Carl Crown recognises the mamba. He saw her a few days ago in the film Only Angels Have Wings. Her name is Rita Hayworth.
*
Clearly John Clark is an animal lover, thinks Crown. So one day not long after, he takes Sirius with him to work.
“What’s this then?” asks Clark in surprise. “The guardian angel brought reinforcements.”
“This is Sirius,” Crown explains. “I hope that’s okay.”
“No problem,” replies Clark, “as long as he doesn’t drop his needles. What do they call it with dogs?”
“Needles?” Crown doesn’t understand.
“You know, like Christmas trees. We still have needles lying around the house from last Christmas. It was ten months ago. You can’t get rid of the things.”
“No, no, Sirius doesn’t drop his needles,” Crown assures him.
To err on the side of caution, Sirius keeps his distance, taking up residence on the front seat. Suddenly, the journey doesn’t seem work-related anymore. More like a private whistle-stop tour of a man and his dog who just happen to have a Hollywood star on the back seat.
“You should go to the dog cemetery sometime,” suggests Clark. “It’s not far from here. Valentino’s dog is buried there. Bogey’s last dog, too. It could be interesting for you, Sirius.”
Sirius isn’t so sure. But he acknowledges the gesture politely. He doesn’t really want to think about death just yet. But if he did, then of course that would be the ideal place for it.
Life is much too short when you’re a dog. Sirius broods. The lobster lives to 60 years old. The sturgeon to 150. The whale even lives to 200. It seems that living in water enables you to live longer. But what great experiences can you have underwater?
For example, how many sturgeons are currently being driven through Hollywood in a Chevrolet?
“Your dog is a little melancholic, don’t you think?” asks Clark, as though he could read minds.
“Sometimes,” replies Crown. “He gets it from me.”
I know that guy, thinks Sirius, when they arrive at Warner Brothers and see Humphrey Bogart glowering down at them from the poster wall. Is his dog there too?
The porter bows knowingly and opens the barrier.
John Clark has a day off from filming today; he’s meeting a young director called John Huston, who is planning to film Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon.
“It will be a film noir,” enthuses Huston.
“Hopefully not too noir,” says Clark. “Otherwise people won’t be able to see me.”
“I don’t think you’re right for the role,” says Huston, abruptly ending their conversation.
“That was quick,” remarks Crown in surprise.
“Ridiculous!” blusters Clark. “An amateur. He wants to shoot a movie in the dark. The man will never come to anything, you mark my words.”
For the first time, John Clark is exhibiting the slightest trace of a bad mood.
“Let’s go and have a drink,” he suggests. It seems he even says it when there’s nothing to celebrate.
They saunter over to the canteen.
Meanwhile, Sirius is exploring the studio grounds. Not the safest of places, he notes. Motorised trolleys hurtle towards him from all directions, criss-crossing past one another, carrying stage hands with props, cameramen with tripods, lighting technicians with spotlights, everything you can think of.
They beep as they weave their way through the narrow alleys between the halls, to make sure that no king, gangster, ghost or whatever else from any of the movies gets run over.
What’s that red light blinking over the entrance of the biggest studio? Sirius is curious. He heads over to see what’s going on.
A hall as immense as Berlin’s Alexanderplatz has been decorated to represent the deck of a Spanish barque, currently engaged in a dramatic naval battle with the British fleet.
“Action!” yells the director. Hundreds of extras in period dress wave their swords around. A wind machine blasts into the sails.
Sirius is deeply impressed.
“Cut!” yells the director. “What’s that mutt doing in there?”
Sirius ducks his head down.
“We’re right in the middle of the decisive battle on the high seas and some mongrel wanders into the shot!” roars the director.
A marine officer puts Sirius back outside the door.
What a memorable debut.
For the first time ever, Sirius was on camera in Hollywood. And it won’t be the last, either.
*
The whole family are gathered around the dinner table together for the first time in a long while. In Capri, a pizzeria on Melrose Avenue. Carl and Rahel live just around the corner, but their apartment is too small for everyone.
Germany is at war. France and England are supporting Poland. Russia is mobilizing.
“Just imagine!” says Carl.
Benno Fritsche has written to them. His new next-door neighbour is Karl-Heinrich Bodenschatz, Major-General in the Ministry of Aviation.
“Not exactly the kind of neighbour you feel inclined to hop over the fence and see,” wrote Benno.
“In our house,” sighs Rahel.
“Do you remember how Uncle Benno outwitted that commander?” asks Else.
Georg thinks back to the goods train to Birkenwender. “Personal chauffeur of Reich Minister Dr. Goebbels. Where would you like to go?”
“To Hollywood, please!” cries Carl.
Rahel talks about the party at Peter Lorre’s. “Humphrey Bogart is so handsome!”
Just the usual things people talk about when they’ve survived.
What was it Robert Siodmak said that evening? “That’s life. No happiness without tears. No sorrow without a smile.”
Else talks about her life in the Korngold residence.
“Erich is simply wonderful!” she gushes. “He plays piano all day long. He’s currently composing the soundtrack to The Sea Hawk. It’s a film about a naval battle between Spain and England. Very dramatic.”
Sirius pricks up his ears. That sounds like the film he’s acting in.
“And at lunchtimes he always gives me piano lessons,” Else continues. “He’s an absolute genius! He was eleven when he composed his first concerto, a piano piece for the ballet.”
Erich Korngold and his wife “Luzi” have two children, Ernst and Georg. They all live there together with the grandparents, Julius and Josefine, who fled Europe in November.
“Like us,” says Carl.
“I’d like to live like that one day,” gushes Else. “With my children, my husband, with all of you, all under one roof.”
Andreas Cohn writes her heartfelt love letters. He wants to come here, as soon as he can.
“Do you still love him?” asks Rahel.
“Yes,” says Else. “Very much.”
The waiter brings a dish which is declared by all at the table to be a sensation: round, oven-baked slices of dough covered with cheese, tomatoes and ham. An Italian invention.
Georg talks enthusiastically about his lectures with the philosopher Bertrand Russell, who has recently started teaching at the university.
“I thought you were studying medicine,” says his father in astonishment.
“I am,” replies Georg. “But there’s no harm in educating oneself more, is there?”
It turns out that there’s a pretty girl in the philosophy seminar, who giggles adorably whenever Russell goes into raptures about his theories.
“What are you giggling about?” Russell once asked.
The girl’s response: “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here.”
Russell made her answer the topic of his next lecture.
Georg has already been to the movies with the girl, who is called Electra.
“Aha!” says his father.
“John Clark was in the film, by the way,” says Georg. “Battle of the Giants, a war film.”
“Oh, the war,” sighs Rahel.
The waiter
brings the dessert. “Cassata,” an Italian ice-cream cake with candied fruits.
Else says: “Korngold is utterly convinced that Mendelssohn will survive Hitler.”
*
Carl Crown has been getting up in the mornings very happily of late. A curious development, which – according to Billy Wilder, if you remember – is a sign he has a dream. But what is it? He still doesn’t know.
What could he dream about? He’d like to transform himself, but into whom? Who would he rather be than himself?
It was a difficult question.
Take Giovanni Clarizzo, for example. He was a fisherman in a Sicilian village, then he transformed himself into a lifeguard in Hollywood, and now look at him – he’s a movie star called John Clark.
Was that Giovanni’s dream? Or was it fate?
Perhaps a person isn’t even aware of what they dream, until one day their eyes open and they see that life itself is simply dreamlike?
These are all questions which are going through Carl Crown’s mind on his morning drive to Beverly Hills. Sirius is with him again today.
Crown has now started to enter the palace with a relaxed, casual air, almost like a good friend of the household. And yet he has never exchanged a single word with Clark’s family. He only ever sees the children from a distance, when they’re feeding the flamingos or playing mini-golf or something of the sort. Only on one occasion was there any indication that there was a mother on the premises. She was lying back on a sun lounger on the pavilion by the lake, having her fingernails manicured. Presumably, behind her large sunglasses, she was picturing the time when she was still Gloria Hayson.
But today is different.
“Hi,” she says in a friendly tone. “I’m Gloria.”
The children, Emily and Garfield, rush straight over to the dog.
“Can we play with him?” asks Emily.
Garfield takes a fork from the breakfast table and throws it onto the meadow in the hope that the dog will fetch it.
John Clark comes over. “Would you like to play with the children, Sirius?” he enquires, a little stiffly, in much the same way someone might ask a prime minister to dance.
Crown tries to lighten the mood. “Sirius, show them what you can do!”
Sirius pricks up his ears. He goes up on his hind legs, does a somersault and lands on his front paws.
The children are stunned into silence. First their eyes go wide in amazement, then they scream with delight.
“Daddy, Daddy!” they call, “did you see that?”
Sirius repeats the performance.
The children are beside themselves. They shout with glee, clap their hands and hop all around Sirius.
Even John Clark throws up his arms and shouts: “Bravo!”
Gloria smiles.
Emily and Garfield romp around on the meadow with Sirius. The parents watch and lean in close to one another.
“I haven’t seen them this happy in a long time,” whispers Gloria.
“Nor us,” Clark whispers back.
A painter with no reservations about being kitsch would immediately immortalize this scene in oil paints and have it framed in gold. Man and wife, united in love. Children in the background, with dog.
Crown thinks: Well done, guardian angel.
He looks at John Clark, the family man. A reassuring yet unfamiliar sight. Almost impossible to believe that this is the same man who was plucking mambas from the vines in the Banana House.
Clark is wearing a high-cut, navy blue blazer with a white roll-neck pullover and grey gabardine trousers. His thick black hair is combed back with brilliantine and glistens in the sun.
Crown is surprised that he notices any of this.
Is his secret dream perhaps to be a tailor or a barber? Crazy. Maybe Hollywood drives a man crazy.
“Mama, come quickly!” calls Emily. “Look, Sirius can read!”
The book on the rattan lounger has reminded Sirius of his old showpiece. He flicks through page after page, then suddenly lowers his head down wearily onto the book and begins to snore.
“He thinks the book is boring!” cheers Garfield.
“It kind of gives me the heebie-jeebies,” says Gloria.
“But why?” asks Clark.
“I don’t know,” she replies. “To me, Sirius seems like a human who has turned into a dog. Just look at the expression on his face.”
Sirius lets them look deep into his eyes.
“It’s like he understands every word we’re saying,” says Gloria. “Maybe he can even speak, but just doesn’t want to.”
Clark takes his wife in his arms and kisses her.
“You still believe in miracles,” he laughs.
*
Time flies. Days with grey skies become more frequent. Winter jacket months are coming.
A hat comes in handy too. Even a scarf, on occasion.
The weeks in which everything rhymes have arrived. The songs being played on the radio suddenly contain words like “mistletoe” and “cinnamon”.
Christmas is just outside the door.
Literally.
Outside every front door in Hollywood, an illuminated Father Christmas stands there jovially. His red coat and his reindeer sleigh seem particularly unnecessary; after all, it isn’t snowing.
Rahel is feeling depressed. She misses Berlin. She misses the house. She misses the children. She misses her husband. She misses everything, actually. Often she doesn’t see her husband for days on end. When he sets off in the mornings she’s still asleep, and when he comes back at night she’s already asleep.
Being lonely is a tiring business.
She no longer has Sirius as a source of comfort, either. Why would he want to be here, anyway, when it’s much nicer elsewhere?
Carl probably thinks the same.
Rahel looks at the photo on her bedside table. What happened to the young woman with the dazzling smile? Who is the man next to her? Was that really Carl?
It’s only been a year since they left. But to her it feels like a lifetime.
There are days when she doesn’t speak a single word. When that happens, she can’t stand it anymore and flees from the house.
Today is one of those days. She sets off and walks. In front of the drugstore, a man is selling Christmas trees.
“Christmas trees! Christmas trees!” he calls. “They make you happy. Better than any drug.”
Rahel buys a tree.
A short while later it is standing in their tiny living room, but it doesn’t make her happy. Nothing is as miserable as the sight of a bare Christmas tree in an empty room.
Things look very different in John Clark’s house, of course.
The entire palace is illuminated with fairy lights, and a huge star of Bethlehem gleams on top of the Christmas tree.
Carpenters have constructed a wooden stall that is clearly meant to represent the nativity scene. A real live donkey stands in front of it. Astoundingly, the life-size figures of Mary and Joseph are actually moving. On closer inspection it becomes clear that they are actors. Extras from “Warner Brothers”, presumably.
Crown and Sirius are overwhelmed by the spectacle.
“Shhh,” whispers John Clark, gesturing towards the nativity. “They’re auditioning.”
“What are those chairs in the hay?” asks Crown. “Are they for the Three Wise Men?”
Clark shakes his head. “No, for us. We’ll sit there on Christmas Eve, and Bob Hope will read the Nativity Story.”
Crown thinks to himself how wonderful it would be if John Clark were to add: “Why don’t you come along?”
But he doesn’t.
*
Not another word about Christmas. The festive season is over now, it was bleak, and the Crown family has resolved that everything will be okay.
The New Year begins cheerfully. Crown receives a bonus for his services as guardian angel, from Jack Warner himself, as well as a pay rise.
John Clark would say: “Let’s go
and have a drink!”
Carl says: “Rahel, my darling, let’s go and get you some beautiful new clothes!”
They go to Saks in Beverly Hills, the newly opened branch of Saks Fifth Avenue in New York. The dress they pick out is a design by Elsa Schiaparelli. Narrow-waisted, padded shoulders, knee-length. The latest fashion.
“You look like Carole Lombard,” gushes Carl.
The salesman whispers: “I don’t mean to be indiscreet, but Clark Gable was in here recently, newly wed with Carole Lombard.”
He makes a dramatic pause and fans the air with his hand.
“She bought the very same dress.”
Carl suppresses a whoop of joy.
The new dress needs to be baptised. A Hollywood night follows which couldn’t have been more wonderful even if John Clark had orchestrated it.
Dinner at Ciro’s. Errol Flynn comes over to their table, nods towards Carl and says: “I know you. Aren’t you the one with the funny dog?”
Then he bows in front of Rahel. “I do apologise, that was before. As of today I will ask: Aren’t you the one with the beautiful wife?”
Rahel blushes.
A short while later he sends a bottle of champagne to their table, with a card saying “Love Errol”.
After dinner, they go to the Garden of Allah. The air is scented with magnolia, even though it’s only January.
Rahel sees the illuminated swimming pool in the palm tree garden. Lovers are cuddling up to one another on Hollywood swings, sipping at cocktails and smooching. The moon is high in the night sky.
“I want to go swimming!” cries Rahel.
“Why not?” answers Carl, pressing into her hands the swimming costume he has bought for her as a surprise. To the waiter he says: “Please show the lady the changing rooms, then bring us two daiquiris.”
Then he jumps into the water. In his suit and tie.
Rahel is speechless. Is she dreaming?
It isn’t long before a giggling couple are swimming in the pool, the man in evening attire, and the woman flings her bare arms around him and whispers: “Happy New Year!”
Sirius Page 6