Mirror, Mirror

by Paula Byrne

  Junior arrived clutching a bunch of American Beauty roses (ouch! she wouldn’t like that).

  ‘Good morning, Pie Face. You are looking mighty beautiful this fine morning.’

  I held my breath, waiting for the storm, but Mother smiled serenely and beckoned him to a seat. Really, wonders would never cease. Pie Face! He called this goddess Pie Face!

  This man was so American. I loved him on the spot. He was the most handsome man I had ever seen (with the exception of Lacy), with startling blue eyes, and the whitest teeth behind a perfectly manicured moustache.

  Mother, who hated the sun, and rarely went out in the sunshine, ordered bathing suits from Bullock’s and we headed off to Palm Springs, then a tiny town with a few Indian shops, one swanky tennis club, and a riding stable. Mother bought me real cowboy boots and a snake stick. For once, Heidi was left behind. She was far too delicate a doll for the desert, and I didn’t have time to ask Travis to make her some Indian clothes.

  We stayed at the town’s only luxury hotel, El Mirador (now burned to the ground), flanked by the magnificent San Jacinto Mountains, which looked to me like a Paramount film set. In the warm evening air, the katydids sang, and I swam in the huge pool surrounded by date palms.

  Junior loved to be seen at Hollywood premieres. Mother disliked being in the company of other stars. She didn’t like her allure to be dimmed by competition. But knowing that her last film was a flop, she conceded that Junior was right, and she should be more visible than just attending a few crummy parties. The Paramount publicity department was ecstatic that Mother was suddenly so accessible, so un-European. They put it down to Mo’s departure, but it was more to do with Junior’s influence.

  Mother was invited to a premiere of a new film. She disappeared for a few days, and I was longing to hear all about it as everyone was talking about Walt Disney and the new feature film.

  ‘Sweetheart, you should have seen it. There was a red carpet, klieg lights, everyone in furs and jewels. The crowds went wild when I got out of the car. I couldn’t fit into the white chiffon because you weren’t there to tape the breasts. But I wore the emeralds. And guess what? All this glamour for hopping rabbits. Now who is going to see that film? Those ugly little men, and the prince who looks like a pansy. There was a scene where she is cleaning the house, I almost peed my pants, and the birds and squirrels are helping the village idiot. Now who is going to pay good money to see that abortion; he should stick to Mickey Mouse. The only good things were the magnificent stepmother and the talking mirror.’

  I longed to see Snow White, and when I did, I adored it, singing birds and all, though it was different to my story book. Lacy arranged for me to see it, and took me in his car. In the movie, there was only one attempted murder of the daughter – death by apple. In my book, the evil queen had first tried to suffocate her daughter by tightening the laces of her bodice, and, when that failed, had brushed her hair with a poisoned comb.

  I shuddered when I saw the queen in her ermine-lined velvet cloak speaking to the magic mirror: ‘Through wind and darkness, I summon thee, Speak. Magic Mirror on the wall. Who is the fairest of them all?’

  On the way home, Lacy, who was upset with Mother, teased me about the movie. ‘Now, Kater, does she remind you of someone? The beautiful queen talking to her mirror?’

  So Lacy had noticed, too. Gloriosky! It was our little secret. But I was no Snow White, with hair black as ebony and skin white as snow. And my mother loved me, unlike poor Snow White. How could the queen ask the woodsman to cut out the heart of her daughter? The queen was the heartless one; ugly inside like the old crone with the apple.

  Lacy saw me to the door of the Mirror House, but he refused to come in. He kissed me on the cheek and waved me goodbye. He smiled with his mouth, but not with his eyes; they looked sad. His last words were, ‘Say hello to your mother.’

  You’re the Top

  She stands in front of me, swaying, finding the most flattering angle. She is trying on Travis’s latest number. A gown with a nipped-in bodice and padded shoulders, which emphasise the tininess of Madou’s waist. It is trimmed with 4,000 black paradise feathers.

  This is just like the good old days in Wardrobe, except that now the fittings are at our place. Travis has a new occupation. He has left the studio and designs evening gowns for Hollywood’s movie queens. As ever, Madou is his muse and his model. He will design gratis, provided that she wears his gowns to the best parties, and tips off the photographers in advance.

  This first creation is a nod to her enduring love of feathers. No French plumassier could compete with Travis when it comes to feather design. He has studied Madou’s body a thousand times, and knows every inch of her flesh. When she wears plumes, she wears them as the birds and animals wear them, as if they belong to her body.

  Everyone wants to duplicate the look, but they can’t source the feathers. She glides into the party, enjoying the gasps from the other women; admiration from her peers is far more delicious than from her adoring public.

  Travis wonders how he can outdo the feather dress. He enjoys the challenge, and creates a fish-scale dress, made of iridescent celluloid scales, hand sewn onto silk chiffon. Their sea-green shimmer makes her look like a mermaid.

  At parties she likes to make a late entrance and arrive unaccompanied. She looks predatory; fierce in her plumage and scales. At any moment she may pounce on an unsuspecting mortal. A bird of paradise. Solitary and territorial.

  She tells Travis: ‘Most people who make movies are a disappointment in real life. I, on the other hand, am so much better in real life.’

  The key to her allure is her mystique. She rarely gives interviews, exudes an air of unavailability, and she refuses to mix with the other stars; that way her light won’t be dimmed. She has the same trusted circle of friends, Travis, Nellie and Dot; they all know how to make her look exquisite, how to create and sustain the legend.

  Above all, she trusts the Child. She has an unerring ability to suggest the extra touch. When Madou wears a simple white trouser suit to a party, the Child suggests that she adds ivory rhinestones to the lapels to reflect light onto her mother’s face.

  The Child knows exactly which piece of jewellery will work with a particular look. She has a gift for choosing the right accessories: scarf, gloves, hat. She tries the looks out on her doll and then makes suggestions to her mother, who always takes them seriously. Madou never speaks down to any child. She talks with them as though they are intelligent adults; that’s why all children are enslaved and worship at the shrine.

  Some people think that Madou was the synthetic creation of von Goldberg, but she was her own invention. Like Shakespeare’s Cleopatra, she makes hungry where she most satisfies – she is all things to all men, and to women, too. She is sex without gender. When she wears a tuxedo, she wears it better than any man.

  ‘In my heart,’ she says, ‘I am a gentleman.’

  She understands, better than anyone, that Hollywood makes dreams. Its business is illusion and invention. Nothing is real. She tells the Child, ‘It’s all smoke and mirrors, sweetheart, smoke and mirrors.’ Then off she sweeps, to another party, yet another secret assignation.

  I see the Child watching her carefully like a little sharp-eyed ginger kitten, mincing up little bits of experience for future use.

  I Loved a Soldier

  Severing her ties with Germany seemed to make Mother more nostalgic than usual. That Christmas, she told me wonderful stories about her childhood in Berlin. She remembered her mother’s beautiful Dresden cookie plate and a hand-painted Austrian milk pitcher with tiny painted snow scenes encircling it. The birthday when her mother gave her a hand-painted music box from the family shop.

  Her mother’s family, the Felsings, were famous clockmakers and jewellers. Apparently my great-grandfather donated a golden clock to the famous Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. Mother inherited her obsession
with punctuality and precision from her own mother.

  Felsings had elegant premises on Unter den Linden. Mother could remember childhood visits to the store, where she was taken by her grandmother. Her grandmother – she called her Oma – encouraged her to try on pieces at the store. She explained to her which jewels should be worn with each outfit. She also taught her to dress correctly, and to select accessories, especially purses and scarves. Perfume was an accessory to be well chosen.

  Oma told her that she had a good eye, which confused the little girl. She wondered why she said that, because she had two eyes. Was only one of them good? Oma wore wonderful jewels, especially brooches. She taught her a trick to sew the brooches onto her dress, lightly but securely.

  Oma took her for tea at the Adlon Hotel. There were sparkling chandeliers, beautiful marble and oriental hangings. The food was wonderful – pheasant, smoked salmon, caviar, and best of all the pastry cart loaded with sweet delicacies.

  The very high cream layer cakes: they were a favourite childhood memory of Berlin. Cream cake was always at the end of an afternoon excursion with Oma. German eclairs are totally different to French eclairs … larger and fatter and delicious.

  Mother’s memories recalled descriptions of food that made my mouth water. On Sundays, when Grandfather was still alive, they would purchase chocolates and vanilla creams, then onto the Café Bauer on the Friedrichstrasse to drink coffee and hot chocolate.

  Huster was the renowned gourmet store – their horse-drawn carriages clattered through the streets of Berlin, carrying lobster, salmon, caviar and salads to restaurants and private patrons in the Bellevuestrasse and the Voss Strasse. On special occasions, they would visit the Scala Theatre to see the famous variety show, with Rastelli the juggler, and Grock the Clown.

  She told me that Grandfather was tall and imposing, with a smell of leather and cigars. She remembered standing at the window of her home in Schöneberg and listening to the sound of the soldiers marching in step, the clip-clopping of the horses.

  The house came to life when there were guests, and she remembered the sparkling chandeliers, the fine goblets, the candles, the porcelain dinner service. Her mother would play a Chopin waltz.

  ‘I could smell her perfume, she would be wearing a beautiful gown, her fingernails touching on the keys with a delicate little click.’

  But then the war came. One of her early schoolgirl memories was passing a POW camp for French soldiers. She impulsively picked up some wildflowers and handed them to a soldier, who put his hand through the barbed wire and clutched them like a gift from God.

  That winter, they ate nothing but potatoes and turnips; turnips, turnips and turnips, turnip marmalade, turnip cakes, turnip soup.

  She remembered Germans pushing wheelbarrows full of deutschmarks for a loaf of bread, and people burning them for fuel and using the banknotes for toilet paper. It was so, so cold. No heating, little food … the freezing cold winter of 1917. Her cousin Hans who gave her her first kiss. Everywhere, there are red flags. Rain and more rain. The soldiers singing ‘Hail to Thee in the Victor’s Wreath’ and ‘Hold Firm in the Roaring Storm’.

  Mother loved ice skating. It came naturally to her. She would just put on a pair of skates and off she went. The skating rink in Berlin twinkled with fairy lights. Her sister did not like to skate. When Mother twirled around on the lake, all the boys gathered around to watch, with hungry looks in their eyes.

  People said to Grandmother: ‘What a beautiful daughter you have.’ They said it in front of Mother’s sister. She never seemed to mind. Grandmother was proud of her daughter’s beauty, and her long, golden hair that reached down her back, but she forbade vanity.

  Once, when my mother was very young, her mother scolded her when she saw her standing in front of their full-length mirror. She was standing so close, she was almost going into it. She seemed to her to be too pleased by her reflection, and to like what she saw excessively. She was not hiding her pleasure.

  ‘Very bad,’ her mother scolded, ‘revealing your feelings, even to yourself.’

  Grandmother was a cold parent. She never kissed her daughter or hugged her, as did my mother, who was constantly kissing and holding me to her side; especially when there was a camera around to record the moment. Grandmother’s constant refrain was ‘Tu Vas’ – ‘Do Something’. What my mother thought she was really saying was ‘Be Something’.

  Mother remembered that her father was affectionate. He would stroke her golden hair, and when she sat on his lap she could smell the leather and tobacco-smoke up close. He would allow her to twirl his moustache. He was so handsome with his blond hair and high cheekbones. And then suddenly he was gone.

  She was just nine. She remembered her mother polishing his high boots after his death, which she kept in her bedroom. Grandmother called her daughter her ‘little soldier’. When she was feeling sentimental, she called her by the name Paul; the name she would have been given if she had been born a boy-child. She liked being Paul. He was strong and sometimes naughty, but very loving. When she was called Paul it meant that her mother was in a good mood.

  The only time she remembered her mother being happy was when her father bought her a yellow dress with a matching bouquet of yellow flowers. She watched through a crack in the door as her mother stared at herself in the full-length mirror. When Grandmother saw her daughter looking, she closed the door.

  My mother’s account of Grandfather’s untimely death varied, according to her mood. Sometimes, he died in the war, with full military honours; at other times he fell from his horse and cracked open his head like Humpty Dumpty, and they couldn’t put him together again. I only learned, much later, that the truth was much less noble. When Mother was dying, she talked about Grandfather’s death. She remembered Grandmother taking her and her sister for a walk outside a hospital building in Schöneberg, so that Grandfather could look out of his barred window and see the young girls.

  He died of syphilis – a disgrace to Grandmother and the Felsings, so she told no one. It was bad enough that she had married beneath her, but this ignoble death must be concealed from everyone. Grandmother was terrified that the disease might have been passed on to her daughters.

  I sometimes wonder whether my mother’s obsession with germs stemmed from her father’s death, and I was convinced that, deep down, she knew the real ugly truth of his death. But it was another thing that, in her mind, it did not happen that way, simply because she didn’t want it to. The truth was always her truth. It was the same with what happened to me. She would never have believed me, even if I’d tried to tell her the truth. Why bother with facts when a pretty lie would do?

  ‘Quid est veritas … What is truth?’ she would say, in that husky, lispy drawl. ‘Well, sweetheart, it’s all quatsch. Now go to bed.’

  World Weary

  On Madou’s free days away from the studio, she shops with manic energy. Piles and piles of shopping are stacked in a corner of her dressing room. She buys scarves and gloves for her mother and sister, silk ties and dressing gowns for Papi, books for the Child, and gramophone records for herself. She loves Richard Tauber, and listens to him over and over again.

  Today a new gold clock from Cartier is placed on her mantelpiece. She is proud to be a clockmaker’s child. Tick tock, tick tock. She runs her hands over its surface and goes off to clean the bathroom, scrubbing away on her hands and knees.

  She has other uses for the bathroom, too. She discovers a new way to stay slim, while eating whatever she wants. She binges, and then runs to the bathroom and puts her fingers down her throat. Then she feels purged and new.

  For once, she can eat in an unrestrained manner, like her daughter. She guzzles down all of the delicious pastries and cakes that she usually denies herself in order to stay pencil-thin, in the American fashion. As with the Child, she enjoys eating in private, although I am always there. A silent witness to her greed a
nd gluttony.

  In terms of sex, she has always been a woman of lusty and unashamed appetite. In her manic phases, she devours men, choosing who she wants. ‘Daddy, I want a piece of that,’ she whispers when she sees a young handsome actor go by. She’s rapacious and seldom satisfied, seeking the next thrill, the next conquest. She’s careful not to get caught. She doesn’t want another brat. Her trusty douche is her best friend, and she buys Heinz vinegar by the gallon.

  One of her swains said that every time a waiter waltzed past with a vinegar salad dressing he would think fondly of Madou.

  She gets everything she wants, because she wants it, and because nobody ever says no. This, I believe, is very bad for the soul. As her truth-teller, I shall intervene. She won’t like it, but she will listen to her conscience.

  Tonight, she is immaculate, dressed in an ivory silk and lace nightdress that has the delicacy of a cobweb. She sits down at her dresser, to brush out her hair.

  ‘You give too much of yourself, Joan. Free love is hateful and sordid and cheap.’

  ‘Don’t be pompous, darling.’

  ‘Your hormones are working overtime, rushing madly in and out of your blood like busy messenger boys.’

  ‘It’s not a crime to be loved. It’s my temperament. I require passionate love.’

  ‘You never love anyone, you only love them loving you.’

  ‘You’re cruel to torment me.’

  She twists her mouth into a half-smile.

  ‘Most of the world is greedy and predatory, and if you give them the chance, they will steal unscrupulously the heart and soul out of you, without really meaning to.’

  ‘It’s my opinion that love affairs are the only real education in life.’

  ‘Poppycock. Personally, I’d rather have a nice cup of cocoa.’