With the rest of the audience I was entranced as she sang a gloomy French song called ‘Fashionette’ and another about an impotent Pierrot.
Her final number, in which she made sensual play with her cigarette holder and those extraordinary blue eyes under huge lashes, was called ‘Der Entropietango’ and was a typically sardonic piece of Berlin pessimism. The sexual charge in the place was almost asphyxiating. Men and women were equally fascinated by her performance. She had everything the Germans loved, including her English accent. Her show finished with an extraordinary version of a song I knew to be a favourite, but made all the more suggestive by the wailing and throbbing of the little Negro orchestra.
‘Don’cher fink my dress is a little bit, jest a little bit, not too much of it -? / And if you fink my dress is a little bit - well, it’s ther little bit ther boys admire . . .’ Finishing with a rousing chorus or two of Keep yer ‘and on yer ‘a’penny.
She left them on their feet and yelling for more, quite unlike the usual response of the blasé nightclub audiences. As their applause subsided she took her encore. She slunk, she strutted, she strolled and slid from one sinuous step into another. I almost swooned with the pleasure of it. The horns and reeds blared and shrieked, the banjo twanged.
‘Oh, the moonlight, the bitter moonlight, oh, the moonlight ... no heart has the knight . . . Locked in the prison of my dreams, he brings me my release . . . Love is a dish he can’t refuse. He tastes it once and on he moves . . . My blood finds harmony in his, true blood mixed with true love is .. . Must I perish so he can unify our land?’ She sang in English what was evidently a modern setting for an old folk song with more meaning in German. There was something in the words which brought the audience almost to tears, and their emotion filled that tiny cellar, giving her energy for still another chorus. Swaying, they joined in as one.’ We will unite, one day soon, / Some day when, we’ll united be again!
A yearning for conformity was a stronger pull than sex in those decent Bavarian hearts. She appealed to the patriot and man of goodwill, not the pervert. ‘And we know we’ll be together one day soon!’
Vera Ellen would pirate this song for crude propaganda during the War but every German who heard it knew what it really meant.
She left them happy again, with ‘A Little of What You Fancy Does You Good’ and ‘Please Take Care of My Pussy’, then just as she was giving her final bow, the stage awash with petals and notes, she saw me and screamed.
‘Ivan! Yer little barstard, where yer bin?’
Then she was engulfed.
Eventually she made her way to our table and sat down radiantly, still acknowledging their homage. She offered Kitty a distant nod. They were already acquainted, she said. Then she turned her beaming face on me. ‘Ivan. Th’ bad penny wot always turns up, eh? I bin tryin’ ter find yer since I saw yer in ther street wiv all yer parcels. That was ther day I got ‘ere with ‘Uggy. Did yer get married?’ She cast suspicious eyes on Kitty, who ‘frosted’ and turned away to smile at an old brewer leering at her knees. ‘I’ve got a job fer yer. Real work. We’d almost decided on Jack Trevor, but ‘e’s landed a contract anyway. ‘E’s goin’ ter live in Oberammergau, ‘e says, where they ‘ave ther play. It would probably suit ‘im to play Jesus.’ Then she calmed down, realising how much attention was still on us. She leaned forward and left a red kiss on my cheek. ‘Come rahnd ter the “Exit Only” door in five minutes and Reinhardt’ll let yer in. But I’d rather yer come on yer own.’
Kitty was more than a trifle disconcerted when I popped her in a taxi and sent her to spend the night at Prince Freddy’s. I had important business, I said, to be discussed in private. Kitty’s laughter, when I told her this, was crisply disbelieving. At that point I had no concern for her good opinion. I hurried back to Mrs Cornelius.
I waited a couple of minutes until the bar of the ‘Exit Only’ door was pushed back, and I was greeted by what appeared to be an elaborately dressed ape. A tiny hermaphroditic creature in a perfect linen suit of pale lilac, calling himself’Mr Reinhardt’, ushered me through the badly ventilated passage behind the toilets and into a scarcely more pleasant dressing room. Poorly lit, save for the glaring mirror, this tiny space was festooned with exotic underwear and coloured silks. Her figure as firm as ever, Mrs C leaned into the mirror, removing her exaggerated stage make-up. I was relieved to see the same vital youth underneath. Roughly my own age, she shared the tendency to unwrinkled skin that had little to do with care and a great deal to do with heritage. Save for facial hair I have remained smooth all my life. Most of my lovers have been fascinated by that quality.
Little Reinhardt scuttled away like an apologetic rat, and I was left to sit in the gold-painted wicker chair she offered me. Some of the paint immediately attached itself to my sleeve, and my attempts to clean it smeared it further. I did my best to relax in the chair’s creaking discomfort. What was worse, I was forced to endure the most exquisite pangs of lust while she removed her face, as she put it, and ‘slapped the old one back on’. Then she went behind her screen to finish dressing while I relieved myself as best I could in the time permitted.
I was disconcerted by a rapid knock on the door which opened immediately to reveal another familiar face. His knowing smirk was the last thing I wished to experience. I greeted him wearily with a wave of the offending hand. ‘Good evening, Seryozha.’ Mrs Cornelius was always soft-hearted. How many more of the walking wounded had she adopted? ‘When did you slip down to Munich? Where’s your uniform?’
‘I’m in mufti.’ A monstrous wink. ‘Special assignment.’ His lugubrious eyes leered into mine as those massive lips planted warm kisses on my cheeks. ‘Dimka, dearest. I’m a BODY guard!’ His giggle was unbecoming in an SS officer. ‘On loan from Himmler, who owes a favour to our Gloria’s special gent, and my association with the theatre is well known. The Bolshies will go to any lengths to attack us. They hate her because she happens to be friends with a very nice old gentleman who doesn’t share their particular views and whom Captain Himmler wants to keep sweet. I was the ideal officer to protect our star. But you have another acquaintance, dear —’
‘Keep it darn, Sershi,’ called Mrs Cornelius from behind the screen. ‘And don’t talk so fuckin’ much or I won’t ‘ave nuffink ter tell ‘im meself. An’ I’m tryin’ ter get a free dinner art o’ im.’
Seryozha draped his boneless body over two chairs and snorted. Sharing an even more exaggerated wink with me, he leaned forward and hissed, ’It’s her favourite darkie, dear. You know! Really sweet — and so intelligent!’
The only darkie of her acquaintance I ever knew was, of course, Mr Mix. I remember how disconsolate she had been after my ‘Sancho Panza’ disappeared off the ship in Casablanca.
‘It could not, of course, be Mr Mix —’
‘Oh, is it Mix?’ He tutted with self-disgust. ‘I thought it was Dix. The actor, dear, not the cowboy. English is hideous, isn’t it, Dimka? Everything sounds the same, like Chinese. All inflection and inference. It’s a slippery language, dear. You can’t trust it, can you? Not like Russian. You know where you are with Russian.’ He took out a snuffbox and cut us all a line of cocaine.
My loyal companion had found his patroness again. Mrs Cornelius had been more than kind to him, willingly devoting hours of her time to helping him. ‘Does Mr Mix know I’m here?’ I asked.
‘I’ll tell him, dear.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Sexy, mm?’ He took the first snuff. ‘Built like a rhino . . . ?’
‘My dear Seryozha, Mr Mix was my loyal servant on my travels across America and Africa. Our relationship was always formal. I never expected to see him again.’ I accepted his little Lalique mirror, a silver tube.
‘Oh, the man’s full of fun. So talented and entertaining. You and I, of course, prefer the more slender, East African type -’
‘I told yer ter shut it, Sersh.’ Mrs Cornelius’s voice became a guillotine. ‘We’ll orl be art o’ work if you don’t put a clip on them big flapping
lips. Wot a marf, wot a marf, wot a norf an’ satf. . .’
I began to laugh both at his childish disappointment and at her glaring eyes as she stepped from behind the screen dressed for the street in a pretty black-and-white outfit. She wore a little matching hat on her platinum locks, a red rose in her lapel. With a tiny handbag under her arm, she trotted on slender high heels. I was able to stand up a little shakily and salute her. She said that as usual it looked as if I was rocking the cradle at both ends.
‘Yer orl pasty, Ivan.’ I was going to need a bit of self-discipline what with the work I had coming to me. ‘Yer’ve got yer big break at last, matey. I’ve ‘ad private detectives looking fer yer, an’ everyfing!’ She refused to say more until after the fish course.
I took her to dinner at the Restaurant Steiner in Rosenstrasse, an expensive place, all plush and crystal, serving dinner in the old High South German style. The meal would cost me most of my remaining money but would be worth it to celebrate our reunion. She was recognised by several customers who stood up to bow, and she very prettily bowed back. ’Keep in wiv ther sods while yer a’ead, Ivan, eh?’
I agreed enthusiastically.
We finished our fish, but she only really came down to business at the meal’s end. Stroking the glass which had taken the last of my month’s budget, she offered a huge comradely grin. ‘We’re quids in, Ivan. I can’t see ‘ow it can fail. But it was touch an’ go until I saw yer tonight. My ‘Uggy’s got this idea of doing a series o’ cowboy pictures, ‘ere in Germany, and selling ‘em ter America!’
She clearly thought the idea mad.
‘Which means ‘e’s got ter ‘ave stars known in America. Which is where you an’ me come in, ‘cause them bloody Masked Buckaroo serials are orl over ther bloody place ‘ere! They get ‘em cheap in job lots. Ya know ther sorta fing. Yer can ‘ave two Tom Mixes and a ‘Oot Gibson but yer got ter take twelve episodes of Masked Buckaroo at Devil’s Jump. I ain’t complainin’. The Krauts fink we’re the biggest fing in ‘Ollywood! Anyway, we don’t ‘ave ter go orl the way back ter Arizona. ‘Uggy says we can find the right scenery in the East. I fink ‘e means Austria. ‘E reckons we can crack ther English an’ American market wiv somefink closer to its tastes. And there’s nuffink the world likes better than a good cowboy picture. I don’t know if ‘e’s right or wrong, Ivan, but there’s a bit of money in it for you an’ me. Worf a try, eh? Fer as long as it larsts? ‘E’s gettin’ ‘is white bloke lined up an’ I’m playing the beautiful mysterious princess, o’ course, but he needs you for the coloured chap.’
I suppose my inclination was to rise at that point, but politeness made me hear her out. She grinned at my expression. ‘It’s cowboys and Indians, Ive. Yer play this noble defender of ‘is wild domain. Child o’ nature. Like in Ther Vanishin’ American, remember? Or Ther Sheikh. Very romantic. All big brown eyes an’ brooding menace, eh? If only Red Indians did ther tango! A clarsy darkie, Ive. Yer’ll ‘ave orl ther girlies after ya! An Indian prince, Winnie the Pooh or somefink.’
‘Winnetou?’ I asked quietly. It began to dawn on me that this was no ordinary blackface role. ‘Of Karl May’s immortal tales?’
‘That’s ther bloke. May. I keep getting’ ‘im mixed up wiv Karl Marx. Both ‘ad bushy whiskers.’ She was delighted at my knowledge. ‘I’d never ‘eard of ‘im. But ‘e’s big news over ‘ere, right?’
‘He is Albert Schweitzer’s favourite author and what every German-speaking child has in common. I read and reread those books as a boy! I could probably quote Winnetou verbatim! They are what made me the idealist I am today. Professor Lustgarten, my tutor, had a full set. “Professor Vitzliputzli” inspired my interest in science, and of course I can vouch personally for May’s profound knowledge of the Sahara Winnetou, even more than Chingachgook, was a standard for all natural male virtue. May is a great writer, whose philosophy and metaphysics are as powerful as his storytelling gifts.’
‘Well, you and ‘Uggy’ll agree on that anyway. It’s ther same sorta drift. I told ‘im you were the exact chap. ‘E knows yer name ‘o course, and ‘e’s seen some of yer pictures. ‘E fought you wos worf puttin’ down some money for a private ‘tec. But Sexton Blake ‘imself couldn’t’a found yer! We’d almost given up on yer. Where yer bin? We fought ya wos wiv that Ernst Röhm, but ‘e tol’ ‘Uggy ‘e ‘adn’t seen yer fer monfs. Lon Creighton’s over in Berlin, and ‘e’s up for playin’ ther trapper geezer. Thass our Lonny’s son. Chip off th’ ol’ block. Like old ‘ome week, eh?’
‘Chaney’s son, if he has his father’s talent, will be perfect for the role of Sam Hawkens.’ I was growing enthusiastic as I visualised the kind of film we could make. Creighton was a friend from our Hollywood days. We had met him with his father. He refused to exploit his father’s name in those days, but it was well known to all filmgoers who he really was. “E’s getting’ a contract wiv RKO, but ‘e’s doing this till ‘is first US movie comes up.’
‘An all-star picture! Who’s playing Old Shatterhand himself?’
Old Shatterhand, a German greenhorn, was May’s Texan version of Natty Bumppo. Every German schoolboy had a clear idea of what he looked like.
“Uggy really wanted someone local. A German. It’s talkin’ English, see. They asked Jack Trevor,’ she said, ‘but ‘e’s booked with everyone at the mo’, like I said. ‘Ugg’s not sure about a real Yank. John Bentley’d do it, but after that bloody last fiasco in Egypt I wouldn’t trust ‘im, frankly. ‘Uggy likes ther look o’ Cary Cooper but ‘e’s under contract and anyway I ‘eard wot Clara Bow said about ‘im — biggest cock in Hollywood an’ no arse ter push it wiv!’ My earth-spirit exploded with mirth. ‘There’s some English feller in ther runnin’, too, does ‘tec films in Blighty. ‘Ugg’s goin’ over ter see ‘im. They got Lonny’s son ‘cause ‘e wos over ‘ere anyway. They’re finking o’ some Austrian bloke, Anton Wallbanger or somefink, who can talk English. You gotta at least be able to fake it in a lot o’ diff’rent languages. That’s why ‘e wants an English or American actor. That’s ther idea, see? Sell ‘em back to America and England and the rest o’ ther empire. Dollars an’ pahnds, Ive. Wot they all want ter get their ‘ands on. ‘Ard money. Biggest single market, English. Then German. Then French. Then Spanish. So it’ll be plain sailin’ fer us, eh?’
She explained how modern pictures shot each scene over again in a number of languages. Only later would studios discover the less expensive method of dubbing. I had just seen Rex Ingram’s most recent film, which was made in Morocco with an international cast, none of whom could be understood in any of the languages they spoke! I had known Ingram in Hollywood. The Irishman had studios in Nice and refused to return to the United States. He said sound had been the death knell of artistic pictures. He had announced that henceforth he would paint or write but would never make pictures again.
The Germans led the world in the production of multiple-language films. The Blue Angel had just been made at UfA’s Neubabelsberg studios, each scene shot first in English, then in German, then in French. Hollywood, of course, could not make such films, because it did not have the wealth of actors able casually to speak several languages. It was almost impossible for the modern European cosmopolitan not to be familiar at least with English and French if he was German. Italians were often fluent in all three languages, as well as their own. The only problem German producers faced was the American and British public’s failures to appreciate the boulevard comedies and military farces, the staple of the Berlin and Munich cinemas, produced in their dozens. Even the operettas, though widely imitated, did not pull in the natives of Bradford and Boston. Horror films and science fiction did reasonably well, largely because they depended on visual effects, and Germans were recognised as the masters of modern illusion. Metropolis had been a minor success in the UK. Die Drei von der Tankstelle, with its wonderful contemporary settings and many of the top UfA stars, had done no serious business overseas. Even Der Kongress tanzt, immediately imitated by the Americans, did n
ot hit the million-dollar jackpot.
“Uggy’s not that ‘appy with foreigners comin ‘ere an’ makin’ their pictures,’ Mrs Cornelius confided. ‘They bring a few dollars in, but that’s it. Orl ther real profit goes back ter “Jew York” as ‘Uggy calls it. ‘E says Germans should be makin’ ther movies and exportin’ them ter America, not the ower way abart. So that’s wot we’re gonna do. Quotas on Yank pictures. Cowboy pictures fer cowboys ter watch in Wyomin’ an’ Texas.’ She threw back her head and roared, startling a waiter behind her. ‘An’ ‘is big enfusiasm’s Karl wotsit’s books. It’s like a bloody religion wiv ‘im. ‘E finks ‘e’ll convert ther Yanks ter bring back ther poor ol’ Kaiser. Yer really reckon ‘em, do yer? Them books?’
I told her how May’s tales of Turk and Texan were totally engrossing, instilling the love of nature, freedom and individuality which mark the best type of modern man. May compared the Apache to the Turk and said they both represented great races who had fallen on hard times, unable to resist more aggressive enemies. He pointed to Indian architecture to show how the Red Man could attain any level of civilisation he wished.
The Vengeance of Rome - [Between The Wars 04] Page 52
