Eve in Hollywood

by Amor Towles

  When Olivia inhaled, the taste of the smoke brought back foolish memories . . . of hiding with her sister behind an elm tree in Saratoga with pilfered cigarettes and a pack of cinnamon gum. They were memories from another season—a season when the two of them had shared clothes and secrets and sly remarks.

  How never-resting time does lead summer on . . .

  —So, is he as boring as he seems?

  —I’m sorry? asked Olivia.

  —Your date, said the blonde. Isn’t he the one who wears the big white hats?

  Olivia laughed.

  —Wilmot’s not a date. It’s more of a work dinner. But yes, I suppose he is the one who wears the big white hats.

  —Well, every time he squints at the horizon, I fall asleep.

  Olivia laughed again.

  —I think they call it the strong and silent type.

  —They can call it whatever they like. But from where I was sitting, he looked more like the go-on-and-on-and-on type. Do you ever get a word in edgewise?

  Olivia extended her arm in an ironic flourish.

  —Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice . . .

  The blonde raised a questioning eyebrow.

  —Shakespeare . . . , Olivia confessed. Courtesy of my mother.

  —What else did your mother teach you?

  Olivia considered.

  —A lady never finishes a cigarette, a drink, or a meal.

  The blonde nodded her head in a show of familiarity.

  —My mother told me that it was more important to be interested than interesting.

  —Have you heeded her advice?

  —Only as a last resort.

  Olivia and the blonde were both silent—reflecting for the moment on motherly advice and other monoliths. Then Olivia held up her cigarette to show that it had been half smoked, and, with a smile of goodhearted resignation, she dutifully tamped it out.

  AS THE WAITER CLEARED Olivia’s unfinished entrée, Wilmot was explaining the insignificance of the marathon when compared to the fifty-yard dash.

  —A marathon is really a contest of endurance, he was saying, not of athleticism. You’ll often see a topflight sprinter excel at a variety of sports, but a great marathoner will only excel at one. And there are whole miles in a marathon that have no bearing on victory. Like the eleventh, or the twelfth, or the thirteenth. But I think we can safely say that in the fifty-yard dash, every footfall counts.

  As Wilmot spoke, he rubbed the tablecloth with the flat of his hands. Back and forth they went in the spot where his plate had been, as if he’d been asked by the maître d’ to keep the linens smooth. And Olivia realized that he didn’t want to be there either. He too was fulfilling an obligation—playing his part in this orchestrated pair of Maid Marian and Wyatt Earp.

  But that didn’t mean he was about to ask for the check. When the waiter returned to inquire about dessert, Wyatt (with his white hat securely on his head) would presumably note how famous Antonio’s was for its chocolate gelato; and Marian would smile politely and say that chocolate gelato sounded perfectly delicious. And they would spend another hour at this table for two talking of the shot put and the high jump before heading their separate ways.

  The blonde from the powder room wouldn’t stay for dessert, Olivia found herself thinking. But then, she probably wouldn’t have put herself in this position in the first place. Having dined alone at the bar, she could now pay her check and go home to her own ivied terrace. Or more likely, head off in search of the finest band in Los Ángeles. En California. En todo el mundo.

  —Cousin Livvy! Is that you?

  Wyatt and Marian both looked up in surprise.

  It was the blonde, but she looked bright-eyed and boisterous. And she had a Southern accent . . .

  —It’s me, Evvie! she said, placing her fingers to her chest. All the way from Baton Rouge!

  Olivia had to restrain a laugh.

  —Evvie . . . I didn’t know that you were in town . . .

  —I’m here with Aunt Edith! She’s waiting at the hotel, so I don’t have a minute. But they’d just paddle me back home if we didn’t catch up.

  —Please join us, said Wilmot on his feet.

  He brought a chair from the neighboring table and placed it between his and Olivia’s.

  —Oh no, chided Evvie. Boy girl, boy girl!

  She picked up Wilmot’s cocktail in both hands and placed it gently in front of the empty chair. Then she claimed his spot as the waiter arrived with a martini.

  —In God We Trust, Evvie said, raising the glass.

  —In God We Trust, Wilmot repeated a little uncertainly, as he raised his own.

  —So . . . , said Olivia. What’s the news from Baton Rouge . . . ?

  —You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, said Evvie. You remembah that colored boy who worked for Aunt Ethel? Well, last Septembah he up and drove off in Aunt Ethel’s Cadillac—with Aunt Ethel in it! And when the police finally pulled them over in Kansas City, it was the colored boy who was in the passengah seat and Aunt Ethel behind the wheel.

  —I do declayah, said Olivia.

  Evvie turned to Wilmot confidentially.

  —Aunt Ethel always had a fondness for oldah husbands; and youngah men . . .

  Wilmot, who was smoothing the linens again, attempted to change the subject.

  —Have you been in Los Angeles long, Evvie?

  —Just a few weeks, she sighed. But it’s been divine. Why, we’ve seen Charlie Chaplin’s house and Lon Chaney’s garage. We’ve been to the Tar Pits and the fights at the American Legion . . .

  Wilmot blinked as Evvie spoke, as if he was having trouble keeping up.

  —Some dessert? asked the waiter, who was leaning over the table with his pad and pen.

  Wilmot looked up at the waiter as if he hadn’t understood the question.

  —I know just the thing, said Evvie. Let’s have dessert in Santa Monica. I have it on good authority that until the stroke of midnight the finest donuts in all of Los Angeles are cooked on the Santa Monica piers. We can dangle our toes in the water and watch the casinos drift out to sea!

  —I haven’t had a donut in ten years, Olivia admitted.

  —Well, that settles it.

  The girls turned to Wilmot.

  —I’m actually feeling a little under the weather, he confessed while mopping his brow with his pocket square.

  —What is it, my dear? asked Evvie. Are you coming down with something?

  —No. I’ll be fine. I’m just going to sit here for a minute. Why don’t you two girls go on without me.

  When Evvie and Olivia put their napkins on the table, Wilmot looked almost relieved.

  —Lovely to meet you, Evvie said, then she took Olivia by the hand.

  Evvie tugged her past a screenwriter, a leading man, and the maître d’—anyone of whom might normally have waylaid her—and Livvie found herself giggling like a schoolgirl in the midst of a narrow escape.

  Outside, the wind was wild. The fronds of the palm trees rattled overhead and dust spiraled off the sidewalk in little tornadoes. Evvie slipped past the valets in order to survey the street. Halfway up the block what looked like a teenage boy in a chauffeur’s uniform waved. He was standing in front of a forest green Packard.

  —Is that yours? Olivia asked.

  —More a friend of a friend’s, said Evvie. Come on. Before Wilmot changes his mind.

  And the two cousins made the twenty-yard dash for the car.

  ONCE THEY WERE IN THE back of the Packard driving along Sunset, the blonde stuck out her hand and formally introduced herself. Then she instructed her driver to head for the Santa Monica piers.

  —You were serious? asked Olivia.

  —Absolutely. The donuts are the next item on the list. Isn’t that right, Billy?

&nbs
p; —Yes, ma’am!

  —So, have you really been to those others places?

  —Well, not to Lon Chaney’s garage. But we’ve been to the Tar Pits and the fights. We’ve been to the Wishing Chair at Forest Lawn Cemetery and the parade on Santa Claus Lane.

  With one hand on the steering wheel and one eye on the road, Billy leaned to his right, took something from the glove compartment, and handed it into the backseat. It was a waiter’s pad from the Beverly Hills Hotel. The fourth page was titled SIGHTS TO SEE BEFORE I LEAVE L.A. It had an itemized list of fifteen destinations, thirteen of which had been checked off in a forest green ink, as if the pen had come with the car.

  Leaning over Olivia’s shoulder, Eve pointed to item number fourteen: The Donuts of Santa Monica.

  —How long have you been in Los Angeles? Olivia asked in disbelief.

  Eve pretended to count on her fingertips.

  —Two months, three weeks, and a day.

  —I’ve been here for four years and haven’t done half of these things.

  —You’ve been busy.

  Olivia took another look at the list.

  —Skating?!

  —The Pan Pacific Rink is one in a million! Billy enthused as he pulled himself up by the wheel. The real McCoy! Not only is it the largest skating rink in the world, every Saturday they have an orchestra that plays polkas and on Sundays they serve hot toddies!

  Eve winked at Olivia.

  —Speaking of hot toddies, Billy: What have we got in the glove?

  Billy leaned to his right again and handed back a flask.

  Eve took a generous sample.

  —Gin, she said like the pleasantly surprised.

  But when she held out the flask, she could see that Olivia hesitated to take it.

  —Come on, Livvy. Even a churchbell’s gotta swing, if it’s gonna chime.

  Olivia laughed and took the flask. She wasn’t used to drinking gin with a mixer, never mind straight from a bottle. The first swallow seared the back of her throat. But the second went down more smoothly and the third was perfectly pleasant. Within minutes she could feel the liquor in her extremities—tingling at the tips of her fingers and toes. Then like tendrils of ivy, it began climbing her arms and legs, presumably en route to her head.

  Eve rolled down the window and closed her eyes as the in-rushing air tore at the pages of her pad. Following suit, Olivia opened her window and leaned into the breeze along Sunset as the brightly lit marquees leaned back—boasting of World Premieres and Held Over by Popular Demands.

  It was true what Eve had said: Olivia had been busy.

  How many roles had she played since she had come to Hollywood? Fourteen? Fifteen? She had lost count. First, there was Dolly Stevens; then the guileless Lucille and innocent Hermia. Arabella, Angela, Elsa, and Cath. Maria, Germain, and Serena. Each one as demure as the last.

  —So, of all the men in Los Angeles to dine with, why Wilmot?

  Olivia looked back from the window to find Eve holding out the flask. Olivia took another drink.

  —It was arranged.

  —Arranged? What are you, Amish?

  Olivia laughed.

  —Arranged by the studio.

  —Do they normally tell you who to dine with?

  —Oh, they’ll tell me who to dine with, all right. They’ll pick the restaurant. The table. They practically pick my entrée.

  Eve looked a little surprised.

  —I’m on contract, Olivia explained. When you’re on contract the studio doesn’t just decide what roles you take; it weighs in on whatever might affect your public image: what you wear, how you spend your weekends, who you spend them with . . .

  Eve whistled.

  —You should have the world on a string, sister.

  —It’s the other way around, I’m afraid.

  A perfect example sprang to mind, and Olivia almost launched into its petty details. But she regretted having allowed herself to go on at such length already. What a prima donna she must have sounded like. Complaining about the life of a Hollywood star. So she shook her head and said nothing.

  But Eve had been watching her closely.

  —Speak now, she warned, or forever hold your peace.

  Olivia met her gaze.

  —All right, she said after a moment. Have you read Gone with the Wind?

  —I’m not much of a reader.

  —Well, it’s a bestseller and they’re making it into a movie at Selznick. The main character is a spoiled, tempestuous figure—and it seems like every actress in Hollywood is vying to play her except for me. But the second lead, she’s a counterweight to Scarlett. She’s more upright and sweet, yet every bit as strong. At any rate, the director thinks I’m perfect for the part; and I think he may be right.

  —Sounds great.

  —But you see, it’s a violation of my contract to even talk with Cukor. He’s gone so far as to suggest that I read for the part covertly. He wants me to put on a scarf and tinted glasses and come up the back drive of his house on a Sunday afternoon—like a thief, or a spy.

  —Even better! said Eve.

  Olivia laughed, but shook her head.

  —Jack Warner, my studio chief, would never let me be in that film. He’s said as much already. I think he’s furious he’s not making the movie himself. But you have to understand that this sort of thing goes part and parcel with the rest of it. And it’s not like I’ll be sitting on my hands. They have me slotted for two other parts at Warner this spring.

  As Olivia spoke, she could tell that Eve felt a sense of disappointment. Perhaps to mask it, Eve took a drink from the flask and then turned to the window where the marquees had given way to the grand eucalyptus trees at the edge of the Brentwood cul de sacs. When Eve turned back she said simply:

  —Don’t be your own worst enemy, Livvy.

  Olivia nodded and looked out her own window.

  —It’s been a long time since someone called me Livvy, she said.

  STRETCHING A HUNDRED YARDS into the sea, the Santa Monica piers were crowded with all manner of amusements. There were tin rifle ranges where brand-new recruits in freshly pressed uniforms tested their aim and rainbow-colored wheels of fortune ten feet in diameter surrounded by Mexican grandmothers who crossed themselves at every spin. Polishing off their flask of gin, and ditching their shoes in the sand, Eve and Olivia sallied forth into the carnival, beckoned by the calls of barkers and the rumble of roller coasters and the shouts of children out past their bedtimes.

  It didn’t take long for them to find the fabled purveyor of donuts—standing proudly under a green-and-white canopy. While Eve paid for their order, Olivia watched the freshly fried donuts riding the small conveyor until they dropped into the sugar pan, one by one—and she was suddenly struck by how hungry she was. It was the hunger of a lifetime of half-finished dinners and prematurely tamped out cigarettes. So, when Eve pulled the first of the donuts from the bag, Olivia grabbed it and took a wolfish bite.

  Her mother would have been mortified by her behavior, of course. But what a donut it was! A confection of contrasts, of contradictions. First, came the exterior—hot, crusty, coated with a sugar grit. But then this golden brown sensation was followed almost impossibly by the cool smoothness of the jelly. You could tell it wasn’t raspberry or strawberry. And that was the genius of it. It was simply sweet and red. A finer preserve would have ruined the whole sensation.

  When Olivia took her second bite, she could feel a glob of the jelly running down her chin.

  —That, said Eve, is the first real smile that I’ve seen on you all night!

  As the two of them continued down the pier, the autumn wind seemed to be gaining force, pulling carnations from lapels and ribbons from pigtails. Grabbing Eve’s elbow, Olivia pointed as a fine yellow hat blew off the head of a Negress. Her boyfriend gave hon
orable chase; but when the hat lofted out to sea, he took his own hat from his head and spun it like a discus into the dark.

  —The wind, said Eve. It’s incredible.

  —The Santa Ana, Olivia explained. It comes every autumn.

  —From where?

  —From all the talk.

  Eve laughed.

  —You mean from all the gossip?

  —And the auditions and directions and negotiations . . .

  From the heart-crossed promises, thought Olivia, and the heartfelt excuses. All those voices rising from Burbank and Beverly Hills like a tide until they breeched some invisible barrier and flooded toward the sea, threatening to tear up the palm trees and personas and plot twists in their wake.

  Now it was Eve who reached for Olivia’s elbow.

  A few steps away was an elaborate contraption: a machine that looked like a cross between a fire engine and a calliope and half the technological advances of the twentieth century. It had pistons like you’d see on a locomotive, the dials and meters of a furnace, an elaborate system of eggbeaters. There were multicolored pinwheels and whistles and the horn of a gramophone mounted on a pole.

  Standing before it was a little man with the beard and pince nez of Toulouse-Lautrec.

  Eve popped the last bite of donut into her mouth and wiped the sugar from her hands.

  —So what’s this all about?

  —This? the man repeated. Why, this is the Astrologicon.

  The three of them surveyed it together.

  —You will note, the little man continued, that I said the instead of an. For, it is the only one of its kind in the world.

  He explained this somewhat sadly, as if he were speaking of the very last of some fantastic species like the unicorn or chimera.

  —But what does it do? asked Olivia.

  —Ah . . . , he said. What does it do?

  With three fingers and a thumb, he sharpened the point of his beard.

  —Once in possession of five essential attributes of a Homo sapiens, the Astrologicon will consult the laws of chemistry and the arrangement of the stars in order to provide an unassailable, incontrovertible, and indismissible instruction. For one dollar.