by Paula Byrne
She stood there for an hour, singing her heart out, steady as a rock. Then she strode from the stage where we waited to change her bandages in time for her second show that evening. When I changed her dressing, I saw that the edges of the open wound were turning black. That evening I phoned a prominent surgeon and begged him to see my mother. She consented to see him, only after I told her in no uncertain terms that if she didn’t see a surgeon, then she would have to face amputation of the most famous legs in Hollywood history.
She packed a bag, and we left for the airport. From now on, I would be at her side, whether she liked it or not.
The Dream is Over
The King is viciously cruel. Says she has the red hands of a housewife. Calls her ‘old’ and tells her that he will never leave his wife. Still, she comes back for more. She is depressed when he doesn’t call. She is jealous of his wife, calls her a bad mother, claims she’s insane. Madou wants to kill herself but she doesn’t know where to do it: in Billy Wilder’s summerhouse? No, that would be unfair. He’s been such a good friend.
She comes to her vanity and looks deep into me, still so lovely. She lights a cigarette, slowly blows smoke rings into the air, turning it a soft, misty blue. I take a deep breath and tell her the truth: ‘Darling, you must pack up this nonsensical situation once and for all. It is really beneath your dignity, not your dignity as a famous artist and a glamorous star, but your dignity as a human – only too human – being. The King is attractive, beguiling, tender and fascinating, but he is not the only man in the world who merits those delightful adjectives … Do please try to work out for yourself a little personal philosophy and DO NOT, repeat DO NOT, be so bloody vulnerable. To hell with goddamned “amour”. It always causes far more trouble than it is worth. Don’t run after it. Don’t court it. Keep it waiting offstage until you’re good and ready for it, and even then treat it with the suspicious disdain that it deserves … I am sick to death of you waiting about in empty houses and apartments with your ears strained for the telephone to ring. Snap out of it, girl! Life is for the living. Well, that is all it is for, and living DOES NOT consist of staring in at other people’s windows and waiting for crumbs to be thrown to you. You’ve carried on this hole-in-corner, overcharged, romantic, unrealistic nonsense long enough. Stop it Stop it Stop it. Other people need you. Stop wasting your time on someone who only really says tender things to you when he’s drunk. It’s your career that matters. Don’t end up like those other faded stars; all alone in the back of limousines, with only bouquets for company.’
‘Enough! I’ve had enough of listening to you. What do you know about love? You, so perfect. Well, perfect things belong in museums. I can still get a lover who is twenty years younger than myself. And he is the most inventive lover.’
She tears off her blonde wig, and releases the tiny braids that give her a natural facelift. She brushes out her thinning hair. It is a relief to see her, hand trembling, pick up one of her sleeping pills. She downs it with a glass of champagne. She walks to the vanity table to turn off the lamp. She looks into me.
Whose face is this, she is asking? She experiences a stab of shock when she sees her profile in the fading light. She puts out the light and I can no longer see. But I am still here. I am always here.
Kismet
‘The witch is on her broomstick,’ said one of the grips.
‘OK, don’t worry, I’m here now.’
‘Kater, look at this dressing room. Can you believe it? Garden furniture made of sticks. Dangerous for the dresses. And orange cushions. I expected better of Broadway. What is this! An Adirondacks porch or the dressing room of a star?’
‘Mutti, go and do your rehearsal and I will do the room.’
I phoned Bloomingdale’s and begged the salesman to let me hire his selection of French furniture from the shop floor. When she returned from rehearsal, the room was bedecked in blue and gold French château. She loved it. Then I sorted out the flower room. Her idea was to employ ‘flower boys’ to throw nosegays, just as she launched into ‘Honeysuckle Rose’. The boys complained endlessly about the arrangements, that the pink ribbon was synthetic and not real satin, that the pink was too deep. She loved them and they remained devoted friends.
In New York, Mother was reunited with her Italian lover – ‘just like your Bill but better-looking’ – who had flown in from Palm Springs to see her concert. Frankie was a generous man, showering her with flowers and presents. She had my father flown in from LA to witness her latest triumph. Papi was frail, and the cuffs on his shirt were frayed and grey, his suit hanging from his thin frame. He was barely recognisable from the dapper, fastidious man I remembered as a child. He carried a stick and an air of pride, but he was a broken man, longing to get back to his ragged dogs and chicken farm.
I asked him about Sofi, who had been locked away for her own safety. So many unborn babies had been ripped untimely from the little room in her body; the woman who had longed to be a mother, and was denied the only role that she had ever wanted. Over the years, Mother doled out pills to Sofi like candy, and now her fragile mind had collapsed.
Papi told me how Sofi, pale as waxed paper, would sit for hours picking away the skin on her fingers, mourning the babies she had lost, weeping silent tears for hours on end. I had failed Sofi. I had let them destroy her and stood by while they ensured that they did the job properly. My poor white queen.
I flew to London to prepare for Mother’s arrival. As soon as I got to the Savoy I asked to see the manager and took him up to her luxury suite.
‘Please listen to me and listen carefully, and everything will be fine. On no account must you ever repeat this, but my mother must never fall or injure her legs in any way. She suffers from a circulation problem and if she receives even the slightest wound, her lack of circulation would make it impossible for it to heal. Please remove all of the rugs from the sitting room and the bedroom. One of the bathrooms will be her dressing room. I will need a plank of wood to lay across the tub. Please send for twelve large white towels and lay them on the plank. I will need another dozen small towels for hair. Get rid of this mirror, and install a long, floor-length mirror and ask your electrician to install three lights above it; Miss Madou always does her make-up in the hotel and not in her dressing room. We will need a shelf for three wig stands right over here. Please remove this bath mat. You will need blackout blinds in the bedroom as Miss Madou has problems sleeping. Please tape the edge of the carpets. My mother prefers lilies and carnations. She despises long-stemmed red roses. If they arrive from fans, please give them to the chambermaids. We will need a record player and shelf for her books and newspapers. I will need a six-foot long table to lay out her swan’s-down coat. When she rings for room service, night or day, answer immediately and make sure that the chef does not keep her waiting. When you hear the phone, then grab your menus and run. Please fill the fridge with champagne, and make sure it is always ice cold. Do not fill her water glass with ice; Miss Madou is European, not an American. Do not expect her to sign a room-service check, just bow and leave immediately. Please remember that she is always right. Never question her, never contradict her. If you do what I say, it will be easier on everybody concerned and we might all make it without a nervous breakdown.’
I gave the speechless manager a very large tip, and told him that more would follow. By the time she arrived, the suite was prepared.
‘Sweetheart, I just had tea with Vivien and Larry and you would not believe her hair; so lustrous and thick. I asked her what pill she was taking and she laughed and pulled off her bandeau and she was completely bald underneath. Bald as an egg. Her wig-maker is called Stanley Hall and he is fabulous. He uses real hair and you can not tell the difference. The English are the only people who know how to make wigs.’
She ordered dozens of wigs, perfectly dyed to match her own hair, and from that moment on she wore them constantly. Her hairdresser braided her own fin
e hair, pulling up the skin on her face, and then she placed the wig with its velvet bandeau over the top so you could not see the line between the real and the fake. The effect was fantastic. She wore Stanley’s wigs for the rest of her life.
I was still worried about her legs, and forced her to see a doctor. He told her that she needed immediate treatment for advanced arteriosclerosis. He warned her that if she refused treatment she risked gangrene and amputation of both limbs. Not even the threat of losing those beautiful legs that had made her name was enough to deter her, or make her listen.
‘He says that my legs are being deprived of blood supply and that causes the swelling. Nebbish. I’m going to see a real doctor, who says he can improve the circulation by injecting me with vitamins.’
She got around the problem of her swelling legs by wearing trousers by day, and invented tall boots to wear with her Chanel suits. By night, she wrapped her legs with bandages and wore floor-length gowns. Nothing could be permitted to mar the perception of perfection. No one knew what she suffered. The doctors told me that if she ever had a fall it would be extremely dangerous, perhaps fatal.
And then there was a year of deaths; the little sparrow died and Papa Hem put a gun to his head. ‘Sweetheart, if I had been there with him, he would never have done it.’ At that moment, I knew that they had been more than just friends.
She dressed herself in flowing black robes, took out his letters from their strongbox and retired to her room for days. She lit votive candles around the silver-framed photograph that sat beside her bed. She always loved playing the grieving widow. She searched for clues as to why he had done it, and why he had deserted her; in her heart, she never forgave him.
Suite in Three Keys
Whisky opens the veins, and she can’t sleep since his death, so she pours herself a liberal glass. Her photograph of Papa Hem stands on her dressing table. Bottles of pills keep him company, and her trusty blue phials nestle among lipsticks, ointments, and jars. The lights over me are exceedingly bright and it takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the blinding glare. Stacks of telegrams and letters on one side; cigarettes, ashtray and a lighter on the other. She lights a cigarette, sucking in those glorious cheeks, smoking, as always, slowly and methodically. In the background behind me is her swan’s-down coat, so heavy it needs its own table to rest upon before it is fluffed out for the show.
Shake out the pills and wash them down with Scotch, darling. It seems to stop the trembling in the hands. Hands needs to be steady to apply make-up. Brushes and tweezers and scissors are laid out like surgical instruments. Create the face, fill in the lips, enlarge the eyes. A chilled glass of champagne is always at hand.
She still has the stamina of a young girl. She is a little fuller in figure, and needs help to squeeze into her foundation. Has she put on weight again? That would never do. Perhaps you do need to lay off the Scotch, darling. Are the leg bandages in place? Check there’s a threaded needle and pearls handy so you can sew one in at the last minute if need be. Now the swollen feet need to be pushed into her Ferragamo shoes. She wants to scream with pain, but she must walk steadily to the stage. Don’t trip over the cables on the floor. Steady, steady on.
Find the key light. Adjust the microphone stand. There are pictures on the screen behind her, documenting her life: Berlin, Hollywood, Paris, a World War II soldier, Las Vegas, Israel. The crowd applauds loudly. She stands erect, the soldier. Takes a bow with perfect posture.
She returns to her dressing room. She removes her make-up and transforms herself from a goddess to a woman of her age. She feels so weary, so tired, but she can’t sleep. She takes notepaper and writes to the only man who has never deserted her, and who loves her and who truly understands: ‘The days go by, Papi, and there are a hundred things to do, although I get up early; once again, I am unable to sleep since the Hem thing. I am unkempt and far from home. I send you a kiss.’
Princess Ololah
My mother agreed to an operation to save her legs. But some things had to happen first. While she was in surgery, I unzipped her large leather bag and emptied the contents onto her bed. A mixture of anger and pity washed over me as I scanned the stash of drugs and booze. Mother had all the duplicity and cunning of the true addict. She had poured Scotch into bottles claiming to be cleaning fluid and lotions. Bottles purporting to be mouthwash were filled with vodka. Her pills were stuffed into sewing kits, Tampax boxes and make-up cases.
As soon as the anaesthetic had worn off, she asked for her bag. She was enraged when she realised what I had done with her contraband. Deprived of her loot, and in extreme withdrawal, she screamed obscenities, drove the nursing staff mad, until she was prescribed Thorazine to keep her calm. Suddenly she became charming and funny, minded her manners, and we chatted and watched TV together. That was until she discovered that the drug was used to soothe inmates in a lunatic hospital and that spelled the end of Thorazine and her good temper.
He saved her legs. They turned from icy blue to a rosy pink as the blood circulated freely around them. She had been lucky this time. She blamed everyone for the circumstances that had brought her here; Burt, the conductor, me; everyone except the drink that had caused the fall.
Eight weeks after the operation, we were back on tour. She was still furious with me. She told me that she was plotting her revenge. We had a row.
‘Kater, give me one of those filthy cigarettes.’
‘Mutti, the doctor said no. It’s bad for your legs.’
‘The legs are perfect. Am I to have no pleasures? And just one drink.’ Her tone is sweet and wheedling.
‘It’s dangerous. You are taking too many pills.’
‘You hate me. You’ve always hated me. I gave you everything, but it wasn’t enough. You were such a sweet girl. So docile. So obedient.’
‘What happened to Aunt Birgitte, Mutti? Where is she? Is she alive?’
‘I’ve told you. I don’t have a sister.’
‘You said you saw her in Belsen. Did she die?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now leave me alone. You have your own secrets, leave me with mine.’
Her sleeping pills were beginning to take effect. I switched off the lights and tucked her into bed, and, just like in the old days, she curled up her body at the very edge of the bed, and fell asleep.
Waiting in the Wings
Now you are recovered, darling, you can drink as much as you like. Empty the miniature bottles of booze into a mouthwash bottle, no one will know. Order more bottles of champagne as befitting a star. You only drink one or two glasses to steady your nerves. The Scotch is needed to wash down the pills, because everyone knows that booze opens your veins.
The King is here in her dressing room. She can’t contain her joy. Now that her legs are healed, she seems younger than ever. They go to dinner. She is dressed in a simple, black sheath and still, at the age of sixty, outshines every woman in the room. One comes up to her, peers at her face and asks, ‘Who did it?’ She responds: ‘God.’
Back in her room he is staggered by her beauty.
‘I can hardly believe you have a married daughter with children.’
‘I married very young,’ she snaps, irritated by his compliment.
He pours her a drink.
‘Do you love me?’
‘Joan, love’s an awfully big word.’
‘No it’s not, it’s tiny. Am I too old for you? Is that it. Do I repulse you?’
‘No, it’s not that. But I have a wife and child.’
They fight and he leaves. He returns and then leaves again. He promises he will call, but doesn’t. He says he will leave his wife and child, but he doesn’t.
She tours Australia and writes in her journal: ‘I am lonely, lonely, lonely, down under.’
She has to make more money.
Her husband writes to her, but always ends with the same
request: ‘I need some money urgently, if you can. Forgive me.’
She writes the cheques and sends packages of food and wine.
She’s spent her life playing the unhappy abandoned women who give up everything for love, so she begins to play the role in real life. Drunk and alone, she writes to her daughter: ‘The King, he keeps showing up from time to time and I don’t have the nerve to end it. The children get all the love that remains, so all is not lost. I am lost, and that is a shame. Waste, waste, waste. Kiss your heart and all that is in it.’
Witness for the Prosecution
Mother ended her tour in Washington. She told me she was having lunch with Bobby. I was sad not to see him, but I needed to be at home with the children for Thanksgiving. I often thought of Jack, the first boy I had loved. He told me once that he had never wanted to be president. That he wanted to be a writer. But after Young Joe’s death, he felt his father breathing down his neck, and he was powerless to resist.
Powerful parents can do cruel things to their children, and they are never challenged, never judged. When your mother is a goddess, a war hero, a legend, she can get away with anything. If I told anyone that she had left me in the care of a predator, who would have believed me? How can you see clearly when you are looking into the sun? I looked at my own children, and I wondered how she could do it. I had no sympathy for myself, but I had it for my own children.
I bore no ill feeling for the Rhino. She was kind to me. She was attentive. She had every opportunity. You wouldn’t leave someone locked in a wine cellar if you knew they were an alcoholic – of course they would help themselves.
We had never celebrated Thanksgiving when I was a child, but I made sure that my boys were American through and through. I would spend hours in the kitchen making cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie. I could never be a better cook than my mother, but the children didn’t complain, and they tolerated my delight in unknown traditions, just as they tolerated my joy every time one of them began school. I, who had never known school, was amazed and delighted by a lunch box and a satchel.
