Stardust (6 page)

She bit her lip, then sighed and fixed him with an or-else stare. “This isn’t a house call. I had to get him out of bed to come here. Now are you coming or what?”

He shrugged, beginning to move off, then paused and looked back to Ben. “If you need a few days, that’s okay. You know, to visit at the hospital.”

A
T FIRST
, scanning the crowd, all he saw were the dark glasses and thick blond hair, pinned up in a pile on her head. Then she came toward him, a smooth stride, and he recognized the woman in her photograph, the same long face as her father, the high forehead. What it hadn’t shown was the skin, a tawny cream that held the sun in it. She was in a white short-sleeved blouse, slacks, and canvas shoes, as if she’d just stepped off a tennis court.

“Liesl?” he said, peering at her.

“Yes,” she said, extending her hand. Then, “Excuse me,” taking off her sunglasses, “so rude. Sometimes I forget. So we meet.”

“How is he?”

“The same.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“He’s not responding. It’s a long time now. We’re just waiting. You understand, there’s no recovery. I don’t want you to expect—”

Her eyes, uncovered now, darted sharply, flecked with light. She seemed to be wearing no makeup at all, lips bare, not even a hint of Paulette Goddard’s glossy red, just the flush of anger or worry that made her movements jerky—handshake to questioning glance, all quick, angular. Only the voice was smooth, held a second too long in her throat, still with a trace of accent. When she said, “This is all?” nodding to his bag, he heard the rhythm of German, not quite forgotten yet.

“That’s it. I’m sorry to get you down here so early.”

“No, I was glad to get a break,” she said, colloquial, fully American now. “It’s been—” She let the phrase finish itself.

“You’re sure it’s all right? To stay? If it’s not convenient—”

“No, no,” she said, dismissing this. “We were expecting you.” Another awkward pause. “Of course later, not so soon. He was excited you were coming.”

“He was?” Ben said, unexpectedly pleased. “Then—”

He stopped before “why,” catching himself. Danny wouldn’t have thought about him, about anyone. They didn’t. Something that happened only to you.

“Yes,” she was saying. “So many years.”

“Liesl? Is that you?”

A tiny woman, teetering in high heels, was hurrying toward them from the barrier. She was wearing a suit with a matching hat, the veil thrown back, as if she didn’t want to miss anything. Behind her, trying to keep up, was a man holding a camera.

“Polly,” Liesl said, taking a step backward.

“My dear, I can’t tell you—”

“Thank you,” said Liesl, anticipating her. “This is Daniel’s brother, Ben.”

“You must be
shell
-shocked,” Polly said, ignoring him. “I know Herb Yates is. I talked to him.”

She spoke in a rush that was a kind of suppressed giggle and the rest of her moved with it, head turning to keep the passengers in sight, so alert that her body actually seemed to be vibrating. The effect, Ben noticed, was to make Liesl recede, wary as prey.

“Did you see the column, dear? The item about Dan? I didn’t mention the bottle. I thought, Herb has enough on his plate without—and, you know, it just gives the industry a black eye. I was never one for that.”

“No,” Liesl said, noncommittal.

“And how is that other man?” Polly said, almost winking, some sort of joke between them. “Such a shame about
Central Station
. Sometimes, a book like that, you wonder if it’s
too
rich. But he must have been disappointed.”

“Oh, I think he was grateful for the money,” Liesl said, evading.

“What is he working on now?” She stopped swiveling to look straight at Liesl, a reporter with an invisible pad.

“You know he never says.”

“But you’re his translator, dear.”

“Only at the end. When he’s finished.”

But Polly, not really interested, was looking around again. “Oh, there’s Carole Landis.”

Ben followed her look to the end of the platform where Landis, Julie Sherman, and the other girls were getting off the train. They were all back in their bond-drive dresses, as next-door as the Andrews Sisters.

“You’re meeting her?” Liesl said, eager to be off.

Polly shook her head. “Paulette Goddard’s on the train.”

“No, she got off in Pasadena,” Ben said.

Polly whirled around, surprised, glaring at him.

“We met on the train,” he said, explaining himself.

“The studio said Union Station. Stanley’s in Pasadena. He doesn’t do interviews. Now the best I can do for her is an item. Is that what she wants?” Still fuming at Ben, somehow holding him responsible.

“I don’t think she knew.”

“Maybe she thinks she doesn’t need it anymore, a good word here and there. I’d be more careful. Given where she’s been.”

For a second Ben thought she meant the chorus days, less innocent than Sol imagined, but Polly had gone elsewhere, almost spitting now with irritation.

“You know, you lie down with a Red, a little pink always comes off. If I’d been married to Mr. Chaplin I’d be a
little
more careful before I threw away a friendly interview.” She looked over her shoulder to see Landis getting nearer. “Well, I guess it’s Carole’s lucky day. Won’t she be pleased.”

“We’d better let you get on with it,” Liesl said, beginning to move away.

“Believe me, dear, she’ll wait. Nice running into you.” She patted Liesl’s arm. “You’ll be all right. You tell that other man I’d like to have a chat sometime. As a friend. You know, he’s been signing things and you have to be careful what you sign. Carole!”

She stuck out her arm, waving, and without saying good-bye hurried over to the surprised Landis, the photographer trailing behind. Liesl stared at her for a minute, face flushed.

“My god. ‘You have to be careful what you sign,’“ she said, her voice bitter.

“Who was that?”

“Polly Marks.” She caught Ben’s blank look. “She writes for the newspapers. One hundred and twenty-three of them.”

“Exactly one hundred and twenty-three?”

She smiled a little, a slight softening. “My father told me. He’s always exact.”

“Who’s the other man? Him?”

She nodded. “You know my father is Hans Ostermann. So Thomas Mann is also here. And she imagines they have a rivalry—well, maybe it’s true a little—and so he’s the Other Mann. The names, you see. Warners bought one of his books, so now he exists for her. Otherwise—” She turned her head, annoyed with herself. “I’m sorry. She does that to me. I’m sorry for such a greeting. So, welcome to paradise,” she said with an indifferent wave toward the station.

She started through the barrier, leaving Ben to follow on his own, moving sideways with the bag through the crowd to keep up. The main hall, streamlined Spanish colonial, was noisy with leave-taking, voices rising over the loudspeaker announcements, so Ben had to speak up.

“What did she mean about the bottle?”

“They found one in the room,” she said, slowing a little but not stopping. “They think—you know, for courage. I don’t know who told her. One of her little mice. Maybe the maid. She pays them. Or the night clerk.”

Or porters on trains, Ben thought. They were passing through a waiting hall with deep chairs and mission-style chandeliers.

“I don’t understand about the hotel.”

“It’s an apartment hotel. People live there. But there’s a switchboard and a maid to change the sheets. A service, considering. You rent by the month.”

“And he used it as an office?”

“What do you think?” she said, looking at him.

They reached the high arched entrance, where Ben had to stop,
blinded by the sudden glare. She had moved aside to put on her sunglasses and now was rummaging through her bag for cigarettes.

“I suppose it takes the guesswork out of getting a room. They asked me if I was going to use up the month. Since it was already paid for. They want to move someone else in. Collect twice.” She lit a cigarette, her hand shaking a little, then looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry to involve you in this. Such a welcome. But you’ll hear it anyway. So it was like that.”

He looked over at her, not sure what to say. A marriage he knew nothing about.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” he said finally. “You didn’t know?”

She shook her head. “Isn’t that the point?
Cinq à sept
. Like the French. Just get home in time for dinner.” She drew on the cigarette, her expression lost behind the glasses. “Or maybe he didn’t want to come home. So that’s that.” She lifted her head. “I wonder what she felt when she saw it in the papers. Maybe she left him. Maybe it was that. Well,” she said, the word like a thud, so final that for a moment neither of them spoke. Then she stepped away from the wall. “So come. With any luck we’ll have the house to ourselves. These last few days— Why do people bring food? Salka brought noodle pudding. Noodle pudding in this climate.” She turned to him, still hidden behind the glasses. “Please. Don’t listen to me. All this—business, it’s not your problem. It’s good you’re here.” She dropped the cigarette, grinding it out, and started for the parking lot, lined with spindly palms, then stopped again, staring at the rows of cars, gleaming with reflected sun. “You know what’s the worst? I didn’t know he was unhappy. Isn’t that terrible, not to know that about someone? Maybe the woman was part of all that, I don’t know. So maybe it’s my fault, too.”

“No. It’s nobody’s fault.”

“I didn’t even notice,” she said, not hearing him. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. One day, one thing, the next—” She put a hand up to her forehead, covering her glasses. “I’m sorry. I must sound like a crazy woman. Talking like this. You’re here five minutes—”

“It’s all right. I don’t know how to feel, either.”

She turned, dropping her hand. “Yes. I forget. It’s not just me, is it?”

He followed her to a convertible with the canvas roof down, shining with chrome, the metal handle already hot to the touch. She opened the door, then stood still for a second, looking at him.

“What?”

“Just then, with the bag, you were like him. Not the looks. You don’t look alike. But the gesture.”

He got in, flustered, and watched her start the car.

“I know it’s hard, but—tell me what happened. I want to know. The papers. I mean, dizzy spells.”

“That was their idea. I said, why not a stroke? Anybody can have a stroke. Even young. But they said a doctor could tell, if he looked. A fall, it doesn’t matter.”

“Who said?”

“The studio. They’re superstitious. Bad things. Maybe they
stick
. They’re not supposed to happen.” She glanced up at the bright sky. “Just sunshine.”

“But how? Through a window?” he said, still trying to picture it.

“There was a balcony. Just enough to step on. You know the kind?”

“A Juliet,” he said automatically.

“Yes? Like the play? So if you got dizzy, you could fall.”

“If you got dizzy.”

She looked at him, then up at the rearview mirror, backing out, physically moving away.

“Look,” she said, nodding toward the station doors as Polly came out with Carole Landis, arms linked. She waved and moved the car forward in the line to the exit. “Did you really meet Paulette Goddard on the train?” Not wanting to talk about it. “What was she like?”

“Nice,” he said, forced to go along.

“Maybe you are.”

“No, she was.”

“She won’t be after Polly’s through with her.”

“What was that about? With Chaplin?”

“Polly hates Chaplin. So he must be a Communist. Everyone she hates is a Communist. She hated Daniel, too, when he was in the union. She thinks they’re all Communists in the union.”

“Then why is she doing him a favor? Covering.”

“It’s for Yates. Daniel was important to him.
Partners
made money. So he was giving him a big picture to do. You know at Metro you have to wait years for that. That’s why he left there. You know what he’s like. Everything today. A skating picture, but still. A good budget.”

Not failing, on his way up.

“Skating. Like Sonja Henie?”

“Vera Hruba Ralston,” she said, drawing out the name. “You know her? Yates is in love with her. So it was a good job for Daniel. They paid him while they fixed the script.”

“Hruba?”

“‘She skated out of Czechoslovakia and into the hearts of America.’“

Ben did a double take, then smiled. “Really?”

She nodded. “On the posters,” she said, lighting another cigarette at the stop sign.

“Who’s Mr. Ralston?”

“She got it off a cereal box.”

“You’re making it up.”

“You don’t have to, not here.” She looked up at the sky again. “The fog’s burning off early. Sometimes it takes all morning. Shall we go to the hospital first?”

She pulled out of the lot, looking straight ahead. Smoke curled up from the cigarette between her fingers on the steering wheel, then flew back in the breeze as they sped up, mixing with loose wisps of hair. What California was supposed to be like—a girl in a convertible. But not the way he expected.

Across the street, they drove past a sleepy plaza of tile roofs and Mexican rug stalls, a village for tourists. Behind it, just a block away, the American city began: office buildings, coffee shops, anywhere. Harold Lloyd had dangled from a clock here and the Kops had chased
each other through Pershing Square and dodged streetcars (red, it turned out), but all that had happened in some city of the mind. The real streets, used so often as somewhere else, looked like nowhere in particular.

They drove out on Wilshire, the buildings getting lower, drive-ins and car lots with strings of plastic pennants.

“The first time, you think how can it be like this,” she said, noticing his expression. “The
signs
. And then you get used to it. Even my father. He likes it now.”

“Well, the climate—”

“Not so much that. He’s hardly ever outside. For him it’s a haven,” she said, her voice so throaty that it came out “heaven.” “All those years, moving. One place. Another place. Then here, finally safe, and other Germans are here, so it’s good. The sun, I don’t think it matters for him. He lives in his study. In his books.”