Decline in Prophets (11 page)

Milton and Clyde laughed. Even Rowland smiled. They had never taken Edna’s forays into the cinematic world seriously.

“Oh, never mind them,” Marion Davies soothed, moving so that Edna could sit beside her. “We all started as extras.”

Milton sighed. “We’ll never hear the end of this,” he grumbled under his breath.

With Edna having found the favour of their hostess, Cartwright introduced the others to a succession of partygoers. It was not long before they had all been armed with drinks and separated, as
they were snatched into different circles of conversation.

It was some time later that Rowland broke away from one of the young ladies to whom Cartwright had introduced him. She was a little enthusiastic for his taste. Beautiful, though. He wasn’t
sure when he’d become quite so particular. Perhaps he would not be so easily deterred after a few more drinks.

He found one of the small army of waiters, and procured another drink. He cast his eyes back towards Edna who was still sitting on the chaise. Miss Davies’ place was now occupied by a man.
Rowland was not surprised. Edna’s companion was tall, clean-cut, no more than thirty. Rowland started as a flash went off beside him.

“That’s Leach—or was Leach… he may have a new name now.”

Rowland turned to look at the photographer. A wiry young man in a brown suit, with precisely parted and heavily slicked hair. The photographer smiled a crooked smile and stuck out the hand that
was not holding a camera.

“J.C. Henry—my friends call me J.C.,” he said, changing the bulb on his flash with one hand as he spoke.

“Rowland Sinclair.” Rowland shook his hand.

“You’re English—a friend of Leach’s then?” Henry asked, continuing to snap pictures.

“Australian actually,” Rowland corrected. “Never heard of Leach. Is he English?”

Henry nodded. “They have a way with the ladies, Englishmen.” He grinned as Leach took Edna’s hand. “Of course Leach is an actor—that’d help, I guess.”
He looked Rowland up and down suddenly. “Say, you’re not in the business are you?” He lifted his camera.

“God, no! Put that thing down.”

Henry smiled disarmingly. “Sorry, professional habit… Newspaper business you know.”

“You’re a newspaper photographer?”

The American nodded. “Marion sells papers.” He winked and aimed his camera back into the crowd. “Being Mr. Hearst’s girl makes her very photogenic.”

Rowland glanced towards the newspaper magnate. He stood in the shadow of his glamorous mistress, but his manner was confident. A man aware of his own power and certain of Davies. Cartwright had
briefed his guests on the unconventional relationship between Randolph Hearst and Marion Davies to ensure there would be no accidental gaffes.

“So what line of work are you in, Sinclair?”

“I’m an artist.”

“Living the dream then? Marion’s parties are full of dreamers.”

“I suppose so,” Rowland replied, not entirely sure what he was admitting to.

“Here, hold this.” Henry handed him the camera, and taking a comb from his pocket, proceeded to regroom his immaculate hair. He winked at Rowland. “Have you ever seen so many
dolls, Sinclair?”

“Miss Davies certainly keeps some attractive company.”

Henry retrieved his camera and turned the lens towards a pair of statuesque women.

“So,” he said. “Do you think the world is ready for another Austrian artist?”

“Australian,” Rowland corrected patiently, but firmly. He had become accustomed to the apparent obscurity of his country. “There’s quite a difference.”

Henry laughed. “No kidding—get us some drinks, Sinclair, and you can tell me about the dames in your part of the world.”

Rowland signalled a waiter and relieved him of two vodka martinis. J.C. Henry continued to talk, juggling the camera, flashbulbs and cocktail with extraordinary dexterity. The newspaperman was a
personable, forthcoming sort of chap. He seemed to be well versed in what he termed “scuttlebutt”, and shared this insight quite generously.

“I say, who’s that?” Rowland asked, pointing out a large woman in a shapeless gown of flowing purple. She wore a turban rather than a hat, and was talking earnestly to
Milton.

“That’s Madame Milatsky—she’s a medium, quite celebrated I’m told. She was very big in the Theosophical movement once, but she broke ties with them when all the
scandal broke.”

“What scandal?”

“Years ago now—I was just a kid.” Henry changed his flashbulb yet again. “Nearly destroyed the Society, I’m told.”

“Go on.”

Henry shrugged. “Some kid—supposed to be a prophet of some sort—accused that Leadbeater character of indecency.”

“Christ. Was it true?”

Henry shrugged again. “Leadbeater was supposed to be a bit queer, but he was cleared. Misunderstanding apparently. The Society backed him in any case.”

Rowland stared at his glass. Charles Leadbeater, of whom Annie Besant spoke so highly.

J.C. Henry pointed his lens at the parquetry dance floor where Edna was now dancing with Leach. He let out a low whistle. “She’s a new one—Leach does well, but she’s
outstanding.” The flash exploded again.

Daniel Cartwright threw a paper onto a table laden with platters of bacon, eggs cooked in every conceivable manner and a vast array of pastries. His house guests were at
breakfast.

“Edna, my dear,” he exclaimed. “Barely a day in New York, and already you grace the society pages.”

“Really?” Edna opened the paper without bothering to mask her excitement.

Cartwright helped her find the appropriate page, which was dominated by a picture of the sculptress dancing with Leach. The caption declared the actor to be in love with the mystery woman in his
arms.

Milton laughed. “Notice he’s looking at the camera rather than Ed.”

“Archie’s so handsome,” Edna murmured, gazing at the photograph. “He’s in films you know—he’s going to be a star.”

Rowland raised his brow as he sipped his coffee, Clyde sighed audibly and Milton rolled his eyes. Edna’s loves were hardly rare.

“Flash in the pan, Ed.” Milton dismissed Leach as he reached for a croissant. “In a year or two no one will have heard of Archie Leach—he’s giving you a
line.”

“He’s invited me to dine with him tonight,” Edna smiled, ignoring Milton, as was her habit.

They finished breakfast and embarked into the streets of New York, again staggered by the towering size of the city. Cartwright headed the expedition, drawing somewhat far-fetched comparisons
between the modern commercial structures and the classical buildings of European antiquity. They listened with amused indulgence, though Milton laughed out loud when he referred to the Chrysler
Building as the “Parthenon of the New World”.

They took the elevator from the marble-lined foyer of the Empire State Building, to the observatory on the 102nd floor. From there, Cartwright pointed out the landmarks of Manhattan.

When they descended again to street level, Milton dragged them all into a cinema, on sight of the playbill.
All Quiet On the Western Front
was still showing, although it was now a few
years since its original release. The film had been banned in Australia despite critical acclaim, making Milton all the more determined to see it. Very quickly Rowland became thankful for the
darkness of the theatre. He had lost a brother to the war, images of which were now flickering on screen. Unconsciously he leant forward, drawn into the film.

Aubrey Sinclair had fallen in France when Rowland was just eleven. He and William Dowd had been summoned by the headmaster together that day. They had both lost brothers. They had never spoken
to each other again.

Rowland still did not know how exactly Aubrey died—children didn’t ask such things. Instead he had fashioned an image of a quick and painless death, a single bullet, body and dignity
intact. A heroic boyhood fancy he had come to believe in.

The film contradicted that notion with unflinching, graphic realism. Soldiers died screaming in no-man’s-land, caught on barbed wire, drowning in mud and blood, in terror. He was
unprepared for how much it hurt him to watch it.

He felt Edna grab his hand. Clyde pressed his shoulder briefly. Apparently, the darkness had not afforded him as much privacy as he thought.

Milton leaned into him as they left the cinema. “I’m sorry, mate, I didn’t think.”

Rowland shook off the apology. “It was a good film, Milt—bloody stupid to ban it.”

Daniel Cartwright insisted they take luncheon at the Waldorf-Astoria. The hotel’s chef was, according to their host, one of the city’s greatest attractions.

“Where to now?” Edna asked, as she played with what she considered a bizarre combination of walnuts and apples, presented as a salad. She had ordered it on Cartwright’s
recommendation, but she remained unsure.

“I thought we might go see Annie,” Rowland replied, also approaching the Waldorf’s namesake dish with caution. J.C. Henry’s revelations played on his mind. He wondered
about Jiddu Krishnamurti and Charles Leadbeater.

“Capital idea!” Milton agreed.

Both Clyde and Edna were more than willing, and Cartwright intrigued to meet the renowned Annie Besant, so they finished the meal and climbed back into two of their host’s white Cadillacs
for the short drive to the Plaza.

Jiddu Krishnamurti and Mrs. Waterman, whom they had met on the
Aquitania
, were also visiting Annie Besant.

“Oh, how delightful.” Annie was pleased to see them. “Jiddu dear, send the boy for more tea.”

“How are you, Annie?” Rowland asked after the customary introductions and greetings.

“Much better, thank you, Rowland,” she replied patting the place beside her for him to sit. “I see you are too,” she added quietly, as she rubbed his knee.
“You’re barely limping at all.”

“Solid ground quite suits me, I think.” Rowland smiled.

Mrs. Waterman glared at the scandalous placement of Annie Besant’s hand, her lips pulled into a tight line. Rowland had become quite used to the old lady’s fondness for his leg. It
was unusual, but then, so was Annie.

He tried to break the tension with a pleasant enquiry.

“Will you be staying long in New York, Mrs. Waterman?”

Mrs. Waterman sniffed. “Not long, we’ll be taking the
Aquitania
back to Sydney when she sails.”

“Then we will be fellow passengers again,” said Edna warmly from where she sat beside Krishnamurti. “I’m just sorry Jiddu and Annie won’t be coming too.”

Mrs. Waterman looked at her coldly. “Yes, quite.”

Edna shrank back.

Jiddu Krishnamurti put an arm protectively around the sculptress. “Yes, we will miss our new Australian friends—what do you say, Amma?”

“I more than you, Jiddu,” Annie replied. “You at least are young enough to hope you may cross paths with our friends again. At my age, every farewell has a permanent
ring.”

Rowland watched carefully as Mrs. Waterman sniffed again. She was clearly disgruntled. He observed her closely for the first time—she had never really caught his attention on board. She
was a tall, broad-shouldered woman, her size and posture quite manly. She hunched as she sat, as if self-conscious of her solid frame. Her face was long, her teeth large and her skin looked as
though it might once have been freckled. His painter’s eye looked for her point of beauty—the feature he would bring out if he were painting her. There was perhaps a regal arch to her
brow… but not much more. He wondered where her husband was.

The conversation moved to the crime spree currently preoccupying the American media. Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker had been shooting their way to notoriety for the past several months. Milton
countered with stories of bushrangers in a patriotic claim that Australian criminals were… well, more criminal. Daniel Cartwright offered the misdeeds of the American underworld in response
and good-natured argument ensued. Jiddu Krishnamurti stood to make a phone call. Rowland saw his chance to speak with him alone while the others were distracted. Excusing himself, he followed the
disavowed prophet to the next room. He was surprised to find Krishnamurti sitting behind the room’s large desk, waiting for him. He motioned for Rowland to close the door.

“Were you wanting to speak with me, Rowly?” he asked. “I got the impression that there was something on your mind.”

Rowland nodded.

“Is it a question of faith?” the holy man enquired encouragingly. “You know, if you open your mind it is not necessary to reject your old beliefs in order to entertain new
ideas.”

“Oh… sorry… it’s not that I’m afraid…” Rowland ran his hand through his hair as he regarded Krishnamurti awkwardly. “I wanted to ask you about
Charles Leadbeater.”

Krishnamurti’s smile vanished. His dark eyes shifted nervously.

“Why do you ask?”

Rowland dishevelled his hair again. This was difficult.

“Annie’s given me a letter of introduction. She thinks highly of him…”

“Amma’s judgement is usually impeccable.”

“In this case?”

“She is not infallible.”

“Look Jiddu, you’ve known Leadbeater for many years. Tell me, man to man—do I want to know him?”