Three Women in a Mirror (7 page)

On several occasions a blond nurse's aide came up to her. Whenever he leaned over her she spoke to him, but each time something strange happened that prevented him from speaking. Whenever she opened her mouth, the employee hurried away; yes, the moment she spoke he disappeared. But the magic trick did not seem intentional, and the young man's face expressed neither vice nor malice. As soon as he came back, he seemed attentive, and gazed at her, clearly wishing to help her. But as soon as she said a word, it all changed.

Initially she thought she was prey to an unstable reality, especially since she felt as though she were falling. She deduced that time must be playing tricks on her by breaking off without warning. Finally she noticed that as soon as she spoke to the nurse she was in an empty room. She concluded, correctly this time, that she was falling asleep again.

After two days had gone by, she managed to hold a conversation.

“Where am I?”

“I'm glad we can talk, Anny. My name is Ethan.”

“Hmm . . . ”

“You are in room 23 at the Linden Clinic, in Hollywood.”

“What's wrong with me?”

“You have various contusions. Nothing serious. You'll be fine. Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“So we're giving you the right dose.”

“Dose of what?”

“Morphine.”

From the depths of her brain a memory emerged of her father with a scientific journal in his hand, declaring that morphine was considered a dangerous drug because the moment you take it, you can no longer do without.

In the hours that followed, as she drifted in and out, she remembered what he had said, sat up, shouted at the top of her lungs, wore herself out, fell asleep, and started all over again until, tired of resisting, she resolved to ignore her father's warning. Addiction was her specialty: she was already hooked on booze, weed, and coke, so why not add morphine! What difference did it make? At least in this case she'd be able to say that it wasn't her fault. “Exactly, your Honor, it was the doctors who filled me with poison: they said they were treating me, but in fact they were condemning me to a life as a junkie. You should send them to prison, your Honor, or make them do community service. It's their fault, not mine.” Several times between naps she played the scene to an imaginary courthouse: she was delighted to be cast as the innocent young woman.

One morning Dr. Sinead, the head of the clinic, came into the room. He was followed by a cluster of new interns, inflated with vanity and proud to be in the surgeon's company: they already considered themselves eminent physicians just by virtue of being in his wake.

“How is America's little darling?”

Anny almost burst out laughing: Professor Sinead spoke with a nasal voice similar to that of an old actress that Anny adored, the one everyone called Vuitton Bag, so often had the skin on her face been tugged and stitched and stitched again.

“Well, how are we feeling today?” he insisted.

If his inflection was the same as Vuitton Bag's, it was for an identical reason: his lips had been remodeled, pulled wider then puffed up.

Anny scrutinized Dr. Sinead.

His skin had been ravaged by diets, wearied by the years, and it drooped wherever it had not been lifted—neck, ears, the top of his chest, his forearms and wrists. Elsewhere, his washed-out skin bore the marks of the stretching inflicted by cutting, twisting, and stitching. After so many cosmetic operations, Dr. Sinead's face displayed not the vitality of a youthful creature, but the frailty of an accident victim.

“Anny, can you hear us?”

What a horrible voice. Metallic, no timber to it. And his scrambled elocution: his vowels lacked all purity, while his consonants were suffocating. Since the plastic surgery that had moved his lips had also made them rigid, Dr. Sinead articulated behind a mask.

“Anny? Anny, please!”

Anny understood that she must quit speculating and return to reality. Ethan had told her what Dr. Sinead represented in Los Angeles, so she prepared herself as if for an audition.

“Yes. Here I am. I'm coming to . . . ”

“It's about time! Can we have a look at your injuries?”

“Make yourself at home.”

Anny realized she was just as curious as the servile assistants who were listening to Sinead's explanations, because she didn't know anything about her injuries. Legs, arms, ribs, bruises, wounds, gashes, burns: everything was displayed and commented upon. Judging from Sinead's remarks, Anny had been very lucky to get off so lightly after such an extraordinary plunge.

“There is a god for artists, Miss Lee.”

“You think so? In Hollywood there is only one God and his name is Money.”

He laughed politely at the hackneyed joke.

“You will go on honoring that god, Miss Lee: you'll soon be gracing the set again.”

He thought he was giving her comforting news. But in fact he was informing her that because of her fall she would not be returning to the set of the feature film she'd been in the middle of making. She was suddenly filled with anxiety: had they stopped production? How much would it cost her? Or, worse yet: had they replaced her?

Upset, she gave a grimace of farewell to the departing medical team. Her heart was pounding. She was soaked in sweat.

“Johanna! Johanna!”

Instinctively, she called out for her press agent. But naturally she wasn't there, and no one heard Anny shouting. Never mind! She pounded the mattress, thumped her fist on the wall, tried to smash the plaster cast that had her leg in traction, and screamed at the top of her lungs, “Johanna!”

Ethan came in, looking worried.

“Anny, what's going on? Are you in pain?”

On seeing that fair face, radiant with goodness, Anny did not hesitate for one second.

“Yes! I'm in terrible pain.”

“Where?”

Her face contorted convincingly, she enumerated all the places on her body that Dr. Sinead had examined, then concluded in a croaking voice, “Please, help me.”

“I . . . uh . . . ”

“Knock me out.”

“No.”

“Put me in a coma, I can't take it . . . ”

“Anny, calm down. I'll increase the dose of morphine.”

Having gotten her way, Anny nearly abandoned her playacting; fortunately, she knew to hide her joy and she went on sobbing.

“God, the pain! I'll never make it . . . ”

“Yes you will. The painkiller will soon take effect.”

“No, it hurts too much. I'm going to die.”

“Don't exaggerate. Everything will be fine.”

“I'm dying! I demand to see my agent.”

“Come on, now. Just let me get the dose . . . ”

“I want my agent!”

No matter what Ethan did to try to make her feel better, Anny did not stop moaning until the nurse had written down the agent's number and promised to contact her so that she would come to Anny's bedside.

Then she abandoned herself to the painkiller, and drifted delightedly away into the sweet anesthesia.

 

The following morning, Johanna Fisher, also known as The Shark, was sitting by Anny's bed in a tight anthracite suit. Her famous toothy smile broke through a heavy layer of foundation.

“My word, darling, you really had us worried! Well, anyway, apparently you're going to get better. I've been calling for updates every hour for three days. By the way, did you get my flowers? If you don't like them, the office will send you different ones, don't hesitate. Lilacs, roses, peonies, irises, whatever you want. Okay, let's not waste a minute, let me sum up the situation. The press has gone wild with your misadventure, which is great. Some of the clubbers took pictures with their smartphones of you lying on the floor; fortunately, they were all so bad that the publications could only use them as insets and they had to get out the big glamour shots. Which was perfect—fantastic buzz! All the media—TV, radio, the papers, the Internet—really went to town, especially because they don't have a clue what happened to you. Everyone knows the result—you crashed onto the dance floor at the Red and Blue—but no one knows why. They say it was an accident, but no one believes it. It's typical: no one could care less about an accident; what's worse, it terrifies people. What is really fascinating is when a fall turns out to be the result of a state of mind—when it's a gesture and not just some clumsy mishap. Anything that allows others to identify with the victim: despair, a call for help, an attempted suicide.”

“It was enthusiasm! I was happy.”

“You were drunk.”

“I was having a really good time—”

“Shush.”

“Johanna, I—”

“David told me you thought you were clinging to a vine, swinging from the footbridge into the rain-forest. I managed to hush him up—we'll have to talk about that—because nobody needs to know details like that.”

“It's the truth.”

“The truth is not worth a thing. What we need is a story. A good story.”

“Maybe. I just wanted to let you know what really—”

“Anny, your audience loves you for the story you feed them. Not for who you are.”

Johanna had raised her voice. Anny slipped deeper into the pillows, feeling ashamed. Her agent went on berating her.

“You're a star, damn it, not just anybody. So please, play the part, take advantage of it, take the money, reach for the glory, and don't come whining to me because you want to be honest and resemble all the poor idiots who buy tickets to go and see you! What matters are rumors, contradictory theories, articles that keep rehashing the story, the ongoing mystery, journalists coming up with new hypotheses, former friends who testify, bloggers who add their grain of salt. Rumors are the only thing that sell. If you put an end to them, either out of a sense of loyalty or with a pretty lie, you'll only screw things up, and cancel out all the positive benefits.”

With Johanna's threatening tone, Anny felt peace return: Johanna's voice and her sound reasoning were setting her free. With authority like that she didn't need to go on delaying; if she could see herself with those eyes, she could accept her fate.

There was no better mirror than Johanna Fisher. Johanna had been guiding Anny since childhood, ever since
Dad, I Borrowed the Car
, her first hit, guiding her through the labyrinth of professional life, helping her avoid the ordinary missteps and dead ends, keeping her on Hollywood Boulevard. Through the years, Johanna had given her the reference points, rules, requirements, and goals that her family had failed to provide. What family, anyway? Anny was an orphan, her mother and father unknown, and she had lived with other strangers, Paul and Janet Lee. She had no illusions, she'd hardly given any legitimacy to the individuals who, through a succession of random events, she had come to call mom and dad. She bore their name, and she had submitted sweetly and fatalistically to their presence in her life, as if they were her regular co-stars in a sitcom. She had decided to love them, first of all to simplify her life—she hated conflict—and then because her nature compelled her to be friendly. Anny was nothing if not friendly toward everyone. Anyone who saw the daughter exchanging kisses with her mother or laughing out loud with her father would simply conclude that the child had a solid, tender bond with her adoptive parents. But with Anny this was merely a spontaneous disposition that had evolved as a way of avoiding problems.

In exchange for the affection she showed them, Anny was afforded a certain amount of freedom, and then her emancipation and independence. Very early on, at the age of sixteen, she left home and spent her time the way she liked, working, partying, flirting, drinking, and getting stoned.

Johanna Fisher and her team were well aware of their star's addiction, but they did nothing to try and stop her because it left her at their mercy. Johanna had never attempted to persuade her client to stop abusing alcohol or cocaine, or to try to wean herself off them. As long as Anny's excesses left no mark on her face, and the cinematographers did not complain, Johanna would let her do whatever she wanted—particularly as it was grist for the mill of the rumormongers and paparazzi.

“Don't you want to hear the news about the film?”

“I was about to ask you, Johanna.”

“They've suspended production, but the studio is delighted. The producers say it's great publicity, because hundreds of newspapers have covered the story of your fall, and at the same time they've mentioned the title of the film, the director, and the cast. In terms of promotional investment, it's the equivalent of a windfall of two million dollars, all without spending a cent. They're over the moon. They're waiting for you to come back. As soon as you're back on set, the reporters will be there, too. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“The doctors say it will take two weeks? In any case, we can figure something out for the close-ups and medium shots; for the long shots where we need you on your feet, either we'll use a stand-in or I'll get them to change the schedule and wait a little longer. But let's not fantasize, Anny: you have to get back to work as soon as possible, otherwise the producers will replace you without a backward glance. Thanks to you and your ‘accident,' their film is getting a fair amount of publicity and visibility, all to their advantage; they're not going to drop it. So it's better for them to communicate on the basis of your continuing contribution rather than to replace you with some starlet.”

“They would do that?”

“No one is indispensable, darling.”

“I thought anything but.”

“You're joking?”

“An artist is unique. You cannot replace Picasso with Matisse.”

“Who's talking about art, toots? You're making movies in Hollywood. What's more, when a producer has enough money for a Picasso, he can easily buy a Matisse.”

Johanna Fisher stood up, annoyed she'd had to start philosophizing. For her, explanations were a waste of time and money. Particularly when it was about something that was perfectly obvious.