by Jina Bacarr
I can’t let him go without telling him how I feel, that the old me is dead. I’m set to be discharged soon after six months of therapy and then spending more time learning how to live sober. I’m not going back to Paris until we have an understanding that things will be different between us.
I put pink wildflowers in my hair and slip my chemise off one shoulder in an attempt to look sensual. Then I waylay the director outside the front gate before he races off in his latest Citroën model, a yellow touring car.
I kneel down in the dirt where he can see me.
‘Watch me, Emil,’ I call out to him. ‘This is the old Sylvie. Subservient, young, obedient.’ Then I jump up and pull the wildflowers from my hair, toss them on the ground and stomp on them with my bare foot. ‘I buried her and she’s going to stay buried.’
He smirks. ‘You look terrible, Sylvie, like a tomcat dragged you home. Your hair needs bleaching and you’ve got bags under your eyes. Get some sleep. And lose a few pounds before we start your next picture.’ He revs his engine.
‘Is that all you have to say?’ I demand, working on keeping my temper. It’s not easy. I want to smash my fist into the hood of his car. ‘Don’t you want to know how I’m doing? Don’t you care?’
‘Of course I care or I wouldn’t be here.’ A smug look crosses his face he can’t hide. A subtle smirk I know so well when he sweet talks a starlet to hike her skirt so he can check out her legs. ‘Your fans are bombarding the studio with letters, asking where you are. They miss you, Sylvie. That’s why I need you in tiptop shape.’
I don’t have a fancy comeback. He hit me below the belt. My fans are the most important thing to me. ‘What have you told them?’
‘Nothing. The press doesn’t know where you are.’ Emil tells me how he made up a phony story that I went to London to take time off, but the rumor mills say I’m meeting with producers and entertaining an offer from a British film studio. The result is a tidal wave of protests when the publicity department of Delacroix Studios receives thousands of letters begging me to come back to France and not abandon them like so many European actors.
After he drives off, I think about what he said. How my fans are clamoring for more pictures from me. It’s the news I needed to hear, the final step in my treatment.
I’m going home.
Paris
1937
My fans keep me sober.
After I return to Paris, I read the thousands of letters written to me in blue ink and florid handwriting on crisp white stationery, on brown butcher paper with chalk, letters begging me to come back to France.
Come and make us smile again, Sylvie, they write to me, telling me their woes, how they’re struggling to survive in these hard times and miss my adventures on the silver screen. I tear up every time, my heart tugging at my soul to unite and help my body fight the terrible cravings, the desire to drink. It doesn’t go away but I’m learning to control it. Cocaine also calls out to me, but I have more of a problem with the pills I became addicted to… some spiked-up concoction that takes away hunger.
I’ve found some respite in my daily walks around the 16e arrondissement or the Tuileries Gardens where I’ve again started wearing a disguise. I’ve taken a liking to a particular one – a delightfully inquisitive aristocrat with a limp I call Baroness de Ravenne. Putty nose. Heavy brows. Fake beauty mark. Who knows? Maybe someday I can work her into a script.
For the moment, I’m more concerned in getting my career back on track. I sit in the main room downstairs in my spacious apartment on Avenue du Trocadéro, sunshine filling the rooms done in my signature tones of ivory, blue, and grey and lighting up the polished parquet floor and brocade walls with an exquisite Louis XIV floral design. I’m reading every newspaper I can find to see what pictures are making money and how my rivals are faring as the Depression lingers on.
What worries me is what I see behind the headlines. How Germany has evolved since the Nazi Party came into power with that horrid little man with a moustache who reminds me of the devil character in my Ninette films. I’ve never been to Berlin and don’t want to go if he’s in charge. How he’s militarizing the country and citizens are being sent to what they call ‘concentration camps’ for being political foes. Free thinking is being suppressed and that affects the film business. Emil tells me actors and writers are fleeing Germany and he’s hoping to sign them up for new pictures he has planned for me.
I don’t give in to Emil’s demands and assert my independence. I choose what scripts to read, but I’m smart enough to know we need each other. I’m impressed with the plays he brings me by a new screenwriter, Raoul Monteux. He comes to visit me at my apartment, bringing along his young daughter Halette. She’s a big fan of mine and keeps staring at me as if I’m a goddess. I like the girl and we have long chats about what it’s like to be a film star. Raoul tells me his daughter loves making scrapbooks and has one devoted to me. Watching the girl laugh and enjoy an ice treat on a hot day gives me bouts of sadness at not having my own child.
I’m twenty-seven… I have many years yet to fall in love, n’est-ce pas? I thought about that often at the sanitarium, how more meaningful my life would be if I had a special man to share it with.
For now, I have my film family, the newest members being Raoul and his daughter. I look forward to their visits (his wife Estelle is too ill to leave their apartment). We have long script meetings where we discuss his wonderful characters, exciting action, and clever dialogue. The idea of going before the camera again doesn’t terrify me as much as I thought it would. Over the next eighteen months, I star in two films written by Raoul. Both hits.
Still, the fear of relapse looms in my mind. I get rid of anything in my dressing room that reminds me of drinking or using. I feel so alive, becoming someone else. I’m still wary of falling in love. My work is my cloak of invisibility so I don’t get hurt by Emil’s ‘dates’ who steal my heart, then toss it away. I become so good at inhabiting my character’s skin, the reviewers praise me for my amazing transformations.
I receive the best reviews of my career since Ninette after I get sober.
And then as if the stars align in the sky just for me, the most magnificent thing happens when I get away from Paris on a film junket to Monte Carlo to publicize my latest picture about a female highwayman, Madame Le Noir.
I fall in love.
12
Juliana
Ask and you shall receive…
Ville Canfort-Terre, France
Present Day
I’m a terrible actress.
I fall flat on my face when I meet the Mother Superior in charge of the Couvent de Sainte Daria. Oh, if only I were more like ma grand-mère. My quick dismissal makes it obvious to me I’m no Sylvie Martone.
My short acting career begins after a quick look-see around the small medieval town located outside Paris when I talk my way into the convent by speaking French to a young postulant. She’s so impressed with me coming here from California to find out about their lacemaking, she breaks the rules.
She allows me to enter their religious domain housed in an imposing limestone structure with four turrets.
Bon. Step one. Completed. As I step through the double portals, I’m in awe of the grandeur of the ancient chateau. From the material I read on the flight coming over, the village main street was bombed during the war, but the chateau came through unscathed. The town is known for its wool industry, beetroots, and flower market featuring the local prized favorite, the Canfort Lily. This is the first connection I’ve had with my roots. I’m overwhelmed to think this charming place with the overpowering chestnut tree standing watch at the gate is where my mother grew up. I bite my lip to keep from losing my composure and hold back the tears.
I can’t cry. Not now, Maman. I have a job to do.
I arrive at the convent around noon, a busy time of day with nuns scattering to what I assume is the dining room for the afternoon meal, their rosaries entwined around their hands, whisper
ing and glancing in my direction. My designer eye notes their plain white blouses, calf-length navy skirts and matching sweaters, black sensible shoes, their navy head coverings hanging down their back, some with bangs showing.
Quite a change from the wooly, black habits I imagine they wore when my mother lived here. I get a chill as I embrace the history of this place, noting the wall-size tapestry of knights and ladies adorning the Grand Hall and the intricately carved, high-backed wooden chairs and finely woven rugs on the stone floor. This is no movie set, but the real deal.
Before I can decide whether or not to sit down, I hear a whizzing sound behind me. A screech, then the overpowering scent of talcum tickles my nostrils. Curious, I turn around and see an elderly sister zoom by me in a motorized wheelchair. Dressed in a religious habit from another century with black tunic, long full sleeves, black apron cinched at the waist with a brown belt, her long black veil blows behind her as she makes a circle around me, humming and maneuvering her scooter-like wheelchair, all the while sneaking peeks at me. I spot the wires from a headset hanging from underneath her wimple. By the way she keeps eyeing me, I have the feeling she’s more interested in me than the music.
I’ve intruded on her turf and she’s letting me know it.
She looks me up and down with a curious eye as if she wants to say something, but doesn’t.
I smile at her and have a flickering feeling that I’ve walked back in time. A connection that sparks my imagination to wonder how long she’s been here at the convent. She must be at least eighty… could she have…? No, that would be asking too much of fate.
Before I can reach out to her, she zooms away but by the knowing smile on her lips, I don’t think I’ve seen the last of her. Strange, I thought she was about to say something. Then I see why she made a hasty retreat and disappeared. I turn my attention to a nun I assume is the Mother Superior. I hear her admonishing the young postulant for admitting a strange woman into their midst. The girl’s head is lowered, her hands folded across her chest.
Oh, no, what I have done?
I forget about the sister in the wheelchair and march over to the woman. I can’t let the young girl take the blame for my crazy scheme.
I don’t get the chance.
The Mother Superior sends the girl scattering away, then heads in my direction.
‘If you wish to know more about our lacemaking, mademoiselle,’ she says in perfect English and getting straight to her agenda with a forced smile, ‘I suggest you check our convent website.’ She holds up her cell to show me the lovely graphics on their site with photos of the sisters and their lacemaking craft. ‘Everything you need to know is there.’
‘Oui, bien sûr,’ I say in French, hoping to win her over. ‘But I’d so love to see the sisters at work and interview them about their lacemaking process. I imagine they have some fascinating stories to tell.’
Stories, I pray, that will give me a lead that will substantiate my belief Sylvie came here after the war with her baby. ‘We are a cloistered order, mademoiselle,’ says the Mother Superior, arms folded high on her chest, ‘and do not receive visitors.’
Step two. Shot down. I try a different approach.
‘I’m interested in purchasing lace for costumes for a new film about to start production.’
Not true, but if she goes for it, I’ll worry about what to do with it later.
Her eyes blink. ‘You’re from Hollywood?’
That got her attention, so I go with it. ‘Yes, I work for a major film studio and I’ve heard your lace is of the finest quality with excellent workmanship and perfect for the period costumes I’ve designed.’
A brief silence. ‘Do you know George Clooney?’
I shake my head. ‘No, the film I’m working on takes place during the Occupation of Paris. I’m interested in the stars of the French cinema during that time.’ I wait a beat before I toss out the name that’s been on the edge of my tongue since I walked in here. ‘Stars like Sylvie Martone.’
Her upper lip twitches. She tries to hide her surprise, but her voice quivers as she says, ‘I regret to say, mademoiselle, I know nothing about this actress. I can’t help you.’
‘Are you sure you don’t know her?’ I persist, whipping out the glam shot of Sylvie from my purse. ‘Here’s a picture of her from before the war.’ I flash the photo in front of her pale face, careful not to let her see the inscription on the back.
Her surprise turns to indignation. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘From a friend. I understand she was a big star during the war, then she disappeared. I’m fascinated to find out what happened to her.’ I lower my voice to a whisper and repeat what Ridge told me when he dug into the bios of French film stars from the silent era. ‘I also heard Sylvie Martone grew up here at the convent before she went to Paris to get into the movies.’
Her brows shoot up. ‘You were misinformed.’
I shake my head. ‘My source is never wrong.’
She smirks. ‘Alors, now the truth comes out. You work for a scandal sheet. You’re here to dig up the past no one wants to remember.’
Why the attitude? I admit I don’t understand the brush-off. The Mother Superior can’t be more than fifty. She’d have no recollections of my grandmother other than as a historical reference.
‘No one will ever forget the war, Reverend Mother, the heroes and the heroines of the Resistance—’
‘Sylvie Martone was no heroine, mademoiselle. You’ll find nothing about her here within these convent walls.’ She pretends to check her phone, but I see her stewing. ‘I must request you leave. I’m late for prayers.’
‘Wait.’
She turns. ‘Yes?’
‘Please allow me to take the blame and not the young postulant for my barging in here. It wasn’t her fault. I’d be grateful if you don’t punish her for my insolence.’
‘As you wish.’ She seems surprised at my sincerity, but she still won’t talk to me. She walks away with long strides as if she’s afraid I’ll run after her.
For a moment, my bravado leaves me. I’ll get nothing out of her. Instead I’m filled with the uncertainty of what to do next.
Sylvie Martone is a forbidden topic around here. Why?
I’m reluctant to go home with my tail between my legs. I need advice. I check my phone. It’s 4 a.m. in Los Angeles. I hesitate to wake Ridge with my bad news. Short of telling the nun Sylvie Martone was my grandmother, I can’t do much. I’ve made a mess out of everything. She thinks I’m a snippy American reporter. If I tell her I’m the granddaughter of Sylvie Martone, she’ll probably have me escorted out of France.
What to do next?
The problem is, I have no step three.
I try to shake off the disappointment that follows, the hollow feeling that stays with me as I head for the chateau’s double doors, feeling like I’ve lost the only chance I had to do right by my mother. The whole time, though, I keep thinking about how Maman always talked about the pink peonies that grew near her weeping willow in the convent courtyard and her favorite chocolate nonpareils the nuns gave her on her birthday. A simple childhood memory, but aren’t those the best ones? And to think I’m here where she felt the most vulnerable growing up without a family.
I shuffle along, pretending to be interested in the amazing carved ceiling at least twenty feet high. I stop in my tracks as a plan forms in my head.
Do I dare?
I look around me. The flurry of nuns I saw earlier has disappeared and the Mother Superior hightailed it out of the Grand Hall as fast as she could. I’m alone. No doubt everything here is done on the honor system, so who’s to know if I leave or not? I can’t come all this way and not see the garden where my mother played as a child and wrote letters to the man she loved as a woman. I’ve been on an emotional rollercoaster for so long… dealing with my mother’s illness then trying to cope with her loss… then my discovery my roots are so unbelievable they could be a movie.
It doesn’t take m
e long to find the inner courtyard after I sneak past the long dining room filled with chattering nuns. Glasses tinkling, silverware rattling, they don’t hear me as I scoot past the open door and find my way outside to the convent grounds.
You can’t miss the giant weeping willow tree. Its long, swaying branches blow in the afternoon breeze like the nuns’ billowing sleeves as they passed through here on their way to chapel for hundreds of years. The distinct scent of fresh lilies wafts through the air along with the crisp, sweet smell of peonies dancing around me, tempting me to stand here and inhale. It’s like Maman said it was. Pink peonies pepper the garden along with the lilies and a dash of bluebells. An enchanted garden that transposes me back in time. I sit down on a white stone bench. I swear I feel my mother’s arms wrap around me with a protective shield, her spirit is so strong here.
‘Je suis là, Maman.’
I let myself cry, the tears coming freely, as if we’re reunited here. My mother, my grandmother, and me.
All three of us together under this willow tree.
A rustling in the willow makes me shiver, as if inviting me to stay. Begging me to stay, to not give up. Somehow I know with certainty the Mother Superior is hiding something, some secret is driving her dismissal of me.
And I know just the nun who can help me unravel that secret.
‘Why do you wish to know about Sylvie Martone, mademoiselle?’
I stand my ground before the elderly sister in her motorized wheelchair, her gaze sharp and questioning, looking me up and down. It didn’t take me long to find her dozing – or pretending to – under the overhead trellis covered with sweet-smelling pink roses. Her eyes flew open when she heard my heels tapping on the ancient stone.
She didn’t look surprised to see me.
‘I’m writing a story about her,’ I answer in French.
