The Carpetbaggers (84 page)

Aida was seated on the couch, a tray of tea and cookies on the table before her. "You can put the valise with the others, Mary."

"Yes'm," the maid said.

Jennie turned and saw the maid put her valise next to some others standing by the door. She turned back to Aida. A newspaper was open on the couch beside her, the big, black headlines staring up.

STANDHURST DEAD!

Aida got up and took her hand, gently pulling her down to the couch. "Sit down, my dear," she said softly. "I've been expecting you. We have plenty of time for a cup of tea before we go to the train."

"To the train?"

"Of course, my dear," Aida said. "We're going to Chicago. It's the only place in the United States for a girl to start her career."

The big twenty-four sheet from the billboard hung over the makeshift stage at the Army camp. It was an enlargement of the famous color photograph from the cover of
Life
magazine. Looking up at it, Jennie remembered the photographer perching precariously on the top rung of the ladder near the ceiling, aiming his camera down toward her on the bed.

From that angle, her legs had been too long and had gone out of the frame, so he'd turned her around and placed her feet up on the white satin tufted headboard. Then the flash bulb had gone off, blinding her for a moment as they always did, and history had been made.

She'd been wearing a decorously cut black lace nightgown, which covered her completely from throat to ankles. Yet it had clung so revealingly, the soft tones of her flesh glowing in contrast to the black lace, that it left nothing to the imagination — the swollen nipples, irritated by the material across her jutting breasts, the soft curve of her stomach, and the sharply rising pubis, which couldn't be hidden because of the position of her legs. Her long blond hair spilled downward over the edge of the bed and the blinding light of the flash bulb had thrown a sensual invitation into her eyes as she smiled at the invisible onlooker, upside down, from the lower-left-hand corner.

Life
had published the photograph with but one word emblazoned in white block letters beneath it:

DENTON

That had been almost a year ago, in October of 1941, about the time
The Sinner
was having its world première in New York. She remembered the surprise she'd felt, walking through the lobby of the Waldorf, with Jonas at her side, coming onto rows of photographs of herself hanging across the newsstand magazine racks.

"Look," she'd said, stopping in wonder. Jonas smiled at her in that particular way which, she knew by now, meant he was particularly pleased with something. He'd crossed to the newsstand and throwing a coin down picked up the magazine from the rack. He handed it to her as they went into the elevator.

She opened the magazine on the way up. The headline loomed over the text:
Spirituality in Sex
.

* * *

Jonas Cord, a wealthy young man, who makes airplanes, explosives, plastics and money (see
Life
, Oct. '39) and, when the spirit moves him, occasionally makes a motion picture (
The Renegade,
1930,
Devils in the Sky
, 1932), has come up with a highly personalized version, in the De Mille tradition, of the story of Mary Magdalene. He calls it, with his customary frankness,
The Sinner
.

Without a doubt, the single most important factor contributing to the impact of this motion picture is the impressive performance of the young woman Mr. Cord selected to play the title role, Jennie Denton.

Miss Denton, without prior experience in motion pictures or at acting, has a most newsworthy effect upon audiences. With all the overtly sexual awareness that the motions of her body (37-21-36) seem to suggest, the viewer is at the same time aware of the deeply spiritual quality that always emanates from her. Perhaps this stems from her eyes, which are wide-set and gray and deep with a knowledge and wisdom of pain and love and death, far beyond her years. In some strange manner, she appears to project the paradoxical contrasts of our times — the self-seeking aggressions of man's search for physical satisfaction and his desire for spiritual values greater than himself.

* * *

The elevator door opened and she felt Jonas' hand on her arm. She closed the magazine and they walked out of the elevator. "My God, do they really believe that?"

He smiled. "I guess they do. That's one magazine you can't buy for advertising. I told you you were going to be a star," he said as they walked into his apartment.

She was to leave for the Coast immediately after the première to begin another picture. She saw the script lying on the table in front of the couch. Jonas walked over and picked it up, and riffled the pages. "I don't like it."

"I don't like it, either. But Maurice says it will make a mint."

"I don't care," he said. "I just don't like the idea of you being in it." He crossed to the telephone. "Get me Mr. Bonner at the Sherry-Netherland."

"Maurice, this is Jonas," he said curtly, a moment later. "Cancel
Stareyes
. I don't want Denton in it."

She heard Bonner's excited protest all the way across the room. "I don't care," Jonas said. "Get someone else to play it. . . . Who? . . . Hayworth, Sheridan. Anyone you want. And from now on, Denton isn't to be scheduled for any picture until I approve the script."

He put down the telephone and turned to her. He was smiling. "You hear that?"

She smiled back at him. "Yes, boss."

The photograph had been an instant success. Everywhere you went, it stared out at you — from walls, from display counters, from calendars and from posters. And she, too, had gone on to fame. She was a star and when she returned to the Coast, she found that Jonas had approved a new contract for her.

But a year had gone by, including the bombs at Pearl Harbor, and still she had made no other picture. Not that it mattered.
The Sinner
was in its second year at the big Norman Theater in New York and was still playing limited-first-run engagements wherever it opened. It was proving to be the biggest-grossing picture the company had ever made.

Her routine became rigid and unvarying. Between publicity appearances at each première, as the picture opened across the country, she remained on the Coast. Each morning, she'd go to the studio. There her day would be filled — dramatic lessons in the morning; luncheon, generally with some interviewer; voice, singing and dancing lessons in the afternoon. Her evenings were generally spent alone, unless Jonas happened to be in town. Then she was with him every night.

Occasionally, she'd have dinner with David and Rosa Woolf. She liked Rosa and their happy little baby, who just now was learning how to walk and bore the impressive name of Henry Bernard, after David's father and uncle. But most of the time she spent alone in her small house with the Mexican woman. The word was out. She was Jonas' girl. And Jonas' girl she remained.

It was only when she was with him that she did not feel the loneliness and lack of purpose that was looming larger and larger inside. She began to grow restless. It was time for her to go to work. She read scripts avidly and several times, when she thought she'd found one she might like to do, she got in touch with Jonas. As always, he'd promise to read it and then call her several days later to say he didn't think it was right for her. There was always a reason.

Once, in exasperation, she'd asked him why he kept her on the payroll if he had nothing for her to do. For a moment, he'd been silent. When he spoke, his voice was cold and final. "You're not an actress," he said. "You're a star. And stars can only shine when everything else is right."

A few days later, Al Petrocelli, the publicity man, came to her dressing room at the studio. "Bob Hope's doing a show for the boys at Camp Pendleton. He wants you on it."

She turned on the couch on which she was sitting and put down the script she'd been reading. "I can do it?" she asked, looking at him.

They both knew what she meant. "Bonner talked to Cord. They both agreed the exposure would be good for you. Di Santis will be in charge of whipping up an act for you."

"Good," she said, getting to her feet. "It will be great having something to do again."

And now, after six weeks of extensive rehearsal of a small introductory speech and one song, which had been carefully polished, phrased and orchestrated to show her low, husky voice to its greatest advantage, she stood in the wings of the makeshift stage, waiting to go on. She shivered in the cool night air despite the mink coat wrapped around her.

She peeked out from behind the wings at the audience. A roar of laughter rolled toward her from the rows upon rows of soldiers, stretching into the night as far as the eye could see. Hope had just delivered one of his famous off-color, serviceman-only kind of jokes that could never have got on the air during his coast-to-coast broadcasts. She pulled her head back, still shivering. "Nervous, eh?" Al asked. "Never worked before an audience before? Don't worry, it'll soon pass."

A sudden memory of Aida and the routine she'd made her perform before a small but select group of wealthy men in New Orleans flashed through her mind. "Oh, I've worked in front of an audience before." Then when she saw the look of surprise on his face, "When I was in college," she added dryly. She turned back to watch Bob Hope. Somehow, the memory made her feel better.

Al turned to the soldier standing next to him. "Now, you know what you got to do, Sergeant?"

"I got it down perfect, Mr. Petrocelli."

"Good," Al said. He glanced out at the stage. Hope was nearing the end of his routine. Al turned back to the soldier, a twenty-dollar bill appearing magically in his hand. "She'll be going on any minute," he said. "Now, you get down there in the front near the stage. And don't forget. Speak up loud and clear."

"Yes, Mr. Petrocelli," the soldier said, the twenty disappearing into his pocket.

"There'll be another after the show if everything goes right."

"For another twenty, Mr. Petrocelli," the soldier said, "you don't have to worry. They'll hear me clear to Alaska."

Al nodded worriedly and turned toward the stage as the soldier went out and around the wings. Hope was just beginning Jennie's introduction. "And now, men," he said into the microphone, "for the high spot of the evening— " He paused for a moment, holding up his hands to still the starting applause. "The reason we're all here. Even the entire officer's club." He waited until the laughter died away. "Girl-watching!"

"Now, men," he continued, "when I first told the War Department who was coming here tonight, they said, 'Oh, no, Mr. Hope. We just haven't enough seat belts for that many chairs.' But I reassured them. I told them you soldiers knew how to handle any situation." There was laughter again but this time, there was an expectancy in its sound. Hope held up his hands. "And so, fellers, I give you— "

The lights suddenly dimmed and a baby spot picked up Jennie's head as she peeked out past the curtain. "Fasten your seat belts, men!" Hope shouted. "Jennie Denton!"

And the stage went to black except for the spotlight on Jennie. A roar burst from the audience as she cautiously and tentatively, in the manner in which she had thoroughly rehearsed, walked out on the stage, covered completely by the full mink coat.

The noise washed over her and she felt its vibrations in the wooden floor beneath her feet as she came to a stop in front of the microphone. She stood there quietly, looking at them, her blond page-boy haircut catching and reflecting the gleaming light. The soldiers whistled and screamed and stomped.

After a few minutes had passed, during which the noise showed no signs of abatement, she leaned toward the microphone. "If you men will give me just a minute," she said in a low voice, letting her coat slip from one shoulder. "I'll take my coat off."

If possible, the noise grew even louder as she slowly and deliberately took off the coat. She let it fall to the stage behind her and stood there, revealed in a white, diamond-sequined, skin-tight evening gown. She leaned toward the microphone again and one shoulder strap slipped from her shoulder. Quickly she caught at it. "This is most embarrassing. I've never been with so many men before."

They roared enthusiastically.

"Now I don't know what to do," she said in a soft voice.

"Don't do nothin', baby," came a stentorian roar from down front, near the stage, "Jus' stand there!"

Again, pandemonium broke loose as she smiled and peered in the direction of the voice. She waited until the sound died down slightly. "I have a little song I'd like to sing for you," she said. "Would you like that?"

"Yes!" The sound came back from a thousand throats.

"O.K.," she said and moved closer to the microphone, clutching again at her falling strap. "Now, if you'll just pretend you're at home, listening to the radio, if you'll close your eyes— "

"Close our eyes?" the stentorian voice roared again. "Baby, we may be in the Army but we're not crazy!"

She smiled helplessly at the roar of laughter as the music slowly came up. Slowly the spot narrowed to just her face as silence came down on the audience. The music was the studio arranger at his best. An old torch song but done in beguine rhythm with the piano, the winds and the violins playing the melody against the rhythm of the drums and the big bass.

She came in right on cue, her eyes half closed against the spotlight, her lower lip shining. "I wanna be loved by you," she sang huskily. "And nobody else but you.

"I wanna be loved by you.

"A-low-oh-ohne."

The roar that came rolling out from the audience all but drowned out her voice and for a moment she was frightened by all the repressed sexuality she heard in it.

Maurice Bonner walked into the Hollywood Brown Derby, the thick blue-paper-bound script under his arm. The headwaiter bowed. "Good afternoon, Mr. Bonner. Mr. Pierce is already here."

They walked down to a booth in the rear of the restaurant. Dan looked up from a copy of the
Hollywood Reporter
. He put down the paper next to his drink. "Hello, Maurice."