by Adam Braver
Baker stood under the shadow of the immense structure, unsure of what to do. His past few days had been spent in the presence of an imposter. One who gives the appearance of ordinariness through her slight build, her coy gestures and ingratiating manner. But in truth Sarah Bernhardt was, and always would be, casting a shadow across him. And the fact that he even thought he could touch the edge of her world now seemed ridiculous. His letter must have looked so stupid to her, or even worse—insignificant.
He knew that he was not going into the Cathedral of our Lady of Angels. He could never willingly support the bishop’s agenda (nor could he imagine sharing a drink with Conaty in some illusion of camaraderie). And as much as he wanted to run back to the King George Hotel to intercept his letter, that scene too had been concluded. He knew he had to fold his hand. He had broken the reporter’s key rule: He had let the minutiae betray the obvious.
Tomorrow morning he would walk right into Graham Scott’s office and quit on the spot. He wouldn’t bother to explain how his integrity had been punctured, and that this fact was proof enough that it was time to hang it up. He wouldn’t bother to try to defend himself by saying that he needed to get out before he was assigned to the new roller skating ordinance for downtown sidewalks, or the potential early closure of banks on Saturday evenings. There was still real news in this town that had to be covered, he would tell Scott, and it would only kill him not to be part of it. For example, the fallout from last year’s land bust in Redondo Beach still remained untouched. Or just the other day, the massive Santa Fe depot contract had been inked. A quarter of a mile of building to be constructed on Santa Fe Avenue, just blocks from where he stood. And every paper in town seemed to be okay with it; they ran their pieces as though the depot were one more monument to the magnificence of Los Angeles. And not one reporter or editor even wondered or questioned how the builder, Carl Leonardt, had been awarded the contract. Baker wouldn’t be suggesting that Leonardt had done anything wrong, however it should still be looked into, right? But the new journalism conspiracy seemed to be to tout anything that made the town look better (while ignoring the underside), and then rely on the mundane scandals to replace the hard news. And you go where your editor sends you, those are the only stories that you need to grab. That’s the job now. Baker would tell Scott that he would rather leave than be a restrained observer. He could only imagine the reaction. Scott would laugh and say that Baker just got his balls busted by a broad—what else is new?—but that’s no reason to quit. It’s part of being a newspaperman. And then Scott would fade into his antiquated edict about their duty to comfort the tormented, and torment the comfortable—the newsroom philosophy that only lived in the memories of men of Scott’s generation. But the truth would always be cautiously unspoken, that this was now a business with corporate interests like anything else, and that if guys like Baker wanted to stay in it, then they were going to have to learn how to adapt. Scott would lean over paternally and tell him that he had to stop taking it so seriously, because taking things too seriously only leads to taking things too personally. Baker knew that in order to avoid Scott’s lectures he was just going to have to quit with nothing other than a two-or three-sentence resignation speech. It would be his last act of dignity as a journalist.
The shadow stretched long and thin, holding him in place. He wasn’t quite ready to go home yet (and cashing it in at Willie’s also felt too predictable, with its usual drinks and slobbering pheromones—a painful confirmation of his real status). Instead Baker thought he would just sit there for a while. Maybe all night. Wait until the morning sun shone again and wiped away the shadow. Then he would head downtown to hand his career back to Scott. Throw his desk belongings into a shopping bag, then go to his Pico apartment and load up the still unpacked boxes onto the bed of a truck heading east, hitching a ride back to Phoenix. Perhaps he could herd ostriches on his Uncle Martin’s farm, and then go join the ranks of defected journalists to write a book that told the firsthand plight of the common man. In between days he might get to know his family a little more. Brag about his L.A. days, dropping the names of those he had covered, sadly reminded of his frustrations when Sarah Bernhardt was who they undoubtedly would want to know about. He would tell them. Watch their faces turn dumb with awe. Maybe submit to the lies that all memories tell, and forget the humiliation; instead embellish her importance and his role in it. After being plagued by questions about her, Baker would excuse himself for the bathroom. There he would stand before the mirror. He’d stare deep into the reflection, looking to find the remnants of the man who hadn’t been seduced and trapped by the promise of Los Angeles.
But before he went near his office or the Pico apartment, Baker knew he would have to make a slight detour. Stop off at the local offices of the Santa Fe Railway Company. Do a little digging. Drum up a cigarette. Ask a few questions. See what anybody there might have to say about Carl Leonardt.
THERE WAS NOTHING COMFORTING about the room at the King George. Although her clothes and books and papers were scattered around the room, it still felt every bit as impersonal as the hotel room that it was. Beneath the bed she spotted the edition of the Herald that had run the original story. Just a dog-eared corner teasing out, a subtle reminder of how public her private issues were. And she almost wanted to pull it out, a pinch to remember that she wasn’t dreaming. But instead she walked closer and kicked it farther beneath the bed.
Max had said he would run down to the theater to inform the company of the delay. He would tell them to keep working, and that Madame would join them after a brief rest. After he left, she went into the bathroom and turned the faucet handles of the bath, swiping her hand beneath the stream to test its temperature. She turned it off and looked into the tub at the gentle ripples washing up against the side, banging anxiously until they eventually faded into the depth of the light blue water. She left her skirt on, but pushed the hem up past her knees, then sat herself on the edge of the tub and dangled her feet in the warm water, soaking her aching right leg. It took her back to Uncle Faure’s farm again. Seven years old. By herself at his pond. The water has been heated from the sunlight, and it is only as she steps out deeper that she will find the sudden coolness of the undercurrent. And the fish swim around her feet, tickling at the toes, and sometimes pecking the heels, as though mistaking them for food. From a patch of grass that fits just into the curve of her spine, she can watch the clouds blow across the sky, cleansing the blue like a sponge, spotless and shiny. And this is where the seven-year-old Henriette-Rosine imagines the rest of her life. The wedding, the husband, the two children, the servant, the diamonds. And she imagines her name being spoken on every pair of lips in France, and wonders how difficult it will be to shop or dine amid all the adulation. But it will not be hard on her husband because he will also be known throughout France—probably a war hero—but pity the children who are the victims of their parents’ success, until they find their own. Finally she narrows it down to being an actress—but a different kind of actress. She will be noble. A lady. And her mother will be proud (she would make sure to thank her during every interview), and Mama can even come to live with her and her family, and they will keep the spare room ready for Papa once he finally comes back from his travels in China. Under that deep blue sky, Henriette-Rosine reaches up to hug the world while kicking her feet against the water, as though the pond is ordained with a magical power.
Now all these years later she sat in a strange hotel, her tired trodden feet soaking in a porcelain tub of man-made warmth. Many of those plans that she dreamed by Uncle Faure’s pond had come true—some distorted, and others entirely mangled, if not neglected. There was no way that she could have known at the age of seven that even in dreams there are choices to be made. Everything good comes at the sacrifice of something else. And she inhaled deeply, trying to taste the pure air of the Neuilly farm, but instead took in the trailing remnants of a fresh coat of hotel paint. She had made all those plans, but had stopped there. She c
ould not remember any time after that summer at Uncle Faure’s that she had opened her eyes and imagined something else. From the moment she had dreamed this future, ambition set in, and she went about in the most practical manners to make it come true. And now she sits, knowing that Max will soon burst through the washroom door, having calculated some way to muster enthusiasm for patron-brunch-number-one-million-and-four that will keep the dream floating along. But maybe fifty-five years later it is time to imagine something new, and then kick in the ambition to make that come true. Like really leaving acting. Just slide out of this Sarah Bernhardt skin and let Henriette-Rosine take over (but in a lucid and rational state, for once). She looked up at the ceiling and imagined it as a blue sky. She arched her back slightly and kicked her feet in the water. She saw it all as clear as a day at Uncle Faure’s. Stepping from one dream into the next.
As predicted, Max did knock on the bathroom door, after letting himself into the hotel room. She kicked the bathwater, watching the small waves tide up against the checkered tile backsplash. Let him knock another time or two. Weary him. Until her news about leaving will be a relief.
His knock didn’t lessen. He was worried about the schedule, he called out. She kicked at the water again. It was still warm. She was going to tell him. Poor Molly was about to get more than he ever could have imagined. But soon he would find that the anger and resentments were just a by-product of this lifestyle. He would thank her after he was done hating her. But hopefully he will see that it was her dream that brought Max Klein to life, and that it will be her new dream that continues to bring him life. He just needs to continue to trust.
She pulled her feet from the tub, delicately balancing while she reached for a towel. She was not going to rush. While she let the unused tub drain, Sarah rubbed the terry cloth over her left foot but forgot her right. She opened the door as he spoke her name, his voice sounding increasingly feminine. He didn’t even notice Sarah standing in a partial puddle in the lavatory doorway, with her arms crossed over her ribs.
She let a moment pass before she spoke in a calmed voice. “Molly, I am right here.”
“I just don’t want to get behind schedule is all.”
“Molly,” she repeated. It took every bit of her willpower not to tell him that he should catalog his expression. The way that his eyes seem to physically harden, his jaw bone nearly breaking out the cheeks. These were the emotions that actors treasured. Complete moments when the body has taken over the mind. She walked over to the bed and collapsed on it, doubling over a pillow and wedging it under her neck. “Now come here.” She patted the bed. “Come lay beside me.”
Max sat down obligingly but did not lay back.
“Come on,” she said, “lie back. Gaze at the stars with me. See if you can find me up there in the hemisphere.” She reached over and wrapped her hand around his fingers, squeezing gently. “I think my Molly is still feeling hurt. Come lie down. You refused my invitation in the train. Will you refuse me again? I want to tell you something. Please let me tell you why.”
She drew her knees up toward her chest and worked her feet under the bedspread, as though dipping them back into Uncle Faure’s pond, ready to start committing herself to the dream. “It is time for me to leave.” The word leave caught in her throat.
“Excuse me?”
“I cannot act anymore.” And the sound of those words seemed to come from some other place in the room, distant from beyond her body. When she was onstage assuming her characters, they became a part of her. It was their hearts that pumped through her chest. Their nerves that rattled her spine. Their breaths that she tasted and inhaled. But once she had to speak passionately from her own being, Sarah felt no connection. As though she had sacrificed herself for all those characters.
Max did not quite respond with the emotive outburst that she had anticipated. Instead he lay flat on his back, his eyes traversing the ceiling. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will smooth things out for you.”
“You don’t understand.” Her voice still did not sound convincing. Instead it fell rather flat and indifferent. “I can’t match their passion anymore. I am just a maypole for the young actors to dance around.”
“Perhaps this has been partially my fault,” Max said with hardly a pause. Now it was time for his prepared speech. “I probably have not considered the pressures that you have been under. For that I apologize. But we’ll be done with the tour soon. By the time we go back to France this will seem like a lost dream. Back to normal. We’ll be trying to remember what the bishop’s name even was.”
She shook her head, but all she could muster was a quiet no. “It is more than forgettable bishops.” It was all building inside her, ripping apart her gut and pushing on her rib cage as though it might shatter and splinter into a thousand kindling shards. She felt the curse of the French woman, where emotion is a closed-door endeavor, and any display that is shown outwardly is likely to label you somewhere between whore and demented. Or a world-renowned actress. She had never felt more debilitatingly ordinary.
“Our last chance for a thorough run-through is at four today.” He was already on with the schedule, and planning. “We can work out some bugs after dinner, in order that we’re ready for the first curtain tomorrow. You have a little more time here if you need it. Rest up. Gather some strength. Then you can enter the glorious diva at four.”
“I am not doing tomorrow night’s show,” she said. “Or any show again.”
He turned his head to her, awkwardly twisting his back. “Darling, the hysterical hour is over. You’ve already used up your comfort time. So now we are down to business.”
His matter-of-factness and ease with the situation suggested that she had made these types of declarations before—something that Max obviously attributed to jitters and pressures. And the way that he clapped his hands with such a rise-and-shine bravado and told her that the best cure at this point was a nice long bath, followed by a spoiling of Burgundy from the last case in his room, topped off by a good solid nap was further indication that all this was nothing more than routine. But this was not the regular accumulation of demands and threats and insolent posturing that accompanied her stubbornness. This decision was a conscious philosophical verdict born from soul searching and examination.
Max pushed up from the bed. “Now shall I run a proper bath for you?”
“No.” She did not move from under the covers. “You are not listening. I quit…I quit being an actress forever.”
Max’s body swayed with the irritation of someone late for an appointment. “Explain to me.”
“I can’t.” She sighed. “You will just think that it is everything that you have heard before.”
“You never explain why you are going to quit. You tell me the same thing every time—that there is no way that you can explain it to me in a manner that I will take seriously.”
“I have never…”
“As predictable as the full moon.”
Sarah pulled the covers up over her head, drowning herself in her own breath. She closed her eyes to make the darkness even darker, trying to recall this patterned conversation that Max alluded to. Maybe she was like one of those idiots that you always hear about—they can’t wipe their own asses but can play the piano with genius precision. Maybe it was faulty wiring that only allowed her to activate her feelings in performance. She kicked the covers off with a rage of emotion that felt more liberating than it did angry. “I am done,” she said. “Retired.”
Max walked into the bathroom, apparently ignoring her. He closed the door partway. The faucet squealed, and then the force of water burst into the bathtub.
“Molly, I will not be there today,” she yelled.
The sound of water rushed even harder.
“Do you hear me? I will never step foot on a stage again. I will not be there at four today. I will not be there ever.”
He called from the bathroom. “Should I put the bath salts in? Is it that kind of bath?”
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nbsp; “Do what you please,” she said to herself and pulled the covers back up, tucking them in around her neck. Maybe she would try to tell him once more, but probably she would have to quit before it became a reality. He would have to be sitting there at the 4:00 P.M. rehearsal nervously tapping his feet. She could picture him looking at the rear door in a combination of fury and disappointment each time that it opened and she wasn’t there. At some point Max would have to figure it out—reflect back on what she had been saying in the hotel room about losing the passion and the fight. He would have to give up his opium jag excuses and realize how serious she had been. And then she would be waiting for him here in the hotel room. She would still be under the covers, ready to comfort him. Hold him with the reassurance that what they were about to embark on would be fine.
Max stepped out of the bathroom and pointed to the door. “It is ready for you, dear.”
Sarah didn’t move. She didn’t smile or nod.
“Oh, please,” he said. “You are not mad at me for not taking you seriously. You know that I always do. It’s just that we have lost so much time after the change in plays, so we need to eliminate one step from the routine. Let’s just see this one through, get on to Paris, and then you can quit the theater business from there. But for now you should rest and relax in your bath, and then be at the stage at four.” He looked too rushed to have a definable expression.
