The Garden on Sunset

by Martin Turnbull

  “Marcus Adler.”

  “Suivez-moi,” Johns said, gesturing up the path toward the house. “The first time I came to brunch, I brought two bottles of French champagne. Cost me a bundle, you know, good impression and all that. Oh brother, was I ever wrong!”

  “George doesn’t like champagne?”

  “On the contrary. He considers himself to be quite the authority. He only allows three vintages into the house, and the rest is pig swill, as far as he’s concerned. He didn’t say a word when I gave it to him; the silence was beyond mortifying. I’d hate to see you make the same mistake.”

  “I owe you one,” Marcus said.

  “No, you owe one to the next guy you see trying to bring orchids or the wrong champagne. The truth is, George doesn’t expect anyone to bring anything. Except maybe charm, wit, intelligence, culture, perception and any point of view you can back up with a solid argument.”

  Marcus swallowed hard. “Any other tips?”

  Johns thought for a moment. “Yes, I’d avoid praising Treasure Island or Reckless.”

  Marcus thought both those movies were fine pieces of work. “Why is that?”

  “Victor Fleming. He directed both of them. Let’s just say they don’t exactly share a table at lunch in the MGM commissary. So unless you want to pick a fight with your host, it’s pretty much the only subject you need to avoid.”

  It had been an exciting time for Marcus. “Subway People” had come out in the Saturday Evening Post, generating another Garden party and a great stack of telegrams and letters. He’d hoped to hear from Alla. A congratulatory note, at the very least, would’ve been welcome; she would know what this meant to him. But nothing like that arrived, which was both disappointing and frustrating. Sitting in his dresser draw was a notebook filled with poetry written for her by no less than Rudolph Valentino. Who the hell knew his actual name was Rodolfo Alfonzo Guglielmi? A whole book of poetry by Valentino was worth a small fortune–if only he could track her down to tell her.

  His disappointment was tempered by a brunch invitation to the home of one of Hollywood’s biggest directors. Kathryn had helped him picked out a new suit; even though he couldn’t afford it, the dark burgundy was a good complement to his lucky purple tie.

  Cukor’s house looked like a British oil painting. Its large expanse of deep green lawns and carefully manicured flower beds looked like they’d been lifted whole from a Jane Austen novel. George appeared at the front door, his round wire-rimmed glasses glinting in the sunlight. “Julian Johns! It’s going to be in the nineties today! You’re going to cook in that black suit.”

  “And yet, still I wear it,” Johns replied. The two men embraced, then Cukor offered Marcus his hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again!” he exclaimed. “Marcus is the author of that wonderful story in the Saturday Evening Post I told you about.”

  Cukor led them through a Spanish-tiled foyer, a long living room papered with yellow chrysanthemums, an oval room lined with dense bookshelves, and an airy conservatory with glass walls. They emerged onto a patio where men mingled in groups of three and four with champagne flutes beside an enormous pool. There wasn’t a woman in sight. Cukor clapped his hands together. “Everybody!” he exclaimed, “I want you to meet Mr. Marcus Adler. Marcus, this is . . .” he made a grand sweep of the crowd. “Everybody!”

  Compared to the laissez-faire bunch at the Garden of Allah, this was a well-dressed coterie, color-coordinated in summer pastels — lilac, sky blue, pink, and lots of cream. Scattered here and there were young men in sailor suit costumes. Marcus suddenly felt overdressed in his dark suit. He needed a drink.

  Cukor disappeared back inside the house and Julian joined a conversation about French abstract painters with a group of intense-looking men. Marcus spotted the bar across the patio, where a tall sailor with dark wavy hair was pouring a glass of champagne. Marcus approached him.

  “I hear George really knows his champagne,” Marcus said. He picked up a bottle of Dom Perignon. “Is it nice?” he asked, but the sailor was already gone. The champagne flowed down Marcus’ throat like liquid velvet. He took another long sip. The way it tingled on his tongue, sharp but sweet, was like drinking melted Alpine snow when all you’ve ever had is dishwater.

  “Marcus!” George Cukor’s voice sailed over the chatter and laughter from a knot of theatrical types in colors that made Marcus’ tie look staid. Marcus joined them and George clapped him gently on the back and made the introductions. Most of his friends were in the movie business some way or another; a couple of screenwriters, a set decorator, a costumer, an artist who made boulders and marble columns from papier mâché.

  Cukor said, “I was just talking about filming Sylvia Scarlett. We’ve only got another week of editing left, although I don’t know why we’re bothering. The Legion of Decency is going to throw a pink hissy when they see Kate Hepburn in drag.”

  “If a girl is dressed as a boy, is it still called drag?” asked the set decorator.

  The men all laughed.

  “Anyway,” Cukor continued, “there we were, filming on the beach — you can guess how awful that was. Sand and cameras do not a good combination make. And we’re in the middle of a scene with Kate and Cary —”

  “Kate AND Cary? That’s why it’s called drag!” someone said. The laughter had a sharper edge to it this time.

  “From out of the clear blue comes this airplane. Oh my god, the noise! We’re all just standing there, watching the pilot land the plane right there on the beach. Sand flying everywhere. The pilot gets out — it’s Howard Hughes. Comes marching up the beach and starts on about how he wants to pay Cary a visit. Apparently they’re very good pals. But of course it wasn’t Cary he’d come to visit. He wanted Kate. Talk about goo-goo eyes.”

  One of the writers leaned in, “When you say Howard and Cary are very good friends, do you mean that they’re friends?”

  The decorator scoffed. “You think everyone is queer. Howard Hughes is fucking every slice of pussy pie that he can wrap his lips around. There is no way you can convince me that he’s dipping his wick in both ends. ”

  “I met him once,” Marcus put in, “at B.B.B.’s Cellar.”

  The guys gawked. “At B.B.B.’s?” Cukor asked. “You did? When?”

  “A few years ago. I was with Tallulah Bankhead. We met up with Joan Crawford, who was there with Billy Haines, and next to him was Howard Hughes.”

  “Billy Haines? Was at B.B.B.’s? With Howard Hughes?” The set decorator was scandalized. “Why, that withholding little minx! Wait till I see her next. Did it look like Joan Crawford was fucking Howard Hughes?”

  “Not right there on the table.”

  Marcus’ reply sent the group into a squall of giggles. When George slipped away to see a new arrival, the costumer turned to Marcus. “So,” he said, “are you at MGM with George?”

  Marcus’ heart cramped. The moment of truth. He told Kathryn it would come. He couldn’t stand there and say ‘I’m a messenger boy for Western Union.’ Kathryn’s advice had been, “Just tell them that you’re a writer. Drop in the Saturday Evening Post story and then change the subject by asking if they’d read the latest Sinclair Lewis or John Steinbeck.” It sounded a lot easier to do in the fitting room of the May Company’s men’s department. Marcus heard Kathryn’s voice, Three easy words.

  “I’m a writer,” he said.

  “Which studio?” one of the screenwriters asked.

  “I just had a story published in the Saturday Evening Post. ‘Subway People.’”

  One of the writers snapped his fingers. “Oh, right! You’re the Western Union messenger.”

  Oh crap. Marcus looked toward the house and calculated how fast he could run for the door.

  “You’re the one who got banned from the studio lot a few years ago, right? Something about Ramon Novarro?”

  “You’re a messenger?” The set decorator looked like he’d swallowed straight olive juice. “So, what? You delivered a telegram to George
Cukor and . . . ? I don’t get it. I thought George only liked to fuck the seafood.” He nodded toward the sailor suits. The men exchanged significant looks and drifted away, leaving Marcus alone with his empty champagne flute and his cranberry-red cheeks.

  He set his glass on a wrought iron table and slunk into the house, crossing the white tiles of the glass conservatory to the dark study. It was the perfect place to sulk. He flopped into a soft leather chair and rested his head against its padded arm. He caught his reflection in a mirrored curio cabinet between the blue and white Delft china and made a face. Marcus Adler, the messenger boy who thinks he’s a writer because he managed to have one story published in the Saturday Evening Post. What a joke. And don’t come back here until you’ve learned not to embarrass everyone who knows you.

  “Listen to me!”

  Marcus looked around but saw nobody.

  “I’m dressed up like a nancy boy sailor inside Cukor’s flaming house of faggots.”

  Marcus followed the low, gruff voice down a short corridor and peeked around the corner. One of the sailors had his back to Marcus and a telephone pressed to his ear. “You should see ’em all,” he said. “What a filthy bunch of queers.” It was the guy he’d seen at the liquor table.

  “Hey,” the guy rasped, “I know what I’m doing. You’ll get your story. They’re all talking about Cukor’s new movie, with Hepburn prancing around in drag and Cary Grant panting after her like the deviant pedophile he probably is. . . . It’s a Commie plot to pull a fast one over the Catholic Legion of Decency. . . . Yes, they used the word ‘plot.’ You should see who’s here — writers, designers, every one of them has seen his own name up on the screen. . . . Of course I have! Direct quotes. The journalistic standards of the Hearst press will not be compromised by Clifford Wardell.”

  Marcus retreated and peered back up the hall to the library, where the chatter of the party filtered through. It’ll serve George Cukor right if I just walk out of here and let this gutter monkey sling all the mud he can. The sooner I get away from this viper’s nest, the better.

  Marcus snuck across the foyer and let himself out the front door. It wasn’t until he’d reached the front gate before his conscience stopped him. He looked back at the perfect picture-postcard house with its Tudor beams, ivy-covered walls and cool green lawns. It was pretty much Marcus’ dream home.

  Surely Cukor didn’t bring you here to be the joke of the party, Marcus told himself. You don’t know it was George who told everyone you’re a messenger. It could’ve been anyone.

  Marcus followed the fence around the house to a black wooden gate with a large fleur-de-lis stenciled in white. The party roared on the other side. The gate wasn’t locked and he let himself in. Julian Johns was on the other side, fixing one of George’s miniature roses to his lapel. “Hello again,” he said.

  “Have you seen George?”

  “There was a redhead from the USS Goldsborough that seemed to take his fancy.”

  “You mean they really are sailors?”

  “Here? Always.”

  “No, not always.” Marcus set off toward a quartet of sailors standing beneath a fir tree. One of them pointed him toward the guest house, a small version of the mansion at the back of the property. Marcus rushed across the lawn and knocked on the door.

  “Go away.” It was Cukor’s voice.

  “I’m sorry, George, but there’s something you need to know.”

  “Go. The fuck. Away.”

  “This is kind of important.” Marcus waited for a few moments. “George?”

  Cukor yanked the door open. His pristine suit had been pulled in all directions and he was missing a button on his shirt. “You’ve got five seconds.”

  “There’s a Hearst journalist here.”

  Cukor’s mouth flopped open. “Are you sure?”

  “I overheard him on the telephone to what sounded like his editor.”

  George slammed the door behind him. “What exactly did you hear him say?” he demanded, shoving his shirt tails into his pants.

  “I heard the words ‘nancy boy sailor’ and ‘flaming faggots.’ And he said your new movie is a big Commie plot to undermine the Catholic Legion of Decency.”

  “Holy hell!”

  “He’s got the names of everyone here and direct quotes of what they’ve been saying.”

  “God damn it! You’re sure he works for Hearst?”

  “He told his editor not to worry, because the journalistic standards of the Hearst press will not be compromised.”

  They started striding toward the main house. For a man verging on portly, George Cukor could work up quite a pace.

  “Did anyone else hear this?”

  “No, I was alone.”

  “Which telephone was he on? The front room with the fireplace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you told anyone else about this?”

  “No, I came straight to you.”

  “If this got out, I’d be finished socially in this town, which is as good as saying I’m finished professionally. This journalist, was he the tall one in the sailor suit?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I knew there was something fishy about that one. Okay. In my library there is a desk. In the bottom drawer, you’ll find an envelope. Count out three hundred dollars and meet me at the front door.”

  Marcus did as he was told. He peeled six fifties from an inch-thick stack and rushed down the corridor. George Cukor was pinning the journalist to the living room wall with the pointy end of a brass fire poker.

  Cukor held the eyes of his prey. “Marcus, is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give Mr. Wardell here what’s in your hand.”

  Marcus moved close enough to hear the man’s short, breathy panting and pushed the money into his hand.

  “What are you going to tell your editor?” George asked.

  Wardell hesitated and Cukor pressed the poker a half inch deeper into his throat. “I’m going to tell him I got the whole thing wrong.”

  “And that . . .”

  “And that it wasn’t even George Cukor’s house I was in. Some other guy, someone nobody cares about.”

  George released Wardell. “Get the hell out of my house before I change my mind and make you shit pokers for the next two weeks.”

  They watched the reporter sprint like a panicked hyena down the driveway. “I can’t thank you enough,” George said to Marcus. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped his forehead. “I owe you one.”

  This was the chance Marcus had been hoping for. “I need to ask you something,” he said. “Do you know who Mercedes de Acosta is?”

  Cukor blinked. “Vaguely. Why do you ask?”

  “Alla Nazimova up and disappeared from the Garden of Allah a little while back. I’m trying to track her down to return something to her. Robert Benchley and Dorothy Parker told me that this Mercedes woman would know where she is. Who is she?”

  “She’s a bit of everything. Screenwriter, poet, costume designer, socialite. Someone told me she helped Garbo perfect her English. She was in tight with Alla’s 8080 Club. Had affairs with all of them, apparently.”

  “Do you think she’d know where Alla is?”

  “She can be a bit of a nomad, but this town isn’t all that big. I’d be willing to bet I know someone who knows someone who knows Mercedes.”

  “That’d be swell,” Marcus said. “Thank you.”

  “No,” Cukor replied, solemn. “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Kathryn alighted from the streetcar and pulled at her jacket. It didn’t need straightening, but she needed to tug at something.

  “Find me a color that says ‘serious reporter,’” had been her only request. Gwendolyn had come up trumps with this dark auburn shot silk and topped it with a beaver collar. It looked–and felt–divine, and now, more than any other time she could remember, Kathryn needed to feel divine.

  It had taken her the best part of a week to lu
ll herself into thinking that the quack she’d picked out of the telephone book had been mistaken. She decided that she’d put herself through a Mt. Everest of worry for no reason. Her cravings had petered out and she hadn’t had the slightest morning sickness, nor had her stomach started to swell. She was simply cursed with an erratic period. She’d once gone six weeks without one, but she hadn’t worried because she was still a virgin. It arrived with the force of a medieval purgative that time, then returned less than three weeks later.

  When Billy Wilkerson told her to show up at the Hollywood Reporter on Monday, she celebrated the Fourth of July with everyone else at the Garden . . . until she felt the abrupt compulsion to upchuck in the bushes beside the pool. No one thought anything of it; it was simply that Massey girl from villa number twelve doing what virtually everyone else had done at one time or another.

  But it wasn’t until the following morning, as she bent over the porcelain bowl revisiting her late supper of spaghetti and meatballs that she thought, “Uh-oh.” And when she found herself the morning after that bringing up her pork chops, she faced the facts: the quack was right. She was further along the road to unwanted, unwilling, and unwed motherhood.

  But asking around for the name of an abortion doctor wasn’t the same as asking where you bought your girdle, even at the Garden of Allah where Kathryn knew she couldn’t have been the first resident to find herself in this predicament. Her discreet inquiries had gotten her nowhere. It had occurred to Kathryn that Gwendolyn’s friend Alice was bound to know someone, but she wasn’t exactly Alice Moore’s biggest fan and Kathryn hated the thought of being indebted to her.

  It was a hell of a way to walk into the Hollywood Reporter, but she had until ten-thirty to locate the ladies’ room, because with Swiss precision, morning sickness would hit her like a mule kick.

  Billy Wilkerson introduced her to his reporters like she was the prodigal daughter, then delivered her to an alcove on the eastern side of the building. It wasn’t quite an office, but it was separate enough from the reporting floor’s clattering typewriters, jangling telephones and thick smoky haze. He pulled her chair out for her. “I had this reupholstered for you.” Kathryn could smell the fresh leather. “You’ll need a quiet corner in which to gather your gossip.”