Last Dance with Valentino, page 10
‘We could eat dinner at the Colony!’ Rudy suggested. ‘I never have. Have you?’
I laughed. Of course not!
‘Or better still, Jenny, I know the chef at Rectors. I’ll bet he would send us something by the back, if we asked him. We could buy ourselves a feast, and make a picnic and eat it in Central Park.’ I wasn’t hungry. But nor did I want our day to end.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘perhaps we should go to the movies first.’
And afterwards, I said, before the last train home, I should visit my father …
Rudy said he would come with me. Whether my father liked it or not. He said I needn’t worry about trains – he would drive me all the way to Roslyn.
And so we went to the Strand Theater.
That’s right.
As magnificent as the Rialto, or very nearly. And we watched Miss Mary Pickford, starring in Pollyanna …
We let the movie flow right over us. A gentleman in the row behind us tapped Rudy on the shoulder, said he’d have the pair of us thrown out … We couldn’t stop laughing. Oh, we laughed until there were tears rolling down our cheeks. And meanwhile Papa waited quietly.
We stopped at Rectors and, by the back door, he sent out three freshly boiled lobsters and a small tureen of Hollandaise; and some asparagus and two bottles of chilled champagne.
‘Do you suppose,’ said Rudy, leaning back in the taxicab as if the entire world belonged to him, and he to it, ‘that anyone in the entire city has spent a day as perfect as ours?’
‘I don’t see how they could have done,’ I replied.
And we took our booty by taxicab to Papa’s. If lobster and champagne didn’t warm him to Rudy’s presence, then nothing would. So we said to one another.
‘Do you suppose,’ Rudy said again, this time as we paused in the dirty hallway outside Papa’s door, hesitating one final moment before breaking the spell, ending our day together, ‘do you suppose he will at least pretend to be pleased to see me?’
‘Not for a moment,’ I said. ‘And nor to see me, either. He’ll be thoroughly fed up at the sight of both of us … I should think we’ll be quite lucky if he lets us in.’ It made us laugh.
Oh, God.
Finally, I took a deep breath, raised my fist – I always had to knock hard to raise him, though the chair where he sat was only a few feet away – and I banged on the door.
But he didn’t answer.
I knocked again. Nothing. Of course.
And then again. ‘Perhaps,’ said Rudy, but I could tell he didn’t believe it, any more than I did, ‘perhaps your father is feeling much better suddenly. Perhaps he’s gone out for a walk!’
‘Perhaps,’ I said.
Rudy returned to the ground-floor desk to seek out the caretaker, in case by chance he might perhaps have glimpsed my papa shuffling out. It would explain the silence …
And I sat in that cold and miserable hallway, my back against his door. I sat there for half a lifetime or longer, listening for signs of movement on the other side. But I already knew. Somehow. God knows how. I knew it.
The caretaker – he was a skinny guy, peculiarly, uncomfortably skinny – arrived, bunch of keys clinking, bones knocking together, the caretaker coughing his guts out. Scowling. Nobody had seen my father for a couple of days, he said.
He put the key in the latch and I knew. I said— stop. Stop. Wait. Stop.
Stop.
Damn, it’s so hot tonight. I should have taken another shower. Perhaps I can. I still have time. What time is it? It isn’t even nine o’clock and yet I feel I’ve been writing all night. And now my dress is crumpled up and half ruined – and I’m tired. I’m so tired … Oh, I wish Rudy were here. I wish I didn’t have to go this dreadful, party. I wish—
Stop.
Damn if that skinny guy didn’t open the door anyway. And in a rush I lunged for him and pushed him back into the hallway, out of the way. I think he swore at me. I don’t remember. I told them both, him and Rudy, to wait right there, in that vile hallway, not to come in until I called – and I think Rudy maybe pulled the guy back, I don’t know, but I heard him behind me, growling and coughing, clinking and swearing …
My father was lying on the bed. Like a wax doll, stiff as board, spoiled in the sun: his skin was speckled with dark spots, his right arm jutted out, and his naked foot was half hanging over the floor. Like the room where it lay, his body was cold and still, and there was a streak of something – vomit, I suppose – dried up, from the edge of his lips to the pillow. He was dead.
They didn’t come in. I forgot about them. I saw the empty Scotch bottle – finest Scotch, his old favourite – lying on its side next to the bed, and actually that made me smile: he’d made the choice, at least, to go out with a pleasant taste in his mouth. Next to the Scotch was the poison – what was left of it. Not much.
It comes in pretty box. One I had seen before – often. There was a pack identical to it in the kitchen at The Box. And another in Roslyn. And another in almost every kitchen in New York. Wherever there might be rats, there will always be always a box of Rough on Rats. Fifteen cents per packet.
Rough on Rats, it says, in big writing across the top.
I’ll say.
Clears out rats, mice, bed bugs, flies, roaches … And my papa.
There is an illustration of a Chinaman with a long pony-tail on the front, and beneath him, a picture of large rat lying on its back with its toes in the air. No trickle of vomit on that rat’s chin. No black arsenic specks on his glossy black fur. No.
I took the whisky bottle and placed it upright on the table by the window. I wiped away what had spilled of the poisonous powder, took the packet and threw it in the trash basket – overflowing – by the bed. And then – I was going to close Papa’s eyes. But I couldn’t. Close his mouth. I couldn’t. I put the sheet up over his face, and I climbed over his body, over the sheet, and lay beside him, between the wall and him – between the wall and the thin sheet that covered him – and I tried to feel … something. I tried to feel as he had felt, lying there, his fear, his loneliness, his despair, his body melting away. I couldn’t do it.
Not that I knew it then. But it’s a painful affair, dying of arsenic poisoning. Excruciating. A patient, a victim – what do you call someone who has administered it to himself? My papa would have been in terrible, unimaginable pain – and delirious most of the time. Agony and madness, both together. To die of arsenic poisoning and despair must be painful indeed.
I fell asleep.
When I woke it was dark, and the street outside was almost quiet. It seems silly, having lain there all that time, but suddenly I was frightened. The man beneath the sheet, whom I’d slept beside that night, and a thousand times when I was a child, was no longer my father. I climbed over him again, recoiling when my arm accidentally brushed against his. Didn’t even switch on the light. I picked up my bag and left, without looking back.
Rudy was outside in the lighted corridor, flat on his back, arms behind his head, sleeping. I had forgotten about him. When he heard the door, he opened his eyes, climbed slowly to his feet and put his arms around me. I didn’t cry. Couldn’t. I’ve no idea what time it was or how long we stood there. Finally he said he would drive me home. Was there anything I would like to take from the room, he asked, and I said no. Nothing at all.
‘You are certain?’ he asked.
I couldn’t wait to get away from the place. He asked me again – didn’t I want to take one last look, say one final goodbye? I shook my head. No. Nothing. Never. Never again.
‘The caretaker went down about an hour ago to call the undertaker … but we could leave, if you prefer. I can come back in the morning. ’
‘I don’t have any money.’ I laughed. ‘Perhaps if we returned the lobsters?’
‘Oh, I’ve taken care of it,’ Rudy said, waving it aside. ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s all done. But, really, you know what I think, cara mia?’ he said. ‘I think you and I should go some place – not too cold, if possible. My auto, perhaps … ’ He smiled. ‘Or I could take you to my favourite bench in Central Park, if you like. Where I used to sleep, for a very short while, when I first arrived in America. And we can eat the lobster, and drink the champagne, and you can talk all you like, if you like, or not at all if you prefer, about your wonderful, extraordinary, charming, elegant and slightly wicked papa … Decidedly wicked papa. And I think we should eat and drink until there’s not a scrap of anything left, and then perhaps try to celebrate something about the fact that we are alive … ’ He smiled again. ‘If you agree with me about that? At least we are young and still alive.’
Chapter 5
Hotel Continental
New York
Sunday, 15 August 1926
Not feeling so hot this morning. Didn’t get to bed until after two and then I couldn’t sleep, not a wink. About six o’clock I gave up trying – I took my aching head across town to St Raymond’s Cemetery to see if I could visit Papa’s grave. But I was too early. The cemetery keeper wasn’t about. And the truth is, I couldn’t quite remember where I’d left him.
I tried to picture the day of the funeral … Mr Hademak and Mr de Saulles and me, standing side by side in the rain … and then Mr de Saulles and Mr Hademak waiting for me in the auto, and only me standing alone in the rain … But all I could remember for a landmark was a tree somewhere, and the raindrops splashing onto my hat, and, before that, Mr de Saulles sneaking a look at his pocket-watch as they lowered the coffin – and me always wondering where Rudy was – and Mr Hademak, sombre and still, the only one of us with his mind on the matter.
Papa doesn’t have a gravestone, because I never gave him one, or any marking whatsoever to remind me where he lies. There was really no way of knowing. So I never found it. Not this time.
But I will organise a stone for him. Before I go back to Hollywood. And next time, I shall go to that cemetery when the cemetery keeper is about, and he will be able to show me. And maybe then I’ll be able to stand at Papa’s grave, and grieve.
– – –
Last night.
I was blasted. That’s what. It was because I was nervous. Boy, was I nervous. I should have held back on the juice – at least before I left for the party. It’s too bad. In any case it was a beautiful evening – mostly. He still loves me. And I love him.
Last night.
I was so busy writing I lost track of the time. The bellhop came up, despite my asking not to be disturbed. But he could hear me clattering away on the typewriter, I suppose, so he simply wouldn’t leave until I came to the door.
Sure enough, he said there was a driver downstairs. The bellhop was pretty impressed. I’ll guess it’s not many guests at the Hotel Continental who get such a driver, in such a hat, coming to take them away. The bellhop said the driver had been told by his boss to wait, and to go nowhere, until I came downstairs. ‘Who’s the boss?’ the bellhop asked. ‘Must be rich. You should get down there.’
Which I thought was a little bit fresh, so I ignored him.
‘What’s the party?’ he asked.
I told him to tell the driver I would be down in a minute.
Trouble was, I’d been sucking back on that flask, and by then I was so caught up, writing about Papa, I couldn’t snap out of it at once. Still can’t, quite. Something’s stirred everything up, and I can’t get any of it out of my head.
Papa must have gone out of his room at some point with the intention to buy that poison. He must have shuffled around and found his coat, and been sure he had the money with him, and crossed the street and said to the guy in the drugstore – gone right up to the till, looked the guy in the eye, and said – I’m looking for some poison.
Did the guy know? The guy knew. And as he said it, did Papa mean, I’m looking for some poison for now, or did he mean he wanted it for some time in the future? Did he put the packet away in his bedside cupboard – and did he look at it from time to time and think, Maybe not today. Maybe tomorrow?
Papa must have bought a few hundred bottles of Scotch from that same drugstore in those few months. Would the guy at the counter have recognised him? Would he have cared what some old sot of an Englishman was purchasing or for what purpose? And if he’d known the answers, would he have sold the damn stuff to him anyway? I suppose so. Does a man like my father go into drugstores to buy anything other than alcohol, unless he’s trying to kill himself? I don’t think so. No.
To kill the rats.
Maybe that’s what he said. Maybe the guy behind the counter gave him a funny look. So, from the depths of his death wish, Papa summoned the energy to set the guy’s mind at peace. Would you mind awfully, old man? Only I want something that’s Rough on Rats …
So, there I was in my beautiful dress, ready to spend the night with the man of my dreams, all togged up to continue with my fairytale. But I couldn’t shift the images.
Of Papa in the drugstore. Laying down his fifteen cents. Sitting on the edge of his bed. With the glass and the Scotch and that packet of poison … And meanwhile Rudy and me eating clams on Coney Island, telling each other our dreams, and dancing … And Papa tearing open that packet – thinking of me, perhaps. Maybe he looked at the sketch, that beautiful sketch he never showed me, and he thought, Lola will be all right. She will understand. She can look after herself. Or maybe he didn’t think that. Maybe all he thought was, How do I get into this damn pack? Maybe he’d done all his thinking by then, and it was just a process. He probably spilled a bit, because his hands were shaking. He spilled the powder – because I saw it there on the side table. Spilled the Scotch as he poured it into the glass. Watched them in the glass together, the powder slowly dissolving …
So there I was in my beautiful dress, and that was where my mind was. When the bellhop came to tell me about the car, and the chauffeur in his hat, I told him to go away, and I went back to the typewriter, even though I could hardly see the keys by then because of the tears. I suppose I went on typing until the flask was empty.
Finally I laid the typewriter down by the bed, tiptoed up the corridor to the washroom and tried to make myself pretty again. But I guess my eyes were a bit blurry. When I got down to the lobby, the driver was right there, still waiting for me. He looked at me in some surprise, I think, as if to say, You mean this is the broad I’ve been waiting for?
I knew what he was thinking, and I looked right back at him and laughed. ‘That’s right, mister,’ I said to him. ‘And how’s your fairytale coming along?’ I must have been blitzed, mustn’t I? What a stupid thing to say!
He said, ‘Very nicely, miss.’
I still can’t work out what he meant by it.
I followed him through the lobby, with the bellhop and the fat guy at the desk both goggling. He opened the door to the car and I settled myself in the back, like a lamb to the slaughter.
As soon as we pulled out I was seized by the most dreadful panic. I called out to the driver to stop, but maybe he didn’t hear me. He drove on, in any case. So I couldn’t do much, at that point, except sit back and wait to black out, or for the edges of my brain to reappear.
I should have eaten something, only in all the madness it’s not easy. Because I try to eat – but then I think about Rudy – his hands, his tongue, his arms, the scent of his neck, the warmth of his body, the feel of him inside me. I can’t possibly eat a thing.
But I have to eat. Definitely I shall eat plenty today. Rudy is taking me to lunch. He’s taking me to Coney Island again, and I suppose in this heat it won’t be easy. We’re going to eat Coney clams. That’s what he promised. We’re going to eat Coney clams, and drink French champagne, only this time out of tea mugs – and we’re going to ride that roller-coaster again …
So. Last night. There I was, gliding through Manhattan in an enormous limousine. The next thing, the driver was holding open the car door for me, and I was standing on Park Avenue, right outside Mr Warburton’s apartment block. I was standing on the sidewalk, kind of holding up the traffic in such a way that the driver couldn’t close the car door, doing anything I could to hold off the moment when I would be on my own, with nothing left to do but to go in.
He said, ‘You got a bit of lipstick … you might want to do something about … ’ And then, when I’d dealt with it and still I hesitated, he said, ‘Get on up there, lady. How long you going to keep the guy waiting? You got nothing to be afraid of. You look a billion dollars next to the rest of them.’
I don’t know why he said it, because we both knew it wasn’t true. But it was kind of him. I kissed him on the cheek, which embarrassed us both, and then he more or less pushed me into the building.
– – –
Barclay Warburton’s apartment was on the top floor – I was shown in by a butler, not so kind as the chauffeur. He seemed to take one look at my crumpled department-store dress, and the look of terror on my unpolished face – and, like Mr Hademak, like every well-trained servant – he saw me at once for what I was: only a not-quite-guest, after all. Not rich enough or quite beautiful enough to fit in, just an out-of-her-depth office-girl, slightly fuzzed on her own home-brewed gin, in a dress she’d bought from Altman’s. And eyes all puffed up with tears. In any case, he ushered me in and then left me stranded. It gave me a moment to survey the surroundings.
The room was enormous, arranged more like a super-deluxe mobsters’ speako than a normal person’s drawing room. There must have been forty or so guests present, stunning young things, lounging this way and that – on giant cushions, mostly, and low leather couches, which were scattered at elegant angles around the place, between silk carpets and polar-bear skins … Someone was at the piano, strumming something cool and jazzy. The lights were low, beneath clouds of smoke, and the air was sweet with the smell of hashish. And yet, in spite of so much beauty and elegance and splendour and perfection, there was an uncomfortable edge to the party. Partly it was the cocaine, of course (tiny paper wraps of it, piled high in a bowl beside the door). But mostly, I think, it was the presence of Rudy. Even here, in Barclay Warburton’s Park Avenue drawing room, among some of the most glamorous and fortunate human beings in America, Rudy’s excessive fame seemed to put the room out of kilter.
