Mirror, Mirror

by Paula Byrne

  The only other problem is the neck, where the foundation stops. She camouflages it with a sparkling diamond necklace, so that the line is obscured. Now she can barely move. She becomes a statue. Galatea. Breathing is a conscious effort. She likes the test of physical discipline. Movement is constricted. Bathroom breaks not permitted. This is the body she craves. The body she had at the age of twenty-two. It is perfection. No one can see the price she is paying, how much it hurts. All that matters is the diaphanous fabric that moulds and sculpts her body.

  If, heaven forbid, the zipper breaks, the foundation is replaced with one of several others hanging in their garment bags. From this moment on, Madou will never be without her foundation. Only three people are entrusted with the secret: Irene, Kater, and me.

  Madou’s One Night Only in the Congo room of the Sahara Hotel is a sensation. She appears at the top of a staircase, shimmering in a gown that seems barely there. The crowd gasps and goes wild. The statue has come to life, and is slowly descending the staircase, her head and gaze straight ahead – a trick she has picked up from the Vegas showgirls.

  Having found her key light, she sings a handful of songs, which bring the audience to tears. The applause goes on and on, and flowers are thrown onto the stage. She has what she has always wanted – to be the only star of show, not sharing the stage with anyone else. Just Madou and her beloved audience. For one night only.

  Golden Earrings

  Mother’s One Night Only was a sensation. It was the hottest ticket in town. Celebrities flocked to Vegas to get a ringside seat at her one-woman show. Her plan was to take her act around the world, but she needed someone to direct. It had to be perfect.

  Finding Burt Freeman was another example of her extraordinary ability to nose out the right person, to find the Pygmalion to her Galatea. He was a classically-trained conductor, who also wrote the perfect pop songs. Together they created a new show, and they would take it around the world for seventeen years.

  He wrote songs for her that complemented her strengths and concealed her weaknesses. Like her, he was a perfectionist and they spent hours and hours rehearsing. He taught her how to make a song her own, to slow down, to relax, when to breathe.

  He found her a lighting genius. He listened to her advice, arranged her hotel rooms, ensured her dressing room was stocked with champagne, sent her flowers, lilacs and lilies, never roses. He was young and handsome and virile, and she fell desperately in love with him. He refused to sleep with her, saying he never mixed business with pleasure. I think this may be why their incredible partnership lasted so long. And whatever she did to tempt him, he went home at night.

  Burt was not a god, but he was almost a saint. She adored him, believed him to be a genius, but she never forgave him for resisting her charms. I needed the work, so I agreed to be her dresser. However bad our relationship had become, we always worked well together. I had huge respect for Burt. He knew exactly how to handle my mother. Together they created magic.

  Mother lived for that very first moment when she appeared at the top of a curved staircase in her nude dress, and the audience gasped at her impossible beauty. Each new dress had to be more sensational than the last. It took ten seamstresses three months to make each one. The diaphanous chiffon was dyed to the exact colour of Mother’s skin. Then every bead, every sequin, was hand-sewn into place. One creation was covered in tiny mirrors that glimmered and shimmered in the light. I managed to avoid that gown.

  Drawing on her experience during the war, she executed a one-minute costume change into tails and top hat. The audience went into a frenzy. For the final act, she transformed herself into a circus ringmaster in tiny black velvet shorts, black tights, and a scarlet coat. She loved flicking her whip at an imaginary tiger.

  One day after rehearsals, she let herself into Burt’s villa. She cooked goulash, scrubbed his floors, filled his fridge with his favourite food, and waited for him. He had been playing tennis. He was surprised to see her, but escaped into the shower. She washed his tennis clothes and laid out his meal. He sat, he ate, and then he went to bed. But first he called his driver to take her home. Her revenge was to tell everyone that he had gonorrhoea.

  He was the first man who had ever said no and meant it. Back home, she heard the news that Moncorge, who was back in Hollywood, was getting married. She was livid. Another one was slipping away from her grasp. She began following him; into shops and restaurants, just to catch a glimpse of him and his lover. She called him obsessively on the telephone. One day, she follows them into an antique shop and makes a scene. He is furious and orders her out of the shop. Back at home, she is shaking and crying.

  ‘He’s getting married, Kater. He’s a damn fool. He’s making a terrible mistake. I always knew he was a stupid peasant. No matter. He will come back to me. She looks just like me, but she’s nineteen. She’s had abortions, and now she’s trapped him. What do I do if I see them? Am I expected to shake her hand? I’m not a good enough actress for that. Now, help me into this dress.’

  We were invited to a Bel Air party. Mother resplendent in an ice blue chiffon gown, golden earrings a-dazzle. I remember this party so well because it was the first time I had seen Mother blind drunk. What I didn’t know was that it was the first of many times that I would take her out, carry her back to the car, undress her while she screamed obscenities at me, and then put her to bed. I also remember this day because it was the day that I finally stopped drinking. I knew then that I was not going to end up like my mother. That my life would be different. And that I was unable to save her from herself.

  London at Night

  I am back in the limelight. Just the two of us. Madou and her eight-foot mirror commanding the stage. The good old days have returned.

  London had made an offer she couldn’t refuse. She is performing her one-woman show at the Café de Paris, introduced each night by a famous leading actor. She has had a new dress designed. She calls it ‘the eel’ – slinky and glittering, and she moves like one in cold water. She hates the cold of London, so she adds a floor-length white fur coat, with an eight-foot circular train. 2,000 swans sacrificed the down from their breasts. Willingly, of course, for their queen.

  Thousands flock to see her show.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Joan Madou,’ says the famous actor.

  She slithers down the famous curved staircase like a glacier glinting in the sunlight. Her dress is a masterpiece of illusion, transparent enough to make you think you are seeing everything and opaque enough to make you realise you are seeing nothing. Houdini must have designed this gown. She seems happy in a sacred way. Is her smile for you, or simply for herself?

  Then she is in the spotlight.

  ‘I get no kick from champagne,’ she sings softly, barely above a speaking voice. ‘Mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all.’ This is not exactly true.

  With the final line of this first number, she points to the audience and sings, ‘I get a kick out of you.’

  Then she says: ‘I’m going to sing for you a few songs from my records and a few songs from my films, but first I want to sing the song that brought me into films. I was a student in a theatre school in Europe and a very famous American film director, Mr Mo von Goldberg, came over there to make a film about a cabaret singer called Lola Lola. He had looked at all the actresses and couldn’t find the one he wanted for the part, and finally he looked at this student, and one day I received a call to come and make a test for the part and I was told to bring along a very naughty song. Well, I was so sure that I was never going to get the part that I went there without the naughty song. The director had great patience with me and he said, “You know that you were supposed to bring a song,” and I said, “Yes, but which song?” And he said, “Well, as you didn’t bring a song, sing any song you like, so long as it isn’t a naughty song.” And I said, “I would like to sing an American song because I like American songs.” And he said, �
�All right, sing an American song.” So here’s the song that brought me into film.’

  And she sings: ‘You’re …’ long pause ‘… the cream in my coffee …’

  And at the end of this second song, she says, ‘As you all know, I did get that part, but surely not because I sang that song so well. And when the film was finished, I was asked to come to Hollywood to make more films. One thought intrigued me very much: to go to America. I did not know America, but I knew American songs.’

  And on she goes, all through her repertoire.

  She sings ‘Falling in Love Again’ in that voice, like opium smoke. The applause is rapturous.

  Each costume change is more thrilling than the last. An inky black gown created from ostrich feathers, designed with a slit to the hip to showcase her fabulous legs, elicits a gasp of shocked delight from her adoring audience. They are thrilled to be in such close proximity to this goddess. They could reach out and touch her, if they dare.

  The press, invited back to her dressing room for a glass of champagne, say that it is the most daring dress that has ever graced a stage. I have been wheeled back and plugged in once more, the cables coiling Medusa-like at my feet. The only light comes from my polished surface surrounded by the glaring bulbs.

  ‘Darlings,’ she purrs, ‘there’s nothing underneath except a garter belt to hold up the stockings.’

  Of course we all keep the secret of her foundation. That daughter of hers has managed to inveigle her way back into her mother’s graces. She takes her money and then bitches about her to anyone who will listen. I have to say, though, Kater is looking quite lovely these days. She has finally shed those pounds. She still manages to avoid my gaze, as if she still fears me and suspects me of harm.

  Also backstage are the veterans who flock to her show, several of them in wheelchairs. She is especially kind to them. She stays with them all night, exchanging cigarettes and war stories.

  ‘Darlings, my suite at the Dorchester is so vulgar. Like a stage set. Who is this Oliver Messel? One of Noël’s friends, no doubt. Yellow silk wallpaper in the bedroom, and only two mirrors. The bathroom is an abortion. The toilet seat in scalloped gold, like a seashell. You should see it. Deborah Kerr was in tonight and Niven. Every table is sold out. Now, I need you to be ready when I return to Vegas. First I fly to Paris for fitting. I met an intelligent man, a critic. I dine with him most nights. He emerged from my sofa like a little white worm, you know, like the ones you find in flour. But he’s so brilliant. You should have heard what he told me about Olivier. You wouldn’t know him. Oh, yes, Tynan. That’s him.’

  Concerned about her feeble vocal range, she has begun taking cortisone. She has heard that it improves the vocal cords. Slippery slope, my dear.

  In the Shadow of Happiness

  I never believed in ‘Love at First Sight’. That was for picture stories and Hollywood. Mother perfected the art of falling in love again (and again and again). Love, I realised, was not for me. Then I met him. I smiled when I saw him scowling at me on a Sunday when the theatre was dark and I was rehearsing. He was fixing cables and moving lights. He hated movie stars, and he hated daughters of movie stars who thought they knew something about the theatre. He would take a little convincing, I thought to myself.

  I had a little on my side. I had lost weight, and, now that I was sleeping better, my skin recovered its bloom. I was beginning to look more like my mother. Sometimes I caught a glimpse in the mirror, the blonde hair, the full Cupid-bow mouth, and felt a sliver of shock and fear. The plain fat child had long gone, but she was still there, deep within. She was a part of me and I pitied her. My ugly duckling. My poor sin.

  I asked Bill to marry me, after a week of working night and day on a show, and he was too tired to say no. It was the best decision of my life. I kept him well away from Mother.

  For our wedding, I wore a simple cream silk jersey dress. Bill had tears in his eyes when he saw me. Someone must have told Mother because when we returned to our apartment, someone had broken in and strewn red rose petals over the bed. A bottle of champagne sat meekly in an ice bucket. Mother pretended to be delighted, but she was furious. To anyone who would listen, she complained incessantly about her daughter’s betrayal.

  This time, I wanted the world to know. I called my mother’s old lovers, Mo, Lacy, and Boni, and told them my news. They were delighted. They all said how much they still loved my mother. How much she was missed. How much she loved me. Lacy sent me a volume of poems by Shelley, with an inscription saying ‘He knows everything there is to know about love.’ I told Sofi, and she wept and wept.

  Mother was still banished from my apartment. I gave in and invited her to meet Bill. She was all graciousness. She smirked at the linoleum on the floor (‘Just like Berlin, sweetheart’), and tasted the tuna casserole without a word. She left shortly afterwards. Bill thought she was charming.

  A few hours later, a limousine arrived. Boxes were carried into our home. Smoked salmon from the cold rivers of Scotland, Russian caviar, French cheeses, bundles of white asparagus, tiny honey cakes scattered with dried lavender, and cases of Dom Perignon. Bill was astounded by her generosity. But I knew what it meant. It meant that with him, you only get tuna, with me you get caviar. I told him we should hold a party and get rid of it all. He didn’t understand my tears, but he held me close, and agreed to the party.

  She hoped and prayed that I would leave Bill and return to her, but I knew, and she knew, deep down, that she was defeated. Later that night she called: ‘Angel, I know someone, he’s like your Bill, so Italian, but he’s a little less good-looking, more low-class, more down towards Naples. He hits a ball and then runs “home” in that childish American game … he’s dumb, but sweet. Joe somebody.’

  ‘Mutti, I need to go.’

  ‘This air conditioning: cook or freeze, typical America exaggeration – we never had it back in the day. Do you remember? I suppose that now you have a husband you don’t have time to remember. But you must not forget to douche. You don’t want to have a baby. They’re nothing but trouble. And now I need to buy you a house. You can’t live in an apartment with a baby.’

  When she began to slur her words, I knew that soon she would fall asleep.

  ‘Mutti, don’t forget to put the phone on its hook. Please don’t forget. Put down the phone.’

  ‘Why don’t you get an abortion? It won’t be so easy to leave your husband if you have a child to consider.’

  I was thankful that Bill wasn’t around to hear this. I glared at her and told her of my plan to make my own bassinet. ‘You know, Mutti, like the ones in the movies. With lace and blue ribbons. I know this baby will be a boy.’

  ‘Well, you know you will lose the beautiful blue eyes with that Italian husband of yours.’

  We discussed the bassinet with Bill.

  ‘If that’s what you want, darling, that’s what you will get. We will all make it together, as a family.’

  Mother threw him a sour look.

  ‘Look at her. All her life she has hated being fat, now she’s as big as the massive house I bought for her, and now she doesn’t mind.’

  My husband had the grace and sense to ignore her, and he was already sketching designs for my cradle.

  It was the most beautiful bassinet, and as I sewed on the thick blue silk ribbons, Mother made sandwiches and coffee. The baby came; a boy, as I had wanted. He had fair hair and blue eyes. The day he was born was the happiest day of my life, but, when I first held him in my arms, I cried and cried.

  Bill was worried and shocked. How could he understand when he had never been introduced to my sin? So I told him. I told him everything. And he listened, and he held me and he told me it wasn’t my fault. I was a child, and it wasn’t my fault. In the end, my beautiful baby banished my sin, and I slowly began to stitch myself back together.

  On the day of his christening, Mother laced me into my d
ress. I begged her not to pull the laces too tightly. I could hardly breathe. The baby slept soundly in his cradle. His face was a rosebud, but I didn’t wish him beauty. I wished him love and joy. Mother, dressed in black, as though in mourning, sighed and muttered something under her breath.

  The newspapers described her as the most beautiful grandmother in the world. She hated being old enough to be a grandmother and decided on a different role. That of Fairy Godmother.

  On With the Dance

  Those press guttersnipes constantly comment on Madou’s age, describe her as a ‘glamorous granny’. Of course, she lies about how old she is. Who wouldn’t, when she looks half her age? She seems to be even lovelier than ever. She is back at her best with her show. Fame is hers once again. She has more money than she needs and, true to her heritage, commissions a new piece.

  It will be a bracelet to outdo all others; a ruby and diamond jarretière cuff. Along with her diamond rose brooch and her gold seed pearl and diamond Van Cleef compact (both presents from Mo), it will be among her most precious possessions. Now, she buys her own jewellery.

  She buys her daughter a house, and a ranch for Papi and Sofi. The money keeps flooding in. But she works for it. She performs two shows a night, never complaining. She sits for hours for dress fittings, and then walks and sits, ensuring that it looks good in all conditions. The camaraderie reminds her of the war, get the show on the road, is the dress OK, where are the musicians; it reminds her of the happiest days of her life, when she was one of the boys.

  She has no time for lovers. As soon as she returns to California, the first thing she does is to clean Papi’s house from top to bottom. She leaves casseroles in the oven, and stocks his fridge.

  I am the only one to see her as she really is. Yes, she is thinner than ever, her waist twenty-one inches. But when the wig is off and the make-up removed, there is no disguising that she is fifty-five.