The Chameleon

by Sugar Rautbord

  And the scandalous Claire Harrison Duccio held some appeal for these movie folk. She was greeted with more respect than curiosity by both the director and producer, the latter grateful that at last now there was someone on set who could teach Leslie Caron ladylike deportment and “real regal posture.” And Minnelli, after eyeing her cool brand of pale beauty, inquired if she would like to play an extra, one of the turn-of-the-century aristocrats in the Maxim's scene. Claire politely declined—she couldn't even imagine what Anita Lace would write about her if she appeared in Technicolor décolletage—but certainly she'd help in the scene where the auntie teaches Gigi how to tell a fine jewel from a bad stone.

  Lorenza was dispatched to sew black feathers on a white ball gown and Slim was assigned to Cecil Beaton's costume trailer. They would all be paid for their work. They felt neither their heat fatigue nor the weariness when ten hours later they all trooped home, humming “Gigi, la-la-la-la, do-do-do-do, la-la-la, Gigi,” and Claire finally had something fun to put in her letter to Sara.

  On the set over the next week Claire was completely distracted from any thoughts of her own circumstances as she instructed Leslie Caron, showing her how she should balance books on her head in the good posture scene, holding out her hands the way she had been instructed as a child in order to acquire aristocratic carriage along with a gliding walk. Delight shone on her face as she remembered how the Field's models and salesladies had applauded her so long ago when she finally got it right.

  She held the lighting men and several costume ladies captive when she charmingly demonstrated to the young actress how to choose a cigar for a gentleman, holding it up to her ear to listen for the moist sound of freshness, lightly waving it under her nose for a whiff of its age and tobacco blends, just as she'd learned in Field's cigar shop and had done for Harrison. She showed her how to shake her head coquettishly as she refused one, putting it back in its box, saving the man from a cigar that hadn't been properly kept in a humidor, and say, “No, no. I wouldn't let you smoke that one, dear. It's all dried out and won't draw well.” And both the actress and Claire burst out laughing.

  But she drew a larger audience, Chevalier, Minnelli, and some of the studio's executives among them, as she taught Gigi how to hold a sapphire up to the light to read it for star quality, examine a string of pearls for matched opalescence, and turn a white diamond around in her fingers, revolving it in natural light to make sure it had clarity and a blue cast. As she played with the millions of dollars’ worth of jewels borrowed for the scene, Claire behaved as naturally as a housewife checking for cracked eggs in the carton. She casually held stones up to Caron's ears and neck, and then laid them carelessly aside as if a million-dollar necklace held no special charm for her.

  One of the visiting MGM vice presidents, Bernie Thal, whispered to his pal, Hollywood agent Lefty Lefkowitz, “The dame shits diamonds, she's had so many.” But Lefty was much more impressed when one of the security guards from Cartier shyly tapped Claire on the shoulder. His offer to shake the famous lady's hand was greeted instead with a warm hug and amiable conversation. The guard had made dozens of trips to Rome to carry pieces for Signóra Duccio to try on at her husband's insistence and had despised the cruel man who treated him like dirt. Mrs. Duccio had always offered him a drink, a chair, dinner if it got late, and introduced him to her children. He was all for her, no matter what she was supposed to have done. Out of earshot of this conversation, Lefty saw only one classy dame greeting a regular guy like a king.

  “Some broad. That's real refinement.” He nudged Thal. And both denizens of Hollywood agreed, because back there under the movieland stars it wasn't what you did as much as how you acted.

  Lefty Lefkowitz had a reputation in Hollywood. If he wasn't the most successful agent in town, he was one of the nicest, a real hand-holder. And while the stars at the top signed on with Swifty Lazar or William Morris, Lefty had them on their way up or their way back down. He was on location with the more-than-middle-aged Hermione Gingold, who was making a Lefty-staged comeback in this picture that was being dubbed “My Fair Lady Goes to Paris” at his favorite haunts back home, the Brown Derby and the Polo Lounge.

  Lefty's dark coal eyes were blinkless, due to an inherited infirmity, so he skimmed the world like a sea ray scouting the bottom of the sea. His eyes being sensitive to the sun, he kept them shielded by Coke-bottle sunglasses from under which he scrutinized the pallor of Claire's powdered skin and admired the inaccessibility of the cool lady who even in this heat wave looked a tiny bit chilled. She was a knockout She made all the babes he dated and both his ex-wives look like bimbos. But the eyes, those purple eyes, were utter Hollywood. They had a vulnerability in them, like they had just witnessed a terrible train wreck, and he impulsively felt very protective of her. And being a film-noir fan, he couldn't help being also a little bit titillated by the fact that she might have bumped off a bad guy. Lefty had heard from reliable sources that Duccio supplied the Nazis with gun parts and rubber during the war, so if she had shot a Nazi, well, that made her a hero in his book.

  Her second week on the set, he decided to follow her. He had developed a crush on Claire, and although he knew a woman like her would never bother with a guy like him except to be exceedingly polite, he could certainly dream.

  She had a great walk, more of a glide, and moved slowly but purposefully down the streets, like early Garbo or Grace in The Swan. Lefty was barely five five and stretched for every inch, but Claire was tall and willowy even when she stooped to retrieve a child's fallen franc from the sidewalk and gently fold it into the child's palm.

  He loved to watch her, and one morning set out to follow her as she moved in that unhurried way she had to, of all places, a jewelry store. “What else is new?” he said to himself, and then, “Why bother? You could never afford her.”

  Out of curiosity he entered the shop. She went toward the back of the store, looking down not at the jewelry but the carpet, and just stood there waiting. When the mustachioed salesman came to the counter he just held out his hand. She gave him a large velvet box. As he held the contents up to the light, he could see they were as colorful as a Coney Island carousel and swung like chandeliers. He watched as after much discussion the salesman handed her a wad of bills and she put it into her purse, leaving the fancy earrings behind. If he hadn't witnessed the transaction with his own myopic eyes, he would never have guessed that Claire Harrison Duccio was a lady in distress. Lefty suddenly had an impulse to own a pair of big dangling earrings. He marched over to do his Hollywood agent shriek and negotiate the best deal. That he was good at. But the hard part would be to approach her and ask her to dinner so he could have occasion to be a big shot and deliver his gift.

  He invited her to a little bistro. Nothing fancy. With his streetwise instincts he knew better than to take her to Ledoyen or La Tour d'Argent, restaurants he had seen her photographed at, nibbling on foie gras or black truffles. Surely they would invoke memories of her other life, which he was gathering hadn't been such a good deal. Lefty felt he had so little going for him in his pursuit of Claire that his only chance was to be different. They went by taxi to Palais-Royal, where Colette had lived, to a casual spot named after the writer's first husband, Willi. It was a cozy wine bar with a simple menu. That way she wouldn't feel pressured that this was a night on the town, or that they even had to make it more than a drink. If it happened, it happened.

  Lefty knew from years as an agent to the famous and wounded that you didn't entice a golden bird with force.

  He loved the way her pretty hands played with her wineglass and how she kept her eyes riveted on his when he talked. He was enchanted by the lift of her mouth whenever she spoke of her children or how she laughed out loud at his jokes about the Gigi set. She seemed so interested in his Hollywood stories, those luminous purple eyes growing as big as her butter plate. He thought she might have been genuinely impressed when he told her that during the war he had been in the First Motion Picture Unit, a �
�Hollywood Commando,” with Ronnie Reagan and his other pals. Dinner went without a hitch. And when they finally walked out together, relaxed, it was like he had bribed the mayor of Paris to create a Hollywood movie moment just for them. The street lanterns suddenly glowed dimmer, and at exactly one minute to ten, the fountains stopped playing and all they could hear were the birds. He took her elbow and she let him.

  Dinner became a habit. They always dined alone, somewhere quiet and out of the way. After their third meal, she knew precisely what he liked, had guessed about his ulcer, would order foods that didn't aggravate his hiatal hernia, and then ask for a deliciously forbidden dessert to be brought to the table with two spoons, allowing him “just a taste.” She made him feel taller, more important, and coddled, just by the way she shone her eyes on him. And he found her glamorous. He wanted nothing more than to keep her around him forever.

  One evening, Lefty just blurted it out. “I need you.”

  “For what? I bet back home you have everything you want.”

  “I don't have you. You'd make a better man out of me. Every time I'm around you I just feel great. Gigi's packing up and moving to Hollywood for the last scenes. Why don't you come too?”

  “But what would I do there?”

  “Well, you could be my business partner. Yeah. That'd be good.”

  Claire hesitated. What good would it do to travel ten thousand miles with the same infamous name and unflattering baggage? It was as if Lefty read her thoughts and answered her prayers.

  “You know, everyone in Hollywood changes their names. Marilyn Monroe was Norma Jean Baker and Lana Turner used to be Julia Jean Mildred Frances Turner.”

  “And if you were my agent, Lefty, what would you change my name to?”

  “Claire Harrison Lefkowitz, whaddya think?” His unblinking eyes darkened with excitement. “And you wouldn't have to worry about the press, either. Guys like me in Hollywood, we tell the gossip columnists what to write.”

  “Oh, Lefty Lefkowitz. He doesn't have any money. Just a job.” Pamela, back from a failed holiday with one man, was repacking her bags to go off with another. “Why would you take up with him?” She dusted the silver frame holding a picture of her son, young Winston Churchill, with her tea napkin.

  “Honestly, Claire, all you get from men like that are love letters and a little kindness. Look, do you think this frame is too ornate? Napoleon gave it to Josephine and Elie's given it to me.”

  Claire thanked her for tea and hurried out of Pam's overstuffed apartment. Suddenly a cup of kindness sounded very good.

  Sara had finally telephoned Claire. It was the anniversary of Six's death and, although Sara hadn't said anything personal, she let Claire know she had saved up her allowance and added it to the William Henry Harrison VI Endowment at Eleanor House. Claire had begun the fund with the money from the sale of the chandelier earrings. Nothing was firmed up, but Sara let it be known that if they weren't so far apart it might be nice to see each other once in a while. Claire knew enough geography to realize if it were just a county and not an ocean between them it might be possible to see her. She also knew she couldn't negotiate with Harry and Ophelia over visitation rights without a mediator, perhaps a tough-talking agent with her best interests at heart. But more than anything, Claire realized that she couldn't keep the name Duccio anymore, not with all the scandalous associations it evoked. If she was to be permitted to see Sara again, return to America, and rebuild Eleanor House with new and larger funding, she would have to reinvent herself. Again.

  It was time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Julia and Norma Jean

  In Hollywood a girl's virtue is much less important than her hairdo.

  —Marilyn Monroe

  The new Goodyear tires rumbled along faux French cobblestones as they pulled into the driveway. Lefty drove the Caddie into the turnaround of the rented house, and the mixed fragrances of eucalyptus, orange blossom, and bougainvillea enveloped them. The sun that shone on their faces felt fresh and safe, and suddenly the smells of baked Italian bread, olive oil, the mold of centuries-old buildings crumbling in elegance, and unpasteurized heavy crème fraîche seemed to disappear into a side compartment of Claire's brain.

  She was in Los Angeles, America. The land of light and second chances. Lefty jumped out of the convertible to open Claire's door.

  “Oh, Lefty, it's so brand-new!” The newness smelled wonderful to Claire. Certainly houses that had been built only a year ago couldn't carry dark whispers in their walls. Or other people's haughty ancestors. Or ghosts.

  “It's heaven.” Slim was thrilled. She pushed on a pair of sunglasses in the shape of sequined cat's eyes as she slinked out of the backseat. Slim had been reading Screenland and Movieweek aloud to Claire since she was a baby. Now here she was in movieland wondering if it wasn't too late to be discovered. She certainly wasn't a has-been. She'd never even been a “was.”

  “Where's the guest room?” Slim called out.

  “The fanciest one is in the pool house,” Lefty yelled after her.

  “But it's all glass!” Slim had swiftly moved around the back and was poking around the kidney-shaped swimming pool, her high heels leaving puncture wounds in the freshly clipped grass. The glass pavilion was a boxy rectangle, four glass walls revealing contemporary leather-and-chrome couches and glass tables, partitioned his and her changing rooms, and a stark kitchen wrapping around the sleeping area. All in clear view of everyone. A Calder mobile in primary colors swung from the ceiling like a sleek set of wind chimes. It was way too modern for Slim's taste and reminded her of store windows designed to display the merchandise. “This place needs curtains!” she shouted back.

  “Perhaps just a woman's touch.” Claire laughed softly. While the others were loopy with travel fatigue, the yellow ball of sun sitting in the blue sky acted like a vitamin pill on Claire. She excitedly surveyed the house's interior. How fine it was to be in a place without heavy damask draperies or dark shadows, where one room spilled over into another and tall uncovered windows ran from floor to ceiling. Right off the bat, she'd replace the tight-panted matador painted on black velvet hanging over the fireplace with her Georgia O'Keeffe. The Cow's Skull with Flowers would be perfect there, and she'd find a few good antiques in light woods to pull the room together.

  She could feel the adrenaline start to pump through her system, pushing out old poisons. Claire was determined that this thing with Lefty was not going to be temporary. There was too much at stake. It was here that she could make a home for herself and her daughter.

  She stood in the double-story sunken living room, the California sun streaming in like an unfiltered ray of hope. It warmed her, and she pulled her black cardigan off her shoulders as if she were shedding a layer of old skin. Summoning up all her decorating skills, she set about putting her Bel Air house in order. She put a finger to her chin, mentally rearranging the room, as Lorenza, panting like a stevedore, heaved in the O'Keeffe and uncovered the painting from its nubby wool blanket. She had lugged it herself all the way from Paris, never letting the signóra's favorite, and now only, possession out of her eyesight.

  The O'Keeffe held a private message for Claire. Somehow, within the feminine brushstrokes, inside the painted southwestern sky with its calm, unmoving clouds, the cow's skull with its intimation of mortality, and the white bloom bursting with its promise of life, all the members of her little family were depicted. Including Six. And Sara. Claire planned to fix up a special room for her daughter. Something fresh and gay. She imagined eyelet curtains in pastel colors blowing in at the open windows.

  This was a place for fresh starts. She could heal herself and Sara here, applying lush garden balms to their psychic wounds the way these Californians cured their cuts and burns with the juice from their backyard aloe plants. After all, Claire was in Hollywood now. Wasn't this the place where people started over? Reinventing yourself was the name of the game here.

  Claire had promised Lefty she would marr
y him just as soon as he could figure out how to spring Sara from Ophelia's upper-crust prison. The wedding itself was small, just a handful of Lefty's friends in the backyard. Bernie Thal and his wife, Lena Horne and her husband, Violet with Mr. Zolla, and Slim and Wren stood around the pool as Lefty and Claire exchanged vows and trampled their glasses under the bougainvillea-draped chuppah. Gardenias on plastic lily pads floated on the surface of the swimming pool. The liberal Hollywood rabbi they had found to marry the Jew to the notorious shiksa loudly bestowed blessings on them. The bride's face shone radiant with respect and gratitude for Lefty, the sun pinking her cheeks and pulling golden streaks through her hair. She beamed at him for all the goodness he had arranged. He had negotiated with Tom for a hard couple of weeks so Sara could stand at her mother's side as the flower girl, clutching a lace doily with tea roses to her chest. Only Sara wasn't exactly playing the part the way her mother had envisioned.

  When Violet had brought Six back to Charlotte Hall to be buried, she had opened her unquestioning arms to Sara. It was the only place the damaged child found any emotional refuge. After Sara lived through a devastating seventy-two hours that began with discovering her brother dead at the bottom of the stairs and ended with watching her mother hauled off in handcuffs for a crime Sara herself had committed, Ophelia had simply put her in a burgundy party dress and told her to greet the guests arriving at Charlotte Hall to pay their respects. And asked her to remember that Harrisons kept their troubles to themselves. In the days following the funeral, Ophelia expected either uncomplaining silence or pleasant table talk from her granddaughter. Violet, however, expected nothing, and simply offered a warm lap to climb into or a hug. She would sit for hours softly stroking her hand on Sara's quivering cheek. And while Claire became an unmentionable in the Harrison house, referred to only as “her” or “she,” Violet assumed her grandmotherly duties, training her lioness's eye on the shattered Sara. She trooped over, rain or shine, from her room at the Tuxedo Park Inn, where she stayed for two months. Violet seemed to be the only one able to soothe the smileless child's daytime nightmares. It terrified her that the hollowness in Sara's eyes was growing deeper and the pale skin beneath the unruly red hair turning to chalk. Even Ophelia became alarmed, and, for the first time in the tidy agenda of her life, had to admit to herself that here was a problem too big for her to solve or sweep under the Oriental rugs. Ophelia still considered Sara entirely hers, but as Sara's numbness and remoteness grew more impenetrable and the “black moods” turned into deep depressions, Ophelia allowed Sara to take the occasional holiday out West with her now respectably married maternal grandmother.