by Adam Braver
Off to the Patrons’ Brunch.
Time to be Sarah Bernhardt.
VINCE BAKER SAT INSIDE the King George Hotel lobby, keenly aware of how different the air felt, trapped and rarefied. He had been camped for about an hour, staking out the place. He still had no real objective other than to see her. It had been twice now that he had been in her presence, and each time he had the strange feeling that the distance made him understand her a little more. Soon he was going to be forced to have to talk with her (although he worried her allure might seduce him into a dumb state, one that extended beyond the physiology of the mouth, more like a brain that temporarily lost its ability to form thoughts). He wasn’t scared of her. But he did recognize her ability to reshape charisma into control. She would probably want to speak with him once she was told that it was his name on the article that publicly flogged her. She would want to set the record straight. They all do. He still needed to figure out what he would say to her. And be able to say it.
Bernhardt pressed through the lobby doors in a dramatic fashion that was likely her calling card. All eyes instantly leaped toward her. Baker presumed this as normal. She was trailed close behind by the escort from the other night who at once appeared controlled and hurried. She looked slightly disheveled. Her hair, which both times before always seemed on the edge of kempt now sprang out as though unsuccessfully matted by tap water and a comb. Her dress appeared a bit wrinkled, as almost an elegant housedress, but certainly not what one would imagine her to be seen wearing in public. And perhaps that was the very reason that her escort guided her quickly through a small crowd that was as eager to get a glimpse of her as she was to see them. He took her right into the stairwell and effectively locked her in, before swinging open the door with the gracious hands of a politician on a whistle-stop to announce, “Thank you for coming. I am sorry to be so brief, but Madame needs her rest.” And the small crowd, an equal mix of old and young, accepted this proclamation, not for one moment questioning why the ingenue would need to rest so early in the morning.
Baker watched the group disperse and noticed a slight change in their demeanors. It was as if they walked a little taller, somehow ingesting her confidence and charisma by proxy. Maybe this is the allure of the autograph. It is more than obtaining proof or having a keepsake, and even beyond establishing connection—it is removing part of that person, a graft, and infusing it into your own system, the momentary feeling that you are one and the same.
In an odd way Baker felt it too. He had the same sense of empowerment from having witnessed something historic, where your place in the world quickly feels more relevant. Your feet know what it is like to fall in the trail of greatness. And as with the autograph, you completely rise to a new level. Baker felt ready to talk with her. A sit-down interview to try to understand the illusion of her power. How this petite old French woman whose vocation was in repeating words from a playwright’s hand could cause such an upheaval.
He stepped up to the desk and leaned over, bracing himself by the elbows. Eye to eye with the head clerk. “Can you please direct me to Sarah Bernhardt’s room?” he said, cutting off the salutation.
The clerk coughed into his fist. “You understand that I cannot give out that information.”
“I’m a reporter from the Los Angeles Herald. Vince Baker. I only wish to interview her.”
“I am not allowed to.” His voice nearly broke.
Baker was not accustomed to encountering this type of situation. His credentials and reputation usually gave him a free pass through any door, from the top-floor office suite to the mistressed boudoirs. “How about a message to her, then.” He reached for a pencil in his coat. “Have some paper, please?”
The clerk’s lips barely moved, uttering something inaudible.
“There a problem here?”
“I just don’t know if I should be bothering her.”
“Let me tell you something”—he leaned forward to read the clerk’s nametag—“Dolph. You don’t think Miss Bernhardt finding out that she missed a chance for an interview with the Herald will cause some problems? She’s a celebrity. That’s what they live for. And I am especially guessing that you don’t want to read in the article that Bernhardt was not available for comment because old Dolph at the King George Hotel refused to pass the request along. Actually, I imagine that you don’t want Abbot Kinney reading that either.”
Dolph’s complexion turned white, with a thin but visible band of sweat banding his forehead.
“Well?” Baker spoke. This time sounding more impatient.
“I suppose there is no harm in delivering a message.”
Dolph disappeared for several minutes, leaving Baker strangely alone in the lobby. The room was deserted as if the victim of an evacuation. It crossed his mind that he had missed some crucial piece of information while sparring with Dolph. After a time measured by breaths, a collection of couples passed through the lobby into the restaurant. They were paired by gender. Men set the pace with hands dug into their pockets, their brows furrowed as they nodded in conspiracy, trailed by the women who spoke in hushed voices, trying to smolder smiles that their husbands would view as treasonous.
In procession, Bernhardt and her escort shortly followed behind. She was dolled now, walking a brisk stride as though the barrel of a pistol were set deep in her kidneys. Rounding out the parade was Dolph who, out of breath, said to Baker, “Madame Bernhardt says that she will meet with you at one o’clock.”
THREE WAITERS WERE POSTURED patiently, standing at military arms upon the guests’ arrival, hands at their sides, shoulders squared back, and chins subtly arched toward the ceiling. It was Kinney’s private dining room at the hotel. It had a certain genuine elegance that was hard to find fault with. The other guests were already seated when Sarah and Max arrived. The white-coated waiters took over, one guiding them to the table while the other two were dispensed back to the kitchen to begin relaying silver-trayed meals.
The dynamic was fairly simple. Abbot Kinney sat on one side of the table, his big hands resting on the white linen, interlacing his fingers that looked too small for those hands, while the two thumbs rubbed gently against each other. And Sarah sat opposite him. Her posture erect and her face stern and serious, pretending to be listening and attentive to all his stories as her mind drifted in and out. While at the end of the table, seated directly center, Max Klein drummed his foot nervously against the floor, accidentally clanking his fork against the china plate more than once, clearly in terror that this intimately confined setting had the potential to explode at any moment. The patrons lined the table. They sat man, woman, man, woman (although it might have made better sense to stack one side with women, and the other with men, as most couples did not engage with each other, instead they leaned and arced behind the chair backs when private discourse took precedence).
Kinney took painstaking care in introducing each member of the table to Sarah. He told their names, where their families came from, the husband’s line of work, and a lengthy reading of their commitment to the arts that read more like a curriculum vitae than a brunch introduction. When he was finished, Kinney turned to Max and added, “This is Maxwell Klein, Madame’s manager and confidant.” Then he turned from Max as quickly.
The waiters never broke a sweat. Sarah noticed that. They performed in their perfectly executed tandem, never betraying the anxiety or stress of transporting food that was prepared with a chef’s vision. Careful not to disrupt the presentation and not to lose the proper serving temperature of the meals, while keeping a shadowed presence inside the room, on the unenviable cusp of having to be readily engaged and as impassive as the walls. She was struck by their professionalism. Their drive for perfection. And she wondered what instilled this ethic. Surely there was not enough money to engender this level of commitment, nor (and even more baffling) was there an audience to applaud their efforts. At best they might be palmed a nice gratuity at the end of the evening, followed by a concessionary elitist co
mment such as, The service was quite nice tonight. But maybe that was enough. Maybe recognition, even in its barest most questionable form, was the motivation for excellence. She was thinking about that when Kinney asked if there was a problem with the food. She just wasn’t very hungry, she told him, half-expecting him to order the waiters to find some other accommodations. Mostly though, she was not hungry from boredom.
To Sarah’s right sat a woman with a slight frame. She wore her blond hair twisted and pinned to the back of her head with the sides shaped like cones. Her cheeks puffed out uncomfortably, as though she was the victim of a cultural melancholia only cured by food (and clearly not her husband’s money). She wore a wedding ring with a slim silver band, almost invisible, but on top sat a fat diamond that vied for balance each time she moved a finger. She was the wife of Dr. Cornelius Michaels (none of the women seemed to have their own names), descendants of Scots, and the major funders behind the growth of the county art museum. (Or was she Mrs. Michael Connors of Prussian descent, primary funder of the ballet expansion?) She turned to Sarah and said that timeless expression: “I can’t tell you what an honor this is.”
Sarah nodded and smiled, whispering, “Merci.”
“I am so delighted to see Camille tomorrow night. It has been a dream of mine to see you in that role.”
“I have always wondered why it is called that in America?”
“I am sorry?”
“Why do you think they call it Camille? That is not the name of the play.”
A few of the men coughed.
“It is called La Dame aux Camélias.”
“Perhaps,” one of the men offered (Dr. Simon, England, Sculpture?), “it has been translated because of our clumsy American tongues.”
“But it translates to Lady of the Camellias. A reference to Marguerite always buying the flowers.”
“Well, you know we Americans like things compact and succinct,” said Dr. Simon, laughing.
“I find it strange,” Sarah said. She took a small bite and then chased it with a sip of champagne. “Does Camille even mean anything?”
“A name,” Mrs. Michaels said. “In fact, my sister is named Camille.”
“How very interesting.”
Mrs. Michaels continued. “Again, I cannot express how much I am looking forward to watching your performance in La Dame—The Lady of the Camellias.”
Sarah finished her glass. “It pleases me to hear your anticipation. However, I am regretful to tell you that I will not be performing La Dame aux Camélias tomorrow evening. I have decided to change the show to La Tosca.”
Max’s elbow nearly slipped off the table. She saw him look to Kinney, who was strangely unaffected by the news. Then Max glared at her with a look that commanded silence. She shrugged. Normally he would break in with a what Madame meant to say and recast her words to his neutral agenda. But this time there was nothing that Molly could possibly do with that phrase. It was clear and precise, leaving no variance for interpretation. All he could do was sit back and nod his head. He would probably look best if he just appeared agreeable, instead of stunned and unaware.
“Well.” Mrs. Michaels spoke for the table. “That is a little unorthodox, isn’t it? Changing shows the day before.”
“Sometimes you must go with intuition,” Sarah said. “It is unfair to both the company and the audience to proceed with a performance when both have lost the emotional connection. That is when decisions need to be made.”
Kinney straightened at the end of the table. The words and implications finally processing through his mind. “Indeed, it does sound a bit unorthodox.”
“We are a company of professionals. And a large part of our success is based on trusting our instincts. Plus, we have been playing La Tosca on this tour already. We have the sets. Rehearsals have been run.”
Kinney nodded, looking both surprisingly content and enthralled.
“I will be frank with all of you,” Sarah stated. “You are scholars of art. If you saw me perform Marguerite Gautier tomorrow night you would be very disappointed. You would leave the theater saying to one another that while it was a pleasure to see Madame Bernhardt apply her craft, still there was something lacking. You would not be able to put your finger on it, but still you would know. So I will save the discussion in two manners. First, by changing the show, and secondly by explaining that what you recognize as lacking is the admission that I am not sure that I understand Marguerite Gautier anymore.”
“What Madame means to say,” (there he goes) Max said, “is that she is reenvisioning Marguerite’s motivations.”
Sarah smiled at him. “Sitting here with you today makes me realize that I cannot possibly continue that charade. So instead we turn to La Tosca. A simple woman in a complex situation. One whose tragic death is by her own hand. Her own punctuation mark to end the circumstances. Where death is honor, and her freedom is in being able to choose.”
“And,” Dr. Simon added, “where Tosca translates to Tosca.”
Abbot Kinney was no doubt bolstered by the confidence he was seeing in the patrons. “I suppose I have little choice but to trust your vision,” he said. “You must have some extra work ahead of you though, Mr. Klein.”
“Indeed,” Max said, trying to portray support and ease. He nearly knocked over the champagne glass while pushing it away.
“Max is very used to me by now. Isn’t that right, Max?”
With all eyes on him, he forced a smile at her as though every muscle in his face had gone dead.
“Cheers.” Kinney lifted his glass. “To Madame Bernhardt…And to instincts.”
“Rightly so,” somebody said under the chattering of tinkling glass.
From that point on the brunch dissolved into side conversations with very little directed to Sarah. She was already running the changes through her mind. Reconfiguring the set. Deciding on the best course for breaking the news to Alexandre in a way that would not recall another infantile tantrum. She was not enthused about making this change, but she was relieved to be free of the burden of Marguerite Gautier. All she had to do was walk right through the doors of the Sant’Andrea della Valle church and she would become Floria Tosca.
Death for honor is much easier to grasp than death for metaphor.
And in truth this was all really a giant compromise. Because her real instinct was to walk away. Stand up and say, I retire. But as long as she created this diversion of changing plays, acting as though there was still purpose and reasoning, then she might possibly be able to keep pushing, giving everyone something to work for, perhaps sustaining her long enough to make it through this run, and through the rest of the tour (they needed the money, Max kept reminding). But she was truly on the verge. One stubbed toe could retire this filly for life.
Following coffee and half-eaten chocolate pastries, Kinney pushed himself away from the table and thanked everybody for coming. It was a pleasure and joy to share such an intimate time with a true legend, as well as get to be privy to her artistic thinking in person. And, he added, he looked forward to vindicating her from those Los Angeles loudmouths in their fortress cathedral. “Call it a group effort.” He smiled.
Ever the professional actor, Sarah stood up for farewells. Warm up your voice: Le bal—Le baaaaal. She was sorry to have to leave so soon. Nod your head. The brunch felt like it was still only beginning. Minor but sincere frown. But they must all imagine the work that must be done. The arrangements and the rearrangements. Look over to the door and then down at your feet. She kissed them once on each cheek and wished each person well. Slightly forgiving posture. As they exited toward the service stairs, she took Max’s hand. One that didn’t seem as if it wanted to be taken.
“I guess I need to go tell them to strike the set,” Max said.
“They will be charmed by the drama of it.”
“Don’t forget.” Max started to walk away. “You have a one o’clock with that reporter.”
“Cancel, please. I do not have the energy for ac
ting anymore.”
“MR. BAKER.” Dolph called over to the reporter who had been sitting patiently on the cream love seat for the better part of an hour and a half. He had seen the dilettante procession parade by at least twenty minutes ago. But he had not seen Bernhardt yet. Perhaps she had escaped up a rear exit. It being 1:36 P.M., Baker was getting a little irritated. He was usually not kept waiting. “Mr. Baker.”
The clerk’s voice finally caught his attention. Baker rose, ready to be directed to the guest room. “Which floor, Dolph?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Baker. But Mr. Klein has just informed me that Madame Bernhardt is not feeling well. She regrets that she must cancel the interview.”
“Cancel?”
“That is what Mr. Klein said.”
“Did Mr. Klein suggest a better time?”
“He said only as I have told you.”
“And if I want to reschedule?”
“I am just the desk clerk.”
Baker turned to walk away. He didn’t offer an appreciation for the effort, nor did he offer a gratuity—something that certainly could lose an ally quickly. He stood in the center of the lobby, turning a full circle and looking for something that he wasn’t sure of. He wasn’t used to be being canceled on. She should be pleased that he was willing to even sit down with her, and lower himself to this kind of story. In any other circumstance, he would have sooner quit than be associated with this bullshit, but he had conceded that there was a strange seduction about her that begged many questions. Baker wasn’t so irritated that she had canceled (after all sick is sick), but that he had let himself be taken in by her. He should know better than that. Every reporter knows that your subjects cannot fascinate you. It is the breakdown of objectivity. The moment that you start forgiving them their faults is the same moment when you have joined their payroll. Baker was better off covering the Hollywood expansion, water wars, railroad fights, and all the other downtown scandals. He didn’t trust any of those bastards for a minute.
