Marlene (29 page)

Nevertheless, those I did see were enough—as beautiful as icons, polished to a surreal perfection that made me feel as though I were in the midst of idealized replicas who only proved that Marlene from Berlin didn’t belong here at all.

My stomach rumbled as I meandered to linen-draped tables by the walls, weighted down with trays of hors d’oeuvres and chilled bottles of Dom Pérignon, despite Prohibition. I’d been perpetually hungry since arriving in America. After checking to make sure von Sternberg was still arguing with Schulberg—he was—I hurried to the tables to fill up on canapés.

I was biting into a delicious salmon pâté when a deep voice drawled, “I understand we’re going to work together.”

I turned around. And froze.

He was a god. There was no other way to describe him. And tall—so tall I had to crane my neck to meet his hazel eyes, which seemed golden in the chandelier glow. He had a lean, beautiful face. A lock of light brown hair streaked by the sun tumbled over his forehead. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, a year or so older than me. In a cream-colored evening jacket, black bow tie, and trousers, he had an impressive figure, his lanky limbs imbued with a confidence that was indeed pure American.

I must have been staring, for he chuckled, and with his fingertip removed a smudge of pâté from my mouth. Anna May had done that to me in Berlin, on the night we went to see Garbo’s picture. A frisson of pleasure tingled in my groin.

“That good, huh?” he said. “Guess the studio doesn’t feed you much.”

“You—you must be Gary Cooper.” My air of mystery deserted me. This was a star if ever I’d seen one. But I could also see why von Sternberg had denigrated him. He was just the kind of man—handsome, poised, and athletic—my director would detest.

“Guilty as charged. And I know who you are.” His gaze roved over me with admiring insolence. “But if I’d had any doubt, that getup disproves it. I heard you like to wear slacks.”

“You did?”

“Yes. All of Hollywood and most of America, I should think, has heard by now.” His smile made fetching crinkles around his eyes. “Your publicity photos. You’ve been keeping the studio busy, plastering your mug shot in
Photoplay
and every other fan rag. ‘The Woman Even Women Can Adore.’ It’s a lot to live up to. I hope you’re ready.”

I laughed. “Schulberg released those photographs.”

“He did. He thinks you’re sensational. I think he’s right.”

Drawing myself to my full height (I did not reach his shoulders) I said, “Would you happen to have a cigarette, Mr. Cooper?”

He took out a gold-plated case from his jacket. As I leaned over his lighter, I caught a hint of his smell. Or rather, I noticed the distinct absence of cologne. He smelled like a man—of hair tonic and tobacco, and something faint, almost indecipherable, but salty, I thought, like the sea.

Like sex.

I lifted my eyes to his telling smile.

He’d recently, perhaps only an hour or so ago, had sex. And hadn’t showered afterward.

“I’ve worked with our director before,” he said, a sardonic lilt in his voice, as though he could tell what I was thinking. “In
Children of Divorce
with Clara Bow. I was fired because the rushes were awful, but they replaced the director with von Sternberg and he reshot my scenes. He made me look good, helped save my career. I owe him.”

Heat stirred in me like a fire. It had been months since I’d—

I made myself stop, using my cigarette as a deterrent, inhaling smoke while he stood there, as attentive as a gentleman but not gentlemanly at all.
He was thinking the same thing I was, and I darted another look to where I’d left von Sternberg. He was no longer there.

“I’m looking forward to working together,” I managed to say, turning back to Gary. “Von Sternberg has told me how much he enjoyed making that picture with you.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” His smile widened. “He wanted Gilbert for the part. But he’s stuck with me, thanks to Selznick.”

“Well.” I coiled my voice. “I’m glad we are stuck—with you.”

His eyes gleamed. “I also heard your English wasn’t very good. Sounds good enough to me.” Leaning to me, he whispered, “How would you like to ditch this party and go out for—”

He didn’t have the chance to finish. From seemingly out of nowhere, a woman in a white sleeveless dress slithered to his side. Her glossy black hair was parted, drawn in an intricate bun at her nape to show off a face made for the camera, highlighted by her surly cat-green eyes.

“Gary,
mi amor,
” she said, hooking her arm in his. “Where have you been? I’ve looked everywhere for you.” She had a Spanish accent. An actress, no doubt, but I had no idea who.

“I was talking to Miss Dietrich here,” he said quietly. “She’s working with me in my next picture. Remember I mentioned her?”

“No.” The woman stared at me. “I don’t remember. Who is she?”

“Marlene,” I said. “I’m new to Paramount and—”

“
Sí,
” she interrupted. “I remember now. You are a Kraut.”

Gary looked down at his feet as she tightened her arm about his. “I’m Lupe Vélez,” she said. “From Mexico. I work for RKO.”

She wasn’t trying to instill camaraderie, that much I understood. She must be his lover, the one he’d recently had sex with. Feeling threatened, she was claiming her property.

“Strange, no?” she said, looking me over. “You dress like man.”

“Yes. It’s all the rage in Krautland,” I replied.

She frowned, unsure if I was mocking her. Then she gave a fake laugh. “You make fun. But everyone talk,” she said, her voice taking on a venomous edge.

“Better to be talked about than ignored.” I forced out a smile. “It was lovely to meet you,” I said, though it wasn’t. I did not like her and she didn’t like me, with that unerring instinct women have for a rival. Only I wasn’t her rival. Not yet.

“Come, Gary.” She reverted to little-girl plaintiveness. “Claudette ask for you. You so strange, always disappearing. Come,
mi cielo
. Say good-bye to Miss Marlene.”

He lifted his gaze, holding mine for a moment. “See you on the set.”

I nodded, watching her tug him to where Claudette Colbert sat surrounded by her friends. It was a deliberate snub. I’d been introduced to the room by Schulberg. Everyone knew who I was. But Lupe Vélez had seen Gary flirting with me and orchestrated an insult, excluding me from the inner circle, left to stand by the appetizers like an aspiring nobody.

How tedious. I ate another canapé, and then made my way to the ballroom entrance. Von Sternberg had vanished. Going into the lobby, I called for my car and directed the driver to my apartment.

Nancy or Susan was still there, waiting for me. “It’s not so bad,” she said, waving the script nervously, as I’d caught her lounging on my sofa, reading. “You’ve a wonderful part as Amy Jolly. At the end, she forsakes everything to follow her lover. It’s very romantic.”

“Yes.” I shed my cap and shoes as I drifted to my bedroom. “I think it’s going to be very romantic, too. Please lock the door on your way out.”

VII

S
hooting on
Morocco
began in late July, later than scheduled because of the script. In the end, we never saw a complete version. Instead, von Sternberg distributed daily pages for each scheduled scene; as promised, he reduced my dialogue to a minimum, although I’d spent weeks with the studio-assigned coach to refine my English. I still had an accent—it would never leave me—but my character was French, so I didn’t see why everyone was so concerned.

But my lack of words enhanced the mood. As Amy Jolly, the chanteuse who flees from her past to Morocco, I played that enigmatic woman the studio wanted. And unlike Lola-Lola, love is Amy’s salvation, as she becomes enraptured by Gary’s careless legionnaire.

I had two songs, including the seductive “What Am I Bid for My Apples?” which I sang in a black romper cut high to reveal my legs, and a raven-tipped boa. My favorite scene was when Amy first enters the café-cabaret in her black tails. The costume was my idea, approved by the studio. My publicity photos had indeed caused a sensation. Every magazine in America printed them, and having heard of my penchant for tuxedos in Germany, Schulberg exploited it.

But the lesbian kiss was not in the studio plans.

Smoking a cigarette as Amy strolls among her audience, I decided to have her pause by a pretty woman with an oleander in her hair. On impulse, Amy kisses the woman on her lips—then tosses the flower at the legionnaire. Like von Sternberg, Gary was taken by surprise by my gesture but stayed in character, placing the oleander behind his ear. He was a professional; he knew every line and mark, even as von Sternberg unleashed immediate vitriol toward him that soured the shoot from the start. When I expressed concern later that my sapphic kiss might make Gary’s character look weak, von Sternberg scoffed.

“He’s a pretty soldier boy,” he declared, loud enough for Gary to overhear. “She’s the one pulling the strings. She is the star. Everyone else is here to make her shine.”

During our much-delayed lunch break, Gary muttered to me, “Didn’t I tell you? He’s never going to forget that the studio forced me on him. He’ll ruin every scene I’m in.”

I didn’t think he could. I saw how von Sternberg glared when he viewed the rushes. Gary was so handsome and assured that nothing could detract from him. He, too, was a star on the rise—and von Sternberg knew it. Their hostility simmered like the desert beyond the movie’s garrison setting. In our scenes together, von Sternberg insisted Gary remain seated, exalting my presence while diminishing his. When Gary finally lost his temper, shouting that he wasn’t going to be made to look like “a goddamn pansy” and storming off the set, von Sternberg said snidely before the crew, “What does he know? He’s an actor. Chosen for his physique, not his brain.”

I had thought
Morocco
was going to be romantic.

Instead, it turned into a nightmare.

ONE NIGHT, AFTER ANOTHER FOURTEEN-HOUR DAY
, every bone in my body aching as I prepared for bed, a banging came at my apartment door. I opened it to find Gary swaying there, so drunk he could barely
stand. As he lurched inside, he gazed with bleary eyes at me, still gorgeous in his dishevelment but, I feared, about to topple over and hit that handsome face on the floor.

“You see? He does hate me,” he said. “That fucking dwarf—he thinks I’m not important. But I am the male lead! Without me, who will his precious star fall in love with? Him?” He let out an ugly laugh. “I bet he doesn’t have enough dick to get it up.”

“You are drunk,” I said coldly. “It’s the only reason I’m not throwing you out. But if you insult him again, I will. Now, please go home.”

“I can’t.” He dropped onto the sofa. “My wife hates me, too. So does that bitch Lupe. Always nagging at me. Nag, nag, nag.” He belched. “Why do women think they own us?”

I wondered what I should do. Sending him away in this state was out of the question. I could call a taxi, but if he was recognized, the press would hurt his image, not to mention our picture. And it was too late to telephone the studio, while von Sternberg, who was down the hall, would fly into a rage if he found Gary here.

“I’m sorry you have problems at home,” I said at length, as his chin bobbed. “But I’m a woman and I don’t think I own anyone. I have no interest in collars, unless you’re a dog.”

“You’re not a woman,” he said. “You’re . . . something else.”

He passed out. As I took off his shoes and managed to heave him onto the sofa, overwhelmed by the stench of whiskey, he started to snore. At least he hadn’t thrown up. I’d deal with him in the morning. Thank God, the shoot was almost over. Gary with a hangover, directed by von Sternberg—I dreaded the thought.

IT WASN’T YET DAWN
when I suddenly woke from sleep. Groggy, momentarily confused, I started to grope for my alarm clock, thinking I’d missed my call and was running late. I had to be at the studio for makeup at five every morning before shooting.

Then I saw him in the doorway. He did not move or say a word, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable—and remarkably sober.

He closed the bedroom door. Taking hold of the bedcovers, he yanked them aside. He looked down at me. I slept in the nude. My heart started to pound as he unbuttoned his shirt, flung it to the floor, and unbuckled his belt. He had a smooth, muscular chest; I found myself wondering if the studio made him wax it. Then his shorts came off. I stared.

“Like it?” he said.

“Impressive,” I replied. “Like New York.”

He took hold of his large shaft. “If you want it, you can have it. But not if you’re screwing that dwarf. I don’t mess around with another man’s woman, though he deserves it.”

“I’m not.” I slid back on the mattress. I, too, was as camera ready as he was.

“God,” he breathed. “I want you so badly. All day long on that goddamn set, all I can think of is what I’d like to do to you.”

“Then why wait? No time like the present.”

He missed my Berlin allusion. But he came. Before he even entered me. He did not roll off me. Instead he waited, kissing me slowly, trailing his tongue down my body until he was dipping into my wetness and I was arching my spine. Then he slid his newly hardened length into me, inch by magnificent inch, making me gasp.

“Does it hurt?” he whispered. “My wife used to complain I was too big. Lupe loves it, though. She likes to sit on it.”

“I . . . I think I should, too,” I said, as it might be easier to manage.

Grasping me in his arms, he hiked me on top of him. His erection thrust like a skyscraper. I had never felt anything like it, and though it still hurt a little, by the time I started rocking, I forgot the sting, the burn of it. It became one with my pleasure, my climax imploding from within. I saw sands and white scarves; I felt the scorching heat of the desert, and then I felt him, shaking, withdrawing from me before he came again.

Plunging downward, I took him in my mouth. He cried out.

He was pure American, as robust as the plains of his native Montana.