Mirror, Mirror

by Paula Byrne

  Mother had no way of knowing we were safe. All the phone lines were down. Luckily, she had not even left her dressing room at the moment that the first tremors began. Lacy rushed to find her, shouting that at least they could die together. Mother was horrified. She pushed him out of the way and ran to find a phone.

  On the way, she met another famous actress; she never would tell me her name.

  ‘Joan, why are you running?’

  ‘My child. I’ve left her at home. I need to reach her.’

  ‘It will be fine. Don’t worry, my children are at home, and I’m not worried.’

  ‘Yes,’ my mother cried, ‘but your children are adopted!’

  My memory is hazy about our reunion. How did Mother get to me? The phone lines were down, and people were terrified of the aftershock and hid under tables and door frames. All was quiet. I guess I’ve seen so many film sets that the sight of Hollywood diminished to rubble didn’t seem so peculiar. I always had a problem distinguishing between appearance and reality, and who could blame me?

  Find me she did. Our maid took me to her church, which was still standing, though its windows had been blown out. Long Beach was levelled, the House of Mirrors was a mountain of smashed glass, and so we moved into the Beverly Wilshire Hotel for the night. Mother and I lay together in the king-size bed, waiting for the aftershocks, Mother muttering, ‘There are no earthquakes in Germany.’ After running to stand under the door frame three times, we decided to get some sleep. Mother told me about Lacy’s impertinence, reassuring me that she would only ever want to die together with me. I was expected to show my gratitude for the honour of dying with her, but all I could really think about were the delicious black and white ice cream sodas at the hotel’s drugstore fountain.

  Our suite at the Beverly Wilshire was so elegant. In the main room, greeting our arrival, was an enormous bunch of white roses and lilies, and a huge bowl of fruit. Mother hated all fruit except for apples. She took a red apple from the bowl and bit into its crisp flesh, and a dribble of apple juice trickled down her scarlet lips.

  Dream Girl

  They escape the House of Mirrors, but will not escape me. The most dangerous place to be in an earthquake is next to a mirror. Broken glass lines the streets of Long Beach; scenes of destruction and debris that look like a war zone in a movie, except for once, in Hollywood, it’s real life. All those broken mirrors create a tsunami of bad luck. In the end, 117 people die in the earthquake, and many more are injured.

  It’s a good thing I wasn’t shattered because that would have been the end for Madou. A broken mirror is seven years’ bad luck. Seven because life renews every seven years. Every cell in the body renews so that the person is a different person. Shedding skin, like a snake. Every seven years, skin flakes off, hair falls out; nails break off and regrow. Regenerated cells in the hair, the skin, the liver, the stomach and intestines, the bones. Every seven years, they all become new people with new consciousness. How can anyone know themselves when every seven years the person is changing, the human body in constant flux? Seven years are enough to change every pore and every emotion.

  Some people believe the seven years’ bad luck could be washed away by immersing the pieces of broken shards of mirror in south-flowing water for seven hours. What an absurd superstition. No, you must apologise for your clumsiness and then bury the fragments of the glass in the cold earth, carefully and respectfully.

  If the person happens to be looking into the mirror when they break it, then they fracture their soul. Breaking a magic mirror is even more dangerous. Magic mirrors reflect the shadow soul, and show the true nature of the person being reflected. Certain death will come to those who shatter a magic mirror. The Child wants to protect her shadow soul, so she covers me, especially at night, before she retires to bed. For extra good luck, she recites her favourite poem:

  And moving through a mirror clear

  That hangs before her all the year,

  Shadows of the world appear.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  But in her web she still delights

  To weave the mirror’s magic sights,

  For often through the silent nights

  A funeral, with plumes and lights

  And music, went to Camelot:

  Or when the moon was overhead,

  Came two young lovers lately wed;

  ‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said

  The Lady of Shalott.

  Are the gods of Hollywood speaking through the earthquake? I have a feeling that for the next seven years things may not go quite so well for Madou.

  Song of Songs

  ‘Papi, you will not believe this … now listen carefully and tell me what to do.

  ‘“Applause for Joan Madou, who has finally dismissed the Jewish director who has always cast her as a prostitute or a fallen woman, but never in the role which would bring dignity to the great citizen and representative of the Third Reich. Now, Madou should come home to the Fatherland, assume her historic role as a leader of the German film industry and end allowing herself to be the tool of Hollywood’s Jews!”

  ‘Do they really believe that I will be returning to Germany, when eight million Jews are trying to escape? Papi, you must leave at once, and you must bring Mother with you. I’ll send you more money. Now, speak to your daughter.’

  ‘Hello, Papi. How is Sofi?’

  I knew from the silence that I had displeased my father by my reference to his long-term mistress. But I loved her deeply, and it was so long ago that I had seen her, and felt her arms around me. I should have remembered to be more careful.

  ‘I’m sorry, Papi. I’ve been rude. I miss you so much. I worry about Mutti. She’s seemed so worried, and Mo has gone.’

  ‘Do not worry, Kater. I need to speak to your mother, again.’

  ‘Papi, may I have a dog?’

  ‘Goodbye, Kater.’

  On my father’s advice, Mother contacted the studio’s head of publicity, and later that day announced that she would sever all ties with Germany and apply for American citizenship. She also released a statement, praising Mo as her God: ‘It is not my wish for our association to be broken. I would prefer to go on as in the past. He feels that this is the time for me to go on alone. So that is what I shall do.’

  Many years later, Papi told me of the danger he was under. On the evening of Mother’s statement, Papi was paid a visit requiring him to take on a senior position in the German film industry. He thanked the official for the great honour, and asked for twenty-four hours to think about it. As soon as he was alone, he packed a suitcase, threw it into his car and drove slowly and calmly all through the night until he reached Paris. Don’t bring attention to yourself. Don’t stop. Don’t panic. He told me that he had never been so afraid in all of his life. He then telephoned my mother. She cried with relief. I wondered why she had forgotten to ask about Sofi.

  My father was pleased when Mother told him that the studio had renewed her contract, making her the highest paid star in Hollywood. She celebrated by renting a new house in Bel Air, and going jewellery shopping. She went to Trabert & Hoeffer-Mauboussin and bought magnificent cabochon emeralds. People said they were a present from one of her lovers, but that wasn’t true. They were a present to herself. They were to be one of her best investments.

  I called them my sisters. The emerald and diamond cuff was 128 carats, and its huge cabochon stone, the size of a bantam egg, could be snapped into a ring. There were two clips, one pin, a necklace, and a pair of earrings. My green charges lived in grey, velvet caskets and they barely left my sight. I felt less lonely now that I had my emerald sisters. I hoped that Heidi didn’t feel jealous, though she would always be my priority. But I had other responsibilities now. My mother had entrusted me with her most special possessions, and I vowed never to let her down. Nothing bad could ever happen to my sisters as long
as they were with me. Sometimes, they appeared in her films, sparkling in the lights, for ever in posterity. Now they are long-gone, disappearing somewhere to pay bills and taxes. But will they ever grace a wrist, a finger, a neck as beauteous as my mother’s?

  Mother made her first picture without Mo. It was called The Song of Songs. Lacy was her leading man. Ah, so that’s why he came for scrambled eggs in the mornings! In the absence of Mo, Mother was taking on ‘Madou’ as her personal duty. She tells me that she needs to protect and perfect what Mo has created. It will become a lifetime dedication. It will show how the pupil has learned from the master. She will create a legend. Yes, the looks, the costumes will stand the test of time. She and Travis concentrated on creating a series of breathtaking images. She remembered the lessons from her master, very well.

  Travis and Mother created a fabulous black velvet, off-the-shoulder evening dress, with egret feathers. She was as ravishing as ever, but there was a terrible, unforgettable moment when she first arrived on-set, and spoke for everyone to hear: ‘Mo, where are you?’

  The scene everyone remembers was Mother posing naked. Lacy, who played a sculptor, sketches her naked, so that he can preserve her beauty in cold marble. Draped in black silk, Mother slowly removed her robe, revealing her milk-white body from shoulder and neck, the camera then dropping to reveal her naked legs. It was one of the most daring scenes in movie history.

  Now that I’m old, I love to look back at that film, and witness Lacy’s love for my mother. I wonder why she is so often compared with a statue. Perhaps because statues never grow old. I won’t say because she was as cold as marble. That would be unfair. Lacy was so handsome, so English. The first man I really loved. Who made me feel safe.

  Lacy encouraged me to read the Song of Songs, telling me that it contained some of the most beautiful language ever written about the love between man and woman. He told me that first love was precious and pure. He explained that this was the way he thought about my mother. One day, he trusted, my first love would feel this way about me. Ever-dutiful, I took out my bible.

  I am my beloved, and my beloved is mine.

  He feeds among the lilies.

  Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth – for his love is more beautiful than wine.

  Her breasts are twin fawns.

  I opened for my beloved, but my beloved had left.

  Lacy was right. It was the most moving description of love that I had ever heard. My mother was so darned lucky that a man like Lacy loved her so passionately. I wondered what first love might be for me. To this day, I am relieved that Lacy never discovered the truth.

  I’m Old Fashioned

  Her first film without Mo is a perfect disaster.

  ‘Darling, the part is rather thin.’

  ‘Next time, I’ll ask for a fat one,’ she snaps, glaring accusingly at the Child.

  She is angry that I tell the truth. She has created the face. Yes, but Mo would have retouched the side of her neck to bring out the beauty of her jawline. Ha, I have her there. She cannot deny that I’m right.

  ‘Nuts! You don’t know what you are talking about. The face is perfect. Look at the cathedral arch of the lips, the hooded eyes, the height of the cheekbones.’

  ‘But the talent, dear. Let’s not forget the talent. Do not think that I criticise’.

  ‘I love criticism just so long as it’s unqualified praise.’

  ‘Now, dear, remember what I always say: wit ought to be a glorious treat, like caviar. Never spread it about like marmalade.’

  She smiles again, a wistful, sad smile.

  ‘The human race is a let-down, mirror, a bad, bad let-down. It thinks it’s progressed, but it hasn’t. It thinks it’s risen above the primeval slime, but it’s wallowing in it, clinging to our hair and to our eyes and to our souls.’

  ‘You know what I tell you, Joan. Refuse to be unhappy. And if life becomes insufferable … Sail away, sail away, sail away …’

  ‘I know the film stinks. You’re right. It’s good that you tell the truth. True friends tell the truth.’

  ‘My dear, it’s discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit. Success is far more perilous than failure. You’ve got to be doubly strong and watchful and weary.’

  The Child, who has been listening, while buffing the emeralds, suddenly stands. She comes to her mother, strolling with her usual bovine listlessness. She puts her arms around her mother, sensing her unhappiness. Tells her that she’s so beautiful in Song of Songs. How handsome Lacy is in the film. How Lacy loves her so. How she will always love her mother. How she will always be a good girl, and never cause her grief.

  Madou is becalmed. She turns from the dressing table to address her child.

  ‘I do it all for you. To give you this life in the sunshine. Now, kiss me and go to bed.’

  And so it went on. The films were all flops. Entertainment, not art. Madou insisted that I was positioned beside the camera, so she could see what the camera saw, but it was to no avail. I regret to say that her new director could not create the mystery. It was vexing, but there it is.

  When one sees her perform as Lola Lola, one sees what might have been if she had only allowed that raw talent to develop. Not that she cared. She didn’t care one jot. She took her pleasures elsewhere. The men came and went. The women, too. Only her love for her daughter remained a constant.

  I begin to despise her. The daughter, I mean. Her embonpoint distinguishes her from other children her age. So heavy, such a jiggly-puff. A girl of ample proportions. Bovine. Broad in the beam. A hefty, tubby butterball.

  She might take a few lessons from her mother, for whom self-sacrifice is all. It can’t be easy for the Child, being such a dismal mediocrity. But she is thoroughly greedy. Devouring sensational amounts of food in great gobbling gulps like a pig at a trough. Podge and Stodge. Pig-Wig. Little Miss Chunk-a-lot.

  Madou seems to shrink, as her daughter bulges. I see Nellie letting out the daughter’s dress (flowered crêpe de Chine), which is straining at the armholes. In contrast, Madou’s dresses cling like scales to a fish. She smokes constantly, and sips beef tea. She is a woman of extraordinary discipline when it comes to food.

  I see the daughter cleaning the Turkish carpets with sauerkraut. It is the perfect way to remove stains and refresh the colours. Whenever she thinks no one is looking, she grabs handfuls of sauerkraut and stuffs it into her fat mouth. That is the reason she volunteers for that particular job. On her hands and knees, scrub, scrub, scrubbing. Gobble, gobble, gobble.

  And that face, so pimple-ridden, and her hair, a peculiar hue of lurid orange. One wonders how on earth a goddess could give birth to such a horror. But Madou adores her second self. When her child is ill, with flu, she nurses her with all the fervour of Florence Nightingale.

  Madou works tirelessly at the studio, night and day. She constantly tells me that it is for the Child. Never complaining, never taking a bathroom break when she is in front of the camera for hours on end. Living for the moment that she can pack her trunks and leave the tinsel enchantment of Hollywood for Europe and civilization.

  Madou is to appear in her first Technicolor picture ‘on location’. It is to be shot in the Arizona desert masquerading as the Sahara. We pack as though we are never to return, Madou arranging things with military precision. Our hotel is in Yuma, and Madou sets about sterilising the toilets and unpacking the stockpiles of toilet paper that she has ordered from the drugstore.

  Sand dunes stretch out as far as the eye can see. The Child has brought her cowboy boots and her snake stick, and she is on the look-out for scorpions. The hot wind flaps the canvas of our dressing-room tents. Despite the intense heat, Madou does not perspire. Her co-star does not fare so well. He peers into me and sees that his toupee has slipped in the heat. Madou glues it to his head with half a bottle of spirit gum.

  Mado
u loathes her director, and takes every opportunity to express her contempt.

  ‘Remember when Mo created the desert in the studio with nothing. It was wonderful, not like this abortion. All of these people with sunstroke. That old lady’ – gesturing towards her male co-star – ‘puts ice-packs on his wrists, while I sit under a hairdryer. Even the camels are dying of the heat. I was raised properly. To endure. Never to complain. A soldier’s daughter never cries.’

  The picture is another flop. Madou’s magic is in chiaroscuro. She was made for the mystique of black and white. Technicolor always lets her down. Her director is frustrated almost to tears with her perfectionism. She insists on her hair being perfectly coiffed, even when the ‘Sahara’ wind is blowing. In despair, he sends her a memo: ‘Surely a little reality can’t do a great beauty any harm?’

  Madou is furious. ‘What does he mean by “reality”? Nebbish. We work in make-believe. We are make-believe.’

  Follow the Boys

  Lacy returned to England to make a movie, and Mother gained a new friend; a woman writer whom she called the White Knight. To this day, I never can remember her name, except that is sounded like an expensive automobile. All I know is that the White Knight claimed that she could get any woman away from any man. Among her many lovers were Isadora Duncan, Alice B Toklas, and Garbo. During one of her many rifts from Garbo, the Knight met my mother. Mother, who loathed the Swede, loved the idea of stealing her rival’s girlfriend.

  Mother’s latest circle of friends included two freakishly handsome, impeccably dressed young men whom Mother called ‘the boys’. Ben was a party planner for the rich and famous, and Andrew sold real estate. They knew everyone in town. If you weren’t invited to their parties, then you were nobody. You might as well leave Hollywood if you weren’t on their guest list. They made Mother laugh until she peed her pants. After giving birth to me, she suffered from a weak bladder. The boys would regale her with the latest Hollywood gossip, and she would laugh until she cried and then dash for the bathroom.