Mirror, Mirror

by Paula Byrne

‘He’s perfect because I never see him. He sent me a fan letter, saying he had adored me ever since he saw me as Lola Lola as a child. I noticed that his letter-heading said ‘Doctor’, so I wrote back to him and we began a correspondence. He is a cultured man of science, even though he lives in the San Fernando Valley. I gave him my number.’

  She told me that he was such a charming man, Dr Simon Bliss. A lover of poetry and history. During their third telephone conversation, she realised that he was pleasuring himself. She played along. On the seventh call, he asked for a favour. Could she send him a present through the post? What colour, darling? she had said, in that husky voice. She heard him groan in response. He promised he would send her a cheque. She told him that she would be sure to send them in a fitting state. She took out a clean pair and rubbed them between her legs. That would do nicely. She popped a signed photograph into the package.

  ‘He always rings first thing in the morning, or last thing at night. It feels good to enslave a man again.’

  I got it: he sees Lola Lola in those frilly panties, not the decrepit old bag, the ugly old witch holding out the apple. He doesn’t see the crêpey thighs, the thinning hair, the saggy breasts.

  Sometimes she sings to him. Her mind is pin sharp. She recites Rilke. It’s the voice that he loves. The voice that never ages.

  Of course I knew what she was after. She waited for the moment when she had his close attention, and then she asked for a prescription, something to help her to sleep at night. She’s so lonely. No problem, he says. It will be my pleasure, ma’am.

  She tells me all this, watching my face for any expression that might give away the revulsion I feel for her. I keep my face impassive.

  ‘You know, darling, I am so nice and tight down there. It’s been such a long time. I will need to send for some lingerie. “You never know, said the widow.”’

  ‘Be careful, Mutti. The phone calls are expensive.’

  ‘He always calls me, sweetheart. He’s a good man. He’s a doctor. I thought you liked doctors?’

  I hand her a tumbler of watered-down whisky, and her pills.

  ‘You need to sleep.’

  Later, when she is asleep, I tidy the apartment and clear away the empty bottles. Mother’s diary is on her bedside table. A flick of irritation washes over me. Inside, it is written ‘Kater never comes. I see nobody.’

  I pick up a pen and write in bold letters: ‘Kater is here.’

  You Were There

  After she has polished me, the English maid hovers nervously.

  Madou’s apartment is spotlessly clean. She makes a note every time the curtains and the bedlinen are laundered. Her clothes hang in the oversized wardrobe; her suits in varying colours of cream, pink, and blue.

  ‘Where is my Chanel, with the gold trim?’

  ‘Don’t you remember, Miss Madou. You sent it for auction.’

  ‘Nebbish. Why are you lying to me? Have you stolen it?’

  ‘No, ma’am. You sent many items for the auction. The beautiful gold cigarette cases and the wristwatches.’

  ‘Now I know that you are lying. I never sell my clocks or wristwatches. Now pack your bags and leave. Before you go, make me some black tea, with lemon.’

  She can’t afford to lose another maid, but what is she to do? Later, the phone rings and it is her daughter. Another of her lovers has died. As Papi says, it’s ‘the thinning of the ranks’. She hopes he has left her money or a painting that she can sell. She has booked an appointment for live cell treatment at Dr Niehans’ famous La Prairie clinic by Lake Geneva. The wonderful doctors inject fresh cells taken from foetal sheep and they make her look years younger. It’s a miracle treatment. She will fight and she will win this last battle if it’s the last thing she does.

  Her daughter rings from New York. She has bad news about Papi, who has had a stroke. She will make sure to send him that pear vodka that he likes so much, and that lotion for thickening his hair. Poor Papi, with no one to look after him, though he has never asked Joan to live with him. Unselfish, you see. Always thinking of others. But she is not prepared when his condition deteriorates. And then the news comes, and she is suddenly stricken with fear. He has always taken care of everything. Poor Papi. She won’t go to the funeral. The photographers will be there, you see. She’ll send Kater.

  She orders a wheelchair. It makes it easy to get around and clean the apartment. In the evening, she wheels the chair to the window and looks out at the trees. The rain falls softly. She wheels herself to her desk and takes out some writing paper. She has always loved poetry, and, lately, she has tried to write some of her own. Just for amusement. She writes in her beautiful copperplate:

  Isn’t it strange

  The legs

  That made

  My rise to glory

  Easy, no?

  Became my downfall

  Into Misery!

  The wheelchair helps, but she continues to fall. One morning, she awakes to find herself on the bathroom floor with a pink plastic sheet covering her body. She tells her daughter that her maid pushed her over and then covered her with the shower curtain because she felt sorry, but I saw her, drunk as a lord, stepping out of the tub and clutching the shower rail as she fell.

  One evening, when she is sitting in her wheelchair, she hears a noise, a knocking. A man has got into her apartment with a camera. She must not let him have a picture. It will be splashed all over the news: the grieving widow in Paris. Think, think. She grabs a towel and wraps it over her head. Then she screams at him to get out, get out, get out. She grabs her phone and calls the conçierge. It was her maid – she has been betrayed.

  ‘Please call my daughter. She will know what to do.’

  Hungover and hungry, she is snarling like a leopard. Kater has hidden her bottles and she needs a drink.

  ‘How dare you treat me like a child. I invented hot pants and phone sex. What the hell have you done in life except breed children?’

  ‘Mutti, let me cook you some scrambled eggs?’

  ‘So it’s your turn to overfeed me, and make me fat. I know what you’re doing. Being a fat child was a sign that you were cared for. That you were well-fed. But you always blamed me for that.’

  Then her expression changes and her tone becomes wheedling. Speaking in German, she asks for just a small drink, to open the veins, claiming that it is what her doctor friend has advised.

  ‘OK, Mutti, just one drink. But then you have to eat. I’ll feed you myself if I have to.’

  ‘I send out for food, from the Maison d’Allemagne. They bring me lentil stew, veal sausages, and potato salad. It’s delicious. But how am I supposed to pay for it? I can sell my New York apartment, but that’s for you and the children.’

  ‘We don’t need anything, Mutti. We are doing just fine. What happened to your maid?’

  ‘She stole from me. She couldn’t clean the apartment. And I explained how to polish my medals and she could never clean them. Remember when I cleaned the pans so well you could see your face in them? Well, not you, because you had that phobia about mirrors.’

  So she had noticed. Wonders would never cease. Kater seems unperturbed.

  ‘I’ve had an offer from Universal. I told them I can’t leave Paris. But I need the money. I always need the money.’

  The Countess of Paris

  One of Mother’s favourite games was planning her funeral. She loved talking about it in rigorous detail, forgetting that most of the mourners were already dead. She wanted to be buried in her black plastic Balenciaga raincoat, which had stiffened over the years: ‘Darling, the worms will never get through that coat.’

  She wanted to be buried in Paris: ‘De Gaulle will proclaim a national holiday. Imagine the fans! Their devastation. They will line the streets of Paris to watch the procession. The pansies will come dressed as me in hot pants and pillbox hats with veils. They ne
ver let me down. Papi will organise everything. He will wear his dark blue Knize suit. Nellie and Dot will arrive to do hair and make-up – for once, they’ll have to do it themselves, as I will be dead. They will be sobbing. Travis will dress me. I want an army wagon, with six horses, like Jack Kennedy.’

  I glared at her, and she had the grace to look away. On she went: ‘Then at the church, there will be two boxes of roses, white and red. Everyone whom I have slept with will wear red, and all the others who wanted to, will wear white. The white roses will glare at the red roses, and they will all be furious and jealous, just like when I was alive. The King will be sobbing with remorse, Boni will be drunk, and Moncorge will be smoking by the side of the church. Now the only thing you have to do is get my body out of here without anyone noticing. I don’t want anyone to see me. Pop me into one of those black bin bags – you might have to break my arms and legs to get me in – and then secrete me in one of my trunks and take me to the basement garage. No one must see me.’

  I had to laugh. She was so funny and so serious. Only when I agreed to all her requests would she stop.

  She wasn’t afraid of death. She would often say, ‘When you’re dead, you’re dead, that’s it,’ but her favourite maxim was, ‘I’m worth more dead than alive. Don’t cry for me after I’ve gone. Cry for me now.’

  Other times, she would say something to me that was so innocuous, a memory of something that had not taken place, a comment about my appearance, or the unruly behaviour of my boys, and I would feel that thing in my throat, trickling down into my chest, the sudden surge of white-hot anger, and I would snap back. Then she looks like a frightened child, and I feel guilty and remorseful. Now she is the child, and I am the mother, and I don’t want this power, this responsibility. What has happened to the Red Queen? She is as limp as a rag doll.

  There were so many things I wanted to say to her. Unanswered questions, but every time I plucked up the courage, she would sense it coming and change the subject before I started. I was too afraid to persist. I was afraid of hearing the answers. Maybe ignorance was bliss.

  She became obsessed with her last film. She was planning the outfit, the hat, like in the old days. She didn’t know it then, but it was the last time she ever went out of her apartment, ever felt the breeze on her face, the earth beneath her feet.

  Just Let Me Look at You

  They send a snip of a girl to meet with her and talk through her conditions. They would never have got away with this in the old days. The girl walks straight up to me.

  ‘What a lovely antique mirror.’

  ‘There will come a time,’ she says, ‘when old, smoky mirrors are the best. They are much more romantic. To put it plainly, a woman looks younger in them. I don’t know why anyone would want to see every pore.’

  She agrees to make the picture, but she wants her own costume and dresser. She does her own make-up, as she always has. She tapes up her face and then puts on her wig, brushes the hair with a sordid little comb, and, like magic, suddenly, she is there again. But even the tape can’t hide the wrinkles. No matter, she finds a hat with a veil.

  When she is wheeled onto the set, mirror in hand, she feels the shock waves in the room. This is her? The Legend? The most beautiful woman in the world since Helen of Troy? She can hear them whispering behind their fans. Then she stands. She asks for the full-length mirror she has requested. She looks closely at her face, and then the key light. She finds the butterfly. Then all at once, she comes alive and begins to direct the film crew. She is Her again. The face glows, and she moves gracefully. The years melt away like soft butter.

  Then she starts to sing her song, softly:

  There will come a day

  Youth will pass away

  What will they say about me?

  When the end comes, I know,

  I was just a gigolo

  Life goes on, without me.

  There is a sudden sharp realisation in that room that this is it. This is her final performance. Ever. And she is extraordinary. Tears in the eyes, darlings? You could swim in this river of tears and not get to the other side.

  She accepts the applause, this wonderful trooper, then she shrugs, and becomes an old woman again. But just for once, for once, she has become magnificent again. She has shown these idiots what it is like to be a star.

  Paris When it Sizzles

  The next time I flew to Paris, I told Mother that a man called Schell had called. He wanted to make a film about her life.

  ‘I have to earn money, like always, so I’ll do it, but no pictures. I won’t appear in it. Just my voice. The voice that launched a thousand ships.’

  She told Herr Direktor that she would be ‘contracted for forty hours of blah blah blah. That is it. No pictures.’

  He came to see us. She was in bed, as always now. She looked ravishing in a pink Dior bed jacket, with a drawstring neck. He wanted to make a doc–u–men–tary.

  ‘Well, if he wants to know about her life, he can read her book.’

  But, no, he wants to ask her about her life, with no prepared questions. He switches on a machine, and they begin to talk. He asks her about Berlin, her childhood, meeting von Goldberg. ‘It’s all in my book,’ she says. He begins to laugh. He’ll come back tomorrow and they can start again.

  ‘Has your life always been rootless? I can see that it is an inevitable part of your life as a movie star.’

  ‘I have none of those kitschy feelings.’

  ‘Do you feel old?’

  ‘We all regret our youth once we have lost it.’

  ‘There are some contradictions about your life that I would like to explore with you.’

  ‘There have been fifty-five books written about me.’

  ‘Have you read them?’

  ‘Why would I waste my time on such trivial pursuits?’

  ‘Do you mind criticism?’

  ‘Not at all, as long as it’s unqualified praise.’

  ‘How is your relationship with your daughter?’

  ‘Perfect. I’ve said everything in my book.’

  ‘But sometimes truth and fiction seem to elide.’

  ‘The truth is not the same as my truth.’

  ‘Do you think this film will be exciting?’

  ‘I wasn’t contracted to be exciting.’

  ‘What did you think of Orson Welles?’

  ‘He taught me a mind-reading gag. People should cross themselves when they speak of him.’

  ‘Are you afraid of dying?’

  ‘People should be afraid of life, not death.’

  ‘Looking back now, what do you think of your career?’

  ‘I was an actress. I made films. Period.’

  He sighs. She tells him that he’s unprofessional because he has not prepared questions. He responds that it’s a deliberate choice not to send her questions.

  When he does send her questions she simply says ‘Yes’ or ‘No’.

  Stalemate.

  He leaves and asks his production assistant to send her flowers. She sends one long red rose, in cellophane. Mother is furious when she sees it and sweeps it from the table. How dare they send just one rose, when she used to have an extra room just for flowers.

  They start over again. She must not let the mask slip. She knows what he’s doing, and she won’t let him see her vulnerabilities. They watch her movies together. She knows every still, every shot, every image.

  ‘I was a snot-nosed kid before I met Mr von Goldberg,’ she says. ‘He made that kid beautiful. With his camera.’

  Together they recite Freiligrath’s poetry:

  Oh, love as long as you can love!

  Oh, love as long as you may!

  The hour will come, the hour will come:

  By graves lamenting you will stay.

  Her voice falters and she begins to weep. He stops recordi
ng.

  Let’s Say Goodbye

  I am the only one who sees her now.

  ‘’Ello, who is zis speaking? I am Miss Madou’s maid, ’ow may I ’elp you?’

  ‘Joan, stop this nonsense. It’s Billy. I know it’s you. I’m in the lobby. Come on and open the door.’

  ‘Miss Madou is in Switzerland. She cannot be reached.’

  ‘Joan, stop this nonsense …’

  She slams down the phone. Another one rings. She picks up.

  ‘’Ello, who is zis speaking?’

  ‘Mutti, what happened?’

  ‘I fell over and broke my hip.’

  ‘OK, I’ll book a flight.’

  ‘No need. I’m fine.’

  For once, she sounds lucid and sober.

  ‘They fixed my hip. I’ve got everything I need.’

  ‘OK, Mutti, but I’m still going to come over, just to make sure.’

  ‘Please yourself.’

  She has cut off all contact with her lusty doctor. He offers to fly to Paris to save her, so she cuts off contact. He must not see her; nobody must see her. Impossible. Unacceptable. Not on! A sly grin spreads to the corners of her mouth, as she reaches for the whisky bottle. No need for her daughter to come along. Don’t want her watering down her medicine. She’s not a heavy drinker. She can sometimes go for hours without touching a drop. She locks it away, in the box beside her bed. She is the only one with the key; it’s called a dietrich, it can open any lock.

  She glances at her reflection on the wall. It’s her intimate friend. It knows all her secrets. It will take them to the grave. She thinks about mirrors from Lohr, so elaborately worked that they were accorded the reputation of always speaking the truth. But who wants a mirror to speak the truth?

  Tell me, glass, tell me true!

  Who is the fairest? Tell me who.

  They’ve all gone. Moncorge, and Boni, and now Papi. She thought Papi would live for ever. Her Shakespearean twin. Her golden boy. But she still has her friend, the mirror.