.

  “We’re shooting!”

  Marcel Trempont was worked up. He had just given his instructions to Olga and Jean-Pierre Max, the usual co-star of Edwige Hossegor, who had agreed to share top billing with Olga, along with two supporting actors.

  It was a scene in a salon. The heroine, a dangerous and mysterious creature, was surrounded by police officers who suspected her of being the leader of an occult evil organization, replete with evil spells. Olga was supposed to captivate them, baffle them, and escape their trap by making them fall into her own.

  The cameras gleamed under the spotlights after everything was in place. Marcel Trempont was nervous; the production manager was still running around, shouting orders; old Berthe was putting the final touches to Olga’s make-up. He as dressed in the a tight-fitting, very low-cut, black dress and sat in an armchair that had been cleverly positioned by the art director.

  The director was watching the face of his star with one finger on his monocle. Old Robert adjusted a spotlight and nudged Henri.

  “You’re in love with that girl? Look at her… take a good look. Do like Trempont. And tell me she doesn’t scare you. I never want to see her in my bed, I’m telling you.”

  Henri laughed a little. He knew Robert was a good guy. He was not making fun of him, just giving him sound advice.

  But Henri held a vision of Olga in his heart. He saw her; he lived with her every day. Her photos were barely on sale, and he was happy to already have a gorgeous one. He was thinking only of his little dedication. Curving his finger, however, he took Robert’s advice, but after “framing” his idol like this, he found her more beautiful and more fascinating than ever.

  “Camera!” Trempont yelled.

  Some spotlights went out while others were turned on. The studio fell silent.

  Jean-Pierre Max (playing a chief detective) started in and confronted the strange character that Olga incarnated. The camera recording their scene hummed almost imperceptibly as Trempont watched over the different angles.