Sins of the Flesh (15 page)

She cried heartbrokenly then for Bebe Rosen Tarz and her lost youth. And when she dried her eyes and stepped into the shower, she offered up the only prayer she could remember for her firstborn.

An hour later Bebe Tarz was dressed in a yellow sundress and soft white sandals. She pulled her long blond hair back into a knot and twirled it on top of her head. For a moment she stared at the wire-rimmed glasses on her dressing table, then picked them up and put them on. Suddenly the bedroom came into focus, and she could see clearly the shabbiness of it as well as the dirt and dust. On her way to the kitchen she stopped to look into several rooms. Everything was dusty and grimy. If she stamped her foot, the dust would spiral upward from the thick carpets.

Mattie, the old housekeeper, was cleaning lettuce at the sink. Bebe called her name several times before she turned. With her glasses on, Bebe could see that Mattie was much older than she'd thought. “Mattie, how old are you?” she asked gently.

The wrinkled face puckered. “I'll be eighty-three on my next birthday, Miss Bebe,” she said proudly.

“I know this is a silly question, but what happened to the rest of the help? You shouldn't be climbing up and down the steps at your age.”

“Your father said he had to cut back. He kept me on because I've been here since you and Eli were born. He needed someone to look after him. I told him I couldn't keep after this big house, and he said not to worry about it. He said he'd make sure I was well taken care of.”

There'd been no provision for Mattie in her father's will simply because there was nothing to leave her. “Did…what I mean is, where will you go, do you have a place to live?”

Mattie nodded. “With my sister in Santa Barbara. But I don't think your father…no one has said anything, so I assumed that…”

“These things take time, Mattie. I want you to call your sister and make arrangements. I'll have Daddy's lawyers speed things up. I'm sure it won't take long. A check the first of every month…does that sound all right to you?”

“Bless you, Miss Bebe, it's more than fine.” Mattie beamed. “I thought your daddy forgot, and it wasn't my place to ask. Who's going to run this big house? It's going to take a mite of doing to get it back to its old splendor.”

“Don't worry about a thing, Mattie,” Bebe said warmly. “I'll find someone, and if I don't, I guess I'll tackle it myself. I'm…I'm getting a divorce from Mr. Tarz, so I'll be living here from now on. I don't want you worrying about me. You go to your sister's and sit in the sun. You've earned your retirement.”

“What about lunch?” the old housekeeper asked anxiously.

“I think I can handle lunch. Call your sister and start to pack your bags. You can be on the afternoon bus if you want. I'll take you to the depot myself.”

Bebe smiled as Mattie bustled out of the kitchen. Now all she had to do was come up with the money for a pension. Although she had very little cash, she did have enough for Mattie's bus ticket and first month's wages. Then perhaps sell her car and get a cheaper one, and of course, some of her jewelry would have to be sold, too. She'd do that this afternoon after she dropped Mattie at the depot. And she wouldn't take a damn thing from Reuben until the divorce lawyers told her what was what. “I was never Bebe Tarz except on paper,” she muttered. Imbued with the pious unselfishness of her new intentions, Bebe literally danced around the kitchen. This would be her first step toward personal independence.

It took Bebe exactly one week to sell her expensive Cadillac and purchase a ten-year-old DeSoto with seventy-five thousand miles on it. Next she sold all her jewelry with the exception of a strand of pearls that Mickey Fonsard had given her years before and a pair of pearl earrings that had been a gift from Reuben that same Christmas. Her own personal bank account now held $46,000, $5,434 of which was deposited in an account for Mattie. The minute she returned from the bank she tore through the house, searching for liquor bottles and drugs to pour down the drain.

Over the next thirty days Bebe fought with her mind and body to conquer her life. Several times she lost touch with reality, and when she surfaced from her pit of agony she was stronger—until the next bout. Every afternoon she forced herself to swim laps in the pool for stamina. Grimly determined, she consumed milk by the gallon and stuffed her face with oranges, peaches, and ripe grapefruits, often throwing up in the process. In the morning and early evening she walked around the estate until her feet were full of blisters.

By the fifteenth day of her fitness regimen, Bebe knew she was over the worst of her addictions. Never again would she subject her body to such torture.

On the morning of the sixteenth day, Bebe dressed and left the estate in her secondhand car. At the market she bought thick red meat, bags and bags of fresh fruits and vegetables, and eggs. On her return to the mansion she now lived in, she made up a full week of menus.

In the whole of her life she'd never done more than blow the dust off her dressing table, and now she set herself the task of cleaning the entire house, from top to bottom, one room at a time. The cleaning supplies in the pantry confused her, but she learned by trial and error—what cleaned, what streaked, what polished, what left a film, and what didn't. The glasses she forced herself to wear showed each smudge, each speck of dirt. Her fingernails chipped, and the cuticles were ragged and torn. Each night she rubbed lotion into her red, rough hands.

By the end of the third week the blisters on her feet healed, her backstroke had improved, and she could swim fifty laps in the pool and be barely winded. She ate three meals a day and was so exhausted by eight o'clock at night that she slept deeply and dreamlessly. She felt better than she had in years. Her future, whatever it held for her, would be of her own making.

On the last Monday in August Bebe stood in front of her mirror, admiring her now-trim body. She was tanned and fit, with no need of makeup. The hateful red splotches hadn't disappeared, even with all the milk she'd consumed, but the tan she had covered them effectively. Dressed fashionably in a conservative sky-blue dress that complemented her coloring, she set out for town. First she stopped at Temple Emanuel and registered. From there she went to the Red Cross and offered her services as a volunteer. At both places she signed her name Barbara Rosen.

Bebe was on a roll and had her life in check. “Bravo!” she whispered to herself as she drove the battered car back to Benedict Canyon.

Tomorrow she would go to Carmel and see Eli. He would be the judge of her transformation.

“I don't
need
you, Reuben Tarz. I may have
wanted
you, but I don't
need
you!” She laughed then, a glorious sound that tickled her ears. “By God, Bebe, you did it! You really did it!”

The guard in his creased, natty gray uniform watched the sleek Cadillac approach. Mr. Tarz always drove slowly, savoring the minute the guard stepped up to the car and jokingly asked to see his pass. He'd tip his hat and say, “Good morning, Mr. Tarz, beautiful day to be making pictures,” and Mr. Tarz would joke back and say, “If you have any ideas, Eddie, I'd like to hear them.” Of course he never did. What would he, a guard, know about making motion pictures?

Eddie Savery stepped up to the car and leaned in. “Do you have a pass, sir?” At Reuben's nod Eddie went into his spiel. “Good morning, Mr. Tarz, beautiful day for making pictures.”

“Yes, it is. Lift the gate, Eddie, I'm in a bit of a hurry,” Reuben said quietly.

Eddie hastened to do his bidding. Shaking his bushy head, he removed his cap to scratch at his springy curls. Today there was a passenger, one he couldn't see clearly but for a hasty impression of youthful handsomeness. He shrugged; who could be expected to keep up with the comings and goings of studio bosses?

Reuben felt as though he had a two-hundred-pound weight on his shoulders as he drove through the lot to his office. The boy wasn't giving him an inch. He answered when he was spoken to, but that was it. Only days before, Philippe had purchased a house down the road from his own, a beautiful furnished house complete with swimming pool. The boy hadn't batted an eye at the price, nor had he bothered about price tags when he'd bought out a haberdashery store earlier in the week. Today was his first visit to the studio, and already Philippe had made a point of telling Reuben he wanted an office of his own, a secretary, and carte blanche. They were two polite adversaries each waiting for the other to say or do the wrong thing.

“Well, what do you think of our studio?” Reuben asked.

Philippe cast a critical eye at the clean-looking white buildings and manicured patches of lawn that surrounded the different studio lots. “Well maintained,” he commented.

Reuben made a strange noise in his throat. “You should have seen it when I first came here. It was so rundown, it looked like a hovel.”

“But you fixed all that,” Philippe said slyly.

“Yes, I fixed all that, and I wasn't too proud to wield a paintbrush,” Reuben drawled. “Is it your intention to start at the top or at the bottom?”

“At the top…Father, where else? I do own 49 percent of this company. I'm overqualified to be an errand boy. I think I'll step into the vice presidency and hold that position until you're ready to step down.” He locked his gaze with Reuben's.

“We already have a vice president,” Reuben said tightly. “No one man makes decisions here. In the old days yes, but not now. If you wish to be called a second vice president, I can arrange it. That 49 percent does not give you total voting power here now. Is there anything else you'd like me to help you with?”

“No. Where's my office?”

“Down the hall from mine on the second floor. I suppose you want your name on the door.”

“I'll take care of it…Father. You're wrong about the 49 percent, though. My bankers have sent on a portfolio. I have as much power as you. I expect we'll, how do you Americans say, lock horns. I am a stubborn man, just as stubborn as you. We're going to make some changes in the next few weeks.”

Reuben eyed his son for a moment before he got out of the car. The boy's attitude reminded him of his own cockiness the day he'd come to Fairmont the first time to ask Sol Rosen for a job. He'd been fearful, but he hadn't let the old man see him sweat. And he wasn't going to sweat now, either. There was no fear in this young man, just pure, unadulterated hatred. He walked around the car, taking a stance just inches from the boy. When he spoke, his voice was cold but level. “Listen to me now, Philippe, because I am going to say this only once. I don't much care what you do here as long as it doesn't interfere with what's best for this studio. I did not bust my ass all these years for you to come storming in here full of hatred thinking you can run things. It won't work. While you were sitting on your ass in France enjoying the good life, I was here working twenty hours a day to make sure you got your half of my labors. The way I see it, I owe you nothing. So, anything you do you will clear through me. Is that understood? Another thing, anytime you're ready to discuss the circumstances of your birth and your…Mickey, you have only to ask. Right now I like you about as much as you like me, so you see, in all areas we're starting off even.”

Philippe stood at attention and clicked his heels together the way he'd seen the Gestapo do in Paris. “Yes sir, Mr. Tarz, sir,” he said, saluting smartly.

Left alone in his new office, Philippe sat down with a thump on the swivel chair. Well, he'd lost that round, but the war was still in progress.

Guilt rippled through Philippe. The feeling that he'd made an ass of himself in front of his father rankled. Maybe it wasn't guilt he was feeling, maybe it was something else—anger and fear that he was out of his depth here and his father was secretly laughing at him, this upstart who'd appeared out of the blue, threatening and making demands. He needed to take time to get his thoughts together, to make a constructive, productive plan that would give him some authority in running the studio.

Philippe looked around his office, noticing it for the first time. The nine-by-ten cubicle had one window with a view of the parking lot, a door that had at least sixteen different coats of paint on it, a bare wood floor that was dusty, a beige swivel chair, and a scarred wooden desk that was completely bare. Humble beginnings, to be sure. His eyebrows shot up suddenly, and his eyes widened. Was this the way his father had started when he'd first come to Fairmont? It seemed logical. If he asked, his father would probably say that surroundings didn't make a difference, it was what you did in your surroundings that counted. And, of course, he would be right.

A wave of homesickness surged through Philippe, and he felt tears burn in his eyes. He'd had such a good life growing up, the best of everything, and it wasn't just the material things he was missing. His mother, Yvette and Henri, his godparents, and all his friends had loved him. But he'd been a boy then. Now he was a man—a man following in his father's footsteps. Everything he did and tried to do would be considered in light of Reuben Tarz's accomplishments. Everyone would be watching him; he would be able to read in their eyes the comparisons they were making, and he knew he would come up short. Reuben Tarz
was
Fairmont Studios.

With no time clock to punch and no calendar to enforce time limits, he was his own boss and the equal of his father…on paper. But he knew that his father would never, ever consider him equal until he proved himself. But how? Philippe laced his hands behind his head and leaned back in the swivel chair, unaware that it wasn't the tilting kind. He went over backward, toppling onto the dusty floor. A yelp of surprise escaped him, and it was at that moment that his father knocked and opened the door.

Reuben reached out a hand to his son. His face flushed with embarrassment, Philippe grabbed hold and rose to his feet. “The chair doesn't tilt,” he muttered.

“I see that.” Reuben grinned. “This won't be the last time that you land on your ass. I was in that position more often than on my feet when I first started to work here. I came by to tell you maintenance will be up shortly to fix this office. We've been using it as a storage room. I'm sorry it's not bigger. I don't know if this will interest you or not, but this was my office once and that was my chair and desk. I'm not being sentimental, it was just left here.”

Philippe felt something alien attack his throat. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“If there's anything you need or want, you have only to ask,” Reuben continued. “I've requested a secretary for you. She'll start on Monday. I believe her name is Lucy and she'll be coming from the production offices, so she's no greenhorn. Until they know and recognize you here, you'll have to wear this badge if you plan on walking about the lot. It's mandatory.” Reuben handed over a white tin badge with Philippe's name typed neatly on it.

Philippe stared at the badge. Philippe Bouchet. His eyes questioned his father.

“You'll take a lot of crap around here from people wondering why you aren't in the service. We're all very patriotic. Your French accent will serve you well. It was my idea, and I'm not trying to denounce you. If you prefer Philip Tarz, that's okay, too.” Reuben turned on his heel to leave the office.

“I would like to keep the office as is. I wouldn't mind someone cleaning up the cobwebs and dust, though, and for now I'll go with Bouchet. What you said makes sense,” Philippe said grudgingly. This time it was Reuben's turn to nod. Once the door had closed behind him, he grinned from ear to ear. The boy was a puppy, but puppies learned quickly or they felt their master's hand.

With his father's commanding presence gone, Philippe picked up the phone and asked the operator to ring Daniel Bishop's offices in Washington. He announced himself, said he was well, and immediately asked if there was any news of his mother.

“Nothing, Philippe,” Daniel replied. “I check with the Red Cross every day. My friends are working on it. I've sent several messages. We can only wait. I'm sorry my news isn't better.”

“So am I. I'll be in touch, Mr. Bishop.” Philippe hung up, then rang the operator a second time and gave the Bishops' number in Georgetown.

Nellie answered the phone breathlessly. “Bishop residence, Nellie speaking.”

“Good morning, Nellie, this is Philippe. You sound out of breath. Did I take you away from something?” he asked.

“I was watering the garden, and no, you didn't take me away from anything. How are you, Philippe? I miss you.”

“I…I have nothing to do here…yet. I'm in my new office with no pencils or papers, just dust. You're the second person I called. I called your father first to ask if there is news of my mother, but he said he's heard nothing. I decided to call you.” He was babbling, saying words that meant nothing to her. “I…I miss you, too,” he blurted out. He smiled at the sigh in her voice.

“I'll write you a letter tonight and send it to the studio. I'll be your first piece of mail. Will you save it? My letter, I mean?” Nellie demanded.

“Of course,” Philippe said gallantly. “I will respond. I'm going to walk over to the production offices and meet Miss Perkins. That's where you're going to be working. I'll get, how do you say, the lay of the land for you.”

“Everyone says Jane is a crackerjack, I'm sure you'll like her. She started in the studio when Uncle Reuben did. He gave her her first break. Daddy is very fond of her.”

“I bought a house and a car,” Philippe said boyishly. “And a phonograph and a lot of jitterbug records.” Nellie squealed with laughter. Philippe flushed and then laughed along with her. “If I'm going to be an American, I have to start acting like one. I don't want to be a…puffed shirt.”

“That's
stuffed
shirt, Philippe. Do you know how to jitterbug?”

“No. I thought you could teach me when you get here.”

“It's a deal. And you can kiss my hand the way Frenchmen do in the movies.”

“It's a deal.” Philippe laughed. “Well, it's been nice talking to you.”

“Will you call me again?”

“Certainly…you bet!” They were both laughing when they hung up.

Philippe sat for a long time contemplating the square black telephone. It was such a marvelous instrument. Then he began to drum his fingers on the dusty surface of his bare desk. He couldn't spend all his time thinking about a lovely young girl he'd just met. That's what boys did, not young businessmen. But the truth was he didn't know
what
to do. What direction should he take? He knew what his mother would advise: research, study, know his facts. Never be unprepared if something is important. And the sooner he started, the better.

Philippe decided he'd had enough of his dismal surroundings. Pinning on his badge, he headed for the studio lot. His first stop, the reference library. There he would research Fairmont Studios from day one until the present.

The door to his father's office was open, so Philippe poked his head in and asked for a pad and pencil. Reuben rang for his secretary, who fetched them immediately.

“What's that?” Philippe asked curiously as he watched his father attempt to slide a large yellowed square of cardboard under the blotter on his desk.

Reuben looked up at his son, a strange expression on his face. Hesitantly he withdrew the cardboard square and held it up. His voice was unlike anything Philippe had ever heard before—tortured and yet vulnerable. “Years and years ago Mickey gave me this. In a way it was a joke, I suppose—on her part, at least. I thought…I wanted it to be important, and it was…tome. I had such grand plans then, I was going to…As you know, Château Michelene produces, at least it did, quality wines. I wanted to expand it and export the finest. Mickey gave me this…winemaker's calendar. I…I know it by heart. When I left France for America it was the only thing I brought with me as a reminder of that time. The calendar and a sizable debt,” Reuben said ruefully. “A debt that was repaid within the year. I don't suppose you're interested in all of this. I'm…I'm sorry I've been rattling on.”

Philippe thought his father's eyes looked peculiar, until he reached down for his reading glasses. Of course, they were misty with memories. “This is the time when the third cultivation of the soil is required to protect the vines against the weeds,” he said softly. “The Bordeaux mixture is best. You have to trim the long shoots so the vines spend their energy on making fruit. If there's a heat wave, the cellar doors have to be closed at night and a sulphur candle burned. The vine growth slows down that way and then you can bottle again when there's time. I…when my mother told me the story of the calendar, I was nine years old. I had it memorized in two days. You see, I was so sure you would appear any day and then you and I would have something to talk about. I wanted you to be proud of me. That calendar was my litany until I was about twelve, and then I realized you were never going to come. But I didn't forget a word of that calendar.” Philippe stared at his father coolly and was pleased to see that he had turned pale. Turning on his heel, Philippe walked out of the office. Reuben's hands trembled as he carefully slid the brittle calendar under the blotter.