Who Do You Love?

by J. M. Bronston

  “And what I’m doing,” Nell said, “is just for the camera. For light balance, and to emphasize bone structure and all of that. The camera seems to love looking at you, and we want to help it do just that. But you don’t need me to tell you about it. You’ve been hearing it from makeup people for years, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve been hearing it from more than makeup people. I don’t mind. It’s like the great athletes. They too, must bear the adulation of great masses of the public. They must hear and read constantly about their remarkable feats, the records they’ve broken, those records that are being threatened by newcomers—and the multimillion-dollar contracts their agents have won for them. I was luckier, in some ways. An athlete, no matter how great, comes to the time when the body won’t perform anymore. As an actress, I was able to perform somewhat longer, past the years of my freshest beauty. I was able to get roles, even a couple of very good roles, well into my sixties, as long as I was willing to play older parts. I didn’t mind. I am an actress, after all, and the character is the challenge, not the cheekbones.”

  Romy probably didn’t notice that Gena had discreetly slipped her phone from her bag and was recording her comments. “The character is the challenge, not the cheekbones.” Good one. Might be the title of the piece.

  “But Gena,” Romy was talking to Gena’s reflection in the mirror. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a visitor to our meeting today.” With a gesture, she indicated Wiley, who was posed elegantly across Gena’s lap. “I have Qualtinger locked up in his dog run out back today, to keep him out of everyone’s way. Can you imagine the havoc he would create, like a big bear getting into everything, toppling the equipment, chewing up the cables? But look at the little imp you’ve brought. What fun. Bring him here—him? her?—please, introduce me.”

  “This is Wiley. He’s a he. I think I should hold him. I haven’t had him more than a few days, and I’m not sure how friendly he is.”

  “Nonsense!” Romy took him right from Gena’s hands with an imperiousness born of decades of stardom. “Dogs and I always get along very well.”

  And indeed, Wiley seemed totally comfortable in Romy’s hands and was already trying to lick her face, which, since it had just been so carefully made up, she held away from him, laughing. “No, no, Wiley. I can’t allow you to spoil the beautiful mask that has been made of my face by this clever woman.” She smiled at Nell. “Tell me, Ms. Magano. Do you know this breed? Not many people do.”

  Nell looked Wiley over, took in the funny Mohawk on his head, his hairless body, his fragile-looking legs, and said, “I’ve never seen anything like him before.”

  “This, Ms. Magano, is a much maligned breed. Isn’t that right, Gena?”

  Gena smiled at her in the mirror.

  “The amazing thing is, I found Wiley that day I was driving back to New York after you and I met for the first interview about your work. Do you remember? It was raining very hard that day.” And she described the phantom flat tire and the almost-magical discovery of a drenched and whimpering dog. “So I took him home with me. My boyfriend wasn’t happy about it, but I decided to keep him, anyway.”

  “Because you fell in love with him, no? I see it in your eyes. But how could you not? He is a very sweet dog. And a beautiful one, too. He is also a very lucky dog—that you stopped just then. Just when he must have thought all was lost.” She turned away from the mirror and looked directly at Gena. “Do you believe in fate, my dear? In kismet?”

  Gena was silent, a little embarrassed by the question.

  “I made a movie once,” Romy said, “long ago, before I left Europe. It was called Kismet. It was a silly movie. And quite scandalous, because I played an odalisque—you know, a concubine in a Turkish harem—and I allowed myself to appear naked. What did I care? I was seventeen and I knew I was beautiful. I wanted the world to look at me. And because the world did look at me, it was that movie—my kismet—that made me famous, and made it possible for me to escape Europe in a very dangerous time. I came to America, my husband and my father and I. And I became wonderfully successful. So,” she looked into Wiley’s face as she held him before her, “we must believe in kismet, no?” She smiled at him, as though they understood each other very well, and then turned him so that they looked into the mirror together. “Is it not the truth, my dear?”

  And Gena thought she could not possibly argue with this woman who had made such an extraordinary success of her life, so she said only, “It was certainly true for you, and for Wiley. And maybe for me, too, because I feel lucky that I have him. Though he’s causing plenty of trouble between me and my boyfriend.”

  “Oh?” Both Romy and Nell turned to look at her. Nell’s face plainly said, I want to hear about this. But Romy was even more direct. “You must tell me all about it. I have a passion for girlish gossip.” Gena was surprised to realize she was not offended. She waved off Nell with a laugh and a shake of her head that said, No way, not going down that road. Gena was smart enough to know that sharing secrets with colleagues was a sure career-ender. But about Romy, she was not so sure. Perhaps later on, when they were alone.

  In any case, the talk about dogs and beauty and men needed to stop, because Romy’s hair was done, her makeup was perfect, and the photo people were ready to shoot. Gena and Nell moved out of the way and Ira and his crew went to work.

  It was a pleasure to watch Romy deVere respond to the cameras. She knew all about camera angles and lighting and her own best presentation. She knew how to make the most of the opportunity to show off the paintings she’d been producing. She led them through a tour of her studio, which was a section of the cabin that had been built to her very deliberate specifications as to space and light sources. And she’d agreed to a second day of shooting at the gallery in Shanesville devoted to the work of local artists. The photo people were happy to be working with a skilled subject—and they were loving the chance to add to the decades-long catalog of photographic studies of this beautiful woman—once a raven-haired, sultry icon and now a wise, lively, humorous woman of ninety-seven years.

  Gena and Nell had stationed themselves near the doorway, where they could watch all the activity but also step quickly outside if the camera people needed them out of the way. And while they waited and watched, Nell leaned her head close to Gena’s and said, “Gena, sweetie, you know I love you dearly. But I don’t care what the famous and gorgeous Romy deVere says: That’s one helluva funny looking dog you have there. I’m sure he’s the sweetest thing and you love him like a brother, but that animal looks like a cartoon of a dog.”

  Gena was getting used to this line of quasi-comedy, and she was beginning to be tired of it. Her protective spirit was roused—she couldn’t let people poke fun at Wiley, but she also couldn’t afford to get mad at everyone who did, especially people she really liked, people she worked with, people who thought they were just being cute and friendly. She was going to have to think up a good comeback that kept a light touch while still closing off the teasing.

  But while she was thinking about it, Ira Garlen was passing them in the doorway, moving his crew outside, where views of Romy’s cabin and the surrounding woods were to be a part of the story. Ira paused, looked at Wiley and then at Gena.

  “Is he yours, Gena? Or does he belong to Romy?”

  “His name is Wiley and he’s mine, and are you going to tell me how weird he is, too?”

  “Weird? Not at all. I know this breed. I know what people say about them, but they don’t deserve it. They’re very elegant dogs.” He took a step back, and for a long minute he studied Wiley with a professionally appraising eye, and then he made a decision. “I heard you guys talking about the dog—and I heard what Ms. deVere said about him. And I’m thinking I might have an idea that would work nicely for this story. With the right lighting, posing him carefully, we could get some shots of the two of them together that would really add to the drama of this piece
. What do you think, Gena? Would you be willing to let me use him?”

  “Are you kidding? An Ira Garlen photo of my Wiley? In a Lady Fair story with Romy deVere?”

  “We’ll pay you scale for him. I have a stack of releases in the van.”

  “Omigod!” She picked Wiley up and held him close, face to face. “Wiley! You’re about to become a professional model. And with a great beauty. Lucky you!” And to Ira, she said, “What are you thinking of doing with him?”

  “I want to pose him like that ancient Egyptian god. Face to face with Ms. deVere.”

  “Beauty and the beast?” Nell suggested. Her sarcasm reminded Gena of schoolyard teasing. She was liking Nell less at this moment.

  “Not at all,” Ira said, brushing away Nell’s teasing. “What I have in mind is a classic photograph of two powerful mythic figures sharing their moment together. I am thinking of Anubis, one of the gods of ancient Egypt. Wiley has the same has long, pointy ears and pointy snout as Anubis. The god sits very erect, looking straight ahead, very formal and secure. He knows he commands the end of each person’s life. You know the one, don’t you? You’ve seen the figure.”

  “No, Ira. Sorry. I have no idea who you’re talking about,” Gena said. She turned to Nell. “Nell? Do you know what Ira’s talking about?”

  “Not me, either.” Nell looked blank

  “Oh, you young people.” Ira was laughing. “Don’t they teach anything in the schools anymore? History? Art? Ancient religions?”

  “I took a graphic arts class once,” Nell said, a little cowed by Ira’s scolding.

  “Well, go to the Met. In the gift shop, they sell a little black statuette that looks like what I have in mind. The god Anubis. Wiley’s a dead ringer for him.” Abruptly, Ira looked at his watch. “I’ve got to move on with this next location. Gena, if you’re okay with my idea, one of the guys can get you the release form out of the van.”

  “Oh, I’m okay with it. For sure.” And to Wiley, she said, “Wiley, my dear, your picture is going to be in Lady Fair magazine. Do you know how many models would kill for this chance?”

  Wiley said nothing of course, but he licked Gena’s face while Nell looked away disdainfully.

  Romy loved the idea and was full of suggestions for illustrating Ira’s concept of god and goddess. There was much fussing with hair and camera angles and light adjustments and posing this way and that, with Wiley being incredibly agreeable and cooperative. Turned out he was a natural ham and plainly got quickly into the whole project. But Gena suffered torments very much like those every mother knows, watching her child perform for an audience, for a camera, for a judge. She glowed with pride and was at the same time desperate to interfere, to make her dog’s every move a better one, a perfect one, a more interesting one. Fortunately, she was also sane enough to leave the professionals to their work, and forced herself to suffer in silence. Therefore, all went swimmingly, and after a half hour of poses and light adjustments, and having the rare treat of watching Romy deVere slip instantly and seamlessly into her old role of actress and star, the session was done.

  It was evening by the time Ira was ready to pack up. He said he was starving and would take his whole crew into town and find a bar or a restaurant, or at least a pizza joint. Nell and Gena were invited to come along, and Nell was eager to join them, but Gena had some more work to do with Romy.

  “You go ahead,” she said. “I need to tie up some loose ends with Romy, and she’s invited me to stay on and share some homemade goulash with her. I won’t starve. And I’ll catch up with you guys tomorrow.” As they all drove away into the woods, headed for Shanesville, she called after them, “Drive safely.”

  With Wiley in her arms, she waved goodbye. And then, feeling she’d at last come to the real purpose of this day, she turned back into the cabin and prepared to see if Romy was willing to open some of the secret doors to her life.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Come,” Romy said. In the kitchen, she was taking a pot of Hungarian goulash from the oven, where she had been keeping it at a low simmer for hours. She called to Gena to join her. “Come.” The small table was already set, and she motioned to a chair at one side. “Sit. Be comfortable. I have made for us a goulash like our cook in Vienna used to prepare.” She ladled the stew into the bowls at their places. “When I am in a nostalgic mood, I always need to prepare Frau Leinberger’s goulash. My God, could that woman cook! Such things she taught me. Hungarian goulas and apfelstrudel. And her vanillekipferl! Those little crescents made of ground walnuts. Rolled in powdered vanilla sugar. She could make a hundred of them, and each one would be identical in shape and size, like they were made by a machine. And Dobos torte, Malakoff torte, Germknödl. I weep just to remember.” She sat and placed her napkin neatly in her lap. “But I think we have much to talk about, you and I, and this goulash reminds me of long ago. At my age, the well of memory is very deep, and some things have been covered over, meant to be forgotten.”

  “But there is something that is trying to come up to the surface, isn’t there, Romy?” Gena caught herself. “I’m sorry. I mean Ms. deVere. That just slipped out.”

  “No. Of course. We shall be per du, as they say in Austria. ‘Familiar.’ First names. As though I care about the formalities. Since I was a girl, I have never been formal. America was a blessing for me in so many ways. The informality was wonderful.” Romy broke off a small hunk of bread, slogged it around in the goulash gravy, and gobbled it up neatly. “And you are right, of course. There are secrets, and there is one secret in particular I am hoping to open up to the world.”

  “And you thought I would catch on, somehow, that there was something in your history that was worth digging up. But I had to figure it out without being told that the ‘something’ existed. And whatever it was, it was hidden somewhere in our conversation. You were hiding it in plain sight, weren’t you?”

  “You have a sharp ear. And a perceptive eye. I’d sensed that about you. I told you nothing I haven’t told others. But you were different: you listened.” Romy scooped up some more gravy on a bit of bread. She ate it, dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, and sat back in her chair. “So tell me, Gena. What did you hear when you listened to me?”

  “At first I heard only the same story of your life that you’ve told other interviewers. But I caught a special vibe when you told me your real name. Before you became Romy deVere, you were Lotte Elisabeth Kanfer.”

  The tiniest smile appeared at the corner of Romy’s mouth.

  “And then you spoke of your father, Thomas Kanfer. You said he was a brilliant engineer—and that he shared so much of his work and his thinking with you. And then, Romy, you sat back in your chair, as you are doing now. And there was something…a kind of challenge, but a challenge buried in a disappointment…I don’t know how to describe it, but whatever it was, it told me to pay attention. And then you said, ‘I could almost, if I wished, make my living as an electrical engineer.’”

  Romy took a great, deep breath. The kind of deep breath that eases tension—and braces for what’s coming.

  Gena spoke simply and she spoke quietly: “I found the patent applications, Romy.” There was the tiniest quiver at the corner of Romy’s mouth. “At first, the subject meant nothing to me. I had to do a bit of self-educating to understand that your father had developed a system that would allow the delivery of torpedoes and bombs by remote control. It was invaluable technology in wartime, and many decades ahead of its time.”

  Romy’s chest was heaving but she continued to sit quietly.

  “I found, also, that there was a whole series of patent applications following that first one. And not all of them were filed by your father, were they, Romy?”

  Romy remained silent, but it seemed to Gena she could actually hear Romy’s heart beating.

  “Some of them,” Gena continued, “were filed by Liesl Hardtmann.” Romy nodded ever so
slightly, as though afraid to acknowledge that Gena was on the right track. “Liesl is, of course, a nickname for Elisabeth. And, fortunately, I had already read enough of your biography to recognize the name Hardtmann—the name of your first husband, Hans Hardtmann, the man you’d married when you were only seventeen, the producer of your first film, Kismet.”

  There was a long silence—at least one full minute as the second hand went round the clock. Romy was breathing hard.

  “How did you know to look for those patents?” she finally asked.

  “I didn’t. But I knew to follow Tommy Kanfer’s trail. There was something about the way you spoke of him that told me he was the key to the secret you were so carefully not telling me. There wasn’t much on him, actually. But one obscure citation led me to the US Patent Office. And then, when I saw the subject of that first application, I remembered you saying that you could have made your living as an electrical engineer. And there, too, I’d felt some special message in the way you said it. From there, it was simple. Each door opened up the next, in turn.”

  By now, Romy was beaming at her. “You will understand,” Romy said, “I have waited a long time for someone to bring all this to the surface.” She got up from the table. “I can hardly breathe. This is a very special day for me.” From the fridge, she took a bottle of Austrian white wine. “From the Burgenland,” she said. “It seems appropriate to the occasion.”

  “But, Romy, I don’t understand. The real mystery is why you kept it a secret. And why do you want it to come out now?”

  “I always wanted it to come out.”

  She poured the wine into their glasses.

  Gena didn’t have to ask the obvious question.

  Romy said, “I’d been forced to sign a paper.”