Marlene (18 page)

I was bursting with elation, adrenaline coursing with more force in my veins than my intake of booze. Leaning impulsively to him, I pressed my lips to his. He did not respond, sitting as if paralyzed, until I trailed my hand to his groin. Before I could touch him, his fingers coiled about my wrist. “No,” he whispered.

“No?” I drew back. “Why not?”

My suspicion about his sexuality hadn’t left me. While he’d admitted he wanted me, he had made no move toward consummating it, and he
liked to frequent the Nollendorfplatz, where Das Silhouette and clubs like it thrived. He had me wear my tuxedo, which I’d kept, smiling as unsuspecting women made advances and he pretended to be a stranger nursing a drink at the bar before he suddenly materialized at my side to inquire, “Darling, anything here you like more than me?” I knew that some men liked to dive and suckle, but when I asked if he was one, he laughed. “No. But I enjoy watching others want you.”

Now he gave that same laugh. “I told you. I don’t want our first time to be like this.”

“Like what? Surely, there’s no reason to—” I paused. “Do you love her? Is that it?”

He swallowed. “I thought I did. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Gathering my bag and coat, I flung open the car door. “Then tell me when you are sure. But don’t take too long. I’m tired of waiting.”

“Marlene.”

I glanced back at him. His eyes were beseeching. “Must you torment me?”

“You torment yourself. Go get married, Rudi. You obviously need it. I do not.”

I didn’t look at him again as I let myself into the boardinghouse. From the parlor, Trude’s gramophone emitted scratchy music; my joy plummeted as the amalgam of old carpet, dust, mold, and stale cat piss overcame me. Gerda was still not home and I was back where I started—still an ingénue at the academy, still an unknown like thousands all around me, still struggling and still broke, though less so once I got paid for my picture work. I needed another job. I couldn’t subsist on hope.

My entire being sagged. I didn’t yet recognize my dejection as that inevitable fall from the heights of make-believe, the first pangs of withdrawal from the narcotic of the camera. Unlocking the room door, remembering I had nothing to feed the cats, I failed to notice I was not alone until the lamp switched on in the living area and Gerda said, “Where have you been?”

I stood in a daze, my coat half off my shoulders. “Been?” I repeated
thickly. The effects of my overindulgence hit me like a tumbling wall. I felt sick.

“Yes. I asked, where have you been?” She stubbed out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. The air was dense with smoke. I wanted to tell her to open a window, the stink was awful, but I tasted vomit in my throat and had to swallow.

“I . . . I was at work.”

“So I understand. Trude says you got a part in a Joe May picture.” Her voice was flat. “Congratulations. I also understand you’ve met a new friend.”

I blinked, let my coat slide down into a puddle at my feet.

“Was that him? In that fancy automobile outside? Did he drop you off after your day at work?” Gerda rose, taking a step toward me. “Don’t look surprised. Trude told me a nice gentleman has been picking you up and bringing you home every night. She says he’s very handsome and charming.”

“He is.” Anger overcame my intoxication. “But no matter what you think, Trude has never met him. He hasn’t set foot inside this house.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“Doubt whatever you like.” I stepped over my coat, moving to the kitchenette. My mouth was parched; I needed water.

When I had drunk my fill, settling my queasiness, I turned back around to find her in the middle of the living room, the small bedroom area visible behind her. Her suitcase lay open on the bed, belongings scattered about it. The bureau drawers were ajar, my own undergarments and stockings dangling over the edges, evidently picked through.

I had to smile. “Were you searching for a pair of his socks left behind?”

“Don’t you dare mock me,” she said.

My smile faded. “I’m not. I’m mocking your absurd jealousy.”

“You haven’t slept with him? He escorts you to and from the studio every day, brings you home every night—but he hasn’t laid a finger on you?”

“Not yet.” I returned her stare. “But not from lack of an invitation.” I meant to disarm her, maybe even hurt her a little. I wasn’t prepared for this;
I hadn’t expected to find her here. She hadn’t told me when she was returning, and between my classes, rehearsals, and the picture—I hadn’t thought to ask. Or rather, I had avoided asking when she called. I had avoided it because this was the last thing I wanted to deal with.

The color drained from her face. “Are you in love with him?”

I stood quiet. She seemed to collapse into herself. “I thought so. So much for being honest with each other.” She went into the bedroom, to her suitcase. Staggering forward, I said hastily, “I didn’t know what to say. Nothing has happened . . .”

“You said you’d tell me the truth, remember? You said that if you ever were interested in someone else, you would let me know.” Her tone was not accusatory but her words stung me with their reproach. She folded one of her skirts, stacking it in her valise. She must have been here for hours already, sorting through her garments. “I suppose this is how you have.”

“It’s not like that,” I whispered. I felt horrible. I had known she must be told, but I’d wanted to do it in my own way, after she came back and we had time together.

She stared at me. “How is it like? You don’t love him, is that it? Does he love you?”

“He . . . he says he does.” He hadn’t really said it, but it was how it felt. It was the only explanation I had for his reticence. “But he’s engaged.”

“Naturally.” She chortled. “I’d expect nothing less from a charming, handsome gentleman.” She paused. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

She held my gaze. I had to look away. “I think . . . I might love him, too.” I finally said it, for she wanted the truth and it was the only explanation I had for my own persistence.

“Congratulations.” She began packing again, her movements methodical, though she’d never been neat, often leaving for her assignments with an unraveled hem or sleeve poking out of her suitcase. “I’m not surprised.”

“Gerda.” I moved, reaching out to touch her. “Nothing has been decided. We haven’t done anything. Don’t be angry. I didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did.”

She flinched. “Don’t.” Her voice wavered. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. I came back to tell you that I’ve accepted a full-time position in Munich. My editor likes my work; he thinks I can have a writing career there. I’m leaving Berlin.”

“You’re leaving?” I was stunned. “Just like that? What if I hadn’t come home tonight?”

“I would have left you a note, asking you to join me when your picture was done. But that’s never going to happen, is it? You can’t. You think you’re in love.”

I felt a knot unravel inside me; it felt uncomfortably like relief. “He’s not the problem,” I said quietly. “We are. You and I . . . we want different things.”

“Perhaps.”

I gazed at her. “What am I going to do?”

She frowned. “You’ll stay here of course. Trude would love to keep the room rented and she’s very fond of you. You have plenty of work now and—”

“I had a part in a picture. Two scenes.”

“There’ll be more.” She retrieved her stockings from a drawer. “You have Herr Charming to see to it.” She wasn’t being sarcastic. She seemed to honestly believe that I’d found a replacement for her, someone better equipped to fulfill my needs. But this hurt less than the fact that she’d think me so indifferent, so uncaring of what she meant to me.

“I . . . I do love you,” I whispered. “I did not lie about that.”

“Come now.” She patted down the items in the suitcase. “I asked for the truth, Marlene.” Then she went still before she said, “I wish it were true. But it isn’t. And I, too, must get ahead. I can’t find work in Berlin; now, I have the chance to do something meaningful with my life.”

I could only look at her, dumbfounded. I’d expected anything except those words to come out of her mouth. I had underestimated her. I had thought she’d cleaved to me in order to achieve something she was incapable of, but I was wrong. She was much stronger than I believed.

“How can you say that?” I whispered. “I do love you, very much.”

She smiled. “In your own way, you probably do. But it’s not the kind of love I feel for you. No,” she said, cutting me off, “don’t make excuses. It’s not necessary. I don’t blame you. You are who you are; you never pretended to be anyone else. It was my mistake, thinking I could make you mine. But I want you to be happy and have all your dreams come true. You will always be very special to me.”

Tears filled my eyes. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re leaving me.”

“Leaving you?” A hearty laugh escaped her. “No one leaves you. I’m simply moving to another city. You can’t be left, Marlene, because you can’t be forgotten.” She softened her tone. “No tears. You’ll ruin our good-bye.”

“What about Oskar and Fannie?” I asked belatedly, thinking I’d not seen the cats and they must be hiding under the bed because of the commotion.

“Trude fetched them earlier. They adore her and she needs the company. That old cat of hers is on its last legs. She’ll spoil them rotten.”

“But I can care for them,” I protested. “I’ve been doing it all this time.”

“Have you? You forgot to feed them today. They were starving and their water dish was dry when I arrived. Better to let Trude do it. You’re too busy for pets.”

I sat down, disconsolate, watching her finish her packing. “I’ll send for my books later,” she said, stepping past me to put her suitcase by the sofa. “I’ll stay out here tonight. I’ve an early train to catch tomorrow. Do you want me to wake you before I go?”

I nodded. I was about to ask her to sleep with me, one last time, but I understood how cruel that would be. “Yes,” I said weakly. “I want to accompany you to the station.”

But when I woke the next morning with a dull headache, the sofa was empty.

Gerda and her suitcase were gone. On the living room table, she’d left a paper with her new address in Munich, but I already knew, as she did, that I’d never visit.

IX

G
erda’s departure devastated me. I had known from the moment Rudi entered my life that she and I would have to separate, as she’d never understand it, not with a man; but the reality of it wasn’t easy for me to accept. She had been my friend and lover, as well as my supporter, the first to believe in me. I missed her as I never had when she’d gone away on assignments, because this time I knew she was never coming back.

I stayed in the room. Trude was indeed fond of me—so much so that she let me slide on the rent, paying her in haphazard installments whenever I could. I took more modeling and substitute chorus jobs, though my schedule at the academy was demanding, with one play after another, some running for as many as forty-nine performances each. Earning a steady income proved so impossible, I began to resent the academy, where, as students, we were expected to perform for a pittance from the box office, while otherwise supporting ourselves as best we could. In a fit of desperation, I pawned my violin for less than half its worth. I hadn’t touched it in months, indeed had forgotten about it until I had to pack up Gerda’s books to send to Munich. I considered visiting Uncle Willie and Jolie to ask for another loan, but I couldn’t do it. It would only make me feel even more like a failure. Abandoning my violin in the pawnshop increased my
sense of loss. I felt adrift, no longer sure if I would ever amount to anything.

Then one of my fellow academy actors, William Dieterle, who was establishing himself as a leading man onstage, decided to launch himself as a director and cast me in a supporting role. Pulling together a small budget, we shot his picture outdoors—a Russian fable titled
Man by the Roadside,
inspired by Tolstoy’s short story about an impoverished villager who aids a stranger and is rewarded with good fortune. The dark-haired, rugged Dieterle played the mysterious stranger; I was the peasant girl who falls in love with him, complete with flaxen braids and a dirndl. It was my first experience on location, under natural light, with all the inconveniences these entailed. But the picture was well received; it picked up UFA distribution and had a decent premiere, gaining me critical notice as a “fresh-faced newcomer.” I cut out this one line to paste into a scrapbook, along with the review I’d earned on my “delightful comedic turn” in Joe May’s ponderous
Tragedy of Love,
which had been released shortly before, all three lugubrious reels of it.

Germany was floundering. Poverty and crime plagued Berlin. Going out at night meant risking one’s life, with thievery, rape, and murder becoming so commonplace, often over a fake gold-plated watch or paste pearls, that Rudi began to insist on accompanying me everywhere.

He did not move in with me, however. We did not become lovers. I had plenty of other opportunities—Dieterle, for one, had held me closer than his script called for—but every time I left rehearsal or a performance, there was Rudi by the curbside, either with his car or on foot, dapper in his suit and bowler hat, a cigarette between his fingers as he took me to dinner, to the cabaret, or whichever sordid vaudeville house had temporarily hired me that week. And as I twirled onstage in costumes that left little to the imagination, warbling woeful tunes of the need to live and love now, for tomorrow was a ghost—a prevalent Berlin sentiment—all I had to do was peer through the fog of smoke to find him at a table, a drink in hand and a smile on his lips.

“I hate it,” I grumbled as he drove me home. “I’ve done endless plays
and three pictures to date, and nothing is happening. Joe May was mistaken. I’m definitely not going to be famous.”

“Patience.” He patted my knee. “These things don’t happen overnight.”

He sounded like Gerda, like my mother. I shot a barbed look at his hand. This time, however, he did not remove it, his fingertips sending shivers up my thighs as he parked the car.