Doctor Grossman had listened to him with interest and had accepted his invitation to meet Kariana socially. He did so many times and told Vidal that he thought Kariana was a nascent schizophrenic.
Vidal stared unseeingly out of the Rolls at the darkening silhouette of the hills. At that time, when Doctor Grossman had given Kariana’s mental condition a name, he had been filled with hope. She needed treatment. And with treatment would come a cure.
His hopes had been in vain. Kariana would not admit that she was ill and refused to be treated by Doctor Grossman. The following year her mental lapses became more frequent and she grew less sure of herself and more aware of the nameless darkness with which she lived. At last she had reluctantly agreed to visit Doctor Grossman at his clinic in Switzerland.
She had remained a month and then, during one of the inevitable buoyant periods that followed her emergence from depression and hysteria, had discharged herself. She had stayed in London on her way to Southampton and the Mauretania. Whilst there she had disappeared from her hotel suite for five days. She had taken no clothes and no money. The concerned hotel manager had informed the police and had cabled Vidal in Hollywood. He had flown immediately to London and been greeted by the news that his wife had been found walking along the banks of the Thames, barefoot and wearing only an evening gown she had had on the night of her disappearance. The temperature had been below freezing.
The British had behaved admirably. The press reported only that Mrs Rakoczi had been taken ill whilst on her visit to London and had suffered from temporary amnesia as a result. Disaster had been averted but only narrowly. Switzerland was too far for Kariana to travel unescorted. In future she would have to be treated by doctors in America.
Vidal tried reputed psychiatrists on both East and West coasts. None were satisfactory. A bond of trust had grown up between Kariana and Doctor Grossman and she would allow no one else to help her. At last, in despair, Vidal had informed Theodore Gambetta that he was absenting himself from the studio for six months. Gambetta had raged but Vidal had been adamant. The movie he was working on was handed to another director to complete. The movie he was to start was shelved. Hollywood gossiped and the rumour was that Rakoczi was returning to Hungary. It was a rumour Vidal did nothing to dispel. He wanted no one to know that he was accompanying his wife to Doctor Grossman’s clinic in Berne.
It seemed as if the stay in Switzerland had been a success. On their return Kariana seemed rested and her behaviour was less edgy and moody. When she had asked to be taken to the première of a Worldwide movie at Kahn’s Persian Picture Palace he had cautiously agreed.
The instant he had emerged from the Rolls he had known that he had made a mistake. The Los Angeles police were physically holding back thousands of shouting and screaming fans. A man with a portable microphone pushed it in his face demanding his comments on the movie being screened.
The hysteria around her had at first bewildered Kariana and then filled her with child-like excitement. By the time they reached the red-carpeted foyer her eyes were shining and her cheeks flushed. Theodore, gratified that Vidal had at last escorted his wife to a Worldwide première, had been lavishly attentive to her.
Louella Parsons had seen them, and not wanting to subject Kariana to Louella’s scrutiny, Vidal had left her with Theodore while he had pushed his way through the tuxedo-jacketed throng to speak to the columnist by himself. When he had returned they had vanished.
Dread had curled and knotted deep within him. No one knew where the head of Worldwide Studios was. Throughout the movie screening the place of honour remained empty.
Sick with anxiety Vidal had pushed his way out of the Picture Palace and driven to Gambetta’s home. He had not returned. Wildly he had driven around Beverly Hills searching for Theodore’s distinctive Pierce Arrow. It was nowhere to be seen. At last he had driven to Villada and paced the floor, drinking neat vodka, waiting for the telephone to ring.
It had not done so. At three in the morning Gambetta’s Pierce Arrow had screamed to a halt outside the front porch. Vidal had run to the door, wrenching it open as Gambetta stumbled towards him.
There were vicious scratch marks down his face. Blood dripped onto the pristine whiteness of his evening shirt. His bow-tie had been pulled adrift and his collar was askew, the first few studs of his shirt missing.
‘I’m sorry!’ he gasped incoherently as he half fell into Vidal’s grasp. ‘I didn’t know… didn’t imagine…’
‘What happened? Where is Kariana?’ Vidal’s voice was naked with fear.
‘I don’t know! I’m sorry, Rakoczi. I…’
‘Where is she?’ Vidal had thundered, lifting Gambetta off the ground by the lapels of his tuxedo and shaking him.
‘I don’t know!’ Gambetta had repeated helplessly. ‘I’ve been looking for her for ages! She felt faint. I took her outside at the rear of Kahn’s, away from the crush. She said that the crowd frightened her. That she wanted to go for a drive.’
‘And?’ Vidal demanded, his eyes blazing.
‘And I thought it was a harmless idea. I know how it must look, Rakoczi, but I didn’t intend…’
‘To hell with what you intended!’ Vidal had flung Gambetta away from him. ‘What the fuck happened?’
‘I…we drove into the hills.’ He wiped a trickle of blood away from the corner of his mouth. ‘We kissed a few times. It was harmless, perfectly harmless, and then I suggested that we get back to the theatre and she…’ He shook his head as if trying to clear it. ‘She went mad. She began shouting at me. Using words…words I couldn’t believe. I was out of my depth. I didn’t know what the hell was happening. I figured the best thing I could do would be to bring her back here.’
‘And?’ Vidal asked again, his face ashen.
Theodore seemed to shrink inside his tuxedo. ‘She was screaming at me. Saying she didn’t want to go back. She…she began tearing at her clothes. She just tugged and tore at them until she was naked. I was driving at about forty and she tried to jump from the car. I caught hold of her and the car was going haywire. She didn’t seem to mind if we were killed or not. I slammed my foot on the brake and tried to get a firmer hold of her but it was impossible. She was wriggling like an eel.’
‘Where were you when she jumped?’
‘Just below Bellow’s place. By the time I’d got the car under control and run back up the road she had a head start on me. She ran into the trees and down. There was no way I could catch her. I drove to the foot of the hill and cruised up and down but there was no sign of her.’ Something like a sob escaped from him. ‘Hell, Rakoczi! I didn’t know what the shit to do! How could I come and tell you your wife was running around naked?’
‘Did you go for help? Did you tell anybody?’
Gambetta shook his head and Vidal began to run towards his Duesenberg.
‘Where are you going, Rakoczi? For the police?’
‘No,’ Vidal shouted as he slammed the Duesenberg’s door behind him. ‘I’m going to find my wife, for Christ’s sake!’
Gambetta ran towards the car. ‘Take me with you. Let me help!’
Vidal slewed the Duesenberg round and while the engine roared flung open the passenger seat door.
Gambetta collapsed beside him. ‘I’m sorry, Rakoczi. So bloody sorry.’
Vidal did not reply. His concentration was on the dark unlit road ahead of him and the hillside where Gambetta had last seen Kariana. If she was picked up naked by a passing motorist then nothing would avert the ensuing scandal. Sweat trickled down his spine. Always before the worst times had been when she had been far from Hollywood. In London or Paris. If she was found in Beverly Hills there would be little chance of concealing her identity. When normality returned she would have to face newspaper reports and lascivious stares and snickers. He had to find her and protect her. The very thought of what the press would do with the story made his blood run cold.
It had taken them all night. She was near the foot of the hill, sitting like a
wood nymph at the foot of a giant spruce tree. She had twisted her ankle and, unable to run any further, had simply sat staring up at the stars, waiting for deliverance like a small child.
She had turned her head at their approach, her eyes dazed and uncomprehending. Gently Vidal had placed his jacket over her naked shoulders and lifted her up in his arms. His rage and fear had evaporated. He was aware only of a bone-deep tiredness. She would sleep and afterwards, like an epileptic recovering from a seizure, would have no recall of what had happened. She was, he had thought wearily, more fortunate than he. He would have total recall. He would have to face Gambetta’s pity. And he would have to write to Doctor Grossman and tell him that her condition was deteriorating.
When they had returned to Villada and he had put her to bed, Gambetta had said awkwardly, ‘How often does this happen, Vidal?’
Vidal’s face was haggard. ‘There’s no telling. Sometimes once a month. Sometimes not for six months.’
‘Is there nothing that can be done? Has she seen a doctor? A head-shrink?’
‘She’s seen every psychiatrist of repute on both the East coast and the West. The only one who seems to do any good is a Swiss with a clinic in Berne.’
Gambetta poured a bourbon for himself and a vodka for Vidal. ‘I see. Now I understand why you sacrificed two movies to go to Europe.’
Vidal took the proferred glass and leaned back against the cushions of the sofa, his shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘I thought it had done some good. I thought there might be an end to it.’
‘There is always an end to everything,’ Gambetta said, his face sombre. ‘But it is not always the end we envisage, my friend.’ He had touched Vidal lightly on the shoulder. ‘As for me, tonight I left the première because I was unwell. I went home to bed. That is all I will ever tell and all I will remember.’
The door had closed quietly behind him and Vidal had remained downstairs, sitting on the sofa, staring unseeingly out of the vast windows as a blood-red sun had risen over the Hollywood Hills, staining the sky to gold.
After the incident with Gambetta something had changed in Kariana. It was as if a miasma of remembrance clung to her. Her dependance on him became suffocating and total. Day after day urgent telephone calls summoned him from the set to Villada. In despair he had suggested that she have a companion to live in. Hazel Renko was a twenty-six year old psychiatric nurse and to Vidal’s intense relief a genuine friendship quickly sprang up between her and Kariana.
The disruptions on the set ceased. They began to go out in the evenings and to entertain a little. They spent a weekend in the mountains at Arrowhead and another at the Santa Anita racecourse. Once again he began to feel the first faint stirrings of hope.
The call was put through to him when he was on location in Nevada. The temperature was a hundred degrees and he was sweating and irritable when he was summoned to the telephone. It was Hazel Renko. In his abscence Kariana had spiralled into a snakepit of amnesia and mania and neither she nor Chai could control her.
He had returned at once to Villada. For a week he barely ate or slept. Together he and Hazel managed to prevent Kariana from leaving the house. Her violence and abuse had shaken even him. There wasn’t a mirror that wasn’t smashed, a room that wasn’t damaged. And then it was over. Spent and exhausted she had emerged from her sickness, blinking dazedly like a person stepping from darkness into sunlight. He had put her to bed. And he had telephoned Doctor Grossman.
Doctor Grossman had suggested that Kariana return to the clinic, this time for a longer stay. He had been optimistic, seeing no reason why her condition should not stabilize, especially now that she was experiencing a growing awareness of her illness.
It was arranged that the three of them would leave Los Angeles for Switzerland at the soonest possible opportunity. Vidal had told Gambetta that he would not be making any more movies that year and Gambetta had received the news in silence and without protest.
It was then that Vidal experienced something very nearly like hatred for Kariana. He didn’t want to leave Hollywood. He didn’t want to abandon his profession for six months, maybe a year. He didn’t want to accompany her to Switzerland. Two days before they were due to leave Hazel Renko had suggested that she and Kariana travel alone and he had been ashamed at his relief.
The moon slid out from behind a bank of clouds as the Rolls cruised silently to a halt outside Villada. Kariana had gone to Switzerland with Hazel Renko and had stayed at the Laverne Clinic for over six months. On the way home she had visited her family in Boston and Hazel had telephoned him and said there was no need for him to worry. Kariana was calm and showing no signs of stress. They were departing on The Chief for Los Angeles in three days’time.
He had felt as if high walls were closing in on him. In utter despair, he knew that he did not want Kariana to return. He did not want to live with fear again, every nerve end taut and tense as he returned home from the studio not knowing what he would find. He could not divorce and abandon her. Without his support, she would be a lost soul.
Bleakly he had waited on the platform as The Chief pulled in from its long overland journey. Kariana had looked exquisite as she stepped down from the train, a silver mink jacket draped over her shoulders, her blonde hair shining like gold in the morning sunlight. His arms had slid around her and the old protectiveness had revived. But it wasn’t love. Love was an emotion he no longer felt for her and which he could not allow himself to feel for anyone else.
For an instant an image of Valentina suppressed all other thoughts. With her he had temporarily forgotten the hopelessness that he lived with. He remembered the hours of peace and calm in her pink-carpeted suite as he had read Shakespeare to her, and then he thought of her with Rogan Tennant and his hands clenched in a spasm of jealousy.
‘Have a nice evening, Mr Rakoczi,’ the chauffeur said as he opened the rear door for him.
‘Thank you.’ If there was irony in his voice the chauffeur was unaware of it.
He stepped out onto the loose gravel and then, instead of entering the house, walked slowly over to the lip of the hill.
The ground fell away steeply. What had once been scrub had been carefully nurtured and the fragrance of bougainvillea and hibiscus lingered in the night air. He stood, a tall lean restless figure, staring out over the darkness of the Cahuenga Valley. Not until long after the chauffeur had let himself into his service flat and gone to bed did he turn, his eyes bleak, the skin taut across his cheekbones as he began to walk slowly back towards the house.
Chapter Twelve
The next day the atmosphere on the set was claustrophobic. Valentina was unusually preoccupied. Twice she didn’t hit her marks correctly and Harris had to repeat his directions to her constantly.
Vidal had slumped in his director’s chair, a deep scowl furrowing his brow, his silence unnerving the crew far more than the rages they were accustomed to.
Only Rogan seemed unaware of the strain around him. He quipped frequently to Sutton and Leila Crane. He breezed through his lines, blatantly uncaring of the repeated takes his shallow performance necessitated. Don Symons and Harris gave Vidal covert glances, aware that his concentration was not on the scene Rogan and Valentina were playing.
‘What’s the matter with him? Has someone died?’ Harris whispered to Don as Rogan fluffed a line without noticing.
‘Search me,’ Don replied, mystified. ‘I’ve known him a long time but I’ve never known him to be like this before. We’re shooting a load of crap this morning and he doesn’t seem to care.’
‘He’ll care when he sees the rushes,’ Harris said darkly. ‘I wish to God I knew why Rogan was looking so pleased with himself. If I was putting in his performance I’d be weeping, not smirking all over my Goddamned face.’
Vidal’s secretary approached him nervously. ‘There’s a telephone call for you, Mr Rakoczi.’
Vidal was staring at Valentina, his eyes dark and impenetrable, his mouth a tight, compressed line.
The secretary cleared her throat and repeated her message. Vidal dragged his eyes away from Valentina and glared at her.
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Your wife is on the telephone for you, Mr Rakoczi.’
Vidal rose to his feet. ‘Take five,’ he said curtly to the crew. ‘And when I get back I want some acting on this set. Your performances so far wouldn’t do credit to burlesque artistes.’
Rogan flushed an ugly red and, turning his back on Vidal, drank deeply from a silver hip flask. Vidal’s eyes narrowed. When Tennant stepped from beneath the kliegs after his next take he would find his pick-me-up flushed away.
As Vidal strode towards the telephone, Rogan said savagely to Valentina, ‘The man’s a barbarian. Thirty years ago he’d never have got further than Ellis Island.’
Valentina didn’t reply. Her head ached. All morning she had been torn by indecision. To marry Rogan or to continue life alone.
‘I’m wanted at home,’ Vidal said brusquely to Harris. ‘Keep Tennant here going over his scene, but don’t shoot a foot till I get back.’
‘Okay, Mr Rakoczi,’ Harris said unhappily. ‘Anything you say.’
Vidal snatched up his jacket and without a word or a glance at anyone strode from the set.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ Don asked, leaving his battery of lights and crossing the studio floor to Harris.
‘Damned if I know. We’re due to start shooting outdoors next week and we’re still miles behind with these palace scenes.’
‘Relax gentlemen,’ said Sutton soothingly, lighting a cigar and seating himself comfortably. ‘Whenever the divine Kariana is in residence our dear director is easily distracted. It happened constantly on Wild Summer. No matter how vital the scene, one itsy-bitsy telephone call from his dearly beloved, and wham! Shooting came to an abrupt finale until the call of love had been answered.’
Silver Shadows, Golden Dreams Page 15
