Sins of the Flesh (47 page)

Global Pictures, the makeshift studio established by Bebe Tarz and Jane Perkins, crackled with electricity. This was the last day of shooting on
The Sands of Time,
Reuben's film.

Three long years in the making in less than desirable conditions. Unknown actors and actresses fighting to give extraordinary performances so their careers would escalate. The polished director, demanding perfection from every scene; the producer hovering like a mother hen to be sure the director was following
her
orders. Three long years of concentrated, unified effort on everyone's part. Minimum wages, long hours, treks to location, sleeping in tents and eating from a cook wagon…the perfect setup for the advertising blitz Bebe planned.

One more scene and it was all over. This was the longest, the most difficult, and had deliberately been left until last.

Bebe took her seat next to Jane, whose eyes were shining. “Jane, do you feel as…as proud as I do?” she asked. “Maybe proud isn't the right word. Fulfilled. You did one hell of a job, you know. Carlyle, well, his direction is absolutely flawless.”

Jane squeezed her hand and nodded. “
We
did it, Bebe. Reuben would be so proud, so very proud.” She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. “He's not coming back, is he? For a while I thought he would, I expected…hoped my phone would ring…but it was all wishful thinking on my part. This is his grand finale. It's so sad, yet it's so fitting, so…so right. I've cried so much, I have no tears left in me. And I can't even begin to imagine how you feel.”

“Much as you. This last scene…I'm not sure I can handle it. Seeing Mickey die…feeling Reuben's grief…I…Death scenes are tearful enough…I guess I wasn't…I'm not prepared to see Mickey die and to remember my part in all of it. So many years. How devastated he must have been to go all that way, endure tortures daily, then finally find her…and lose her forever. To die so tragically and be buried hastily, without ceremony or acknowledgment…” Bebe gazed off into the distance, her eyes misted with tears. “I think that's the hardest part,” she murmured.

“Yes, but look at her legacy,” Jane argued. “Millions of people will see this film and mourn her, thanks to you and me and everyone else who helped make this movie. I think we should be happy.”

“Quiet on the set!” shouted John Carlyle. “Bruno, take your place. Make your dog sit! Now! Okay, roll 'em!”

Bebe watched, hardly daring to breathe as Bruno marched on sturdy legs to the set, his dog trailing behind at just the right pace. It was so real, she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp. Real because it
was
real; Bruno was reliving the moment. His tears were real as he paid final tribute to the gallant woman who gave her life for his. Bebe fled from the set when she saw the little dog's pink tongue flick out to touch the cold cheek. She ran straight into Daniel's arms and through her tears she saw his own.

“This is one hell of a goddamn movie,” he muttered.

Bebe nodded as she blew her nose lustily. “The goddamn best, and it's going to take every award the Academy has to offer. Ten bucks, Daniel,” she said, blowing her nose again.

“I'd be a fool to take you on. I don't know what you call a film like this in the business, but I'd call it a masterpiece.”

“That's good enough for me.” She turned away, hiding the pain in her eyes. “Oh, Daniel, where is he? Why hasn't he sent word? I was so sure, I hoped that he would come back. Surely he wants to know how…why, Daniel, why?”

“This part of Reuben's life is over. I don't think he'll ever come back.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Bebe, it's what I feel. He trusted Jane to make this film knowing she would do just what he wanted. In my heart I believe he knew you would be part of it all. He was so proud of you, Bebe. He's in love with you, you know. If you want him, you're going to have to go over there. Not right away. He needs time for his wounds to heal, and they will heal. Mickey set him free with her last breath, at long last.”

Bebe threw herself into Daniel's arms and wept for the gallant Frenchwoman known as Marchioness Michelene Fonsard.

“That's it! It's a wrap!” they heard John Carlyle shout. “Ladies and gentlemen, we just turned out the best movie this town has ever seen! The drinks are on me! Soda pop for the kids. Let's party!”

“You heard the man,” Bebe said, giving Daniel a tremulous smile. “Let's go!”

John Carlyle swooped down on Bebe and Daniel like an avenging bird, his arms flapping, his face one wide grin. “If you ever pay me for this, I'm going to have to give the money back. This wasn't work, it was pure joy. I can't wait to see that Oscar! I'm going to hold it in my hand, sleep with it, kiss it good night, and…and…”

“Yes?” Bebe chortled.

“Hell, I don't know. Take pictures of it, wallpaper my office with the pictures…” He shook his head in patent admiration. “Jesus, I had to blow my nose so bad when that kid was on the bed, I thought I would choke. One take, that's all it needed. They were so perfect, Bebe. Hell, there wasn't a dry eye on the set. This is it! My only regret is that we didn't make it at Fairmont. I hope Reuben understands.”

“He'll understand,” Bebe said confidently.

Carlyle shrugged. “I suppose. It's just that Reuben was Fairmont; it should have been made there. A fitting tribute, that kind of thing.”

“When do we see the rushes?” Bebe asked excitedly.

“Tonight if you think you can handle it. I'm going to get soused so I won't shame all of you and cry over my best work.”

Bebe walked to the long table, where the children, all sixteen of them, were sitting, their faces solemn. She bent down to pick up Bruno's dog. “You were wonderful, all of you. I'm terribly sorry that you had…to go back into your memories. Mademoiselle Mickey would be so proud of you, so very, very proud.”

“Will Monsieur Tarz be proud of us, too?” Bruno asked wistfully.

“Yes, very,” Bebe replied, smiling. “I'm sure he's thinking of all of you right now. I will bet each of you one licorice stick that Monsieur Tarz is getting the château ready for you. He hasn't forgotten any of you. I know this because I am his wife, and…I know these things.”

Sophie took her thumb out of her mouth long enough to ask, “When are we going home?”

Home. What a wonderful word, thought Bebe. But these children didn't have a home anymore. Bebe handed the squirming dog to Bruno and dropped to her knees. “Where is home, Sophie?” she whispered.

“Mademoiselle Mickey's château. She said that would be our home when the war was over. Monsieur Tarz said so, too. It was not a lie, mademoiselle; they did not lie to us.”

“No, they didn't, Sophie. I'm going to take you back myself when it is time.” She stroked the little girl's hair and added softly, “I know you don't understand all of this, but I'll try to explain. We just finished filming the movie that is a tribute to…Mickey. You all played a part in it. Now the film will be distributed all over the country, and it will be nominated for an award. I know this in my heart. I want all of you here so you can share in that award. Mickey would want this. Mr. Tarz, too. The very next day I will take you all back to France. I promise you.

“Now,” she continued, clapping her hands for attention, “we are all going back to my house, where you will tidy up your rooms before we go swimming. After we swim and have our dinner, I'm going to introduce you to your tutor, who will give you English lessons. When you return to France you will be able to greet Monsieur Tarz in English. There will be other lessons, too.” Bruno made a face, and she laughed.

“Tell me, Bruno,” she said, “have you given your dog a name yet?”

He nodded. “Dog. That's a name, mademoiselle.”

“Yes, but…well, I couldn't help but notice that…Dog is a…a girl dog.” Bebe giggled.

“That is so, mademoiselle, a girl dog.”

“And Willie is a boy dog.” Bebe giggled again, and the rest of the children laughed.

“That means puppies,” Sophie said, wide-eyed.

“That's exactly what it means,” Bebe replied with a sigh. “Well, we'll deal with that when the time comes. It's time to go ho—to my house. I have a surprise for all of you!”

As one they chorused, “What?”

“If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise. You'll just have to wait and see.” Earlier that day she'd virtually bought out the children's department at Bullock's. New dresses and hair ribbons for the girls. Shiny black shoes and white socks. For the boys, pants and shirts, suits and ties, belts and suspenders, new underwear, and sturdy shoes. It had cost a fortune, and she'd had to sell the pearl earrings Reuben had given her, her most treasured possession to manage it. But it seemed right and fitting. She'd also sold the pearl necklace Mickey had given her that same Christmas. The money would be used to care for the children until after the Academy Awards.

“Well done, Bebe, well done indeed,” she muttered under her breath.

 

Hollywood, land of milk and honey, glamour and sparkle, closed its ranks for the second time in order to protect Reuben Tarz. None of them knew
exactly
what went on with Fairmont Studios, but when word filtered out that Bebe Tarz and Jane Perkins had rented an empty warehouse and leased movie equipment, they knew something was in the air. Spies sent to ferret out the inside scoop could report only that most of the filming was being done on location, and that the budget was practically nonexistent.

A meeting was called by the major studio heads to discuss what they
didn't
know. They spent days hashing over what little they
did
know and concluded that the movie being filmed had something to do with Reuben Tarz's life. In tandem they agreed to aid and abet Jane and Bebe in ways that could never be traced back to any of them. The very secrecy surrounding the film made them certain that Jane Perkins had a winner, and they recognized that by aiding and abetting, they were putting their own projects in jeopardy. But they didn't care. As one they voted to nominate the movie for an Academy Award even though they knew nothing about it. They owed Reuben Tarz, all of them.

“Done!” shouted Sam Goldwyn. “Gentlemen, we just slit our own throats, so let's get the hell out of here before we bleed all over the rug.”

“What are we supposed to do—
bribe
the Academy into these nominations?” David Selznick snapped.

“Are you crazy?” Goldwyn demanded. “Doesn't your gut tell you those broads have a winner? We talk it up, all of us. We can doctor up the numbers, pay off box office. We simply hype it like it was one of our own. It'll be a first for this fucking town. You know what? I feel good about this!”

“I'm gonna remind you of this conversation at the Awards when we're sitting there with our thumbs in our mouths,” Selznick grumbled. But it was a happy sound.

 

Exactly one month after the release of
The Sands of Time,
all Hollywood sat back and clapped their hands for Reuben Tarz.
Sands,
as it was called in the industry, out-sold and outplayed every other movie released that year. Newspapers ran stories about it, with pictures shot from all angles showing the long lines, grumbling patrons, and harried theater owners. One theater manager was quoted as saying, “It wouldn't be so bad if people didn't keep coming back to see the film over and over.” Another owner announced that he was selling tissues and making a fortune. Box office receipts were nothing short of phenomenal, even topping those of
Gone With the Wind
in the first thirty days.

The media, hoping to arouse some friction among the other studios, took to camping outside the gates, waiting for the moguls themselves to appear and give a quote. Sam Goldwyn tipped his gray homburg and said, “It's a hell of a picture, and I wish I'd made it. My wife wants to see it again.” David Selznick grinned and said, “It's not the picture of the decade; it's going to prove to be the picture of the century. Simply put, gentlemen, I'm jealous as hell that my studio didn't turn it out.” Cecil B. deMille pursed his lips and said, “As much as it pains me to say this, I think
Sands
is the finest picture I've ever seen, and I've seen them all. Every detail was perfect.”

Accolades continued to pour in, each one better than the one before. Global Pictures, Jane and Bebe's brainchild, raked in millions of dollars daily, and the movie seemed destined to run forever.

Bebe started a scrapbook, conscientiously pasting each article, each headline, in chronological order. She planned to take it with her when she escorted the children back to France. After dinner each evening she read the write-ups to the children, first in French and then in English.

For once, Hollywood's immortals sat back so as not to dim Reuben Tarz's light. He was one of them and deserved every shining moment that glowed for him and him alone.

As generous and complimentary as the moguls were, they weren't stupid. They knew
Sands
was a one-shot deal and that Reuben Tarz was not going to return to Hollywood. The slices of the Hollywood pie would be thicker without him.

 

Nellie Bishop Tarz-Bouchet walked out of the theater, her eyes dry, wondering what all the hullabaloo was about. As far as she was concerned, she'd just seen three hours of sappy, sentimental garbage. Driving home from the movie house, she replayed various scenes in her mind and tried to figure out what it was that had turned
The Sands of Time
into such a hit. It was romantic and sad. Death scenes were traumatic, to say the least. Women obviously like to cry, to identify with a loss. The children, of course, were an asset in more ways than one; even the stupid dog had performed on cue. It all added up to…what? Shrugging, Nellie decided to catalog all the separate elements in the journal she kept.