Eve in Hollywood (4 page)

Ah, the very shame of it.

He told her too, how he had learned to hold it in check during all those promising years—first, as a lineless lord-officer-soldier-attendant; then, as an understudy in the wings mouthing monologues word-for-word; and at last, as the leading man with a rapier in his left hand and a pistol in his right. But with every step toward success, he had advanced as well toward a darker humor. He became surly. Impatient. Abrupt.

—Do you know what I was doing, Evelyn, at the height of my stardom? Can you even imagine? I was starving! Over the years, I convinced myself that I had built worthy defenses—a fortress against my weakness. But on the Ides of March, 1935, left alone by Lucifer in a lavished hall where the press had yet to arrive, my fortitude failed me. On that day, I gorged. I gorged on honey baked ham and linzer torte and strawberries dipped in cream. It was my crossing of the Rubicon, Evelyn. In the days that followed, I tumbled down the vertiginous trail of my frailty. Head over heels I fell; and as I passed the olive trees jutting from the jagged hills, not once did I reach for a branch.

In hearing this, Evelyn's eyes grew brighter with every word. She did not look disgusted or shocked. She looked defiant!

—I want you to listen to me, Prentice, she said, as one who has slayed a dragon of her own. I want you to listen very carefully. Are you listening, Prentice?

—Yes, Evelyn.

—Since that day, since that day with the ham and the torte, have you been surly, impatient, or abrupt?

Prentice raised his head.

—Not for a minute.

She patted him on the back of the hand.

—Exactly.

Her expression relaxed. They sat holding hands. And as the sky turned indigo, a waxing moon rose over the hotel, giving the entire setting the look of the desert oasis it was.

—Evelyn . . .

—Yes, Prentice.

—I must admit to something else.

He shifted on the seat so that he could face her.

—I have lied to you.

She did not look offended or surprised.

—In what way? she asked.

—About the lobby.

She offered a bemused smile.

—No. I am serious, Evelyn. Deadly serious. I have encouraged you to take up residence beside me in the lobby, calling it the world. But it isn't the world. It isn't a continent, or a country, or a town. It isn't even a room! It is a prison cell. It is my Bastille.

For the first time in years, Prentice felt the force of his own convictions.

—
Providence
has sent you to Los Angeles, Evelyn. And you must visit with It. Young William, one of the hotel's drivers, has been put at my disposal; I put him at yours. You must go out into the scent of the orange blossoms, out into the temperate nights of Hollywood where all its most elusive delicacies hide in plain sight. Go tonight. Start by dining on the Sunset Strip at Antonio's on osso buco with risotto Milanese!

—We can go together.

(So suggested Evelyn, sweet Evelyn.)

—No, said Prentice, rising to his feet. You must go without me,
mon ami
. For tonight upon the platform, before the crow of the cock, I have an appointment with an apparition.

W
HEN
O
LIVIA HAD ALMOST
run out of questions about track and field, she excused herself politely from the table for two.

Given the choice, she would have preferred to be on the little bedroom terrace that she hardly ever used. Bounded by white stucco, climbing with ivy, and bordered by love-in-idleness, it seemed the perfect grotto for the weary in waiting. But as she passed a neighboring table, she paused to accept and return the compliment from the comedian; and at the booth a few steps beyond, she told the director with the Slavic accent that she would very much enjoy having the opportunity to work with him as well. She tucked a curl behind an ear, offered a delicate smile, and continued toward the powder room hoping to find it empty.

But of course, it wasn't.

They hardly ever were.

•

L
EANING AGAINST THE WALL
by the sinks was the rather rough looking blonde whom Olivia had noticed dining alone at the bar. She was smoking a cigarette and listening to the attendant who was describing a night on the town as she aimlessly wiped the countertop. Miguel, the girl was saying, had borrowed his uncle's car and dressed in a three-piece suit. He had taken her dancing at a little club on Shepherd Avenue. A club that had the finest band en Los Ángeles . . . En California . . . En todo el—

The girl stopped when she saw Olivia's reflection in the mirror. She apologized and retreated to the back of the room where she began folding and refolding hand towels. Olivia approached a sink and turned on the faucets. The blonde didn't move. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall, as if she could hear the rumba of the girl's reminiscence.

From across the restaurant, Olivia had imagined that the blonde was in that league of callous women who began their workday at the bars of the Hollywood restaurants and hotels. But from up close, Olivia could see how terribly off the mark she had been. In the mirror's reflection, the blonde's unscarred profile suggested an almost aristocratic beauty with no hint of an ugly enterprise's toll. And she had the effortless poise of a woman raised in the largest house in town. With her arm hanging gracefully at her side, her fingers slender and unadorned, she held her cigarette at an upward angle so that the smoke could spiral toward the ceiling with an enviable lack of purpose.

—Would you like one?

Olivia looked up to find that the blonde had caught her staring.

—Why yes, thank you, she replied, though she hadn't smoked in more than a year.

The blonde slid the pack across the counter.

Olivia took one of the cigarettes and lit it. She leaned against the wall, assuming the blonde would make conversation, but she didn't.

When Olivia inhaled, the taste of the smoke brought back foolish memories . . . of hiding with her sister behind an elm tree in Saratoga with pilfered cigarettes and a pack of cinnamon gum. They were memories from another season—a season when the two of them had shared clothes and secrets and sly remarks.

How never-resting time does lead summer on . . .

—So, is he as boring as he seems?

—I'm sorry? asked Olivia.

—Your date, said the blonde. Isn't he the one who wears the big white hats?

Olivia laughed.

—Wilmot's not a date. It's more of a work dinner. But yes, I suppose he is the one who wears the big white hats.

—Well, every time he squints at the horizon, I fall asleep.

Olivia laughed again.

—I think they call it the strong and silent type.

—They can call it whatever they like. But from where I was sitting, he looked more like the go-on-and-on-and-on type. Do you ever get a word in edgewise?

Olivia extended her arm in an ironic flourish.

—
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice . . .

The blonde raised a questioning eyebrow.

—Shakespeare . . . , Olivia confessed. Courtesy of my mother.

—What
else
did your mother teach you?

Olivia considered.

—A lady never finishes a cigarette, a drink, or a meal.

The blonde nodded her head in a show of familiarity.

—My mother told me that it was more important to be interested than interesting.

—Have you heeded her advice?

—Only as a last resort.

Olivia and the blonde were both silent—reflecting for the moment on motherly advice and other monoliths. Then Olivia held up her cigarette to show that it had been half smoked, and, with a smile of goodhearted resignation, she dutifully tamped it out.

A
S THE WAITER CLEARED
Olivia's unfinished entrée, Wilmot was explaining the insignificance of the marathon when compared to the fifty-yard dash.

—A marathon is really a contest of endurance, he was saying, not of athleticism. You'll often see a topflight sprinter excel at a variety of sports, but a great marathoner will only excel at one. And there are whole miles in a marathon that have no bearing on victory. Like the eleventh, or the twelfth, or the thirteenth. But I think we can safely say that in the fifty-yard dash, every footfall counts.

As Wilmot spoke, he rubbed the tablecloth with the flat of his hands. Back and forth they went in the spot where his plate had been, as if he'd been asked by the maître d' to keep the linens smooth. And Olivia realized that he didn't want to be there either. He too was fulfilling an obligation—playing his part in this orchestrated pair of Maid Marian and Wyatt Earp.

But that didn't mean he was about to ask for the check. When the waiter returned to inquire about dessert, Wyatt (with his white hat securely on his head) would presumably note how famous Antonio's was for its chocolate gelato; and Marian would smile politely and say that chocolate gelato sounded perfectly delicious. And they would spend another hour at this table for two talking of the shot put and the high jump before heading their separate ways.

The blonde from the powder room wouldn't stay for dessert, Olivia found herself thinking. But then, she probably wouldn't have put herself in this position in the first place. Having dined alone at the bar, she could now pay her check and go home to her own ivied terrace. Or more likely, head off in search of the finest band in Los Ángeles. En California. En todo el mundo.

—Cousin Livvy! Is that you?

Wyatt and Marian both looked up in surprise.

It was the blonde, but she looked bright-eyed and boisterous. And she had a Southern accent . . .

—It's me, Evvie! she said, placing her fingers to her chest. All the way from Baton Rouge!

Olivia had to restrain a laugh.

—Evvie . . . I didn't know that you were in town . . .

—I'm here with Aunt Edith! She's waiting at the hotel, so I don't have a minute. But they'd just paddle me back home if we didn't catch up.

—Please join us, said Wilmot on his feet.

He brought a chair from the neighboring table and placed it between his and Olivia's.

—Oh no, chided Evvie. Boy girl, boy girl!

She picked up Wilmot's cocktail in both hands and placed it gently in front of the empty chair. Then she claimed his spot as the waiter arrived with a martini.

—In God We Trust, Evvie said, raising the glass.

—In God We Trust, Wilmot repeated a little uncertainly, as he raised his own.

—So . . . , said Olivia. What's the news from Baton Rouge . . . ?

—You wouldn't believe me if I told you, said Evvie. You remembah that colored boy who worked for Aunt Ethel? Well, last Septembah he up and drove off in Aunt Ethel's Cadillac—with Aunt Ethel in it! And when the police finally pulled them over in Kansas City, it was the colored boy who was in the passengah seat and Aunt Ethel behind the wheel.

—I do declayah, said Olivia.

Evvie turned to Wilmot confidentially.

—Aunt Ethel always had a fondness for oldah husbands; and youngah men . . .

Wilmot, who was smoothing the linens again, attempted to change the subject.

—Have you been in Los Angeles long, Evvie?

—Just a few weeks, she sighed. But it's been divine. Why, we've seen Charlie Chaplin's house and Lon Chaney's garage. We've been to the Tar Pits and the fights at the American Legion . . .

Wilmot blinked as Evvie spoke, as if he was having trouble keeping up.

—Some dessert? asked the waiter, who was leaning over the table with his pad and pen.

Wilmot looked up at the waiter as if he hadn't understood the question.

—I know just the thing, said Evvie. Let's have dessert in Santa Monica. I have it on good authority that until the stroke of midnight the finest donuts in all of Los Angeles are cooked on the Santa Monica piers. We can dangle our toes in the water and watch the casinos drift out to sea!

—I haven't had a donut in ten years, Olivia admitted.

—Well, that settles it.

The girls turned to Wilmot.

—I'm actually feeling a little under the weather, he confessed while mopping his brow with his pocket square.

—What is it, my dear? asked Evvie. Are you coming down with something?

—No. I'll be fine. I'm just going to sit here for a minute. Why don't you two girls go on without me.

When Evvie and Olivia put their napkins on the table, Wilmot looked almost relieved.

—Lovely to meet you, Evvie said, then she took Olivia by the hand.

Evvie tugged her past a screenwriter, a leading man, and the maître d'—anyone of whom might normally have waylaid her—and Livvie found herself giggling like a schoolgirl in the midst of a narrow escape.

Outside, the wind was wild. The fronds of the palm trees rattled overhead and dust spiraled off the sidewalk in little tornadoes. Evvie slipped past the valets in order to survey the street. Halfway up the block what looked like a teenage boy in a chauffeur's uniform waved. He was standing in front of a forest green Packard.

—Is that yours? Olivia asked.

—More a friend of a friend's, said Evvie. Come on. Before Wilmot changes his mind.

And the two cousins made the twenty-yard dash for the car.

O
NCE THEY WERE IN THE
back of the Packard driving along Sunset, the blonde stuck out her hand and formally introduced herself. Then she instructed her driver to head for the Santa Monica piers.

—You were serious? asked Olivia.

—Absolutely. The donuts are the next item on the list. Isn't that right, Billy?

—Yes, ma'am!

—So, have you really been to those others places?

—Well, not to Lon Chaney's garage. But we've been to the Tar Pits and the fights. We've been to the Wishing Chair at Forest Lawn Cemetery and the parade on Santa Claus Lane.

With one hand on the steering wheel and one eye on the road, Billy leaned to his right, took something from the glove compartment, and handed it into the backseat. It was a waiter's pad from the Beverly Hills Hotel. The fourth page was titled
SIGHTS TO SEE BEFORE I LEAVE L.A.
It had an itemized list of fifteen destinations, thirteen of which had been checked off in a forest green ink, as if the pen had come with the car.

Leaning over Olivia's shoulder, Eve pointed to item number fourteen: The Donuts of Santa Monica.

—How long have you been in Los Angeles? Olivia asked in disbelief.

Eve pretended to count on her fingertips.

—Two months, three weeks, and a day.

—I've been here for four years and haven't done half of these things.

—You've been busy.

Olivia took another look at the list.

—Skating?!

—The Pan Pacific Rink is one in a million! Billy enthused as he pulled himself up by the wheel. The real McCoy! Not only is it the largest skating rink in the world, every Saturday they have an orchestra that plays polkas and on Sundays they serve hot toddies!

Eve winked at Olivia.

—Speaking of hot toddies, Billy: What have we got in the glove?

Billy leaned to his right again and handed back a flask.