Divine Sarah

The boycott story had made Baker sick, but the fact that he was brought into the politics of the Vienna Buffet made him even sicker. It was no different than falling for a broad at closing time. But what had really started to gall him was how Sarah Bernhardt became his beat, and his byline. There was no time for this—not when Los Angeles was in the process of turning itself inside out and unfolding into something bigger and larger than it ever might have imagined. And there were greedy millionaires lining up at the gates to claim their shares. That’s where the news was. That’s what he knew. Not this Seabright kind of shit. Scott was wrong—she didn’t have an ounce of their power or their stature.

As he approached the entrance to Kinney’s office, Baker noticed a new crew of reporters gathering. He didn’t know the faces. Seabright probably would. They were the entertainment guys. Downtown boys. The ones who palmed the maitre d’ a brand-new bill in order to sit behind a table of celebrities. They pretended to be engaged in other activities while they listened intently, scratching notes under the table, leaning back with staged yawns, practically dropping their ears on the neighboring table when the celebrity talk turned to a whisper. Then they submitted this spying to their editors and it ran in the rags religiously with neither a confirmation nor an opportunity from the celebrity subjects to respond. The reporters never introduced themselves. Kept it cat and mouse. Chicken shit kind of stuff. But the editors loved it. Readers ate up that gossip, and it sold papers. Sold advertising. A constant reminder to all involved in the industry that the newspaper was first and foremost a business.

To a passerby, Baker would have appeared the distant one. He stood attentive near the periphery of the crowd, his eyes with the narrow pitch of a wild hunter, the near visible adrenaline pulsating against his temples. Once the action started, these social scribes would launch a couple of empty questions, laugh gratuitously at the responses, ingest whatever Kinney served up, and then turn in the story before deadline with just enough time left to throw back a few at the company watering hole before the suspicious hours loom, where husbands and bartenders are forced into a collusion of silence. But Baker wanted to get his quotes and get out. Then he might find some real news.

SARAH BERNHARDT TUGGED ON HER DRESS, brown batiste cotton with embroidered red polka dots, and an ivory lace hemline that graced the floor of Kinney’s office. Her shirtwaist was a subtle white, blooming out from her straight-front corset that she defiantly wore loose at the torso, revealing the true beauty of her delicate figure. She patted the sides of her hair, and then adjusted the pink sash that adorned her head in the latest style.

“Well, then,” she muttered as she sat down in a thick-framed captain’s chair, the wooden dowels jailing her back. She propped her elbow up on the armrest, and rested her cheek against a loosely closed fist. Sarah looked at Kinney set with a lazy posture, his arms crossed in mock authority. She was inclined to make a pedantic remark designed to waylay his overestimation of himself but instead swallowed her comment, as bitter as the salt air. By this point in her life, she had learned some sense of control. She had met a million Abbot Kinneys before, and found their self-aggrandizing pusillanimity to be personally offensive. They didn’t know what it really took to be at the top. They were usually the types who latched themselves onto some peripheral part of the chain, and hung on tight enough to feel the warmth of the spotlights. So sure that they were in the know. In her younger days she would have said something that reminded him of the difference between them. A quick swipe at his lanky physique, a demand that he shine her dog’s ass, or determine which of her shoes stank worse. But today she didn’t say anything. Once again, the other Sarah had abandoned her.

Abbot Kinney’s face etched an outline shadow, his pointed beard shone in its grayness. “When you walk outside, every Los Angeles reporter is going to be waiting for you to tell him that you couldn’t care less. That the great Sarah Bernhardt could give a damn about what some dementia-brained Catholic thinks about her career.” He dropped his hand from the doorknob and laced it bureaucratically behind his back. Pacing. Calm with purpose. “Because I’ll tell you one thing, the dirty little secret—they’re not sure if you matter anymore. Not sure if the light has faded from the brightest star to ever shine down on the world. That’s what they want to find out—if you still have the moxie to tell them where to go. I told your manager this, and now I’ll tell you: playing in Venice turns their perceptions upside down. Sends them a sign. This is where it is. Where it all will happen. We should both get down on our goddamn knees and kiss the feet of the good bishop for divinely sending you here.” He told her he knew her history of brawling with these maniacs and then advised her to go out there and just shake her head with one- quarter smile, and three-quarters French indignation.

She took a deep breath. Her strength was aged and abused. She was too old for this nonsense. Sixty-one years. Her whole career had been about holding up mirrors, pursing her lips to blow the smoke away, and in the clearing creating a performance that allowed the world a chance to see a reflection of itself. Now she was exhausted. If the goddamn church wants to run her out of town, then maybe she should let them. At least she could use the rest.

“Madame, are you ready?”

She spoke softly. Her accent drowning her words in an inaudible sorrow. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Tell me the script.” She needed Max now. He was the only one who could run through lines with her.

“Okay, Madame,” he said, “here’s what you say. You say, ‘I am thrilled and delighted to have the opportunity to perform at the Chautauqua at Abbot Kinney pier as part of my farewell tour of America. I am’—here comes the subtle kicker—‘a firm believer in promoting culture, not restraining it. I am honored to play in Venice of America, the new center of California’s cultural renaissance.’ What do you think?” Kinney asked. “The beauty of it is that you thumb your nose at the cowardice of the Los Angeles theater world without ever actually thumbing. It can only reflect better on Venice. Plus it’s what those reporters are all waiting to hear from you.” He looked at Sarah, the diluting dark starting to turn his features accessible. The shape of his face looked tired and calculating. “What do you think?” he asked again.

“Do you have a back door?”

“Why?”

“I’m ready to go fishing.”

Kinney cracked an understated laugh. A slight tearing at the sides of his mouth that tugged his whiskers. He looked controlled. Always controlled.

“I am hungry,” she said. “Too hungry for all this. I just want to take a fishing pole, drop the line into the ocean, and hook a nice fish for my breakfast…Max said you would…Your chef can prepare it for me, right?”

“Of course.” Kinney paused and leaned back on his desk, scattered in papers and signatures. “But I’m concerned about the press waiting for you.”

“They will follow. Reporters never go away. They are just dogs led by the scent of another dog’s ass. They cannot control it.”

“They can’t sleep until they know that they’re keeping someone else awake all night.” He laughed, looking over at her. “Okay, then, well, to hell with them. They come to us. Yeah? Madame Bernhardt says that she prefers to go fishing now. You show them the beauty of Venice of America. I’ll make the announcements and then join you on the pier. We’re in charge here.”

A pause held the room. It felt the same as the first day she had walked into the Grandchamps convent in Versailles still as Henriette-Rosine Bernard. A scared little girl surrounded by red velvet and brass, a smirking Jesus hanging at the end of the great hall, welcoming and despising. A Mother Superior who played host and talked comforts and hypotheses. She said theories couldn’t replace action. The young freethinking conscripts who came to her convent would have to give in eventually to the peace of conformity. Just be honest with God. He won’t let you down. The church was after Sarah back then, as well. They didn’t even bother to find the Jewish blood that traveled her veins. Maybe because they figured that her father must have money. A bank account answers a lot of prayers, so you don’t even think to ask the questions. Still, she nearly gave in and became a nun. The need for belief and acceptance usually go hand in hand.

When Kinney cracked open the door for a look, Sarah heard the familiar bray of reporters jumping over one another, trying to pitch the big question. What did she think of the bishop? I got an afternoon deadline. Dangling ropes for the hanging. She stood up from her chair. Swallowing. Looking to Kinney. Adjusting the pink sash on her head. Her shoulders squared in a stage posture. Feet tingling. Her hands formed a dramatic pose. She still mattered. “I need to go,” she said to Kinney. “Now.”

Before he left, Kinney picked up the phone and instructed one of his minions that once Sarah had her catch, to bring her back to the dining room at the King George, wrapped fish and all. Louis should gut and fry it for her. Then they would figure their strategy of how to work the press and keep those loudmouth downtown Los Angeles Catholics out of Venice of America. Crucify the lousy pope if need be. He flung open the door, then closed it as