by Bill Orton
“Mor, before leaving for the 1933 season in Copenhagen,” read another caption, below a photo showing Astrid standing, smiling, at the base of a gangplank to the ship that carried her from Long Beach to Europe. She held an American flag in one hand and the Danish flag in the other.
Emma rested her finger on one of the photos showing her father, raising the magnifying glass so she could see his face, his eyes, his smile.
Chapter Nine
Waiting for the Dough
When Lori left with the hot Italian or Spanish girl, the air got sucked out of my vacation. The last thing I wanted was to drive Larry van der Bix around in a rented car, but I did agree to go to San Francisco, with a stop in Berkeley, before driving south.
“Upstairs,” said Larry, carrying his double cappuccino and croissant to the loft of the Cafe Mediterraneum, on Telegraph Avenue. College kids with laptops and people who looked homeless slumped and slouched in close quarters, virtually every table filled; everyone drinking from wide, white, porcelain mugs. With virtually every table filled, Larry squeezed his way to a pair of chairs at a small round table alongside the railing that overlooked the incredibly busy ground floor.
“Coffee for the proletariat,” I muttered aloud.
Larry waved, as though I would miss him as he stood next to the table, ten feet ahead of me.
“It’s good you have some time before the check gets cut,” I said, “as we can come up with some investments and shells that allow you to hold on to more of the money.”
“I don’t care about that,” said Larry. “It isn’t about the money. It’s the freedom.” He pulled the tip of croissant away and ate it.
“Larry, you can create ‘freedom’ for every van der Bix that comes after you. This jackpot is big enough that if you handle it right, your investments could allow you to reach a billion dollars of value in your lifetime.”
Larry lifted and chewed away on his turkey-and-cheese croissant, melted cheese clinging in a thin string to his chin. I pointed to my own chin, and Larry reached up with his other hand and brushed. Seeing the string of cheese, he lifted his hand to his mouth. “If you’ll notice,” said Larry, taking another bite of his croissant, and, after chewing and swallowing, continued, “I don’t have kids. I’m never gonna have kids. So this isn’t about me handing money down the line.”
“What do you mean, you’re not gonna have kids?” I asked. “How can you know that?”
“Lawrence,” said Larry, “look at me. Do I look like someone who’s gonna get married? gonna make some woman pregnant? gonna raise a bunch of kids?” He sipped from his coffee, leaving foam on his upper lip. “I mean, seriously.”
“You may think that now,” I said, “But in a few months or years, you may wind up with some woman on your arm and you may want to knock her up.”
“Oh, c’mon,” said Larry, “get real.” He finished his croissant and lifted the tiny spoon on his saucer and began stirring and pushing foamed milk into the cappuccino. “I’m not gonna have kids. I’ve known that since I was a kid. This line is dying with me. The name doesn’t deserve to live.”
“What about your grandmother?” I asked. “Don’t you want her to be a great grandmother?”
“She already is a great grandmother,” said Larry. “She doesn’t need me to pop out a kid to be more awesome.”
“Not what I meant,” I said.
Larry quickly said, “I’m gonna end this name, end this line. To hell with the whole lot of them. That mansion on Treasure Island poisoned everyone.”
.
The National Cemetery at The Presidio, where Larry’s great grandfather is buried, may be home to the most spectacular view of San Francisco Bay of any spot in the city, but because the graveyard was set on a steep hillside, I felt like I would tumble and roll into the Bay, and not stop rolling until I bumped into Alcatraz, off in the distance.
Larry said we needed to wait at the cemetery to meet two Danes who wanted to shoot a film about his family. He sat on the grass, eating a pastrami sandwich, which he would occasionally set down on the stone that read:
“Col. CARL VAN DER BIX. 1896 – 1944. Army Aviator WWI, WWII. Loving Husband, Loving Father.”
Mustard dripped from Larry’s sandwich onto the stone, as he ate potato salad. “I guess this was my great grandmother’s favorite spot in America,” said Larry. He picked up his sandwich, leaving a heavy glob of mustard on the date 1896. “Not the cemetery, necessarily, although it is pretty....”
“Hal-lowww,” said a tall, blond man, walking up the cemetery hillside, towards me and Larry. With him was a tall, blonde woman, carrying a handheld camera and aiming the enormous lens at Larry. “Tres…,” said the man, fully ten paces away, but reaching his hand out, as though Larry and I would be shaking it a second later. “Tres von Sommerberg, from Denmark... the director, film director... hello.”
Von Sommerberg and the tall woman closed the distance between us and, his hand as an invitation, soon four hands were shaking.
“Lena,” said the woman, extending her hand.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “Lawrence.”
“Larry? Lena. Nice to meet you.”
“Tres, Lawrence, yes.”
Then, in the seconds it took for her to pass the camera, suddenly, the tall blonde-haired man was operating the camera, whose lens seemed grotesquely oversized for the proportions of the unit.
“Hello, yes, The Presidio, and whose is that stone?” The man with the camera circled Larry and cut my physical presence from becoming part of his photographic field. “Is that family?”
“That? That?” said Larry.
The man hovered over Larry and then stooped down low, in a way that might suggest to a viewer they were on a roller coaster, and, just as suddenly, von Sommerberg stood, and slowly descended the hill, then stopped, did a long pan of the sweeping 180-degree view of the Bay. With his long legs, the Dane closed the distance with Larry, and – avoiding Larry’s face – brought the camera in low to the ground, and halted inches above the van der Bix stone. When von Sommerberg raised the lens upwards, he photographed Larry’s face, twisted into an angry sneer.
.
I watched Larry as he sliced and cut his way through a Porterhouse steak. We had joined the two Danish filmmakers at the Hotel Intercontinental and with their bags stowed in their rental car, had agreed to turn in my own rental, and join them to drive down the coast to Long Beach.
I was half-way through my Asian chicken salad, and Lena well on her way through her halibut, as von Sommerberg ignored his food and kept pulling Larry away from his methodical cutting of his steak, to offer greater detail about his commission to film the story of Astrid Ullagård, or to ask why Larry objected to participating.
“Because you’re an annoying idiot,” Larry said, not looking away from his plate. His steak had been reduced to a pile of meat cubes. He sat back and raised a hand, drawing the waiter.
“Can I get beer?” asked Larry and, getting a nod, asked if what was on draught and in bottles. Larry steered his questions towards draught. “So, twelve ounce or pint by the glass or a pitcher?” Larry looked around the table. Lena and Tres showed interest. “A pitcher and three glasses.”
“Our patron is very interested in Miss Ullagård’s story,” said von Sommerberg, “and of course, it is our pleasure for meeting you, but there are gaps in what we know and to complete this film, we must ask questions to your own family.”
“I’m sorry,” said Larry, “but I don’t buy your facts. My grandmother’s mom didn’t have any more kids, so what you’re saying is wrong.” He leaned back into the booth. “The dates don’t work. And the people you describe don’t fit anything I’ve been told. My great grandparents were married and living together until Carl died during the war.”
“Two years after Astrid ceased her dancing career, she bore a child as Harald Lander’s mistress,” said Lena. “Her rank on retirement was as Principal Dancer, a status that her son, Ingeborg, also attained.”
“She lived here during the war, here, in San Francisco, while Carl was teaching Jimmy Stewart how to fly,” said Larry. “Jimmy Stewart.”
“Yes, during the war,” said Lena. “After Carl was stationed briefly at Fort MacArthur, San Pedro, Los Angeles,” said Lena, “but that was years after Astrid had returned to Copenhagen.”
“And returned from Copenhagen…. She always came back!” said Larry. “Every year after she danced the ballet, she came back to Carl and Emma in California. I’ve seen goddamned pictures! She even brought members of the Royal Troupe to vacation in California as her guests in the suite. That’s how she stayed fit as a dancer. That’s why she had the dance studio.”
The server set down the pitcher and glasses and von Sommerberg took the first poured beer. “We all have our interesting little stories.”
.
“Bright,” said von Sommerberg, stumbling from the Intercontinental and shading his eyes with his hands. A valet handed the director the car keys and he stiffly made his way to the rental car. Lena passed him the camera and he wobbled as he filmed Larry getting into the car, the subject appearing none too happy at the filmmaker’s attention.
“Maybe I should drive,” I suggested, after the director nearly took a fall – camera and all – when Larry slammed his door closed as von Sommerberg filmed him. Lena, who drank as heartily as Larry and Tres – though showed little in the way of intoxication – took shotgun, as von Sommerberg climbed into the back, joining Larry.
.
We had left the Intercontinental a little over an hour earlier and managed good time moving down the San Francisco peninsula. Since Larry was busy spacing out, the time passed pleasantly. When I would look at him through the rear-view mirror, I would see his head turned, as though something far off in the distance, in the middle of the southern waters of the San Francisco Bay, called out to him.
“California, I have to tell you, is really something,” said Lena, looking out from the front seat of the car, onto the waters of the San Francisco Bay.
I would occasionally glance over to look at Lena. In a world where everyone wants to be blonde – and so few seem to naturally be – there’s something beyond hair color for those who, like Lena and the director – and Lori – suggests there is a land where the uniqueness of being a natural blonde is normal.
“Really lovely,” added von Sommerberg, leaning forward such that he leaned a forearm onto the back of my seat and Lena’s, as he typed a message on his phone with his thumbs.
“In California, it’s the driver who gets ticketed if someone is not wearing a seatbelt,” I said to von Sommerberg.
“I’m not driving,” he replied, sitting back in his seat.
“And it’s really great to ask us to come back with you, to Long Beach,” said Lena. “After two years, it will be really something to meet Emma Mathilde.”
“Two years?” asked Larry, reconnecting with the conversation, breaking his gaze to the Bay. “What about two years?”
“My research,” said Lena. “Ever since Tres got this commission almost three years ago, I’ve been studying the life of Astrid Ullagård and her son, Ingeborg. And so now to be able to meet the ballerina’s first child... really something.”
“She may be research to you,” said Larry, “but she’s my grandma, so you better be nice.”
“We’ll be really nice,” said von Sommerberg.
.
“There!” yelled Tres von Sommerberg. “Stop there!”
I screeched the Danes’ rental car to a halt on the southbound lane of State Highway One, just past a solitary restaurant built over the edge of one of the steep cliffs overlooking the Pacific. I backed up slowly and then inched into one of the few open parking spaces. “We only have a few hours of daylight and we’ve got quite a ways to go before The One straightens out.”
Lena had quickly made her way of the car and had opened the trunk and lifted out the camera, which she put onto her shoulder. Larry wore his customary scowl as Lena shot him exiting the car.
Inside, I flipped through the menu, as did Larry, while the director slowly moved through the dining room, seemingly to irritate the greatest number of patrons possible before being seated. Lena dutifully took the camera from the director when he approached the table and got waved away by Larry, who flashed the middle finger up to the enormous lens.
“Denmark is a flat little country,” said von Sommerberg, “and we are only here on the coast, and it’s like a mountain range.”
“Like Norway,” said Lena.
“Of course, the fjords,” said von Sommerberg, quickly, quietly back to Lena.
The waiter approached and Larry ordered. “A dinner salad with oil and vinegar. And water.”
“Just that?”
“Um, uh,” said Larry. “Yeh, only that.”
“The Chef’s salad,” said Lena, nodding to Larry. “And beer. What do you have from Europe?” On hearing the list of German, Dutch, Belgian Italian and English beers, she ordered the Italian.
“Never had that,” said Larry. “Two.”
I ordered the fifteen dollar patty melt and von Sommerberg, the thirty dollar fish.
“The facts are as they are,” said Lena. “We are not accepting the ballerina’s granddaughter’s statements without verification, and that also is why we are here. The film in its written form is ready for shooting, but perhaps the story is wrong, perhaps there is a better story.”
“Perhaps there is no story,” said Larry.
“Harald Lander is one of the great Artistic Directors in the history of the Royal Ballet and a great figure in Danish culture,” said von Sommerberg. “That the master had a love child with a dancer who returned from America, even though she was washed up, that is a story worth telling.”
“Washed up?” said Larry, anger in his voice.
“Astrid Ullagård was in her mid-thirties when she was Lander’s principal dancer,” said Lena. “She had only four years on the stage after her return. The films show….”
“The films…?”
“The performance recordings,” said von Sommerberg.
“You have films of my grandmother’s mom dancing?”
“Not us,” said Lena. “The Queen’s household. It is a part of the collection the Royal Ballet compiles after each season as a gift to Her Majesty, or, in this case, to King Christian X.”
“The Royal Ballet allowed us to view the films, but we don’t have them,” said von Sommerberg.
Salads arrived and Larry, on getting a pair of flasks in a basket, seemed baffled as to how much oil versus how much vinegar to sprinkle. He went back and forth until a deep lake soaked the greens, turning his plate into an oil-&-vinegar soup. He poked at his croutons. “What does Lori see in this stuff’?”
Three beers arrived. On seeing an extra, unordered bottle, von Sommerberg grabbed a spoon, slipped the tip under the bottle cap and, his index finger the fulcrum, pushed down on the spoon’s handle, popping the cap. Larry and Lena did the same, one using a knife and the other a lighter.
“The material is ready,” said Lana. “It is only finance and distribution that await finalizing.” Lena lifted her glass towards me, and on my water glass touching hers, said, “skål” and took a sip.
“Why even bother meeting my grandmother then?” said Larry, with spite in his voice.
“She’s the unknown one,” said von Sommerberg. “Mysterious minds makes for good cinema. Who is she? Why did she stay? Why did she get left behind?”
Food arrived. Plates filled the table, as salads got pushed aside to allow fish and a patty melt to crowd in. Larry pushed greens through his oil-&-vinegar soup and formed an island in the center of his plate, before giving up. The waiter, on returning to ask if anyone wished to have anything else, took Larry’s plate and swiftly returned with three more beers.
“This is really lovely,” said von Sommerberg, gazing out the window. He raised his bottle, prompting Lena to quickly grab hers. Larry slowly, hesi
tantly lifted his, and von Sommerberg touched his together with the other two, offered a “skål” and took a long draw.
“My grandmother is not a mystery to me,” said Larry.
“But look,” said Lena. “Here is a famous dancer, coming back from America. She is alone....”
“No, Carl....”
“… never returns or stops her,” injects von Sommerberg.
“She dances for Lander,” said Lena. “She is pregnant by Lander. No one denies it. And now, after she is retired, the Dame raises another dancer, a sixth generation to take the Royal stage, and another Principal Dancer.”
“No one here will care,” said Larry.
Lena looked at von Sommerberg, and then to Larry. “This movie is not for Americans,” she said. “Of course, some will see it. That’s bound to happen, but this....”
“This is a movie for Danes,” said von Sommerberg, “about Danes and it will be in a style of filmmaking that Danes invented.” Von Sommerberg finished his fish.
“My grandmother was horn in America,” said Larry. “And you didn’t invent the movies. Thomas Edison....”
“Dogme,” said von Sommerberg. “Dogme95. This film will meet the Vow of Chastity,” he said, nodding his head, and looking to Lena, who, upon his looking her way, also began nodding. She stopped when he looked back to the panoramic view out the window.
“We are here to arrange financing, which traditionally is the challenge with Dogme films,” said Lena. “We met my contacts in Connecticut earlier and hopefully Tres….”
“The director,” corrected von Sommerberg.
“Yes, hopefully the director’s contacts here in San Francisco will consider the presentation we made this morning,” said Lena.