Divine Sarah

interpretation. All he could do was sit back and nod his head. He would probably look best if he just appeared agreeable, instead of stunned and unaware.

“Well.” Mrs. Michaels spoke for the table. “That is a little unorthodox, isn’t it? Changing shows the day before.”

“Sometimes you must go with intuition,” Sarah said. “It is unfair to both the company and the audience to proceed with a performance when both have lost the emotional connection. That is when decisions need to be made.”

Kinney straightened at the end of the table. The words and implications finally processing through his mind. “Indeed, it does sound a bit unorthodox.”

“We are a company of professionals. And a large part of our success is based on trusting our instincts. Plus, we have been playing La Tosca on this tour already. We have the sets. Rehearsals have been run.”

Kinney nodded, looking both surprisingly content and enthralled.

“I will be frank with all of you,” Sarah stated. “You are scholars of art. If you saw me perform Marguerite Gautier tomorrow night you would be very disappointed. You would leave the theater saying to one another that while it was a pleasure to see Madame Bernhardt apply her craft, still there was something lacking. You would not be able to put your finger on it, but still you would know. So I will save the discussion in two manners. First, by changing the show, and secondly by explaining that what you recognize as lacking is the admission that I am not sure that I understand Marguerite Gautier anymore.”

“What Madame means to say,” (there he goes) Max said, “is that she is reenvisioning Marguerite’s motivations.”

Sarah smiled at him. “Sitting here with you today makes me realize that I cannot possibly continue that charade. So instead we turn to La Tosca. A simple woman in a complex situation. One whose tragic death is by her own hand. Her own punctuation mark to end the circumstances. Where death is honor, and her freedom is in being able to choose.”

“And,” Dr. Simon added, “where Tosca translates to Tosca.”

Abbot Kinney was no doubt bolstered by the confidence he was seeing in the patrons. “I suppose I have little choice but to trust your vision,” he said. “You must have some extra work ahead of you though, Mr. Klein.”

“Indeed,” Max said, trying to portray support and ease. He nearly knocked over the champagne glass while pushing it away.

“Max is very used to me by now. Isn’t that right, Max?”

With all eyes on him, he forced a smile at her as though every muscle in his face had gone dead.

“Cheers.” Kinney lifted his glass. “To Madame Bernhardt…And to instincts.”

“Rightly so,” somebody said under the chattering of tinkling glass.

From that point on the brunch dissolved into side conversations with very little directed to Sarah. She was already running the changes through her mind. Reconfiguring the set. Deciding on the best course for breaking the news to Alexandre in a way that would not recall another infantile tantrum. She was not enthused about making this change, but she was relieved to be free of the burden of Marguerite Gautier. All she had to do was walk right through the doors of the Sant’Andrea della Valle church and she would become Floria Tosca.

Death for honor is much easier to grasp than death for metaphor.

And in truth this was all really a giant compromise. Because her real instinct was to walk away. Stand up and say, I retire. But as long as she created this diversion of changing plays, acting as though there was still purpose and reasoning, then she might possibly be able to keep pushing, giving everyone something to work for, perhaps sustaining her long enough to make it through this run, and through the rest of the tour (they needed the money, Max kept reminding). But she was truly on the verge. One stubbed toe could retire this filly for life.

Following coffee and half-eaten chocolate pastries, Kinney pushed himself away from the table and thanked everybody for coming. It was a pleasure and joy to share such an intimate time with a true legend, as well as get to be privy to her artistic thinking in person. And, he added, he looked forward to vindicating her from those Los Angeles loudmouths in their fortress cathedral. “Call it a group effort.” He smiled.

Ever the professional actor, Sarah stood up for farewells. Warm up your voice: Le bal—Le baaaaal. She was sorry to have to leave so soon. Nod your head. The brunch felt like it was still only beginning. Minor but sincere frown. But they must all imagine the work that must be done. The arrangements and the rearrangements. Look over to the door and then down at your feet. She kissed them once on each cheek and wished each person well. Slightly forgiving posture. As they exited toward the service stairs, she took Max’s hand. One that didn’t seem as if it wanted to be taken.

“I guess I need to go tell them to strike the set,” Max said.

“They will be charmed by the drama of it.”

“Don’t forget.” Max started to walk away. “You have a one o’clock with that reporter.”

“Cancel, please. I do not have the energy for acting anymore.”

“MR. BAKER.” Dolph called over to the reporter who had been sitting patiently on the cream love seat for the better part of an hour and a half. He had seen the dilettante procession parade by at least twenty minutes ago. But he had not seen Bernhardt yet. Perhaps she had escaped up a rear exit. It being 1:36 P.M., Baker was getting a little irritated. He was usually not kept waiting. “Mr. Baker.”

The clerk’s voice finally caught his attention. Baker rose, ready to be directed to the guest room. “Which floor, Dolph?”

“I am sorry, Mr. Baker. But Mr. Klein has just informed me that Madame Bernhardt is not feeling well. She regrets that she must cancel the interview.”

“Cancel?”

“That is what Mr. Klein said.”

“Did Mr. Klein suggest a better time?”

“He said only as I have told you.”

“And if I want to reschedule?”

“I am just the desk clerk.”

Baker turned to walk away. He didn’t offer an appreciation for the effort, nor did he offer a gratuity— something that certainly could lose an ally quickly. He stood in the center of the lobby, turning a full circle and looking for something that he wasn’t sure of. He wasn’t used to be being canceled on. She should be pleased that he was willing to even sit down with her, and lower himself to this kind of story. In any other circumstance, he would have sooner quit than be associated with this bullshit, but he had conceded that there was a strange seduction about her that begged many questions. Baker wasn’t so irritated that she had canceled (after all sick is sick), but that he had let himself be taken in by her. He should know better than that. Every reporter knows that your subjects cannot fascinate you. It is the breakdown of objectivity. The moment that you start forgiving them their faults is the same moment when you have joined their payroll. Baker was better off covering the Hollywood expansion, water wars, railroad fights, and all the other downtown scandals. He didn’t trust any of those bastards for a minute.

He walked outside and sat down on a green wooden bench, uncertain of what to do next. Wind was blowing off the whitecaps and slapping his face with a mother’s scolding. The bottom line was that he still needed to file the story. Graham Scott would be twiddling his fingers, bouncing the erasers off the desk, and yelling out to Barb every thirty minutes to find out if there was any word on Baker’s article.

At that moment Vince Baker could have walked away. Not just from the story, but from the whole career altogether. It’s not that any of those sonsabitches had ever held a grip on him. Doheny. Harrington. Huntington. Johnson. He had the one thing that all their money combined could not buy—a voice. They did their level best to seduce him, offering glimpses into their lives and letting him have a slight touch. They made certain that the maitre d’s knew him by name and treated him as though he were one of the tribe. They offered to put him on their payrolls for businesses three times removed, but he never acquiesced. His distance and comparative poverty were his strength. His upper hand. But here he was, standing alone and waiting. A good reporter doesn’t usually even have a half second to turn around and adjust his Johnson. A reporter’s eyes roam. They catalog. They conclude. They