Divine Sarah

The Mother Superior places her hand over her mouth, for one moment looking damsely.

Sarah kneels beneath the Mother, fixed in the spotlight. Keenly aware of the hush over the room. Her eyes welling between the fine line of performance and depth of character. Her voice is calm and modulated, almost a whisper, but at once projected from the strength of her chest. “I don’t play fragile and meek very well.” She looks up with a sad smile that trembles off her bottom lip. “I have only ever been successful by my strength. My truth is strength. And I cannot demur nor diminish myself on the trial of faith. It has never worked for me, and it still doesn’t.”

Mother Superior leans forward and cradles Sarah’s head against her breasts. “God will still watch over you. And wait.”

The image of the convent quickly faded away as Sarah opened her cleansed eyes to see the crisp blues and browns of the pier. The warmth of the Mother’s bosom turned to the cheek-slapping chill of Abbot Kinney’s face in horrid disproportion with the gutted fish at his feet, flies crawling along the innards.

Yes, God is watching over her. In the form of Bishop Thomas Conaty from the Cathedral of our Lady of Angels on Second and Main in downtown Los Angeles. Holed up in the dark rectory, no doubt a thin white candle streaming shadows along the redwood walls, transcribing the messages of evil and debauchery that face the world. Clearly led by the challenge of the demon immorality of Sarah Bernhardt and her French depravities, which have come to pollute the United States, and maybe the rest of the world, and how to ensure them from not scathing the soul of Los Angeles. At least not under his watch. Now the good bishop has taken this eye of God and entrusted its vision to his flock. And as a weapon he has instituted the League of Decency, loaded with sins and purgatories to control the insurgents. Keep the entire Los Angeles basin pure.

Bishop Thomas Conaty.

The League of Decency.

The Los Angeles Herald.

Abbot Kinney.

God is surely watching over Sarah Bernhardt. Waiting.

“Let’s go,” she ordered Kinney. Her eyes teared in defiance. She marched past him, nearly knocking the pole from his hand. Her face shining from the glaze of fish guts. Her bangs matted to her forehead. Thick tears of bloodied fat smeared along her blouse. Her stare trained above the crowd that was at once horrified and respectful. Past the reporters who held impotent pencils and would save their questions for one another over tumblers of scotch at a late-afternoon lunch, who by day’s end would look willing to crawl away into the darkness and die alone.

Sarah Bernhardt turned to Abbot Kinney, who lagged conspicuously behind as she passed through the silent procession. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

CHAPTER THREE

May 15, 1906

SEATED in his high-backed chair, Abbot Kinney kicked his feet up high on his desktop. Each time he shifted, a new tumble of papers fell from his desktop, drifting until they settled into the same corner beneath a dusty old cobweb. He didn’t care. He never really looked at most of that stuff twice. Stupid memos, requests, unimportant correspondence. The information he really needed he kept in his head, and what was too big for his memory he stored in a locked pine cabinet. Today’s newspapers sat piled on the floor. His picture on the front page of each. Four stacks of ten. Lined from the edge of his desk to the chair.

Kinney had been expecting Sarah Bernhardt for the last twenty minutes. Her entourage had not reached Southern California yet; they were still on a train that was probably in a slow-moving crawl across the Sonoran desert. But her manager, Max Klein, had joined her late last night, and this morning the two of them began a walk- through of the Chautauqua Theater in order to get a feel for it. But they had quickly rushed out, with Klein strangely saying that he and Sarah would meet Kinney at his office in just a moment.

Max Klein was described as German but seemed to speak with something of a cultured British accent, a regular poof (and Kinney had heard Sarah call him Molly during private banter) in his permanently attired gray knobby sack suit probably tailored with its tightly tapered trousers from the London Clothing Co. Kinney had run into Max’s type when he had studied and lived abroad from his early teens to middle twenties. He knew poofs like Max from his days at the University of Heidelberg who adopted stern, serious faces while hiding behind dorm room doors in frightened superiority, relegating their entire ensembles to dark black. In Paris, though, the poofs swished around with mock authority, gestured a lot with pointed fingers, and haunted all the arts venues as flighty as the falling autumn leaves. Max was a hybrid. He had a dark sophistication about him that seemed immensely private, yet his voice and mannerisms, modulated and melodic, were overtly gregarious. Max was succinct yet gracious when Kinney had let them into the theater. A hint of charm and a dash of spite. His manner took Kinney back to the good old days in Europe, before tobacco, where he spent his middle years selling Sweet Caporal hand-rolleds all over the South, and Egypt, and Macedonia. It was a long time ago. Every once in a while a flit of light gave him a glimpse of his past. The time when all that mattered was possibility.

SARAH AND MAX had been unsure about presenting La Dame aux Camelias in Kinney’s theater. The space seemed a little roughshod despite its newness, and there was definite concern that there might be an acoustical battle with the evening ocean breezes and waves that would slap the pier’s foundation. Upon first peek through the doorway, Max had uttered that it would be easier to stage the show at the Coliseum in Rome. He gave way to silence, probably understanding that there was little choice in terms of venues. The task now would be to make it work. Sarah had been remarkably quiet. She didn’t appear to be studious or introspective, more as though she was the odd member. She wore a bronze silk dress with bright white stripes that cut the shoulders, with a large boa wrapped around her neck. Her feet peeked out in pointed black boots. Sarah’s face was pale, void of the usual paint. When Kinney had left them, she wandered up to the balcony, moved in slow sidesteps down the upper aisle, and dragged her fingertips along the edges of the seat backs. When she reached the end of the aisle, she traversed the route one row down. That’s when Kinney slipped the key to Max. He said he would wait in his office. Give them privacy to “work their magic.”

Max walked Kinney to the side exit, a narrow hallway where they stood before the closed door. It smelled of damp night. Max tapped his shoes heel-toe, kicking the edge of the wall.

“I assume the theater is satisfactory?” Kinney asked.

“Still under review. We’ll leave her here a while. Madame has to grab hold of it.”

“She shouldn’t be left alone. Reporters are crawling on their bellies looking for quotes. I think that yesterday’s little stunt should be warning enough. It made every paper except one. If you don’t give them head-on controversy here, then they will always go for the strange. A little more of her classic fire would probably help to offset the event.”

“For the future, please do not arrange any public events without first going through me. Otherwise, Madame prefers to handle things her own way.”

“Her troubles with the Comedie-Francaise have been well documented. Seems she has been known to be a little fiery.”

“You couldn’t possibly know the potentials.”

Kinney smiled. “My only real concern is that Madame Bernhardt is comfortable with her surroundings.” He ran his hands through his pockets, crumpling the tan linen trousers. “But she must be careful. She can’t just go around performing for reporters every time she sees something she doesn’t like. They will eventually kill her in this town for that, especially considering the new bloodletting craze the papers have here, and the conservative plague that’s been killing us here. And you think the fucking Catholics are crazy…She got off lucky. I think our better strategy is to go back to her old verbal sparring. It’s safer but is still likely to keep us newsworthy.” He pushed the door open. A flash of light burst over the hall, rolling in like a welcome mat. He peered his head out, looking side to side, then stepped back in, leaving the door open. “Fresh cool sea air.”

“Yesterday will not happen again if you leave her to me.”

“It’s just that I know how this town runs. I know what to do for Madame Bernhardt.”

She appeared behind them. A rainbow shadow outlined her figure. “Please tell, I would very much like to know.” Golden sunlight glowed through the strands of lightened hair piled atop her head. “Please continue. I’m dying to know.” Her eyes looked glassy, larger than usual. Her stare seemed to take in the whole room without any