Stahl nodded in agreement, but this was courtesy. Somebody wasn’t telling the truth and, if he understood what Deschelles had said, that somebody was Walter Perry. Buzz Mehlman had a very wry touch when it came to the mechanics, and the ethics, of the film business and Stahl could imagine him saying, ‘What? A movie studio lied? Oh no!’ Nonetheless, here he was, in Paris with a contract and a movie to be made: this was his career, but he had no idea how to protect himself. In fact, he’d been put in a position where he had to do as the studio wished. Once again, in Stahl’s imagination, a dark grin from his agent. As the silence in the office grew, Deschelles finally said, ‘Shall we go out and have something to eat?’
They left the office, walking towards the river on the sunny, windy afternoon, Deschelles chatting about the other people who would be working on the film, Stahl responding now and again, the script and the novel firmly beneath his arm. Eventually they arrived at a Lebanese restaurant and settled in at a table. ‘I hope you like Lebanese cuisine,’ Deschelles said.
Stahl said he did.
As he looked over the menu, Deschelles said, ‘I always order the mezze, but the portions are generous so, if you don’t mind, I’ll get one order we can share.’
‘I don’t mind at all.’ This wasn’t true, Stahl very much liked the little appetizers served as mezze, but producers as a class, spending a lot of money every day, could be stingy in small matters. When Deschelles excused himself to go to the WC, Stahl opened the script and paged through it, stopping to look at some of his character’s lines. COLONEL VADIC, as the script had it, is at a castle in Hungary, and explains how he, as a Slav, rose to command — normally reserved for French officers. Wounded in battle, he was declared ‘ Francais par le sang verse ’ — French by spilled blood — which in the Foreign Legion qualified him to become an officer.
Deschelles returned, a delicious mezze arrived soon after — stuffed grape leaves, salty white cheese, falafel — Stahl’s favourite, mashed chickpeas fried up in little pancakes — and hummus, Stahl’s other favourite. As the main course was served, ground lamb and pine nuts baked in layers, Deschelles nodded his head towards a nearby table and spoke in a confidential voice, ‘I think you’ve been spotted.’
As Stahl followed Deschelles’s eyes, a man sitting alone at the table became interested in his newspaper. ‘He knows who you are and he wants to stare,’ Deschelles said, ‘but that’s very rude here. He’s avoiding us now, because he’s been caught at it.’ Stahl had been stared at many times in public, but some sort of intuition suggested that this man wasn’t a movie fan, he was something else.
For dessert, they shared three small squares of baklava.
Back at the Claridge, Stahl was headed for the elevator when the manager called out to him, ‘Oh Monsieur Stahl.’ Stahl went over to the desk. ‘A letter for you, sir, delivered by hand. The messenger asked that it be given to you in person.’
Stahl thanked him and went up to his suite. Inside a manila envelope, a formal envelope held a folded note card: on the front, printed in some elaborate form of italic: The Baroness Cornelia Maria von Reschke und Altenburg. When he opened the card he found the message: French written in careful, spidery script: ‘My dear Monsieur Stahl, I can only hope you will forgive an invitation on such short notice but I’ve just now learned that you are in Paris and I am a most devoted admirer of your films. I am having a cocktail party at six tomorrow evening and would be so very pleased if you would join us. Please telephone my secretary, Mlle Jeanette, at INV 46–63 if you would like further information.’ The signature, Maria von Reschke, was a thing of beauty, as was the address, a street in the Seventh he had never heard of.
He read the note a second time — who was this? German nobility in Paris? Expatriate German nobility? Well, he thought, why not. Artists didn’t own the rights to expatriate life. And he liked the idea of le cocktail, as the French called such a gathering; with a dinner you were good and stuck, but you could leave a cocktail party. He knew that sooner or later he would have to find a social existence in Paris and here was a good place to begin. But, for no reason he could define, he thought he’d better call Mme Boulanger at Warner France. A young woman answered, then Zolly Louis picked up an extension phone. ‘How’s it being?’ Zolly said in English. ‘Everything okay?’
Stahl assured him all was well. Had he ever heard of a certain Baroness von Reschke? ‘Of course!’ Zolly said. ‘She’s famous, she’s got one of the three important salons in Paris. You’re invited over there?’ He was. ‘You should go, Mister Stahl. You’ll meet the creme de la creme, chez the baroness — bankers, fashionable women, ambassadors. And then, the other two will invite you to their salons. They hate each other, these hostesses!’
So that was decided, he would go. He hunted around in his closet to see where the maid had put the shoes he wanted to wear, found them, and set them out in the hall to be polished. As he closed the door he realized it was very quiet in the suite, and the evening stretched out ahead of him. He undressed, put on a bathrobe, and settled himself lengthwise on a sofa with his copy of Apres la Guerre. But not for long. Just turning the cover and reading the stage directions for the first scene produced in him a sharp little pang of familiar anxiety that meant work.
But he didn’t want to work — the fading light outside the window, the gathering dusk, had reached him. It was l’heure bleue — time to be meeting a lover, or looking for one. Well, he had nowhere to go. He put the script aside, went to the desk, found Hotel Claridge stationery, and began to write a letter to Betsy Belle in Hollywood.
Betsy Belle (born Myra Harzie in Ottumwa, Iowa) was his official fiancee; fiancee being Hollywood code for lover, for the woman who accompanied you to parties, and a convenient euphemism for studio publicists and gossip columnists. She’d been discovered by a talent scout at an Iowa high school pageant, where she’d played the role of a corn, and when she’d arrived in Hollywood she’d quickly become a successful starlet. Blessed with a cupid’s-bow mouth that revealed two white teeth, a snub nose, and bright blonde hair that she wore like a teenager, Betsy had appeared in a number of movies, but had also grown older every year, until available parts were rare. Betsy also happened to be smart, and not at all the innocent she played on the screen. Of the cupid’s-bow shape of her upper lip she would say, ‘It makes me look like a fucking rabbit.’
He and Betsy didn’t precisely live together, truer to say that she stayed with him at his house some of the time, then, wanting to be by herself, would retreat to her apartment. ‘In this town,’ she explained, ‘getting people to like you is what takes up most of your time, so it’s my luxury to hide from the world.’ What Betsy Belle really liked was muggles, marijuana, and on nights when they were together she’d put on one of her Django Reinhardt records — ‘I’se a Muggin’ ’ her favourite — and smoke away, first becoming very entertaining, then highly aroused, eventually heading for Stahl’s lap. This wasn’t now and then, this was always, and at first Stahl had thought it was something about him. But, on reflection, he realized it was her nature, her own internal catnip — desire simply wouldn’t leave her alone. The wolves of Hollywood wouldn’t leave her alone either, so being Stahl’s ‘fiancee’ was at least some protection. Certainly she didn’t expect fidelity in Paris, and Stahl knew she’d find herself somebody else soon enough. Still, despite all the practical sentiments, he really liked her and she was, no matter what else went on, a true friend.
It was, by the third draft, a sweet letter. He loved Paris, he missed her. Not original but from the heart. And how many letters like this, he wondered, would be in that morning’s mail?
25 September.
When Stahl came out of the hotel, Zolly Louis’s nephew Jimmy, in grey chauffeur’s uniform and cap, leapt smartly from the driver’s seat, opened the door of the silver Panhard, and said, ‘Good evening, sir.’ Stahl gave him the Baroness von Reschke’s address, and the car swung out into a slow line of traffic. For the occasion, Stahl had worn his best suit: double-breasted in thin, midnight-blue wool with natural shoulders, a handsome fit, perfectly cut by the custom tailor Isidor Klein in downtown Los Angeles. Mr Klein did not advertise, his telephone number was passed from successful producer to powerful agent to prominent actor, and his services required time, several fittings, and a lot of money. To the suit, Stahl had added a custom-made shirt, a shade or two off white, and a dove-grey and Renaissance-red tie from Sulka.
It didn’t take long enough to drive to the baroness’s house, so Stahl got a tour of the royal Seventh until 6.45, then Jimmy turned off the rue du Bac and into a street of private mansions built in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. ‘You inherit these,’ Jimmy said as Stahl stared out the window. ‘Or they are very expensive.’ He pulled into a porte cochere, a man in a suit opened the door and asked for Stahl’s name. Parked beyond the entry were a few glossy black automobiles and two silver Panhard Dynamics, glowing softly in the light of the streetlamps.
The cocktail party was in the drawing room, where splendid old paintings in elaborate gold frames — lords and ladies and cherubs and a few bare breasts — hung on the boiserie; walnut panelling that covered the walls. It
