“This is one hell of a goddamn movie,” he muttered.
Bebe nodded as she blew her nose lustily. “The goddamn best, and it’s going to take every award the Academy has to offer. Ten bucks, Daniel,” she said, blowing her nose again.
“I’d be a fool to take you on. I don’t know what you call a film like this in the business, but I’d call it a masterpiece.”
“That’s good enough for me.” She turned away, hiding the pain in her eyes. “Oh, Daniel, where is he? Why hasn’t he sent word? I was so sure, I hoped that he would come back. Surely he wants to know how…why, Daniel, why?”
“This part of Reuben’s life is over. I don’t think he’ll ever come back.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Bebe, it’s what I feel. He trusted Jane to make this film knowing she would do just what he wanted. In my heart I believe he knew you would be part of it all. He was so proud of you, Bebe. He’s in love with you, you know. If you want him, you’re going to have to go over there. Not right away. He needs time for his wounds to heal, and they will heal. Mickey set him free with her last breath, at long last.”
Bebe threw herself into Daniel’s arms and wept for the gallant Frenchwoman known as Marchioness Michelene Fonsard.
“That’s it! It’s a wrap!” they heard John Carlyle shout. “Ladies and gentlemen, we just turned out the best movie this town has ever seen! The drinks are on me! Soda pop for the kids. Let’s party!”
“You heard the man,” Bebe said, giving Daniel a tremulous smile. “Let’s go!”
John Carlyle swooped down on Bebe and Daniel like an avenging bird, his arms flapping, his face one wide grin. “If you ever pay me for this, I’m going to have to give the money back. This wasn’t work, it was pure joy. I can’t wait to see that Oscar! I’m going to hold it in my hand, sleep with it, kiss it good night, and…and…”
“Yes?” Bebe chortled.
“Hell, I don’t know. Take pictures of it, wallpaper my office with the pictures…” He shook his head in patent admiration. “Jesus, I had to blow my nose so bad when that kid was on the bed, I thought I would choke. One take, that’s all it needed. They were so perfect, Bebe. Hell, there wasn’t a dry eye on the set. This is it! My only regret is that we didn’t make it at Fairmont. I hope Reuben understands.”
“He’ll understand,” Bebe said confidently.
Carlyle shrugged. “I suppose. It’s just that Reuben was Fairmont; it should have been made there. A fitting tribute, that kind of thing.”
“When do we see the rushes?” Bebe asked excitedly.
“Tonight if you think you can handle it. I’m going to get soused so I won’t shame all of you and cry over my best work.”
Bebe walked to the long table, where the children, all sixteen of them, were sitting, their faces solemn. She bent down to pick up Bruno’s dog. “You were wonderful, all of you. I’m terribly sorry that you had…to go back into your memories. Mademoiselle Mickey would be so proud of you, so very, very proud.”
“Will Monsieur Tarz be proud of us, too?” Bruno asked wistfully.
“Yes, very,” Bebe replied, smiling. “I’m sure he’s thinking of all of you right now. I will bet each of you one licorice stick that Monsieur Tarz is getting the château ready for you. He hasn’t forgotten any of you. I know this because I am his wife, and…I know these things.”
Sophie took her thumb out of her mouth long enough to ask, “When are we going home?”
Home. What a wonderful word, thought Bebe. But these children didn’t have a home anymore. Bebe handed the squirming dog to Bruno and dropped to her knees. “Where is home, Sophie?” she whispered.
“Mademoiselle Mickey’s château. She said that would be our home when the war was over. Monsieur Tarz said so, too. It was not a lie, mademoiselle; they did not lie to us.”
“No, they didn’t, Sophie. I’m going to take you back myself when it is time.” She stroked the little girl’s hair and added softly, “I know you don’t understand all of this, but I’ll try to explain. We just finished filming the movie that is a tribute to…Mickey. You all played a part in it. Now the film will be distributed all over the country, and it will be nominated for an award. I know this in my heart. I want all of you here so you can share in that award. Mickey would want this. Mr. Tarz, too. The very next day I will take you all back to France. I promise you.
“Now,” she continued, clapping her hands for attention, “we are all going back to my house, where you will tidy up your rooms before we go swimming. After we swim and have our dinner, I’m going to introduce you to your tutor, who will give you English lessons. When you return to France you will be able to greet Monsieur Tarz in English. There will be other lessons, too.” Bruno made a face, and she laughed.
“Tell me, Bruno,” she said, “have you given your dog a name yet?”
He nodded. “Dog. That’s a name, mademoiselle.”
“Yes, but…well, I couldn’t help but notice that…Dog is a…a girl dog.” Bebe giggled.
“That is so, mademoiselle, a girl dog.”
“And Willie is a boy dog.” Bebe giggled again, and the rest of the children laughed.
“That means puppies,” Sophie said, wide-eyed.
“That’s exactly what it means,” Bebe replied with a sigh. “Well, we’ll deal with that when the time comes. It’s time to go ho—to my house. I have a surprise for all of you!”
As one they chorused, “What?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise. You’ll just have to wait and see.” Earlier that day she’d virtually bought out the children’s department at Bullock’s. New dresses and hair ribbons for the girls. Shiny black shoes and white socks. For the boys, pants and shirts, suits and ties, belts and suspenders, new underwear, and sturdy shoes. It had cost a fortune, and she’d had to sell the pearl earrings Reuben had given her, her most treasured possession to manage it. But it seemed right and fitting. She’d also sold the pearl necklace Mickey had given her that same Christmas. The money would be used to care for the children until after the Academy Awards.
“Well done, Bebe, well done indeed,” she muttered under her breath.
Hollywood, land of milk and honey, glamour and sparkle, closed its ranks for the second time in order to protect Reuben Tarz. None of them knew exactly what went on with Fairmont Studios, but when word filtered out that Bebe Tarz and Jane Perkins had rented an empty warehouse and leased movie equipment, they knew something was in the air. Spies sent to ferret out the inside scoop could report only that most of the filming was being done on location, and that the budget was practically nonexistent.
A meeting was called by the major studio heads to discuss what they didn’t know. They spent days hashing over what little they did know and concluded that the movie being filmed had something to do with Reuben Tarz’s life. In tandem they agreed to aid and abet Jane and Bebe in ways that could never be traced back to any of them. The very secrecy surrounding the film made them certain that Jane Perkins had a winner, and they recognized that by aiding and abetting, they were putting their own projects in jeopardy. But they didn’t care. As one they voted to nominate the movie for an Academy Award even though they knew nothing about it. They owed Reuben Tarz, all of them.
“Done!” shouted Sam Goldwyn. “Gentlemen, we just slit our own throats, so let’s get the hell out of here before we bleed all over the rug.”
“What are we supposed to do—bribe the Academy into these nominations?” David Selznick snapped.
“Are you crazy?” Goldwyn demanded. “Doesn’t your gut tell you those broads have a winner? We talk it up, all of us. We can doctor up the numbers, pay off box office. We simply hype it like it was one of our own. It’ll be a first for this fucking town. You know what? I feel good about this!”
“I’m gonna remind you of this conversation at the Awards when we’re sitting there with our thumbs in our mouths,” Selznick grumbled. But it was a happy sound.
Exactly one month after the release of The Sands of
Time, all Hollywood sat back and clapped their hands for Reuben Tarz. Sands, as it was called in the industry, out-sold and outplayed every other movie released that year. Newspapers ran stories about it, with pictures shot from all angles showing the long lines, grumbling patrons, and harried theater owners. One theater manager was quoted as saying, “It wouldn’t be so bad if people didn’t keep coming back to see the film over and over.” Another owner announced that he was selling tissues and making a fortune. Box office receipts were nothing short of phenomenal, even topping those of Gone With the Wind in the first thirty days.
The media, hoping to arouse some friction among the other studios, took to camping outside the gates, waiting for the moguls themselves to appear and give a quote. Sam Goldwyn tipped his gray homburg and said, “It’s a hell of a picture, and I wish I’d made it. My wife wants to see it again.” David Selznick grinned and said, “It’s not the picture of the decade; it’s going to prove to be the picture of the century. Simply put, gentlemen, I’m jealous as hell that my studio didn’t turn it out.” Cecil B. deMille pursed his lips and said, “As much as it pains me to say this, I think Sands is the finest picture I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen them all. Every detail was perfect.”
Accolades continued to pour in, each one better than the one before. Global Pictures, Jane and Bebe’s brainchild, raked in millions of dollars daily, and the movie seemed destined to run forever.
Bebe started a scrapbook, conscientiously pasting each article, each headline, in chronological order. She planned to take it with her when she escorted the children back to France. After dinner each evening she read the write-ups to the children, first in French and then in English.
For once, Hollywood’s immortals sat back so as not to dim Reuben Tarz’s light. He was one of them and deserved every shining moment that glowed for him and him alone.
As generous and complimentary as the moguls were, they weren’t stupid. They knew Sands was a one-shot deal and that Reuben Tarz was not going to return to Hollywood. The slices of the Hollywood pie would be thicker without him.
Nellie Bishop Tarz-Bouchet walked out of the theater, her eyes dry, wondering what all the hullabaloo was about. As far as she was concerned, she’d just seen three hours of sappy, sentimental garbage. Driving home from the movie house, she replayed various scenes in her mind and tried to figure out what it was that had turned The Sands of Time into such a hit. It was romantic and sad. Death scenes were traumatic, to say the least. Women obviously like to cry, to identify with a loss. The children, of course, were an asset in more ways than one; even the stupid dog had performed on cue. It all added up to…what? Shrugging, Nellie decided to catalog all the separate elements in the journal she kept.
The journal was thick, almost filled, with ideas and plans for Fairmont Studios, plans she’d expected to implement long before and because of the judges ruling had never even been introduced.
These last few years hadn’t been easy. The estrangement from her father really didn’t bother her, but what did bother her was the fact that she couldn’t go to the studio every day as she’d planned. Everything was in a holding pattern, awaiting an appearance by her husband. Apparently, Reuben had no intention of returning to America, so Bebe was still in control of half the studio. But as long as Philippe was an absentee husband, the studio would remain closed.
Next week her attorney would petition the courts again. This time he assured her she would win thanks to Philippe Tarz.
Nellie smiled to herself as she walked along, her stride loose and carefree as she hummed the lyrics to a popular song. This time around she was going to win, and half the studio would be hers. If Philippe did come back someday, she’d fight him to the death for what he’d put her through. Let him dispute the child, no one would believe him. No one!
Philippe Tarz was a pretty child with curly blond hair and dark gray eyes, taking after her. He was a contented little boy with a doting nanny who saw to his needs twenty-four hours a day. Nellie called him Little Philly when she spoke to her attorneys or to anyone who inquired about the child, and her tone was always that of a mother in love with her child. But the true extent of her mothering consisted of a kiss in the morning and one at night. Of course, she bought him the best clothes and the finest toys, but it was the nanny who fed him, bathed him, read him stories, and tucked him into his crib. It was the nanny who sang him lullabies and stroked his brow when he developed a cold or fever.
She’d given birth to Little Philly alone, with only her housekeeper visiting her in the hospital. That was how she’d wanted it, and it would aid her now when she petitioned the court. No grandmother in attendance, no father peeking into the nursery for a glimpse of the tiny pink bundle wrapped in his blue blanket. With consummate skill she’d played the part of a suffering, lonely wife. The nurses and her doctor had held whispered conversations about her, saying how brave and noble she was. And although she’d cooed and fussed over the little bundle the way she was supposed to, she never undid the snug little blanket to check out the baby the way other mothers did.
Everything was on schedule according to her plan. She was even a volunteer at the local Red Cross chapter where she made a few friends and confided just enough personal details to make everyone feel sorry for her. Like all patriotic wives and mothers, she worked on paper drives and collected tin cans, bought war bonds in her son’s name, and entertained her fellow volunteers once a month with a dinner or a picnic in the backyard. Most of her guests mistook the blank look in her eyes for worry, never thinking they bored her to tears or that they were all part of her plan to control her husband’s share of the studio.
Tonight before she went to bed she was going to write a note to Jane and Bebe and compliment them on Sands. All during the picture she’d written the note in her mind. She’d say she was moved to tears, that the film was so very realistic and Philippe was going to be so proud when he came home. And she’d sign off with the wish that they could all work together someday.
Nellie continued to hum as she danced her way into the house. Her plan was working.
Walking to the mailbox at the end of Mademoiselle’s driveway proved to be one of the more exciting events of the day for the children. Even the dogs sat at attention by the front door where the leashes hung on a peg. Sophie opened the door, and Bruno went first with his dog, who detested his leash. The others followed in single file until they reached the mailbox, where Bebe went through a ritual initiated by Bernard. The question was always the same—would there be a letter from Monsieur Tarz? Each child voiced his opinion. Bruno, the eternal optimist, always said yes, and when proved wrong said, “Tomorrow there will be one, maybe two,” at which point they would all turn and walk back to the house—slowly, because lessons would start on their return.
Today Bebe lagged behind with a letter in her hand that had set her heart to pounding. It was from Nellie’s attorney. Only the presence of the children kept her from ripping it open immediately. Above all, Bebe strove for a relaxed, calm environment for the children, doing nothing that would cause them even a moment’s anxiety. No, she would go upstairs to her room and read the letter in private.
“Licorice sticks for everyone if you do well today,” she called gaily as the children trekked out to the terrace to begin the afternoon’s lessons. Impishly, Bruno held up two fingers, which meant an extra licorice for his dog and Willie. Bebe smiled and nodded.
Don’t dilly-dally, just rip it open, she told herself as she transferred the letter from one hand to the other. She held the envelope up to the light and squinted. The letter inside was short, no more than three lines. Bebe slit the envelope with her thumbnail, inadvertently ripping the letter inside. She read it through twice before she tore it to shreds. Ordered—ordered, by God, to appear in the judge’s chambers, a week from today for the final resolution of Philippe’s holdings. Obviously Nellie had petitioned the courts a second time.
Bebe’s foot lashed out at the end of the bed, and yelped as pain sh
ot up her leg. “Oh Philippe, you’ve been so foolish, and now you’re going to lose it all to that little…that bitch! There’s nothing I can do…son.” How nice the word sounded. Son…She had three sons, she reminded herself, two of whom she was going to call right now.
As usual, Simon responded to her queries in a cool, practical voice. “Business is great, Mother. I have more work than I can handle. Now, if you had let me handle the advertising for The Sands of Time, I could retire to Carmel with Uncle Eli. Everyone is talking about that movie. Have you heard from Dad?”
“Not a word. Nothing on Philippe, either. That’s why I called. I got this letter today from Nellie’s lawyers. There’s a hearing a week from today for a final resolution to Philippe’s holdings. There’s nothing I can do. I feel so helpless.”
“It will all right itself in the end, Mother. Think positive, that’s what you always told me.”
“Simon…I hope to be able to repay your trust fund in another six weeks or so. It was so kind and generous of you and Dillon to come through for me.”
Simon chuckled. “Mother, I’m not worried, I never was. The way I look at it, it’s Dad’s money anyway. There’s no hurry. In fact, I don’t care if you ever pay it back. I mean that, Mother.”
Bebe swallowed hard. “I know you do, Simon, and it’s more than I deserve. So, tell me, what are you advertising? Do you have your own accounts now?”
“More than I can handle. Right now I’m doing one for Lucky Strike cigarettes. I’m doing a presentation tomorrow, so I’d better get back to my desk. Just remember: take it one day at a time. Philippe will just have to accept whatever happens when he comes home. Nice talking to you, Mother.”
“Good-bye, Simon.” Bebe said, smiling. Simon the philosopher.
Sins of the Flesh Page 45
