The Notorious Pagan Jones

by Nina Berry

  Tegel airport had a dreary, military air, and men in French uniforms stamped their passports. A chauffeur was waiting in a large Mercedes-Benz. The sight of the car set off the usual jitters in Pagan, echoes of the accident, but as she had with the cab to LAX, she shoved them into a dark corner of her mind and made herself get in. As they left the airport with the rising sun at their backs, her nerves calmed and she could look around.

  The car sped down a tree-lined road with the blue-gray River Spree on the left. The streets were busy with foot traffic, motorcycles, and cars, but Pagan couldn’t help noticing the number of armed men in uniform either walking or stationed on various street corners. A vivid reminder that West Berlin was a lone island surrounded on all sides by the hostile Communist East Germany.

  “We’re in the French sector of the city at the moment,” Devin said. “But we’re staying in the American sector at the new Hilton. It’s very close to the Tiergarten, which has grown back nicely since the war—”

  “It sounds lovely.” She interrupted him in a repressive tone. “Perhaps after I’ve gotten some rest far away from you, I’ll give a damn.”

  “You can rest,” he said, his voice calm in a way that only irritated her more. “But I won’t be far away.”

  She turned to look at him. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I can’t trust you.” His voice was bland, but his face carried a warning.

  “I never promised you anything—” she started to say.

  “You signed a contract,” he said, voice getting sharper, “which includes a clause stating that you have a guardian, with all the authority of a parent. Deviate from my orders and you could go back to prison.”

  “I’m not your child,” she said, just as sharp. “Or your slave, or your wife.”

  “You’re my ward,” he said. “You’re on parole, and it’s very easy for me to make a call to the judge.”

  She lapsed into fuming silence, her head abuzz with fatigue and fury. Maybe some of this was her fault. Fine. But why, when boys broke the rules, did they get called “rebels” and “hotheads,” while girls were “bad”? Pagan being a nice little girl hadn’t kept Mama from dying, so she’d done what she wanted after that. She saw no reason to change now.

  There had to be a way out from this new Devin-bound prison, an escape. That’s what alcohol had always provided, and without that tool available to her, she had to find a new way to be free.

  Devin had too much power over her. But he also had secrets­—there was more to him than just some minor studio executive. If she could decrypt the riddle that was Devin Black, she might find her freedom that way.

  They drove past a crowd of people lining up in front of a warehouse-like building. Thousands of men and women in neat summer clothes were carrying suitcases and shepherding children. Pagan remembered what she’d read about the mass exodus of people from East Berlin and craned her neck to see if these were indeed immigrants from East Berlin. No way was she going to ask Devin a question now. She glimpsed a sign: Réfugiés/Flüchtling.

  “That’s the French sector processing center for refugees,” Devin said as if she’d asked him aloud. His voice was friendly as ever. “The city gets nearly two thousand a day. The other borders with East Germany are closed, so Berlin’s the last place of escape. For now.”

  She didn’t reply as the car entered a wooded area. Up ahead loomed a column that glinted gold on top. She leaned forward to look up at it through the windshield and caught sight of a glittering winged statue with arms outstretched.

  “The Victory Column,” Devin said, still in his best tourist guide voice. “But the Berliners call it Goldenelse—Golden Lizzy. The Prussians erected it last century to commemorate their victory over the Danish. But by the time it was done, they’d also defeated Austria and France in other wars, so it covers a lot of victories.”

  Pagan said nothing as they circled the monument’s red granite base. A lot of wars had come and gone since then. The Germans sure wouldn’t be erecting a victory column to commemorate the last one.

  The parkland gave way to newly constructed buildings, some still with scaffolding. “Still rebuilding,” Devin said. “From the war.”

  Pagan stared. Sixteen years later they were still rebuilding?

  It was one thing to read about World War II, another to see how people’s lives were still affected by it here. No wonder Berliners were fond of Golden Lizzy, their angel. They needed one.

  Pagan could’ve used an angel, too, a few times in her life, but how could her tiny little troubles stack up against what Berlin—what all of Europe—had been through? Hollywood seemed like the center of the universe when you were there, making movies, attending award shows, reading about yourself in the paper. But Berlin was a reminder that in the big-budget epic of the history of the world, Pagan was nothing but an extra.

  * * *

  The Hilton was sleekly modern and sparkling behind its subdued but gracious facade. Pagan blearily followed the bellboy and her luggage up to her room. When Devin stopped at the door next to hers and let his bellman take his luggage inside, relief overtook her. So she would get time to herself after all. And if she needed to, she could walk quietly past his door and he’d be none the wiser.

  The room turned out to be a suite. She gave the bellboy five dollars, apologizing in German that came out better than she expected that she didn’t have any German marks. He replied in perfect English that dollars were better anyway.

  Then she was blessedly alone, wandering from the large living area with its low-slung sofa and large curtained windows looking onto the Tiergarten to a set of double doors that led to a room with a queen-size bed and adjoining bathroom.

  She kicked off her shoes and began unzipping her dress. Lovely as it was, she couldn’t wait to get it off and crawl into the fluffy red-and-white bed, which, as usual, had way too many pillows. She unsnapped her garters, yanked off her stockings, and walked barefoot over the thick carpet to investigate another set of double doors. They opened up to reveal a second bedroom, complete with its own bed and bathroom.

  She stood in that doorway, frowning. Why would they give her two bedrooms? In the distant past her mother would have stayed there, but the studio had no reason to be extra generous with her now.

  There came a chunk and a scrape—a key turning in a lock. She turned to see a door she hadn’t noticed before in the opposite wall. It opened, and Devin Black stood framed there. She could see a portion of his unlit room behind him.

  She grabbed the gaping hole in the side of her dress, where she’d unzipped it, strongly aware of her bare legs and feet. “Is that how you’re going to keep watch on me, unlocking the adjoining door between our suites?”

  “Not at all,” he said, and, picking up his suitcase, he walked a few steps into her suite to set it down. “That room is just for show.”

  Her face flushed, scalding hot. “But…but…”

  “I left you alone in your bedroom in Los Angeles, and you chose to run away,” he said. “I don’t make the same mistake twice. Thank you for saving the bedroom closest to the exit for me.”

  Words failed her. She fled to her bedroom, slammed the door, and turned the lock.

  Through the wood she heard his low laugh. “Sleep tight,” he said.

  Breakfast the next morning was of the very silent room service variety. How bizarrely domestic to sit across the tray table from Devin, sipping coffee and eating eggs while he, the picture of ease and elegance in another splendid Savile Row suit, his dark hair combed perfectly back, read the International Herald Tribune. Pagan couldn’t help staring at his deft hands as they poured her coffee. Unbidden, the thought of those skillful hands on her skin flashed into her mind. But that was only because she missed Nicky. Still, her cheeks burned. She needed to refocus on something, anything.

  “How old are
you?” she asked Devin, not caring how abrupt it sounded.

  He set down the paper and looked at her. His eyes were darker today, a stormy blue closer to the navy of his suit, and they took a moment to slide over her, taking in everything from her teased updo to her new green Givenchy dress.

  The effrontery of the frank assessment made her flush. What was it about him that made her acutely aware of the brush of her blouse against her collarbone, of the taut line of her garter as it bit into her thigh?

  “Old enough,” he said.

  She gave it a moment, staring back at him. “Well. I’m not old enough to be sharing a suite with a man, or boy, or whatever you are.”

  His hand, bringing the cup of coffee to his lips, paused as a surprised smirk took over his mouth. “Nicky Raven thought you were.”

  Her already aggravated temper ignited. He had a world of nerve, bringing up her ex-boyfriend as if he knew her, as if all of her secrets were his playthings. He wasn’t the only one who could play that game. He’d revealed just enough by now for her to use it against him. Whatever wounds he carried must have happened when he was quite young. She took a stab.

  “Nicky’s younger at heart than you are, or ever have been,” she said.

  His smirk switched off. He set his cup down with a hard click and looked away, a line appearing between his brows.

  “One old soul recognizes another.” His voice was insouciant, but she’d hurt him. And she was glad. She also knew exactly where to strike next.

  “Tortured soul, you mean,” she said. “And yes, I do recognize another. But whatever your father’s sins, they aren’t my fault, so stop taking it out on me.”

  His gaze flew to hers with an uncharacteristic flash of anger. But behind that she saw something else—something bleak and inconsolable. The depth of it bounced her smugness away.

  He lowered his eyes, spiky dark lashes brushing his cheek, and snapped the paper back up between them.

  After a moment: “I’m nineteen,” he said.

  The way he said it was some kind of admission, though she wasn’t sure of what. Had she won this round of whatever game they were playing?

  “Okay,” she said, because she had nothing else. He was younger than she’d imagined, and so much younger than he seemed.

  Given his reaction to her remark about his father, some guilt-ridden heartache must lie buried in his past. But she felt oddly mortified. She’d glimpsed a part of him he never wanted anyone to see. Nobody knew better than Pagan how much that could wound.

  A ponderous silence settled over them both. So Pagan pulled out the script for Neither Here Nor There as a distraction. She’d studied it in detail over the past twenty-four hours, but it never hurt to have a refresher.

  She forced herself to reread the very first words at the top of page one:

  Dialogue speeds should be in excess of 100 mph on the curves, 140 on the straightaways.

  That was Bennie Wexler’s typical way of saying he wanted the pace to be rapid-fire, but coherent. So she mouthed her lines to herself as fast as she could, finding the places where she was most likely to mangle the words and making little hash marks next to those paragraphs to remind herself to enunciate clearly.

  Devin finished the paper and folded it up neatly. “Are you ready for the table read today?”

  She looked at him over the top of the script. The boy had nerve, checking up on her preparation as an actress.

  “Yep,” she said.

  One dark eyebrow went up as he lifted his coffee to his lips. “Really?”

  She went back to reading. “Yep.”

  “You’ve memorized your lines?” Skepticism dripped from his voice.

  Even when she was drinking at her worst, Pagan had never dropped a line, so Devin Black could get bent.

  “Here.” She tossed the script at him.

  With a sudden catlike move, he caught it in his left hand. “What’s this?”

  “Test me. Pick any of Violet’s dialogue and give me the line before.”

  “And you’ll know the line that comes after?” He pressed his lips together, mouth turning down in consideration. “All right, then.” He set down his coffee and opened the script to a random page. As he read, his voice became thicker; it sounded older, and slightly affronted. “‘Where did you find that guy? He doesn’t even wear socks!’”

  Pagan summoned her best Southern accent, dripping with honey and love-struck enthusiasm. “‘He doesn’t wear underpants, either! Isn’t he the most?’”

  Devin burst out laughing. The genuineness of it almost made Pagan laugh, too, but he quickly tamped it down with a small clearing of his throat.

  “Okay, so the script is funny,” he said, avoiding giving her the credit as he thumbed through the script. “Let me find a tough one.” His eyes traveled over the pages. He cleared his throat and read, “‘How about that?’”

  He looked at her over the top of the script, a direct challenge.

  Pagan glowered at him. Although he’d cheated, taking the line from the end of a previous scene, she knew which line started the next scene. So she channeled her inner Violet Houlihan, she of the moonlight and hot running hormones. “‘His name is Niklaus, but I call him Klaus.’” She sighed dreamily. “‘It reminds me of Santa.’”

  Devin nodded, reading the next line as if deeply puzzled. “‘You like to pretend he’s a fat man with a big white beard?’”

  “‘No, silly!’” Pagan said with a dismissive little wave of her hand. “‘Because every time I unwrap him it’s like Christmas!’”

  “And cut.” Devin let the script fall closed. “All right. You might be ready.”

  “Your timing’s terrible,” she said, taking the script back. “And your impression of a middle-aged mother of three needs work.”

  He shook his head at her, half smiling with some secret amusement sparking behind his eyes. “But my imitation of a nineteen-year-old American man is spot-on.”

  The mood between them had not improved by the time the chauffeur drove their long black Mercedes down tree-lined streets toward the center of town. They passed the battered-­looking Brandenburg Gate with its six grand columns and smaller annexes on either side, a four-horse chariot riding victoriously forever on top. The black, red, and yellow flag of the Communist German so-called Democratic Republic crowned it all.

  Pagan peered through the window and saw the large white signs in English, Russian, French, and German: You Are Now Leaving British Sector.

  Round Volkswagens, rectangular Trabants, and cobbled-together motorcycles and bikes zoomed toward the looming gate, slowing as the stationed East German Volkspolizei, or People’s Police, in their lumpy olive uniforms scanned their license plates. Those with approved types were waved through. Others had their papers checked.

  “The gate is actually in East Germany?” Pagan asked as the car continued past it along the river. They were staying in West Berlin for the shoot. “It still looks damaged from the war.”

  “It’s better than it was,” Devin said. “The Russians cooperated with the West for a while to restore most of it. This whole town was one big pile of rubble when the Allies were done. You can still see piles of what used to be buildings on the Eastern side.”

  “I wonder which sector my Mother was born in,” she said, “back before there were sectors.”

  “Do you have an address?” he asked.

  “No.” She hesitated, not wanting to confide more. But what if he could help? She had nothing to lose. From her purse, she pulled the photograph of her youthful grandmother in front of the building with the glowering griffin. She’d decided to carry it with her in case she found someone appropriate to ask about it. The stash of letters from Rolf von Albrecht she had left hidden in her suitcase. “This is all I have.”

  Devin took it careful
ly, read the back without comment, and removed his sunglasses to scrutinize the photo. “No street name,” he said.

  “But the building behind her is pretty distinctive.”

  He nodded. “A native Berliner might recognize it.”

  “If it’s still standing,” she said as he handed the photo back.

  “Your chances are maybe fifty-fifty, unfortunately,” he said.

  It was a lovely clear August morning, and the car slowed as it pulled into a parking lot. “You look a lot like your grandmother,” he said. “Do you have any photos of your grandfather?”

  A good question. “No,” she said. “I remember asking Mama about that when I was little, and she seemed sad not to have any. He died of polio when she was a baby, before they came to the US.”

  “I might be able to find his death certificate for you, although the war made a mess of many city records,” he said. “What was his name?”

  Pagan stared down at her new low-heeled pumps, frowning. She’d just seen her grandfather’s name in her father’s files, but still it didn’t leap to mind. Her mother had never known him, and her grandmother had never spoken of him—a curiously blank entry in the family history.

  “Emil,” she said as it came to her. “Emil Murnau.”

  She looked up to catch a strange, triumphant look in Devin’s eye. The cold satisfaction in it lifted the hair off the back of her neck.

  In a split second, his expression transformed into a tolerant smile. He was simply doing her a favor. “Emil Murnau,” he repeated as if memorizing it. But Pagan knew he’d heard the name before. “I’ll see what I can find,” he said.

  “You’re very generous.” She schooled her voice to stay bland even as her mind churned with chaos and calculation. Why would Devin Black or anyone else give a damn about her long dead grandfather? And how could that possibly have anything to do with Devin’s apparent ability to blackmail everyone from Miss Edwards to Jerry Allenberg? Was he looking for some kind of family skeletons so that he could continue to manipulate her. Or…?