Divine Sarah

same.

In an odd way Baker felt it too. He had the same sense of empowerment from having witnessed something historic, where your place in the world quickly feels more relevant. Your feet know what it is like to fall in the trail of greatness. And as with the autograph, you completely rise to a new level. Baker felt ready to talk with her. A sit- down interview to try to understand the illusion of her power. How this petite old French woman whose vocation was in repeating words from a playwright’s hand could cause such an upheaval.

He stepped up to the desk and leaned over, bracing himself by the elbows. Eye to eye with the head clerk. “Can you please direct me to Sarah Bernhardt’s room?” he said, cutting off the salutation.

The clerk coughed into his fist. “You understand that I cannot give out that information.”

“I’m a reporter from the Los Angeles Herald. Vince Baker. I only wish to interview her.”

“I am not allowed to.” His voice nearly broke.

Baker was not accustomed to encountering this type of situation. His credentials and reputation usually gave him a free pass through any door, from the top-floor office suite to the mistressed boudoirs. “How about a message to her, then.” He reached for a pencil in his coat. “Have some paper, please?”

The clerk’s lips barely moved, uttering something inaudible.

“There a problem here?”

“I just don’t know if I should be bothering her.”

“Let me tell you something”—he leaned forward to read the clerk’s nametag—“Dolph. You don’t think Miss Bernhardt finding out that she missed a chance for an interview with the Herald will cause some problems? She’s a celebrity. That’s what they live for. And I am especially guessing that you don’t want to read in the article that Bernhardt was not available for comment because old Dolph at the King George Hotel refused to pass the request along. Actually, I imagine that you don’t want Abbot Kinney reading that either.”

Dolph’s complexion turned white, with a thin but visible band of sweat banding his forehead.

“Well?” Baker spoke. This time sounding more impatient.

“I suppose there is no harm in delivering a message.”

Dolph disappeared for several minutes, leaving Baker strangely alone in the lobby. The room was deserted as if the victim of an evacuation. It crossed his mind that he had missed some crucial piece of information while sparring with Dolph. After a time measured by breaths, a collection of couples passed through the lobby into the restaurant. They were paired by gender. Men set the pace with hands dug into their pockets, their brows furrowed as they nodded in conspiracy, trailed by the women who spoke in hushed voices, trying to smolder smiles that their husbands would view as treasonous.

In procession, Bernhardt and her escort shortly followed behind. She was dolled now, walking a brisk stride as though the barrel of a pistol were set deep in her kidneys. Rounding out the parade was Dolph who, out of breath, said to Baker, “Madame Bernhardt says that she will meet with you at one o’clock.”

THREE WAITERS WERE POSTURED patiently, standing at military arms upon the guests’ arrival, hands at their sides, shoulders squared back, and chins subtly arched toward the ceiling. It was Kinney’s private dining room at the hotel. It had a certain genuine elegance that was hard to find fault with. The other guests were already seated when Sarah and Max arrived. The white-coated waiters took over, one guiding them to the table while the other two were dispensed back to the kitchen to begin relaying silver-trayed meals.

The dynamic was fairly simple. Abbot Kinney sat on one side of the table, his big hands resting on the white linen, interlacing his fingers that looked too small for those hands, while the two thumbs rubbed gently against each other. And Sarah sat opposite him. Her posture erect and her face stern and serious, pretending to be listening and attentive to all his stories as her mind drifted in and out. While at the end of the table, seated directly center, Max Klein drummed his foot nervously against the floor, accidentally clanking his fork against the china plate more than once, clearly in terror that this intimately confined setting had the potential to explode at any moment. The patrons lined the table. They sat man, woman, man, woman (although it might have made better sense to stack one side with women, and the other with men, as most couples did not engage with each other, instead they leaned and arced behind the chair backs when private discourse took precedence).

Kinney took painstaking care in introducing each member of the table to Sarah. He told their names, where their families came from, the husband’s line of work, and a lengthy reading of their commitment to the arts that read more like a curriculum vitae than a brunch introduction. When he was finished, Kinney turned to Max and added, “This is Maxwell Klein, Madame’s manager and confidant.” Then he turned from Max as quickly.

The waiters never broke a sweat. Sarah noticed that. They performed in their perfectly executed tandem, never betraying the anxiety or stress of transporting food that was prepared with a chef’s vision. Careful not to disrupt the presentation and not to lose the proper serving temperature of the meals, while keeping a shadowed presence inside the room, on the unenviable cusp of having to be readily engaged and as impassive as the walls. She was struck by their professionalism. Their drive for perfection. And she wondered what instilled this ethic. Surely there was not enough money to engender this level of commitment, nor (and even more baffling) was there an audience to applaud their efforts. At best they might be palmed a nice gratuity at the end of the evening, followed by a concessionary elitist comment such as, The service was quite nice tonight. But maybe that was enough. Maybe recognition, even in its barest most questionable form, was the motivation for excellence. She was thinking about that when Kinney asked if there was a problem with the food. She just wasn’t very hungry, she told him, half-expecting him to order the waiters to find some other accommodations. Mostly though, she was not hungry from boredom.

To Sarah’s right sat a woman with a slight frame. She wore her blond hair twisted and pinned to the back of her head with the sides shaped like cones. Her cheeks puffed out uncomfortably, as though she was the victim of a cultural melancholia only cured by food (and clearly not her husband’s money). She wore a wedding ring with a slim silver band, almost invisible, but on top sat a fat diamond that vied for balance each time she moved a finger. She was the wife of Dr. Cornelius Michaels (none of the women seemed to have their own names), descendants of Scots, and the major funders behind the growth of the county art museum. (Or was she Mrs. Michael Connors of Prussian descent, primary funder of the ballet expansion?) She turned to Sarah and said that timeless expression: “I can’t tell you what an honor this is.”

Sarah nodded and smiled, whispering, “Merci.”

“I am so delighted to see Camille tomorrow night. It has been a dream of mine to see you in that role.”

“I have always wondered why it is called that in America?”

“I am sorry?”

“Why do you think they call it Camille? That is not the name of the play.”

A few of the men coughed.

“It is called La Dame aux Camelias.”

“Perhaps,” one of the men offered (Dr. Simon, England, Sculpture?), “it has been translated because of our clumsy American tongues.”

“But it translates to Lady of the Camellias. A reference to Marguerite always buying the flowers.”

“Well, you know we Americans like things compact and succinct,” said Dr. Simon, laughing.

“I find it strange,” Sarah said. She took a small bite and then chased it with a sip of champagne. “Does Camille even mean anything?”

“A name,” Mrs. Michaels said. “In fact, my sister is named Camille.”

“How very interesting.”

Mrs. Michaels continued. “Again, I cannot express how much I am looking forward to watching your performance in La Dame—The Lady of the Camellias.”

Sarah finished her glass. “It pleases me to hear your anticipation. However, I am regretful to tell you that I will not be performing La Dame aux Camelias tomorrow evening. I have decided to change the show to La Tosca.”

Max’s elbow nearly slipped off the table. She saw him look to Kinney, who was strangely unaffected by the news. Then Max glared at her with a look that commanded silence. She shrugged. Normally he would break in with a what Madame meant to say and recast her words to his neutral agenda. But this time there was nothing that Molly could possibly do with that phrase. It was clear and precise, leaving no variance for