by Paula Byrne
‘Boni, I don’t love her.’
There, it was out. I had said it. I was not the dutiful daughter that everyone supposed. I was what the mirror saw: ugly and vile. But I felt a sure, strong stab of relief at saying the words out loud. Boni would understand. He knew my mother very well.
‘Kater, please don’t speak about your mother in that way. She loves you very dearly. We must understand. She loves in a different way to the rest of us.’
So it must be my fault. I am to blame. Why had my mother left me with that woman? I must have done something really bad to deserve this. I thought mothers were supposed to protect their children. I had always been such a good girl. But I wasn’t a good girl, because I hated my mother. But then again, I didn’t have a mother: I belonged to a queen.
Let’s Do It
Madou sits at her dressing table, putting the finishing touches to her make-up as ‘Frenchie’. A slash of crimson lipstick, clown-like, contrasts vividly with the deathly-pale pallor of her skin.
Boni stands behind her, looking at her through the glass. He is here to support the film, and to offer his advice, though he is only politely listened to. This is a world in which he doesn’t belong, despite his best intentions. Madou is in her element playing a bar-room floozie. She knows it’s her best work since The Blue Angel.
He begins reciting a passage from his work in progress: ‘What do you know about graves that open and how one stands in dread of the many colourless empty nights of yesterday – yet they open and no skeletons now lie bleaching there, only earth is there, earth, fertile seeds, and already the first green. What do you know about it? You love the intoxication, the conquest, the Other You that wants to die in you and that will never die, you love the stormy deceit of the blood, but your heart will remain empty – because one cannot keep anything that does not grow from within oneself. And not much can grow in a storm. It is in the empty nights of loneliness that it grows, if one does not despair.’
‘That was your wave.’
‘Oh, so you kept it in mind, Joan?’
‘Yes, but you aren’t a rock. You’re a block of concrete.’
In her cruelty, she still moves him. When she stands up with her back to him, he carries on staring at her reflection in me. Then she turns to face him: ‘Enough, Boni.’
She turns away, and he marvels at her grace. She walks as though she were walking against a light wind, he thinks to himself.
He leaves the room, wondering if he could have one more night with her golden head resting on his shoulder. His fickle puma.
Madou turns back to me. Really, Boni was so jealous and disagreeable. Yes, the look was exactly right: lurid and effective. So much for ‘box-office poison’. And the beanpole actor was charming. He would only ever be a second-string love interest, but diverting, all the same.
She is simply marvellous in this picture. There is a saloon brawl and she insists on not having a stand-in. She whispers to her female co-star that she will kick and punch like crazy, so she better fight back. The scene is electric. Nobody will believe that this hollering, abusive hoyden, rolling around the filthy floor, is the great Madou. The scene ends with the beanpole cowboy throwing a bucket of cold water over the cat-fighting girls. In a fit of unscripted anger, Madou picks up a chair and throws it at his head. He ducks, just in time, a look of horror and amusement on his face.
‘CUT.’
Naturally, this is the scene that everyone remembers. She knows that this performance is one of her best. The beanpole cowboy urges her to dress simply, and, for once, to go make-up free. She agrees, and looks perfect as the older western hussy, singing ‘The Boys in the Back Room’ in her sexy, husky voice. She breathes new life into Lola Lola.
Boni pays homage to her in his novel as the remote and inaccessible Nike of Samothrace, but she is happier returning to her showgirl roots.
The press goes wild for her, and she is on everyone’s lips. She is back in business. The picture has furnished her with a new, younger lover, but that soon comes to a rather unsavoury end.
Kater wishes to speak privately to her mother. There is something very pressing that must be communicated. But when she comes to the dressing room, Dot is guarding the door. Who on earth is with Mother now, I see her thinking, with those all-seeing pale, lashless eyes?
‘What is it, honey? Your mother is sleeping. She’s feeling unwell. Why don’t you come back later?’
‘I need to speak with her. May I just see her for a moment?’
‘OK, honey, but don’t tire her out.’
Madou is asleep on her sofa, and the blinds are down. She is murmuring to herself. Her face is white and drawn. Her slender hand holds a soft shawl to her chest.
Kater kneels by her side and Madou caresses her daughter’s hair.
‘Dearest.’
‘Mutti, are you dying?’
Dot intervenes: ‘No, honey, she’s not dying, but she needs rest. I’ll get her to call you later. I promise.’
Madame Doesn’t Want Children
She didn’t call me. I didn’t see her for six days. By then, I guess it was too late. The moral of the story: don’t turn to your mother when she has just had an abortion.
I now knew that no man would ever want me. I also knew it was my fault. I was obedient, pliable, always a good girl. I was trained for it. I didn’t blame the Rhino, though I despised her. I blamed someone else. If you put an alcoholic in a wine bar and lock the door, you can’t blame him for helping himself to the goods available.
That night when I should have been tucked up in bed, I made my way to the drinks cabinet. The pale liquid burned my throat. For once, I felt all warm inside. It was easy to keep this secret. I learned to water down the brandy, so she wouldn’t notice. In those days, Mother’s drink of choice was champagne.
When I had replaced the bottle, I finally felt that I had the courage that I needed. I took her out of my suitcase, where she had been packed. She was dressed in her travel suit, her long, blonde hair swept back under a natty hat. She looked so different. She was hard and waxy, not soft and fleshy like she’d always been. I pressed down on her belly to hear the familiar ‘MAMA’ in her cut-glass English accent.
Just like that, in an instant, she was no longer my child, but a doll. Heidi had been the humanised recipient of all my love, secrets, and hopes. But now it was time to put away childish things. It was finally time to grow up.
Papi wanted to speak to me on the phone. I was desperate for news of Sofi. He told me that she was visiting her brother.
Mother was angry.
‘Kater, don’t bother Papi with your questions. I’ve just sent Sofi all my old clothes and more besides. She’s crazy. But we all know that. Poor Papi. I don’t know how he does it. Now come and help me undress.’
‘But Mutti …’
‘Speak when you’re spoken to.’
Mother had come straight from a dinner and had booked a call with Papi, knowing that for him it was morning and the best time to talk. I unhooked Mother’s gold dress and began soaking the adhesive tape that made red marks on her body, but she didn’t flinch when I pulled it off: ‘Sweetheart, I met a man tonight. A real man. He’s French. Intelligent. Not like those American actors. I am going to help him. Fox have brought him over from France. He was in that magnificent picture, Grand Illusion. I don’t know why Pasternak gives me a dance teacher for a leading man, a gigolo. I mean, with Mo, we know why he gave me leading men that he knew I wouldn’t like, but how can Pasternak be jealous? I haven’t slept with him, yet. I told him, no, not until Hitler loses the war.’
Mother was delighted with her Frenchman. She used him to torture Boni as she had used the White Knight to torture Mo. It was an effective method. Boni left for New York. I begged him to stay, but he was proud.
‘Goodbye, Sadness. Look after your mother.’
‘Why do you call me Sadne
ss, Boni?’
‘I call you many tender things, Pussy Cat. I call you a gasp of air because your mother breathes up all the oxygen around you. I wish I could turn you to happiness.’
The studio installed the French lover in Boni’s bungalow. Mother set about recreating a French village in the middle of Brentwood. She cooked French food (pot au feu replaced her legendary goulash), scoured the shops for French wine, and filled the house with the sounds of Edith Piaf in the place of her beloved Tauber. She wore a striped fisherman’s jersey and a beret at a jaunty angle over one eye.
I liked Moncorge, and considered him the only man strong enough for my mother. He was a lion, and she, for once, wanted to be his permanent mate. But he had honour, too, and he told her he was determined to leave Hollywood to join the Free French. She told him that if he left her, she would follow him wherever he went.
Mother was angry that nobody in California wanted to talk about the war in Europe. I heard mutterings about a place called Belsen and what had happened to my Aunt Birgitte. But Mother had more important things to worry about, namely me. She decided that enough was enough and enrolled me in a sanatorium to lose weight.
My stay at La Jolla was a waste of time and money. Mother was convinced that I had a gland problem and insisted that I be fed mainly lettuce. Every Friday there was a weighing-in, but the scales remained the same. When I started to gain weight, Mother brought me home.
On the nights – every night – when I couldn’t sleep, I read. To try to stop myself thinking about Mother and about the Rhino. I was reading another English classic, recommended by Lacy, who continued to show an interest in my education. My favourite book, at the time, was an English one.
‘Conceit isn’t a disease,’ said Alice.
‘It is, though,’ said the Wasp, ‘Wait till you have it, and then you’ll know it.’
Bitter Sweet
Madou’s career is flourishing in her second act as a cowgirl. Following the unfortunate incident of the douche in the night, the beanpole cowboy is replaced by another leading man, the cowboy of all cowboys. Wayne is all man. Madou, with her female instincts, knows that this man needs to be treated with directness. When they finally meet, in her dressing room, she lifts up her skirt to reveal a watch secured to her garter belt. She purrs, ‘Honey, we have all the time in the world.’ With that he is off his seat in a trice, and pounces on her.
The affair is passionate and short-lived. Her heart is with Moncorge. But she can’t deny the chemistry that she has with Wayne. It helps the movie, too, which is another resounding success. Once again, she plays a saloon girl, with a huge heart. Once again, there is a bar-room brawl. The studio is desperate to recreate the success of Seven Sinners, but this time, the fight is between men. ‘There’s no brawling around her,’ she drawls, ‘except if it’s over me.’
Wayne is a darling, but she cares only for Moncorge. She thinks he is the most attractive man she has ever met, and she has met a lot. She kneels before him, removes his shoes, rubs his toes. She finds him film roles, and spends hours helping him with his rusty English. She thinks he resembles Spencer Tracy, but has more sex appeal. Also, crucially, she sees the little boy in him.
Personally, I find him boorish and uncouth. He looks like a pugilist, with that flat nose, and he knocks her around. A slap here, a punch there. She gives as good as she gets. I find their fights so very difficult to witness. She believes that he is the greatest love of her life. Boni thinks differently. He will take his revenge in his novel, where she is killed by her violent boxer lover.
They make an unremarkable film together, but their chemistry cracks and pops. The plot turns on an act of disloyalty. When he discovers her infidelity, he strikes her so hard she falls to the ground. She is not acting. Life mirrors art.
One afternoon, she returns to her boudoir alone, with a blue-purple bruise covering her cheek like a blackberry stain. It’s time for an admonishment. She seems to welcome it, as though she is desperate for someone to talk sense into her, and snap her out of the mess she’s in.
‘It’s no use trying to hide it with Pan Stik, Joan, it merely draws more attention to the wound, though perhaps that is your intention?’
‘Don’t be impertinent. I have an appointment this evening. Boni has returned, and I don’t want him to comment. Moncorge was jealous, that’s all, and he lost his temper. It’s no matter.’
‘And frustrated, perhaps? He is a far better actor in French than English, despite your great efforts. There’s always something fishy about the French. So tell me, has de Gaulle sent word?’
‘You seem to know everything. Yes, it’s true. And I’m pregnant again, and he wants me to have his brat, which I won’t consider for a single second. That’s why he hit me.’
‘It’s my opinion that some women should be struck regularly, like gongs.’
She smiles.
‘One child is enough, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’
‘Well, yes, I take your point, my dear. What will you do?’
‘I’ll do what I always do. What I did after the beanpole cowboy. What Sofi does every year, with alarming regularity, and expects me to foot the bill.’
‘Well, take care, my dear. Make sure you have a good doctor.’
‘I choose my doctors with great care. I have great respect for the medical profession. It will be over in a day, and I can get back to work. Not like Sofi, who never works and takes weeks to recover, leaving poor Papi to fend for himself.’
She finishes her face, and though the bruise is less prominent, the cheek is swollen. She puts on a hat, and draws the brim over her left side. There, she looks perfect. The blow did not hurt, but his words did. Words can bruise hearts and minds. There may be no black and blue marks, no broken bones to put in plaster, but they hurt all the same.
Knight without Armour
Mother was displeased. Her lips narrowed into a thin line, even though she was smiling: ‘You’ve had an invitation, sweetheart. Jack is in Hollywood, before he leaves for the Pacific, and he has asked to take you out to tea.’
‘Oh, Mutti, really? Will Kick be there? Or Bobby?’
‘No, dear, just Jack, so of course I’ve arranged a chaperone.’
‘Mutti, please, no. I mean, he’ll think I’m still a child.’
‘Nebbish. He’ll think no such thing. You must wear the pale green silk with the white and red daisies and the cummerbund. If it still fits.’
I was desperate to telephone Jack and tell him about the chaperone, so that he could cancel, but when I did he told me not to worry, that it would be fine. That he had a plan.
Mother had been unwell. She had undergone another minor operation, but this time had developed complications. She went to the desert to recuperate, and stayed for a month. When she came back, she was so thin, her skin taut and papery, as though she had lost gallons of blood.
She duly arranged for a chaperone. When the beady little woman arrived, I was pale with shock. She came with her darting, greedy eyes, just like little black currants. She came, carrying her black crocodile handbag with the gold clasp that snapped. I knew the price I would have to pay for my tea with Jack, but it would be worth it. But I wondered why Mother was trying to punish me, again? What was it that I had done wrong this time?
We arrived at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Jack was there in the lobby, grinning. He whispered: ‘We’ll stuff her so full of eclairs, she won’t have the time to be nosy.’
And that’s what he did. He seated her at one of the tables and ordered her a plate of French pastries. There it was again. That Kennedy ability to make the impossible simple.
Then he guided me to a table of our own, and we had a wonderful afternoon. We talked about everyone in his family, those people who were my real friends. Not like the pretend friends that Mother brought to the house to be photographed with me for the magazines. And then we talked about the war, and
Jack told me how he intended to survive, and that the secret was that you had to believe that you were not going to die. Really believe. He told me that his father was furious with him, but that he was not going to listen. He had signed up with the Navy. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be so brave as to disobey their parents.
Back in my room, I felt different, somehow. Maybe I didn’t look so bad, if he wasn’t ashamed to take me out. I undressed and walked to the mirror. Maybe if I felt different inside, it would show on the outside. I lifted my head and looked right into his eyes. The mirror laughed: You absurd little fool. Do you really think you could be beautiful? Do you possibly think he could find you attractive? Are you actually looking at yourself in this mirror? Dimples in the cheeks are one thing, but dimples in the upper arm are quite another. He couldn’t avert his eyes from your ample child-bearing hips, ill-disguised by that hideous skirt, as much as he tried. You like your Shakespeare, do you not? Thou art as fat as butter, a bolting-hutch of beastliness, a swollen parcel of dropsies, a huge bombard of sack, a stuffed cloak-bag of guts, a roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly … I could go on, but these obese jokes are not funny; let’s face it, you have enough on your plate. Well, there it is. Remember, my dear, men often do, but mirrors never lie.
The Rhino wasn’t angry at having been pushed into a corner; she was just biding her time. Later, when I lay on my bed, I felt as though I was separated from my body, that I was floating in the air. It made the pain go away. I filled my head with thoughts of Jack, and the delicious food he’d ordered. Plates of egg finger sandwiches, lobster salad roll, smoked salmon mousse, and tiny, delicate cakes: strawberry shortcake, banana-cream éclair, and chocolate tart.
And then I thought of the hall of mirrors, and the funny shapes and distortions. Nobody could get inside my head. That was the real secret place that nobody could go. Not my mother, not anyone. It was all smoke and mirrors.
