I can smell the must of the castle. The fear that sweats off Hamlet, and the ruthlessness that shames Polonius. Odd-shaped stones and bricks mortar the gray walls, and the floor has a light cover of dust that dulls an otherwise ornate tile. It is cold. Joints ache. Cheeks are flushed. And the moisture hangs heavy in the air.”
The girl stared, looking down at her feet once. For a moment she appeared nervous, as though still being observed. She scratched her nose, then looked up again to meet Sarah’s eyes. And smiled.
Nick watched in fascination as he gripped Max’s hand.
“Sometimes I get bored and start to distrust myself. I feel like a fraud, and I start to become like an accident victim trying to walk again. Where each step is lumbering and nothing is natural…I learned more about myself from that trip. My own eyes are liars. It’s the well inside my head that knows the only truth.”
The girl politely smiled in response to Sarah’s laugh. She bowed graciously, then backed away, suddenly anxious.
“Please, one more,” Sarah requested.
They sat for another hour without speaking. Max held on to Nick’s hand the whole time, melting away, stripped to the vapor essence that was neither Max Klein nor homo nor rectifier nor confidant—just a solitary breath in the room.
When they finally left, Max said Nick could keep whatever was left over. He gave it to the girl as a tip.
They shared a taxi uptown. In the hallway of the Albermarle hotel, Nick and Max kissed furiously. Then Nick went into Sarah’s room. An hour later he knocked on Max’s door.
The next day the cast had rehearsed
ON THE VENICE PIER, Sarah yawned. Still in Max’s arms. “I am too tired to disagree,” she said. “You will still look out for me, right? Never secrets or agendas.”
Max released his hold. He took her hand and looked her in the eyes. They were sadder than he could remember, drawn back and worn. He squeezed her hand tighter. He never felt as desperate about protecting anybody as he felt for her. He would sit here all night and cradle her if she needed. He would make sure that nothing disrupted her career. She couldn’t afford it financially and emotionally. He would make sure that she didn’t smoke hop just to brighten her eyes and remember her smile. These were different times. The world was not so free and easy anymore. Judgment sat perched with a gavel that was far heavier than it had ever been before. People were stronger. Savvier. They were more vindictive. And the punishments more severe. She didn’t see that; in many respects she was too naive to even understand the critical world surrounding her. But she was not immune to its effects. She was wounded. Her hand clasped against the bruise with no idea why she was struck. It wasn’t her world. She just lived there and performed for it.
“Can we go back to the hotel now, Max? I am tired.”
He put his arm around her shoulder and guided her out of the inlet. The length of the pier had become shadowed under a drifting cloud. “First you need to stop by and tell Kinney that the theater looks great. We don’t want him to be concerned about anything.”
“But, Molly…I’m tired. And we still need to read through the scene.”
“This stop will only take a necessary minute.”
“Always looking out for me.”
Inside Kinney’s office Sarah firmed her posture and spoke confidently about the theater. Good acoustics. Nice stage. When Kinney asked if she was sincere, she merely winked and said in a breathy voice, “
Sarah and Max left through the front door. The clouds had passed. The pier was bright again. As he closed the door, Max looked back to Kinney. The don of Venice pretended to be relentlessly engaged in his papers.
VINCE BAKER’S MORNING came too soon, despite the late hour at which he arose. His night had started around midnight at Willie’s with a dame named Muriel who managed to stay one drink ahead of him until closing time. She was tall and brassy. Big hips that swelled from a tiny rib cage. Her hair could have been any color. Everything took on the same hue in the sepia cigar cloud that palled over the room. She laughed with a howl in the raucous moments, and pouted full mommy lips when the scene called for sympathy. By the end of the night Muriel was slumped unapologetically against the bar, her last bit of grace cupping a highball, eyes half closed.
He woke Muriel to tell her that he needed to go, he was late. She had a pinch of surprise in her eyes, only partially startled, though not so for the situation but for the realization that her prince had turned out to be just another member of the court. They recognized the disappointment in each other’s eyes, and both smiled with the graciousness of a track bettor whose long shot pick didn’t do better than show. Baker walked with her out the door. They shook hands. Forgot to say good-bye.
Waiting on his desk at the newsroom was a note from Graham Scott, saying that this morning’s story warranted some discussion—as soon as Baker bothered to arrive. Baker sighed while he reached for the morning edition. Normally he would have scoured it front to back by now, discerning the paper’s agenda and projecting where he might be heading for his next story. But with the morning slipping away he had not only failed to see the paper, he had also nearly forgotten to look at it. He kicked his feet up on his desk, straightening the periodical and ironing out the fold. There, front-page bottom left-hand corner, was a photo of Abbot Kinney on his pier. Stately and dignified. One hand tucked into his breast pocket while the other gestured with a punctuated but nonaccusatory forefinger. Below his byline, the cutline read “Kinney’s Cultural Renaissance.” His article began just as he had turned it in, describing Kinney true to form, giving a brief mention of his new Venice development and referring to him as a former tobacco man who had turned his energies and wealth toward promoting a cultural alternative to the ever-growing Los Angeles region. His only mention of Sarah Bernhardt that made the final cut in the article was a pro forma line that said that Bernhardt would be the first major act to perform at Venice, followed by a quote from Kinney that stated “she was having a rather splendid time enjoying this new view of California. And enjoying the fishing.” The end. Baker didn’t write about her mutilating the fish. Although he enjoyed her show from the pier, it was hardly the kind of thing he would bother with. Instead he chose to focus the ending on a recap of the League of Decency and the controversy that led into yesterday, closing with a comment by the bishop’s mouthpiece, Dorothy O’Brien, that said something to the effect that Bernhardt was a public nuisance. An ending that never saw print.
Baker threw the
Following a summons, he marched back to Graham Scott’s office, brushing past Barb, the secretary, who organized her papers conspicuously while watching him from the corner of her eye.
His feet felt as if they were pounding the floor and rocking the entire building. He knew that his face was turning red, paling the pouched bags beneath his eyes. He could really use a smoke about now. He repeatedly dried his sweaty hands against his slacks, leaving streaked finger stains.
Graham Scott rolled his eyes up to greet his visitor. His cheek was cupped in his hand as he studied a pile of feature stories being considered for Sunday’s paper. His eyes were tired and glassy but not unusually so. They always had a watery jaundiced quality about them. He didn’t move when Baker entered his office. Still kept the full weight of his head propped on his right elbow. He had been in the business almost since it first became a business. He had done his time on the streets before settling into his career as a managing editor. There was not much that
