Night for Day

by Patrick Flanery

  Since the agents’ departure that morning she had thought on her social decline since coming to America. Her light mood, the mood in which she started the day because there was going to be a party and she enjoyed the merriment even if she thought her cousin ridiculous, had darkened until she was consumed by rage and a desire to kill as she had killed in the past, truly, with the fervor and skill of one born to the job. No sooner had the agents left than people from the studio began arriving to install the lights in the garden and the scenery on the terrace, to test the sound system and the cast of the pageant Mary had orchestrated to practice their parts, with a stand-in who looked nothing like Mary throughout the afternoon repeating Mary’s lines into the microphone connected to the loudspeaker, so the neighbors, if not the guests, knew exactly what was coming that evening, and there had been complaints already, the Stevenson woman ringing the bell, the Albright woman phoning, the police stopping round to ask how late these festivities were likely to last and suggesting that really there should have been a permit and Nathalie had said to all of them that they would have to ask her employer, John Marsh, who was ultimately responsible for anything that happened on his property. He had done nothing to her, was kinder by far than Mary, and yet she hated the man.

  Although she pretended to the boys and to Iris and even to Mary and John that her work increased by many orders of magnitude as a result of the party, it was mostly the studio people who did what was required for the pageant, and Chasen’s staff attended to the food and drink and had even arranged for the hired dishes, cutlery, and glassware. Nathalie carried on as usual, picking up the children from school and seeing to it that they did not get in the way through the balance of the afternoon. All that time she felt the rage crackling through her body. She drove from the house and across Beverly Hills and everyone she saw she wanted to kill. She picked up the children and while she did not want to kill the boys she had a vivid sense of how it would feel to garrote the girl with a length of piano wire affixed to two small pieces of wood, as she had done in the past, although not a child but a man nearly twice her size, and how much easier and quicker it would be with the girl, and how she would have to be careful not to twist the wire so tightly that the beast’s head came clean off. Seeing the boys again as they marched out of the school and climbed into the back of the car, she knew that she had no choice, and must do what the agents demanded, even if it meant betraying Mary, who, apart from being a monster, had done nothing that Nathalie would describe as truly awful, and she could say this, definitively, because Nathalie knew what horror was. Horror was her own province and métier, not Mary’s.

  Now, she left the children to eat, warning Iris not to boss the boys and the boys to stand up for themselves, though she had little confidence they would, given how Siegfried and Franz both loved the brute in their pitiful ways. She knew the evening would be a trial. Whenever there was company the ties of family were vigorously denied, Nathalie and the boys presented as a charity case. On multiple occasions Mary had even suggested to her guests that the Gebharts were gypsies or Jews as a way to curry favor or imply a nobility of spirit that was as far from Mary’s actual personality as Nathalie could discern, and this happened most often with John Marsh’s friends, with those Communists, the suggestion that she and her sons were refugees and not Mary’s own blood, because to hint otherwise was to invite curiosity. And yet Mary had taken them in, and Nathalie could not be sure entirely why such generosity had seized her cousin, unless it was no more complicated than strengthening the attenuated ties of family and blood, and perhaps that was enough for some people, even people like Mary who was less than fully human, for whom fans and the public and her career were and would always remain paramount.

  Of course, Mary knew Nathalie’s real name, because she had always known her real name. What Mary did not know, what Nathalie hoped she would never know, were the precise circumstances under which Charlotte Becker began calling herself Nathalie Gebhart, nor did Mary know the quality of English that Charlotte-Nathalie could actually speak, the strudel-English, as Agent Loeb, or was it Leopold, had put it so ungenerously, being the only version of English Mary or Iris or John Marsh or her own sons had ever heard come out of her mouth, the BBC English reserved for very particular times and places, quite specific space-times as she came to think of them, in Britain, and even Germany, on one occasion in France, and today, in America, in the California house of her distant cousin, the house where she had thought to hide out for the next decade, until she could find her way somewhere safer, less obtrusive, Brazil or Argentina, although no contact from her old compatriots had been forthcoming, and the more time passed the more anxious she became about what eventualities might yet unfold.

  Sometimes it happens in the course of a woman’s life, Nathalie had explained when she met Mary for the first time as an adult, that she must leave behind one name in order, you understand my dear, just to survive and make her way in the world after a time of trauma and, like a lioness, safeguard the future of her young. Mary had looked at her pityingly, cupped her face in her thin cold hands, and held her gaze, nodding. In retrospect it occurred to Nathalie that perhaps Mary had only been affecting understanding, as if closeness, for her, were always a performance, but if Mary had questions that troubled her conscience (assuming she had one) or if she guessed that perhaps the substitution of one name for another was not simply a matter of historical necessity, or of career (as it had been for she, herself, Rosa Schumacher, who became Mary Dawn), but of the erasure of an identity compromised by crime – great, historical crimes, as the world now saw them, as even Charlotte, that is Nathalie, accepted they must have been, notwithstanding her participation in them – in favor of one more innocent, she asked for no clarification or justification. Instead she cooed, dovelike, I am sure that whatever you did was done for the sake of your boys. And so Mary had given Nathalie and her sons not only a job, but home and harbor and life, when others might have turned them over to the authorities, and not without reason.

  Upstairs, in the bosom of the master suite, Mary was in the marble bath, preparing for her guests. Nathalie knocked on the door and Mary called for her to come in without asking who it was, as if she knew already, or assumed no one other than Nathalie would intrude on her toilette, which was true, John Marsh being too afraid, the boys indifferent, the child Iris too self-involved to bother with the ablutions of her mother, whom she openly despised. There were bubbles and foam heaped in hillocks around Mary’s body, piled up to her shoulders, revealing in other places a bare stretch of skin or line of clavicle glistening in the soft light that reflected off the pink tiles. Balanced on the side of the bath, a martini glass containing two pearl onions caught the light from the bulbs that burned around the mirror above the sink.

  Is Iris ready? Mary asked.

  She would not wear the white dress. Insisted only on the blue.

  But she wore the blue one to the last party! People will remember.

  Yes, but she says it is her most favorite party dress. I tried to make her wear the white but no matter what I say she will not change. Perhaps coming from her mother, but you know, your daughter, she is so, so stubborn with me.

  She says she wants you to take her to the movies again. You, not me.

  Of course. It is always my pleasure.

  Nathalie folded a towel that had been left on the floor crumpled and smeared with makeup and powder and pretended to occupy herself tidying up the perfumes and lotions in bottles and jars already ranged along the counter in regiments, alphabetical by type: cream for cheeks, cream for eyes, cream for neck and body and hands, scent for day, scent for evening, scent for seduction, celebration, and sorrow.

  Will you need me tomorrow, Mary? Only I was thinking of taking the boys for an outing, maybe to see Cinderella once more, I know it must seem ridiculous, as if there is nothing else to see, but you understand that Siegfried, I mean Seth, please forgive me, my Seth cannot see this picture enough times to satisfy his little heart. I
sometimes think, imagine such a horror, that he wants to be Cinderella. Of course I would take Iris, too, if she wishes to accompany us, only perhaps now she is bored with this picture.

  She wants to see The Third Man but it can’t be tomorrow. Mary smiled and her eyes were arctic. I meant to tell you earlier something has come up. I’ll give you a day off next week to make up for it but tomorrow I need you. The children can play in the pool.

  Oh? What is this thing you say has. . .come up?

  Mary turned the hot tap and let it run for a minute, then turned it off again, doing this entirely with her toes. The dexterity of the movement was so nauseating Nathalie felt her gorge rise. It reminded her of something she had seen a decade earlier, was connected in her mind to that event, distant though it was, and the way it recalled to her mind the unnatural, twisting conjunction of flesh and steel comingled with the proximity of extreme electrical heat.

  I have to speak to some gentlemen, Mary said in a new voice. Downtown. Men from the government.

  But this does sound serious. It is not some problem with taxes perhaps?

  Mary chewed her lip. No, but it is serious.

  You aren’t in any trouble?

  That’s why I’m going to talk with them. To avoid trouble.

  Nathalie wiped the sink and looked at herself in the mirror, then shifted to focus on the reflection of Mary behind her. The toes were out again, turning the hot water tap. Nathalie put a hand to her mouth.

  Forgive me for thinking of myself, but you understand, I worry only for my boys. It’s nothing to do with me, is it, Mary?

  Of course not. But I have to take precautions. I want you to pack the cases in my closet with enough clothes for two weeks and while I’m downtown you take the other car. Marsh won’t need it, he won’t be out of bed before dinner tomorrow if tonight goes how I plan. Take the cases to Malibu and unpack them once you’re there. I can’t explain more than that. I hope to be able to ask you and the boys to join me, and you’ll bring Iris with you, though the truth is I’d rather leave it here and it’ll probably object and want to stay with its father when it gets wind of it but I’ll have the studio send a car for you and the children if it comes to that, whether it’s just the boys or all three of them, that being my preference, you understand, because a child such as Iris, you have to keep tabs or it’s bound to rumble.

  Are you and Mr. Marsh. . .?

  It all depends on him. Will you turn on that heater?

  Nathalie switched on the chrome electric heater that had recently been installed, and its metal coils quickly turned orange. The coils, the dry electric smell as they heated up, the proximity of her own skin to intense heat, brought that unwanted memory back into focus, and then there were Mary’s monkey toes and the taps and the steam from the bathwater, and in combination all of it made her gorge rise once more.

  I have often wondered since I arrived here, Mary, whether you ever still speak your mother tongue? Without calculating its likely effect, Nathalie had switched to German and with this shift Mary’s expression changed, the pinched hardness smoothing out, her brow clearing, the usually distant gaze drawing closer, focussing on Nathalie in a way that felt charged with a different energy than she had been conscious of emanating from Mary up to that point.

  When I speak to my brother. When I write to him. We always communicate in German, Mary said, also switching languages, although her German was stiffer, with the quality of a poor girl striving for sophistication but falling short. You know, I still dream in German. I do not think in German now, not day to day I mean, unless I come to a thing or a problem that requires it. Most often this is a feeling or an abstract thought that I cannot communicate automatically in English, or I do not know instinctively how to say such a thing in English, and so I must pause and consider, and sometimes find my way around the problem, or I must let it go entirely, meaning that I cannot express what I might be thinking, because I do not know how to say precisely what it is that I am feeling in English, and, of course, the greatest problem is that no one knows this, about who I really am, that my first language is not English, not even John Marsh. Dr. Werth knows and my brother knows and the head of the studio knows, but no one else, you see, no one but you. You understand how much I trust you, how I could have no choice but to trust you when you first came here, and presented yourself to me, and demonstrated that you knew me, and where I came from, do you see? To be honest, I panicked. I thought, this is someone who can ruin everything that I have taken so long to build.

  Yes, I appreciate that, Nathalie said, and understood at last why Mary had taken them in: keeping the threat close, lest Nathalie be tempted to tell the world that Mary was someone other than who she pretended.

  I trust you more than just about anyone, Nathalie. Or maybe I should be calling you Charlotte.

  I think you should call me Charlotte only if I should call you Rosa.

  No, that name is only for my brother. No one else calls me that.

  As you wish. I hope you know that I did not mean to offend. That’s the last thing I would want, darling Mary.

  It does not offend me, but Rosa cannot be the person I am here. Rosa is for elsewhere. If only I hadn’t lied in the first place. I might have been a Hedy Lamarr or a Marlene Dietrich and maybe no one would have cared. But now it’s too late. If the truth came out now, people would say I’d been trying to hide who I am.

  Mary stood up in the bath and took the towel from Nathalie, who looked at the body of the other woman and marveled at the transparency of her complexion, the blue veins racing beneath the rosy skin, and the line of her hips, the bones jutting out. The towel went almost twice around her body as Mary stepped from the water onto the pink bathroom carpet where she unfurled the towel and vigorously swept it back and forth across her back, along her arms, between her legs and genitals and under her breasts, daubing at her neck, and carefully attending to the skin rising up to her hairline before dropping the towel on the floor and pulling the shower cap from her head, allowing her hair to fall around her shoulders. Nathalie picked up the towel, hung it over the rail next to the heater, and watched as Mary stood at the sink, applying different creams to her feet, her legs, her neck and hands and face.

  Shall I bring your gown? Nathalie asked, still in German.

  Not yet, thank you, Mary said, also in German, and so they would continue in German until, in a few minutes’ time, Mary left the master suite. You are indispensable to me now. You have made yourself that way. I wonder, Nathalie, was it calculated?

  My dear, I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean. I should have thought it was obvious that I’m absolutely devoted to you.

  Mary stared at Nathalie’s reflection behind her in the bathroom mirror. She took a white puff from a box and dipped it in the scented talcum powder and began dusting her body all over, waiting for Nathalie to hold up her hair at the back before powdering her nape.

  I see that. And do you know, I do not think I could trust anyone else like this. What is family if not the people one trusts most? The woman Mozelle, for example, I could never be like this in front of Mozelle, so naked, I mean. She has seen me out of makeup but I could never be more exposed than that. And yet with you, darling Nathalie, it is like we are sisters. I feel as close to you as anyone in my life. Perhaps to you I am closest of all. I feel that truly. I hope you see that, she said, applying foundation to her neck and face.

  I feel close to you as well. I’m grateful that you trust me so deeply. I will always do my best to live up to that trust.

  Yes, I believe that. Mary finished applying the foundation before attending to her eyes and cheeks and lips, powdering her face to finish, and then scenting herself all over, one of her scents of seduction. She stood, painted, a column of ivory. I am ready for the gown, Nathalie, if you would be so good as to help me with it. I must be on time for my guests.

  Mary strode from the bathroom to the bedroom where she stepped into her underpants and Nathalie helped with fastening the
corselet, then waited as Mary drew on her stockings and buckled them to the halter. The gown, by Balmain, was navy with a scattering of golden stars across the skirt, and another constellation at the bust, which struck Nathalie as in rather poor taste, tacky, but then Hollywood was a place where bad taste was often the pinnacle of fashion. Nathalie secured the gown’s closure and noticed the fine hairs on Mary’s back stand erect although the room was warm, and she wondered what caused this, whether it was the slight touch of her own fingertips that produced such an effect, Mary’s body alerting itself to the proximity of someone in possession of a secret about her, a secret that seemed to Nathalie so inconsequential in comparison to the kind of information she hoped to discover, the proof one way or another that Mary might have been a Communist, if that was what the agents wished her to procure. It seemed unlikely, if not absurd, to suggest such a thing, and she wondered why those agents would ask her to spy on Mary if Mary was already preparing to speak with them tomorrow? Would that not be enough to satisfy them? And then it occurred to her that these American agents might be quite unlike any others she had encountered in the past, and cooperation, or perhaps cooperation especially, would make them no less suspicious of a person than if she resisted. Cooperation might, it occurred to her now, be interpreted as a sign of guilt.

  You must tell me how I look. Mary adjusted the bust-line of the gown and swept her hair onto her left shoulder, revealing the small birthmark on the back of her neck, a chestnut-brown spot in the shape of an oak leaf. I always fear there might be something I’m not seeing.

  Nathalie turned Mary by the shoulders to look at her face, tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and handed her a tissue. There’s the tiniest shadow of lipstick on your left incisor. But otherwise, you are perfection.