by Paula Byrne
I started to worry when the waiters began to bolt down the tables. As the ship began to roll, the dining room emptied. Mother held her glass of champagne firmly, and calmly carried on eating her pickled herring in sour cream.
Her mood only changed when she discovered a copy of Mein Kampf in the ship’s bookstore. Luckily, it was the day that we docked, though she wasted no time in telling Papi, who was there to meet us at Southampton.
I kissed Papi and made my curtsy, and then they talked about stuff I didn’t understand. The book burnings at the Opernplatz, how Mutti (he always called her Mutti) must not go to Berlin, how it wasn’t safe.
‘Papi, don’t be so dramatic. Why doesn’t someone just kill that dreadful little man?’
Papi chuckled: ‘Mutti, the hotel outside Paris. It’s beautiful. It’s in Versailles. A hotel of mirrors. We shall go shopping.’
‘Papi. May we go fur shopping? I stole my Russian sable from those damn furriers at the studio, and now I have a taste for it.’
‘Darling, we shall go fur shopping in Austria, lingerie shopping in Paris, suit shopping on Savile Row.’
‘And Berlin?’
‘No, Mutti, not Berlin.’
We had a phrase for when Mother was not working: ‘in real life’. In real life, she wore trouser suits and shirts with cufflinks. In real life, she ate as much as she wanted and let her hair dry naturally.
As Papi promised, we stayed at the Trianon Palace Hotel, close to Versailles. Our suite of rooms was fit for Madame de Pompadour: all mirrors, gilt, and rococo furniture. I imagined Cinderella dancing in the Salon Clémenceau, and losing her glass slipper on the wrought-iron and bronze-gilded staircase.
After we had finished scrubbing and bleaching the bathrooms, Mother bathed, while I set up her desk. I unpacked and laid out ashtrays, water glass, tray with pencils and Waterman pens, desk blotter and blue ink, two boxes of blue monogrammed paper and envelopes. Stack of Western Union forms.
The first day we ate beluga caviar and filet mignon, with white asparagus, washed down with pink champagne for the grown-ups, and freshly squeezed lemonade for me.
In Europe, Mother never seemed to tire: ‘Papi, I want to go lingerie shopping. But I want silk only, not lace. Lace rolls into a wet sausage between one’s legs. So vulgar, so low-class shop girl. Very Garbo.’
Papi chuckled indulgently and telephoned for a saleswoman to bring her wares to the hotel. She arrived in a navy serge suit with a huge suitcase while I was having my rest. Later, Mother called me into her room. Strewn over her bed were dozens of gossamer silk mousseline confections in champagne, coffee and ivory. Satin, crêpe de Chine, so soft to the touch they slipped between my fingers.
Mother picked up a pair of pink silk panties edged with golden-brown lace, and, turning to Papi, announced: ‘You never know, said the widow.’ It was one of her favourite sayings whenever she handled beautiful lingerie. It was one of those adult jokes that escaped me, but I laughed along with her, because I loved to see her happy.
Fresh from The Red Queen, Mother had developed a taste for fur. We went fur shopping. She acquired a floor-length mink cape, and a silver lamé dress with a five-foot train edged in black fox. Two silver foxes, joined at the snout, were bought to be draped over her pinstriped suits. For me, she bought a white rabbit coat and matching beret.
Mother was getting fat on the delicious hotel food. We ate chicken poached with truffles, lamb, céléri à la grecque, artichoke vinaigrette, spring-pea soup, soufflé potato, leaf spinach, endive salad, caramelised pear, raspberries with cream, lemon soufflé tart, and soft cheeses. I still longed for melted cheese and bacon on white, and Paramount’s coconut cream pie.
In the evening, we went to the opera. Mother wore a dress of pale chiffon, which clung to her curves like a second skin. She looked just like a Greek statue. I had taped her breasts with adhesive to make them appear naked and perky, just like we did at the studio. She often told me that I had ruined her breasts when she had fed me as a baby, so it was important that I make them perfect again, as they had once been.
Papi had given me opera glasses, and when I peered through them I admired the beauty of the dress extras, which caused great mirth to my parents, who explained that these were real people in real clothes. In Hollywood, central casting often hired old failed actors from a special list who came perfectly groomed and dressed in their own evening clothes. It was sometimes so hard to tell reality from studio life.
We visited Versailles and lingered in the Hall of Mirrors. Even for someone who feared mirrors as I did, it was a glorious sight. The seventeen mirror-clad arches echoed the seventeen windows looking out on the garden. I counted each of the twenty-one arch mirrors, 357 in all. The guide explained how Jean Baptiste-Colbert had enticed glass-makers from Venice to teach the art to French manufacturers. Mirrors were a symbol of power and status. The guide told us how the Venetian Republic sent agents to France to poison the workers who had betrayed the secrets of mirror-making.
The light reflected from the glass and the chandeliers and the windows bathed us in a golden glow. I heard Mother muttering darkly to herself as she caught sight of her iridescent beauty in the mirrors.
Later that evening, she confined herself to fish soup and coffee, smoking furiously in short, stabbing motions. Over dinner, there was talk of Berlin. Words I had never heard: Nazi, Gestapo, SS. Germany was not safe, so we packed for Vienna.
Mother had longed for coffee with Schlag, which, as she had promised, was delicious. The Viennese adore this rich, sweetened whipped cream, which they put on pies, fruit, cake and coffee. ‘Papi, do you think the Viennese do it with Schlag?’
We shopped at the House of Knize for tails and tuxedos, bought tickets for the Mozart concerts in the Golden Hall of the Wiener Musikverein, and took strolls in Belvedere Palace park.
In Salzburg, Mother wore blue-flowered chiffon, and played ‘The Blue Danube’ over and over again on her gramophone. In Lanz of Salzburg, she dressed me in a Tyrolean peasant dress with a red bodice and full blue skirt.
‘Sweetheart, another size larger? How is that possible? Here put this striped apron around your waist. Stand straight. Slouching does not help matters. Hmm, the blouse is too tight around the upper arms.’
A circle of customers gathered to watch the show. They pitied my beautiful mother, who was only trying to do her best with me. Salzburg was a disaster.
But then, gloriosky! A telegram arrived from the studio trusting that she’d had a pleasant rest and bidding her imminent return to California. Von Goldberg was to direct her in a film that he had written for her, and she was to wire her acceptance so he could proceed.
The phone rang: ‘Mo, sweetheart, what is this madness? Those little Russian Jewish furriers think they are God. They should kiss your feet, not de Mille’s behind. You tell them that Mr von Goldberg will tell me what to do, and I will do it.’
She hung up. I tried hard not to show my joy that I was going home. That evening we stayed in and had room service. Papi finished his accounts, and Mother read her book. It felt just like being in a real family that I had once seen in a movie.
Farewell Song
Madou stares into me as she scrubs her hands over and over again with Roger & Gallet sandalwood soap. It is time to teach that bastard a lesson. Ever since she returned from Europe, at his behest, he has been beastly.
Jealousy … such an ugly emotion, so demeaning, so low-class. He has become boring, joyless, with his cow-like eyes full of recrimination and self-pity. But there will be no undignified scenes. Better to behave admirably in the face of his ungovernable rage.
She knows this is their swan song. She’s said it before, and gone crawling back to him, but this time, he’s gone too far. She is contracted for one more picture, and then she is free. This movie will be her favourite because she has never looked more ravishing. It will be the only picture of which she
will ever own a print, but sitting here, in the thick of it, all she feels is the pain, the humiliation.
Regrettably, she is, once again, playing a whore. Why? Because that’s what he truly thinks of her. It’s time for more finger-wagging.
‘So you’ve come back for more, my dear? Glutton for punishment or Jacobean revenge tragedy? That type of man never changes.’
She takes a cigarette out of the case on her dressing table and lights it.
‘Most women set out to try to change a man, and when they have changed him, they do not like him. I’ve never tried to change Mo. He is what he is. I accept him the way he is.’
‘You’re in for a bitter time.’
‘Then I shall summon up my courage and face it properly.’
‘You need to develop as an actress. Every picture you appear in is exactly the same; frivolous, superficial, and without the slightest intellectual significance. Don’t you want to go down in posterity as a great actress?’
‘I don’t give a damn about posterity. Why should I care what people think about me when I’m as dead as a doornail?’
‘You might feel differently when you’re older, and wiser. Well, you have been warned. Better stop shilly-shallying and get to it. You’re needed in the Canvas room.’
The setting of the new picture is Seville. There is lace everywhere; scalloped lace, Chantilly lace, antique lace in every colour imaginable. Mo loves lace because he can put his light behind it, creating patterns and shadows that enhance his star’s beauty. In the Canvas room, they unfurl flags of silks and muslin. The Child hovers, as ever, her eyes watchful.
‘Kater, sweetheart, we must have Spanish combs. Tortoiseshell and ivory. And those silk carnations we found in Paris with Papi. I knew we would need them one day. Fetch Travis. And Nellie.’
Nellie crafts a braided wig that looks similar to Madou’s blonde, wispy hair, and then sews the wig onto the large comb. Madou’s hair is dragged so tightly back from her forehead it makes her scalp bleed. She loves the effect it has on her skin; a natural facelift. She never complains about the pain.
And nor does she demur when Mo explains his insane idea about his close-up opening shot. His plan is to fire an air gun into a mass of party balloons. When all of the balloons have exploded, the camera will reveal her perfect face. He tells her it is important not to flinch, not to blink. Not to show fear.
‘Excuse me, Mo. I’m not sure I understand you. You are intending to explode balloons in my face? Who is shooting the gun?’
‘I am, my darling, I would not trust anyone else. But you must not show any reaction. Not a flicker of an eyelash.’
‘Then we will need to change the top of the dress, so it’s lower. And we must have a very high comb, with a veil. And if you shoot me in the eye, we will need an eye patch.’
The Child looks on anxiously. She fiddles with her doll. She’s far too quiet for a child. Easy to forget that she’s around, except that I see everything. I also observe that Nellie has made a tiny doll comb and veil. Travis has created a ruffled Spanish doll dress, red with black silk spots. The Child forces the comb up into the hair of the doll, pushing the hair back from the face. The doll is exquisite; arms and neck made of the finest wax, dimples where dimples should be, eyelashes that look real. Ears like delicate pink shells. There she is; a perfect mini Madou.
Mo turns to his star.
‘Joan. They have decided not to renew my contract. It’s better this way. I can do no more for you.’
She pretends to be angry. She tells him that it’s his own fault. He replays the same theme, over and over again, the man who suffers for his passion, who throws himself away on a vulgar guttersnipe who tortures him for her pleasure. She’s sick of it. Why does she always have to play a cold-blooded whore?
He glares at her. ‘Why do you think?’
In this picture he reveals his torture about their relationship: ‘That woman has ice, where others have a heart.’ He has her speaking a contemptible line to her lover: ‘If you really loved me, you’d kill yourself.’
He tries to take it out on her with his art, but he is a fool. She doesn’t care. Anyone could see that. He could never pull her strings. She is the girl tossing him into the air. One evening after a day’s filming, she loses her cool and screams at him: ‘You made me in your image. Now deal with me.’
But she suffers, too. One evening, she returns to her dressing room, exhausted. Her head aches. Nellie has made little braids of Madou’s hair and wires a large comb to her head. A heavy mantilla is attached to the comb. Madou sits at her dressing table and Nellie takes out her wire cutters, snips the bands and releases the comb. Madou falls forward, exhausted from pain, and rests her arms and head on the table. When she comes up, tears are coursing down her face.
The film is a box-office disaster, but I have a feeling that one day, probably after Mo’s death, the critics will reassess their verdict and pronounce it a masterpiece. While the rest of Hollywood is producing screwball comedies, he is the one exploring the agony of love.
I can imagine the scene. She will be an old diva. They will ask her if the film was a metaphor for his hopeless love and disillusion. She will laugh: ‘We were just making a picture. It was our last collaboration. They say it was all about Mr von Goldberg and me. Such affectation. Nebbish. But I was most beautiful in that film. It was all down to Mo, of course.’
That appalling little lace-maker is finally out of her professional life, but there is one final, ugly scene that I am forced to witness. Although he will no longer work with her, he hasn’t yet learned how not to be in her bed. But he won’t stand for it, when she flaunts her love affairs in his face. Now, he will leave.
Mo kisses her softly on the back of the neck, and takes a last glance at her reflection in me. He is wearing a degraded brown hat, and absurd Turkish boots.
She isn’t going to let him leave without a fight.
‘So, you are again throwing me to the wolves? You bring me to this dreadful country and you throw me away, like a piece of rotting fruit. I gave you everything.’
‘Yes. I have never denied that you have been a sublime inspiration.’
‘Then why are you deserting me?’
‘If you don’t know the answer to that question, there’s no use my trying to explain.’
‘Mo, that’s a woman’s line.’
‘Perhaps our roles have reversed?’
‘Don’t be clever. If you want to leave, then leave.’
‘It is better this way. For us both. We have gone as far as we can together. Now I have to save myself.’
‘So you are going?’
‘Yes, my love.’
And he leaves. Just. Like. That.
She gazes into me for a long, long time. There have been endings before, fights, and reconciliations. But this one is different. I do my best to give comfort. She expects it of me. She has no one else to turn to.
‘Darling Joan, in moments of private chaos, it is better to be alone. Loving advice merely increases the misery. But I will never let you down, and I will always speak the truth: Thousands of people have talent. I might as well congratulate you for having eyes in your head. The one and only thing that counts is: Do you have staying power?
She finally speaks: ‘Yes, I do.’
She snaps on Mo’s resplendent bracelet of diamonds and sapphires and she sweeps out of the dressing room.
Manpower
Mo vanished out of our lives almost overnight, and a new man appeared in the House of Mirrors. He was a tall, blond, blue-eyed Englishman, who loved Shakespeare, the theatre, and my mother. And I think he loved me. I know that I adored him. He listened intently when I asked him a question, and he spoke to me as if I were a grown-up. He was a classically trained actor, with the most beautiful cut-glass English accent. Of all my mother’s lovers, he was the man I most wanted to be my father. His
name was Lacy.
He gave me my first Shakespeare play, told me to read it slowly, and not to be frightened by the difficult words, but to keep a dictionary beside me. It was the start of a life-long love affair. The play was A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and I was enthralled. There was a funny man called Bottom, and he was transformed into a donkey, and the Queen of the Fairies fell in love with him. She reminded me of my mother. The queen loved the changeling child, just as my mother loved only me, and said I belonged to no one else, not even Papi.
There was another Shakespeare queen, too, who was a bad queen. I told Mother all about her. She snorted: ‘Lady Macbeth. Peculiar idea of hospitality!’
I had displeased Mother. I didn’t know then that an adult could feel jealous of a child. She didn’t like Lacy giving me so much attention. It was she who had insisted that the studio find her a new leading man, and they brought him over from England, especially for Mother. Mother wanted my undivided attention. When she was angry, she never raised her voice, she simply pretended that I didn’t exist, or gave me ‘the freeze’ – that look of hers that was as cold as Siberia. Her mouth full of lemons.
In the morning, she left for the studio without me. For once, I could lie in bed. I remember waking to an odd sound, a low shuddering sound. I looked at the mirrored closet doors … they were rattling. The next thing I knew, the new maid ran in and grabbed me. She was gibbering in Spanish and I just about made out, ‘the door frame … is the safest place’. The earth was moving, and I was excited and terrified in equal measure. As we headed down the staircase, it began moving up towards us, and the huge chandelier in the hall was shaking and jingling ominously. We just about made it to the huge oak front door, as the chandelier crashed behind us. Then all was silent.