by ILIL ARBEL
“Please sit down, Miss,” said Shymmering. “Would you care for a glass of sherry?”
“I would rather have a beer, if you have any,” said Maisie. “I am terribly thirsty. Where is Nes?”
“Mr. Alcott is dressing for dinner,” said Shymmering. The other side of his mouth twitched ominously, but still Maisie noticed nothing at all. In a few minutes Shymmering returned with a bottle of beer and a glass on a silver tray, and put it on a small table next to Maisie.
“Nes is surely taking his time dressing,” said Maisie after a refreshing sip. “Usually he just throws something on…”
“Well, er, yes, Miss,” said Shymmering. “We are trying the new wardrobe we have discussed previously. Some of it has arrived, Miss.”
At that moment a peculiar apparition entered the living room. Maisie stared in disbelief. Simultaneously, she suddenly noticed a small round table by the fireplace, set for two. Her eyes darted between this table and the strange, new Nes. “Are you expecting company, Nes? I should leave immediately,” she said with an effort to sound casual.
“Well, yes, I am, but you don’t have to run,” said Mr. Alcott in a strained voice. “It is only one of the ladies Mr. Goldwasser wants me to be seen with. Some photographers are going to show up, too.”
“I see,” said Maisie, finishing her beer and getting up. “I think it would be best if I leave, anyway, let you get on with business.”
She started toward the door, acutely conscious of the silence behind her. Nes did not attempt to make her stay, and somehow it was clear to her that he wanted her to leave, and as quickly as possible. Why that was, if the evening was just business, she could not tell. She practically ran out, and as she opened the door she bumped against the expected visitor.
“Oh, sorry,” said the blond young thing. “Are you the maid? Would you please tell Nes that Olga is here?”
Maisie simply could not talk, so she just mumbled “Excuse me” and ran out. Shymmering was just behind her and Maisie heard Olga say, “Oh, the maid probably can’t speak English, right? So many of the help these days are foreigners…”
Maisie jumped into her car and started driving around. She was intensely upset, which was strange, because nothing terrible happened. Why was she crying? She could not understand her own behaviour. And why was Nes dressed like that? She was shaking and she knew it was not safe to drive in that state, so she turned and drove the short distance to Mr. Goldwasser’s house. Miss Tudor would give her some clues.
Glamora opened the door herself, and was taken aback by Maisie’s stricken face. “Come right in,” she said. “Have a drink and tell me what happened.”
“I just had a beer,” said Maisie.
“And now you will have a cognac,” said Glamora firmly, pouring a generous amount of the fragrant, golden liquid. “It’s medicinal. What is wrong?”
“I just dropped in on Nes, Miss Tudor,” said Maisie, gratefully sipping the excellent cognac. “He was expecting company… and he was wearing a most outlandish costume.”
“Outlandish costume? Like what?” asked Glamora.
“He wore a red velvet smoking jacket, over black pants. And around his neck he wore a white silk ascot, or cravat, or whatever they used to call that thing. His hair was slicked back… it was like a bad imitation of a Valentino film, like a nightmare, a ghost… I can’t vouch for it, but I think he wore some makeup, too. His lips were reddish.”
Glamora laughed aloud and Maisie looked at her with utter amazement. “What is funny?” she asked, bewildered.
“This must be Shymmering’s idea,” said Glamora, dabbing expertly at her eyes to avoid mascara accidents. “He bought him a whole wardrobe, as you know, all based on his studies of what a movie star should look like. The jackets, suits, etc. were fine, I am sure, they were ordered at the best tailoring establishments, but obviously Shymmering went a little overboard with his idea of an ‘at home’ attire.”
“And then came this blond little thing,” said Maisie. “And she thought I was the maid! The maid, can you imagine my humiliation?”
“Good Heavens, that must have been awful,” said Glamora with feeling. “Was she beautifully dressed and made up?”
“Oh, yes, perfectly,” said Maisie. “She was probably dressed at the studio. Nes said she came on the studio’s request.”
“One of those,” said Glamora tolerantly. “They are harmless. Rush has dozens of them.”
“But it’s different with Rush,” said Maisie. “Nes is not like that…”
“Anyway, why should you care so much? He would snap out this phase soon enough and go on dressing normally. And what if a girl is visiting, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said Maisie. “When I saw the girl, and Nes really wanted me to leave…”
“I see,” said Glamora. “I am beginning to see… Don’t worry about this girl. Nes needs such rendezvous for publicity, and the photographers were probably scheduled, and if you were there, the whole story about a new love affair with a new little actress would not have worked. It’s all business.”
“You really think so, Miss Tudor? Really? You don’t think Olga is his girlfriend?”
“Olga? No. I don’t know her, but there are so many of them, and they would not want to get personally entangled because they know the studios frown on such relationships and might drop them from the list. The jobs are rather competitive.”
“Well, if you say so, I will try to ignore all that,” said Maisie. “I can’t imagine why it bothered me so much, anyway.”
“I think I can,” said Glamora, smiling, “but there is no need to go into anything unpleasant right now. Jake will be home soon, and you shall stay for dinner and we will have a pleasant evening.”
“Thank you so much, Miss Tudor,” said Maisie obediently. “I should wash my face and comb my hair, or I will frighten Mr. Goldwasser.”
Glamora laughed. “Yes, do, and I’ll drop a hint to Jake about Nes’ ridiculous clothing.”
Mr. Goldwasser listened carefully to the description of Mr. Alcott’s attire. “This must be looked into,” he said. “We don’t want him to make a monkey of himself right now, unless… sometimes such things actually work… let’s see what happens during this session. A red velvet smoking jacket, my God…” His shrewd eyes went to Maisie’s face, noting how upset she must have been, but on that subject he said nothing at all, drawing his own conclusions but exercising his usual discretion.
***
“Ah, Olga,” said Mr. Alcott uncomfortably, looking at the door and thinking of Maisie’s reaction. “How are you?”
Olga was staring at Mr. Alcott with disbelief.
“You can’t be serious,” she said.
“About what?” asked Mr. Alcott.
“Your appearance! You look like something from the twenties! Why did you dress like that?”
“Shymmering dresses me like a movie star,” said Mr. Alcott. “I don’t know anything about clothes, really, and he orchestrated my new wardrobe.”
“But this is outrageous! I particularly don’t understand why you had to slick your hair like Valentino!”
“Should I go change?” asked Mr. Alcott timidly.
“Too late for that,” said Olga, looking out of the window. “They are here. Take your position and don’t say a word about the clothes. Maybe they will think there is a secret reason for that.”
The bell rang, and a crew of five came in, carrying equipment, just as Mr. Alcott and Olga settled themselves at the well-appointed table.
“Wow!” said one of the photographers, a very young man. “Is this the latest fashion in men’s attire? Wow! I love it!”
“Yes,” said Olga. “It’s a whole new trend, the Valentino look.”
“I am going to try the hair tonight, with your permission, sir,” said another very young man. “I am taking a new girl out… she will be amazed!”
A more mature woman, who was obviously a reporter since she already had her notebook in her hand and a
pencil stuck behind each ear, looked at Mr. Alcott critically. Suddenly she laughed. “You know, this just might work,” she said. “I actually like the idea even though many would think you look like a trained monkey. Why not try to emphasize it… boys, go on, stop gawking and set up the equipment.” The four young men started to busily arrange the equipment around the room.
“I see you are holding a book, Mr. Alcott,” said the reporter. “May I ask what you are reading? Our readers are always interested in the stars’ taste in literature.”
“I was just browsing a little before Olga came,” said Mr. Alcott, recovering his wits since now he was on familiar ground, well-rehearsed with Shymmering. “I should put it away. It is a book by my ancestor, Bronson Alcott. I do love his works.” He got up and stepped to the bookcase, which Shymmering had filled with various works of the Transcendentalists.
The reporter smiled and said, “I see, the Transcendentalists… this will impress the public… boys, snap a few pictures of Mr. Alcott in front of the bookcase. Most important, make sure the titles show clearly. You know, Mr. Alcott, I majored in literature, years ago, and I do love the Transcendentalists.” She looked at the titles quietly. Mr. Alcott was terribly afraid that she might ask some questions that would be beyond him to answer, but she only said, “Walden…it still lives on my nightstand, Mr. Alcott.”
Mr. Alcott suddenly remembered his lines quite intelligently. “Thoreau,” he said meditatively. “No one can make you want to change your life, go into nature, like Thoreau. The natural life is what I would so much prefer…”
“I am sure of that,” said the reporter, looking at the red velvet jacket, the expensive furniture, and the elegantly dressed Olga. “Yes, I’m quite sure…” she smiled to herself but Mr. Alcott, who congratulated himself that he pulled this off very nicely, did not notice.
“And now,” said the reporter, “Mr. Alcott, Olga, please sit at the table. Pick up a utensil, take a sip from a glass, look natural, as if you were interrupted during an intimate dinner at home.”
The session lasted for over two hours, making Mr. Alcott feel more and more exhausted, while Olga seemed to not only take it in stride, but actually enjoy it. She refreshed her lipstick occasionally, fluffed her blond curls, and took directions from the crew with professional ease. The reporter asked questions, took notes, and treated Olga like an equal, but Mr. Alcott as a slightly backward child. Finally she said, “Well done, we are finished. I am going to try to boost this new look, Mr. Alcott. If it works, you will have to stick with it for a while… We’ll see how it goes.” The young men collected their equipment, and the group mercifully left.
“Well…” said Mr. Alcott. “It’s finally over. You must be as tired as I am, Olga. Let’s eat something.”
“Not me, love,” said Olga briskly, obviously not tired at all. “I have another job tomorrow and I must go to the hairdresser and change my looks; it won’t do to look the same, you know.” She ran off, to Mr. Alcott’s secret relief, and all was peace and quiet as Mr. Alcott ate the dinner, which luckily was meant to be a cold one. Shymmering walked in, carrying a cup of coffee on a tray.
“Shymmering, did you watch?” asked Mr. Alcott.
“Yes, sir, I did,” said Shymmering. “It was quite impressive.”
“The crew liked the look, but Maisie and Olga did not. Do you think it was a mistake, perhaps?”
“No sir. I rarely make a mistake, sir, if I may say so myself. This look is going to be admired, and even copied. The lady reporter, who knows better than Miss Maisie and Miss Olga, thinks so. Just as she left, she asked me how you came by it. I told her that you made a serious study of gentlemen’s fashions through the ages, in preparation for an upcoming role, and came to the conclusion that the look of the twenties should make a comeback, since it was the most elegant decade of this century, at least so far. So you had developed this look with the help of various designers. I explained to her that someone with your sensitive nature has a great love for the elegance and beauty of past days, as proven by the way you love the literature of the nineteenth century, for instance.”
“And what did she say?” asked Mr. Alcott.
“She said ‘Intriguing. This look may very well spread like wildfire’ and smiled at me in a conspiratorial way, if I may use this term about a lady. She did not comment about the love of literature.”
“Well, in a couple of days we shall know,” said Mr. Alcott gloomily. “I do wish things did not happen this way with Maisie…”
“Don’t worry about that, sir. She will understand, I am sure,” said Shymmering.
***
The next morning, Edmond staggered into the dining room as everyone was having breakfast, except for Mr. Goldwasser who slept much later than his usual early rising, since he was up half the night working. Edmond looked pale, dishevelled, and altogether as if he had undergone some harrowing experience.
“Angel!” Emma cried. “What have they done to you at the studio? Do you want coffee?”
“I don’t want to ever look at coffee again, thanks,” said Edmond wearily and sank into a chair. “I was drinking the vile stuff the scriptwriters manage to get and swill all night. I don’t know how they do it. I have never met such a nasty group of people.”
“I thought they called you because they just wanted to discuss a few points,” said Mrs. Rivers, surprised.
“The whole plot is more like it,” said Edmond, looking vaguely into a plate of scrambled eggs he would normally devour instantly.
“Whatever do you mean?” said Glamora.
“Dance We Shall is a sophisticated drawing room comedy,” said Edmond. “Think Noel Coward. There are four characters: a husband, rather meek and uninspiring; his enchanting, vivacious wife; the handsome roué she is in love with; and a plain and ordinary girl, with whom the husband, who is really unhappy with his glamorous wife, is in love with. The play is very witty, and in the end the couples reshuffle themselves with a divorce and a few confessions and everyone is happy.”
“Well?” said Mrs. Rivers, reflecting. “While I cannot see how such a story could be turned into a large musical, I see no flaw in the plot, as you describe it.”
“Apparently, two flaws,” said Edmond in cold despair. “In the final scene, the enchanting wife and the roué are walking through a door that was always closed during the play and so leave the stage together. The scriptwriters heard from the censors that this was too suggestive. The door just may be, the censors claimed, a bedroom, Heaven forbid. They are not too sophisticated in this town, you know…”
“And what is the other flaw?” asked Glamora.
“The casting. The roué is played by a bigger star than the one who plays the husband. That means that the audience will be more interested in the roué, and this makes it seem as if we don’t respect the institution of marriage, which is sacred to censors of all ages, genders, and descriptions.”
“Did they have any suggestions?” asked Glamora with apprehension. At this moment Mr. Goldwasser walked in, and in his usual quick way grasped immediately that something was very wrong. On asking, everything was explained, and to everyone’s surprise, Mr. Goldwasser burst out laughing.
“You worry too much, my boy,” he said to Edmond. “What do you think Mr. Clover would have done?”
“I have no idea,” said Edmond.
“I venture to suggest that he would shrug eloquently, say ‘Hollywood!’ in a most derogatory way, and figure out a compromise. A funny one, if possible.”
“But why are they wishing to destroy the play?” asked Edmond, confused.
“Because they must obey higher powers, namely, the censors. The censors are immensely powerful in Hollywood, Edmond. You can’t fight them and they are entirely capable of destroying anyone they choose. We must play along with them, we have no choice. So, think about a very funny scene that will show how domestic the wife really is, for instance.”
“Well,” said Edmond, rising to the occasion. “I saw on televisi
on a very funny thing… the housewife was cleaning her kitchen with a mop and bucket, wearing a very pretty dress, a frilly apron, a string of pearls, and extremely high heels…”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “And could the wife sing while she cleans?”
“Why, that’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Edmond, visibly cheering up. “We could work out a song with Mr. Stonor. The girlfriend could walk into the kitchen, and they could sing together how unhappy they were to be doing something that may seem a bit immoral, while really they were such chaste and honourable ladies. The girlfriend could hold a cup of coffee, the housewife a mop, and they could perform a dance, too…”
Glamora laughed. “Great idea,” she said. “The audience would love that. Why let television steal all the fun?”
“Then,” said Edmond, beginning to see the possibilities. “How about the roué walking along some very pretty street scenes, wearing an evening attire since it’s night, singing about his change of heart and how his love is making him into a better person?”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “And if you add one more scene in which the husband and his girlfriend sing a duet about how they used to be high school sweethearts and were torn asunder by cruel fate until they met again when it was too late…”
“So you don’t think it will ruin the screenplay?” asked Edmond.
“Not really. By the mere fact that you are turning it into a musical, you have already changed it. A few more changes would not greatly signify. This is no longer Mr. Clover’s witty play, Edmond. It is a huge production that is meant to please the masses and make a lot of money for everyone.” Edmond nodded and turned to his plate.
Emma looked at Edmond and sighed with relief. He was busily eating his breakfast, already adjusting his mind to the new circumstances. He would do just fine, she thought. Clearly, one must learn a lot in order to survive in Hollywood, but he could do it, and be quite a success. Soon it would be her turn, too, to learn and adjust, and she was ready for it.
At that moment, the doorbell rang, and in came a young woman; she was enormously tall, blond, broad-shouldered, and quite beautiful if one liked her very athletic, outdoors-type looks.