Silver Shadows, Golden Dreams

by Margaret Pemberton

  As she closed the door of the room behind her, she was aware of Vidal waiting in the hallway. He had been riding. His boots were covered in a fine film of dust and his shirt was gashed open at the throat.

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’ he asked, his tone implying that it would be a great inconvenience if she had not.

  ‘Yes.’ She moved towards him uncertainly. ‘What about my dress? How can I appear at Worldwide in the early morning in an evening dress?’

  He suppressed a smile. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t be the first to do so. Your clothes are immaterial today. Wardrobe will take care of all your needs.’

  He turned on his heel and she followed him out into the pale light of dawn. A chauffeur-driven Rolls was waiting to take them to the studio.

  ‘Casting doesn’t know a damned thing about you,’ he said as the Rolls took the first curve and the Cahuenga Valley lay spread before them. ‘If all hell breaks out, smile sweetly and stay quiet. I’ll handle it.’

  In the rear of the Rolls the distance between them seemed vast. It was as if he had never touched her, never kissed her. She clasped her hands tightly on her lap.

  ‘How do you know that I can act?’ she asked unsteadily.

  ‘Because I am Rakoczi,’ he replied, and the timbre of his voice sent her heart pounding.

  Her fingers began to twist and, seeing her nervousness, he said a little less brusquely, ‘Do not worry about your ability to act. That will come naturally. It is not acting alone that makes great movie stars. Looks, movement, voice, talent … All are important but they are not enough. If they were, thousands of people could be stars.’

  ‘Then what is it?’ she asked as the Santa Monica mountains took on a rose-red hue and lemon and orange groves became discernible in the distance.

  ‘Personality. The quality that flows out of you. That draws attention. That commands and holds it.’

  ‘And do I have that?’ Her eyes widened.

  ‘Yes,’ he said abruptly, leaning forward and releasing a catch allowing a small mahogany cupboard to fall open. Inside were glasses and silver flasks. It was not yet six in the morning.

  She tried to tear her eyes away from him and could not. His hands were strong and olive-toned. She wanted to reach out and touch them. To bury her fingers in his hair.

  ‘What will happen when we reach the studios?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘First you’ll go into make-up, then hairdressing, and then wardrobe.’

  ‘And will I play a scene?’

  ‘Yes.’ He hesitated and then said, ‘For years I have wanted to make a picture about the struggle between the House of York and the House of Lancaster for the throne of England in the fifteenth century.’

  ‘You mean a picture like The Black Knights?’

  His mouth twisted in a brief smile. ‘Not remotely like The Black Knights. That movie could have been made by a man blind, deaf and dumb. I want to make a picture that people will still want to see in fifty years’time. A classic. There was a time when I thought Garbo could play the lead. I still thought so until you wandered on to the set of The Black Knights.’ He paused and his voice took on a different quality. ‘Then I knew differently.’

  Her eyes were troubled. ‘I don’t know anything about English history except that William the Conqueror invaded in 1066 and that the present king’s son is very handsome.’

  Vidal’s brows flew together. Edward, the blond, mild-mannered Prince of Wales, was the very antithesis of himself.

  ‘Then you’ll have to learn,’ he said tightly. ‘I don’t want you to play the part of Margaret of Anjou. I want you to be her.’

  They were nearly at the studio gates.

  ‘Who was Margaret of Anjou?’ she asked ingenuously.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Any other woman would have feigned knowledge rather than admit ignorance.

  ‘Margaret of Anjou was a tigress. Quick-tempered, courageous and passionate. She was French by birth and the wife of Henry the Sixth of England.’ There was a wicked glint in his eyes. ‘They were not a very compatible pair. Henry was a prude and conducted his kingship in sackcloth and ashes. When their son was born, Henry said he must have been conceived by the Holy Ghost.’

  For a moment it seemed as if the barrier that had risen up between them would break down, and then they were approaching the studio gates and he fell silent. Itinerant workers clustered in small groups in the hope of being needed as additional extras. The elderly man who had glared so fiercely at Bob the previous time she had entered, now saluted smartly and wished Mr Rakoczi a very good day.

  They drove past the casting office, entering the heart of the studio. The scene set for The Black Knights had long since been dismantled. In its place was a railroad station complete with rolling stock. She remembered the breathtaking beauty of Romana de Santa as the medieval princess, and sudden doubt assailed her. Surely it was Romana who should be playing the part of Margaret of Anjou.

  The Rolls had halted, and the chauffeur was opening the door.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they do to me in make-up,’ she said, overcome by momentary panic, ‘I shall never be able to look like Romana de Santa.’

  ‘Heaven forbid!’ Vidal said explosively, picking up the folder that lay on the seat beside him. ‘There must be a hundred identical Romanas in this studio alone and one is more than enough.’

  The chauffeur held open the door. She hesitated for only a fraction of a second and then stepped out on to the tarmac of Worldwide. Heads turned immediately in her direction. Anyone seen in the company of Vidal Rakoczi excited attention and several hurrying executives stopped and stared as she followed Vidal up a flight of wooden steps into the make-up department.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Rakoczi,’ Wally Barren said, leaving his task of turning a bored-looking actor into a Spanish conquistador and hurrying to greet them. A visit from Worldwide’s enfant terrible was a rare event.

  ‘Good morning, Wally. Let me introduce you to Valentina.’

  Wally looked worriedly at the notes on his clipboard. ‘I don’t have her name down here, Mr Rakoczi. Is she testing for Thunder Dawn?’

  ‘She’s not testing for Thunder Dawn, nor for anything else you have down there, Wally.’

  ‘Casting always stipulates the parts actresses are testing for, Mr Rakoczi.’

  ‘Casting didn’t send her.’

  ‘Oh …’ Wally swallowed. ‘I see. What is it you want me to do, Mr Rakoczi?’

  ‘What I don’t want you to do is to make her into a replica of every glamour girl on Worldwide’s assembly line.’

  ‘No, Mr Rakoczi.’ Wally suppressed a grin. ‘Does Mr Gambetta know of Miss … Of Valentina’s screen test?’

  ‘It isn’t any of Mr Gambetta’s affair … yet.’

  Wally smiled broadly and seated Valentina, placing a cape around her shoulders while his minions attended to the conquistador. Theodore Gambetta was the self-styled emperor of Worldwide. He had built it up from a huddle of huts on a sun-scorched patch of no-man’s land into a major studio. Until Vidal Rakoczi arrived no one had claimed that Worldwide pictures were great art, but nor had they disputed that they were great box office.

  Valentina sat before a large, brilliantly-lit mirror and Vidal flicked open the folder in his hand.

  ‘These are the costume sketches, Wally. The period is mid-fifteenth century, but the woman is no pining princess locked in an ivory tower. She is a fighter. A woman who led troops into battle because her husband was too weak to do so.’

  Wally tilted Valentina’s chin, moving her head from one side to the other, staring reflectively at her.

  ‘I think the focus should be on the eyes, Mr Rakoczi. They’re the most damned expressive eyes I’ve seen since Rudi’s. And see the jaw line? Perfect. Absolutely perfect.’

  Valentina remained motionless. They were discussing her as if she was an inanimate object.

  ‘I’ll be back to take her to hairdressing myself, Wally. If anyone asks any qu
estions, just refer them to me.’

  ‘Sure thing, Mr Rakoczi.’

  The volatile Hungarian had many enemies at Worldwide but Wally was not one of them. All the man demanded was the same exacting efficiency he demanded of himself. If he didn’t get it, then it was best to run for cover. Wally always gave it.

  He turned his attention to Valentina. In the two years Mr Rakoczi had been at Worldwide, he had never before personally escorted anybody – star or starlet – into make-up. And Mr Gambetta didn’t know of her existence. It was an interesting situation. He speculated about it briefly and then forgot it as he became immersed in his work. For once it was sheer joy; the bone structure beneath his dextrous fingers was superb. There were no blemishes to conceal; no faults to hide from the all-seeing studio lights.

  ‘Have you known Mr Rakoczi long?’ Valentina asked Wally, finding pleasure in just the utterance of his name.

  ‘Two years,’ Wally said, discarding one brush and selecting another. ‘Ever since Mr Gambetta brought him to Worldwide.’ He grinned. ‘That caused the biggest uproar this studio has ever known – and I’ve been here for twenty years.’

  He began to accentuate the hollows of her cheekbones. ‘No one here had heard of him. Mr Gambetta had been to Europe and seen his movies and reckoned he was a genius. Said that he could bring a prestige to Worldwide that no one else could.’ He stood back to survey his handiwork. ‘He sure doesn’t put up with some of the shit other directors have to put up with. Mr Gambetta,’ he lowered his voice confidentially, ‘is not the easiest of men to work for.’

  ‘I doubt that Mr Rakoczi is either,’ Valentina said with a smile.

  Wally chuckled. ‘You’re right there. When Mr Rakoczi and Mr Gambetta meet head on the vibrations can be heard as far away as La Jolla.’ He began to apply colour to her lids. ‘Funny thing is, Mr Gambetta always gives Mr Rakoczi his head, and Mr Rakoczi is never wrong. Every studio in town is after him. Mayer and Thalberg at MGM offered him so much money that when La Swanson heard of it she fainted dead away.’

  ‘Gloria Swanson?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s over at Paramount and earning nine hundred thousand dollars a year. Her annual clothes bill alone is eighty thousand dollars.’

  Valentina blinked. She knew the stars earned colossal sums of money, but a figure that high was beyond her imagination.

  ‘With Mr Rakoczi directing you, you could find yourself in the same bracket,’ Wally said encouragingly.

  ‘I wouldn’t know what to do with so much money.’

  ‘Spend it, kid, spend it,’ Wally said, highlighting here, powdering there. He liked Mr Rakoczi’s latest find. There was a simple directness about her that made a welcome change from the affected posturings of most of Worldwide’s starlets.

  ‘I’ll let you into a secret. You’re the only girl I’ve ever had brought in here by a director. The system is for potential contract players to come from central casting. I guess Mr Rakoczi has something special in mind for you.’ He began to outline her lips with a brush. ‘Everything Mr Rakoczi touches turns to gold. If he’s singled you out, then you can bet your last dollar that you’re on your way to the top.’

  He began to mix two different colours together on his palette in order to obtain a lip colour that was strong enough for the studio lights without being too harsh.

  ‘Mind you, you’ll have to work yourself to near collapse. He doesn’t spare himself and he doesn’t spare his crew. If your screen test is a success, you can look forward to eighteen hours work a day, every day, until the movie is finished. When the last reel of The Black Knights was safely in the can, Romana de Santa booked herself into a sanatorium, claiming that she was suffering from exhaustion and that Mr Rakoczi had subjected her to mental cruelty that would have been grounds for divorce had they been married.’

  ‘Were Mr Rakoczi and Miss de Santa very close?’ Valentina asked hesitantly, remembering the proprietorial way Romana had laid her hand on his arm.

  Wally laughed. ‘Hell no. Mr Rakoczi’s faithfulness to his wife is legendary.’

  She stared into the mirror as Wally busily finished painting her lips and returned his attention to her eyes. For a second she didn’t feel anything. It was as if her pulse had ceased beating.

  Wally erased one carefully pencilled eyebrow with cold cream and began work on it again. Her hands closed tightly over the arms of the make-up chair.

  ‘Did you say that Mr Rakoczi was married?’ Her voice sounded strange, even to her own ears. It was as if someone else was speaking; as if she were watching the scene from a vast distance.

  ‘Biggest wedding this town’s ever seen,’ Wally affirmed. ‘Mrs Rakoczi comes from an old New England family. If you believe all they say, her forebears came over on The May-flower.’

  Her mirrored face swam distortedly before her eyes. If she had not been sitting she would have fallen.

  ‘She spends a lot of time in Europe. She’s in Switzerland now,’ Wally was saying, and then came the sound of Vidal’s swift steps on the wooden stairs and she struggled to draw air into her lungs as the door burst open.

  Chapter Five

  He strode across the room and surveyed her appraisingly. ‘You’ve done a good job, Wally.’

  ‘My pleasure, Mr Rakoczi.’

  He was only inches away from her. She could smell his cologne; the inherent maleness of him.

  ‘Hairdressing is waiting,’ he said, and she nodded, incapable of speech.

  Wally frowned as they left the make-up department. His sharp eyes had registered her reaction when he had mentioned Mr Rakoczi’s marriage. He felt a surge of pity for her. She was a nice girl, but she would have to develop a much harder exterior if she was to survive in the jungle of Hollywood. He shook his head despairingly and turned his attention to an actress waiting to be transformed into a Southern belle.

  In hairdressing she avoided Vidal’s eyes and touch. It was as if a sliver of ice had entered her heart, chilling her blood so that no amount of summer sun could warm it. If he noticed her silence, he gave no sign of it. Not until they were crossing to wardrobe did he speak.

  ‘I’m not going to do the usual screen test. I want to show Gambetta more.’ He handed her several pages of typescript. ‘The first scene is where the fifteen-year-old Margaret of Anjou is told by her uncle, Charles VII, that she is to marry Henry of England in order to effect a lasting peace with France.’

  Her throat was parched and her heart hammered as she said with difficulty, ‘Were England and France at war?’

  He grinned and she turned her head away swiftly before he could see the pain in her eyes.

  ‘Didn’t they teach you anything at school? In the early fifteenth century, much of France was held by England. After Henry’s disastrous reign only Calais remained in its control.’

  ‘There is no reason why I should be conversant with English history,’ she retorted spiritedly.

  ‘Maybe not, but you will be before the next few weeks are over. The second scene is where Margaret, despairing of her vapid husband, decides to raise and lead an army herself in order to save the English crown for her husband and her son.’

  His nearness was almost more than she could bear. ‘Who will play the parts of Charles VII and Henry?’ she asked, keeping her eyes firmly averted from his.

  ‘Today, no one. Read through the script of that scene and memorize what you can. It doesn’t matter if you have to read from it. It’s how you come across on camera that matters.’

  They entered wardrobe and she stood as far apart from him as possible, wondering how she would endure his physical presence in the close confines of the studio.

  ‘Is everything ready?’ he asked a tiny, spry lady with grey pair and pince-nez.

  ‘Just as you requested, Mr Rakoczi. This is the costume here.’

  She lifted a sumptuous gown of velvet from a hanger. Ermine edged the canopy of the skirt and the long, trailing hem. The wardrobe mistress slipped it over her head, and as it was pinned and fi
tted, she read the script carefully.

  When she finally put it down and looked into the mirror she felt transfigured. It was impossible to be Valentina in the heavy, medieval robes. She was Margaret of Anjou; fifteen, dutifully, but not submissively, facing her uncle – the most powerful king in Europe. Her hair streamed down her back and round her shoulders, crowned by a coronal of gold inlaid with imitation pearls and precious stones.

  ‘Ready?’ he said, and his voice caught and deepened. For years Margaret of Anjou had lived only in his imagination. Now she stood before him clothed in flesh and blood.

  ‘Yes.’ Margaret of Anjou was not in love with Vidal Rakoczi, a married man. Margaret of Anjou was mistress of her own heart. She did not have to suffer. She did not have to tremble at a glance or a word from the man at her side. The knowledge gave her an inner freedom she had not thought possible. Holding her head high, she met his eyes fearlessly and walked from the room as if surrounded by a score of ladies in waiting.

  Behind her, Vidal grinned. Theodore Gambetta did not know it yet, but he had found his biggest star and she had as yet to face the cameras.

  He had given orders for a closed set. He didn’t want a word of what he was doing to leak to Gambetta before he was able to show him the rushes. There were more people about now. It was nearly nine o’clock and executives and their staff flooded through the main gate, hurrying purposefully to their offices.

  The commissary counter was surrounded by writers and technicians, all gulping down hot coffee, bracing themselves for the demands of the day. Extras hastened to the studios to be costumed and given their instructions. The paint and plaster shops were a hive of activity. There were queues at the barbers’and at the shoe-shine stand.

  Vidal stalked through the human mass of Theodore Gambetta’s employees, Valentina at his side. He could feel excitement building up inside him. He would know whether he had been right or wrong before he even saw the rushes. He would know the instant she set foot before the cameras.