Divine Sarah

remember. But here in the land of Abbot Kinney, between the theater and the hotel, he suddenly understood the true deference he had with all his subjects. No matter how much you think you are smoking them out, the truth is that you are always still chasing after them. You can strut and posture as much as you like, but in the end you are ultimately left waiting for the invitation. Not much of a life to lead.

But he would have still liked to get her take on the boycott. True, the bishop and his army had relaxed, but initially they still had intended to extend the boycott into Venice. They had hounded Baker daily, led by their little messenger, Dorothy O’Brien, who was on his back both goddamned day and night to hear her plans. She left messages at the Herald to say that the story was not over. A certifiable nut. Living in her solitary bungalow where the paint never peels, where for two years she’s walked at least one mile every day to go to the Cathedral of our Lady of Angels, where she sometimes works as an assistant to Bishop Conaty, but more often than not is a caretaker for the church, sweeping the steps, polishing the pews, and dusting the cobwebs that are spun to the Savior’s nailed feet. She goddamn told him everything. Never just said her piece and went. Finally he managed to get her off his back by telling her that if he reopened the story it would not be about the success of extricating Bernhardt, rather it would investigate how the bishop was funding the new cathedral. Apparently the threat worked, because the League of Decency had turned quickly silent. (And Baker was lucky that it stopped there, because if word had reached Scott that Baker had tossed out threats to the religious community during the cleanup of the Vienna Buffet, Baker would have been knelt down in the Herald’s guillotine right then and there.) Dorothy O’Brien left one last message to invite him to a small victory celebration for their most trusted parishioners and the press. That’s how they are, those zealots. They come frumped up in their salt- and-pepper wool overcoats, shuffling along like they are too lonely to walk, looking helpless and slightly off, and then the next thing you know they are given a little attention and they hang on you night and day, the lunacy confirmed. Baker had elected not to go. Reporters don’t celebrate the outcomes of their stories with the people involved. His regret was that he probably could have made Bernhardt’s story into something. Now he would likely hack some junk out, trying to make celebrity machinations into a newsworthy piece.

Baker decided that he would hike a nonstop trip to Willie’s, and throw back a stiff one that cleansed, sanitized, and burned the Bernhardt humiliation right out of his system. He stood up and paced with the same thoughtful walk of his father, taking slow languid strides as though calculating the weight of the world, when in fact there was nothing much going on inside except the quest for solitude.

He patted his breast pocket for a smoke. Left his butts at the goddamn house. He thought about his sister Leslie still back in Phoenix and her daughter Jessie. He used to bounce Jessie on his knee. They called him Uncle Vince. He had always thought he was too young to be called Uncle. Jessie must be huge now. It would be okay if she called him Uncle Vince. He wouldn’t mind now, he thought, considering the idea that he now was old enough to be called Uncle.

He was about to leave when the sound of a woman’s laugh caused him to turn around. In the distance, heading over to the theater, he swore he saw Bernhardt with her escort (must be Mr. Klein). Her body swayed while she walked. Her footsteps hard and proud. A strange glow shone through the edges of her hair. If it was Bernhardt, she hardly looked the infirm that the desk clerk had made her out to be.

Baker charged back into the hotel to find that goddamn wiry Dolph and find out what was really going on. Everybody knows that you don’t stand up reporters in this town with bullshit excuses.

“Mr. Baker,” Dolph said. “You are back.”

“I want you to go up to her room again. I want to know when she thinks she will be feeling better.”

Dolph shook his head. “I just don’t…” And the way he hung indecisively on the empty phrase convinced Baker that his suspicions had been confirmed—he had been duped. She had kept him here for close to two hours, only to feign illness in order not to talk with him. Insult upon insult. Treated him like a child by employing such novice charades. Fuck this. He was walking from this story. Walking from giving her a fair shake. He could call on Dorothy O’Brien or Thomas Conaty, and then walk away with enough quotes to spill across the page like blood. And when Bernhardt woke up and saw the story in the morning edition, she would be horrified, and again stupidly wonder what she had done to deserve this wrath. And he wasn’t walking away without telling her. He asked Dolph for some paper to write down what she should expect and why. Bullshitters like her always thought they were untouchable.

Baker’s hand shook while he prepared to write the letter. He thought of about ten different openings, each time dropping the lead to the paper but pulling it up quickly in dissatisfaction. His self-esteem had weighted down his judgment, and his rage began to grow in place of reason and eloquence. Finally he let the pencil write:

DEAR MADAME BERNHARDT:

I assume that you are feeling better. I came prepared for our meeting at one o’clock, but had been informed that you had taken ill and would not be receiving guests. Mr. Klein has apparently fared better, as, at the time of this writing, you seemed to have found his company along the pier.

Please forgive the attention I have given to your side of the story, in hopes of writing a balanced account of your recent controversy here. Know that I will no longer try to take your time. Instead I will concentrate my efforts back on the bishop and his agenda.

Au revoir, Madame Bernhardt. And one suggestion: You might consider a regular suppository if you are often as sick as you are today.

Cordially,

VINCE BAKER, The Los Angeles Herald

He should not have hastened to send the note. Read it over once or twice, and then scratched out the impertinence. Instead he folded it four times and handed it to Dolph. “Please have this sent immediately.”

“Would you like me to wait for a reply?”

Baker shook his head no. And he turned around and left. With his first pure sense of direction of the day.

SARAH WAS BY NO MEANS HAPPY, even though she had been laughing while she walked toward the theater with Max. She had been imagining Alexandre’s expression when Max told him to change the set. Max had done a pretty good job describing the way Alexandre’s shoulders seem to puff with steam while his eyes looked as if they would leak a pair of oceans.

“You really should write for the stage,” she told Max.

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Only those who have seen me at my worst but can still make me beautiful.”

She took his arm as they ascended the steps toward the arched wooden doors. The dusk felt fresh. It settled on their cheeks.

Max pulled the door open with a certain hesitancy, cracking just enough space for them to have slipped through, but then he closed it before they entered. Perhaps he sensed the reaction that she would have when faced with the theater. That the proclamation of changing plays and the newfound life that had reinvigorated her would quickly be diminished by the realities of the production. The charming image of Alexandre’s angst would easily give way to her frustration with his insolence. Or Ibe frantically combing out the new wigs while loudly complaining that a man of his reputation should not have to endure such utter unprofessionalism. It would all get to her, and the enthusiasm would reveal itself as temporary, and she would storm out of the theater, looking for some solution that would inevitably consider the positive results of a hit of opium.

But for the moment all was well. She was still smiling while picturing her lead carpenter’s face.

“At least you managed to curry Kinney’s support,” Max said. “It could have been much worse. Especially as he does not trust us.”

“He still does not trust us. But he does trust his patrons’ reactions.”

“Nevertheless, you did handle that well.”

“I didn’t handle anything, Molly. He is not so terrible.” While she was not necessarily any more partial to Kinney than the usual producer, she did concede a soft spot for him by the end of the brunch. Maybe it was due to a newfound understanding of him. Much in the way you can always literally see the perceptions change in the eyes of the audience as an unsympathetic character is made compassionate merely by the gathering of a few secret details or select thoughts revealed. During the small talk, Kinney was quite charming, and almost entirely forthright about his ambition to make, keep, and protect his money. He was not filled by wild theories or the rich man’s justifications, nor did he feel ashamed about his success and his drive to it. He had worked hard in the tobacco business, seen it peak and then watched it fall dangerously close to the point of shattering, which he said as a