by George Baxt
“The gods tease him. On one hand, they reward him lavishly, and with the other hand, they doom him to bankruptcy. I hope this works for him. We’ll see. I’ll get the cocaine.” He left Lugosi alone. Lugosi picked up the script and began to read. He chuckled. Then he laughed. Then he roared. “My, my, I didn’t know Joan of Lorraine could be such a scream. I suppose for more than one reason she was the toast of the town.”
Greta Garbo was reading the script. As usual, first she frowned, then she uttered a huh, then she turned a page and smiled, then she said a quick ha, and, to no one in particular because she was alone in the room, she said, “They don’t need me, they need Fanny Brice.” Pause. “She’s also too old.”
FOUR
Erich, how good to see you again.” Greta’s hands were outstretched to him and he took them while bathing in the warmth of her affectionate greeting. “It has been too many years.”
“Not since As You Desire Me." he reminded her.
“Oh my yes. And Hedda was my sister-in-law in that one!” They shared a laugh, seeming to have forgotten that von Stroheim had arrived with Gustav Henkel, the author of the script. Lottie Lynton was hovering in the background waiting for instructions from Garbo. Garbo acknowledged Henkel “And who is this?”
“Good heavens, Gustav, forgive me. On the few occasions that I see the great Garbo, she strikes me with awe and leaves me with amnesia.”
“Erich, you’re too kind.” She took Henkel by the hand and led the undistinguished-looking young man into the Irving room. “You are Gustav Henkel and a very fine writer.”
He said in an undistinguished voice, “You are too kind."
“Not at all. I’m grateful for having read a fairly decent script at last.”
Von Stroheim stiffened. “Only ‘fairly decent’?”
Lottie Lynton trembled. She sensed a hidden danger in the man. Garbo smiled at von Stroheim. “It’s not as though Mr. Henkel has written the Bible.”
Von Stroheim scoffed. “What would you know about the Bible? I’m sure you’ve never read it.”
“Not all of it. Just the racy parts. Ha ha ha. Lottie, see what our guests would like. Drinks? Tea? Something to eat?” Wine was requested and Lottie went to work. “So, Erich.” They took the seats she indicated. “You think this script is perfect?”
“Of course not, Greta. Gustav acknowledges it needs work.”
Gustav spoke. “Oh yes, it does need work. The problem is, I don’t know exactly what kind of work it needs. You see, this is my first attempt at writing a screenplay.”
“So? Well then it’s quite good for a first attempt. If a bit giddy. I mean, I don’t quite see Joan playing craps with her jailers. I don’t even think craps existed in those days.”
Henkel smiled, dazzling them with a display of what looked like Roquefort cheese. “I worked very hard for the irreverence. I think we take our saints too seriously. I mean, before being elected to their eminence, they were quite ordinary people. I think if most of them were alive today, they’d be bemused by all the fuss.”
“If they were alive today,” said Garbo somberly, “we wouldn’t need them.” She waited while Lottie served the drinks and returned to the kitchen. “Well Erich, this is quite an undertaking. Five million dollars. Almost enough to rebuild Dresden.”
“Not quite, but still a generous, staggering sum. Albert Guiss wants this to be his monument, much as Birth of a Nation is Mr. Griffith’s.”
“You like this Mr. Guiss?”
“So far I haven’t found anything to dislike.”
“So much has been written about him, all so arcane, so enigmatic, so like … like … ah! Orson’s Citizen Kane! Why are we always fascinated by men like Albert Guiss? Mr. Henkel, how well do you know Albert Guiss?”
Henkel stared into his Chardonnay, but there was nothing written there to prompt him. “He has been very kind to me.”
“He paid you well for the script?” Then hastily, “I take that back. It’s none of my business.”
“I got a very decent sum, for a beginner.”
Von Stroheim took center stage. ‘Tell me what bothers you about the script, Greta.”
She sipped her Bordeaux, set the glass on the coffee table, crossed her legs, and fixed her gaze on the director. ‘The construction needs improvement. Joan is lost for at least ten pages midway into the script and that’s much too much. Not because it is the star part, but because what takes place while she’s offscreen is hardly very interesting. Who cares what her family thinks about her taking command of the army? It is enough to see Joan leading them into battle. Families don’t care about successful children, only about the sums of money they can send home.”
“I see. That’s valid. Henkel?”
“What? Oh yes. Valid. Very valid. Families are boring.”
There is something unreal about this little man, thought Garbo. Little men. Henkel, a small man. Von Stroheim, a small man. Lorre, a small man. She heard von Stroheim ask, “What else, Greta?”
“Much of the dialogue is terribly amusing. In fact, Mr. Henkel, a few times I laughed out loud, and for me that is very rare.” She cleared her throat “But too often the jokes are unnecessary. I mean, if you are looking to do a farce about Joan of Arc, then Joan must be played by someone like Martha Raye.”
Henkel smiled. Garbo didn’t notice it. How had she guessed he adored Martha Raye?
“On the nose,” said von Stroheim. “There’s an overabundance of levity.”
Garbo leaned forward, fingering the string of pearls around her neck. “Erich, shouldn’t we consider restoring her being burned at the stake?”
“If we did, wouldn’t you be disturbed by my paranoia for realism?”
“Only the critics dare burn Garbo.” She cocked her head to one side. “Think about it, Erich. If it’s truly unnecessary, then we’ll do without it. Falconetti was so magnificent in her version, but then, it was silent, wasn’t it?”
“And excruciatingly slow and boring. My Joan shall move at a steady pace,” von Stroheim said, underlining his statement with a machine-gun-fire snapping of his fingers, “zip, zip, zip, so the audience won’t have a moment to let their minds wander. You must understand, Greta, that we cannot undertake any revisions until you are firmly committed to the project. By that I mean your name on a contract, signed and sealed.”
“Of course, of course."
“Have you discussed this with your agent?”
“I have dismissed my agent. I suspect he was allied with Louis B. Mayer in the recent unpleasantness. I am my own agent.” Von Stroheim flashed a “heaven help us” look at Henkel. Garbo was known as a shrewd trader who could drive a very hard bargain. “Peter Lorre says Guiss will offer me a million dollars.”
“Yes, that is so.”
“Mayer says my only value is in the European market. But there is no European market. So where will Mr. Guiss recoup his investment? Or doesn’t he care, he’s so wealthy.”
“He cares. He’s a businessman. But in this instance, he is more of a patriot. He feels Joan is a valid symbol of the struggle against oppressors, in this case, the Axis villains.” Garbo saw Henkel’s eyes blinking wildly, like semaphores running amok.
Garbo said, “I find it hard to envision Albert Guiss wrapped in a flag of patriotism. Surely the man is a country unto himself.”
Henkel said hotly, “Mr. Guiss is a great patriot. A very great patriot. He is a very great man.”
“Cool it, Henkel,” cautioned von Stroheim. “What about us, Greta?”
Her eyes widened, puzzled. “What about us?”
“Will we get along?”
“How will I know until we start working together?”
Von Stroheim smiled. “And you call Guiss enigmatic. Are you joining us?”
“I’m inclined to. But I have to discuss this with someone.”
“But Peter Lorre told me Salka Viertel urges you to do this project.”
“Yes, she does. But there’s someone else. An old and tru
sted friend who is also psychic.”
He threw up his hands. "Ach! Psychic! I hate that word!”
Henkel said in his copyrighted nondescript way, “I’m sure you’ll be interested in meeting Albert Guiss. I know he’s a very great fan of yours.”
“For an investment of five million dollars, he should be!” She said it with good humor, and Henkel did something with his face that she suspected might be a smile. She was glad he hadn’t parted his lips. She dreaded the sight of those awful teeth. If she did the film, she would insist his teeth be capped or removed.
Peter Lorre entered from the patio. “Am I interrupting?”
Von Stroheim was glad to see him. “Peter! Help me convince Greta to be our Joan.”
Lorre looked at Garbo as though she were a naughty little girl. “But of course you must do the film!” He sat on the couch next to Garbo. “There are so many of our refugee friends down on their luck who’ll be put to work.” Garbo couldn’t bring to mind any names; all the refugees she’d met in Hollywood seemed to be doing quite well, especially the untalented ones. Lorre said to von Stroheim, “Haven’t you told her Hanns Eisler is to compose the score?” His eyes pounced on Henkel. “And we will ask Bertolt Brecht to improve the scenario. And for supporting roles in addition to those I mentioned to you yesterday, Greta, there will be Fritz Kortner, Alexander Granach,” he ticked off the names on his fingers, “Hertha Thiele, Albert Basserman, his wife Elsa … oh so many more. We literally need a cast of hundreds, don’t we, Enrich?”
“It’s a tremendous cast.”
‘I’m overwhelmed,” said Garbo.
Von Stroheim said to Lorre, “Greta is afraid our Joan is a little too frivolous.”
Garbo clapped her hands. “Listen. I have had a thought about Joan as to how I might play her, but I was afraid you might find it, well, a bit outrageous.”
Von Stroheim said staunchly, “But I love outrageous. I am outrageous. Tell me, tell me quickly, how do you think you might play her?”
Garbo stood up, towering like Gulliver over three Lilliputians. “I think it is quite possible that Joan was really a man.” Lorre bit his lip. Von Stroheim felt the blood leaving his face. “A transvestite!” Henkel was wearing his awful smile and Garbo turned her back on him with revulsion. “What if I was to play the part androgynously?” Von Stroheim finally found his voice—it was a rare occasion when he lost it, even briefly. “Greta, we have to think of the Catholic Legion of Decency. Those watchdogs of American morals are very strict and very dangerous. If they refuse us a seal it will cost us hundreds of thousands of dollars in lost attendance.”
“I see.” She stroked her chin. She had a solution and shared it. “They couldn’t stop me from thinking I’m androgynous, could they?”
“No they couldn’t,” said von Stroheim.
“Well then, that will be our secret. If I play it.”
“If if if!” raged Lorre. “Of course you’ll play it!”
“Peter, don’t push me.” They heard the danger in her voice, and Lorre mustered his familiar pixie grin.
He said, “It’s just that we’re all so anxious to get going.”
“I know. I know. But don’t burden me with your anxiety’. I’ve just rid myself of one albatross around my neck. I have to think twice before trying another one for size.”
Von Stroheim stepped in swiftly. “This is not an albatross, Greta. This will be a milestone in film history. Your Joan will be exalted!”
“Even by The New York Times?' Her eyes twinkled.
Von Stroheim put his hands on her shoulders. "In As You Desire Me, we acted together. Ever since, I have wanted to direct you in something. In my exile in France, I thought of trying to talk Gaumont into letting me direct you in Madame Bovary. ”
"Ah! Why didn’t you?”
“I was too late. They were already doing it. But now, Greta, now, with Joan of Arc, here is the opportunity for my dream to come true. Greta, make my dream come true. I will never have an opportunity like this again.
“Yes you will. If I do it and it’s a success, they’ll be knocking down barriers to get to you. Tomorrow, Erich. Tomorrow. You will have my answer tomorrow.”
Von Stroheim persisted, “You will never have an offer as magnificent as this one.”
She cocked her head, as she usually did when amused. “Oh no? Supposing I tell you I already have received a very magnificent offer, although it was several years ago.”
Hands on hips with exasperation, Lorre asked, “And what was that?”
“Adolf Hitler asked me to marry' him.” They were stunned. “Didn’t you know I’m one of his three favorite stars? He sent the offer through the German ambassador here in Los Angeles. Of course I refused. I had already lived in Germany back in 1925. It was awful. Do you know who his other two favorites are?” She paused for effect and then told them, “Marlene … and Minnie Mouse. Ha ha ha ha ha!”
“You took a foolish chance last night,” said the young man whose name was Martin Gruber. He and his companion sat in the booth of a coffee shop in the Culver City section of Los Angeles, just a few streets away from the imposing MGM studios that bordered Washington Boulevard.
“I was doing my job,” said Lisa Schmidt. “How did you find out about it?”
“Guiss was discussing it on the phone this morning.”
“And you guessed that the woman was me?”
“I don’t know anyone as rash and headstrong as you. I wouldn’t try it again.”
“Why did they use the house?”
“It’s the only property of Guiss’s the FBI hasn’t bugged. They don’t know he owns it.”
“They do now.”
Gruber chuckled. “He’ll find someplace else. He’s really marvelous.”
“Does Guiss trust you?” asked Lisa.
“Of course not. He trusts nobody.”
“Not even Risa Barron?”
“Hardly Risa Barron. She’s ambitious. She wants power. I gather he enjoys her in bed. So he makes her the film’s co-producer. It’s only a title.”
“And a fat fee,” said Lisa flatly.
“Guiss is very big with fat fees. He can afford to be. He has billions.”
“Who is Guiss?” Lisa asked.
“Who is he? He’s his own invention. And he astonishes and frightens an awful lot of people.”
“Doesn’t he frighten you?”
“Sometimes. He doesn’t seem to notice me very much. I’m an employee and as such I have my uses. I’m unobtrusive. I don’t ask questions other than what pertains to my work. I like working for him.” Lisa was looking at her wristwatch. “Are you in a rush?”
“In a while. I’ll have a spot more of coffee.”
“A pressing appointment?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. It’s for a job.”
“But you have a job,” said Gruber.
“I have time for another.” The waitress he had signaled refilled her cup. “If I can get it, my boss wants me to take this job.”
“What doing?”
“It’s work on a film going into production soon.” Gruber suspected Lisa was playing with him, and she was.
“Doing what?”
“Assistant to the director.”
“And the name of the film?”
“Joan the Magnificent." She sipped her coffee, her eyes meeting his over the rim of her cup.
“You’re insane.”
“No more insane than you as Guiss’s personal secretary.”
“Lisa, please. Don’t do it. Get out of this. Last night you were lucky. The blackout was on your side. But this new madness …”
“Martin, my darling, I can look after myself. And just think, if I get the job, I will not only be working with the mad Erich von Stroheim, I will get to meet the magnificent Garbo. Luck is on my side, Martin. I feel it. I know it. Cheer up, Martin. This is all a magnificent adventure, the opportunity of a lifetime.”
He added gravely, “Of a very short lifetime.”
FIVE
Small people, thought Garbo, suddenly I am surrounded by small people. She sat across from the diminutive yet exotic Mercedes de Acosta, Cuban born, now a Hollywood scenarist, and once, briefly, her lover. Mercedes’s tastefully furnished apartment was in a new highrise on Doheny off Sunset Boulevard, and it afforded a magnificent view of Hollywood. It was ten in the morning and they were drinking strong coffee weakened by strong cream.
“How’s for an onion roll and cream cheese?”
Garbo shook her head No. “Why do I have such a presentiment about this picture? I am so uneasy. It’s as though heavy heavy hangs over my head. And yet, the more I think about it, the more I am compelled to undertake Joan.”
“You’re too old for it, but then, you were too old for Camille and you were brilliant.”
‘Too old, too old. Ah me, soon I will be at an age where there will be very little available for me to play. In three years I’ll be forty. What will I do then?”
“In three years there may not be a world existing, so take hold of the present and with both hands. What you need is a lover.”
“Oh God no.” Garbo’s voice was so powerful a chandelier shook. “I have my hands full coping with myself.”
“What about Guiss? Have you met him yet?”
“No, but I have made discreet inquiries. There are those who find him above suspicion. And there are others who consider him beneath contempt. Why should I care about Guiss? He’s the financing, I’m the artist. I am so torn. It hurts me so to feel that Hollywood is turning its back on me.”
Mercedes snorted. “Why do you give a damn? Hollywood is only a state of mind where insincerity is an art.”
“I will have no friends.”
“You can always buy new ones.”
“That’s cruel.”
“That’s Hollywood. Do the movie.”
Garbo brightened. She needed to hear the woman’s support. She respected de Acosta, who had a quick mind and remarkable taste and a unique talent for friendship. She wrote well too, but had yet to equal Salka Viertel’s success. Salka and de Acosta had a guarded friendship, colored by their possessiveness toward Garbo. Garbo was the important thing they had in common. They worshipped her, they treasured her, their lives were all the better for knowing her.