Divine Sarah

by Adam Braver

  The image of the convent quickly faded away as Sarah opened her cleansed eyes to see the crisp blues and browns of the pier. The warmth of the Mother’s bosom turned to the cheek-slapping chill of Abbot Kinney’s face in horrid disproportion with the gutted fish at his feet, flies crawling along the innards.

  Yes, God is watching over her. In the form of Bishop Thomas Conaty from the Cathedral of our Lady of Angels on Second and Main in downtown Los Angeles. Holed up in the dark rectory, no doubt a thin white candle streaming shadows along the redwood walls, transcribing the messages of evil and debauchery that face the world. Clearly led by the challenge of the demon immorality of Sarah Bernhardt and her French depravities, which have come to pollute the United States, and maybe the rest of the world, and how to ensure them from not scathing the soul of Los Angeles. At least not under his watch. Now the good bishop has taken this eye of God and entrusted its vision to his flock. And as a weapon he has instituted the League of Decency, loaded with sins and purgatories to control the insurgents. Keep the entire Los Angeles basin pure.

  Bishop Thomas Conaty.

  The League of Decency.

  The Los Angeles Herald.

  Abbot Kinney.

  God is surely watching over Sarah Bernhardt. Waiting.

  “Let’s go,” she ordered Kinney. Her eyes teared in defiance. She marched past him, nearly knocking the pole from his hand. Her face shining from the glaze of fish guts. Her bangs matted to her forehead. Thick tears of bloodied fat smeared along her blouse. Her stare trained above the crowd that was at once horrified and respectful. Past the reporters who held impotent pencils and would save their questions for one another over tumblers of scotch at a late-afternoon lunch, who by day’s end would look willing to crawl away into the darkness and die alone.

  Sarah Bernhardt turned to Abbot Kinney, who lagged conspicuously behind as she passed through the silent procession. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  May 15, 1906

  SEATED in his high-backed chair, Abbot Kinney kicked his feet up high on his desktop. Each time he shifted, a new tumble of papers fell from his desktop, drifting until they settled into the same corner beneath a dusty old cobweb. He didn’t care. He never really looked at most of that stuff twice. Stupid memos, requests, unimportant correspondence. The information he really needed he kept in his head, and what was too big for his memory he stored in a locked pine cabinet. Today’s newspapers sat piled on the floor. His picture on the front page of each. Four stacks of ten. Lined from the edge of his desk to the chair.

  Kinney had been expecting Sarah Bernhardt for the last twenty minutes. Her entourage had not reached Southern California yet; they were still on a train that was probably in a slow-moving crawl across the Sonoran desert. But her manager, Max Klein, had joined her late last night, and this morning the two of them began a walk-through of the Chautauqua Theater in order to get a feel for it. But they had quickly rushed out, with Klein strangely saying that he and Sarah would meet Kinney at his office in just a moment.

  Max Klein was described as German but seemed to speak with something of a cultured British accent, a regular poof (and Kinney had heard Sarah call him Molly during private banter) in his permanently attired gray knobby sack suit probably tailored with its tightly tapered trousers from the London Clothing Co. Kinney had run into Max’s type when he had studied and lived abroad from his early teens to middle twenties. He knew poofs like Max from his days at the University of Heidelberg who adopted stern, serious faces while hiding behind dorm room doors in frightened superiority, relegating their entire ensembles to dark black. In Paris, though, the poofs swished around with mock authority, gestured a lot with pointed fingers, and haunted all the arts venues as flighty as the falling autumn leaves. Max was a hybrid. He had a dark sophistication about him that seemed immensely private, yet his voice and mannerisms, modulated and melodic, were overtly gregarious. Max was succinct yet gracious when Kinney had let them into the theater. A hint of charm and a dash of spite. His manner took Kinney back to the good old days in Europe, before tobacco, where he spent his middle years selling Sweet Caporal hand-rolleds all over the South, and Egypt, and Macedonia. It was a long time ago. Every once in a while a flit of light gave him a glimpse of his past. The time when all that mattered was possibility.

  SARAH AND MAX had been unsure about presenting La Dame aux Camélias in Kinney’s theater. The space seemed a little roughshod despite its newness, and there was definite concern that there might be an acoustical battle with the evening ocean breezes and waves that would slap the pier’s foundation. Upon first peek through the doorway, Max had uttered that it would be easier to stage the show at the Coliseum in Rome. He gave way to silence, probably understanding that there was little choice in terms of venues. The task now would be to make it work. Sarah had been remarkably quiet. She didn’t appear to be studious or introspective, more as though she was the odd member. She wore a bronze silk dress with bright white stripes that cut the shoulders, with a large boa wrapped around her neck. Her feet peeked out in pointed black boots. Sarah’s face was pale, void of the usual paint. When Kinney had left them, she wandered up to the balcony, moved in slow sidesteps down the upper aisle, and dragged her fingertips along the edges of the seat backs. When she reached the end of the aisle, she traversed the route one row down. That’s when Kinney slipped the key to Max. He said he would wait in his office. Give them privacy to “work their magic.”

  Max walked Kinney to the side exit, a narrow hallway where they stood before the closed door. It smelled of damp night. Max tapped his shoes heel-toe, kicking the edge of the wall.

  “I assume the theater is satisfactory?” Kinney asked.

  “Still under review. We’ll leave her here a while. Madame has to grab hold of it.”

  “She shouldn’t be left alone. Reporters are crawling on their bellies looking for quotes. I think that yesterday’s little stunt should be warning enough. It made every paper except one. If you don’t give them head-on controversy here, then they will always go for the strange. A little more of her classic fire would probably help to offset the event.”

  “For the future, please do not arrange any public events without first going through me. Otherwise, Madame prefers to handle things her own way.”

  “Her troubles with the Comédie-Française have been well documented. Seems she has been known to be a little fiery.”

  “You couldn’t possibly know the potentials.”

  Kinney smiled. “My only real concern is that Madame Bernhardt is comfortable with her surroundings.” He ran his hands through his pockets, crumpling the tan linen trousers. “But she must be careful. She can’t just go around performing for reporters every time she sees something she doesn’t like. They will eventually kill her in this town for that, especially considering the new bloodletting craze the papers have here, and the conservative plague that’s been killing us here. And you think the fucking Catholics are crazy…She got off lucky. I think our better strategy is to go back to her old verbal sparring. It’s safer but is still likely to keep us newsworthy.” He pushed the door open. A flash of light burst over the hall, rolling in like a welcome mat. He peered his head out, looking side to side, then stepped back in, leaving the door open. “Fresh cool sea air.”

  “Yesterday will not happen again if you leave her to me.”

  “It’s just that I know how this town runs. I know what to do for Madame Bernhardt.”

  She appeared behind them. A rainbow shadow outlined her figure. “Please tell, I would very much like to know.” Golden sunlight glowed through the strands of lightened hair piled atop her head. “Please continue. I’m dying to know.” Her eyes looked glassy, larger than usual. Her stare seemed to take in the whole room without any of the detail. “Do tell all,” she said. “And make it saucier than a dime-store novel. Perhaps a church can wage war on our heroine, with everybody in the village knowing about it except for her. Imagine the dramatic irony. The
tension, and the pity.” Then she laughed. Purely for herself. “But how would it end?”

  Max jumped back in alarm. He grabbed Sarah by the arm and quickly whisked her out the door. “Let’s continue this in just a moment,” he muttered to Kinney. “We’ll meet you in your office.” He slammed the exit door shut. Max noticed Kinney taking notes with his eyes, scribbling every last detail to memory.

  Max held on to her arm and pulled her to an inlet on the pier between the building entrances. They stepped over a strip of sunlight into the shadows. A wave broke beneath their feet, echoing far below the weathered slats. There was a rancid smell, like something had curled up and died in the corner. It was an overwhelmingly bitter and foul pungency that slowly turned sweet as fresh fruit. Max hardly noticed. He was still gripping Sarah’s arm. To a passerby it might have looked like a quarrel, or even a shakedown.

  Sarah shook her arm free. “But I wanted to hear what he had to say.”

  Max clenched his fists, and then unclenched them. Eventually he settled on shoving his agitated hands into his pockets. He bit down on his lip, and looked her in the eye. Then looked away as quickly to the thin view of ocean beneath his feet.

  “Are you ready to work out the final scene with me? That room cannot handle it.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Right now it is almost as though Marguerite is responsible for the disease. As if the tuberculosis is the knife guided by her own hand. As though she has brought on the disease only to create this tragedy of love.”

  Max chewed on his lip while grinding his toe between a space in the slats.

  “Max, you are not listening. You are upset about something. Why is my Molly upset?”

  “You think this all just comes so easily, don’t you?” His voice was trembling. “Just wave a magic wand and poof.”

  “Are we bringing you into it now?” She smiled. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, without tears. “Do they still say poof? Or is queer the in slang?”

  “Sarah, you are supposed to be preparing for the show. Not off in your dreamland.”

  She leaned forward and threw her arms around him, leaning her full weight against his chest. She touched her lips to his ear. “I love my Max so much. How he looks out for me. And sometimes I wish I could have all of my Max. But then, I suppose, I probably wouldn’t love you anymore.”

  He felt the dryness of her breath tumbling down his neck. He didn’t push her away. Instead he hugged her and held tight, listening to the breaking waves and the distant carnival sounds. The boa tickled. He massaged his knuckle beneath her shoulder blade, a sharp hand-sculpted fin. “Sarah, the hop will destroy your career,” he whispered. “And you.”

  “The hop. Listen to you. Hop. You become so pedestrian when you come to America. Say its right name, Max. For me.”

  “If saying opium will make you stop, then there I’ve said it. Please.” He rubbed her shoulder a little harder.

  “Your touch is always perfect. That’s why I love my Molly. He always cares for me.”

  “We won’t have to worry about the Catholics if the newspapers get hold of this. You’ll be run out of America in a matter of minutes. And I’ll remind you that you cannot afford that in the least.”

  “It’s not illegal.”

  “In fact it is here. Very illegal. Laws have changed.”

  “Then just tell them I have a cough. Or that I’m teething.” She laughed. “Tell anybody who wonders that I’ve just had a nip of Godfrey’s Cordial. Or Coke-Cola.”

  “You can’t let Kinney suspect. He’s the type who will look for any advantage to grab control of this situation…Good god, we need to air you out. That smoke smell can last for hours. I wish you had never married Jacques Damala.”

  “It was only for a year, my sweet.”

  “A year that introduced you to a culture of drugs.”

  “Do you remember New York, Max?”

  He heard footsteps milling down the pier behind them. A woman’s deep voice moaning and talking. Max held Sarah tighter to shelter her from view until they passed.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t remember New York? And that was long before the Greek Damala.”

  “There have been many New York trips,” he answered dismissively, hoping not to engage her. “Abbot Kinney can’t even suspect, Sarah. He’ll turn us into one of his junk heap circus rides. It will make a mockery of your career.”

  “You are my protector, Max.”

  “This is serious.”

  “Booth’s Theater. Does that ring a bell?”

  “Sarah. Not now.”

  “New York. Booth’s Theater. What was that, about ’eighty? Down in the Tenderloin.”

  “Not long enough ago,” Max sneered.

  “Oh please, Molly. We took that ship over that bounced up and down the entire way. We couldn’t walk straight. That was the ship that Lincoln’s widow was on board. She looked tragically horrible. Gray skin. Her eyes sunken and pale. Almost a vagabond. She would have died if I hadn’t grabbed her arm. The stairs were that steep. She knew it. She said it would have been a blessing to die. I still feel the buzz that went through me while holding her hand. Life and death all around her at the hands of actors. I didn’t tell her my name. I couldn’t even look her in the eye. We didn’t see her the rest of the trip, did we?”

  Max laughed. “Not for trying, Sarah. You spent the rest of the days trying to point her out to me until we landed at New York Harbor with all those WELCOME THE BERNHARDT signs.”

  “That promoter Jarrett was such an embarrassment to me. An ass.”

  “But he paid us well for that, Sarah. And ensured that you were the toast of the town.”

  She brushed him off with a wave of her hand. “The reporters all wanted to know what religion I was. Here I thought that they would be asking questions about Dumas writing L’Etrangère especially for me. About bringing the French craft to the United States. Or if I’d be starting off the tour with Phèdre or Hernani. No, puritan America just wanted to make sure I had some religion. I should have just copped to something. Then maybe I wouldn’t have seemed so immoral to them.”

  “Things haven’t changed much.”

  “But Booth’s Theater. Do you remember?”

  “All the customs men waiting at the theater hoping to levy a tax on the stage production.” Of course he remembered. It had been his first trip to America. Every moment had seemed important. “They looked at the dresses. Each and every one. Admiring the beads and jewels.”

  “And you were such a frightened Molly. Just like you are now. Afraid that they would find my little canister of opium. Almost one hundred dollars’ worth on that trip. You were ghostly in the corner. Couldn’t even enjoy the sight of all these burly government men holding dresses up to their barrel chests.”

  “A different kind of fear.”

  “And you told me to get rid of it. As soon as they left, you said we had to get rid of it.”

  He grinned. She had successfully, as always, brought him into her world. Pretty soon Max was likely to completely forget the volatility of the current situation and participate in its explosion, until somebody (undoubtedly him) inevitably cleaned it up on hands and knees in the final hour. “That was a different time, Sarah. The world was a different place then.”

  “It was you who said that we had to smoke it. You didn’t suggest throwing it over the Brooklyn Bridge or dropping it into the toilet. You said we should smoke it. And you were the one who figured out how to get us into Chinatown.”

  “Something like that. But Sarah let’s not lose track of where we are now.”

  “Whatever we do, you said, don’t waste it.”

  It was true. Max had ordered that directive. He got directions from one of the stagehands, who asked him why they would want to go down there, and Max had said it was for the food. The stagehand said he would go with them, he’d probably be down there anyway. Max told him not to bother. He then dragged Sarah along Forty-second Street past the hobos and the destit
ute. Her fur coat like a shield. Whores lined the streets, stationed like soldiers, jockeying position to be closer to casino doors. Through the muck of the street, and the rotten smell of the gutters, where each open doorway smelled of either liquor or vomit. He held her tight. Protecting her. But her gait was soft and easy, and she wasn’t bothered at all. Max had thanked god that they were not in Paris or London because there the diva would have been instantly recognized, and while he would have insisted on a cat-and-mouse escape, she would have stopped and bathed in the celebrity, touching hands and thanking them until she stumbled home drunk from adulation. But here, a month before opening night on her first American tour, she was just another faceless shadow, without the incessant publicity of the promoter. They took the Second Avenue El as instructed, rising high above the city in a tremolo of steel industry, the rattling vibrating his nerves while she peered out the window in excitement at the city below her. They got off at Canal Street lost and feeling especially foreign. He held her can of dope. She held his hand. Feeling exclusively endangered, they walked up past Centre Street. Max flagged down a motorized taxi and crawled into the buggy, shouting directions to the driver seated above them. “Take us somewhere where we can eat,” Max said, leaving it at that. The hack tooled around until he stopped abruptly and called out, “Mott Street. Can’t do better than this,” knowing full well what two poshees were doing in Chinatown after sunset. He wished them good luck as he accepted the fare and reminded them of the tip. Once out of the car they were surrounded by the bustle of Chinatown. Overwhelmed by the sweet greasy smell of roasted duck, spent tobacco, and the bitterness of burning opium. Two Europeans spotlighted against the blackened street, oblivious to the gang wars and yellow peril that the newspapers warned about. They walked aimlessly up the sidewalks, pushing through the hordes of Chinese, looking for someplace to sneak into and smoke down their stash in peace. Coming around the corner Max saw the stagehand, who waved when he greeted them. “If this isn’t a coincidence,” the young boy said. “Something tells me you’re not here to eat.”