Three Women in a Mirror (22 page)

That day she was shooting her last sequence with an actress she worshipped, Tabata Kerr.

Why did she like her so much?

Tabata—who had had so many face-lifts that everyone in Hollywood called her Vuitton Bag—was a short, round, feisty, abrasive nag, with her neckless head crammed between her heavy shoulders; her gestures were abrupt, her gaze was stony, and Anny thought she was one tough cookie. Unshakably solid. No matter what happened, Tabata could deal with it, mocking and mutinous. Anny envied her for her consistency.

When she was ready, she went onto the set to greet Vuitton Bag, who submitted to her kisses acting all the while as if she were pushing her away in order to protect her makeup.

“Babe, they started restoring the façade at seven o'clock in the morning and it took a whole team of them, so don't get too near. Endangered historical monument. You can't just wander around the way you want among the ruins.”

“I'm happy to be filming with you,” answered Anny.

“And I'm happy just to be filming.”

They rehearsed, the reflectors were adjusted, then they shot the scene.

As soon as they shouted, “Action!” Anny was transformed: everything about her became focused, intense, and as it should be. Her voice vibrated, broke, became muffled; her face quivered with emotion; a whole range of emotion flashed in her eyes; her body told the story, and they could aim the camera at her hands or her feet, they were performing, too.

Opposite her, Vuitton Bag's strategy was the complete reverse. When they cried, “Action!” she seemed to become diminished, to lose a part of her aura. Anny filled with light, whereas Tabata's light went out. The doyenne put together a conscious performance, concerned about her effect, professional. Everything was calculated. She was performing to a score, that of Tabata Kerr playing her role, meeting people's expectations, and therefore there were no surprises. However, because she only ever landed ludicrous supporting roles, she delivered the goods: her strong personality did not disappear altogether, nor did her unbelievable physical presence.

With every shot, Anny congratulated her, because she was unaware of the gulf between her own commitment and that of the dowager she venerated. Beneath the parasol the handsomest intern was holding for her, Vuitton Bag lapped up the compliments fed to her by her costar.

Zac was in pain. He could see the difference between the two artists, but he was having trouble directing them because Anny refused to listen, whereas, although she seemed to hear his remarks, Vuitton Bag could not improve her performance.

Zac decided to communicate with Anny through his three assistants. Anny eventually decided to listen, and took off like a fighter plane, higher even than she had already been flying.

The crew members could not help but admire her. To be sure, Anny behaved like a spoiled child—would she always act on set like the five-year-old she had been when she started? She ruined the scheduling, and she was costing the producers a great deal more than her fee alone, but no one could deny that her acting was serious.

When the sun was too low for the sake of continuity, the director called it a day.

Vuitton Bag, scarcely tired at all, suggested to Anny that they go to her trailer to see the rushes of
The Girl with the Red Glasses
.

Once they'd had their makeup removed—only partially for Vuitton Bag, who couldn't face the world without a thick crust of foundation—they screened the shots from the last few weeks on a television. Vuitton Bag checked her performance; when she didn't belong to a sequence, she gazed at Anny and commented on her young colleague's singular qualities.

“Sugar-pie, it's just crazy how that camera loves you.”

She turned around to see what Anny thought, but the young woman, exhausted, had fallen asleep as soon as they'd started.

 

That night, at Vuitton Bag's request, the two women went out to an upscale LA restaurant.

Anny showed up an hour late, confused, falling over herself in excuses, never imagining that Vuitton Bag, who was no fool, had only just arrived herself.

The owner and waiters and hurried around the actresses, telling them once again that they were honored to be serving two Hollywood legends; they spread their veneration equally, or even slightly more for Vuitton Bag, who felt obliged to hide the fact she knew each of them by name.

Anny was looking out of sorts. After the excitement of the shoot, then her groggy nap, she felt nauseous, anxious, in need of a fix. Eating wouldn't help. What could she do?

When she saw the redhead in charge of the coat check, she knew she had found her salvation: the guy hung out at the Red and Blue, she'd often seen him down in the basement, sprawled out, stoned, lazing around like a fish in a tank.

Under the pretext of going to “paint on a new face,” as Vuitton Bag put it, Anny slipped into the coat check, went up to the man and murmured, “Can you help? I'm in trouble.”

He looked at her, gave a devilish grin.

“Hey there, I'm Ronald.”

She could see straight away what he was driving at.

“My name is Anny. I've seen you around at the Red and Blue
.
”

“Pity you didn't tell me back there.”

“I'm not brave enough,” she murmured, making a face that was irresistible. “I'm intimidated by redheads.”

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“Good memories.”

The man liked it. She whined, “Can you help me out? I'll never make it to the end of my meal otherwise.”

“That depends.”

There was a silence between them. Anny understood she mustn't rush the redhead, first of all because her brain was running in slow-mo, and secondly because he acted like he wanted to be the one in charge.

She gave him an alluring smile to encourage him. Flattered, he finally murmured, “What will you give me if I manage to find a little something?”

She pulled out the only cash she had on her.

“Hundred bucks, that okay?”

He shivered, tempted.

She thought, “Phew, I'll get it without having to sleep with him.”

He nodded.

“Turn around.”

Anny complied. The guy was afraid she would find out where he hid his drugs. This was good news: if he was being this careful, it meant he'd still have some on him after he sold a dose.

“Okay. Here.”

He handed her a folded piece of paper containing some powder.

“See you later,” whispered Anny before disappearing into the restroom.

When she had perked up—or thought she had—she went back upstairs and sat down next to Vuitton Bag.

“My little monkey face,” exclaimed the old trooper, “thanks again for choosing me to be in your film.”

“No, it wasn't me, it—”

“Please, Zac wasn't even looking at me when I played my part, he only had eyes for you.”

“That's for another reason. We—”

“Yes, you slept together and it's over. Everyone knows about it. And anyway, I'm so glad I'm at a time in my life when not a single director dreams of whisking me off to a hotel room. I thought there was something so . . . feudal . . . about it.”

“That's not really what happened—”

“Of course not, honey bunch, with you it's the opposite. You oblige them to sleep with you so that you can rule over them afterwards. Believe me, we other women are enchanted by the way you treat men, which is just the way we hate to have them treat us. It's a delightful revenge. To get back to the point—as my mother, who never left New York, used to say—let's take a closer look at your case, bunny. If Zac had his eyes glued to you it's because you are enchanting. You are a great actress, piglet, a very great actress.”

“You are, too, Tabata . . . ”

Her little hand, chubby fingers straining against her rings, pounded the table angrily.

“No, please. None of this adulterated praise. I am perfectly aware of my own worth. The camera loves you but it doesn't love me.”

“You're referring to your age?”

Vuitton Bag shot her a look as if to say, “Age? What age?” But then she gave an elegant pout, as if to emphasize the fact that she was pretending not to understand, an expression that displayed all her lucidity and humor.

Their food arrived.

The doyenne bit into a prawn and exclaimed, casting her eyes to the ceiling as though the crustacean had inspired her: “Did you know I have a nickname?”

“Uh . . . no.”

“Liar! Everyone in the business calls me Vuitton Bag.”

“Really?”

“Ah, your acting is not up to scratch there, my little minx. Well, how could it be, when you're acting an impossible situation, not credible for one minute. Because if you can believe it, my nickname, Vuitton Bag—I'm the one who made it up!”

“No way!”

Anny was sincerely surprised. How could Tabata inflict such torment upon herself, to choose a name that cruelly reminded her of all her botched cosmetic surgery, her too frequent and far too visible operations?

Tabata Kerr went on, peeling her prawns: “The camera doesn't think, my little bug, it records. When it comes closer, it doesn't close its eyes the way a gigolo would; on the contrary, it opens them. It registers all your faults, mercilessly, every single one. Dear Lord, it hasn't got one ounce of subtlety. it's a brute, it doesn't weed out your flaws. The camera is a heartless, inconsiderate bitch. In my case, if I had any hope of surviving in the movies—since I'd provided my cosmetic surgeon with three swimming pools—I had to put all my cards on the table: so I came up with a nickname worthy of a war veteran, in the hopes that the day they needed a ravaged face they would immediately think of Vuitton Bag.”

She let out a mischievous laugh.

“And it worked.”

Anny smiled, relieved to see that this old lady she worshipped was still making her way through life with panache.

“Smart move, Tabata.”

“Now that's one complement I will accept, firefly. Can you imagine, with my looks, and my voice, and my meager dramatic equipment, if I hadn't been smart I never would have had a career.”

“You're exaggerating.”

Anny was indignant. But her dinner partner was not about to turn on the charm; she had set aside her “great lady” act and was biting ferociously into her walnut bread.

“In seventy years I have met a great many very beautiful women, who were more gifted than I am, better actresses, and they all had something enchanting about them. They've all vanished. Every single one! And I'm still around. It's not that I have more talent, but I do have one thing: a gift for endurance in my profession.”

She turned abruptly and said to Anny, “That's why I wanted to speak to you, my little mouse. I'm afraid for you.”

Anny frowned.

Vuitton Bag leaned even closer and looked deep into Anny's eyes.

At that moment, Anny understood why she felt ill at ease: they were seated in a corner booth, so they were not facing each other. Vuitton Bag was staring out at the restaurant and had not often turned to her dinner partner; as if the diners were her audience, she addressed them when she read her lines, like some ham actor so glued to the footlights he won't look at his partner. Now she'd suddenly given up her showy mannerisms and turned her full attention to Anny.

“My dear, I'm just an old fogey and a rotten bitch, but I've been touched by your attitude toward me right from the start. Several times you've reached out to me even when I had nothing to give you in return. You've convinced me of your affection. So now that the old granny is getting tired, I figure it's time to repay my debt. And because the best thing I have is my intelligence, I've been thinking about your case and I want to warn you. You're a genius, my gazelle, an authentic genius of the dramatic arts. And that makes you fragile. When you shoot a scene, you don't skimp, you give your all, you are consumed. And you'll end up breaking.”

She pointed to the necklace of fake pearls, which covered her chest like a gladiator's armor.

“I'm the kind you can't break. Only death can do that. I'm thick-skinned and tough as nails. Nothing can unbalance me. So much the better, and what a pity. My strong character may make me interesting, but it has prevented me from becoming a great actress. On the other hand, my difficult temperament means that as a woman I'm more or less happy, whereas you are not. The way you cling to me, the way you play your scenes—as if your life depended on it—I know you're not happy.”

Anny held back her tears.

“You're not happy, because you open the door and let all your feelings come pouring out. When I saw the rushes just now, that's when I realized. When you laugh, you laugh—you don't giggle. When you cry, you cry—you don't whine. Everything in you is great, there's nothing petty, nothing small. You can't see yourself doing it, you just do it. You don't go looking for your passions, they're the ones that get hold of you. In order to perform you lay yourself bare, like a Christ nailed to the cross. That's what the camera likes about you. And the public, too. The public doesn't like me, they like the fact that I entertain them. That's different. They idolize you because you give them a mirror in which they can recognize themselves. Yes, in your face, your eyes, your hands, they find their emotions, but enhanced, because you are beautiful, and more noble, because you are pure.”

She waved her empty glass at the waiter.

“I only shine on stage. That's when I throw myself into the flames, I'm less calculating, I no longer need to worry how I'm being filmed, I've found my place, and I won't let anyone else have it. On screen I'm neither good nor bad, I'm average. Like most actors. Whereas you, my little Bambi, are phenomenal. If you've achieved star status so young, it's not just luck. It's because you have star quality.”

She sipped her Burgundy, made a face, then demanded they bring her a Bordeaux. Anny was as silent during these pauses as during Tabata's monologues: she just watched, hanging on her every word.