Then one morning the phone rang in Otto’s studio and it was Norma Jeane and his heart leapt with an emotion he couldn’t have defined: excitement, gratification, vindictiveness. Her voice was breathy and uncertain. “Otto? H-hello! This is N-norma Jeane. C-can I come see you? Is there any—work for me? I was h-hoping—” Otto drawled, “Baby, I’m not sure. I’ll call around. L.A. is teeming with a fantastic new crop of girls this year. I’m in the midst of a shoot right now; can I get back to you?” He’d hung up the receiver gloating and later that day began to feel guilty, and a strange pleasure in the guilt, for Norma Jeane was a sweet, decent girl who’d made money for him in halter tops and shorts and tight sweaters and swimsuits; she could make money for him stripped, why not?
I was not a tramp or a slut. Yet there was the wish to perceive me that way. For I could not be sold any other way I guess. And I saw that I must be sold. For then I would be desired, and I would be loved.
He was telling her, “Fifty bucks, baby.”
“Only . . . f-fifty?”
She’d envisioned one hundred. Even more.
“Only fifty.”
“I thought, once—you s-said—”
“Sure. And maybe we can get more later. For a magazine feature. But right now the only offer we have is Ace Hollywood Calendars. Take it or leave it.”
A long pause. What if Norma Jeane burst into tears? She’d been crying a lot lately. She couldn’t remember if Gladys had ever cried. And she dreaded the photographer’s derision. And her eyes would be red and puffy and the shoot would have to be postponed for another day and she needed the money today.
“Well. All right.”
Otto had the release form ready for her signature. Norma Jeane supposed it was because, if he waited until after the shoot, she might have changed her mind out of embarrassment or shame or anger and he’d be out his fee. Quickly she signed.
“‘Mona Monroe.’ Who the hell’s that?”
“Me, right now.”
Otto laughed. “It isn’t much of a disguise.”
“I won’t be in much of a disguise.”
Removing her clothes with slow fumbling fingers behind the tattered Chinese screen, where on other occasions she’d changed into pinup costumes. In a flood of sunshine dirtied by the pane through which it rayed. There were no hangers for the clothes she kept freshly laundered, ironed: a white batiste blouse, a flared navy-blue skirt. Removing her clothes and standing at last naked except for her white sandals with a medium heel. Removing her dignity. Not that there was much dignity remaining. Every hour of every day since the terrible news had come from The Studio, a voice mocked Failure! Failure! Why don’t you die? Why are you alive? To this voice, which she couldn’t quite recognize, she had no reply. She hadn’t realized how much “Marilyn Monroe” had meant to her. She’d disliked the name, which was concocted and confectionary, as she disliked her synthetic bleached-blond hair and the Kewpie-doll clothes and mannerisms of “Marilyn Monroe” (mincing steps in tight pencil skirts showing the very crack of her buttocks, a wriggling of her breasts as someone else in conversation might gesture with his hands) and the screen roles in which The Studio executives had cast her, but she’d hoped, and Mr. Shinn had supported her in this hope, that one day soon she’d be cast in a serious role and make a true screen debut. Like Jennifer Jones in The Song of Bernadette. Like Olivia de Havilland in The Snake Pit. Jane Wyman playing a deaf-mute in Johnny Belinda! Norma Jeane was convinced she could play roles like these. “If only they’d give me a chance.”
She’d never told Gladys about her name change. She’d imagined that when Scudda-Hoo! Scudda-Hay! opened she would take Gladys to the premiere at Grauman’s Egyptian Theatre and Gladys would be astonished and thrilled and proud to see her daughter on the screen, in however minor a role; at the conclusion of the movie she would have explained that “Marilyn Monroe” in the credits was her. That the name change hadn’t been her idea but at least she’d been able to use the name “Monroe,” which was in fact Gladys’s maiden name. But her role in the silly movie had been cut back to a few seconds, and there was no pride in it. Without pride I can’t go to Mother. I can’t expect her blessing without pride.
If her father was aware of her as “Marilyn Monroe” he’d have been disgusted too. For there was no pride in “Marilyn Monroe”—yet.
Otto Öse was setting up the photo shoot, talking to Norma Jeane in a brisk excited voice. Plans for other “arty” shots after this one. For always there was a demand for—well, “specialty” photos. Norma Jeane listened numbly as if from a distance. Apart from his camera, Otto Öse was inclined to be lethargic and morose; with his camera he came alive. Boyish and funny. She’d learned not to be offended by his wisecracks. Norma Jeane was shy with him since they hadn’t seen each other in months and their parting had been awkward. (She’d told him too much. About being lonely and anxious about her career and thinking of him—“an awful lot.” She hadn’t believed she’d said this. It was exactly the wrong thing to say to Otto Öse and she knew it. He hadn’t answered at first, he’d turned away from her, smoking his foul-smelling cigarette, and finally he’d mumbled, “Norma Jeane, please—I don’t want you to get hurt.” His left eyelid was twitching and his mouth sullen as a boy’s. He’d been silent for so long after that she knew she’d made a blunder for which there was no remedy.) Now she stood behind the tattered Chinese screen, shivering in the airless heat. She’d vowed never to pose in the nude because it was a crossing over and once you’d crossed over it was like taking money from a man for sex. You couldn’t go back to what you’d been. There was something dirty about the transaction in the way of literal dirt, grime. She was obsessive about cleanliness. Fingernails, toenails. I will never be like Mother: never! At the film studio she’d sometimes showered after acting class if she’d been perspiring during a scene. Was it Orson Welles who’d said, “An actor sweats or he isn’t an actor”? But no actress wants to stink! At the Studio Club, Norma Jeane was one of the girls who liked to soak in a hot bath for as long as she was allowed. But now, in her cheap furnished room, to her shame she had no bathtub or shower and had to wash awkwardly out of a small sink. Almost, she’d accepted an invitation to spend a weekend with a producer who lived in Malibu because she’d yearned for the luxury of a bath. The producer was a friend of a friend of Mr. Shinn’s. One of so many “producers” in Hollywood. A wealthy man, he’d given Linda Darnell her start. In fact, Jane Wyman. Or that was his boast. If Norma Jeane had stayed with this man, that too would be a crossing over.
She didn’t want money, she wanted work. She’d turned the producer down and now she was stripped bare in Otto Öse’s cluttered studio, which smelled like copper pennies clutched in a sweaty hand. Underfoot were dustballs and the desiccated husks of insects she believed she recognized from the last time she’d been here months ago. When I vowed I would never return. Never!
She could not interpret the looks the photographer cast her: was he attracted to her or did he loathe her? Mr. Shinn had said Otto was Jewish and Norma Jeane hadn’t ever known any Jews. Since Hitler and the death camps and the photographs of Buchenwald, Auschwitz, and Dachau she’d stared at for long stunned minutes in Life, she’d become fascinated by Jews, Judaism. Hadn’t Gladys said that Jews are a chosen people, an ancient and fated people? Norma Jeane had been reading about the religion, which seeks no converts, and about the “race”—what a mystery, “race”! The origins of human “races”—a mystery. You had to have a Jewish mother to be born a Jew. Was it a blessing or a curse to be “chosen”?—Norma Jeane would have liked to ask a Jew. But her question was naive, and after the horror of the death camps she would certainly have been misunderstood. In Otto Öse’s dark-socketed eyes she saw a soulfulness, a depth, and a history lacking in her own eyes, which were a clear, startling blue. I’m only an American. Skin deep. There’s nothing inside me, really.
Otto Öse was unlike any other man Norma Jeane knew. It wasn’t just that he was talented and eccentric. I
t was that, in a sense, he wasn’t a man. He wasn’t defined by maleness. His sexuality was a mystery to her. He didn’t seem to like women on principle. Norma Jeane wouldn’t have liked most women herself on principle, if she’d been a man. So she thought. Yet for a long time she’d tried to believe that Otto Öse might distinguish her from other women and love her. Might feel sorry for her and love her. For didn’t he look with tenderness upon her sometimes, and always with intensity, through the eye of his camera? And afterward excitedly spreading out contact sheets and prints of Norma Jeane, or of the Norma Jeane he’d photographed in her pinup costumes, he would murmur, “My God. Just look. Beautiful” But it was the photographs he meant, not Norma Jeane.
Naked, except for her shoes. Why am I doing this? It’s a mistake. She was looking desperately for a robe to slip into. Wasn’t there always a robe for a nude model? She should have brought one herself. Shyly she peered around the edge of the screen. Her heart beat hard in dread and a curious kind of elation. If he looked upon her naked, wouldn’t he desire her? Love her? She watched him, his back to her, in a shapeless black T-shirt, work pants that showed the painful narrowness of his hips, stained canvas shoes. None of the Preene models or young actresses at The Studio who knew Otto Öse truly knew anything about him. His reputation was for exacting, frequently exhausting work—“But it’s worth it, with Otto. He never wastes time.” His private life was a mystery—“You can’t even imagine Otto as a fag.” Norma Jeane saw that Otto’s hair was turning metallic gray and thinning at the crown of his long narrow skull. His face in profile was more hawklike than Norma Jeane recalled. He looked so hungry, so predatory. She could imagine him soaring and swooping and diving at his terrified prey. There he was arranging a large crimson velvet cloth against a rickety cardboard backdrop; he hadn’t noticed Norma Jeane watching. He whistled, muttered to himself, laughed. He turned to squint toward the rear of the studio, where amid the clutter there were battered pieces of furniture: a chrome kitchen table and chairs layered in grime, a hot plate, coffeepot, cups. There were six-foot plywood sections and corkboards upon which he’d tacked dozens of contact sheets and prints, some of them yellowed with age. Close by was a filthy toilet with only just a ragged strip of burlap for a door. Norma Jeane dreaded having to use this toilet and avoided it for as long as she could. Now it seemed to her she saw a shadowy movement beyond the burlap—was there someone inside? He’s brought someone to spy on me! The thought was wild and absurd. Otto wasn’t like that. Otto felt contempt for pimps.
“Ready, baby? Not shy, are you?”—Otto tossed Norma Jeane a piece of gauzy crinkled cloth, a former curtain. She wrapped it around herself gratefully. Otto said, “I’m using crushed velvet for a candy-box effect. You’re a piece of candy, luscious enough to eat.” Otto spoke casually, as if the situation were familiar to them both. He absorbed himself in setting the tripod in place, loading and adjusting the camera. He didn’t so much as glance up as Norma Jeane approached, slowly, numbly, like a girl in a dream. The crimson velvet cloth was badly frayed at the edges but the color was still vivid, throbbing. Otto had arranged the cloth so that its edges wouldn’t show in the photo and the low stool on which Norma Jeane was to sit, framed by the throbbing color, was disguised by the cloth. “Otto, can I use the b-bath-room? Just for—”
“No. The toilet’s broken.”
“Just to wash my—”
“No. Let’s get started with ‘Miss Golden Dreams.’”
“That’s what I’m supposed to be?”
Otto wasn’t looking at Norma Jeane even now. Out of delicacy, maybe, or a worry the girl might panic and run away. Wrapped in the soiled curtain she was approaching the edge of the set and the near-blinding lights that were always intimidating. Only when she stepped hesitantly onto the cloth did Otto see, and said sharply, “Shoes? You’re wearing shoes? Take them off.” Norma Jeane stammered, “I c-can’t wear my shoes? The floor is so dirty.” “Don’t be stupid. Have you ever seen a nude in shoes?” Otto snorted in derision. Norma Jeane felt her face burn. How fleshy she was, her breasts of which she was ordinarily so proud, her thighs and buttocks! Her smooth creamy buoyant nakedness was like a third party in the room with them, an awkward intrusion. “It just feels—my f-feet—they seem more n-naked somehow than—” Norma Jeane laughed, not in the new way she’d been trained at The Studio but in the old squeaking-startled way, like a mouse being killed. “Could you p-promise not to—show the bottoms? The soles? Of my feet? Otto, please!”
Why was it so important suddenly? The soles of her feet?
Unprotected and vulnerable and exposed. She couldn’t bear to think of men staring lewdly at her, and the proof of her animal helplessness her pale naked feet. She recalled how at their last photo session, a pinup feature for Sir! in which Norma Jeane wore a red satin V-neck top, white short shorts, and red satin high-heeled shoes, Otto had told her that her thighs were “disproportionate” to her ass: too muscular. And he didn’t like the scattering of moles like “tiny black ants” on her back and arms and made her cover them with foundation makeup.
“Let’s go, baby. Everything off.”
Norma Jeane kicked off her shoes and let the gauzy curtain fall to the floor. Her body tingled, now she was naked in the presence of this man, who was both her friend and an utter stranger. She took her place amid the crushed velvet, sitting on the low stool with her legs tightly crossed, turned to one side. Otto had so arranged the cloth that the viewer wouldn’t know with certainty whether the model was sitting up or lying down. Nothing would show but the field of vivid crimson and the model’s naked body, as in an optical illusion in which dimensions and distance are unclear. “You w-won’t, will you? Show the soles of my—”
Otto said irritably, “What the hell are you jabbering about? I’m trying to concentrate and you’re getting on my nerves.”
“I’ve never posed n-naked before. I—”
“Not naked, sweetheart—nude. Not smut, art. There’s a crucial distinction.”
Norma Jeane, hurt by Otto’s tone, tried to joke in her ingenue voice as she’d been coached at The Studio. “Like photographer—not pornographer. That’s it?”
She’d begun to laugh shrilly. Otto knew the danger signs.
“Norma Jeane, relax. Calm down. It’s going to be a candy-box shot like I said. Take away your arms, d’you think Otto Öse hasn’t seen plenty of tits? Yours are swell. And uncross your legs. We’re not going to do a frontal shot, we won’t even catch any pubic hair, we can’t ship it through the U.S. mails and that would defeat our purpose. Right?”
Norma Jeane was trying to explain something confusing about her feet, the soles of her feet, how they would look from the underside. But her tongue was thick and numb. Speech was difficult, like breathing under water. She was aware of someone watching her from the rear of the studio. And there was the grimy window looking out onto Hollywood Boulevard; someone might be watching her from that window, peering over the windowsill. Gladys hadn’t wanted them to look at Norma Jeane but they’d lifted the blanket and looked. It was impossible to prevent them.
Otto said patiently, “You’ve posed for me in this studio plenty of times. And out on the beach. What difference does a halter top the size of a handkerchief make? A swimsuit? You show your ass more suggestively in a pair of shorts or jeans than you do bare, and you know it. Don’t play dumber than you are.”
Norma Jeane managed to speak. “Don’t make me into a joke, Otto. I beg you.”
Otto said contemptuously, “You’re already a joke! The female body is a joke. All this—fecundity. This—beauty. The aim is to drive men wild to copulate and reproduce the species like praying mantises with their heads bitten off by their female sex partners, and what is the species? After the Nazis, and the American collaboration in the slaughter of the Jews, ninety-nine percent of humankind doesn’t deserve to live.”
Norma Jeane quavered before Otto’s assault. In the past he’d made remarks, part jocular, part serious, about the worthless
ness of mankind, but this was the first time he’d alluded to the Nazis and their victims. Norma Jeane protested. “American c-collaboration? What do you mean, Otto? I thought we s-saved—” “We ‘saved’ the death-camp survivors because it was good propaganda, but we didn’t prevent six million deaths. U.S. policy—meaning FDR—was to turn away Jewish refugees and send them back to the gas ovens. Don’t look at me like that, this isn’t one of your imbecile movies. The United States is a booming postwar fascist state (now that the self-declared Fascists are defeated) and the House Un-American Activities Committee is their Gestapo and girls like you are luscious pieces of candy for whomever’s got the dough to buy them—so shut up about things you don’t understand.”
Otto was smiling his wide gleaming death’s-head smile. Norma Jeane smiled anxiously to placate him. He’d several times given her the Daily Worker and crudely printed pamphlets published by the Progressive Party, and the American Committee for the Protection of the Foreign-Born, and other organizations. She’d read them, or tried to. How badly she wanted to know. Yet if she asked Otto about Marxism, socialism, communism, “dialectical materialism,” the “withering-away of the state,” he cut her off with a dismissive shrug. For it turned out (maybe) that Otto Öse didn’t believe in the “naive religiosity” of Marxism either. Communism was a “tragic misreading” of the human soul. Or possibly a “misreading” of the tragic human soul. “Baby, for Christ’s sake just look sexy. That’s your talent and God knows it’s a rare one. Worth every penny of your fifty-buck fee.”
Norma Jeane laughed. Maybe she was only a piece of candy. Pretty piece of ass as she’d overheard someone (George Raft?) once commenting.
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