blown rehearsals. Max’s rule was that everybody needed to be present at the run-through, even her dresser, Sophie, as though some siren wail of a costume emergency might sound, causing a needle and scissors resuscitation (along with the hairdresser, Ibe—which for him was no chore, as he literally spent every other night sleeping backstage on top of the wigs to protect them from lord knows what). But she knew Max was doing more than watching the crew, he was watching her, as well. Keeping sure that she didn’t slip away. That’s probably why he wanted her private railcar parked right down there on the pier. Always best to expose the hiding places.
This was her final bout of freedom. Bring on the crew by noon, and the wide-eyed cast by four. The first run- through starts at 5:00 P.M. sharp. It will go until 7:30 P.M., where they will break for dinner, customarily banquet style on the first night, where she is inevitably seated at the center table surrounded by Max and Sophie and the area promoter—in this case Abbot Kinney. A sense of unity is created at the dinners, where a group of stratified travelers are transformed into a single-mindedly focused acting troupe. Then Max stands up after the main course and welcomes everybody and introduces the promoter, who gushes with starstruck jealousy about the chills that shiver down his spine at just being in the room with such talent and brilliance, promising that packed houses and everything else you will need to ensure a first-class show is at your command. She can practically mouth the speeches along with their orators. (At least they are a little further and few between this time. On her first American tour she sometimes played four cities in five days. Four dinners. Four promoters giving four speeches.) Then the dinner breaks up around 9:30 P.M. and the actors all go off to discuss their concerns, and the production crew meets to resolve its problems with the latest theater. By the next morning, everything is in full swing again, as if they had been doing this every minute of their endless lives. She had traversed the United States several times now, pulled by a three-car train loaded with more than thirty of the best actors and crew that Europe had to offer, and she was certainly not lacking in confidence that the quality was pristine and perfect—without the promoter’s benediction and blessing. The problem was these modern financiers who had figured out how to turn art into a slipshod celebrity commodity barely held together by the manipulation of the press, advertising, and rumor. They never once thought about quality or talent or innovation. There was no suggestion of nuance and subtlety—in fact, more the opposite: where only the biggest loudest bang could stretch the pockets deeper. The promoters had managed to put a fear of God into Max that created the illusion that profit margin was equivalent to quality. Almost always leaving poor Molly to run around after the show, balancing reviews against the ledgers to determine the night’s success. It usually took the train ride with the crew to slap the perspective back into him.
For this she gives up a rehearsal.
Sarah sat down on a bench that faced Kinney’s Chautauqua Theater, the stage door far off to the right, almost hanging over the Pacific. By the closing curtain that entrance surely would be mobbed with people climbing over one another to get a look at her and have her scribble her name in a diary or any other keepsake they could muster. They would enunciate their words in loud English to translate fully their adoration, and then inevitably part with some canned wisdom like
A few people started to appear in the distance. Probably heading for work. Not far from Sarah, a wide woman passed. She walked low to the ground in short, terse steps, unaware that there was another person around her. And by the Ferris wheel a stoop-shouldered man trailed by his long narrow shadow dragged slowly and disinterestedly. Sarah heard the sounds of morning. The cackles of electricity opening the stores and offices. The seagulls barking and howling as they glided in first flight over the pier. And she looked back at the hotel, the bright orange sun hitting the windows in the middle—maybe her window even—and splashing the entire front in a blaze that transformed it into a strange beacon that called Sarah Bernhardt to duty.
She didn’t want to go back.
She didn’t want to wait for Max’s predictable tap on the door at 8:30 A.M. to escort her to the breakfast room.
She didn’t want to hear about Catholics and their boycotts.
She didn’t want to have to smile and greet Abbot Kinney and feign gratitude.
She didn’t want to go over and over all the necessary preparations with Max and the crew.
She didn’t want to struggle to understand Marguerite Gautier.
She wanted to walk with some purpose. Have her shadow drag reluctantly behind. Uncertain of what the day would bring, but definite that it wouldn’t leave her chest hollow. These few days on her own had made her appreciative of having no commitment to time. And she wished that she were going to set herself at the edge of the pier with a fishing rod in hand, ready to catch her breakfast. But no doubt that would never happen here again. Maybe if Kinney had just left her alone that morning everything would have been as peaceful and personal as she had intended. But he had wanted to make a show of it, so she had given him a show.
Instead she walked back. In honor of duty. Head hung low. Her body slumped nearly unrecognizable. She moved straight toward the orange light. Guided into the beacon. Driven by the knowledge that once she walked through those doors she would be Sarah Bernhardt again. And she would rise to the occasion. Square her shoulders, adjust her stature, and open herself up wide to take all the shit that could possibly be hurled—along with all the adulation that would keep her whole.
Max was standing in the lobby as she walked through the doors. His expression crossed between irritation and relief. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked, parentally.
She smiled and clutched his shoulders, pulling herself up to give him a peck on the cheek. “Was my Molly getting a little hungry? Such a temper when you’re hungry.” (Frightening how she can become “Sarah” so quickly and on demand.)
“The train arrives in less than an hour and a half.”
“And…? I think this Abbot Kinney has you dreaming about him and his ledgers.”
The lobby was beginning to fill, mostly with workers, a few tourists, and the privileged trend-setting indigents who called this glamour hotel their home. The foyer moved at a vacation pace, lazy and deliberate, with slow smiles of recognition between familiar faces and casual greetings with loosely knit plans. Quite in contrast to Max Klein. He and Sarah stood in the center of the room in an inert pause—the frantic eye to an otherwise calm storm, both daring each other to say another word. She sensed a shift in the room’s mood, the familiar sudden breathlessness when all eyes have convergently focused on her. And instinctively, with grace and demur, she inflated her presence to three times her petite size. The fluidity of her gestures and expressions turned artful as she leaned in closer to Max, aware of the exact volume of her movements as though it were a mathematical equation (
“THE EGGS ARE COLD,” she said. “They have only been on my plate for what, a minute or two? They are cold. Are yours cold too, Molly?”
Max finished chewing what had been his first bite. Masticating with increased effort until he could force the
