Kitabı oku: «Mirror, Mirror», sayfa 2

I Like America

Night falls quickly in Hollywood. The Child removes her mother’s shoes and leaves them to cool. Later, they will be stuffed with tissue and stored away in their chamois bags. Slippers are placed on Madou’s feet; she is wearing natty cream silk lounging pajamas, with a black velvet trim.

She looks at me, her reflection in threes. The Holy Trinity. A nimbus of light frames her face. She rubs on cold cream, flannels it off, stares again with deep concentration. Her fair hair is damp and swept back from her face. Her skin is pale, slightly pink, translucent like the finest porcelain. She resembles a beautiful boy. Beautiful boy triplets. How divine. I hum softly:

Mad about the boy

I know it’s stupid to be mad about the boy

On the silver screen

He melts my foolish heart in every single scene …

Madou picks up the telephone. As usual, she’s booked a call to the husband she never sees, back in Europe: ‘Papi, sweetheart, Chevalier told me Lombard smells of cheap talcum powder, so I said, “What place did you smell it?” So, of course he was stuck and couldn’t answer. Can you imagine his face? Mo was magnificent today. Do you know what he said to me? “No one lights you like I do, because no one loves you like I do.” He knows now that he should never have abandoned me. That last picture was an abortion. We belong together. With this picture, we will make history. She has never looked more beautiful, but it’s all down to Mo.’

The Child pours a glass of champagne from the ice bucket, and places it on the poudreuse. She is reading something; fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm, no doubt she’ll skip over Schneewittchen. She’s munching on potato chips, stuffing them into her cakehole, in greedy, fat handfuls.

Madou squints at her reflection, and then relaxes into a state of dreamy contemplation as she continues her telephone conversation: ‘Peter has as much sex appeal as a dish of leftover potato salad. Of course, that pleases Mo. He’s so jealous, unlike you, Papi, who have every right to be jealous, but is never. I have to go now. Kisses to you.’

Tonight, Madou is gay and jocular, but I, for one, have not forgotten her agony when her director ran away. Memory is viciously insistent on such occasions. Again and again, late at night, tired and alone, she’s gazed into me, eyes half-closed in recollection, and told me, told herself, the story. How Mo had discovered her in the filthy backstreets of Berlin, brought her to Hollywood, made her a star, and then left her to the mercy of this nest of vipers.

She was just nineteen and the mother of a baby girl when she boarded the boat train at the Lehrter Bahnhof for New York followed by the long train ride to Pasadena. The little man was dismayed when he first saw her in her grey two-piece suit, looking like a lesbian; he instructed her to lose weight, and to buy better clothes.

Just like that – ‘lose the weight’ and, good soldier that she is, she did. She stopped eating. She took up smoking, sipped beef tea and hot water with Epsom Salts and drank endless cups of coffee. She loathed American coffee, but she drank the ‘gnat’s piss’ all the same.

She adores Mo, refusing to believe the stories that he began his working life as an errand boy in a lace-making warehouse in New York. In her eyes, he was a genius of aristocratic Prussian stock. Her saviour.

In Hollywood, he set about the business of lighting. He despised most actors. ‘Directing actors is practising puppetry,’ he told her. ‘It’s about light and shadow.’

That first day on the hot set, she complained about her Slavic nose. He smiled, took out a phial and painted a silver line on the centre of the nose – then climbed onto the set to adjust a tiny spot to shine directly on the line from above her head, reducing the nose by a third.

Madou was a quick learner. From that moment on, she would sit before me or some other mirror, and draw a line of white paint down the centre of her nose (in a shade lighter than her base), lining the inside of her lower eyelid with white greasepaint – using the rounded edge of a thin hairpin.

Then she held a saucer over a candle, where a black carbon smudge would form on the underside, and mixed in a few drops of lanolin. Warmed and mixed with the soot, it created a perfect kohl for the eyelids, which she applied with a hairgrip – heavy at the base line, then fading up towards the eyebrow.

Together, they created the famous look, the mysterious face with the sculpted cheeks. The play of light and shadow created with diffused light. Nobody lights you like I do, because nobody loves you like I do. He is a painter of chiaroscuro who sees everything in terms of light and shadow. He places his light, and only then builds a scene around it.

Who else would think of using veils and nets to create shadows? To the amazement of the crew, he removes his cigarette, and burns holes in the net to make the individual spots shine through. Then, when he is satisfied, he sets her in the light he has created for her. He is a magician, a sculptor. She is Galatea, with skin as white as milk. He is Pygmalion. Herr Direktor, her master, Lord of Light. She is his willing slave.

Together they create magic. It is a perfect partnership. He is in love with the image on the silver screen, and so is Madou. But there is a third person in this relationship. Moi. I am the mirror, that never lies.

The Garden of Allah

Mother slipped off her travel pajamas and dressed herself in tailored tweed trousers and a silk shirt. She was cooking goulash for Mo. She tied a lace apron around her waist, and twisted a scarf around her hair.

Mo had found us a new house in Beverly Hills, just north of Sunset Boulevard, on the corner of Bedford and Benedict Canyon. It was a low, white Spanish-style villa, set in an acre of manicured lawns, with the requisite blue swimming pool, ‘for the Child’. I loved the sun-drenched garden; a riot of colour, with huge red and gold trumpet-shaped flowers, orange and lemon trees, figs, camellia, gladioli, and lush green palms, which rustled like paper in the warm breeze. Beside the guest house was a miniature rose garden. Hummingbirds, tiny mechanical jewels, hovered and spun. My bodyguard showed me how to make a bird feeder with sugar and water, which I hung from a tree in the shade.

The Mirror House was perfect for a movie star. Inside, the walls were lined with exquisite hand-painted wallpaper, and lacquered floors were strewn with animal skins. The sunroom was dominated by a large jungle mural, and the sofas and armchairs were covered in butter-soft white leather.

I thought it was oh-so-elegant. Mother thought it vulgar and ‘oh-so-Hollywood’. She lowered the blinds to black out the sun, and rarely ventured out into the garden for fear of ruining her milky-white skin. The only rooms she liked were her ivory and gold bedroom, and the stunning mirrored dining room; its verre églomisé panels depicted towering palms, and wild jungle animals.

Mirrors. There were mirrors everywhere. It was a mini-Versailles. They lined the walls of the interiors, and if that weren’t enough, there were mirrored fireplaces and mirrored furniture; a French-style dressing table, a backgammon table, and mirrored lamps. The doors were framed with mirrors. In Mother’s bedroom, there was even a mirrored ceiling.

Wherever I wandered, I would catch a glimpse of a pudgy little girl, dressed in lurid puff-sleeved organdie dresses, which did little to conceal the rolls of fat around her middle. How horrid she looked. How she must be avoided. I resolved from the first to spend as much time as I could outdoors. That was easy to do if one lived in Hollywood.

Floating on my rubber ring in the blue pool made me feel weightless. Under the watchful eye of my bodyguard, I spent hours in the water as soon as I returned home from the studio. But I was always careful to ensure that I was dressed and ready for dinner when Mother called.

Today, Mother was in the best of moods. The rushes of The Red Queen were a triumph. Mo was happy. As soon as he arrived, Mother removed his shoes, washed and massaged his feet, and encased them in soft Turkish slippers. I poured him a glass of ice-cold champagne. Mother stirred the goulash. I always wondered how she managed never, ever to get a single drop on her clothes.

‘Oh Mo, those long dresses mean that for once they can’t see the famous Madou legs. Serve those damn furriers right. What a joke.’

Mother chuckled. She had also taken a hearty dislike to her handsome co-star, which made her director very happy.

‘Peter … that … useless abortion. Do you know he orders ice-cream for dessert? A grown man! Only Americans eat like children. You know he has Kotex stuffed down there. That mennuble.’

Mo puffed on his pipe and listened. Then he took a deep breath.

‘Sweetheart, have you thought about Kater’s schooling? She needs to be around friends her own age. She shouldn’t be in a soundstage all her young life. It’s not healthy. There will be no kidnapping. She is well protected.’

‘But Mo, she speaks only German. It’s impossible. I will engage a tutor. Maybe you’re right. You are always right.’

I froze. I wanted to learn more English, and I wanted to go to American school, but I couldn’t bear not to be with Mother in the studio.

‘Mutti, who would fetch your hand mirror? And sort the flower cards, and thin your fake eyelashes?’

I need not have worried. Mother had not the slightest intention of sending me to school. She was terrified of me becoming ‘American’, and I was never allowed friends of my own. I worried that I would not be allowed on-set the next morning, as Mother was filming the ‘Examination’ scene. It was my favourite costume, and I longed to see her under Mo’s lights.

When dinner was over, I excused myself from the table and prepared for bed. First, I took my bath. The water turned a rosy pink. My tummy hurt. I called aloud for Mutti who screamed when she saw me: ‘No, this cannot be. She’s only ten.’

(Oh, I thought, so I am ten, not eight or nine.)

‘It must be the Californian weather. Look at the Italians, and the Mexicans are even worse. I should have kept her in Berlin, where it’s cold.’

She was striding around the bathroom.

‘Kater, you must not go near a man. Do you understand me? Stay away from men. Why have you done this to me?’

She towelled me down and gave me a pink silk sanitary belt and a napkin, told me this would happen every month, and sent me to bed. I had no idea why I should stay away from men. Did that mean all men, like Mo, and the pool man? And what about my bodyguard, who helped me to feed the hummingbirds? Life with Mother was so confusing.

I knew she was angry with me. Later, she phoned her mother in Berlin to share her disappointment. I heard snatches of conversation: just a child, Californian heat, never stops eating this terrible food, enormous, diet, tennis lessons, so dreadful for me, how can anyone bear to be a mother of girls … and then I drifted into sleep.

Sigh No More

Long after the Child is fast asleep in bed, Madou cleanses her face with witch hazel and puts on a dusky silk nightdress. She has sent Mo home. She wants to be alone. She sits at her dressing table, staring at me, without really seeing. I tell her, over and over again, that she is even more radiant, even more luminous than ever before. She searches her face for fine lines, but there are none on Nefertiti.

It’s that wretched child that has caused her to feel so bad. So selfish. So she’s growing up. No longer a child. Puff-sleeved dresses will return with a vengeance. But Madou has nothing to fear. In this new picture, she will be at her loveliest. Goldberg will make sure of that. It will be his parting present. He will leave her, again, but he will give her his light.

There are times when I have to administer a finger-wagging to those I love. Madou knows the growl of the Black Dog. Her friends see the relentless energy, the commitment, the long hours, the discipline. I see the days spent in bed, with the drawn blinds and the refusal to eat. I shall have to be firm. This business with the Child is a blow; a set-back. I need to impart some ‘Mother-knows-best’ wisdom.

‘Well,’ she says, wearily. ‘And what do you have to say?’

‘You know perfectly well what I’m going to say.’

‘That everybody worships me. I’m tired of being worshipped. It’s nauseating.’

‘There’s hell to pay if they don’t.’

She smiles.

‘So you think I’m an egomaniac? I work hard to keep everyone fed and clothed. My life is not my own – I belong to my work.’

‘You know what I always say, dearest: work is more fun than fun.’

‘What will my fate be, mirror? I suppose it is written in the stars?’

‘I don’t believe in astrology; the only stars that I can blame for my failures are those that walk about the stage.’

She laughs. I can always make her laugh. She looks across to the window, and the inky-black night. It’s nights like these that make her feel far from home. A necklace of bright stars arcs around the sky.

She lights a cigarette and blows blue smoke into my face. She smokes slowly and methodically, no matter how much nervous strain she feels. I leave her to her thoughts. She stubs out her cigarette, sets the alarm to 4.30, turns out the lamp, and slips into bed.

Stage Fright

In the morning, Mother called for me, and I breathed not a single word for fear she would remember Mo’s admonitions, and send me to school. It was freezing cold as we climbed into the studio car; a reminder of the desert that Hollywood was built upon. I had learned to dress with several layers, shedding each skin as the sun rose and became scorching hot. I looked like a roly-poly caterpillar; a look not enhanced by Mother plonking a beige knitted woolly hat on my head.

It was pitch dark on the lot, except for the street lamps, which lined Dressing Room Row. Back in her dressing room, the lovely aroma of greasepaint, coffee and Danish pastries filled the air. Nowadays, people ask me if I hated my life then, but, no, I loved it. Sure, I was sometimes lonely, but never, ever bored. Besides, back then, I knew no other life. Even now, the smell of greasepaint mixed with coffee takes me right back to those days, and the memories are warm and comforting. Bodies betray us.

We sprang into action; we knew our duties. That day, Mo was shooting an important scene; the Red Queen’s inspection of her Russian army. Mother would look her most beautiful, but there was much work to be done.

I placed her ashtray on a side table and brought a fine-boned china cup and saucer for her coffee. Mother undressed and was wrapped in a white cotton robe. Hair first. Always hair first. Nellie brushed her hair away from her face, twisting and plaiting with expert hands. Then Dot began her work. Nobody spoke. All was quiet concentration. I thinned out the eyelashes and handed them to Dot with the special glue. Mother scrutinised her face in the mirror. She took a hairpin, dipped it in white greasepaint and smeared it along the waterline of her eyes. They grew larger, magically. Then, the lips. The perfect Cupid’s bow.

Finally, it was time for the review dress. It was the green velvet one we’d seen in the sketch that first day. Edged with mink. Travis had excelled himself. Everyone would remember this dress. Garbo would be mad as hell when she saw it. Travis had created an oversized muff that matched the trim and the hat. Mother was right to insist that her hair should be pulled back, so the Cossack hat, set at a rakish angle, did not detract from the face. On anyone else the huge hat would be absurd. She had never looked more ravishing.

How to transport her to the soundstage, when the dress was so wide she could only exit the door sideways? A horse and cart were sent to her dressing room. I leapt forward to help her into the cart.

‘No, Angel. You must not touch the velvet or it will leave finger marks.’

Travis obliged, wearing special gloves. There was a special bucket seat at the back of the cart for me. Mother stood erect, holding onto a rail. The horse set off at a snail’s pace, transporting his most precious cargo.

When she entered the soundstage, the crew burst into spontaneous applause. Piercing whistles reverberated around the set. A film crew has seen and heard it all. They are tough, hard to please, impressed by nothing. Mother bestowed a tiny smile in grateful acknowledgement. Mo took her hands and kissed them reverently. Then he led her to the set. I followed behind, curious to see Mo’s latest creation. It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen.

Hundreds of grotesque, malformed gargoyles and hobgoblins writhed and screamed, or smirked insanely. They lined the doorways, corridors and tables of the Imperial Palace. Oversized Byzantine saints and martyrs glared menacingly from great heights. Wooden crucifixes with emaciated male figures peeked out between huge stone pillars. Flickering candles in iron-branched candelabras created shadows of frightening intensity.

Worst of all were the El Greco skeletons: they twisted over mantels, peered through windows; macabre guests at the long banqueting table, bent over bowls of rotting, waxen food. The figures were draped in mouldering shrouds and grave clothes, their lean fingers reaching out to me. On the wall, near the door, I saw a dried, withered body of a child hung up by its hair. On a pedestal, I saw a screaming man being forcibly sodomised by a metal pike.

Cleverly, these corpses only served to highlight Madou’s ethereal beauty, so she had no fear of them. Not that anything or anyone could inspire fear in my mother. As for worry about her small daughter witnessing this set of cruelty, she had no such concerns.

Nor did she need to fear the width of the iron doors: they were gargantuan. Looking back with adult eyes, I know that those doors were gigantic! It took at least five people to open and close them, so heavy they were. The imperial throne was shaped into a double-eagle, and there was a huge mirror curved into a winged gargoyle.

Finally, Mo pointed to his living sculpture: three topless maidens, looped by their wrists to a horizontal cartwheel, twirled their contorted bodies around and around in a slow dance like erotic trapeze artists. Mother did not flicker.

‘Mo, it’s superb. But I want to see my troops.’

First, she called for her special huge mirror, and it was rolled on, cables coiled around its base, snake-like. When the lights were plugged in, she looked at her reflection. A nimbus of light surrounded her face.

The Red Queen in lush green velvet. Mo kissed the back of her neck – looked at her in the long mirror, and smiled as he went back to work.

Madou was incomparable in that scene. Hundreds of handsome Cossacks created two straight lines. If she felt nervous, it did not show. She walked between them, to inspect her guard, staring intently at their crotches. She halted and looked down at one of the troops, talking to his trousers, and not his face, saying, ‘Hmm, you’re new here.’

When a sword was pushed into her abdomen, she purred, ‘Is that your sword, or are you just pleased to see me?’

She was magnificent, electrifying. She was in command. The spoilt German bride, transformed into an empress, ready to defeat her faithless, gormless husband and his army. Every male gaze was turned upon her, longing to kiss her hand, ready to die for their queen.

Then she turned, picked a piece of stray hay from a bale, and placed it seductively between her lips. She sucked the straw, staring boldly at her director. Teasing him, taunting him. He had not instructed her to do this. He who controlled her every movement, every gesture. I could tell by his face that she had overstepped the mark. There was a stunned silence. He stared at his star. She held his gaze, cool and still.

‘Cut. Print.’