by Rex Baron
Helen polished the surface of the ring against the flowered, silken fabric of her robe, and stood admiring it in the kitchen of her bungalow. She had been in California only a few months, and her cozy little domicile, around a sunlit courtyard filled with palm trees, was a far cry from the cold-water flat she had on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. The ring had done its part in affording her the means to move West, but it was the allure of the moving picture business, and the driving desire to prove that limp membered lothario, Richard Barthelmess, wrong that served as the true motivation.
Helen placed the ring on the table of the cluttered kitchen and set about finding a scrap of paper upon which to write the secret words she needed to enchant the ring and recharge its supernatural powers for yet another day. She had learned of the spell of enchantment from a dream, much like the visions she had seen on the subway train. She had been asleep when the frail old woman had appeared to her and explained what she must do. It was like following a recipe, as if one were making a cake, she decided, the first time she tried it. She collected the ingredients and followed the directions. Helen found that the working of magic came easily to her, and after a time, she started to believe that the grandmother might have been correct in her assessment of her. Perhaps she was one of the Chosen Women. Perhaps she was more than just an ambitious girl, maybe she was a true witch.
Helen placed a small square of yellow parchment in the center of the table and set the silver ring exactly in its center. She inscribed the magic words around the circumference of the ring as it lay on the parchment.
Benatir... Caracaru... Dedos... Etinarmi.
She wrote the words again, creating a second and third concentric circle that generated the enchantment. She held out her arms in front of her, palms up, and lowered her head in respect for the incantation, as she spoke the words:
“This talisman and this ring will provide the cloak of invisibility... even to the Spirits, who in themselves occupy the unseen world. Make its wearer able to traverse the bosom of the Seas, the bowels of the Earth... and likewise to be enabled to sweep through the air. Nor, should any human act be hidden or obscured from he whose hand it graces. This I command in the name of Benatir... Caracaru... Dedos... Etinarmi.”
Having completed the morning enchantment of the ring, Helen produced a sharp shattering sound by clapping her hands loudly together. She waited a moment, for the buzz of energy all around her to subside, before retrieving the ring from its exalted place on the table and placing it confidently on the second finger of her left hand.
She glanced at the clock over the kitchen sink and saw that she must hurry to get dressed and head off to the studio lot, where they were filming three more scenes of Faust. She smiled to herself, knowing that Lucy and Claxton would be, once again, spending the day with her, and she was determined to steal Paulo Cordoba’s attentions away from her little German romantic rival. Her smile turned into a grimacing grunt as she realized that she would also have to endure another day of the lustful double entendre of Claxton’s form of wooing. But it was worth it, in the end, to put up with him. After all, he had been more than useful in getting her into the crowd with Bill Taylor and the other elite of the industry... and besides, he seemed to know something about this witch business, and she would not rest until she found out just what he knew and what he might be able to do to assist her even more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
1922 Los Angeles, studio set
Luncheon for the picture people was set out in the open. The long common tables were crowded, at varying intervals, with slave girls and cowboys, pirates and cavaliers, the hopeless and faceless that made up the body of extras. The principal players ate under a white translucent tent that was sequestered away from the rabble... what the promotional advertisements called the “cast of thousands.”
Claxton had called them the hopeless and faceless. They were the poor malleable fools, who good-naturedly allowed themselves, by the hundreds, to be fired on with cannons, drowned in the flood of the Red Sea, or burned with a hail of flaming arrows for the nonexistent chance to be singled out and elevated from the ranks of the extras to a leading role.
Since the night of the party and the dark ride up the coast, Lucy had continued in the same quartet of companions. Whenever she or Paulo had a break from shooting or a dinner planned together, they would be, by what had become a predictable coincidence, joined by Claxton and his new protégée, Helen.
“It does happen,” Paulo thumped his finger on the table. “I was chosen from nowhere.”
“No you weren't,” Claxton insisted. “Bill Taylor brought you into the business from the very beginning. You never worked a day as one of the great unwashed.”
“Well, I did,” Helen broke in.
“And only one day,” Lucy said, “until that girl fell, or whatever happened to her.”
Helen was silent for a moment and did not react to the cloud of doubt cast on her good fortune. And she had been fortunate. Since the day of the accident, when the director saw the rushes of Helen in her close up with Lucy, he decided that a special role as a temptress from Hell should be written into the scenario for Helen, giving her at least a half dozen additional scenes to play in the film.
“However each of us came to be here, one way or the other, it was meant to be,” Claxton said, pushing an oversize bite of a sandwich into his mouth. “Look at Lucy. She came halfway around the world, and from what I hear, gave up a pretty good position with the royal muckety-mucks over there to grace us with her presence.”
“I read once that you were friends with a Prince or a Duke or something,” Helen stated expecting an explanation.
Lucy smiled. “I have many friends over there. It is, after all, my country.”
“But to have a Prince in love with you is really exciting,” Helen insisted, hoping to break through Lucy's evasiveness.
“There are many left from the old aristocracy who love the opera,” Lucy smiled coolly. “That's all there is to it, nothing really exciting.” She took a sip of her coffee and tried to catch Paulo's eye.
The hesitant moment was interrupted when a young girl, a fugitive from the long tables under the blazing sun, poked her face into the group’s tent. Cosmetic dirt, called “fullers earth” had been streaked across her cheeks for a crowd scene scheduled to shoot that afternoon. She carried a small open book and a pen, which she clutched nervously to her chest.
“Excuse me Miss Liluth,” she said, her thin voice wavering with excitement, “would you sign my book? I think you're very beautiful, and I know I shouldn't bother you, but if you would, I promise not to bother you again.”
Helen stammered with surprise.
“Yes of course, but wouldn't you rather my friends here sign your book? They're much more well-known than I.”
“Oh yes, that would be lovely,” the child answered agreeably, “but I really want you to sign.”
Helen took the book from the girl and signed her name, then passed it along to be signed by the others.
“Thank you all very much,” the girl said with a half curtsey. Then, she turned and ran back to her table, waving her book over her head and shouting that her mission had been accomplished.
“Well, I guess the going rate for used celebrities is low this week,” Claxton laughed. “The little beggar didn't even want our autographs. What does that tell you about fleeting fame or the fickleness of our adoring public?”
“That was very strange for me,” Helen said, still a bit taken aback. “You have all just witnessed my very first autograph signing.”
“Well enjoy it while it lasts,” Claxton snorted. “The glimmer of fame has all the luster of a plugged nickel. Just look at us.”
“Don't be silly,” Helen slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “You are the biggest star around. That little girl just didn't realize who you were in your costume.”
“Maybe she didn't,” Paulo sighed, “or maybe she just didn't care.”
“What does it matter whether she wanted us to sign her silly book,” Lucy said. “All it really proves is how good she is at intruding into other people's lunch. These autographs and fans don't mean so much. It is the same in opera. It is nice to be appreciated, and better to sell tickets, but I certainly don't care whether a child like that has my picture over her bureau at home or not.”
“But it does mean everything,” Paulo insisted. “I've seen it with others. When those small ones stop coming, soon the work slows down, and finally it's over. You must always sign a book... never refuse. It's bad luck, the beginning of the end if you do.”
“That sounds wonderfully superstitious,” Claxton chimed in. “I'm glad to see that superstitions are keeping up with these new professions, such as ours, in a changing world.”
“You, of all people, needn't worry,” Helen said softly, looking out at Paulo from under her dark hooded brows. “There is no one like you. I dare say you have the most beautiful profile in pictures... better than Barrymore.”
Paulo's mouth turned up into a sinewy smile. His white teeth gleamed at her.
“I liked this conversation better when we were talking about superstition,” Claxton stated, pushing his chair back from the table. “Well, I for one have to get back to work. We finish this macabre horror opera today, and, as it stands, I have a two o'clock appointment with Mephistopheles.”
“Yes, so do I,” Lucy sighed.
“Perhaps we could all meet for dinner later?” Helen asked.
Paulo shook his head. “No, I can’t.”
He and Lucy started off away from the table, talking in low voices, leaving the other half of the foursome behind.
“I'm very glad you refused dinner tonight, I'm a bit tired of their company,” Lucy said, taking his arm. “I had hoped that we might be able to spend some time alone. We haven't had much time together since I've been out here, and it's been over a week since we took that drive up the coast to that ghastly place.”
“I know,” Paulo sighed. “It hasn't been as I said it would be.”
“I was afraid that after that night, things might have changed for you,” Lucy said, turning her pale complexion toward him. “Perhaps being together is not what you really want.”
He leaned down and caught her chin with the edge of his finger and guided her lips toward his. They stood in the open field, near the white canvas tent, firm in each other's embrace for a long moment.
“Then perhaps... tonight?” Lucy asked hopefully.
Paulo silenced her by bringing his finger to her lips. “I cannot,” he whispered softly, “but soon, I promise.”
Helen's eyes did not leave their backs as she watched Lucy and Paulo fade into the distance.
After a long moment, Claxton cleared his throat to get her attention.
“My my, I can't decide which one of them you're more infatuated with, Mister Cordoba... how did you put it, with the most beautiful profile in pictures, or dear Lucy, with the career you’d slaughter a village to make your own.”
“Both,” Helen answered, continuing to follow them with her eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
1922 Los Angeles
“I've been robbed,” William said, as he opened the door of the bungalow to let Paulo in.
Clothes and broken objects littered the Persian carpet of the living room. Paulo lifted the cowboy photograph of his friend from the floor and picked the shattered glass away from the edge of the frame.
“When?” he asked, amazed at the complication of disorder.
William slumped onto the sofa and held his head in his hands.
“It's all such a mess,” he repeated again and again.
Uncomfortable with his friend's sorrow, Paulo set about to create a measure of order in the room. He righted the furniture and folded the tumble of shirts and linens that had been dragged from all over the house, placing them in a neat stack on an armchair under the window.
“This is where he dragged the steamer and filled it with everything,” William said, pointing to a deep scratch on the floor of the mahogany stained hallway. “He even took my letters. I suppose he thought he could blackmail me. But there was nothing in them worth a cent to anyone, a few letters from my daughter and a sweet note or two from Mary, with her little butterfly drawings on them, that's all.”
He stared at the pattern on the carpet, as if surprised that it had not been snatched out from under his feet.
“Did you call the police?” Paulo asked, turning a chair right side up.
“No.”
Suddenly, William laughed. “You see I don't have to. I know who did it.”
Paulo sat down across from him, stunned at the remark.
“Well?” he said, “who was it and what do you intend to do about it?”
“Edward did it.”
“Your chauffeur? I don't understand?”
“He stole the car as well,” William shook his head in disbelief.
“Then why won't you call the police?”
“Because he's my brother, Denis.”
Paulo stared back at him, saying nothing, scarcely comprehending what his friend was telling him.
“Edward, the chauffeur, is my brother Denis. I gave him a job as my secretary, and that included driving my car. He didn't want anyone to know that we were brothers, especially if he had to be in my employ. I suppose he just got fed up.”
“I didn't know you even had a brother,” Paulo said, mildly hurt that such a confidence had not been given to him. “Was he angry with you?”
“He was angry with his life. He'd left a family behind, the same sordid specter that haunts half this town. He said he was tired of being my servant. He wanted money. He threatened to tell the papers what he had heard about Mabel Normand's drug addiction and certain things about me. As if there is anything about me that hasn't been shouted from the rooftops. Mary's mother made a good show of stringing together accusations the other night at the Ambassador, if you remember.”
“I'm sorry,” Paulo said, touching the tall man's arm. “What are you going to do?”
“Keep an eye out for the car and see if any of the valuables, the cigarette cases and jewelry, turn up in any of the local pawn shops. I don't want the police involved. I don't care about it, any of it. I'm actually relieved to have him out of my life.”
Paulo got up and angrily tossed some of the broken rubble into a heap.
“I suppose you know this is what you get for being the redeemer, bleeding from his hands for everyone. Who do you think you are, taking on the problems of the world? Where will it end? What can you possibly expect to gain?”
William shrugged. “I don't think I have a choice any longer. In some grotesque way, perhaps as a punishment for my weakness, I've become the Messiah of this fallen Babylon. I was told once that one can never really teach anyone or save their Soul unless they come to you and ask to be saved. You must never look to be the savior, but if it’s thrust upon you, you cannot refuse. They called it the Law of Heaven.”
“But you carry everyone's problems on your own back... trying to keep Mary Minter's career alive, to save her from her mother's anger... taking on all the troubles of those other drunks and good-for-nothings.”
“Don't scold me Paulo. It doesn't suit you to be fatherly. You must remain eternally youthful and dashing. I first saw you that way, and I'll always think of you that way, even when you're very old.”
“But what if he comes back, your brother? I'm worried for you William. You are in danger.”
“My brother only wants money. There is little danger in that.”
“Would you like me to stay with you for a while? I could bring some of my things around.”
William cut him off before he finished his sentence.
“No, dear boy, that's sweet of you, but I don't think it would do either of us any good if you were seen moving in here.”
Before Paulo could insist, William
had started toward the hallway to answer the ringing telephone. He stood in the doorway and listened patiently, speaking encouraging words at marked intervals, as if soothing a bout of hysteria on the other end of the line.
“Yes Dorothy, I know. I think it’s beastly the way D.W. is treating you,” he said. “I’m sure it isn’t personal. Maybe if I talked to him for you...”
Paulo patted him on the shoulder and left the bungalow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
1922 Los Angeles
Celia had made a decision. She had decided to save her marriage. She had decided to go back to New York. She waited for what she thought was an appropriately dramatic moment to drop the news on David.
Together, she and her husband had come to share a belief that doing things right, with a modicum of drama and style, was what made a thing worth doing. David had often remarked that life was tedious enough without these qualities, and could only be made tolerable by infusing even the most mundane and trivial affairs with what he referred to as a theatrical flair.
The epiphany of this decision had come to her halfway up Laurel Canyon on the cable car, amidst the mysterious overgrown splendor of the untamed hillsides, which she determined was as suitably dramatic a moment as any.
“I'm going back,” she said, toying with the strand of pearls that fell across her Chanel suit. She watched the play of light and shadow on David's face as the small wooden car climbed the narrow, shady pathway on its rails.
The information seemed to have an effect on a young, plainly dressed woman, who sat opposite them in the tramcar. She drew herself up in her seat and adopted the posture of casual indifference, unmistakable in someone intent on eavesdropping. She stared out the window, perusing the charms of the hillside, passing over them with her studied gaze, assuring Celia and David that they might continue, secure in the fact that all indiscretions would go no further than the wooden walls of the tram, lined with printed advertisements for Ivory soap and Campbell’s soup.
