Dark Light

shoulder, head tilted in a way that emphasized the intensity of her gaze and the dimensions of her perfect face.

Her eyes were shadowed, I noticed. It added an exotic, smoldering effect.

The photo had been lighted and composed by a superb craftsman. The photographer also had an extraordinary subject to work with.

There were photographs in this house of several women who resembled Marlissa Dorn—the delicacy of chin, the swollen weight of lips, her body, her eyes. But the genetic pool had found a separate and elevated balance in this woman.

“Isn’t she the most exquisite thing you’ve ever seen?” Chestra spoke without looking up from the keys.

A few faces came into my mind—film stars from the same era. Rita Hayworth. Lauren Bacall. Veronica Lake. Women who were signature beauties of their generation. I prefer women whose beauty requires time to assemble. The appeal is more private. But there was no denying that Marlissa Dorn was among the rarest of the rare.

“Yes. She’s very pretty.” Once again, my eyes moved from the photograph to Chestra. There were startling family similarities. I noted the shape of Marlissa’s chin, the wide full lips, the eye spacing…

“Please don’t flatter me by saying I look like Marlissa. Tommy did the same thing. I’m all too aware that she was in an entirely different league.”

I paused a moment to inspect her intonation. There was subtext of some kind. Drama. Or was it jealousy? I find beautiful women intimidating. Most men do—the cliche of the prettiest girl in school who can’t get a date is experientially based. Women are intimidated as well. Beauty is supposed to be only skin- deep but it’s not. Beauty is power. Its facial components can be described mathematically, but emotionally it is nature’s prime currency. We attempt to trivialize beauty’s power because it makes us uneasy, even as we covet it.

I shrugged. The woman was commenting on a family legend, so I let it go. “Your godmother was gorgeous, no question. This looks like a PR shot. I’m surprised movie producers didn’t mob her.”

The woman stopped playing, but the piano’s sustain pedal let the melody echo. “Oh, but they did. Not mob her—that came later. By the time Marlissa was fifteen, she’d been offered several modeling and film contracts. At sixteen, she starred in her first film. Her talent was considered quite remarkable.”

I asked, “Hollywood let her keep her real name?” It was the most tactful way of saying I’d never heard of Marlissa or her films.

Chestra resumed playing, but more softly. “Hollywood wasn’t the only place in the world where films were being made. My godmother was wooed by Europe’s greatest directors of the period—Max Ophuls, Rene Clair…even Alfred Hitchcock before he came to the States.

“Her first film was a critical success. Her second film would still be considered a classic today if the war hadn’t come along”—Chestra was playing the melody’s moody refrain, her fingers lingering on the notes—“or so I’ve been told. The only existing prints were destroyed during the fire-bombing of Berlin.”

It was after Marlissa’s second film, Chestra told me, that Hollywood producers took notice.

“They offered her a huge contract for those times. Money, furs, first-class accommodations if she would come to Hollywood. I still have copies of those contracts, if you’re ever interested. I inherited them along with her journals and a few other things. I was her only heir.”

I said, “You told me that she made the transatlantic crossing in 1938 aboard the Normandie. She came because of Hollywood.”

“Yes, and also the fact that she had family here. But two things happened while she was aboard the Normandie that changed my godmother’s life forever. One of them ruined her career as an actress, the other caused her death.”

If Marlissa and Frederick Roth hadn’t fallen in love, Chestra said, neither of them would have been aboard Dark Light the night that the thirty-eight-foot Matthews went down.

The woman’s film career had already ended by that time.

“Marlissa’s dreams of being a film star were destroyed years earlier. That makes her death less sad somehow, don’t you think? To go on living after your dream has died? I don’t see the point.”

It was while she was aboard the Normandie that a newsreel featuring the chancellor of Germany was released. It had been shot months earlier and showed him sitting next to an actress he’d already acknowledged as his favorite—a Russian named Olga Chekhova. He was a film addict, and in 1936 he’d honored her as Germany’s Schauspielrern, or “Actress of the State.”

“There are a couple of books that mention Chekhova,” Chestra said. “She was a habitual liar, they say…and also a spy. In one of the books, there’s a photo that was taken of their little group the night the newsreel was made. I’ll show it to you someday, if you like.”

Also seated at the table, flanked by Hermann Goering and Joseph Goebbels, was a young woman of extraordinary gifts. Her table mates had just enjoyed the premiere of her newest film—her last before leaving the Reich, as only she knew.

Chestra told me, “With the newsreel cameras rolling, Adolf Hitler leaned and put his hand on Marlissa’s shoulder. Then he looked into the lens and announced to a million moviegoers that she was his Aryan ideal and the most beautiful woman on earth.”

He was wearing a prissy white dinner jacket, she added.

“The expression on his face was disgusting, and the way his fingers moved on her shoulder—like a spider’s legs.”

It was a death sentence in Hollywood, Chestra said. The most evil man on earth had put his mark on Marlissa. It was a curse.

“As my godmother disembarked in New York, she couldn’t understand why there were so many paparazzi. Dozens of them—that’s when she was mobbed. They nearly crushed her. She was hospitalized.”

Marlissa Dorn never allowed another photograph of herself to be taken.

I said, “That song you’re playing. What is it? I’ve heard it before but the title won’t come to me.”

Chestra’s reaction was unexpected—dubious but interested. She said, “You know this melody?”, and played the last few notes of the refrain.

“Sure. It’s one of those classics from…”—I looked at Marlissa Dorn’s photo as I placed it on the piano—“… from your godmother’s era.”

“What should have been her era, you mean. She never got her chance.”

I was about to say, “It’s a tragic story,” but she cut me off by transitioning to a different melody, playing louder. “There are some wonderful classics from that period. Written by people who lived. People who knew about love, and about pain. Not that terrible, computer-generated junk they hammer us with in hotels and malls. Those aren’t songs. They’re video games for the ears.”

She said, “‘In the Still of the Night,’” and played a few bars before smiling. “Cole Porter.”

It wasn’t the doo-wop song that I associated with the title. It was dark, distinctive. Nor was it the song that I’d first heard while eavesdropping from the beach.

She said, “‘Isn’t It Romantic,’” and played a little of that classic before melding into “Night and Day,” then “For Sentimental Reasons,” then “As Time Goes By.”

None were the melody that I recognized but couldn’t name.

Chestra stood, done playing. She closed the keyboard and touched her fingers to the instrument’s curvature, letting it guide her to where I stood, photos on the piano. Because her hair was still damp, she had wrapped it in a blue scarf.

“My godmother played. In fact, this was her piano. A Mason and Hamlin, handmade in New York. She preferred it to a Steinway.”

I said, “Oh.” I was done with Marlissa Dorn and now concentrating on the photo of the Matthews motor yacht. If Jeth had found Dark Light’s remains, I wanted a blowup of this picture. Better yet, a schematic of the design. And I’d need all the data I could gather about the hurricane of 19 October 1944. If we found the vessel’s engine and drivetrain, lighter objects would have been spread by directional currents.

The woman and I had come to a general agreement about the money she would invest and what she