Well Behaved Women, page 25
‘I want to create truth and art and beauty,’ Alla replied. ‘Of course, I want to entertain – if the audience are not enjoying themselves, or are not moved in some way, then it doesn’t matter how truthful or how artistic the performance is. The connection with the audience is perhaps the most important connection of all. And I hope to continue playing strong women in New York theatre. The city has been so welcoming to me, so accepting of my strange accent and limited English.’
‘Oh, but your English is so good,’ Lilian praised her. ‘And you’re so talented. Everyone at the magazine is raving about your performance.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I think your accent only adds to your allure.’ Lilian smiled as she uncrossed her legs, re-crossing them in the other direction, offering Alla a glimpse of shapely ankle as her long skirt rode up an inch or two, the elegant arch of her foot emphasised by the low heels she was wearing. ‘What exactly is your background, Madame Nazimova? You’re Russian, is that correct?’
Alla’s focus quickly returned to the interview. She was immediately on her guard when people questioned her history, frightened of revealing too much. ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she replied, experience having taught her that it was easiest to keep it simple and close to the truth. ‘I trained in Moscow, at the Philharmonic School, and at the Moscow Arts Theatre under Konstantin Stanislavsky.’
‘And how on earth did you find yourself in New York?’ Lilian sat forward now, her voice breathy with anticipation.
‘I was with a touring group,’ Alla explained succinctly. ‘We left Russia to perform in Berlin, then London, then travelled to America. I was lucky enough that Lee Schubert liked me enough to take a chance on me.’
‘And do you have a husband, or a significant other?’ Lilian pressed. ‘Our readers like to gain that extra insight in our interviews, and it’s always good to open up a little.’
Alla smiled tightly. ‘No. For me, I am devoted to my profession. I have no time for a personal life. In fact, it is after four o’clock and I have a meeting with my agent shortly. Thank you so much for coming, Mrs Gilbert.’
‘It’s Miss Gilbert. Although, please, feel free to call me Lilian.’ She closed her notebook, putting it back in her purse. ‘Thank you so much for speaking with me, I’ve enjoyed it immensely. Here’s my card, with my office number.’ Lilian flipped it over and scribbled something on the back. ‘And this is the number for my floor at the Martha Washington. Please don’t hesitate to contact me, day or night, if you think of anything else Theater readers might like to know. Or if you need to get a hold of me for any other reason…’
She let the moment hang, smiling at Alla without breaking eye contact.
‘Thank you, Lilian. I’ve enjoyed meeting you too,’ Alla returned the smile, as the two women shook hands.
‘And how was the interview?’ asked Lee Schubert, rolling a pen between his forefingers and regarding Alla. He was still in the same small office, with the same efficient secretary, but it was clear that his wealth was only increasing – as evidenced by the artwork on the walls and the cut of his suit.
‘It went well, I think…’ Alla replied cautiously. She and Lee had always had a good working relationship; she had the highest respect for him and would forever be grateful for the way he’d signed her based on little more than gut instinct. But being called in for this meeting reminded Alla of her days at the Catholic boarding school, being summoned to see the headmistress for some misdemeanour or another. ‘Am I in trouble?’ she asked, deciding that a forthright approach was the best.
‘What? No!’ Lee Schubert roared with laughter and Alla instantly relaxed. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m extremely pleased with your progress. Extremely pleased. Your reviews are stellar, and – most importantly for me – you’re selling out the theatre, which is how we make the money. I hear nothing but good reports from everyone you’ve worked with, so I’ve been thinking…’
Alla watched him carefully, pleased that he was pleased, wondering what was coming next.
‘I’d like you to add a second performance of a different play. Your choice – although I have to agree to it.’
‘A Doll’s House,’ Alla replied instantly, not needing even a moment’s thought.
Lee mulled it over. ‘Two Ibsen plays? That could work. It would be like performing in rep. And you’ve already proved that Ibsen suits your style of working, and that there’s an audience for it. All right then, A Doll’s House. Why not?’
Alla was fizzing with excitement. She already knew exactly how she would play Nora – which was to say, in complete contrast to Hedda. Where Hedda was fierce and dark and held herself tightly, Nora would be girlish and light, in ruffled clothing and with soft hair.
‘Now,’ Lee continued. ‘I’d like to give you a later time but, as you know, The School for Scandal is already playing at the Princess in the evenings. So I’m proposing to move you to the Bijou – it’s a little smaller, but you’ll have the evening slot, and you can alternate Hedda and A Doll’s House. Does that sound okay?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ Alla agreed, clearly thrilled at the prospect. She decided to take a gamble, declaring boldly, ‘I want Henry Miller to direct.’ Alla enjoyed working with Henry, finding him very open to her methods and suggestions. In truth, it appeared sometimes as though she were the director, and he merely a kindly overseer, indulgently allowing her free rein to pursue her ideas.
‘Sure,’ Lee shrugged, equally unwilling to break up what had proved itself to be a successful collaboration. ‘Why kill the goose that laid the golden egg? I’d like the two of you to take the lead on the casting – although I’ll retain a final veto.’
Alla was nodding so hard she felt her neck would ache later, hardly able to believe the change in her fortunes. After so many years of playing second fiddle to Pavel, of being emotionally and physically broken by him, she was emerging like a butterfly from a chrysalis. Her career was on the rise, her agent believed in her, and she was – for the first time in a very long time – in a position of power, with control over her own life.
‘Make sure you have a relaxing night. Maybe pour yourself a drink, or buy yourself something nice to celebrate,’ Lee suggested. ‘Because after that, it’s time to get to work.’
The red velvet seats were undeniably uncomfortable, Alla reflected, momentarily pitying the audience that usually sat on them. After three interminable hours of auditions, with actors ranging from the dire to the promisingly talented, Alla’s backside was definitely feeling the pressure.
‘Thank you,’ she called out, cutting off a rambling Shakespearean monologue. The woman nodded, looking disappointed, and left the stage. Alla glanced across at Henry and saw him put a line through the woman’s name; she agreed wholeheartedly. ‘Next!’
They were holding auditions in the Princess Theatre in the mornings before their matinee of Hedda Gabler, so Alla was familiar with the theatre, with its layout and quirks and the feeling of the space. Now a suited man strode onto the stage and Alla weighed him up for the role of Torvald, Nora’s husband. He was a little old, a little tall, perhaps. His voice had a pleasant timbre, but she wasn’t sure it would reach to the back rows, and she found herself tuning out as the speech continued, reflecting instead on how excited she was to be in this position, and how she was longing to give some undiscovered actor their first major opportunity. She was almost begging the auditionees to come and impress her, to step onto the stage and blow her away with their talent, but instead she’d witnessed average performance after average performance.
‘I’ll go get us some coffee,’ Henry whispered, creeping away as Alla shot him a grateful look. She badly needed it to stop her falling asleep.
‘Thank you,’ she called out, as the man on stage finished his piece and walked off. ‘Next!’
Moments later, a woman stepped into the bright lights, squinting a little as she looked out into the darkness of the auditorium. It took Alla a moment to acknowledge her presence.
‘Hello?’ the woman called out. She seemed nervous. ‘I’m… I’m Josephine Colbert.’
She had beautiful red hair worn in a rather dishevelled Gibson Girl style, and she was dressed in a plain, well-worn outfit of a heavy wool skirt and ruffled blouse. The dowdy clothes couldn’t fail to disguise the youthful, slender figure, or the determination in those startling amber eyes. Alla sat up a little straighter.
‘I’m going to perform Isabella, from Women Beware Women by Thomas Middleton.’
‘All right,’ Alla said expectantly. ‘In your own time…’
Josephine stared down at the floor for a moment, closing her eyes and exhaling, as she found her character. Then she raised her head, a confident, playful look stealing across her features as she began to speak.
Alla watched her intently, barely noticing when Henry returned and set two cups of coffee on the floor between them. The choice of audition speech was an interesting and brave one, from a rarely performed play whose plot included incest, adultery and murder.
‘Oh, the heart-breakings; Of miserable maids, where love’s enforc’d!’
It spoke of Isabella’s upcoming marriage to a man she considers to be an idiot, ruminating on the sadness of women who are obliged to marry against their will. Alla couldn’t take her eyes off Josephine; there was something about the way she moved, something in her looks, that Alla found compelling. She was clearly inexperienced – not yet ready for the role of Mrs Linde, but perhaps something small… Helene, the maid?
‘O but this marriage!’
The piece came to an end and Josephine broke out of character, suddenly the nervous young girl again.
‘Thank you,’ Alla said softly. ‘It was very nice to meet you today, Josephine.’
Josephine blushed adorably, hearing the sincerity in Alla’s voice.
‘We’ll be in touch.’ Alla nodded, not feeling the need to confer with Henry. ‘Very soon.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
MAYBELLE
Los Angeles, USA, 1926
It was a perfect summer’s night in early July. Hot and still, the sky was an inky black and a lambent moon – almost full – presided over proceedings.
As Joe and I climbed out of the old Chevy I could hear the sounds of revelry – laughter, music, the explosion of champagne corks – and it was impossible not to reflect on that first time I’d visited the Garden of Alla. How naïve I’d been back then, how unsophisticated and terrified and impossibly brave. And how much had happened since that night, a gamut of experiences from the wondrous to the scandalous and the heart-breaking.
Seven years ago, I’d tentatively entered Hayvenhurst full of naivety and awe, the atmosphere within both magical and overwhelming. Tonight, I felt a deep sadness, all too aware of the malignant presence hiding in the shadows to bring down the curtain on the end of an era.
Perhaps these dark thoughts explained my behaviour later that night. Explained it, yes, but didn’t excuse it…
Joe placed her hand on my waist, the heaviness of her rings solid against my hip bone. ‘Are you ready?’
I nodded, stepping away from her touch, as we made our way – likely for the final time – into Alla’s home.
Stepping over the threshold we made a beeline for our hostess, finding her outside by the swimming pool. She was resplendent in a gold sheath dress with layers of silver jewellery and a complementary beaded turban, surrounded by courtiers as befitted a queen overseeing the final days of her reign.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered, as I kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You look spectacular, by the way.’
Alla shrugged off both the compliment and the sympathy. ‘Such is life. One must move on. It’s only a building after all, only bricks and mortar.’ Her skin was luminous, her eyes alive; a phoenix blazing brighter than ever before inevitably crumbling into ashes. She took a long, slow sip of her drink, gazing at the revellers as she observed the bacchanalian scene. ‘You know, in a way, I’m grateful to leave. When I’m alone and I look around, I don’t see the parties and the friends and the many good times. I see this as the house where my career died, where my relationship with Charles fell apart, where I have been so unhappy. I see it as a symbol of my greatest failures.’
‘Oh, don’t say that! You’ve achieved so much. You’ve inspired me so much. And I’m sure the best is yet to come for you.’
‘Oh darling, that’s sweet, but I don’t believe it to be true. For tonight, however, I shall drink and make merry. I shall be… the consummate actress, as ever.’ She turned from me as Joe struck up conversation, and the two of them slipped into their own little world.
An outsider looking in at the black-market champagne and the ostentatious jewels and the carefree, wealthy, fashionable crowd might not have suspected it, but the truth was that Alla – the movie star earning $13,000 a week less than ten years ago – had run out of money. Salomé, of course, had heavily drained her reserves, and she no longer had the lucrative film roles or the high-paying theatre shows to sustain her level of spending.
Recently she’d become acquainted with a woman named Jean Adams, who had inveigled her way into Alla’s confidences and somehow become a trusted business advisor with access to Alla’s financial affairs. Joe didn’t like Jean at all, certain she was both a fraudster and a bad influence, but the upshot was that Jean persuaded Alla to sell Hayvenhurst to a development company. They planned to turn it into a hotel, for which Alla would receive an annual sum of $14,500, plus a percentage of profits when it finally opened. I knew that Alla was deeply embarrassed by the decision she’d had to make – she felt that she was prostituting her home – but had few other options. The contract stated that she had to vacate the property by the first of August, so tonight was to be her final hurrah before the boxes were packed and the bulldozers moved in.
Alla and Joe were still gassing. They’d been joined by the usual crowd – June Mathis, Rose Dione, Norma Talmadge and her husband Joseph Schenck – and I deemed myself superfluous. With a cursory wave in Joe’s direction, I slunk away to discover who else might be in attendance – in short, to go in search of more fun than Joe could offer.
I breezed through the grounds and back into the house. It was decked out beautifully, with hundreds of fairy lights and extravagant displays of fresh flowers – Alla was certainly going out in style, I’d give her that – and I called hello to a few acquaintances, exchanging small talk but never stopping for long. Although I hadn’t admitted it to myself, there was a person I was searching for. I drained the glass of champagne I’d picked up on arrival and helped myself to a Tom Collins.
‘Maybelle!’
I heard Natacha’s voice above the rabble and turned to see her looking glorious in a dramatic black gown with jewelled spaghetti straps, acres of milky white flesh exposed across the hollow of her throat, the curve of her shoulders, her long, slender arms.
‘Oh my! Divorce suits you,’ I quipped as Natacha rolled her eyes.
‘Don’t even allude to that man.’
‘Come on, let’s go find somewhere to catch up,’ I suggested, grabbing her hand and weaving through the tightly knit crowd. The strangest thought popped into my head as I realised how the decline in Alla’s fortunes had mirrored the decline in mine and Joe’s relationship; back in those early, heady, lovestruck days, I wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving Joe’s side at a party, as though an invisible rope bound us together. I ached to spend as much time with her as possible, to luxuriate in her presence, to tempt and tease and flirt and make the most of every stolen moment together. Now that we’d been living in one another’s pockets for over half a decade, occasions like this were my opportunity to escape, to mingle, to encounter old friends and make new ones, to hear stories I’d never heard before and have my own oft-repeated tales told afresh to new ears. I still longed to tempt and tease and flirt – but Joe was rarely the recipient of my attentions these days.
Tucked away in a shallow alcove on a quiet corridor was a purple velvet loveseat; Natacha and I flopped down gratefully upon it.
‘So tell me, what’s going on with you? I barely see you these days.’
Natacha grinned, a flash of pearly white teeth bordered by carmine lips. ‘Not a lot, to be entirely honest with you. I’m just taking time to breathe. To be myself. To remember who I am after that man tried to erase my identity and turn me into some robotic wife and mother. He knew who I was before he married me, so why try to change me?’
Natacha looked agitated and lit a cigarette. I spotted a waiter at the end of the corridor and flagged him down, taking two gin cocktails from his tray.
‘And now, because his career is bombing, his agent and his producers are trying to blame me for that. Did you know that by the end of our marriage he’d banned me from his movie sets? It was written into his contract that if I turned up at the studios I was to be removed immediately. Asshole.’
I said nothing, drinking and listening and reflecting that if I were Rudy, I would never have let Natacha go so easily. He was handsome, but a fool.
‘What are your plans for the future?’ I wondered, hoping there might be something in there that would allow us to stay close. In truth, we were all somewhat in limbo at the moment – Alla, Joe, Natacha and myself. The industry seemed to be changing around us, a new generation rising up, our skills and knowledge overlooked in the studios’ quest for the Next Big Thing. The kaleidoscope had been shaken and the pieces were in flux; all we could do was wait and see where they landed.
Natacha shrugged, extinguishing her cigarette and immediately lighting another. ‘I don’t know yet. I’m enjoying not being tied down, experimenting with new art forms. I’m too old to go back to dancing. I’m thinking about writing a book. I designed a doll, did you know that? The patent came through a few weeks ago. And the film I made last year is about to be released, so I’m busy as a bumblebee. Maybe I’ll open a shop – high end, couture, you know the kind of thing. And I’d like to study too. I’m fascinated by ancient civilisations – the Greeks, the Romans, the Egyptians.’
