The Slipper (21 page)

Carol lighted another cigarette and glanced at the clock. Making films was mostly a matter of waiting around for hours on end. They were lucky to get five minutes of film in the can on any given day, and when Eric was having one of his tantrums they usually got less. Thank God it was almost over with now.

Sighing, she picked up the latest issue of
Paris Match
. There was a photograph of her dancing with one of Gaby's pals in a smoky Left Bank dive. The boy was a tall, handsome French youth with wavy black hair and sad brown eyes, wearing the standard uniform of snug black slacks, black turtleneck and a boxy black leather jacket. She wore a black satin cocktail dress by Hubert de Givenchy and a long rope of pearls. The pearls were real, a gift from Berne in happier days. It was a rare issue of
Paris Match
that didn't have at least one picture of her. Paris had gone mad over her. She was young and fresh and enthusiastic and loved everything French, and she spoke the language, too, if not exactly like a native at least with relative ease. When she became friends with Gabrielle Bernais and began to pal around with her set, the French people as a whole embraced her with open arms and the nation unofficially adopted her. Carol was the darling of the French press, and on the few occasions when she had time to prowl around the fascinating city, she was greeted with broad smiles and friendly waves.
Chère Carol
was almost as beloved as Gaby herself.

She had met the dashing young French novelist during her second week in Paris. Filming hadn't started yet and Eric was still being civil and
Vogue
was doing a photographic essay—Fresh Young American Girl in Paris Wearing the Latest French Creations—and the studio considered it a tremendous coup. They were on the Place de la Bastille from which streets radiated in every direction like the spokes of a wheel. Carol was wearing a flowered, full-skirted frock by Balmain, holding the strings of four dozen balloons and trying to look spontaneous and exuberant while the photographer changed his lens. They had been shooting all day all over the city, Carol changing clothes in the back of a van and longing for a little respite. People had been fussing over her and pulling at her and barking orders and she was absolutely exhausted. The photographer raised his camera and yelled that he was ready and Carol smiled and looked up at the balloons with delight and let go of the strings and the camera clicked, clicked, clicked, capturing it all.

A snazzy red sports car convertible whizzed past, circled back, slammed to a halt with much screeching of brakes. A gamine with a tanned pirate's face and a windblown mop of short, tawny gold curls got out and approached them with an amiable smile. She wore black chino pants and a black-and-white striped sailor's jersey and a loose, floppy red nylon raincoat. “Gaby!” the French in the crowd shouted. “Here's Gaby!” Gaby Bernais ignored the furor and moved directly over to Carol, introduced herself, told her she had been reading about her and, grinning, welcomed her to Paris.

“Fantastic!” the photographer roared. “I've got to get some shots of this for the magazine. Carol Martin and Gaby Bernais together! Fantastic! Vreeland will go wild!”

Gaby amiably consented to pose and the photographer shot two rolls of film, the two girls chatting all the while. Carol had been enchanted with the wry and worldly pixie. She told her how much she had enjoyed all her books—the latest had just recently appeared—and told her about Nora's admiration as well. Gaby had been enchanted with the beautiful, naive American girl with her engaging manner and guileless charm. The two of them felt an immediate rapport and when the photographer was finished, they fled to Gaby's car and raced off with screeching tires despite the fact that there was one more location left to shoot. Eric had been livid and Carol admitted that it was very irresponsible of her, but she had enjoyed herself immensely, tooling through the streets of Paris with Gaby in the red convertible, going out to dinner at a cheap but marvelous restaurant and afterwards to a basement dive full of smoke and jazz and sinister-looking hoodlums who were actually students from the Sorbonne. Gaby introduced her to a peculiar little man with shaggy hair and thick glasses who looked very depressed. He was Jean-Paul Sartre. The self-conscious, uptight-looking matron beside him was Simone de Beauvoir. Later on, Jean Cocteau and Jean Marais arrived, and they were much more fun.

There had been many more evenings since, and Gaby had become a good friend, showing her the city, introducing her to celebrity pals, advising her to take a lover when her nerves got out of hand. If she were in love, Gaby insisted, she wouldn't let Berne rile her so much. There were dozens of candidates, handsome and engaging young French actors, painters, poets and philosophers who were delighted with Gaby's American pal and eager to console her, but Carol was a product of the American Midwest and not yet ready for casual coupling for the sake of her nerves. Thank God for Gaby, though. She had been a great support these past months, as had Sir Robert and most of the crew. I suppose I've been quite lucky, really, she thought, putting
Paris Match
aside. She lighted another cigarette, and a few minutes later her hairdresser came in with her wig and helped her put it on and a man came in to touch up her makeup and then it was time to go out and face The Demon.

He was there beside the camera with megaphone in hand, wearing his outlandish deMille garb and looking glum today, not at all fierce. Brilliant banks of lights bathed the set, Marat's private chambers with dark mahogany wainscotting and pale rose wallpaper and authentic period furniture, a huge porcelain tub in the center of the room. Still wearing his robe, Sir Robert was chatting with a grip. Ron Majors rushed over to Carol, looking a bit anxious but grinning nevertheless. He was wearing tennis shoes, tight blue jeans and his usual sleeveless jersey, today's deep purple. The former stuntman and bit actor seemed to live in perpetual fear that someone might fail to notice his muscular bronze biceps. Carol had come to detest him heartily. He was invariably cheery and his sun-streaked brown hair was invariably tousled. His amiable facade deceived no one. Ron was as tough as nails and always had his own best interests at heart. His own best interests meant catering to Berne's every whim, bolstering his ego and carrying out his commands with brisk efficiency, no matter whose body he had to step over in the process. He patted Carol on the arm now, his grin broadening
.

“You look lovely, sweetheart. We're all ready. Know your lines?”

“No, Ron, I do not know my lines. I've had the fucking script for a good half year and I've rehearsed the scene with Sir Robert a dozen times, but I do not know my lines.”

Ron raised his hands as though to defend himself. “Okay, okay, I was out of line. I shouldn't have asked such a stupid question. Promise me one thing, sweetheart. Promise me you won't agitate Eric today. He's really down, always is the last day of shooting.”

“I won't agitate Eric,” she promised.

“Good girl. I knew I could count on you. You're a real peach.”

“Ron, dear,” she said sweetly, “do both of us a favor. Go sit on something sharp.”

Ron looked hurt and then shook his head and departed. Lelia Standish came over to Berne with a clipboard and they conferred in low voices for several minutes and then the Spider Woman left and Berne said something to the cameraman. Carol felt her stomach tightening as it always did. She braced herself for the onslaught. “Places!” Berne shouted through his megaphone. Sir Robert removed his robe and gave it to an assistant, his torso bare, a snug flesh-colored body stocking covering his privates and lower limbs. One of the crew members gave a low, appreciative whistle. Sir Robert grinned and climbed into the tub full of water. Carol took her position several feet away. They had already filmed her entrance, filmed her close-ups and reaction shots, filmed Sir Robert's dramatic death and several shots of a shiny blade plunging into a fake torso with a profusion of blood spurting. All that remained was the murder itself, a relatively simple scene with only four lines of dialogue. With luck they should get it in the can in five or six hours.

“Ready?” Berne purred.

“Ready,” Sir Robert said pleasantly. “Jesus, this water's as cold as ice today.”

“Miss Martin?” Berne said.

“Ready,” Carol said. “Oh, shit, the knife. I haven't got the knife.”

“Wonderful,” Berne said acidly.

The prop man rushed onto the set with knife in hand, apologizing profusely to Carol. She thanked him politely. Berne scowled. He thundered orders. The filming began. Sir Robert picked up a large sponge and squeezed it and, suddenly aware of her presence, looked over his shoulder at Carol. She stood quietly, clutching the knife concealed behind the folds of her skirt.

“Who are you?” he asked angrily.

“I am Charlotte Corday,” she said calmly.

“Why have you come here?”

“I have come for France.”

“Cut!” Berne yelled. “Miss Martin, you have come here to murder him. You are nervous, apprehensive, distraught. I realize that it is asking the impossible, but do you think you might register a little emotion?”

Carol nodded. Berne cursed. The boy with the clapper rushed out with TAKE TWO chalked on the board beneath the title and scene number and they began again and Carol gave an identical reading. Berne wanted arm-waving melodrama, but she and Sir Robert had determined that Corday would be calm, deliberate, saddened by what she must do yet determined to carry it out. The two of them had worked for hours analyzing, perfecting, working on inflection, and she didn't intend to alter her delivery one jot. They did thirty-four takes. Berne shouted, threw his arms in the air, called her names, and she continued to deliver the lines as she had delivered them in the beginning. One of the lights went out and they had to wait while it was replaced. The sound man started picking up an ominous buzzing on the boom and they had to wait until he discovered its source and an electrical short was repaired. Sir Robert demanded fresh, warmer water. His body makeup had to be touched up repeatedly, for it melted and streaked under the blazing lights. Carol's makeup had to be repaired, too.

It was like working in hell, working under those lights, and if it was hell Berne was Satan himself, doing his best to break her down, make her cry and rush off the set, but these tactics hadn't worked in quite some time. She stood her ground. She suffered. She endured. He stomped over to her with fists clenched and called her a stupid bitch, a hopeless amateur, shouting in her face, and she didn't so much as blink. He called her a cow, an idiot, a wooden dummy, and she finally sighed and calmly suggested he take a running jump at a flying doughnut. Berne's face turned scarlet. He seemed to have a seizure. Sir Robert snickered in the tub, unable to help himself. Berne whirled on him. Sir Robert shook his head slowly, daring the director to light into him. Berne retreated, calmed himself down as best he could, and they began all over again. After the first twenty takes Carol was drenched with perspiration and she had to bathe and have Perc apply fresh makeup and then change into a duplicate costume and wig. That held them up for another hour and fifteen minutes, Berne ranting to Lelia and Ron all the while, Sir Robert wearing his robe and cheerfully playing a game of gin rummy with pals on the crew.

It was four-fifteen before an enraged, frustrated Berne finally conceded defeat and let them finish the scene. “I have come for France,” Carol said quietly, sadly, and then she pulled the knife from behind the folds of pink cotton and stepped over to the tub and plunged it into his breast, the shiny blade telescoping into the hilt while seeming to drive into flesh. Berne wasn't satisfied, and she had to stab Sir Robert seven more times before he yelled “Cut and print!” It was over. Carol couldn't believe it. The last shot had been filmed. There were cheers all around as Berne stalked off the set, followed by an anxious Ron Majors. Sir Robert climbed out of the tub and threw his arms around Carol and got her all wet and she felt tears spilling over her lashes as he hugged her tightly.

“We did it, luv!” he exclaimed. “Berne has final cut and God knows what he will do to us in the editing room, but we did it! We gave our best. I intend to phone Louella long distance this very evening and tell her Carol Martin is my all-time favorite costar. Viv and Lillie and Wendy will probably come after me with
real
knives, but I've always loved danger.”

“I—I'll never be able to repay you for what you've done, Sir Robert. Working with you has—I've learned so much, and—”

Sir Robert hugged her again, touched, the look in her eyes all the reward he wanted for those hundreds of hours he'd devoted to working with her. She had delivered a better-than-competent performance, and in some of the scenes she'd been good, bloody good indeed. He released her now, slipping on the robe an assistant handed him. Tying the sash, he grinned and said he'd better go dry off before he caught pneumonia, said he'd catch her later.

Carol spent the next hour saying good-bye to all the crew, distributing carefully chosen gifts to each and every one of them, thanking them for their support. Makeup removed, gown and wig returned to wardrobe, she was wearing street clothes when Sir Robert tapped on her trailer door and strolled in with a grin, a handsome tan camel's hair overcoat draped elegantly over his shoulders and a brightly wrapped package in his hand. He presented it to her with a melodramatic flourish, and she opened it to discover a silver cigarette case with art deco designs etched onto the lid in gold. It was absolutely gorgeous, with the smooth, mellow patina of age far more beautiful than shiny newness.

“It—Sir Robert, it's one of the loveliest things I've ever seen.”

“Open it,” he said.

Carol snapped it open. Inside the lid, in tiny diamonds, was “To Robbie from Noël” and, below that, “And from Robbie to Carol” in tiny garnets, her birthstone. Tears sprang to her eyes again. Never had she been so touched. This man, this legend, second only to Olivier in professional stature, was the kindest, most generous she had ever known and he had literally saved her career. She loved him dearly and, had his predilections been different, would have been deeply in love. She examined the exquisite case, so moved she was unable to speak.