HOPE FOR CHANGE... But Settle for a Bailout (17 page)

“My God,” said von Sommerberg.
“Spectacular.”

“This is as my parents designed it, with an
architect from Copenhagen,” said Emma.

“The food!” said von Sommerberg, leaning in
deeply over the fish bisque and inhaling.

Calvin, alone seated at the table, signaled
the filmmaker to a chair across from his. “Eat. No one else is
smart enough to.”

Moments after von Sommerberg sat, bodies
moved into chairs, conversations continuing and Lena, alone
standing, slowly paced sideward, holding a stead benign gaze on the
faces of those seated at the table.

“This Suite was my mother’s demand if she
were to leave the Royal Troupe to join my father in America.”

“Really something,” said von Sommerberg,
serving soup with a heavy ladle to his own bowl and plucking a
finger-fetched assortment of two breads and three long
crackers.

Calvin sat back and looked at the director
piling his plate with potatoes and cabbage. After he had set his
plate down and looked up, von Sommerberg extended his hand to
Calvin.

“Tres... Tres von Sommerberg,” he said, with
a glow, “from Denmark, the film director.”

“Calvin van der Bix,” said Larry’s dad,
standing up to shake hands in a grip strong enough to cause the
director to grimace. “Pure American.”

“Ingeborg’s nephew,” said von
Sommerberg.

“Don’t know who that is,” said Calvin
“Excuse me, but I need a beer.” Calvin walked off as Lena filmed
the platters and dishes on the table, hands traveling past the
camera’s enormous unit. As Calvin returned with two opened bottles,
he took more time then needed to slowly pass Lena, watching as she
bent forward to film the table. “Welcome to America,” he said, as
he passed. He set both bottles down in front of him and, sat,
openly staring at Lena as she worked.

“Carlsberg?” said von Sommerberg.

Good shit,” said Calvin, drinking from the
first bottle.

Larry, standing across the table from
Calvin, motioned with his head towards Emma, and Calvin put down
his bottle, stood, walked behind his mother, pulled out her chair
and, after she sat, helped her scoot in, before he and Larry also
sat. Lena continued filming.

Larry’s cell phone rang. He quickly pulled
it out of his pocket, as Calvin scowled.

“Son, how many times have I told you not to
have your phone at the dinner table?”

Larry looked at his father, at his phone,
pressed “reject” and, upon letting the call go “missed,” changed to
silent. “Right, uh... Dad,” said Larry.

“My God, look at this food,” said von
Sommerberg, as Calvin reached across to snap off a piece of
crackling fat off the cooked roast, only to have Larry swat his
hand away.

“Don’t swat me, boy,” said Calvin, returning
to his beer, finishing the first bottle.

“Beer?” Emma asked the director. Von
Sommerberg nodded, and Emma slid from her chair and, a moment
later, returned to the table with four opened bottles of Carlsberg,
nuts, pretzels and frosted glasses on a tray that she wheeled on a
small, silver cart.

“Nej,” said Lena, under her breath.

.

Under the shade of the balcony’s two main
parasols, Emma sat stiffly on her father’s rattan loveseat and von
Sommerberg filmed and Lena, with her notebook, asked questions.

Calvin and Larry each drank silently.

“Did your mother ever travel with her son to
visit you or ask that you meet them in Denmark?”

Emma held her hands together on her lap and
fixed her gaze slightly downward. “She did not, because my mother
did not have another child.”

“Did your mother write to you or place
telephone calls, to talk with you about life in Denmark?”

.

My Child,

Nights grow longer and the cold bites as I ride my
bicycle home each evening to the apartment. The performance tonight
filled all seats. The King brought his young family. I rarely see
sunlight, winter’s curse; only as I ride to the Theatre. The sky is
black at 4. I await my return to the lightness and warmth of life
in California.

Mor

.

“Did your father tell you about Astrid’s
life in Copenhagen, and that she had borne a son?” Lena asked,
looking up from her notes.

Emma sat motionless, without answering.

“I’m sorry if this is difficult,” said
Lena.

“Only that everything you believe is
incorrect,” said Emma, a tear falling from one eye.

Calvin, watching his mother cry, turned to
Larry, and slurred out, “What is she asking her?”

“How would I know, Dad,” Larry said. “It’s
in a foreign language.”

“You spe... oh... okay,” said Calvin.
“Right, you don’t know.” Calvin watched his mother. “Well, when you
do know, tell me.”

Von Sommerberg suddenly turned the camera
onto Calvin, who grunted with anger as the enormous camera lens
suddenly closed in to within a few feet of his face. Lena shifted
to English.

“Did you know that your grandmother bad
given birth to a boy in Copenhagen?” Lena asked.

“Me?” said Calvin. “Why would I know that? I
never met the cow.”

Larry winced.

“You never knew you had a famous cousin in
Denmark?”

“We’re the ones who’re famous, lady. We’ve
got parts of this town named after us. What’ this mystery cousin
got?” Calvin reached to his mother’s setting and took her half-full
beer glass, which he swiftly emptied.

“I think maybe this is a good time,” said
Larry.

“No, no,” said von Sommerberg. “It’s just
getting good.”

“Look, you’re taking advantage of both my
grandmother and my dad,” said Larry.

“Do you want to continue?” Lena asked
Calvin.

“Depends on what we continue doing,” he
responded, letting out a glimmer of the movie-star qualities that
enticed women like Candy to linger in Calvin’s world. “I’m free all
night, if you’d like to sashay around for me.”

‘‘Dad.’’

“ ‘Nuther time, boy. I got a hot one.”

Emma stood and pushed the rolling silver
tray towards the kitchen, as von Sommerberg followed her with the
camera. At the table, Calvin continued, “You know, this mansion’s
been in our family for almost 100 years. If the Cow goes before I
do, this whole thing is mine. I could use someone in this suite who
appreciates the beauty of California.”

Lena said nothing, using the time to go
through her notepad, crossing out lines and marking up others.

“A lot of money here,” said Calvin, in a
casual tone. “A pretty easy life for the right person... yep,
pretty easy.” Having finished Emma’s beer, Calvin reached for von
Sommerberg’s glass and, as his hand drew near, Lena, without
looking up, swatted him on the wrist with her note pad.

.

Emma, with the director filming her, wheeled
the silver cart out to the balcony, where the sun beat down
harshly, drawing sharp lines between the brightness of the day and
the shaded area where the main parasols on three sides of the long
glass-and-rattan table met the red-and-white striped awning
extending from the French doors. Atop the cart rested several thick
leather-bound albums. Bougainvillea flower petals floated
one-two-three from the trained overhang and landed nine-ten-eleven
onto the leather book.

“I traveled with my dear father to
Copenhagen when mother performed in her first role as Principal
Dancer,” said Emma. “We took the train to New York and boarded the
Queen Mary and then took a miserable ferry across the North Sea to
Denmark.” She slowly opened the first bound volume, as a seagull
landed a few feet from the book of photos. Emma waved her hand and
the bird hopped to another part of the table. Lena threw bread
across the table, causing the bird to hop off for the snack. As
Emma picked up her magnifying glass, the gull hopped up to the far
end of the balcony table, pecking at a remnant of bread on a
nearly-empty plate. The bird pecked tentatively at von Sommerberg’s
keyring, as the director filmed the bird poking and then lifting
the keyring with its bill. Larry threw a breadroll that hit the
bird square in the chest, causing it to squawk, dropping the
keyring.

“My father could not stay for the full
performance,” said Emma, slowly turning each of the pages, showing
one picture after another of a woman who just as easily could have
been Lori, in flight, in pose, in the arms of her male partner. “We
ate ice cream and saw the Little Mermaid. She told us that her life
would never be complete without Copenhagen and the ballet.”

The final image in the volume was a
close-up, showing Astrid, sweating, smiling, coming up from a bow,
with a look of triumph and ecstasy on her face. Calvin, in his
stupor, leaned in to view the photo, and did a long second look.
“Damn, granola girl looks good.”

Emma closed the volume and let her hand rest
on the leather cover. A teardrop splashed onto the leather,
instantly soaking into the cover and leaving a dark circle. Several
more tears fell, and she pushed the album slightly forward to spare
it more tears. “She did talk of having another child. My father, my
dear father, said no, ‘Let’s love the child we have,’ he told her,
our last night in Copenhagen. I pretended to sleep while they
talked into the night. ‘But she’ll never be a dancer,’ Mor told my
dear father over and over.”

Emma stood and walked to Larry, whispering
in his ear. Larry left the balcony and Emma guided Lena and the
director to the main quarters and then through the French doors,
back into the main studio, where Larry was on his knees, going
through books of 78s, seeking a specific disc. Standing, with a
single record in his hands, Larry carefully set it on the small
table next to the Victrola, removed the orchestral piece he played
earlier. He placed the new disc onto the turntable, cranked the
handle, and set the needle into the groove.

Up came “The Charleston.”

Emma Mathilde walked the two filmmakers to a
framed newspaper clipping from Politiken Dagbladet, from September
1928, showing a smiling, wide-faced blond man in a straw hat,
standing behind a young child and a tall, elegant blonde, all on a
stage with about a dozen men seated behind them.

“This is me,” said Emma. “And mother.”

A caption below the photo read: “American
presidential candidate Herbert Hoover (center) enjoys performance
of “The Charleston” by the daughter of Royal Ballet dancer Astrid
Ullagård, now Mrs. Carl van der Bix, of Long Beach, California,
during the politician’s visit to that city.” Hoover is beaming as
Astrid wears a look of horror and disgust. Emma Mathilde’s face,
closest to the camera, is filled with joy and pride.

The slightly twisted, funhouse-feeling of
“The Charleston” filled the studio. It’s a song that a good band
could stretch into long minutes or which the mind, if fixated,
could never be rid of. Everyone can hum it; no one could hate
it.

“Farmor?” said Larry. “Why are you
crying?’

Emma Mathilde slumped into the sofa beneath
the framed newspaper clipping, her eyes glistening, tears rolling
down her cheeks. Calvin, drunk, stumbled into the studio, and on
hearing the song, began to dance as best a drunken man could,
before blurting out, “It’s our song, Cow!” Calvin staggered a few
more steps, before falling heavily onto the floor.

.

Lena sat just off camera as von Sommerberg
kept his huge unit aimed at Emma, seated, deflated, on the sofa she
had slumped into while showing the clipping with Herbert Hoover.
Calvin lay on the floor, his head on a pillow that Emma had
insisted Larry place under his head. Larry sat at the far end of
the sofa, listening.

“How did he come about?” Lena asked,
pointing with her pen to Calvin.

Emma gazed at her son, passed out. There was
a faint red glow on Emma’s eyeglasses from the “on air” light, no
more than two feet from her face.

“I think we should stop,” said Larry.

“No, please,” said von Sommerberg.

“Emma? Do you wish to stop?” asked Lena.

Emma only gazed down to her son, whose mouth
hung open. He was snoring lightly. “Mor forbid me from going alone
to the Pike,” said Emma.

“The what?” said von Sommerberg.

“Oh,” said Lena, “you mean the pleasure
zone?”

“The amusement area, yes,” said Emma, “with
the Cyclone Racer that went out over the sea and I could hear the
screams from our suite.” Emma looked slowly around the room. “We
rode the Red Car,” said Emma. “We got off the train in
downtown.”

“We?” said Lena. “We, your mother? Your
father?”

“The girl... from downstairs,” said Emma,
distantly, “and the air smelled like salt and sugar, cotton candy
and hot dogs. So many people... she held my hand while we walked
and I looked up to the Cyclone racer.”

Lena leaned forward in her chair. “Yes.”

“She pulled me....”

“The girl?”

“And then we were in the hall of
mirrors.”

“The House of Mirrors?”

“She walked up to boys,” said Emma. “She
laughed and kept holding my hand.”

“Oh, no,” said Lena.

“She didn’t let go. I could hear the
clack-clack-clack and smell the candy,” said Emma, “and then we
were
behind
the mirrors. I could hear children on the other
side....”

“Emma, how old were…?”

On the floor, Calvin coughed and twitched
and then rolled onto his back.

“She wouldn’t let go,” said Emma, sitting
very still, her hands folded together on her lap.

“Damn!” said von Sommerberg, setting the
camera on its side. “Don’t stop, just… a moment....” He rustled
through his pockets and produced a large, gray square battery,
which he swapped out for the gray cube within the unit. He hoisted
the camera back up, aimed the oversized lens back to Emma, and
said, “white balance... and... go.”

Calvin, now sitting upright, managed to
stand. He stumbled to the Victrola, which he wound and dropped the
needle again play “The Charleston. “Hey, Momma, isn’t this what the
Old Man taught you to dance?” Calvin staggered through the French
doors, towards the kitchen.