lacerated her inner thighs, blood seeped through her white long tights. Nellie begged her to see the studio doctor. Mother finally spoke: ‘No. Do not let anyone know about this. Not a soul. Bring me a bowl, towels and alcohol. Take me to my dressing room and lock the door.’
I could hardly bear to look as she poured the stinging liquid onto her cuts, but she didn’t flinch. Nellie and I bandaged her legs, and then we drove home in silence.
Back in the House of Mirrors, Mother prepared her goulash, opened the wine, and waited for Mo. He didn’t appear. At nine, she cracked and telephoned him.
When he arrived, she served him his food in the mirrored dining room. She was limping.
‘Is it good? Would you like more flat noodles?’
He looked at her in sorrow and shame. But he said nothing.
‘It’s fine, Mo. You were right. You are always right. I was terrible in that scene. I am sorry for being so much trouble to you.’
I felt so hungry that my belly ached, but I excused myself and left the table. She would be angry with me for my appalling manners, and I knew I would pay for it, but at that moment I hated the little man. The Red Queen had made her final move. I didn’t know why or how my mother had won. I just knew that she had.
The Party’s Going with a Swing
As a rule, Madou dislikes Hollywood parties, mainly because of the low level of intelligence among her fellow actors. We have one of our infrequent ‘discussions’ about her profession. It is my belief that intelligent actors are seldom as good as unintelligent ones. That’s part of her problem. She’s too damn smart for this tawdry business.
‘My dear Joan, acting is an instinct. A gift that is often given to people who are very silly.’
‘Actors don’t ever grow up. I have no real desire to be an actress. To always play someone else, to be always beautiful, with someone constantly straightening out every eyelash. It’s a bother to me. I do it for the money.’
‘They’re made of papier mâché, creatures of tinsel and sawdust. You’re not an actress, my dear, you’re a personality. A star.’
‘How do I look?’
‘Charming. You’re a permanent pleasure to the eye.’
She puts down her hairbrush and clips on her diamond earrings. It’s time for the wrap party. One thing that can be said for Hollywood is that it really knows how to do a wrap party.
Madou adores her crew, and they adore her back. She admires their discipline, and their professionalism. She is generous to a fault. One time, a grip fell from a lighting rig, and damaged his back. Madou paid for all of his hospital bills, and sent packages of food to his family. If someone so much as sniffs around her, she fetches her thermos flasks of broth and advises on the best medications. Her wrap parties are legendary.
She is still angry with Mo, so she wants this party to be one to be remembered, insisting that it is hosted on the set of the Russian Imperial Palace. She is dressed to kill, in a Molyneux silk sheath and a white fur stole. Diamonds glitter at her earlobes and throat. She adds a ruby and diamond ring; a present from her latest conquest, knowing that Mo will notice and be furious.
One final glance, and she is off to the sound set. Once there, she asks one of the crew to wheel over her mirror. She wants me to see it all. What an enchanting spectacle! Mo’s huge banqueting table, which formerly held rotting fruit and platters of painted food, is now home to piles and piles of presents exquisitely wrapped in gold and silver, gleaming in the spotlights.
Trays of champagne flutes hiss and sparkle with amber bubbles. Party food lines the table; egg sandwiches, platters of sliced ham, and bowls of Russian potato salad. The showpiece is a magnificent cake depicting scenes from The Red Queen. There’s a snow scene of the entry into St Petersburg, complete with a gingerbread carriage frosted with ebony icing. Sugar-frosted pine trees glisten, and shimmery white chocolate snowflakes rest softly on the gingerbread window panes of the Winter Palace.
For the indoor scenes, marzipan gargoyles grin and leer, and sugar-crafted pillars are entwined with delicate garlands of pale edible flowers. In the middle of the creation is a sugar paste figure of the empress in the Imperial Palace wearing her white and gold wedding dress, and sitting on a white and silver-leaf throne. Naturally, this confectionary delight of a cake is too beautiful to eat. It exists merely to be worshipped, just like Madou herself.
The Child, I’m happy to say, doesn’t see me, but stares greedily at the platters of food on the never-ending table. It is time for the present-giving ceremony. Twenty-dollar gold pieces are sliced open to reveal paper-thin gold Patek Philippe wristwatches, with personal messages signed inside. These are given to the men, along with cufflinks, leather wallets, gold cigarette cases.
For the women, diamond clips from Cartier, some with rubies, sapphires, then patterned gold. Others are given handbags, scarves, and perfume. Lower down the line, waitresses are given signed photographs. Madou bestows every present with a handshake and a beatific smile.
Finally, she calls for Mr von Goldberg. He doesn’t want to be there. He is shifty, uncomfortable, so déclassé. He is despised by the crew. Madou kneels at his feet, and she kisses his hand reverently: ‘Without my master, my Lord of Light, I am nothing.’
He presents her with a sapphire and diamond cuff. But it’s me that she turns towards, twirling and twisting her slender wrist so the bracelet dances and gleams in the light. The Child, I see, looks on enviously. She is singularly unattractive. How did Madou give birth to such an unappealing child? No one will ever present her with fine jewels, fit for a queen.
I dare her to come closer, but she backs away and returns to the table. I regret to say that when she thinks no one is looking, she crams forkfuls of cake into her fat little mouth. Then she takes the sugar figure of the empress and bites off its head. She carefully places the decapitated figure back in its place on the marzipan throne.
Later that night, when the party was over, Mother and I went to the editing room with flasks full of beef tea for Mo. The studio was always a strange place at night. We drove through a silent New York street, a shabby Little Italy tenement, then BOOM, we turned a corner into a night shoot set in Victorian London. The commissary truck supplying sandwiches and hot drinks, lights blazing. On and on we went until we reached a three-storey building with blacked-out windows. The edit suite; Mo’s domain.
He showed Mother his best results. She was respectful, gracious. She knew that he would work long into the night, cutting and splicing, wearing his special white gloves. He seemed happy. He talked away as he worked. This is poetry, Joan. You are more than an actress, you are a dramatic encounter with light.
There are many encounters between my mother and Mo that I have edited from my memory, but this one remains a cherished moment. He was so proud of his work. I can remember his exact words.
‘You see, Joan, she has to become ruthless to compete with the men around her. She has been groomed for stardom by her mother, given a new image, presented to the public, and then become dehumanised, imprisoned by her own image. You see what she has become?’
If only my mother had
