Delayed Rays of a Star

by Amanda Lee Koe

  Attack of the airbrush, or immoderate coats of foundation?

  Anna May didn’t mean to condescend, not when she knew she was so much worse for the wear. She should not like to imagine her own face on a poster. The last time a picture of hers was printed in the papers, it was a couple years back—for a drunk-driving incident. The level of toxicity in Anna May’s blood was so high they had to give her an emergency blood transfusion. There was no one at her bedside when she came to. She was used to living alone, and had come to value deeply her independence over the years, where there was no need to acquiesce to anyone about anything, but for one of the few times in her life, Anna May thought: At the bottom of it all, this is why people marry and have kids. To have someone to wake up to on a hospital bed. When the doctor came around, she wanted to know: Could I have died?

  Ma’am, the doctor said, you were basically dead.

  She’d been clean for almost a year now, but her body had not recovered from the long years of abuse, forget about her face. Every week Anna May went to an expensive clinic to pump excess liquid out of her belly. The liver damage was irreversible, and she now followed a strict diet. All this “clean eating” was tasteless. Between sessions, she was careful to wear loose clothing, lest anyone cotton on to what did rather resemble a baby bump.

  * * *

  —

  AND YET MARLENE at sixty looked just as assured as she had ever been at thirty. It’d been a long time. Anna May removed the thumbtacks holding the poster up and slid it into her paper bag. As she was leaving the store, she was stopped by security. In the office she handed over the poster in silence, too embarrassed for words.

  The guard admitted that he, too, was a Dietrich fan.

  He wanted to see her show, but tickets were expensive, he said, and Vegas was something else. You really have to dress up for that town, he added, but once you’re inside, the buffets are practically free!

  Although it was just a couple hours’ drive, Anna May had never been to Vegas, and she could only nod lamely. Pointless to tell him she was also an actress, much less begin to explain the tiniest of chivalrous inanities: that it’d felt wrong to see the face of an old friend tacked up between a posting for Swami’s Self-Actualization Fellowship (Free Revitalizing Mood Crystal + Forty-Day Results Guaranteed Or Your Money Back!) and a lost white-and-tan Pomeranian named Pebbie (fourteen years of age, pink-nosed, bowlegged).

  When Anna May got home from the grocery store, she called up the Riviera and booked a single ticket to Marlene’s show. It had still been months away then, and was no cause for concern. But now that the day of the show had arrived, she was surprised to feel jumpy about seeing Marlene again. For any number of years after Shanghai Express, they’d bumped into each other, with predictable regularity, at the usual socials. Any time Anna May guessed that Marlene might be at a certain event, she fussed over her appearance, for fear of looking underdressed—or worse, overdressed—though she knew she’d barely exchange with Marlene a concise nod, a polite greeting. Both made it a point to keep that distance.

  As the years went by, either Anna May’s invitations to premieres and parties began drying up, or she stopped accepting them. Honestly, she could not say for certain which it was. And once she grew used to a quieter life, she found it hard to believe that she’d rolled around for so many years pretending she belonged in designer dresses she couldn’t afford.

  It had been some time since Anna May had to care about whether this evening bag went with that pair of shoes. She changed out of heels and into sensible flats before she left her apartment in a burgundy silk Chinese gown. Checking her appearance, she found it passable. It was a good thing she was tall and could still cut a fair figure. Getting into her old blue Chevy coupe, she made sure in her rearview mirror that she’d covered up all the liver spots on her cheeks. Before turning out toward the freeway, she stopped at a florist’s, dithering between roses and lilies. Lilies were probably still Marlene’s favorite, but perhaps it was more impersonal, then, to buy her roses?

  十五

  The lilies were pricier than Anna May expected, but Vegas glowed from the freeway exit, and she was getting excited about seeing Marlene again. Everything was gigantic and lit up in neon: a winking cowboy, a rotating star, a sultan with arms akimbo, a lady’s silver slipper with a yellow bow. Reaching the Riviera, Anna May gave her coupe to the valet as a muscly, tail-finned Cadillac rolled past. The Riviera was one of the few casinos on the strip with a high-rise hotel tower. Looking out to the poolside, she saw women who’d thought to pair their two-piece swimsuits with three-inch heels. As she went through the air-conditioned lobby, solicitous staff directed ticketed guests away from the gambling lounges to the Versailles Room, where Marlene would be performing.

  Every seat was filled, and the crowd was buzzing.

  The emerald earrings of the woman next to Anna May were so pendulous and heavy, they looked like they were about to tear right through her earlobes. Evidently, they were meant to match the bright-green cling wrap she was wearing on her body, which appeared to be adhered at her shoulder to the armpit of a man in a fez.

  As the lights dimmed, a hush settled.

  In the dark, Anna May could still recognize that unmistakable voice saying hello into a microphone. Marlene said hello as if they were the longest two syllables in the world. When the spotlight hit her, she was standing center stage, shimmying a shoulder in her much-publicized swansdown coat. The audience cheered. The coat wiggled down a notch and Marlene sighed into the microphone: Good evening, Vegas, there’s no other city in the world like you, is there?

  Her voice was deeper now.

  Her eyes were sleepier and her mouth thinner, but Anna May had already noticed those details from following Marlene’s career through the years. Age had hardly slowed her down—she’d last seen Marlene on the big screen in Orson Welles’s Touch of Evil. Marlene played a brothel madam in Mexico, and Anna May could recall the look in her eyes as she delivered that killer line: You have no future. It’s all used up. Welles was one of those directors Anna May wished to work with, but if it had yet to happen for her by now, she knew it was likely to remain a dream.

  Catcalls from the floor, as Marlene’s coat came off in one flamboyant movement. Seeing what she had on beneath, Anna May had to smile. In a tight dress of nude mesh, Marlene raised an eyebrow at the room. Strategically placed Swarovski crystals covered her bits, and it was obvious that she was not wearing a bra. Marlene’s singing voice had slid back from her spoken mid-Atlantic accent, that sardonic German edge was back as she breezed through her set list. Midway she changed into an all-white men’s tuxedo suit and a top hat. The way Marlene used to wear menswear had been so natural, contrarian, and new. Heads turned not for the fact that she was in a finely cut pant and chunky-heeled oxfords; they turned to see just how a woman who was utterly herself walked into a room.

  Now it all looked like props to Anna May.

  Marlene was singing “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face” and winking knowingly to the crowd:

  I’m very grateful she’s a woman and so easy to forget

  rather like a habit one can always break and yet—

  The lady onstage was a savvy businessperson, clever at peddling her own nostalgia before it ran out. Of course, the audience was still hungry for her pantomime. Between songs Marlene tossed in the occasional dirty joke. It made Anna May twitch to imagine Marlene saying night after night: What does one saggy boob say to the other saggy boob? The audience, already cracking up, even before she delivered the punch line: If we don’t get some support, people will think we’re nuts! That was what the Riviera had written Marlene such a big check for, what people drove out to see: not Marlene, but how much Marlene had aged. For the finale Marlene came out in tiny black shorts, dressed in a circus ringmaster’s topcoat and tails, with a whip in hand, as young showgirls in animal costumes revolved around her in cages.r />
  She disappeared after the encore, throwing kisses at the crowd.

  As the lights came back on, Anna May wasn’t sure what to do next. She hadn’t gone through her connections to set up a backstage invite in advance, and in fact she was no longer certain if she wanted to greet Marlene face-to-face. The crowd was on their feet, spilling out into the casino. Anna May stood to go, too, leaving the bunch of lilies behind on her seat. Before she made it out of the Versailles Room, an usher rushed up to her with the bouquet. Ma’am, he said, you forgot this. Stage door’s to the left of the box office, he added helpfully, you won’t miss it.

  * * *

  —

  A LONG LINE snaked around the corner.

  Anna May loitered around, unwilling to join up, but not quite yet ready to leave. The queue was dotted with lilies, too, some bouquets much larger than hers. Marlene emerged from the doors far sooner than anyone expected, flanked by security. It was just fifteen or twenty minutes after the last curtain call, but she was looking fresh in a pleated taffeta dress and two-toned Chanel heels. Her strut seemed less steady than before, but she really knew how to move in couture. Onstage, at a safe distance, it had been easy to dismiss: she was turning old tricks. Less than ten feet away now, everything was cantilevering toward Marlene, and it was impossible to discount her presence. Anna May turned away, desperate to leave unnoticed, signaling silently for a valet’s attention so she could get her car and go.

  Anna? She heard it from behind her.

  Marlene still said it with two hard As.

  She turned to see Marlene striding forward, reaching out to catch her by the elbow, and leaning in to kiss her on both cheeks as security held off the fans waiting in line. The lilies were crushed between them. Shrugging off a sheepish laugh, Anna May offered them up to Marlene. Their fingers touched briefly as the lilies changed hands, resting in Marlene’s arms for just a beat before they were conducted away to a minder. Marlene had turned briskly to an assistant: Why wasn’t Miss Wong shown to the greenroom?

  Oh, Anna May said, I didn’t tell anyone I was here. I bought my own ticket.

  Pardon? Marlene said it the French way. You should’ve just had your manager write mine for a VIP seat, Marlene scolded as she pulled her into her posse. What do we keep those bloodsuckers around for? Already Marlene was introducing her to the pianist, the publicist, a bevy of backup dancers, and a laddish young man who was referred to as a “friend of the family.” Anna May couldn’t be sure, but she took this to mean the mob. He was in a perfectly pressed pinstripe suit and half-tinted glasses he kept on indoors.

  Let’s go, Marlene said. After party.

  Clicking her fingers, she began to walk down the line, signing autographs at random and receiving bouquets expertly without breaking the staccato rhythm of her stride, as they all fitted themselves into a stretch limousine that had pulled up silently on the side. Their big ride dropped them off outside a Polynesian bar. A white girl in a grass skirt showed them to a private section cordoned off with a frangipani chain. They reclined on rattan sofas and futons. Anna May failed to see why Marlene would rope her into this if she was going to be busy horsing around with the “friend of the family”—Marlene was pressed up against the youngster as he explained that the giant tiki moai statues out front flanking the little wooden bridge of this bar were fakes, whereas the one in his Malibu garden had been shipped from Easter Island itself. The grass-skirted waitress was back to take orders for “Original Drinks from the Far Islands.”

  Anna May said she would pass.

  At this, Marlene appeared to remember that Anna May was present. That’s not permitted, she called out, let me put in an order for Miss Wong. She scanned the menu. Easy, she said, flashing Anna May a smile, the Savage Island Pearl Cocktail. As the menu went around the table, someone pointed out that there was a Genghis Khan steak. Breakfast of champions, Marlene said, and everyone laughed. The drinks arrived in no time, each with its own tropical presentation. Check out these teeny-weeny umbrellas, someone cooed, don’t they make you feel like you’re on instant vacation? They raised their drinks, and someone proposed a toast to Marlene. Not forgetting the Riviera, Marlene added, nodding around her posse to acknowledge the relevant people, my musicians, my dancers—and the most amazing Asian American actress of our time. Heads turned quizzically toward Anna May, and she felt uncomfortable. She wanted to say it wasn’t so difficult to be the most amazing Asian American actress of your time when you were the only one, but of course the toast wasn’t really about her. Everyone was already clinking glasses and uttering cheers, bottoms up!

  Anna May’s glass met Marlene’s across the low rattan table and she lifted the cocktail to her lips. She knew Marlene was watching now, to make sure she drank. As soon as Anna May downed her cocktail, Marlene moved on. For a while she observed Marlene put away drink after drink, person after person. When the light caught Marlene’s face, Anna May noticed that she’d taped back the skin around her eyes so it would look tighter.

  A young woman sidled up to Anna May.

  I’m so getting statement bangs like yours, she said. What’s your name again?

  Anna May had not even answered this before the young woman parachuted into her own bio: part Italian, she’d studied drama under so-and-so, more Meisner, less Stanislavski, also had she mentioned she was the niece of such-and-such, you know, the notable screenwriter? Probably she was totally the inspiration for Ann in Roman Holiday, because she’d fallen asleep on a park bench once after smoking a roach, and her uncle had found her—Anna May waited patiently for the young woman to finish, till she began to see that the story had no end.

  Excuse me, Anna May squeezed in finally, I have to go.

  Ah, the young woman said. Where’re you off to?

  I’m off, Anna May stalled, to the bathroom.

  She wanted to say good-bye to Marlene, but that woman was nowhere to be found. So be it, she did not have it in her to endure any more small talk with this gang. In the bathroom she went into a cubicle and put two fingers down her throat to force up the whiskey from her stomach. When she was done, she checked that no one else was outside before she stepped out. Washing her hands at the sink and already looking forward to being home, Anna May noticed a cubicle door creak open slowly from behind her. It was Marlene, huddled over the top of the toilet’s closed seat cover, hands bracing herself against the cubicle’s walls. Her left ankle was huge and swollen. Her Chanel heels and a pair of compression stockings lay on the floor. Marlene looked like she was trying to force her grimace into a smile as she said: Would you be a dear and get me some ice?

  I’ll go get help, Anna May said, but Marlene shook her head.

  No, Anna, she said firmly. Just some ice, please.

  * * *

  —

  MARLENE HAD MISSED a step and taken a fall right before the show, but she did not want to cancel the performance. Twenty grand a night, Marlene said. She’d injected her legs with a champion blend of cortisone and morphine, felt invincible, and gone right on with the program, but those drugs must be wearing off right about now.

  Anna May locked the door to the bathroom from the inside before Marlene agreed to come out of the stall. You’re sure? Marlene called out. Yes, Anna May said, rattling the door to show her. Marlene unzipped her dress, then began to remove a flesh-colored latex suit wrapping and contouring her body from neck to ankle. Anna May had not even noticed it was there. My support system, Marlene joked. Helping Marlene out of the suit, Anna May was surprised at how loose Marlene’s flesh was to the touch. The veins in both her calves were blue, even the uninjured calf. There was hardly any pulse in them as Anna May tied the ice to Marlene’s shin in her shawl.

  She asked: How did you walk out of the dressing room?

  Willpower, Marlene quipped. I’m German, remember? She fiddled for a cigarette in her bag. Do you think there’s a smoke alarm in here? Before
Anna May could check, Marlene had lit up. Want one?

  Anna May shook her head.

  You should get that checked out, she said.

  Doctors, Marlene scoffed. Professional wet blankets! Why should we pay them to tell us what we can’t do? She sat down on the bathroom floor, leaning against the wall and exhaling a huge puff of cigarette smoke. You know what they said? Double amputation in the near future, if I didn’t get treated right away. It’s been a year. Look, I’m still here and perfectly able-bodied, aren’t I?

  Hold up, Anna May said, sitting beside her and rearranging the sliding ice compress. Amputation?

  The only sensible thing to do, Marlene went on airily, ignoring her, was to redesign my wardrobe. Ten pairs of custom-made boots in graded sizes, to accommodate the swelling. Even without the fall, they bloat up to a full inch all around when I’m on my feet for too long. I change in and out of the larger sizes as the show progresses, but the audience notices nothing, right?

  Right, Anna May said, but why can’t you be seated?

  Anna, Marlene said. People pay to have me onstage! The least I can do is be upright. My next tour stop is Cannes, thirty grand for three shows. I gave them a discount in Germany, but a girl in a mullet—already you can see she’s not going to go far in life—spat in my face. I’m never going back. Marlene pushed a smoke ring out of her mouth. You know, she said slowly, I kept that old apartment. Always thought I’d go home to Berlin. To retire—or die, for that matter. They watched the smoke ring hang in the still air. You’re not going to die, Anna May said firmly, and it doesn’t look like you’re about to retire. The shape of the smoke was coming apart by the time Anna May realized she knew just which apartment Marlene was talking about. In any case, she went on, you’re probably going to live forever. Marlene made a face at her, as if to say such maudlin consolations weren’t necessary between them. No, really, Anna May said. How should I put it? I saw your face on a mug in a gift shop in the Palisades.