Marlene (38 page)

He was very pleasant, examined my injury, and told me it could be closed with a skin graft. I told him that I still had three performances in Dallas but would come to Houston immediately afterwards. “Don't wait too long,” he said.

In contrast to the disorder that reigned in the other hospitals where I had been a patient, De Bakey's clinic was wonderfully organized. Beautiful rooms, charming staff. De Bakey worked day and night, and visited me twice a day, sometimes even at eleven o'clock in the evening, to make sure that everything was all right, and that I and the other patients were being well cared for. Michael De Bakey is certainly one of the greatest doctors of his time. Like so many other former patients of his, I hold great admiration for him, and tremendous gratitude for his high ethics and the great compassion with which he ran his clinic.

Apropos of hospitals, next to Houston I would also recommend the University Clinic of Los Angeles. It is an excellent place, and the doctors there are tops. I spent only three days there in my giant cast, and the nursing care was superb. The nurses, pretty-as-a-picture Californians who were not only cheerful but also friendly and efficient, took excellent care of me. One of the nurses accompanied me when I was transported to New York. I was fastened to a stretcher, but my escort spent the entire night awake, in case I should need anything. A sweet, beautiful girl.

But, back to Houston. Before the operation, the staff didn't even remove my nail polish. “Don't touch her beautiful hands,” De Bakey had ordered. The doctor who did the skin graft suffered a detached retina two days after he operated on me (I learned this later). But Dr. De Bakey supervised my whole case.

When I came out of the anesthesia, my leg lay in a cast. The surgeons had taken a broad strip of skin from my left hip. It was painful. A lamp was shining on the spot, so that the “scarlet” salve that had been applied over it would dry. The piece of skin was large, much larger, it seemed to me, than the wound on the leg. When I asked why so large a piece of skin had been cut, I was told, “If the graft doesn't take, we have another piece, in the refrigerator, so we can make another try.” Naturally, I didn't expect the first graft to take. All my optimism had vanished after the months I had
spent with the unhealed leg. A crew of doctors, young and old, examined me three times a day. Three weeks later I was told I could get up and slowly walk up and down the hospital corridor. Once, twice, then three times a day. Finally, Dr. De Bakey after many hugs, escorted me to the car so carefully and solicitously that I was moved to tears.

I phoned him from Sydney later, when I broke the same leg. He spoke with the doctors there, was reassured that “only” the thigh bone was broken, not the skin itself, and gave me the name of the best orthopedic surgeon in America. Once again, he had placed a protective hand over me, and saved me from the mistakes I might have made. He made the decisions for me—my “hero,” Dr. Michael De Bakey. His right hand, Sonia Farrell, was my guardian angel.

After my thigh was completely healed, I spent two months at home, still in a cumbersome cast. When it was finally removed, I could walk. I had become stiff, but I could walk, clumsily, with an iron will. My left leg is still stiff because of the traction, but I can walk.

Since then, I've read scores of reports of people who have endured the same torments and who tell me about their “immense affliction.” That's very sad; I, on the other hand, don't feel particularly afflicted. I limp, of course, but that's not a disaster. I manage rather well. I limp only slightly, and those who really love me find my gait quite interesting. My hobbling will disappear with time, and I'll be like a “newborn” again. At any rate, that's what they've said. May God grant this grace!

Today, I live in Paris. Konstantin Paustovsky has written, “A man can die without having seen Paris—and yet he has seen it in his dreams and his imagination.”

No one could better describe the charm of Paris. My own words seem feeble, but in accordance with Paustovsky's wish (it was he who inspired me to write), I will try to describe the unfathomable magic and fascination that Paris holds for me.

Its light melts even the hardest heart. The light of Paris is
blue. By this, I don't mean to say that the sky is blue. That it is not! But the light is blue. It cannot be compared to any other light in the Western world. You have the impression that you're wearing blue-tinted glasses, which is much better than seeing everything through rose-colored glasses.

In this light, the Seine also has a magical effect, even if we know that sometimes it is very muddy. It has its own magic. The tiny, crooked streets, and the majestic boulevards—created by a taste that has disappeared from our world—have been beautifully preserved in Paris. The only other place I can think of that has this same feeling is, oddly, Buenos Aires, a city so similar to Paris that tears came to my eyes the first time I saw it.

The fascination that Paris holds is as difficult to describe as the love between a man and a woman. Spring, summer, autumn and winter are—as Alan Jay Lerner says—wonderful and peaceful seasons of incomparable beauty, in Paris and in all France. In Paris you can rest, and let the world pursue its own mad course. When someone dies, it's said that “angels carried him away.” Here is a poem that can describe this city, this country which I love, better than I can.

DREAM AT TWILIGHT

White meadows in twilight gray

The sun sets slowly

The stars begin to shine.

Now I go to the most beautiful woman,

Far across the meadows in the twilight gray

Deep in a bush of jasmine.

I go slowly

Through twilight gray in the land of love,

I don't hurry.

A soft velvet ribbon

Draws me through twilight gray

In a gentle, blue light.

Otto Julius Bierbaum

A
S FAR AS THIS
book goes, everything is true, even though there are imperfections and certain things that have been left unspoken. Pain and sorrow are private matters.

I've done my duty. I've always assumed my responsibilities. That's all that counts for me.

It's well known that I've always had a great mistrust of reporters and other people who wanted to write about me.

Only I know the truth about myself. The truth about all the years spent on the stages of the world. The truth that some writer friends also wanted to express.

Hemingway:

“She's courageous, beautiful, loyal, charming, and generous. She's never boring. In the morning, in the shirt, trousers and boots of an American soldier, she looks as special as she does in the evening or on the screen. Her honesty as well as her sense of the comedy and tragedy of life are responsible for the fact that she can never truly be happy, except when she loves. She can also joke about love, but it's gallows humor. Even if she had nothing but her voice, she could break your heart with it. In addition, she has this beautiful body,
and the timeless beauty of her face. What if it does break your heart if she's there to put it together again?

“She's never cruel, but angry, yes, that she can be, and stupid people get on her nerves, and she makes no secret of it, unless the dunderhead happens to be in need. Whoever needs help, to some extent can count on her sympathies.

“Marlene sets her own rules, but the standards she sets for the manners and honesty of others are no less strict than the original ten commandments. That is one of the things that probably makes her so mysterious, that so beautiful and talented a woman, who can do what she pleases, does only what she considers absolutely right, that she was so clever and courageous to set up her own rules, which she follows.

“I know that I, myself, could never see Marlene without her moving me and making me happy. If that's what makes her mysterious, it's a beautiful mystery. It's a mystery of which we have known for a long time.”

André Malraux:

“Marlene Dietrich is not an actress like Sarah Bernhardt, she is a myth like Phyrné.”

Jean Cocteau:

“Marlene Dietrich … Your name begins with a caress, and ends with a whiplash. You wear feathers and furs that seem to belong on your body like the fur on animals and the feathers on birds. Your voice, your look, are those of a Lorelei. But Lorelei was dangerous. You, on the other hand, are not, since the secret of your beauty lies in your goodheartedness. This goodness of heart places you above elegance, above fashion, above style, even above your fame, your courage, your walk, your films and your songs.

“Your beauty is not to be overlooked, but there's no need to even mention it. So, I bow before your goodness. It illumines you from within that long wave of glory that you are. A transparent wave that comes from far away and generously deigns to roll in
toward us. From the sequins in
The Blue Angel
to the tails in
Morocco,
from the shabby black dress in
X.27
to the exotic bird feathers in
Shanghai Express,
from the diamonds in Desire to the American uniform, from port to port, from reef to reef, from wave to wave, from embankment to embankment, bears down on us, sails unfurled, a frigate, a figurehead on the prow, a flying fish, a bird of paradise, the incredible, wonderful, Marlene Dietrich!” (From his presentation of Marlene Dietrich at the “Bal de la Mer” in Monte Carlo, August 17, 1954.)

Jean Cau:

“In a world of Lolitas, small, buxom dolls in short skirts with lips pouting, whose strident voices proclaim they want to ‘live their life,' and who twist and turn enough to dislocate their vertebrae, I take off my plumed hat to you, Madame Dietrich, and bow deeply to the floor.

“Most beautiful of all women, who fills my dreams with your legend, we bid you welcome, Marlene. May you be welcome all over the world, and homage be paid to your glory and timelessness.

“Whence comes this smoky voice that speaks of broken hearts, this dark voice of a thousand wishes—and from what sea rises this eternal siren that binds Odysseus forever to the mast of his ship. Because of your glory and your beauty, Madame, you are, since time immemorial, our Queen, under our countless rapt gazes that spread over the glittering scales of your body. And since time immemorial, you are our elect, as your soul rises above the legend and above the night.”

Christopher Fry:

“There are legends, legendary islands, legendary cities, legends of courage, righteousness, beauty. They will always be in our innermost thoughts. Not because they are legendary, but because they hold the truth, deep-rooted like all truth. The golden legend, or a nightmare, the legend of the Lorelei, of radiant Apollo, from
whose hair were fashioned the strings of his lyre, or the dream of the blond women; the legends will always be an immutable part of the world; as if Eve, herself, on leaving the Garden of Eden, had created a new Paradise of her own mystery, and with this mystery a warmth, a wisdom, a humanity, a truth and a living legend.”

Kenneth Tynan:

“These are aspects of the lady as they surface in my memory, colored no doubt by fifteen years of knowing her and some thirty years of quietly lustful admiration.

“First, there is my friend the nurse—the sender of appropriate pills, the source of uncanny medical tips, the magic panacea. For this Marlene, healer of the world's wounded, I have often been thankful. Her songs are healing, too. Her voice tells you that whatever hell you inhabit, she has been there before, and survived. Some trace of ancient Teutonic folk wisdom—many would call it witchcraft—still adheres to her. For example, she can predict a child's sex before its birth. This must, of course, be inspired guesswork or shrewdly applied psychology. She calls it science, as any witch would.

“Then there is the self-punishing worker, daughter of an exacting German father, brought up to take pleasure as a prize and a privilege, not as a birthright. This is the Marlene who worships excellence—a high-definition performer who daily polishes her unrusting skills. A small eater, sticking to steaks and greenery, but a great devourer of applause. For some people (said Jean Cocteau), style is a very complicated way of saying very simple things, for others, it is a very simple way of saying very complicated things. Marlene is one of the others. Her style looks absurdly simple—an effortless act of projection, a serpentine lasso whereby her voice casually winds itself around our most vulnerable fantasies. But it is not easy. It is what remains when ingratiation, sentimentality and the manifold devices of heart-warming crap have been ruthlessly pared away. Steel and silk are left, shining and durable.

“And a tireless self-chronicler. For the first half hour of every meeting with this Marlene, you will be told how she wowed them
in Warsaw, mowed them down in Moscow, savaged them in Sydney, was pelted with poppies in Ispahan. It is all true and, if anything, understated. She is merely keeping you up to date. Then she moves in—critical, probing and self-abnegating—on your own life and its problems. For the time being, you transfer your burdens to the willing shoulders of this gallant Kraut.

“As I wrote before I met her, she has sex but no particular gender. They say (or, at least,
I
say) that she was the only woman who was allowed to attend the annual ball for male transvestites in pre-Hitler Berlin. She habitually turned up in top hat, white tie and tails. Seeing two exquisite creatures descending the grand staircases, clad in form-hugging sequins and cascading blond wigs, she wondered wide-eyed: ‘Are you two in love?' ‘
Fraulein
,' said one of them frostily, ‘we are not lesbians.' This Marlene lives in a sexual no man's land—and no woman's, either. She dedicates herself to looking, rather than to being, sexy. The art is in the seeming. The semblance is the image, and the image is the message. She is every man's mistress and mother, every woman's lover and aunt, and nobody's husband except Rudi's—and he is her husband, far off on his ranch in California.