by Amor Towles
—For the viewer, Evelyn—for the sales girl or senator, for the rogue or Rothschild—the cinema is the ultimate entertainment. It is an overflowing font of romance and danger. But for the performer, Evelyn, the romance and danger reside on the stage. When shooting a close-up, the movie camera must have you to itself. Thus, when you perform the most charged of cinematic scenes, you are likely to deliver your lines alone. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear . . . Or so you proclaim to the cold, black eye of the camera before being excused to your dressing room, so that Juliet can implore in your absence that you Swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon . . . Wherefore art thou Romeo, indeed!
Prentice paused briefly to serve the tea before it over-steeped.
—But on stage, my dear, on stage it is in the very interstice between the full-blooded physical forms of the actor and actress that the spark is struck. It is in that space between two gazes which search each other out, between two fingertips which nearly touch . . . And danger? For the actor, every dram of it is in the theater. Not because of crocodiles and sabers, you understand, but because the edge of the stage is a precipice! For there are no takes in the theater, Evelyn; no second chances. One false move, and the actor plummets through the pitch toward the craggy bottom of his own self-indictments.
Her appreciation for his argument almost instinctual, Evelyn’s cheeks betrayed a rosy flush.
—Then why, she asked almost breathlessly, why did you stop acting?
—You’re sweet, my dear.
But in her perplexity, she seemed genuine. Genuine!
—My rotundity, he explained.
And before she could express her shock (or God forbid, her sympathy), he raised a stalling hand.
—Don’t pity me for it. Are there elements of stardom that I miss? Why, there are elements of boarding school that I miss. There are elements of my most catastrophic romances that I miss. So let us agree, that missing is not at the heart of the matter.
AT THE TOLL OF one in the morning, the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel had been empty for almost an hour. There were no more guests checking in; no gilded affairs assembling or dispersing. Through the doors of the bar drifted the tinkling of piano keys at the hands of a capable straggler who had presumably been thrown from his apartment and who now finally fell asleep, having made the G Major 7 with his weary head. While behind the desk, the night clerk Michael stood alone, fending off sleep.
Under the circumstances, it was quite natural for him to welcome a chance to chat.
So, after marveling at the business of the season, and remarking on a handful of recent arrivals, Prentice and Michael agreed that Miss Ross was a delightful young woman. But from where and when and how did she arrive? Well, it seems that she arrived by taxicab from the railway with a single red valise. And was she here to see old friends? It was hard to say, for she had placed no phone calls and received no visitors. On her first night, she did entrust two items of jewelry to the hotel safe: a sizable engagement ring and a diamond earring without its pair; although (as Michael noted sotto voce), on the very next morning, she had taken the earring from the safe and returned in the late afternoon with a selection of dresses and three pairs of shoes.
An excellent use of a young woman’s wherewithal, the two gentlemen agreed.
Prentice wondered out loud if she was the same Miss Ross, friend of a friend, who lived on Gramercy Park . . . ?
No, replied Michael, turning the registration card so that Prentice could read.
—Ah, Prentice said. Well. Goodnight, my fine fellow.
Then he ambled down the hall with a smile on his lips. For Miss Evelyn Ross, lately of Manhattan, had apparently resided at 87 East 42nd Street. Or, as it is more commonly known: Grand Central Station.
At room 102 he put his key in the door, eager to cast off his shoes and recline with a square of Spanish chocolate and the pages of Mr. & Mrs. Lamb. But as his door closed behind him, his heart skipped a beat. Across the sitting room, a curtain billowed once before the open terrace door. For a minute Prentice stood stock-still under the grip of his accelerating pulse. He considered backing into the hallway and dialing the house phone for security. But Devlin was on duty tonight, and Prentice had called him not two weeks before, only to suffer the humiliation of having empty closets opened one by one.
Prentice attempted to steel himself to the task.
—Who’s there? he called out.
He moved sideways to spy into the bedroom and then eased open the door to the bath with his cane. After circling once and finding nothing out of place, he locked the terrace door and sat relieved on the edge of his bed. And that is when he saw it: There, beside the turned down sheets and the fresh pillowcase, sat Mr. & Mrs. Lamb with an unfamiliar bookmark. With a tremble of the hand he opened the pages and felt a wave of nausea.
It had been a year since he had purged his room of memorabilia: the gaudy posters with their imperial fonts and faraway gazes; the playbills; the overtly staged studio stills; even the candids—like the shot of him and Garbo addled at Antonio’s. Into boxes they had all been thrown, and sent to the hotel’s cellar.
But here, marking the title page of Hamlet’s retelling, was a ticket to the premiere of his acclaimed run as the Danish Prince at the Old Vic in 1917.
Prentice Symmons slid from his bed to the floor and wept.
PRENTICE SPENT MUCH OF the following day in his room. When he woke, he neither showered nor shaved. When his regular breakfast was served, he left half the potatoes uneaten beside the remnants of egg and did not ring for the service to be cleared. He sat on the couch in his robe as the room filled with the odor of the unfinished breakfast and as the minutes dismantled the hours. In the early afternoon, he heard the chambermaids knocking on doors and pushing their linen-laden trollies. When they knocked upon his, he fully intended to call out that they were not needed. But when he heard Bridie’s voice, from some force of habit he invited her in.
A professional young Irish woman and mother of six, Bridie did not display the slightest surprise to find Prentice in his robe. But within the instant she had whisked his plates into the hall, drawn the curtains, and cracked the terrace window to admit fresh air. When she went into the bedroom, he watched her through the open door. He watched as she returned his shoes and jacket to their closet. He watched as she made the bed with efficiency and care, snapping the fresh sheets and tucking them tightly into place. He watched as she rinsed his unused shaving brush and hung it on its golden hook to dry. And when she had finished, he roused himself from the couch and thanked her as one who thanks a chance apostle for the telling of a timely parable.
It was after three o’clock.
He bathed and dressed in a three-piece suit with a well-wound watch in his vest and set out for tea. Evelyn did not appear, but she had been kind enough to leave a note of regret on his chair and a promise to see him anon. This unnecessary gesture (coming in concert with the rare treat of cranberry scones) completed the revival of his spirits. And it was this revival, no doubt, that led him to play the part of a fool.
For when his tea had been cleared, Prentice happened to notice that lingering by the front desk was a certain actor-of-the-moment—an actor whom as a younger man had played a supporting role in one of Prentice’s finest films. And rather than keeping his counsel, Prentice strolled across the lobby with his cane in hand, calling out the actor’s name.
Exhibiting a touch of surprise, the actor remarked how pleasant it was to see Prentice. Then he made a friendly inquiry into Prentice’s welfare (an inquiry that is best met with a generous affirmation and the word adieu). But in his elevated spirits, Prentice leaned upon his cane and began to harken back; at which point, this actor-of-the-moment played the part of someone who had forgotten his billfold in his car, stranding Prentice in the lobby with his days of yore.
At the front desk, it was evident from the attention that Simon
e and Christopher paid to the shuffling of papers that they had heard every word—as had the young socialite who stood by the elevator doors with her dog.
Prentice felt his face grow flush.
—I am expecting a package, he heard himself proclaiming to Simone, in the manner of one for whom packages urgently arrive. When it appears, send it to the pool!
•
AS PRENTICE PASSED THE elegantly scripted sign that pointed the way to the pool, he unleashed a spate of acrimony—not toward his old supporting cast member, but rather toward himself. For what had he expected? To be embraced and invited for supper? So that they could speak of olden times—when their positions were reversed? At the peak of his fame, had not Prentice been strolled upon and cornered in lobbies by fading acquaintances? And had he not performed stage-left exits of his own?
Having descended the twenty-six steps at too quick a pace, Prentice found that he needed to catch his breath, so he headed toward a chair at the pool’s edge. Gratefully, the terrace was empty. The cool October air had driven the starlets and cabana boys into their respective retreats.
But just as Prentice was about to reach his chosen port, from the corner of his eye he glimpsed a figure slip behind a hedge. Feeling his heart rate leap, Prentice bypassed the chair and made for the rear gate. But the shadow, having deftly crossed the terrace, now ducked behind an adjacent cabana. In a state of panic, Prentice looked for a fellow guest or chambermaid, and failed to see the ice tea table directly in his path. He tripped and fell to his knees. The force of impact tore his pant leg. He began to heave, knowing that above all else, he must regain his footing. With a flash of single-mindedness, he stood to his full height, but the terrace wheeled around him. And when upon the breeze he heard the whispering of his name, Prentice Symmons finally acknowledged the unacknowledgable—that it was time.
On this day, on this terrace, at this Trafalgar, they would meet. Without the exchange of a word, a single hand would extend into space and topple Prentice into the pool of the Beverly Hills Hotel where, hapless, he would thrash for a sliver of eternity, before sinking at last to the depths.
Oh, fateful day.
Oh, ignominious—
—Prentice?
A gentle hand took hold of his elbow.
—Evelyn, he gasped.
—Jesus, Prentice. You’re white as ghost. Are you all right?
—Ohhh, he moaned from the bottom of his soul; and then began to sob.
She led him to a chaise. She sat at his side and took his hands in her own to still them from trembling.
—What is it, Prentice? What’s happened?
—Evelyn. He was almost upon me.
—Who?
—Like a minion of the devil, he’s haunted me. Hunted me. Waiting for the perfect moment to bring me to my end.
—Who, Prentice?
—A shadow.
—What shadow?
Silence fell around them. A silence as unvaultable as time. The silence from which all things spring, all things good and evil. With a great effort, Prentice raised his gaze and looked her in the eyes.
—The shadow of my former self.
It was a pitiful admission. A comic one. It had been written in the pages of Prentice’s personal history to elicit guffaws. But young Evelyn, so prone to beautiful laughter, remained sober. Sympathetic. Unflinching.
—In 1936, Prentice confessed, on a crowded avenue he shoved me in front of a tram. And last New Year’s Eve, he nearly succeeded in throwing me from my own balcony to the flagstones below. That is why I moved to the first floor.
—But why, Prentice?
Casting his gaze downward again, he saw that she was still holding his hands. And he could feel how her innermost temperature was transferring itself through his skin and coursing through his veins, bringing warmth to his core in the manner of a potent drink. And in this state of intoxication, the words spilled forth: how it all began, even as a boy at his grandmother’s; lemon squares, with a shortbread crust and a bright yellow curd; the bacon sandwiches, so fatty and savory and divine; and later, the ingenuity of the profiterole!
Ah, the very shame of it.
He told her too, how he had learned to hold it in check during all those promising years—first, as a lineless lord-officer-soldier-attendant; then, as an understudy in the wings mouthing monologues word-for-word; and at last, as the leading man with a rapier in his left hand and a pistol in his right. But with every step toward success, he had advanced as well toward a darker humor. He became surly. Impatient. Abrupt.
—Do you know what I was doing, Evelyn, at the height of my stardom? Can you even imagine? I was starving! Over the years, I convinced myself that I had built worthy defenses—a fortress against my weakness. But on the Ides of March, 1935, left alone by Lucifer in a lavished hall where the press had yet to arrive, my fortitude failed me. On that day, I gorged. I gorged on honey baked ham and linzer torte and strawberries dipped in cream. It was my crossing of the Rubicon, Evelyn. In the days that followed, I tumbled down the vertiginous trail of my frailty. Head over heels I fell; and as I passed the olive trees jutting from the jagged hills, not once did I reach for a branch.
In hearing this, Evelyn’s eyes grew brighter with every word. She did not look disgusted or shocked. She looked defiant!
—I want you to listen to me, Prentice, she said, as one who has slayed a dragon of her own. I want you to listen very carefully. Are you listening, Prentice?
—Yes, Evelyn.
—Since that day, since that day with the ham and the torte, have you been surly, impatient, or abrupt?
Prentice raised his head.
—Not for a minute.
She patted him on the back of the hand.
—Exactly.
Her expression relaxed. They sat holding hands. And as the sky turned indigo, a waxing moon rose over the hotel, giving the entire setting the look of the desert oasis it was.
—Evelyn . . .
—Yes, Prentice.
—I must admit to something else.
He shifted on the seat so that he could face her.
—I have lied to you.
She did not look offended or surprised.
—In what way? she asked.
—About the lobby.
She offered a bemused smile.
—No. I am serious, Evelyn. Deadly serious. I have encouraged you to take up residence beside me in the lobby, calling it the world. But it isn’t the world. It isn’t a continent, or a country, or a town. It isn’t even a room! It is a prison cell. It is my Bastille.
For the first time in years, Prentice felt the force of his own convictions.
—Providence has sent you to Los Angeles, Evelyn. And you must visit with It. Young William, one of the hotel’s drivers, has been put at my disposal; I put him at yours. You must go out into the scent of the orange blossoms, out into the temperate nights of Hollywood where all its most elusive delicacies hide in plain sight. Go tonight. Start by dining on the Sunset Strip at Antonio’s on osso buco with risotto Milanese!
—We can go together.
(So suggested Evelyn, sweet Evelyn.)
—No, said Prentice, rising to his feet. You must go without me, mon ami. For tonight upon the platform, before the crow of the cock, I have an appointment with an apparition.
Olivia
WHEN OLIVIA HAD ALMOST run out of questions about track and field, she excused herself politely from the table for two.
Given the choice, she would have preferred to be on the little bedroom terrace that she hardly ever used. Bounded by white stucco, climbing with ivy, and bordered by love-in-idleness, it seemed the perfect grotto for the weary in waiting. But as she passed a neighboring table, she paused to accept and return the compliment from the comedian; and at the booth a few steps beyond, she told the director with the Slav
ic accent that she would very much enjoy having the opportunity to work with him as well. She tucked a curl behind an ear, offered a delicate smile, and continued toward the powder room hoping to find it empty.
But of course, it wasn’t.
They hardly ever were.
•
LEANING AGAINST THE WALL by the sinks was the rather rough looking blonde whom Olivia had noticed dining alone at the bar. She was smoking a cigarette and listening to the attendant who was describing a night on the town as she aimlessly wiped the countertop. Miguel, the girl was saying, had borrowed his uncle’s car and dressed in a three-piece suit. He had taken her dancing at a little club on Shepherd Avenue. A club that had the finest band en Los Ángeles . . . En California . . . En todo el—
The girl stopped when she saw Olivia’s reflection in the mirror. She apologized and retreated to the back of the room where she began folding and refolding hand towels. Olivia approached a sink and turned on the faucets. The blonde didn’t move. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall, as if she could hear the rumba of the girl’s reminiscence.
From across the restaurant, Olivia had imagined that the blonde was in that league of callous women who began their workday at the bars of the Hollywood restaurants and hotels. But from up close, Olivia could see how terribly off the mark she had been. In the mirror’s reflection, the blonde’s unscarred profile suggested an almost aristocratic beauty with no hint of an ugly enterprise’s toll. And she had the effortless poise of a woman raised in the largest house in town. With her arm hanging gracefully at her side, her fingers slender and unadorned, she held her cigarette at an upward angle so that the smoke could spiral toward the ceiling with an enviable lack of purpose.
—Would you like one?
Olivia looked up to find that the blonde had caught her staring.
—Why yes, thank you, she replied, though she hadn’t smoked in more than a year.
The blonde slid the pack across the counter.
Olivia took one of the cigarettes and lit it. She leaned against the wall, assuming the blonde would make conversation, but she didn’t.
