Mirror, Mirror

by Paula Byrne

  She laughs softly.

  ‘I mean it Joan, one gets carried away by glamour and personality and magnetism – they’re beastly, treacherous things. You need real friends. The kind that you can call at 4 a.m.’

  ‘That’s why I have you. I have my child. I don’t require anyone else.’

  The telephone rings to interrupt our rendezvous. Her telephone is her constant companion; her link to her family and the Europe that she loves, and sees crumbling to dust. One day it will be her only friend.

  A Foreign Affair

  Memory is a treacherous thing. When my mother took to her bed in her dotage, she would reminisce about old times. She would say over and over again, ‘Kater, didn’t we laugh?’ I know that we did, but I just can’t remember the moments. Mother had always had a weak bladder, and there were times she would rush to the bathroom, howling with mirth. That I can remember, though I don’t remember myself losing control in that way. But then I see a photograph of us both, one when we are wearing matching white bathing suits, standing by the pool in Hollywood, and we are laughing together, so I guess it must have happened at least once.

  Some memories are hazy; houses we lived in blend into one another, another dazzling green lawn here, another sparkling blue pool there. Smells take me right back to the past. Orange blossom at a wedding transports me to the train arriving in Pasadena. In those days, there was no air conditioning. The windows would be flung open and a rush of heady orange blossom filled the air.

  Those were the years when travel was an experience, not an expedient. Nowadays, I spend too much time in noisy, crowded airports, in cramped airplane seats, on freezing train platforms. It wasn’t always this way; long distance travel was civilised. The studio chartered a private train to bring us back and forth from Hollywood to Europe. The Pullman sleeping cars were luxurious, built by craftsmen. They were the private jets of the era.

  I remember the dining room, with Cuban mahogany tables and chairs, and the bedrooms richly upholstered in pale green. Mother had a dressing room, with a fireplace and a chaise, and a dresser with a large mirror and brass lamps. Pullman joked that he ran the largest hotel in America, except that it was a moving hotel.

  Mother, proficient at forgetting about the past when it suited her, had no romantic yearnings for our long, slow journeys. In her later years, she loved to travel by air; the speed, the convenience, the ease. She flew around the globe with nauseating energy, never once succumbing to jet lag. I, still in love with the past, recall the slow boats that brought us home.

  I can remember every detail of the Normandie. She was the greatest ocean liner of them all. Oh boy, was she a beauty. A fabulous, floating art deco palace. Where do her bones lie now? During the war, she was set on fire and utterly destroyed. But I remember her glory days.

  Mother was always given the Deauville Suite, which boasted an oval salon, with a honey-coloured baby grand piano, four bedrooms, five marble bathrooms, and a circular dining room, which opened out onto our own private balcony. It was all the colour of dusky rose-gold, with Aubusson carpets and ebony furniture. Even now, I can see the swirls in the carpets. I can see Mother changing from her travel clothes, ready to scrub and bleach the already gleaming bathrooms.

  The first time we sailed on the Normandie was a magical time. I remember pouring Mother a glass of champagne from the several ice-cold bottles nestling in their silver tripods. Before sorting the flowers, I begged Mother if I could say goodbye to the Lady.

  ‘Really Kater, you are as American as a coloured girl. You know the French designed the Statue of Liberty. Americans are too stupid.’

  I took that as a yes and scrammed before she could change her mind. I got up to the sun deck just in time to say goodbye to the Green Lady with the torch. I could just about see the broken chains around her feet. I closed my eyes and made my wish: ‘Please let me get back home to America.’

  Mother was not expected to dine the first night, so I tucked her into bed and set off to explore the greatest ocean liner in the world. First, I took the elevator to the grand lobby, which was more fabulous than the Waldorf. The band played Cole Porter and Irving Berlin, not fusty old Mozart. Gloriosky!!

  I made my way to the first-class dining room, another mini Versailles. It was longer than the Hall of Mirrors and boasted twelve tall pillars of Lalique glass, flanked by thirty-eight matching mirrored panels. I counted them one by one. Sparkling chandeliers, like upside-down wedding-cakes, hung at each end of the room. The tables gleamed with Christofle silver, Lalique glassware, and Baccarat crystal. Little wonder that the liner’s nickname was the ‘Ship of Light.’

  I discovered smoking rooms, reading rooms, tea rooms with Limoges porcelain, a playroom for the children (Babar the elephant adorned the walls), a huge swimming pool, a chapel with stained-glass windows, a library, a full-size movie theatre, which led from the Grand Salon. My favourite place was the Winter Garden. Large, comfortable wicker chairs nestled among orchids and ferns. Snuggled among the lush foliage, I looked up at the huge domed glass lantern to see the moonlight and the twinkling stars beyond.

  We were expected to dress the part on the Normandie. Three different outfits a day, and never the same outfit twice. The next evening, we dressed for the captain’s table. Mother wore a dress of oyster silk, and Mo’s sapphires. I wore a blue dress of uncrushable velvet. Mother took my hand and off we went.

  The Grill Room, all etched-glass panels, black calf and gleaming steel, was even more exclusive than the first-class dining room. That was for the rich, this was for the rich and famous! The waiters, dressed in scarlet and black, ladled out bowls of caviar.

  The highlight of the evening was the Grand Descent, when all of the rich and famous passengers walked down the main staircase, showing off their eveningwear like glittering peacocks. The people looked like dress extras in their white tie and tails and Patou gowns. ‘Straight from the costume department’, as Mother would say.

  They gaped at Mother as she descended the stairs with all the grace and poise of Nike of Samothrace. She made her way to the captain’s table, who was waiting to greet her and kiss her hand. He led her to her chair, as a waiter approached the table with a flute of champagne. Mother took a sip, smoothed her gloves, and remarked loudly: ‘All the women here look like Kay Francis.’

  One year (was it that year?), she met the Writer. The captain’s table was laid for thirteen, and mother, who was always superstitious, beckoned to the handsome man who looked uncomfortable in his tuxedo. The Writer was transfixed, and they spent the evening speaking only to one another.

  She called him Papa, he called her ‘my little Kraut’. Mother told me that they had never been free to pursue a sexual relationship at the same time, but, boy, could they flirt. That first time they met, he became her devoted slave. His first words to her still resonate over the long years of their friendship. ‘What do you really want to do for a life work? Break everybody’s heart for a dime? You could always break mine for a nickel, and I’d bring the nickel.’

  There were times, over the years, that I thought of confiding in Papa Hem. He was a big bear of a man, and a man of unimpeachable courage. But then I knew that his first loyalty would always be to my mother. So I wrote him down on my ‘not to be disturbed’ list, and worshipped him from afar.

  The Stately Homes of England

  The Child thinks she can escape me, but I am omnipresent, just waiting for her to catch a glimpse of me when she least expects it. And, of all places, the family come to Claridge’s of London. They are in England to see Lacy. An attractive man of considerable charm, though his acting leaves a lot to be desired. He thinks too much, that’s his problem. Actors should never think.

  Claridge’s is a paean to the age of glass; a glittering, sparkling, silvery wonderland. From the moment one steps through the revolving doors, therein lies enchantment. The lobby floor is marbled chequerboard, Gershwin tinkers on the pian
o. The flower arrangements are as tall as houses, flames flicker in the Victorian fireplaces. The chandeliers dance and reflect the light that bounces from the mirrored walls of the lobby.

  The tables in the dining room are laid for afternoon tea; the tiniest silver spoons on gleaming china, thin-cut sandwiches, silver teapots of Earl Grey, and delicate cakes of pink and white.

  Those in the know make their way to a secret doorway at the foot of the sweeping staircase. This is the Fumoir, where bad girls go for cocktails. It is constructed to resemble a mirrored jewel box, with deep red and aubergine velvet seats lit dimly through Lalique cut glass.

  Everyone in England is talking about the King of England and Mrs Simpson. Madou has a plan. Lacy has arrived, and they sit in the Fumoir, smoking and sipping cocktails.

  ‘Dear heart, I need to save the monarchy. I need to prevent history from taking a tragic course. I am going to see the king. I spoke to the Duke of Kent last night and told him that I can do it better than Wallis Simpson, and I won’t try to be the Queen of England.’

  Lacy tries to conceal his smile.

  ‘She must be very clever to get a king so mad about her. You know what everyone says about him, and men like that always love their mothers. But men like that cannot be kings. She is clearly very good at doing what he likes.’

  ‘What exactly do you propose, Joan?’

  ‘I shall show him that there are plenty more fish in the sea.’

  ‘Darling, what about us? I can’t stand aside and let you seduce the King of England.’

  She glared at him.

  ‘Don’t be so old-fashioned. We are doing it for England, which we both love. Some sacrifices must be made.’

  That evening, she prepares herself, spending hours at her dresser to look her very best. An hour later, she returns. She summons Lacy to her bedchamber. She is livid.

  ‘I drove to Buckingham Palace, and I was refused entry. I demanded to see the king. I suspect that woman knew of my plans. Well, so be it. It will be his funeral. He’ll be as miserable as sin. You mark my words.’

  Lacy looks mightily relieved that his lover won’t be bedding the King of England. He tells her that a telegram has arrived from the studio instructing her to return to Hollywood. He wonders if he could take the Child to the Natural History Museum. She is annoyed and snaps, ‘Why on earth do you want to see all those old bones? Do as you wish. I’m going to bed.’

  The Ship of Lost Souls

  The past is never where you left it. The main memory I have of England, as a child, was afternoon tea at the Savoy with Lacy. We ate paper-thin finger sandwiches (cucumber and Gentleman’s Relish), and the waitress brought a cake tier with several different cakes; Victoria sponge, coffee and walnut cake, and scones with jam and cream. We sipped Earl Grey tea. Lacy never looked at me when I ate, or made a comment when I piled my plate high.

  Lacy returned to Hollywood with us, and we moved house again. This time we rented a beach house in Santa Monica, ‘so the Child could play on the beach’. That lasted only a short while as it was deemed too far away from the studio, and we moved back to the Mirror House, which had again become available. Lacy fell out of favour, and a new, older man appeared. He was Mother’s new leading man, and, as usual, she insisted on a love affair to create the right chemistry. That he had once belonged to Joan Crawford amused her. ‘That low-class woman who beats her children.’

  He moved into a house just down the street from us. ‘Wasn’t it a funny coincidence?’

  Travis welcomed us back with open arms. Mother had zipped over to Paris before we left Europe and bought clothes to wear in the new film. Travis was desperate to see them and to chat about England.

  ‘You know, darling, it’s true about tea. They stop working at four o’clock to drink tea and eat cakes. I didn’t believe it until I saw it for myself. No wonder Kater is so fat. I saw Noël in London, and Cole Porter in Paris, they say he can’t live without his cocaine, and I must say his nose looked most peculiar. I saw Lombard in that black monkey fur dress you made for her. Really, Travis, it made me want to feed her a banana …’

  Travis giggled and sipped his coffee. I got the feeling that he had really missed my mother.

  ‘Did you see what Adrian put on Crawford? Nothing but bugle beads, like a second skin. Beautiful, but with those hips, it just looked vulgar. But then everything looks cheap on Crawford. Now what about this new film? What have they told you? I know she’s supposed to be the wife of an English lord, so I thought white chiffon blouses, a simple black velvet suit, white kid gloves.’

  The House of Mirrors, our mini Versailles, was unchanged. The exotic birds perched on their silver branches, and the panthers prowled. Once again, I played my game of dodge the mirrors. Mother’s new friend bronzed himself by the pool wearing tiny white shorts. The hummingbirds hovered over the rose bushes. We were home.

  The studio had redecorated Mother’s dressing room as a welcome home present. The art deco chairs and chaise longue were covered in the softest white fur that looked like polar bears, and the carpet was geranium red. I thought it looked incredible. Mae West, whose dressing room was next door, thought Mother’s white bears were hideous, and told her so.

  Mother waited to exact her revenge. It came when Travis told her that he had made Mae a beautiful silk-chiffon robe trimmed with ostrich feathers. It was to be sent to her dressing room, but Mother intercepted the package and sent the wardrobe girl on her way with a present of a signed photograph.

  Mother stripped naked and put on the sheer robe, and waited for Mae’s return. She let out a scream when she saw Mother: ‘That is my robe, wait until I get my hands on that low-life Travis.’

  ‘Oh Mae, I’m sure you’re mistaken. A girl of your taste would not be seen dead in this abortion. You don’t think it’s too vulgar?’

  Mother twirled around, leaving nothing to the imagination. Mae’s horrified expression turned into a grin: ‘Why, honey, don’t you look just divine? I suggest you come into my dressing room to discuss lil’ ol’ Travis’s treachery.’

  Mae gave my mother a gentle but firm pat on the bottom, and they disappeared together, locking the door.

  I Wonder What Happened to Him?

  This is how she tells me about it, a crystal tumbler of bourbon in her shaking hand: He lies upon me, gasping with desire, and then, all of a sudden, the gasps turn to groans, and then gurgling in the throat.

  ‘John, darling, what is it?’

  ‘My chest, my chest.’

  ‘My darling, you need help.’

  She summons up all her strength and pushes him out of her and onto his back. She knows he is dying (he has suffered two heart attacks in the last few months), and she knows that she can’t be found in his bedroom. She must move quickly. She calls her driver, stuffs her belongings in her overnight bag, including her silver-framed photograph of her daughter, and then she calls for the doctor.

  Back in the House of Mirrors, she goes over the scene in her mind, again and again. Finally she spits it all out, looking frightened and ashamed. With her hands still trembling, she lights a cigarette and tells me about her love for him. His desperately unhappy childhood in Utah, the parents who abandoned him, and then his success as a silent movie star, until the talkies destroyed his career. He was known as the Great Lover. But he was an artist. A man of keen intelligence and integrity. She remembers how he told her that the movie game was like shoot-the-chutes; one minute you’re in breathtaking ecstasy, and down in the doldrums the next. You can’t live for your art in this game. You’ve got to keep a weather eye on the box office, and that means you’re going to do a lot of things and play many a part you don’t want to. He tells her that he hates poverty like a snake. That he wants respect for his work.

  She knew he was an incorrigible drunk, and she thought she could help him. She wanted to protect him, and look after him. She wanted to save him. But he c
ouldn’t be saved. He calls her ‘Love Face’. She keeps every note he ever sent. ‘Angel. Keep loving me. Rush home to me. I love you so.’

  When the news comes of his death, she can only think of the headlines that say that he died alone. No one will ever know that he died in her arms. Later, she attends his funeral. She wears no make-up, and her face is deadly pale. When his possessions are sold, she buys his bed linen. That’s all that she has left of him. Then she takes to her bedroom, and there she stays. She lights a votive candle under his framed photograph, and doesn’t come out for days.

  When she finally surfaces, she looks ghastly. I must be gentle, and kind.

  ‘I wish I were dead,’ she says.

  ‘Life is for the living, Joan. It doesn’t matter about death, but it matters terribly about life.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of death. I’m afraid of life.’

  ‘One must be aware of moral standards. The dignities of life. It’s Fate. It can’t be helped.’

  ‘Don’t be pert.’

  ‘I like it when you’re being all beautiful and sad.’

  ‘I am beautiful and sad. I was weaning him off the drink. Feeding him properly, moonlit drives.’

  ‘My dear, the damage was done. There were demons eating away at his soul. There’s only one rule in Hollywood, and that’s to survive.’

  ‘I’m a soldier’s daughter. I am a wife and a mother. Papi is on his way to me. But for now, allow me to be sad.’

  The Spoilers

  There are many ways to destroy a person.

  It is time for me to talk about Sofi. Now that I am a grandmother, I find myself mourning my father’s lover. She was Russian by origin, and a very beautiful woman. More important than her fragile beauty was her kindness. I remember when I met her the first time with Papi she was wearing Mother’s cast-off clothes. She was gentle and sweet. I wanted Sofi to be my mother, but I knew my mother would never allow this to happen. I had to hide my love for my father’s mistress, because that way I would keep her.