by George Baxt
Garbo was happy, and when she was happy she looked a decade younger. “You really want me to do it? You really do?”
“Absolutely. Think, Greta. You’ll be working. You’ll have a reason to eagerly greet the morning, to get up and go to the studio and reign like the queen you are. Believe me, my beloved Greta, you’ll never be equaled. You will be the legend they will speak of in cathedral tones.”
“Could I become a saint?” Garbo’s hands were clasped as she watched an inquisitive pigeon make a three-point landing on the balcony.
“Why not?”
Garbo smiled. “There’s a pigeon on your balcony. Do you suppose it has brought a message?”
“It’s brought filth is what it’s brought. Shoo, you filthy thing,” Mercedes cried as she clickety-clacked onto the balcony in a pair of absurd shoes in which she could barely maintain her balance. The pigeon stared at her in defiance for a few seconds, then flew to the railing and, with a haughty toss of its head, soared off in search of hospitality elsewhere.
The doorbell rang, and Garbo was annoyed. “You didn’t tell me you were expecting anyone else.”
“I’m not. It might be the concierge with the mail. He usually brings it up himself. Now stop fretting and pour yourself some more coffee. It’s pretty' damned good this morning if I must say so myself.” She opened the door. “Alysia!”
“You’re surprised? Did you forget you invited me for coffee?”
“Oh my God. Forgive me! It completely went out of my head. Greta needed some advice on a script and … ”
“I could come back later, if you like.” The woman was in her forties and her clothes would have been stylish a few years earlier. She nervously clutched a threadbare handbag and her shoes were badly in need of repair. Her accent, Garbo decided, was definitely German, and her voice was brimming with sadness and disappointment. Garbo was on her feet and said generously:
“Mercedes! Bring your friend inside. There’s plenty of coffee for all of us.”
Mercedes smiled the smile that had enchanted so many lovers. “Come in, Alysia. Greta’s in a sunny mood. Let’s make the most of it. It’s an historical moment.” The woman followed Mercedes into the living room, where Garbo stood with a warm smile decorating her lips.
Oh good, thought Garbo, she’s as tall as I am. This could be a sign, a reversal of my fortunes. “Hello,” said Garbo, “I’m Greta,” as though the woman needed to be reminded.
Mercedes took over. “Greta, Alysia Hoffman is an old friend of mine.”
Garbo gasped. “Alysia Hoffman! But of course! How stupid of me not to recognize you! We were in Costa Betting's Saga together in Sweden!”
Hoffman laughed. “You remember! Oh how wonderful!” She said to Mercedes, “Mine was such a small role I’m flattered Greta remembers me. And Mauritz Stiller, who directed, was so good to us all.”
At the mention of Stiller’s name, Garbo’s face darkened. Mercedes saw the change at once and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Garbo swiftly smiled again. “Oh, nothing. I still get sad when I hear Stiller’s name. Even though he’s now dead over a decade, I still remember how badly he was treated here.” She said to Alysia, “When Metro wanted him back in 1925, he wouldn’t sign the contract unless they took me too.” She sat, and Alysia sat across from her. Mercedes brought a cup and saucer for the new arrival, and the three became cozy around the coffee table. “He was so brave and so foolish, we were both so broke, we couldn’t pay our hotel bill.” She laughed. “But after many delays, Costa finally opened, and at last Stiller got the acclaim he deserved. And Louis B. Mayer, wouldn’t you know, was in Berlin at the time and made him an offer. But Stiller loved me…”
“I thought he was a homosexual,” interrupted Alysia.
“But not seriously. He only dabbled in it. You know, the way you occasionally dip into a collection of essays. Mauritz loved me and only me. He wanted to marry me. I was so innocent and so fat.” The three laughed. “I really was, how do you say, zaftig. When Mayer finally agreed to take me, I had to agree to lose fifteen pounds. I lost twenty. When I got to Hollywood and saw how Stiller was being mistreated, I lost my appetite. I became an insomniac. I tried to fall asleep by counting producers.” She looked past the two women, out the window, past the balcony, into the blue beyond where memories were surfacing from a long dormant suppression. “Then I met Yonnie.”
“John Gilbert,” Mercedes interpreted for Alysia.
“Oh well, that’s all water under the bridge. So tell me, Alysia, how long have you been here in America?” Garbo was genuinely interested.
Alysia placed her cup and saucer on the table. “I came in through Mexico. That was over half a year ago. It wasn’t easy, but a friend had a friend who was very influential, and I finally got my visa.”
A friend had a friend who was very influential, thought Garbo, and was disturbed that her mind had conjured up Albert Guiss. “And are you acting?” Just as quickly as she asked the question, she regretted it She could see the poor woman was enduring sorry straits.
“I’m trying to act. I’ve had two bit parts, but two bit parts can hardly sustain a career. It’s not easy, after having graduated to leading roles in Germany. I played opposite Connie Veidt, Jannings, Werner Krauss.”
Garbo said quickly, “Don’t mention Connie’s name in the same breath as the other two. They’re Nazis.”
Alysia spread her hands and said softly, ‘To me, it is more important that they are artists. Anyway, now I do part-time work. I sit for babies, I help a seamstress—thank God my mother taught me how to sew. Do you have anything that needs repairing? I could give you a special price.”
Garbo was embarrassed. Having known poverty in her youth, she didn’t care to deal with the poverty of others. She said, surprisingly enough, “We must try and find you something in my new movie.” Mercedes smiled. That was it. She must phone Salka and Peter Lorre. Garbo positively will play Joan.
Alysia Hoffman’s eyes were misting. “What is your new movie?” Mercedes swung into action. When enthusiastic she was a dynamo. In less than three minutes, Alysia Hoffman heard about the movie, the director, and who would probably be in it, and Alysia was enthralled.
Alysia said to Garbo, “Perhaps I could be your stand-in. We’re the same height, we have similar coloring…”
“Wouldn’t you rather be in front of the camera?” asked an astonished Garbo.
The woman replied pragmatically, “A stand-in works through the time it takes to shoot the film. A part,” she said wistfully, “that could be a matter of perhaps a few weeks, or even a few days.”
Garbo thundered, “This is von Stroheim directing. The film will take an eternity. We shall watch each other growing older under his despotic direction.” She laughed. “Every day we’ll examine each other’s faces for fresh wrinkles. My frown marks shall deepen into ditches and I shall develop an ulcer.”
“Charming,” said Mercedes dryly. “That attitude won’t get you very far.”
“Don’t worry about me, Mercedes,” said Garbo, “you should understand my strange sense of humor by now. After all, even though I’m a Swede, don’t they call me The Melancholy Dame? Not very funny, is it. Well, go to it, Mercedes.”
“Go to what?”
‘To the phone and dial Salka and Peter Lorre and probably von Stroheim, and you hadn’t forgotten you had invited Alysia for coffee this morning, as she was needed to underline the sadness of the refugee actor…”
“Don’t be cruel, Greta,” snapped Mercedes.
“I am not being cruel. I’m glad my mind is made up.” She rose to go. “Alysia, you will soon be working in the studio. I promise you that, although I’m sure the promise was made by someone else in line ahead of me.”
The woman stood up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“But I’m not offended at all. I think it’s very funny—ha ha ha. Now I must go and immerse myself in Joan of Arc.” She marched to the door. She opened the door and
then faced Alysia with a smile that was almost beatific. “Really, I’m delighted my mind was made up for me. Now I have a purpose for the next six or seven months.” And this was followed by a heavy sigh. “But oh God! What do I do after that?” She slammed the door shut behind her.
Alysia Hoffman said, “Isn’t she amazing?”
Mercedes replied, “She likes to think so. Well Alysia, that was a lovely performance on your part. What would you have done if she had offered to bring you an armload of dresses for repairing?”
“Repaired them. I really can sew. You wouldn’t have an onion roll in the kitchen, by any chance?”
A few hours later, Herbert Villon and Arnold Lake were lunching in a Chinese restaurant with Lisa Schmidt. Lake couldn’t take his eyes off the woman, he found her beauty so breathtaking. He found the courage to ask, “Why didn’t you try acting?”
“What … and starve to death?” She watched Villon shoveling moo goo gai pan into his mouth with a pair of chopsticks. “You know, Arnold, you asked me that very same question over a year ago when I first joined the department.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Understandable. You were so drunk. It was in your apartment, about ten minutes before you tried to rape me.”
“I didn’t!”
She smiled at Villon. “He did. But I made it easy for him, he was so adorable.”
“I still am,” said Arnold.
Villon had stopped eating and now drank of Lisa’s beauty. “A cutie like you shouldn’t take such chances.”
“Live dangerously, that was my father’s motto. He was a high-wire walker with the circus.”
“And now the daughter walks the high wires,” said Villon, “figuratively speaking.”
Arnold asked Lisa, “When do you start work for von Stroheim?”
“Tomorrow, you’ll be happy to know.”
“Whether they’ve got Garbo or not?”
‘Von …” She smiled. “He asked me to call him that when he patted my knee. Von. Anyway, Von is positive she’s going to do it. All the big guns are aimed at her and this morning she was getting an opinion from her friend Mercedes de Acosta, who has been primed to convince her to do the film. What’s bothering you, Arnold?”
“I think Miss Garbo is about to be in very grave danger,” said Arnold. Villon dropped the toothpick he’d been using to excavate between his teeth. “They’re too anxious to get her, and only her.”
“She’s a very big name,” said Lisa, “even if her last movie was a dud. The picture stands to make a fortune in Europe once the war ends. Albert Guiss can certainly afford to wait to recoup his investment.”
Arnold asked, “Can you trust Guiss’s secretary?”
“Trust Martin? As much as you can trust any paid informant. Martin has the morals of an alley cat. He’s apparently very good at his job or Guiss wouldn’t have him. It’s the first time he’s had a male secretary. Before Martin, they were always women.”
“What made Guiss switch?” asked Villon.
“From what Martin could gather, a couple of them sold information to magazines and newspapers, and I know one had a fling with him and then died during the abortion. Anyway, Martin’s been with him several years now and let’s be grateful … ,” she smiled coquettishly, “… that he also appreciates my beauty.”
“Be careful he doesn’t cross you,” warned Arnold.
“Let him try. I’ll separate him from his privates. Anyone for tea, gentlemen?”
Samuel Goldwvn’s studios were in the heart of Hollywood on Santa Monica Boulevard, and Goldwyn was happy to rent space to independent producers. It was here that Joan the Magnificent would be shooting. Goldwyn had rented them space on a three-month lease with monthly renewals.
In his well-appointed office, Goldwyn said to his faithful assistant, Sophie Gang, “You better believe me, Sophie, this lease with Albert Guiss is going to be an annuity. He has to have a shoe loose in his head to let von Stroheim direct.”
“Von better not get wind of how you feel about him. He can become very nasty.”
“Oh yes? If I hear he said something off-color about me I’ll sue him for defecation of character. You better believe me, I’ll swear that on a stack of bubbles. Now let’s get back to business. What’s next on the magenta?”
Sophie’s eyes crossed and then just as quickly uncrossed. “Gary Cooper isn’t crazy about playing Lou Gehrig.”
“Goddammit!” roared Goldwyn. “That Gary is becoming a milestone around my neck!” He pushed his chair back from the desk and crossed to the window. He drank of his kingdom and once again felt content. “Thank God I own this studio lox stocks and barren. It’s my Garden of Eden, Sophie. My paradox.”
The Joan the Magnificent company occupied a large suite of offices on the Goldwyn lot. In Erich von Stroheim’s freshly painted, redecorated and refurnished office, the director was pacing the room attacking the air with a riding crop. He wore magnificently tailored jodhpurs and a brown turtleneck sweater that made him look even shorter than he was. Greta Garbo sat in an easy chair, wearing beautifully tailored navy blue slacks, a pink blouse and a beret arranged devilishly on her head. Lisa Schmidt, soberly dressed in a skirt and blouse, with her hair pulled back and kept in place with a blue barrette, sat in a chair next to von Stroheim’s oversized desk and took notes.
“Noted and agreed,” dictated von Stroheim, “Miss Garbo is to have Adrian design her one outfit required for the role of Joan.” Garbo formed a bridge with her fingers. “Why aren’t the producers here?”
“They aren’t necessary. They’re just figureheads. I, von Stroheim, ” he said, beating the air mercilessly with the riding crop, “am the real producer of this epic. Now what else?”
“There’s an actress named Alysia Hoffman. I want her for my stand-in.”
Von Stroheim stopped in his tracks. “I usually choose the stand-ins.”
Garbo said firmly, her chin rigid, “I want her.”
Von Stroheim asked sternly, “Is she the right height? Is her coloring favorable?”
“Yes and yes.” Garbo snapped each word. She could see Lisa Schmidt was relishing this test of wills. Two Olympians locked in combat; she was delighted.
“Have her come in and see me. Miss Schmidt,” he barked her name, “set an interview with this Alysia Hoffman.”
“You may set the interview, because you certainly should meet her, but I won’t appear on the set if she is not my stand-in.”
“Miss Garbo! You have signed a contract!”
Miss Garbo, thought Lisa, not Greta? We are annoyed.
“Miss Garbo wants Miss Hoffman. And if Miss Garbo doesn’t have Miss Hoffman,” she said, shifting in her chair for emphasis, “Miss Garbo shall be taken severely ill and confined to her home.”
She raised her voice. “It doesn’t matter a damn who’s my stand-in.”
“It most certainly matters to me! Everything in my productions must be perfection!”
“I have no use for perfectionists. They never accomplish anything, they’re so preoccupied with being perfect. Oh let’s get on to other matters. I’ve been invited to dine with Guiss tonight and I’m not looking forward to being on exhibition.”
“You are his star. You owe him the courtesy of dining with him.”
“Wealthy people make me uncomfortable. I’m sure he’s a megalomaniac, a monomaniac and a Seventh-Day Adventist.” She propped her chin on the palm of a hand. “This project is beginning to fill me with a disturbing melancholy. I can’t work if I’m not happy.”
Lisa watched von Stroheim’s face. It was chiseled in stone. Then, quite suddenly, it was wreathed in a smile that was as genuine as a four-dollar bill. “All right, Greta. You shall have your Alysia Hoffman.” He turned his back on her and crossed to a window. Garbo looked at Lisa and winked. “Alysia Hoffman. Wasn’t she pretty big in Germany years ago?”
“Yes, she was pretty big.”
“She’s now willing to be a stand-in?”
“She’s poverty-stricken. She has put her pride in mothballs. Maybe you could also give her a part. It would be a blessing.”
“Yes. I’ll see what I can do. I’m sorry I made such an unnecessary fuss.”
“That’s all right, I enjoyed the exercise. Shall we continue?”
Garbo’s return to films made headlines across the nation. Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons were almost hospitalized with the gastronomic disturbances brought on by having to eat their words. Louis B. Mayer, in a rage at the news, decided to cancel several contracts, and so Joan Crawford, the formidable Norma Shearer and Myrna Loy were soon to join the exodus from the lot. Newspaper editors were almost buried under a mountain of letters decrying the profligacy of a fivc-million-dollar budget for a film in these dire times. Garbo was criticized in several quarters for accepting the one-million-dollar fee, though she had every intention of donating a large percentage to several war agencies—except the Red Cross because she didn’t like the color. The Internal Revenue Service was drooling at the prospect of the taxes it would collect from all participants in Joan the Magnificent.
In Herb Villon’s office, he and Arnold Lake carefully studied the personnel lists clandestinely slipped to them by Lisa Schmidt with every name submitted to Washington for security clearances, regardless of their standing in the industry. Arnold lit a cigarette and asked Villon, “Why do you suppose Garbo was so adamant about getting Alysia Hoffman as her stand-in?”
“You heard what Lisa said. A clash of wills. Score one for the great Garbo.”
“They aren’t great buddies. Garbo knew her briefly in Sweden back in ’25. Until the de Acosta broad brought them together again, they hadn’t been in touch.”
“Garbo isn’t big on being in touch.”
Arnold blew a smoke ring. “Nineteen twenty-five. Garbo’s in Germany making a movie, The Joyless Street. Nineteen twenty-five. Hitler’s Nazi party is emerging on the political scene.”