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Chapter
One of Living On Velvet:
Marco
Astori, International Excellence Pictures' highly acclaimed
feature film director, motioned with a cautious hand to
bring the camera on the track around to the front of the
sofa. It was perfect.
"Actors,
find your places. To your marks. Quiet...wait for my cue."
He always spoke in a loud whisper, on and off the set.
Adopting an international fashion savvy popular with other
directors, he wore mustard-colour jodhpurs that day, with a
blood-orange cardigan topping a white shirt. A tan tweed
beret slanted toward his left temple did little to conceal
his silver-streaked, thinning brown hair.
He
was satisfied. It was a resplendent room for lovers. The
camera panned slowly over the raven-shadowed Victorian
boudoir set of Our Grand Romance, the studio's next
certain box-office success. Festooned curtains and fringed
throws, all in rich dark velvets and luscious moiré,
were clung with the warm, musky colognes of his lead actor
and actress. Filming in the Hollywood heat of July 1933, the
big-budget period production was slated for October release
at the latest.
"Bring
the focus in slowly now," the director, in his late forties,
motioned to the right.
Lazy
tendrils of smoke curled upward from a French cigarette
burning in a crystal ashtray. Two champagne goblets,
carnelian lipstick smears on one gold-edged rim, lay
dripping almost empty on their sides, precariously near the
edge of the large table which banked an overstuffed cream
velvet sofa.
The
lens swept down to find a cast-away champagne bottle on the
floor, shrouded with ladies long black evening gloves.
Nearby, a black satin evening slipper with a black
mink-pouffe toe had been tossed and forgotten. Next to it
lay a pair of black silk stockings bunched into rhinestone
and pearl-studded garters.
An
upward roll of the camera returned to the table to linger
across an open box of chocolates, along with weeping
sections of peaches on a silver tray, ravaged earlier in the
scene with the champagne. A crystal dish of truffles was
untouched.
"Now
let's get mystical," the director said in a hush.
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Four
tall cathedral candles glowed out of the dark velvet
backdrop (which he knew would imbue the black and white film
scene with a sultry opulence), and tenderly bathed a
clandestine couple on the sofa below the table, capturing
them within a shimmering patchouli-scented halo.
Astori
watched his two stars on the sofa carefully. The bouffant
skirts of her Orry-Kelly creation were tucked securely this
time behind her knees, ensuring the very intimate scene
would pass the censorship board preview before release. The
remaining length of glimmering black satin rested on the
plush violet and indigo oriental carpet. "This is going to
look beautiful on film," he said to no one in
particular.
Delicate
Vionette Chemineaux, thirty-six years of age and one of few
major stars who'd successfully crossed from silent into
sound pictures, was in a superb half-faint, an arm across
her forehead. The ruby bracelet on her wrist glittered like
fiery pulsating stars. Her heavily mascaraed opal-blue eyes
stared blankly out beyond the set. Gloria Swanson couldn't
have done it better.
With
her warm, golden-toned youthful beauty, she could pass for
twenty-five. Hers was an ageless baby face, her nose small,
her cheeks round, her skin creamy-pale and obviously
pampered. She gave Astori a flirty pout. "Is this what you
want? You dear old goat." She always trilled like a nervous
canary under his direction.
A
contract player from IEP's early days, Vionette delivered
her lines flawlessly, often in one or two takes, taking
direction without insult or insecurity. Astori had long
admired her dedication, talent and beauty, feeling
privileged to have directed her the last eight years in over
twenty silent and sound films. He wasn't surprised that most
of her male co-stars fell in love with her.
But
the leading man whom she now insisted upon, he could easily
do without. He found the dark-haired immigrant from
Ireland vain and temperamental, a man who flirted
lasciviously with the constant stream of chorus girls the
moment his wife's back was turned. Well known as the 'studio
wolf', he'd slept with almost every starlet on the IEP
roster. To top it off, his self-centred brusque masculinity
resulted in a screen presence so compelling and rampantly
sexual that Astori had to routinely direct the actor to tone
it down.
"So,
how many times may I kiss her in this scene? Will you be
counting?" The twenty-eight year old star was sarcastic,
running a hand through his thick black hair. He didn't even
care to make eye contact with the director.
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"You
know what's required. Follow the script," Astori said. He
couldn't remember how many times he'd had to tap the actor
on the foot off-screen to loosen an embrace, break a kiss,
or to kiss his female co-stars in a less consuming
manner.
Under
directions to follow current self-imposed industry
restrictions, he was at constant odds with the couple on the
sofa. For as long as he could remember, even as her most
patient director, he was continually scolding Vionette for
wriggling beneath the annoying Irishman during a take, which
accentuated too much swell of bosom above her bodice. But
old habits died hard.
She
and her frequent male lead continued to irresistibly charm
as debutante and brute, much as they had before censorship
codes were implemented. No other Hollywood couple, not even
Fairbanks and Pickford, enlivened the silver screen in
darkened theatres with high romance fairy tale thrills the
way they could. Always teamed as exciting exotic lovers,
they were the one missing ingredient -- glamour -- in the
everyday lives of their audiences.
"I
can't seduce her with just one kiss. That's impossible,
unless I make it a very long and very wicked kiss," the
actor protested. "We're not playing to unsophisticates.
They'll never believe I'm going to take her against her will
without her struggling at least a little. Come on, Astori,
let me play it my way first. I assure you, I'll seduce this
woman much better than the screenwriter can." He stared down
into his co-star's lovely eyes, giving her a sly wink. Maybe
they could get away with much more.
Astori
shrugged. What could they lose. A few hundred feet of film.
A half-hour from the schedule. "Go ahead. Let's see how
it'll roll. You'll do what you want, no matter what I say.
Get it in now 'cause I'm sure in '34 those production codes
we've been ignoring the last few years will clamp down so
tight they won't leave you any room for your artistic
manouevering with the ladies."
Over
the last few years, the industry hadn't been consistent
pulling the reins on right and wrong. While most silent film
day scandals had long since faded from public memory,
studios were still under constant pressure from conservative
religious groups to continue cleaning up their act. So, of
late, any immorality was increasingly becoming scripted as
the innuendo of a glance, a passing hint, or a carefully
constructed physical movement -- which the couple employed
with precise skill to get unspoken messages across to
perceptive theatre-goers.
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Regardless
of restrictions, Astori was aware Chemineaux's and her
co-star's productions on release captured a romance-obsessed
audience of over 90 million weekly worldwide. The team's
popularity and fan mail continued to soar even when new
industry rules recommended they limit screen kisses to five
seconds. To appease fans, of their own ingenuity, the couple
kept their love scenes scorching simply by increasing the
number of kisses with barely a breath or word
in-between.
"Thank
you, Marco," The actor shifted into a more comfortable
position. "There's nothing I'd rather do than kiss the lips
off Vionette Chemineaux.
In
real life, he was none other than Armand DeBarr, Vionette's
co-star and husband of four years. In black tie, white shirt
and black tuxedo, he lay on his side on the generous sofa,
intimately much closer to his wife than he would have been
with another woman in the role. One arm encircled her waist.
His other supported her vibrantly jewelled neck and
immaculately coiffed head of blonde ringlets on a dark
burgundy velvet pillow cornered with gold tassels.
"And
action!" Astori hissed, swinging his arm in a downbeat for
the cameras to begin rolling.
Vionette
slyly glanced at her handsome prince as they spoke their
dialogue in longing whispers for the boudoir scene. She
required little inspiration to slip into an obeisant faint,
only having to meet Armand's so dark French-Irish green eyes
during moments he spoke of love, on the set or off.
Everything
about him was physically appealing to all her senses. His
longish dark hair was always combed back and lightly
brilliantined, his tranquil, earthy eau de cologne was
imported from France. At 6' 3", he was only slightly shorter
than Gary Cooper, and kept his perfect physique through a
daily regimen of fencing and horseback riding. He carried
himself with the bearing of baronets and knights, his
distant Keltic and Franconian ancestry looming with legends,
indiscretions and notoriety. He could make love as often as
she desired, with an intensity and expertise that always
left her breathless and slightly wondering exactly what had
occurred between them, whether champagne or the aphrodisiac
Amber Moon had been involved or not.
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To
every woman he'd ever meant anything to, including herself,
he exuded an inescapable elegance. By reputation, he'd look
at a woman and she'd melt. If he took them into his arms,
they'd faint. He was a man most women wanted to fall in love
with, desired to be seduced by, and were willing to abandon
their previous lives for. If there would only be one chance
to....
Vionette
had long since chosen to accept her husband's
irresistibility to other women, and his weakness for them,
in order to remain a part of his life. In that respect she
truly did love him, but she would never trust him.
Turning her head slightly to Armand to follow the script,
she stared fully up into his face. Her gaze rested briefly
on the firm lips she knew to be relentless, the perfectly
sculpted longish nose which verged on the aristocratic, and
his clean-shaven yet rugged skin, so wonderfully scented.
Yes, she could easily believe the perennial rumour that no
woman had ever said "no" to him.
Armand
raised his hand from her waist and tenderly cupped her
cheek, his face moving slowly and lower toward hers.
"Darling," he whispered as scripted. He grasped her wrist
securely, pulling her arm away from her face and down to her
side. Neither the director, nor the camera, would ever see
exactly where he brought his wife's hand to rest.
"No,
no," she gasped as he forced his mouth ardently upon hers,
and pulled her closer in his arms on the sofa. Soft piano
music, a romantic Schubert Impromptu, began playing in the
background. His kisses were flagrant and devouring. At any
moment she feared Astori would jostle her husband's foot,
and they'd have to reshoot. But the scene played on
uninterrupted.
She
felt that tingling thrill in his wet kisses, and then that
one hidden and special caress, a silent clue they'd be
making love before the day was over. The frequently intense
creative process of acting always seemed to bring out an
irrepressible wildness in Armand, one reason she so much
preferred they only co-star with each other.
Her
memory of his series of pictures with a lesser actress under
contract with IEP was still painfully fresh. A little more
than a year earlier his late nights at the studio had
dragged on as she waited in the dark by the phone in her
lonely Gothic red bedroom, smoking his cigarettes, one after
the other, crying and dreading, waiting until he came home,
often drunk, often reeking of marijuana. She'd smell
remnants of the woman's five-and-dime cologne all over his
clothes, and then as he tipsily undressed before her, see
the brilliant red lipstick marks on his boxer shorts.
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She'd
wanted to kill him, especially when he moved out and into
the actress' apartment in west Hollywood. The studio had
paid out a bundle to trash movie magazines to hush up the
illicit affair.
Feeling
forced to hold up her own contract to save her marriage,
Vionette declared either she -- or that actress --
would have to go. Nothing else had worked to bring Armand
home. IEP quickly fired the less bankable actress, spreading
word she was difficult, untalented, and not at all
photogenic. The starlet ceased to be a viable prospect for
any studio in town, and within six weeks had committed
suicide. Having been called by the landlady and arriving
before police, IEP removed anything that could have even
remotely been connected to Armand.
She
sighed, wanting to believe they'd both forgotten the past.
He never suspected she'd gambled her own career to keep him,
thinking only the younger actress had dropped him because
he'd stopped showering her with expensive gifts once they'd
moved in together. Making a brief contented gesture with her
shoulders, she was sure Armand loved and wanted only her,
that she was holding onto him as much as she ever
had....
As
she lay in his arms, she wondered if they'd stop somewhere
in the isolated countryside on their way home and make love
in the Mercedes. She squeezed her hand firmly over the
hidden place where her husband had laid it to rest while
filming. He gave her a salaciously delicious smile.
"And
cut! Print that one,"Astori said. The clapper board snapped
behind him to mark the scene on the film negative. A
continuity girl made note of the script's current end point
in preparation for the next scene.
The
prop crew, which had silently been watching the filming in
progress, sprang to life to reposition ceiling and wall
spots, and implemented minor prop changes in the boudoir
set.
The
camera track was swung around from the plump sofa to a
queen-size bed on the other side of the set, canopied in
pale cream satin embroidered with gold peacocks and lavish
floral blossoms. A similarly fabricked Roman bench at the
foot of the bed was strewn with that season's first roses of
the palest yellow, almost in bloom. Although their colour
wouldn't show on film, their quality would. Beside the roses
scattered askew were petite dark red leather-bound volumes
of poetry from a century past. The stage was set for the
grand seduction.
"Our
dinner plans still in place for tonight?" Armand sat up,
reaching behind him for the still smouldering French
cigarette. Vionette leaned over with a hankie and gently
wiped away her dark peach lipstick from his mouth and
cheeks, then sank back lazily into the comfortable velvet
sofa.
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"Yes.
Twenty-four tonight, and cocktails before. Your lawyer will
also be over, to have you sign that contract for the picture
with Natascha," she said, stretching her legs across her
husband's thighs, pointing and relaxing her toes to relieve
the stiffness in her ankles from playing the scene with her
legs so still.
Did
he say how much he managed to squeeze out of the studio? I
won't loan out cheap to American Associated Films with the
penalty I'll have to pay IEP, and Astori screaming blue
murder I'm not available for you in his next big feature two
months from now." He puffed at the cigarette with one hand,
idly massaging his wife's ankles with the other.
"They
won't give you what you want. It's their opinion you should
be satisfied with the chance to star with an actress the
magnitude of Miss Natascha Tzyerinka. I think he said
something about four week's work on a sound stage and then
six weeks on location in Singapore. There's also the
possibility AAF will loan out Natascha to IEP instead.
Either way, you can't make more than your regular salary.
There's no mention of a director or the first male lead;
they only know they want you as Natascha's love interest in
the film, not her husband. I could come stay with you
halfway through. I've never been to Singapore." She wasn't
altogether sure she could accept her husband being away that
long without connecting with him at least once. "I'm certain
I'll find some exotic trinket in the shops, although I
haven't heard exactly what's so fashionably gauche about
Singapore."
Armand
stubbed out his cigarette and slipped the holder into his
jacket pocket. "It's renowned for being more mysterious than
India, darling, with a market in jewels as black as
Morocco's. What would you like me to bring you back this
time? Diamonds?"
"Why
not buy them for me when I catch up with you?" she
suggested.
He
tucked her feet under his jacket. "What about your schedule?
You've signed contracts. Neither of us can afford to be
tagged as difficult at this stage of our careers. There's
always a fresh young face rising in the ranks to replace you
in an instant at the studio's whim."
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"Don't
you want me to come to you at all? She pouted, her full
peach lips quavering. Her fingers toyed nervously at the
glittering ruby and pearl choker at her neck. The effect was
almost crass in combination with the ruby bracelet.
"Wouldn't you miss me after three weeks, after four or five
weeks?"
"Of
course, darling, but let's be realistic. You've your
Hollywood cortège to keep you amused while I'm gone.
It's a Ruritanian Prince with his kennel of wolfhounds or
something this week, isn't it? The Singapore shoot will be a
welcome vacation from the endless romp of the last four
years. Maybe we need a little distance."
Then
his eye was caught as a number of minor players walked on
the set, one of them a young woman he'd never seen before.
The girl appeared to be in her early twenties and was
dressed in a maid's uniform conducive to the
turn-of-the-century period of the picture. Her dark blonde
hair was blunt-cut and sat on her shoulders, parted in the
middle. His intriguing nymph wasn't too far across the room
as she conversed with Astori, and he clearly saw her eyes
were a shadowy violet, her eyebrows and lashes dark with
make-up. He sighed out loud at the sight of her lips;
perfectly outlined and filled with torrid red, they were the
most voluptuous he'd ever dreamed of kissing.
He
wanted their eyes to meet. He prayed they would. He gazed at
her more intensely, shamelessly, almost daring her, perhaps
willing her to look at him. The longer he looked at her, the
more he likened her classic beauty to the worldly lass in
Soulacroix's painting "A Lady of Leisure". But no, the
starlet's face and figure apart from her bosom, were more
slender, her small archless nose, ultra-feminine. He then
decided her hair, her eyes, her profile, her delicate gentle
hands were the embodiment of the shy and frail introvert
awaiting her lover in Holyoake's "The Tryst".
Yes.
He determined, or his heart did, that she must have lived
before, and posed for that autumn-swept painting. He lost
his thoughts to wondering if they'd known each other once
before in that eternity where only Love bid enter. Surely
they wouldn't remain strangers in this lifetime. He sighed
again as he focused on her anew in the reality of her only
steps away from where he sat.
The
girl showed a keen interest in Astori's direction, and he
too seemed to enjoy the conversation.
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Armand
felt a mild indignation at never having been formally
introduced to such a fetching starlet, one being shown so
much interest by the great director. "Do you know who she
is?" he asked his wife without looking at her. He shut his
eyes, tempted then and there to compose a lurid fantasy of
the young woman.
When
he again cast a glance to the girl, he found she was staring
at him. For long and furtive sweet seconds, his heart
stopped beating. Looking into her eyes, the heartbeat of the
reality he knew ceased to exist. Had he been transported
into a new time and place? The love, this time, for the
first time, was confirmed within the innermost recesses of
his soul that could form no words. He could only sense the
truth of the feelings that overwhelmed him so
completely.
Vionette,
watching Armand, was profoundly expressionless as she slowly
withdrew her feet from under his jacket. A little bell rang
quietly back of her thoughts. A gentle wind of worry passed
through her. Suddenly the candle flames behind them
flickered as though a hand had swept above them. Something
had changed.
• • •
Celeste
would never forget the first time she caught sight of Armand
DeBarr on the screen. It was a day in May 1931, like many
others, on her monthly adventure to Toronto. As usual, she'd
been accompanied by her Aunt Olympia, a short, sturdy and
sensible spinster who dressed sedately in predominantly
iris-blue outfits.
Celeste
had always excitedly spent those special Saturday mornings
shopping in the big city's growing Jewish section. Inland
from Lake Ontario, the open-air market was a trove of sights
and smells. Peasant breads cooled on boards, backyard
Potagere greens were heaped in apple baskets, pungent
cheeses sat on wax paper in large ceramic bowls, and racks
of pimpled hanging carcasses of chickens, ducks and geese
swayed like pendulums in the rank breezes off the lake.
Merchants
chattered away in broken English, holding out crude homespun
arts and fabric swags with unusual textures and fanciful
labels. Goldsmiths and potters shamelessly begged in arcane
patois monotones, hoping enameled jewellery and faux Faberge
would catch the eye of the better-dressed passerby. All the
while, she'd be thinking of the afternoon ahead, when she
would see him. "Is it close to two, yet?" she constantly
asked her aunt. "I don't want to miss a single
minute...."
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Despite
the Depression being in full sway, Aunt Olympia ensured to
reserve two twenty-five cent pieces for the latest feature
film at Toronto's most grand motion picture palace, the
Golden Imperial Theatre. Matinees at the Golden Imperial
before the train home to Weeping birch Hollow in
Northumberland County were her only escape into that cachet
world of luxury she longed to step into.
Sunk
deeply into an extravagantly upholstered gold velvet chair,
in a lower white balcony box her aunt had paid ten cents
extra for, she was able to forget the mundane real world for
a few short hours. She would've gladly retched her past
away, wanting no one, and nothing from it, to interfere with
her destiny.
Her
mother, whose face she couldn't recall in the vaguest
detail, had abandoned her at age four to the care of
Olympia, and disappeared to an unknown fate.
She'd
never known her father at all, though once she'd
eavesdropped on a hushed conversation between Olympia and
another lady at church, hearing herself referred to as "Poor
Celeste". Her father, labelled a reprobate rascal, had
apparently died of alcohol poisoning while celebrating an
exceptional night of American dollar Prohibition profits,
done in by the same Northumberland backwoods corn whiskey he
bootlegged across Lake Ontario from Cobourg to Rochester.
It'd been drilled into her from her earliest school years
that not once in his heathen life did her father show a
thought or care toward her or her mother. Not that it
mattered.
Her
aunt had always told her, "That coyote brother of mine, your
father, can't harm you from the grave, so don't pay any heed
to what people whisper about him." With that, she'd felt no
loss at having never taken his namesake, preferring the much
more glamorous-sounding "Valentina", maiden name of her
mother.
Her
past was as blankly laid out before her as the veiled
future. She'd had neither love nor a penny inheritance from
her parents and could see no reason now to love or fear two
unknown entities who'd given her life and then abruptly
departed from it. She was free to find her own place in the
world. And the only real world she wanted to exist in spread
before her eyes in black and white.
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The
first day of her life truly began in 1931 the afternoon
Armand DeBarr walked into a moody torchlit stable scene in
The Queen of My Heart, a revolutionary period
horse-and-hounds romance in the Gainsborough Studio style
co-starring his wife, Vionette. He was dressed in a black
riding suit, white shirt and ascot, flinging away a riding
crop and hat as he strode with one intention toward the
nightgowned heroine awaiting their rendezvous.
Celeste's
misty damson eyes magnified in a revelation of affinity. She
clutched her throat with her hands,heart thumping, not
hearing a single word spoken, although the film was a
talkie.
She
was struck with the strongest intuition that she knew Armand
DeBarr. A shiver took hold of her from her toes and surged
into her inner being, ending with a sigh of the deepest
longing for him. She knew him. Could feel him. She knew his
touch. His taste. His wild and free scent. Between that sigh
and her next breath, she fell irrevocably in love.
Holding
sweet violet candies against her lips without taking them
into her mouth, she tasted and inhaled their fragrance all
at once. She watched spellbound as DeBarr took hold of
Vionette's wrists, walking her forcefully against a ladder
to the stable hayloft.
No
sound reached her ears from the screen. She never heard
DeBarr declare his love to Vionette. She imagined herself at
the ladder, standing close to the warmth and strength of the
tall scoundrel.
"Look
, Aunt," Celeste breathed quickly. "Just look at
him...."
Seeing
her niece squirming uncomfortably made Olympia uncustomarily
agitated. "Are you unwell, dear?" she whispered so mutely
even their closest theatre neighbour wouldn't be
disturbed.
Unable
to answer, Celeste shook her head. She held her breath in
terror, DeBarr's face neared closer...and then closer. She
felt his breath warm upon her cheek. His lips were as soft
as his tall body was hard.
His
dark eyes ravaged her in an instant. She was his, and he was
her wild Irish plunderer, her rapparee, come to steal her
love and claim her soul. She raised up her arms, struggling,
yet he firmly held her wrists. His lips touched her with
such a volt of renascent passion, she tore her mouth away,
crying out, all at once longing to flee and longing to fall
at his feet and submit to him in any fashion he desired. She
sank into a hypnotic netherworld, her hands sliding down
past her knees, her fingers weak and trembling. "He must be
mine...." she murmured in a trailing
decrescendo.
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Olympia,
her face reddening in the dim, watched with alarm as Celeste
half-stood, then fainted straight away to fall back in a
limp sprawl on the chair. Sweet violet candies spilled in a
rhapsodical cloudburst in and on her clothes and ticked
keenly against the gold wrought railing and onto the marble
floor.
"You
star-struck foolish little girl," Olympia muttered, more
than embarrassed. They'd surely be talked about for days to
come.
After
The Queen of My Heart, Olympia refused to allow her
to attend another film at the Golden Imperial Theatre.
Toronto excursions became more perfunctory and less
appealing, and Celeste instead seized the opportunity to
spend every nickel she could on movie magazines.
Starlight
Magazine was her favourite, which often had four-page
spreads on the latest antics of DeBarr. She didn't care if
most of the facts were made up or sensationalized. Each
picture of him became another to add to her red velvet-bound
scrapbook. She entered every contest, the latest a
three-month all expenses paid trip to Hollywood with the
guarantee of appearing in an IEP production with one of
three stars -- one of them being Armand DeBarr. The Grand
Prize also included a 25-piece wardrobe of gowns and
outfits, costume jewellery, and $150 dollars in cash. She
mailed out over one hundred entry forms, each painstakingly
handwritten, each with a prayer one of them would be drawn
the winner.
At
home, Olympia had no qualms about letting her niece frequent
the local county theatre -- which Celeste delightedly
discovered showcased an incredible number of DeBarr's older
films. The trips to Toronto stopped altogether when she was
able to get a job at the theatre, the only one for miles
around, as an usherette. She soon talked the manager into
giving her old torn posters of films rented and long-gone,
which she reverently displayed on her bedroom walls, and
even inside her closet.
Evening
after evening at the theatre, she dreamily took her seat
when the lights when down and fantasized every kiss of her
champion beyond a kiss. "Be my one true sweetheart...." she
whispered to the screen whenever a close-up of his handsome
face filled it.
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The
illusion of high romance reigned in everything associated
with the movie theatre, which in her dreams was transformed
into a palace in some distant European principality. In her
imagination, the candle cup she held to guide patrons down
dark aisles to worn moss-green velvet seats became a heavy
Moorish silver candelabra. She fancied herself a seductive
demimondaine on her way through a hidden cavern passageway
to meet her true love in an unforgettable tryst. In those
stolen moments of her fantasies, her heart would belong to
only one man.
Attending
so many screenings of DeBarr films, it wasn't long before
she'd completely absorbed him. She knew every nuance and
shade to his voice, memorized each singularly handsome
feature of his face, recalled again and again to mind the
shape of his fingers, how he moved, the play of shadow and
light in his eyes, what she imagined he felt like, the depth
of his embrace, and how they would meet for the first time.
Having never seen a colour picture of him, she knew by some
inner sense his eyes were green, a green so dusky brown she
was afraid of being captured by the hue's sheer beguiling
depth.
What
she wouldn't allow herself to consciously fantasize,
continually swelled into her sleep as forbidden dreams; even
in half-slumber feeling them to be highly wicked as they
unfolded, she reached out insatiably for every next
illusion. So often, and surely not in a dream, he would be
sleeping next to her, and she'd awake shaking, unsure of
whether she lived in the past, or her next dream, or on an
eternal slip of love's madness.
She
wanted to dream of him unceasingly, intoxicate herself with
him completely and abandon her soul and body to his twilight
spectre. It was only within this gossamer wreath of time and
space, where they could intertwine as wisps of spirit
embodied and destined to meld forever as one.
• • •
All
this Celeste remembered as she stepped onto the set and her
eyes fell on Armand DeBarr, who spoke quietly with his wife.
His attention suddenly caught, he turned his head toward
her.
Their
eyes met. The instance of recognition caught them both.
Nothing more, no word, no confirming glance, was required.
The one potent moment of knowing -- that each had found
their soul mate -- was divided between them.
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With
an ear vaguely tuned to Astori, Celeste watched Vionette
inch away slowly from her husband in silent horror, unable
to answer a question he'd asked.
Astori
then guided her over to the famous couple on the couch,
gesturing as though the young woman were a diamond in the
rough. "Here's our next Theda Bara, winner of the Starlight
Magazine contest, twenty-two year old Miss Celeste Valentina
from Canada. What do you think of her for the walk-on role?
I'm half-inclined to give her a small speaking part." The
director was serious. "Miss Valentina, I'm sure you
recognize Miss Chemineaux and Armand DeBarr."
Vionette
extended a graceful left hand, a large ruby solitaire ring
reflecting black shadows on the younger woman's face. "Hello, my dear. Quite charmed." The
famous actress's voice held a cool snobbery.
The
handshake was unexpectedly feeble and hesitant. "I'm so very
honored to meet you both."Veritably tongue-tied and weak in
the knees, Celeste quickly withdrew her hand from the
strange touch of the actress, only to have it immediately
grasped firmly around by Armand's fingers.
Meeting
and holding her gaze, the actor gently turned her hand over
and pressed his lips gallantly, and lingeringly, to her
smooth inner wrist. She felt a whisper of air as he inhaled
almost unobtrusively through his nostrils, a predatory
behavior scrutinizing her scent, which momentarily alarmed
her.
You're
a fresh and lovely creature, Miss Valentina. How haven't you
arrived among us before this?" Armand was clearly
captivated, and he brushed his lips a second time to her
wrist. "Get her a screen test for Paramour." He
looked up to Astori, then released the girl's hand.
Vionette's
eyes widened. Talks were ongoing to star her and her husband
together in Paramour, an epic love story set in
Victorian New York. She coughed lightly.
Hiding
the thrill of that prospect, Celeste clasped her hands
tightly at the waist of her simple lilac chiffon dress
beneath the unbuttoned maid's costume, resisting the urge to
fidget with the single strand of long faux pearls hanging
stylishly below the bodice.
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Astori
barely smiled, noticing Vionette staring blankly at her
husband. "Of course anything is possible," the director
said, unwilling to commit himself in any fashion on major
casting of the upcoming production of Paramour.
Discussion that day in the front office had produced the
possibility of a complete unknown, including their recent
contest discovery of Celeste Valentina.
In
his mind's eye, he framed the couple as if they were taking
their marks on the set. DeBarr, now standing, faced Celeste.
The girl was so shy she could only look up from under her
lashes at the star. The director liked what he saw. They
looked natural together. The eye contact between them sent
chills up his own spine. He felt sure that one day that
unmistakable exciting kismet would transfer to the screen
with all the magic intact.
Astori
instinctively felt Miss Valentina was going to be a major
star -- and soon. "I was just telling Celeste that in
addition to the walk-on role in your current picture, the
studio's decided to give her a small role in your next film,
Armand, the one with Natascha."
"It's
settled then?" Vionette thought of the atrium addition off
the grandroom she was planning for their Baron Hills estate.
Then she couldn't resist being curious about the willowy
creature rapidly consuming Armand's full attention. "Did you
say Miss Valentina has signed a contract? Will she be going
on location with...with Miss Natascha?"
Astori
gave Chemineaux a sly knowing glance. The older seasoned
actress had recognized the potential of the young newcomer
who couldn't even yet be called a "starlet". "We're not
quite at that stage. We don't have a foot of film on her.
Who knows how she'll even photograph? You know I can't
divulge any details about signing her, even if I knew
anything. But yes, she'll be leaving for Singapore with the
rest of the cast and crew Friday evening."
She
could see everything in her husband's eyes; they were now
transfixed so brightly, so dark and full of meaning
altogether at once, saying to Miss Valentina what they'd
once spoken with silent eloquence to hers: "One day you will
belong to me."
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Vionette
knew then beyond a doubt she'd have to vanquish her new
rival. It would require all the genteel tact she could
muster. "Miss Valentina, dear," she piped sweetly. Armand
took the girl's arm as they turned to her. "I'm sure my
husband would agree that we'd love you to be our guest this
evening at Baron Hills. We'll send our Mercedes for you.
Where are you staying?"
• • •
After
a hard day's filming, there was nothing better he liked to
do. Armand stared down the gleaming steel shaft of the
cavalry sabre, one of a set of two he'd purchased at a
military auction. His eye was dark and deathly-focused.
Sweat soaked his white Houbigant peasant shirt, the ties
open at the collar; he stood perfectly still, poised and
dauntingly virile in tight-fitting black linen breeches, and
felt the wet line running down the centre of his back
soaking into the waistband. Barefoot, his toes tensed on the
cold mottled-grey floor.
The
sword's point was untipped. He could be dangerously fatal
with an opponent if he wished. His concentrated direction of
vision followed the straight line of the sword's shaft
twenty-five feet away to the large unwindowed south wall of
his basement gymnasium at Baron Hills. A large wooden Nine
Men's Morris game board had been hung on the wall.
He
aimed, drew back his arm, and mightily javelined the sabre
forward with a groaning yell. It struck dead-centre,
imbedding four inches of sword blade into the game board and
the wall behind it.
DeBarr's
fencing instructor, Alexandre Benoitre, a master swordsman
from the Lyons region of France, was jubilant and very
proud. "You foe would have perished before being able to
draw a breath. There would have been no last sip of cognac
or a final wish asked of God." Benoitre, totally
white-haired in his mid-sixties, dressed in a well-padded
suit of the sport, looked up at the Nine Men's Morris board
on the wall. "I cannot fight you now and win. Pupil has
surpassed master and I teach you no more. Only the field of
honour could impart to you what I cannot -- maturity,
strategy, the second nature of battle. I bow to you,
Monsieur DeBarr.
"I
trust we'll still spar as partners, Alexandre." Hands on his
hips, Armand approached the south wall to stare up at the
still-swaying sword with his teacher. He put an arm about
the muscular shoulders of the older man. "You're the closest
thing to a father I have in this world. I couldn't trust
anyone else's sword if I ever needed a second."
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"Dear
Armand, the romantic age of duelling is done with, no? Men
discuss honour with their fists these days, or worse still,
through expensive lawyers." Benoitre tisked sadly. "Swords
and pistols are bygone. We old men will perish with an old
art."
"Oh
come now, dear old man," Armand addressed him
affectionately. "Don't lose heart. That extra looking for
work around the studios, didn't you hear he was forced to
flee Russia because of a death by pistols? That's the word
going around. So, there it is. Vodka isn't the only way a
Russian dies proudly. Of course the fugitive might have
escaped Paris, or Budapest. What's ever true when a rumour
is shared? But as for us, if I need you one day...."
Benoitre
looked at him kindly. "If you are ever in France again and
fear eternity is whispering too close to your ear, I will
stand for you, or preside over your affair of honour,
whichever. No, Hollywood is not for me. I'll be back in the
moutard fields of my homeland before Christmas. You must
find another to cross swords with."
"Who
else could I trust to go at it with bared tips? I've never
feared to place my life in your hands or put myself at the
mercy of your lunge." Armand raised his weapon to a
revolutionary "sword recovered" position, almost touching
the shaft to his nose in a respectful salute of sorts to his
fatherly instructor.
It
never struck him as odd that the two most honest, faithful
and important men in his life, Benoitre, and his chauffeur
George who was never without a holstered handgun, were
proficient with weapons that could kill; he'd never once
questioned their loyalty, and hoped to never find himself in
a life and death situation where he would be forced to test
their allegiance.
"I
pray your next partner will be a man of honour, Benoitre
smiled tiredly and tucked his own sabre under his arm, the
sharp point safely staring at the floor.
"As
you would say, 'That's life', no?" Armand smiled, replacing
his sabre on the wall rack. He picked up his watch off a
heavy Tudor table against the wall under the game board.
6PM. He'd barely have enough time to shower and make an
appearance at his own party. "You sure you don't want to
join Vionette and me tonight? It'll be the usual crowd, give
or take a few of her lap dogs. The official count is two
dozen, apart from them.
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"No,
no thank you, Armand. Another time." Benoitre gathered up a
soft leather bag of his clothes and headed for the
gymnasium's informal change room where an assortment of
weights and exercise machinery were stored when not in
use.
"Next
week, then," Armand called after him with a smile.
Benoitre,
his back to him as he walked, raised a hand in farewell.
Armand,
wondering if he would ever see the kind old man again, ran
both his hands back through his dark hair. Short for time,
he'd sort out his feelings about his mentor later. Damp and
hot from head to foot, he was looking forward to unwinding
in a long, cool shower before the surreal reality of the
evening and its Tartarus guests made their grand
self-important entrances.
And
then she came to mind again. Her face, her eyes, her mouth,
her bosom, her shy and hesitant hands. In the shower, he
would think of her, the young starlet who'd invaded his
world that afternoon, who seemed so alive and unconnected to
anything of his artificial existence. He hoped she'd come
that evening, that her shyness wouldn't keep her away.
He
looked to the face of his watch again. It was likely, at
that very moment, she was waiting for George and the
Mercedes to arrive at her door. He couldn't help but wonder,
and even hope, that she was thinking of him. In exactly the
same way he was thinking of her...
• • •
There
were twenty-four for dinner, including Celeste, and now
Astori, who'd dropped by for cocktails and remained without
an invitation. She'd enjoyed the chauffeured Mercedes drive
from congested downtown Hollywood through more open
picturesque country, arriving fashionably late at ten
minutes after seven.
Shown
from the antique-filled lobby to the Victorian grandroom
salon by a maid uniformed in pale blue, she was staggered by
the pomp finery of the silvered, gilded and jewelled
spectacle of fixed objets d'art, the sheen of old
still-lifes and roving chichi guests.
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She'd
read long ago about the palatial grey mansion, named Baron
Hills by Armand in honour of a titled great-great uncle,
purchased by Vionette as an engagement present to him. She'd
insisted on nothing in return, but when news about the
secret gift of the property was splashed about in the papers
only days later, he promptly gave her a blue cabochon
sapphire and pear diamond choker, costing the salaries from
five feature films. Wearing that token of his affection at
every engagement thereafter, she found it reproduced better
in newspaper photos better than any other piece she owned.
Its sure sparkle was always the first thing the
fickle eye was drawn to on a page.
It
was also one of the first things Celeste noticed about
Vionette after being ushered into the salon. Just as
lustrous was her double strand diamond and sapphire
bracelet. As if wanting to draw the whole room's attention,
the famous actress, in a white bombazine empire-waist gown,
was stretched out on a pale brocade satin Napoleonic era
sofa with the blasé carelessness of a bacchante;
then, slowly licking the rim of her cocktail glass, she
suddenly became as watchful as a hunting cobra.
Armand,
more relaxed off-set, his hair fuller and less
brilliantined, was conversing with a number of formally
attired gentleman by a black lacquer oriental bar to the
right of the doorway. He appeared to be tolerating the
evening. Turning his head as Celeste entered, thrilled by
her having come, he caught her timid glance.
A
black butler in a sedate dark suit offered her a cocktail.
Before she could lift it from the tray, Armand stepped over
to her, immaculate in his perfectly fitted tuxedo, took the
glass and gave it to her. Both his hands briefly clasped
hers warmly.
"No
prohibition here. Cognac and champagne martini." He took in
her strapless black silk pearl-beaded and waist-cinching
dress, her black silk stockings and pearled black suede high
heels. "You're positively the most bewitching woman here
tonight. A number of conversations have already been going
on about you, and happily they're all to the good. But
you've such an innocent past everything else about you has
been left to my imagination."
He
slipped his arm around her waist, guiding her around the
room, introducing her to the cream of Hollywood royalty,
stars like himself whose images she'd previously only made
acquaintance with on a theatre screen.
"Thank
you, Mr. DeBarr, I appreciate your kindness," she smiled
politely, marvelling at his gallant manner with her, and his
easy and polished social grace with guests which she wished
she possessed.
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"Not
at all, and not so formal please. Just Armand." He squeezed
her waist warmly.
"You're
the only reason why I haven't turned and run," she
whispered.
"Then
I'll have to stay by your side the whole evening, won't I?" He winked,
and led her to one of the smaller tuxedo-and-evening gown-cliques standing
by the grand piano
before a two-storey curtained window. She was silent and
attentive, sipping cautiously at the incredibly strong
cocktail, as he made sure she was known to virtually anyone
of importance in the room. Doing the rounds, she was
introduced to a number of assistant directors, made a
congenial re-acquaintance with Marco Astori, and chatted
briefly with some of the studio's glossiest talent.
Through
the short but informative small talk, she learned Armand's
contract for the Natascha picture was a done deal. It wasn't
likely his wife would be visiting the Singapore location
shoot. The couple planned to build a new stables at the rear
of the property. Gossip kept an item going that
ex-vaudevillian and radio personality Bob Hope, now doing
Roberta on Broadway and signed for upcoming comedy
shorts in New York, was planning to buy up property at a
mercuric pace in the wilds above Los Angeles.
As
Armand discussed the contest she'd won with someone, he
frequently mentioned everything he'd come to know in so
short a time -- her upcoming bit parts, the scene she'd
filmed earlier that day where she'd spoken one line: "Telegram at the door for you, Monsieur",
or her so swift appearance in their glittering kingdom.
Now
and then he'd squeeze her waist almost affectionately, then
raise his hand to her shoulder in a most natural casual
fashion, or gentlemanly lay claim to her forearm. Her head
light after finishing a second cognac martini, Celeste
refused the occasionally offered hors d'oeuvres trays of
Beignets d'Huitres, Gougère, and petite seafood and
vegetable timbales.
Then
alerted by the low tinkle of a bell from a service door in
the dining room, Armand smiled warmly at the young woman at
his side who stood barely as tall as his shoulder. She
gratefully accepted his steadying hand as he commandeered
the soirée from the salon into the grandiose
Versailles-inspired dining room.
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Vionette
raptly observed her husband's manner toward the naïve
neophyte. If instinct hadn't impressed it on her otherwise,
she'd swear he'd only been posturing for the studio
brass.
She
had already thought over the benefits of a professional
separation, which could increase public interest in them
both. If they suddenly parted ways from a film in which they
were favoured to star opposite each other, especially a big
production like Paramour, it would undoubtedly cause
a sensation. She could see the screaming headlines. Public
sympathy would bleed long and red. Miss Valentina would
never guess that her role was a pawn's part in a seasoned
mistress' serious game of publicity.
A
touch brought her back to the emptying grandroom. Astori
offered his hand to escort her into the dining hall. He
hadn't failed to notice Armand and Miss Valentina
circulating through the guest list. "Vionette dear, he's
cast his spell again, and as usual the bosses never knew
what curve he threw at them. All they'll remember was how
good they looked together. Look how much taller he is than
the little Valentina girl. They have that look of belonging
together, just like the two of you in the beginning. You
can't miss it when they look at each other. Now I can't wait
to see how they'll deliver in a major scene together on
film."
Vionette
smiled at the director without a word. Wise with men and
never having forgotten the fay delicate feelings of her own
youth, when the innocent heart surrendered uncautiously to
infatuations, she clearly saw that a devastatingly serious
relationship between her husband and Miss Valentina could be
sparked into being with the merest tinder touch.
She
was thankful she'd enticed and seduced Armand in the green
marble shower in his private suite before the evening crowd
arrived. She sighed inaudibly, seeing themselves again in
her mind's eye -- dripping wet, hurried, her fingers in his
wet hair, he standing and • * • ** • •
• • • **, • • • • •
*, • • ** • ** • • **, and then,
finally, the fierce moment, with her back pressed hard
against the cold jade marble.
Certain
that any sharp edge of stirring desire in him for the young
girl was vanquished for the present, she was determined to
accomplish whatever else was necessary to stop the mutual
attraction cold. She had to ensure her potential rival
became an inconsequential and powerless friend, one Armand
would have no interest in socially, professionally, or
sexually, in the event of being cast alongside him in
Paramour.
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"Yes,
he's definitely taken a fancy to the new starlet, wouldn't
you say? Come Marco, beside me tonight." She allowed herself
to be seated by Astori, and then watched Armand at the other
end of the table withdraw a chair for Miss Valentina. Her
husband's hands rested a moment on the young woman's bare
pale shoulders before he took the seat at a right angle to
her at the end of the long table.
"Let
him sit close to her, even take her home tonight," Vionette
thought slyly to herself, then gracefully, with a waxworks
smile, acknowledged guests on either side of her.
The
impeccable soirée menu heavy with British game mets
and roasted vegetables was served by her numerous efficient
kitchen staff. Corks popped gleefully from magnums of
Möet & Chandon in silver ice buckets set in paths
at intervals behind the guests. Light-fairies danced and
twirled through the hundreds of crystal drops of the
pompously ornate chandelier, flitting magically in
reflecting prisms onto the high-gloss white and gold
embellished walls and ceiling. The room buzzed with giddy
tête-a-tête across linen set with Paragon china,
crystal and antique silverware. Time flowed with an endless
elegance, mellowed by that ripe vintage champagne and rare
liqueurs. The soft rich air was saturated with the minglings
of expensive colognes and the faint scent of damp furs.
Light-headed,
Celeste pressed her lips together to refresh her pinkish
lipstick. Then Armand's hand covered hers. "Dance with me
later, sweet darling, and talk to me with those magnificent
lips the colour of Damask roses," he whispered at her ear.
No one overheard, or could have cared, the room around them
pulsating with its own non-stop conversation.
She
felt the brush of his lips at her ear, the heat of his
breath, She could smell the heavy fragrance of champagne in
the air around them, and even nearer to her, the light
wafting of his eau de cologne, more alluring and exotic than
she remembered. She became conscious of his warm strong hand
squeezing her fingers.
She
shivered violently, more from inexplicable startle than of
being cold. "Perhaps, one dance...." She turned her head as
calmly as she could, and found herself staring straight into
his mysterious eyes. She knew then, beyond any doubt, that
she was in love with him.
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"You're
not afraid of me, are you?" Armand smiled. "You'll have to
get over your stage fright of me first, or you'll never be
comfortable with me when the camera is rolling." His fingers
stroked the back of her hand. "I think you and I could be
very convincing as star-crossed lovers. There are those here
tonight who are certain you're destined to be my next
mistress." He traced the tip of her index finger with
his.
A
sudden fear crept into her eyes and he immediately pulled
back. He knew then he would have to use greater tact with
the shy ingénue, a little dove who seemed ready to
take wing. He became more watchful, trying to appear
disinterestedly cavalier. "Oh, the screen is never as
inspiring as reality. You must've had an infinitely more
interesting life before all this." He motioned around him to
no particular relic of the leisure class.
"Your
home looks more like a castle. I never realized Hollywood
could manage to live like royalty during a Depression." Celeste had
noticed, among other trappings that betrayed his wealth, the paintings,
the bootleg fine liquor, the
alabaster marble floor, and an ancient Persian rug beneath
the antique dining table.
He
looked at her with complete, if not somewhat drunken,
sincerity. "Does it really impress you? No, it's in your
eyes, you could care less. My good God, do you know how
boring extravagant indulgence becomes after awhile? And look
at that...." He waved his hand down the table, "My wife's
admirers are unbelievable. That group elbowing her now --
look at the way those jackasses jump to light her cigarette.
They're constantly stroking her, as though she were
Josephine Baker's cheetah. She surrounds herself with that
raggle, male starlets five years younger than myself, and
she's eight years older than I am. That group hanging off
her every word are a constant shadow here, but I won't allow
them on the set when we're doing a picture. She proposed to
me, you know. I was star-struck and naïve. How could I
say no? I didn't realize the baggage that came along when I
married her."
Celeste
made a motion to speak, but he held a finger to his lips and
went on between large sips of his own drink.
"What
hurts more than anything else is that she doesn't want
children. Can you imagine? Any good Irishman worth his balls
wants to have children." He suddenly seemed embarrassed,
aware of his language in front of a woman. "Oh, please
forgive me and my mouth....I do mean it though, I wanted to
have children right away, but she'll have none of that
family business. Worries they'd interfere with or even end
her career. Some actresses are getting away with it, despite
the studios frowning on it. Do you like
children?"
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"Are
you sure you want to be telling me this?" Celeste's eyes
were kind, giving him a way out if he wished, yet she
answered him all the same. "I honestly do like children, and
I'd like to think they'll be a big part of my life one
day."
He
looked pleased, then grew serious. "You know, to anyone else
here tonight, this would all be normal. Do you think it's
normal? Do you think anyone is really listening to anyone
else?" He patted her forearm. "As your host, please tell me
something, anything, meaningful about yourself. Don't leave
me guessing. I've told you some of my secrets. You must tell
me at least one secret about yourself."
She
was struck silent, entranced by the way he spoke.
He
studied her, inserting a brown French cigarette into his
emerald-studded holder. He swung his leg up and his boot
heel thudded on the table. He struck a match loudly, then
lowered his foot to the floor. Not a single guest around the
table looked their way. He tossed the spent match onto his
empty dessert plate as a pleasant hint of rum wafted in the
smoke about them.
He
puffed with a cultured air, his eyes concentrated on her
features, "You know, I'm not sure if you're simply a goddess
or some fragile blossom that would crush if held too
tightly. I think the cognac has made me very brave, so why
not, I'll shoot the moon....If I wasn't married and you
weren't so terrified of me -or maybe you don't mind my being
married; it is 1933, after all -- we must meet with each
other alone. I must see you. Come riding with me. I have a
whole stable of Arabian stallions. You'd have your choice of
mount....So now, what is your secret that brings me inwardly
to my knees like this?"
His
eyes danced with such amusement, Celeste couldn't resist
laughing. "I've no secrets that I'd want to give up tonight,
and really, I'm nothing special," she said demurely, not as
frightened of him as she had been. She detected a kindness
in his eyes -- and at times as they'd spoken, an
inexplicable strange sadness in them that he tried, but
couldn't shield from her. The sheer dark of their musteline
green colour failed to hide that vulnerable yet valiant part
of his soul. She'd been right about the colour of his
eyes.
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Perhaps
her instincts had pointed her to him all along. But as much
as she was enthralled by Armand, and having had to heed
propriety, she couldn't let herself pretend he wasn't
married. "Perhaps you could arrange something with Vionette.
I'm sure the three of us would have a wonderful time getting
to know each other better."
"Fair
enough," he accepted the answer, yet continued his
persistent pursuit: "So come now, why else do I find myself
unable to think of anything or anyone else since I met you
earlier this afternoon? You've positively enchanted me, you
and your eyes,and the little I do know about you...."
"With
what I see around me, and all the women looking hoping your
way, what could I possibly say that would interest you?" she
laid bare her greatest fear before him. She wanted to hold
his attention, or at the very least impress him. "I'm not
remarkable. You wouldn't remember me if we'd met in a
crowd-"
"Ahhh,
but we did," he interrupted, and didn't we notice
each other? My dear, I don't think you have any conception
of just how remarkable you are." The emotion behind his
pursuit of her was very thick in his words.
She
tried to ignore how his nearness, his appearance of
indisputable physical strength, and the intent look on his
face had begun to affect her. She was glad to be seated and
not standing. She said the first thing that came to mind,
and was sure he'd find it ludicrous. "I'm sure I couldn't
fascinate you with my love of poetry; no one reads Keats
anymore, do they? Not in your circle at any rate....
With
an almost haunted expression that someone else in the
current century was familiar with the poet, Armand grasped
at his heart. The ring of emeralds banding the middle of the
cigarette holder sparkled brightly against the breast of his
tuxedo jacket as he quoted from "La Belle Dame sans
Merci":
"I
met a lady in the meads,
Full
beautiful -- a faery's child,
Her
hair was long, her foot was light,
And
her eyes were wild...
She
looked at me as she did love...."
He
moved his chair back, arranging it to face her more
directly, and crossed his long legs toward her. "New Year's
Day, recital, on the stage, Paris, 1925."
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"You
must have been very young; was it your 'Romeo and
Juliet'?"
"I
was 19, almost 20, one of those hopelessly lost romantics.
My theatre friends decided I was a true holdover, an oddity,
from the Victorian Age; I'd refused to drop my sense of
chivalry toward women. They insisted on being modern men
without common courtesy -- don't open a door, don't offer
your elbow to a woman -- and what happened? The ladies of
their hearts more often than not came knocking on my door.
Oh yes, that verse, and my first love, how they filled me
when I had absolutely no new prospects for true love or an
occupation. Then what was it? Paris broke my heart first;
later, Irish politics would all but destroy it. I had no
choice but to make a hasty retreat from Paris to Britain. By
1929 I found myself in your Canada. What a rich theatrical
haven that was. I can't remember exactly how I ended up in
Hollywood half a continent away and leagues from Ireland.
But sweet darling, please go on, I'm forever interrupting
you." The table was cleared around them and guests were
departing to the grandroom for brandies, cigarettes and
sweets.
"Don't
you think we should join the others? She asked, sure it
wasn't good etiquette to detain her host.
"Good
God, no, let's not mad-dance with that hoi-polloi," he said,
then abruptly tapped the table with two fingers as one of
the kitchen staff passed by. In short time brandy and
snifters for two were brought on a silver tray, accompanied
by chocolates, French tarts and sugared fruit. "Now tell me,
what have I done to deserve you? Did you have a boyfriend
back in Canada? Are you still in love with him?"
At
times he was so naturally funny, Celeste couldn't resist
giggling. She accepted the brandy he offered, sipped, and
held back a cough with watery eyes. She thought back to the
years she'd spent at a county college before her usherette
job in the theatre. "I've had only one serious beau. We saw
each other on and off for perhaps two months. He was the
rustic type, happiest bear hunting, camping in the
Appalachians, or following the deer in Algonquin. He had no
sense of romance at all, really. I don't think he kissed me
twice, if once, and I'm not so sure he knew how to
kiss."
Armand
opened his mouth as if to speak, staring at her soft, full
pink lips, then made up his mind. A mouth like that, so
sweet and innocently tender, deserved to be kissed. Kissed
expertly until she fainted. He knew that if she belonged to
him, he would kiss her lips until they bled, kiss her so
there would be no mistaking he was a man who knew how to
kiss. The boyfriend must have been a lunatic or
blind.
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Then
it struck him, full in the stomach, around his heart. She
was beyond any doubt, a virgin. In that instant he resolved
to do all he could to prevent her future in movies from
being decided on the proverbial casting couch. He didn't
want her career clinched in the manner of a desperate
starlet seeking stardom on her knees before a studio boss.
An unexpected thorough wave of shame washed over him as he
remembered how lewdly he'd thought of Miss Valentina earlier
that evening in the shower while intimately involved with
his wife.
He
suddenly realized the young starlet brought out a
protectiveness in him toward a woman he'd never experienced
before, and he wasn't quite sure how to feel about it. He
wasn't compelled to deny or suppress what had risen so
stalwartly within him, and was equally uncertain if all men
came face to face with such instinctive emotions before
falling in love. "Am I falling in love?" he wondered. "Have
I already?" He tried to shake off the vaporous feelings
infiltrating his conscious heart when she broke the
trance.
"I
wish I could dance like Ruby Keeler or Eleanor Powell. I
know quite a few steps," Celeste smiled down at her shoes,
pointing her toes together.
"And
what -- tap yourself into being typecast for the rest of
your career?" He had to laugh. "No. Follow your current
vein, it's more versatile. As you mature as an actress, I
can see it; with your talent, there'll be no limit to the
roles you'll be offered. As for dancing, let's do the jazz
club rounds in Singapore. The tango's still all the rage
there, too. Those wonderful moves to 'The Day You'll Finally
Love Me' must have been meant for us. I think you and I
would burn up the dance floor and ignite each other in the
process. Yes, you and I must dance, if only because
strangers and lovers dance best together." He thought ahead
to the romantic port they'd be in the same time next
week.
She
only shook her head, trying to push down the feelings she
felt creeping into her cheeks as a blush.
He
began then to sense very strongly that something inevitable
was drawing them closer. "So come now, what else? I know
there's more to you than meets the eye. I think you know by
now I'm not one to give up, especially when what I really
want is well within reach...."
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She
told him about her family, about the one person in the world
who'd ever loved her or given any measure of acceptance --
Aunt Olympia. She rambled on a bit how they were enjoying
the expenses-paid trip.
His
eyes remained rapt, never glazing over or looking beyond her
to his other guests.
"And
your family?" she asked. "I'm only being as curious about
you as you are about me."
He
was straightforward in his revelations. "I've something of a
sad past, like yourself. My parents died before I was a
teenager, and to this day I'm not certain what became of
them. No one in my family has bothered to tell me...." There
was an odd detachment in his voice. "It seems some threads
in our lives have insisted on becoming interwoven. Orphans
we are, darling, and that's the most pitiable common bond we
could share. Is it any wonder we become actors?"
"Do
you ride often?" she wanted to lighten the conversation, but
moreso wanted to remind him he'd asked her to join him.
"Every
free day, every chance I get." He seemed relieved by her
graceful switch of topics. "I can't tell you how many times
I lost myself as a young boy in the emerald forests of
Ireland, with only my shaggy-foot pony to know the way
home."
"We
had a pony and trap to go to market and church and visit
around the county. It might have been nice to keep more
horses on the farm in Canada, but my aunt knew our source of
income and survival through the winter depended on renting
out the fields to other farmers as crop land." She felt
herself relaxing slowly, wanting to feel comfortable with
the undeniably charming person he was, regardless of how
fascinating and handsome she found him.
"Your
aunt is very wise; few people can live comfortably without a
measure of hard work involved," he almost choked on the
words. Then he added, "It sounds like she means a good deal
to you."
"Olympia's
here with me for the three contest months. She's also a
piano teacher, and started me on singing lessons when I was
five, although nothing's ever come of it. I adore nothing
more than reading; she encouraged that bent, too. I'm such a
fool for those nickel romance novels, but only Edith Wharton
can make me weep."
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Armand
startled for the second time that night. "Victorian
melodrama at its finest. How couldn't I help but fall in
love with Miss Lily from The House of Mirth? Hell of a read
when you're a schoolboy at the upper window under the full
moon." He warmed the brandy snifter in his palms, studying
her for a twinkling. "You have her innocence, her
willingness to please. But I hope you're not a so gentle
woman of sorrows who knew she was being victimized, yet
unable to escape the plots of her wicked tormentors." He
noticed the blush rise more hotly pink in her rougeless
cheeks. "Miss Lily clung to the hope someone would love her
one day with that incomparable love we all want to come our
ways. How she longed for that man to find her."
Celeste
thought he might ask, "Do you?", but the thoughts left
unspoken in his eyes remained a mystery.
As
the candles burned lower on the table, and the number of
French cigarettes in the crystal ashtray increased, and
empty brandy snifters lined the middle of the table like
translucent frosted bells, they lost themselves discussing
Irish poets and playwrights, American verse and Canadian
painters.
She
was struck by how well-read he was. She became increasingly
aware of his intelligent sensitivity, also sensing how
reluctant he was to reveal these inclinations to others. It
was entirely possible that the romantic illusion she fell in
love with on the screen sat close to her intact. His film
spectre had taken on flesh and a beating heart, and was now
breathing, seething and reeking life next to her.
"Celeste,"
he spoke her name as though he liked the sound of it,
"before the flight to Singapore, I'll send my rep with you
to the studio. Until IEP decides who's to be my co-star
for Paramour, don't sign any other contract. I know
you're heading a short list for that role. If you're unsure,
do nothing. If they really want you - and I think they do --
they'll be willing to take a chance on your future worth to
them. The standard for IEP is a seven-year contract with
options, like my own, like Bette Davis' over at Warner
Brothers. Hell, everybody knows what every- body else is
making in this town. Did you know that Swanson at the peak
of her silent career not ten years ago was making $20,000 a
week? Nobody thinks her lover had anything to do with it.
The Depression might have taken the wind out of most of our
salaries today, but a dollar still goes a long way if you
spend it in the right places. Yes, I think cute little Bette
started at $300 a week or $350 a week. You go for
more."
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"Won't
your wife be disappointed about not being in the film with
you?"
"Not
at all, it's the way things are done. You're fresh. We'll be
the latest novelty. Vionette knows how quickly an audience
tires of the same old team with the same old story. People
have no idea who you are. They'll be curious." Armand knew
the capricious theatre-goer.
"You
make it all sound like a formula I'll be an ingredient of," she said
disappointedly. A fear shivered through her that his only fascination
in her was the business possibilities
she could secure for his future with IEP. Perhaps she'd
hoped for too much too soon.
He
was amused by her expression. "Not at all. It has everything
to do with magic. You have that magic, that rare and
enchanting 'something'. Let's talk more about you and I
soon." Then he stood, seeing his wife motion to him with a
hooked finger from the grandroom salon. "The world has
become so rude, hasn't it, intruding upon us like that?" he
sighed heavily, looking through the doorway. "I suppose we
should join the others before they suspect something serious
is going on between us. Come, sweet darling, I'm more
concerned about your reputation than mine...."
Rising
unsteadily, she rested a shaky hand on his arm. The week's
events had flown by a-blur with exciting development after
development. She was rushing toward a future she wasn't
prepared for, with no chance to adjust to each step along
the way. Now she wondered which bright star she should dare
reach for.
She
never thought she'd win a contest and step foot inside the
Hollywood dream. Yet she had. She trembled to think her
prospects could flower in an uncertain spring to bloom fully
into stardom.
Then
too, beside the dream, she could see the nightmare of fame
that had snared Armand DeBarr. Success had given him a
mansion and a name in lights -- and caught him in the web of
wife Vionette's vanities. Celeste now clearly recognized
what she'd only felt between them as she'd watched the
couple together on the screen years ago.
She
was certain of that one thing only. Armand DeBarr was not,
and had never been, in love with his wife....
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Excerpts: Copyright © March
1999: Clarisse D'Marchand
Order
your copy of Living On Velvet
today!
Portions
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On Velvet -
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