“Is that Curtis Harrington?” I whispered to Rupert.
“No.” Rupert laughed. “That’s Samson de Brier. He’s at all these parties and always dresses like an aristocratic sorcerer. He was in Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome, along with Renate and Curtis and Anaïs and me.”
“The film Kenneth Anger directed!” I hadn’t seen it yet but remembered Renate telling me to catch a screening. “Will he be at this party?” I asked Rupert excitedly.
“No, Curtis and Kenneth had a falling out,” Rupert said, moving toward a man who had the wide face of a Persian cat and a feline’s padded step.
“Merry Christmas, Curtis!” Rupert boomed.
For a man who lived in such a Gothic house, Curtis Harrington appeared remarkably congenial.
“I brought a guest,” Rupert said, putting his hand on my back.
“I’m Anaïs’s friend,” I added to clarify I wasn’t Rupert’s date.
“Oh, well if you’re Anaïs’s friend”—Curtis took my hands, turning his back on Rupert, and winked at me—“you are welcome any time.”
He turned back to Rupert. “So Anaïs told me she has a job in New York with a new magazine.”
“Yes. It’s named Cue,” Rupert said proudly.
Curtis raised an eyebrow at me before guiding us over to Basil Rathbone and Florence Marly, whom he told us were committed for his next film, Queen of Blood. I was so excited to meet real movie stars that I would have waited an hour for them to finish their conversation, but when they continued for several minutes without making eye contact, Rupert directed me to the kitchen.
A dour maid was replenishing a large bowl of spiked eggnog and handed us some in gargoyle-faced mugs. Taking our drinks, Rupert and I returned to the expansive living room. We settled on the corner of a burgundy velvet settee.
I kept an eye out for Renate but never saw her, so Rupert and I socialized with some friendly nobodies like us. A fellow in embroidered jeans and a sloppy sweater who apparently knew Rupert came up and offered to fortify our eggnogs with the Remy Martin bottle in his hand. Staring down at me, he said, “Rupert, who’s your young friend?”
Rupert responded politely, “This is Tristine. I’m sorry, I know your face. You work in New York a lot … off Broadway? I just can’t remember your name.”
“Bruce Nigel. Nice to meet you, Christine.” Bruce winked at me, then asked Rupert, “Where’s Anaïs?”
“She’s got a gig in New York. It’s going to keep her there through the holidays.”
“Oh yeah? Where’s she staying?”
“She stays in a friend’s apartment above the Sign of the Dancing Bear bookstore.”
“Bullshit!” Bruce waved a dismissive hand at Rupert. “Anaïs really has you going, doesn’t she?”
“What are you talking about?” Rupert bristled.
“You don’t know where Anaïs stays, do you?”
My antennae shot up, but Rupert seemed unfazed. “I know she stays with Maxwell, the bookstore owner. He isn’t into women.”
“No, it’s Hugo something,” Bruce said.
“Ian Hugo?” Rupert asked, and I could see a splotch of redness moving up his neck.
“No. Hugo is his first name. Her husband, for Chrisakes. His last name starts with a g. They have parties at their Village apartment.”
Rupert asked, “Hugo Guiler?”
I couldn’t believe what was happening. “What plays have you been in, Bruce?” I tried to change the conversation.
Ignoring me, he said smugly, “Hugo Guiler, that’s her husband.”
“Well your info is about eight years old, Bruce,” Rupert retorted. “Hugo Guiler is Anaïs’s ex-husband. I’m her husband now.”
Bruce waved a hand that said Rupert didn’t know shit, and carried his bottle back to the kitchen.
“What a weird guy,” I said, and tried to engage Rupert in talking about the Warren Report on President Kennedy’s assassination. “Do you believe that Oswald and Ruby were both working alone?”
Rupert began to expound on his latest Kennedy assassination theory, as I knew he would, just as Bruce reappeared with a slip of paper in his hand.
Weaving drunkenly, Bruce interrupted, “You don’t believe me that she’s living with that Hugo guy? Here’s her number in New York. Maybe you don’t have it, buddy.”
Rupert and I reached for the slip of paper at the same time. I got there first, but Rupert had a better grip and jerked it out of my hand.
I scowled at Bruce, who had a smirk on his face. “Why don’t you leave us alone? You’re drunk.”
Bruce’s parting words to Rupert were, “Call the number, buddy. See who picks up.”
My thoughts raced as fast as my pulse, but I had to appear cool when I said to Rupert, “Give me that stupid paper. You shouldn’t pay attention to a drunk.”
“I want to call it.” Rupert put the note in his pants pocket, his handsome features taking on the bullishness Anaïs complained about. His stubbornness made me think, go ahead, call it; it’ll serve you right. But I remembered the repercussions if I didn’t stop him. She’d crash off her trapeze, and I, the one who was supposed to be holding her safety line, would be responsible.
I tried again. “Do you want Anaïs to think you don’t trust her?”
“You want to know the truth?” Rupert now sounded drunk himself. “I don’t trust her.”
I could see I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. “May we go?”
“You go.” He sprung up. “I want to find that guy.”
I grabbed his arm. “I don’t know how to get home from here without you leading the way.”
“Then wait.” He pulled his arm back rudely.
He stalked out of the living room and stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. His long legs were braced to pounce, but Bruce had disappeared.
I had to get that piece of paper. I sidled up behind Rupert and slipped my hand into the right pocket of his chinos. I caught the folded note between two fingers, but before I could extract it, I felt something fleshy touch my index finger. I quickly withdrew, the note slipping and remaining in Rupert’s pocket.
I didn’t dare try again. The maid serving punch had been watching me and waved an admonishing hand.
Pretending nothing had happened, I tapped Rupert on the shoulder and when he turned I pleaded, “Please, can you lead me back to your place?”
He drove the Thunderbird too fast, weaving in and out of traffic. Tailing Rupert was like driving on a motor speedway. While trying to avoid a crash, I mentally raced through options to stop him phoning the New York number. If I could distract him with a kiss, I might be able to slip my hand into his pocket again.
But what if Rupert later told Anaïs that I had made a pass at him? I knew that she’d believe him. She’d cut me out of her life again. It wasn’t worth that risk. So somehow I had to warn her that Rupert would be calling. At least then she could make sure Hugo didn’t answer the phone. I checked the clock on my dashboard. It was 9:50 p.m., well after midnight in New York, too late to phone Anaïs.
Rupert pulled into the apartment driveway, staggered to the street, and leaned on the driver’s side of my double-parked car.
I rolled down the window. “You’ll be waking up strangers if you call that number tonight. Wait until morning,” I said. “Just go to sleep.”
Watching him stumble towards his door, clutching the wrought iron railing, I thought he would.
It was eleven by the time I got home and dialed Renate’s number. It rang a long time, and then a man answered. I guessed it was Renate’s husband. He said she’d just fallen asleep and that he’d give her the message and he hung up. I phoned back to say it was an emergency.
“Renate is not accepting any calls. Don’t call again!” He hung up.
I wasn’t going to be able to talk to Renate, so I had to figure this out on my own. I’d had no idea that being Anaïs’s apprentice would be this hard.
I located the phone number Anaïs had given
me for her New York apartment, set it by my alarm clock, and tried to get a few hours of sleep, though that was futile. At 4 a.m. exactly, I dialed her number. Hugo sounded grumpy when he answered. “It’s 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning.”
“I’m sorry, Hugo. Anaïs got a call here from someone at Warner Brothers, and I thought she would want to know.”
He growled, “What’s the message?”
I should have figured that out. “Just have her call me as soon as she can,” I managed before hanging up, my guts whirling like a garbage disposal.
I had just made a mistake. While I was waiting for Anaïs to phone me back, Rupert could phone there and Hugo would answer!
I had to call again but needed a better strategy. I didn’t have a better strategy.
In my nervousness, I dialed the wrong number and got a pissed-off guy with a Brooklyn accent. When I did reach Hugo again, I said, “Actually, I remembered Anaïs said that I should tell her right away if this executive from Warner Brothers called, even if I had to wake her.”
“Hold on.”
I waited, my anxiety mounting as I realized this long distance call was costing me more by the minute than my mother earned in an hour cleaning houses.
When Anaïs came on the line, she sounded unnaturally cheerful. “Ahllo?”
“Anaïs, I told Hugo that someone from Warner Brothers phoned for you.” I lowered my voice and added rapidly, “The real reason is because a guy named Bruce gave Rupert your phone number there!”
“The studio already contacted me here!” She gave an artificial laugh. She didn’t sound like herself.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“No, that film is a disaster!” Her voice was a violin squeak. I assumed Hugo was right there. “Too bad your information came too late.”
Rupert had beaten me to the call.
She continued in her high scratch, “If you learn anything more, be sure to let me know. Au revoir.”
I hung up the receiver as if lowering my own casket. If I had interpreted her code correctly Rupert had already phoned, the consequences had been disastrous, and I should watch Rupert to warn Anaïs of his next step.
It was only 4:12 a.m., but there was no point in trying to sleep. I percolated a pot of Folgers and planned what to say to Rupert when I phoned him: How are you doing? Did you call that silly phone number? What happened?
When I dialed Rupert’s number at six, it just rang. Maybe he was still sleeping it off. Maybe he’d gone out for breakfast. Maybe he’d gone to visit a girlfriend!
I was exhausted but made myself do my Canadian Air Force calisthenics. As soon as I finished my sit-ups I dialed Rupert’s number again. Still no answer.
This went on for two days. I phoned Rupert and Renate. Neither of them answered. I imagined terrible things. Rupert taking up with a woman. Rupert on a drinking binge somewhere in Hollywood. Rupert attempting suicide over the wickedness of Anaïs’s lies.
I wanted to find out what had happened when Rupert phoned Anaïs at Hugo’s, but I didn’t dare call her without new information. Finally, I decided I’d better drive over to the Hollywood apartment to see if Rupert was refusing to answer the phone or unable to.
I parked in the driveway, ran to the Tudorbethan door, and banged the knocker. I walked around and peered through the stained-glass windows. There was no sign of Rupert anywhere. Then I walked to the garage and saw through a dusty window that the Thunderbird wasn’t there.
I drove back downtown in the smoggy winter gloom, feeling helpless. As soon as I entered my disheveled room I threw myself on my single bed, resigned to a full-blown depression. I would lose Anaïs again. She had put her trust in me, and I had failed her. Renate’s curse would come down on my head, and there would be no second chance this time.
CHAPTER 19
Los Angeles, California, 1965
TRISTINE
January 17, 1965
We are in the shower. The warm water running over our bodies. We can’t keep our hands off each other. The flesh is warm, wet. We grab each other, squeeze each other’s haunches, lick, explore with our fingers.
We play child games. He spits water into my eyes, pulls down my shower cap, and kisses me. I grab his cock. He kisses me for real. When we make love in my bed, my new gray kitten, Jadu, watches us with round green eyes.
It was a new year, and I wasn’t worrying about Anaïs’s marriages or the loss of them. I wasn’t thinking about Rupert’s and Renate’s disappearances. I wasn’t even suffering the coils of guilt that sprang like serpents from Mother’s Christmas gifts, each one adding to her astounding credit card debt.
I wasn’t lonely. I wasn’t bored. I was in love—madly, lustfully, without reserve.
I wasn’t thinking about having to warn Anaïs that I’d let someone move in who might answer my phone. I wasn’t concerned that I’d given myself entirely to a twenty-three-year-old college dropout whose only paid job was playing Saturday nights in a jazz combo and whose full-time unpaid gig was as a Marxist/Leninist organizer. The passion that D. H. Lawrence had promised in his novels, I’d found with Neal. He taught me to abandon myself to pleasure without a trace of shame.
Neal was a confident, sexy junior I’d dated in my sophomore year, when I was still a virgin. With his fiery black eyes, straight, shiny black hair, and left-wing rhetoric, he wasn’t like the other guys at conservative USC. He was a half-Irish, half-Jewish boy from Georgia who loved jazz as I did and saw the South from the minority perspective. I’d likely have lost my virginity to him had he not suddenly left college for a chance to play jazz on the road.
He phoned just after New Year’s to say he was in town, while I was still nursing my depression over having failed Anaïs. He invited me to come listen to him play at a hotel in Beverly Hills.
My depression instantly lifted.
That night I wore my slinky black dress, high patent heels, and my mother’s fox-trimmed sweater, which she’d somehow preserved from moth holes for twenty-two years.
Neal was blowing “Tenderly” à la Chet Baker when I walked in, a strand of dark hair falling over his forehead. As I was seated, he followed me with his onyx eyes. I hadn’t ordered it, but the waiter brought me a hollowed coconut filled with a tropical drink. As the bassist took the solo, I mouthed, thank you to Neal.
At the combo’s break, he came over and sat with me, gulping down soda water as we interrupted each other’s questions trying to cram everything that had happened to us in the past year and a half into twenty minutes before his next set.
The rest of the night Neal didn’t take his eyes off me. He was making love to me as he played—his lips blowing on the delicate reed, his fingers on the gold keys, his hips moving with his instrument as he bent down towards me.
After, he walked me back to my car in the hotel parking lot. I said in a voice that sounded unusually husky, as if I were doing a Lauren Bacall imitation, “Your place or mine.” Sabina was in control.
I seduced him that night, but he seduced me right back. I already knew there would never be another like him in my life. Together we felt mythic, our intimate parts keyed to engage by some Dionysian locksmith. That first night, and every night we were together, a volitionless wave of passion lifted and carried us, exploding into another dimension. After the first night with him, I was in love, as Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116 says, “even to the edge of doom.”
Neal stayed for morning coffee and moved into my single apartment that afternoon, not having any permanent digs of his own. Occasionally he bought groceries, but we basically lived off my scholarship and the federal student loans I’d begun taking.
We didn’t think much about money. We thought about sex. In bed, in the bathroom, on the floor, testing Kama Sutra positions, giggling at our pretzel bodies, and then just letting loose in lust.
I was the happiest woman in the world to have Neal as my lover. The problem was that I wasn’t the only one to feel that way. Other women—just about every woman he met, from secretaries to
the movie stars’ wives who would take a table at the hotel bar to ogle him—appreciated Neal’s talents.
As Anaïs had predicted, when I fell in love, Sabina fled, taking all her self-possession with her. In her place I found the persona Anaïs had characterized in her novels as Stella, a vulnerable girl-woman who clung to her beloved. Neal found my unexpected possessiveness totally uncool.
With the authority of someone who had read both Playboy and Engels’s Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State, he told me that my sexual jealousy was a remnant of the decadent need for private property. He warned me that my desire for monogamy was an impediment to our true love. It might even make it impossible for us to stay together. I tried valiantly to purge myself of my regressive bourgeois jealousy, but when I suspected Neal was in another woman’s bed, acid shot up my throat, scorching me from inside.
The first two months we were together, I sat in the hotel lounge every Saturday night to hear Neal play and to stake my claim to him. Then he told me that “the Man” didn’t want me taking up a table; I was a distraction. After that, Neal didn’t come home Saturday nights. He would phone after his last set to say he was going to jam all night with the guys. The next day, he would drag in and head wordlessly to the shower. I would yell at him through the shower door about how I hadn’t slept all night and why did he make me fall in love with him just so he could break my heart. Getting no response, I’d throw myself on the bed in hysterical tears. Fresh from his shower, a towel around his waist, he’d silently remove his sax from its case and sit on the edge of the bed. Then he’d play just for me. Twice he improvised a tune so beautiful it made me cry all the more because I would never hear it again. Or he’d play Satie’s Trois Gymnopedies, that spare, lonely melody that takes me to the empty streets of my dreams where all alone, I look through buildings and rooms, searching behind doors, and halls for a passageway out that doesn’t exist.
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