by ILIL ARBEL
“Hello, everyone,” she said cheerfully. “I am Helga, the singing teacher, for Mr. Alcott I came. In six weeks, Helga vill teach him to sing like a bird, Helga promises!”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “Helga, of course. But Mr. Alcott does not live here. He has his own home.”
Helga burst into a laugh that could easily have shattered glass. “Misinformed Helga vos by the Agency. Proceed Helga shall immediately to Mr. Alcott’s house, if she vould be informed of his place of residence.”
“You had better come to the studio with us,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “Mr. Alcott is very likely already on his way there. And Edmond, sleep for a few hours and then join us and we will resolve the script issues. I have an idea, too, of what to do with the offending bedroom door.”
“I can come right now,” said Edmond. “I don’t feel tired anymore, and I would like to settle this issue. The bedroom door, right…”
Glamora, Edmond, Mr. Goldwasser, and Helga, who towered over everyone, went out. Mrs. Rivers and Emma looked at each other and said, “Poor Mr. Alcott” in unison.
***
Back in Barsetshire, the Towers’ Cook and the housemaid were having supper. Cook’s niece, Rita, burst into the kitchen.
“Auntie, here is an article about them!” said Rita, rather out of breath.
“Who is them now?” asked Cook placidly.
“The whole party, Miss Tudor, Mr. Goldwasser, everyone,” said Rita, throwing the magazine on the table.
“Sinful,” said Cook, placing a sausage on her plate, and looking admiringly at a full page photo of Glamora Tudor wearing a magnificent evening dress. “I was so shocked when I found out… them not telling about being respectably married like it was something to be ashamed of … and all these leading men, and the gossip…”
“Yes, imagine never telling,” said Rita, relishing the thought. “Like a film, really, so exciting…”
“Don’t you say such improper things,” said Cook. “If I said such like things when I was young my father would have given me a good thrashing, and rightly so.”
“But when you was young, Auntie, you had many admirers. Mother told me so.”
“That is as it may be,” said Cook, not quite willing to deny the delightful allegations. “But all was proper. This is such goings on, upon my word, enough to make one want to give notice, if one was in service for them. I felt the shock all down my back, you know how my back always opens and shuts when I am upset.”
“Yes, Auntie, of course, but still it’s romantic, though, a secret marriage and she such a beautiful lady…”
The housemaid, who until then was concentrating on her very good supper, suddenly said, “Cook, are they going to have babies now?”
“Maybe they already have them babies,” said Cook darkly. “Maybe they all are brought up in the country, like I saw in Glamora Tudor’s film, A Royal Mother’s Anguish.”
“I never saw that one,” said the housemaid.
“No, you couldn’t, it was many years ago,” said Cook. “It was such a treat, though. Miss Tudor played a queen, her name was Mary and she was queen of Scotland, I think. She is secretly married to Oliver Cromwell, who is a rebel. Mary’s evil cousin, who is named Elizabeth...”
“What?” screamed Rita, scandalized. “Our good queen Elizabeth was evil?”
“Don’t be so stupid, girl. Our good queen? I never… No, it was a thousand years ago, another Queen Elizabeth.” Rita relaxed, and the housemaid said, “And what happened?”
“The evil queen found out about the secret marriage, and about the baby, which Mary put up in the country, with a nurse. But no one would tell her where the baby lived, so Elizabeth was angry, and kidnapped Mary and put her in prison, and then killed Oliver Cromwell.. so the baby grew up and he was also called Oliver Cromwell, like his daddy. Then one day, just after Elizabeth decided to kill Mary, them people who stayed loyal to Mary and knew where the baby lived went to little Oliver who was then ten years old…”
“She kept poor Mary in prison for ten years?” asked Rita, quite upset.
“Yes, and she wore rags but was still so beautiful, with her long golden hair all down her back, but when they tooked her to be burned at the stake they let her wear a marvellous silver gown, such a waste of a good dress, I thought… and she gave a speech, very clever, but I forgot what she said… anyway, the child hears the story from the people who are loyal and vows to revenge his mother when he grows up. And then by the end of the film, he is a grown man and you see him grabbing Elizabeth by the hair and stabbing her, with lots of blood all over her dress, and then you see him crowned king.”
“What a beautiful film,” sighed the housemaid. “I wish I could see it. Cook, may I have seconds of the fried potatoes? They are very good.”
“Now don’t be greedy, my girl,” said Cook, happily supplying the housemaid with a generous helping.
“Me, too,” said Rita, “and maybe another sausage please, Auntie. Yes, I think Miss Tudor must have a few babies being brought up in the country; it stands to reason.”
“Maybe the babies are here in Barsetshire?” suggested Cook, intrigued with the idea. “Maybe we even know them.”
“You must look at the tea leaves, Cook,” said the housemaid. “Maybe they will tell you.”
“Too late for these cups,” said Cook. “They have been disturbed. I will look tomorrow morning. Them tea leaves are bound to tell me something.”
Chapter Seven
“What a pleasant surprise,” said Mrs. Rivers. “I had no idea you intended to visit today, Denis.”
“I had no idea I was coming, either,” said Mr. Stonor, laughing in a slightly shamefaced way. “I was driving by, and I thought I’d just try and see if you were at home.”
“Oh, yes, I am almost always at home at this time,” said Mrs. Rivers. “Miss Robinson and I work on the script for the still-nameless sequel every morning, then she goes to the studio for her other projects, and I work on my new book.”
“A well-balanced schedule,” said Mr. Stonor. “I’ll make a mental note of it for future visits.”
“Would you care for tea?” asked Mrs. Rivers. “I will be delighted if you stay, they will serve it momentarily.”
“Only if I am not imposing,” said Mr. Stonor.
“Oh, not at all, on the contrary. Everyone else is out, so I will be happy for the company,” said Mrs. Rivers. And indeed, at this cue the maid brought in the tea tray, and they sat down to it.
“And how have you been, Hermione?” said Mr. Stonor, obviously enjoying the use of first names that was established between them on his previous visit.
“I had some good news,” said Mrs. Rivers, who seemed to give every indication, judging from the look on her face, that the news was not at all that good.
“Yes? Do tell,” said Mr. Stonor.
“My son Julian is coming to America for an art exhibition. He, and of course his art group, the Set of Five, will be opening in two weeks, right here in Hollywood.”
“I have heard of them. Were they not once called the Society of Fifteen?”
“Yes, and they are now a smaller group, very exclusive, highly successful and very, very avant-garde. Not exactly my style, but nevertheless, much appreciated in England and abroad. This is their first exhibition in the United States.” She sighed deeply.
“How nice!” said Mr. Stonor, studying her unhappy face. “But something is bothering you, I can see it quite plainly. What is it?”
Mrs. Rivers looked at his kindly face, curiously attractive and ugly at the same time, sighed, and decided to unburden herself. “You are very sensitive to moods, Denis. Thank you. It’s true. I love Julian dearly, but he can be… difficult. Very difficult.”
“Where will he stay?” asked Denis.
“He did not mention it. Not here, of course, he cannot expect hospitality from total strangers, so probably at a hotel with his friends.”
“Naturally, not here,” said Denis firmly. “Look
here, Hermione, it will be all right. Between Jake, who can handle any situation, perhaps short of famine and pestilence, and Glamora, who could charm a snake if she put her mind to it, Julian will behave. And if not, I’ll personally have a word with him. He will be the dutiful, pleasant son, or else…”
“Why, thank you, Denis. It’s not that he is a bad person. Not at all. He is intelligent, successful, a truly serious, good artist, and loyal to his friends who all love him, but for some reason, he and I clash. I am afraid he still thinks of me as an interfering, overly maternal creature.”
“Heavens, not you, Hermione!” said Denis indignantly.
“Oh, yes, me… and with some justification, too. I used to be like that. I did interfere with my children’s lives, but this happened many years ago, and I have learned my lesson. My daughter Phoebe and I get along very well these days, but Julian… well, we shall hope for the best.”
“May I ask what it was that your children complained about?” asked Denis with some curiosity.
“Some years ago, I did my best to match Phoebe with Lord Pomfret, at the time plain Mr. Giles Foster, or as everyone called him, Gillie. He was a very nice young man, just as pleasant as he is today, and he and Phoebe were great friends. At the time, I thought that just a little push would send them in the right direction.”
“I don’t see anything terrible about wishing your daughter a happy and successful marriage with the right man,” said Denis, reflecting. “Most mothers would.”
“Phoebe did not see it that way. She was young, headstrong, very beautiful, and not quite as emotionally stable as she is now. She really hated me for my efforts. The things she said about me to other people – who always felt it was their duty to tell me everything she said – were dreadful. Rude, even cruel at times… well, it’s water under the bridge. Of course I had no idea at the time of Gillie’s sudden infatuation with Sally Wicklow… and when I noticed, I felt this was an unsuitable match for the man who would one day inherit the title of Lord Pomfret. But I was wrong, I fully admit that. They are very happy together, and Sally became the perfect countess, a wonderful help for Gillie, whose health is rather delicate, and a pillar of the community. She is much loved by the entire county and she certainly deserves it. As for Phoebe, she is also happily married, so everything turned out well. She married Lord Humberton – you may have heard his name – and they live in Shropshire and have such a wonderful family. But Julian…
“What did Julian complain about?” asked Denis.
“Everything. I could not, and still cannot, say one sentence he would approve of, and he is very forthright in his objections. I used to think that he resented being dependent on me and his father for money, in an immature way, but now he is successful, and earns plenty of money. I am very proud of his success, actually. In addition to his painting, in 1951 he was appointed by Lazarus College to a Professorship of Culture at a very good salary. So it is nothing to do with dependency, and must be something else which I cannot fathom. I adore Julian, but I dread meeting him.”
Probably not a very complicated situation, simply a case of a self-centred and spoiled individual, thought Denis privately. Loudly he said, “This time we will work something out. Stop worrying, Hermione, and do tell me what the new book is all about.”
Mrs. Rivers poured out a second cup of tea for both of them. “I decided to drop the story about the mature actress who is married to a London producer and is involved with a young actor. It’s just too similar to Miss Tudor’s and Mr. Goldwasser’s real life, and even though Miss Tudor vowed that she would not mind, I feel it may not be quite in good taste. Some people may suspect I took advantage of my friendship with them, and I would not wish that to happen since I am sincerely fond of both of them. So I am trying to develop a new storyline, but it’s too nebulous even in my head.”
“But you will tell me when you know?”
“I’ll be happy to. For the moment, all I know is that it must be about an Englishwoman visiting Hollywood, since I might as well use all the wonderful information I was so lucky to gather due to Miss Tudor’s and Mr. Goldwasser’s kind invitation.”
“Have you ever thought of casting yourself as the heroine?”
“Cast myself?” asked Mrs. Rivers, surprised. “Wouldn’t you say it’s a little too late for that?”
“Too late? In what way?” asked Denis.
“I think I am too old for a heroine, Denis,” said Mrs. Rivers in a forthright way.
“Too old? I would not say that, Hermione. You will never grow old. You should remember the line from Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety,’ and realize how much it fits you.”
“How gallant,” Mrs. Rivers laughed at the obvious flattery. “Honestly, Denis, I have never thought anyone could compare a middle-aged, or perhaps even elderly English woman to Cleopatra… very charming. Now have some more cake, would you?” Mrs. Rivers did not see the strange look in Denis’ eyes, or if she saw it, paid no attention whatsoever, since this could only be a silly joke, of course. And we must agree with her in these assumptions. Denis ate his second piece of cake, and after talking a little bit longer, they made an arrangement to meet again and discuss more of Mrs. Rivers’ books. Finally, Denis went home, leaving Mrs. Rivers to fret about her upcoming meeting with Julian, despite her attempts to assure herself that as Denis suggested, it would be easier to meet him in America than in England. After all, in Hollywood both of them would be surrounded by people who were not used to and would not accept Julian churlish ways.
***
Maisie drove to Mr. Alcott’s house in an unsettled mood. At a late hour of the previous night, Shymmering telephoned her and said that Mr. Alcott, who was out at that moment, requested that he would invite Miss Robinson to dinner the next day, if she was not too busy, to discuss a matter of importance. For a moment, Maisie was about to decline since it was done on such short notice, but her better self laughed at the idea of employing such outdated and silly notions with an old friend, and she accepted.
But while driving to Mr. Alcott’s house, she was wondering if she had done the right thing. Nes, in his new and unsettling image, was somewhat uncomfortable to be with. His Valentino looks were making huge waves in Hollywood already, and a few magazines had him featured with his hair slicked back and the hateful silk ascot around his neck. Maisie hoped he would be dressed normally at least that night, because every time she looked at him when dressed as Valentino, she almost had the giggles and had to fight it so as not to offend Mr. Alcott, who was, as we all know, quite the sensitive plant.
To her relief, he opened the door himself and was dressed normally. His hair was clear of the oil and was not slicked back at all. Maisie sighed with relief, entered the house, and gasped in disbelief.
The tasteful, elegant drawing room that Glamora had designed herself was covered and filled with new decorations and artifacts. Fur throws were draped on the chairs and the couches, and red and orange silk cloth that was probably the type used for Indian saris was attached to the existing curtains and also hanging from a hook in the ceiling, making the room look like something out of an old film about Empire Builders. Scimitars hung on the walls, and carved walking sticks made of dark wood and sporting silver animal heads as handles leaned against the walls. A huge brass affair stood on a little table, but Maisie could not tell if was a hookah or a samovar. It gleamed malevolently, as if trying to menace the beholder. She suspected it was a modern imitation of something ancient, but what that something was she could not guess. The worst objects stood near the fireplace. On each side sat a huge porcelain creature, almost as tall as Maisie. She stared at the creatures and decided they must be some sort of felines, even though they were rather thin and elongated. One was totally black, the other striped like a Bengal Tiger. Maisie burst out laughing. “Hello there, Shere-Khan and Bagheera. Greetings to you, old friends!” She sat on the couch and laughed until tears came into her eyes. “Where
did they come from? Did the ghost of Kipling choose to visit?”
Alcott looked a little hurt. “Shymmering found them in an antique shop. Why are you laughing? I thought they were swell!”
“You did? Well, maybe it’s just that they were so unexpected. I had not realized that you had redecorated,” said Maisie, trying to control her amusement. “Why did you do that? The house was perfectly good as it was.”
“This was on the advice of one of the magazine people,” said Mr. Alcott. “They thought that an exotic lifestyle would match my appearance. You know, Valentino, and Arab Sheiks, and India, and all that… Shymmering quite approved.”
“I think Shymmering is losing his British style,” said Maisie. “He is becoming the embodiment of Hollywood marketing. He may turn out to be a fake valet and steal your socks… well, never mind all that. You wanted to consult me about an important matter, Shymmering said.”
“Yes, let’s sit down and eat and I’ll tell you all about it.”
The elaborate dinner, prepared by Mr. Alcott’s cook and served by the maid, was excellent in every way, but Maisie did not enjoy it; Mr. Alcott’s dilemma took away her appetite. What he wanted to know was staggering – did she approve of the idea of having him get temporarily engaged to a starlet, a course of action suggested by the marketing department?
“Engaged? But would it not interfere with your image as a ladies’ man?” asked Maisie. She put her knife and fork down, since she noticed, to her annoyance, that her hands were shaking a little with the tension she felt.
“They say it is quite the opposite. Apparently, the audience adores engagements, and then the same people love to see the engagements broken over something lurid and horrible,” explained Mr. Alcott, helping himself to more salmon.
“I know nothing about marketing, obviously,” said Maisie, “but no, I don’t like the idea. It is downright deceiving the public. Unless, of course, you fall in love with your fake fiancée and then it becomes the truth, but then it may ruin your career.”