The Charmers (19 page)

It was to be a place of refuge for me and my lover,
she wrote,
but there I go, starting in the middle again when I would be better off beginning at the beginning.

Jerusha

I was so young when I started out, I needed to lie about my age even to appear on stage. “Exactly how old are you?” producers would ask, giving me an up-and-down look as though they might be able to tell by the curve of my hips or the size of my breasts, which were small and of no help. Resisting the urge to fold my arms over my chest, to hide myself, I wished with all my might I could be the kind of statuesque woman they required to pose on stage. I wished I could at least dance or just jump crazily about, wagging real bananas around my middle like the wonderful Josephine Baker, the performer from Harlem in New York City, who had taken Paris by storm and was the main competition for any girl attempting to do the same.

Standing in the wings of yet another Paris theater, my mother lurked within earshot, “to protect” me she said, though she never told me from what I needed to be protected, and anyhow, innocence was my stock-in-trade. Not that I knew that either, but those producers, those stage people did. They recognized the real thing when they saw it and one of them, a successful director, inspecting me back and front, saw a fortune in his future.

“If you can dance, at least,” he said, stepping back, chin in hand, looking consideringly at me again.

His name was Arturo Bonifacio Ramos and he was from a country called Argentina, a city called Buenos Aires. Both places might as well have been in fairyland; I'd never heard of them. I would only learn geography later in life when I finally traveled to those places, and even then I counted them as sea journeys—seven days, ten days, three weeks—whatever it took, that's where they were. Give me a map and ask me to put a finger on Buenos Aires right now and I might easily put a mistaken finger on Cape Town.

Geography, I might not be good at, but I was certainly good at money. Excellent in fact. Within a year I'd gone from that shy, lost young girl ripe for exploitation to a shrewd young woman who knew what she wanted and was hell-bent on getting it. You don't grow up poor and hungry, demeaned by your neighbors and schoolmates, without acquiring that simple need for … What? I have to think about what it's for. Not revenge. I did not need that. Just plain “to show them,” I think was all I wanted. And that's exactly what I did.

It was also a year before I could call Mr. Ramos by his first name, Arturo. And of course he became my first lover. Did I want him as my lover? I certainly was not in love with him. No, what I needed was a pair of arms around me, someone holding me close, my head resting on his masculine shoulder, my heart beating against his. I had never had that, not from any man or woman. My mother was cold and ambitious, affection was not part of her life. She was not the hugger, kiss-good-night mother of my dreams and that I always swore I myself would be, if I ever had a child of my own. Then I would become that “mother,” the giver not simply of life, but of love and protection, determined at all costs to save my child from harm.

The fact is, like everybody else, I had but one mother and I had to put up with her. I had to do as she said. I had to submit to having my hair washed in cold rainwater caught in the bucket under the drainpipe that ran from the gutter along the edge of the roof. Then I had to sit while she tugged a wide-toothed comb through the knots, and afterward smoothed on some kind of oil, the smell of which I could not stand. Ever after, in my life, my hair was taken care of by professionals, by my own hairdresser who treated it gently and used a drop of scented lotion, then polished it with a different kind of oil until it shone smooth against my scalp, a glossy sleek helmet that ended in a single fat braid.

That fiery red braid was to become my signature. I never bobbed my hair even when it was fashionable. Every picture painted of me, every photograph taken throughout my life, every moment in bed with a man, I wore that braid. Of course the men loved to unravel it, to spread my lavish locks across the pillow, to match it up with my lower red fuzz that intrigued them twice as much.

When I first experienced this kind of “intrigue,” the gentle touch of a man's fingers, I thought this was maybe the way it felt when you died and went to heaven. My entire body soared upward until I seemed to be floating, crying out my joy, screaming for more, more, do not stop …

I wonder how many women know what I mean. So many I met, and with whom I tried to discuss these feelings, simply gazed at me as though I were mad. Sex was for men. Money was what women got for giving them sex. It was a hard lesson, but I learned it.

Only one woman understood, a girl I met in the dressing room backstage at the Royalty Theatre in some small French town where we were both the “chorus” and the “magician's assistants.” She got sawed in half—I held up the box cut in two to prove it was real. Her name was Milan. I told her I thought it was an odd name for a girl. No odder than yours was her smart answer. At least there's a reason for mine, she added. I was born in that city.

I had no such reason. Why I was named Jerusha would be forever a mystery though it was believed my mother, still drowsy from the drugs given to help the birth, had really meant to say Josephine. She had a thing for Bonaparte, and for small men, like my father, the “small man” who rarely darkened our doors. Certainly never long enough to pay for us. Poverty was a day-to-day event.

It was obvious from a young age, three, I believe, that I was to become a meal ticket. How can I blame her? I was odd-looking, my hair was red and impossible, my feet were large as doorstops, I was ungainly, I never had a dance lesson because we couldn't afford such a luxury, and yet her confidence that I was to become “a star” never wavered. How she accomplished it I still really do not know.

“Determination,” was what she told me later. When we were still speaking, that is. “Courage” was what I would have called it. That woman never let me down, well, in a way she did, selling me off like that, or at least turning a blind eye when it happened and pocketing the money that was never called a fee, simply a man's recompense for taking my virginity. Actually, as I said before, I enjoyed it as much as he did, and as I was to do for the rest of my days. And nights.

This must make shocking reading, I know, but I promised when I started that I would tell the truth, the facts as they were, exactly what happened so the reader, whomever you might be and I shall never know, will understand how events took place that were beyond my control. It seemed I was always being “taken-care-of,” as they would put it. “Looked after,” as my mother said. “Exploited,” as I knew it.

Anyhow, that was my first time but certainly not my last. Having discovered the delightful art of making love, “sex” as men termed it, I knew which course my life would take. And I knew if it came along with my fame on stage, the richer my lovers would be. The more famous I became, the more aristocratic they would be. I knew “stage-door Johnnys” lined up outside the wonderful Josephine Baker's theater, bearing gifts of diamond bracelets as well as armfuls of roses. I wanted that too. And succeeded before long—in fact by the age of fifteen—though I lied and claimed to be sixteen in order to get a permit to dance on stage but also so no man could be accused of taking advantage of my youth because he truthfully did not know it. Only my mother and myself knew and we both lied about it. Or rather she lied, I avoided the issue.

One night, perhaps a year later, I was in a chorus line of five girls. We were at the Folies theatre and were to follow the great Josephine. Well, not exactly
follow
. You did not “follow” a great star like her. She was wonderful, divine, sexy-black with shining limbs and naked breasts and hips that sniggled from side to side, back and forth, a bunch of bananas jiggling suggestively between her legs. God, she was good. She had the audience on their feet, applauding, yelling, whistling, begging for more.

After her, I went on with my young cast mates and did a sort of Isadora Duncan Greek dance, all floating arms and wreaths of lilies held over our heads. Except my red hair fell from its topknot and tumbled around my shoulders, and somehow my little Greek tunic slipped from one shoulder, baring one breast to the nipple, and with a tiny shake I allowed that to happen. And I was made.

 

36

My first true love was young, though not as young as I, and a little more experienced. He was English and had a title, which I am not going to write here because I have no wish to discredit his family's reputation. He is a well-known member of the British House of Lords, a father, even a grandfather by now, I should think. I know he lives a peaceful life, happy with a woman a little older than himself, which I know to be a good thing because, despite being so attractive and so kind and so nice, he was a man that needed boosting up in the world if he were to make anything of himself.

He showed up at the stage door at the Folies, blond hair falling over his embarrassed pink face, blue eyes searching mine as he handed me the cheap cellophane-wrapped roses I knew came from the stall on the street corner. No diamonds here, I remember thinking. But my, he is delicious.

Delicious was the proper description for him. He was almost edible in his sweetness, his geniality, his desire to please, and the love he offered. Straightforward, no holding back. “I'm in love with you,” was exactly what he blurted out, and then he took a step back from me, as though I might slap his face at the impertinence.

“How very pleasant,” was my ridiculous answer. But in truth I had not expected such a direct approach. And my God, he was cute. His just-shaved chin had that sweet little haze of new beard already growing in, darker than his hair, which was fair and swept straight back from his wide forehead and had a dear little tuft at the crown, the way a small boy's sometimes does.

I handed the pathetic roses to my dresser who was standing immediately behind me with a bodyguard, a burly, strapping fellow who used to be a policeman until he got injured in a robbery, when he took a pension and came to work for me, intimidating unruly admirers. It worked quite well. At least, so far it had.

“My name is Rex,” the young man said, all eagerness in his expression.

Of course I've changed his name to keep his anonymity, but he certainly was what you might expect a “Rex” to look like. A young king. And maybe, just maybe, I'm saying, he was.

Despite the cheap flowers, a chauffeured motor waited at the curb. A Delage I think, dark maroon in color and shinier than any other motor I ever saw. A crest was emblazoned—discreetly though—on the front door. Of course I was impressed.

“Will you do me the honor…” He stuttered slightly, stumbling over his words though his eyes told me what it was he wanted.

I said, “You would like me to have dinner with you?”

I waited for his response, which took a while to come. I smoothed my fur-trimmed satin cape over my shoulders, and waited some more. The cape was pale green, Chanel, I believe, though memory is tricky when it's the 1930s you are remembering. And me, so old now. And that's the first time I've ever admitted that. Still I recall the dress perfectly, it slinked around my body as though it loved me, fashioned from the new soft silk-jersey pioneered by Madame Chanel and that did things for a woman's “look” no fabric had ever done before. At least none I had been aware of, but then I was fairly new to money and fame and designer clothing.

He was eager, he was young, he was adorable. Of course I took pity on him.

The Delage was as luxurious inside as it was out; cushioned in cream leather, small posies in silver flasks at each side of the backseat, a burled-walnut bar built in behind the chauffeur's seat, with crystal decanters and a silver ice bucket and tongs and lemon and … ohh just anything you might think of in a well-stocked bar. Plus a dish of sliced, fresh, out-of-season peaches, a bowl of sweet almonds, a carafe of ice water, and about a million tiny white linen napkins all emblazoned with his crest.

Looking at my new admirer, I thought this might not be love. But on the other hand, it could be.

 

37

Of course there was no question a woman like myself might become the wife of an earl, an English lord, a man with a powerful family and also, I assumed, with a titled-debutante already awaiting the engagement ring and probably already having fittings for her wedding dress, which, naturally, would be of virginal white satin scattered with pearls, and with a sweetheart neckline demure enough to be approved of by the bishop yet just low enough to be admired by the male wedding guests. It would probably take place at Westminster Abbey, or the smaller St Margaret's, though they might opt for the venerable Norman stone church in the bride's village, where locals would stand outside to watch and wave to the smiling bride, who had known them all since she was a child, and who had played with them then, and who now had envy behind their smiles.

This beautiful car, the very same Delage in which I now sat, as if I owned it, queen of the day in fact, would for the wedding be driven by a uniformed chauffeur to her stately home. The entrance would be ablaze with banners and buntings and great hoops of white flowers, maybe to remind the guests that the bride was, of course, a virgin. Or if she wasn't then she had been very clever about it, and later in bed, she would have to be a whole lot cleverer. One never knows.

Whatever my speculation, I knew that bride would never be me and I accepted it. I was born who I was; I have become who I am; and right then it was enough. Enough to have this lovely young man so madly in love with me that I felt like a great lady; enough that after that first wonderful night when we entwined like two stalks of roses, scented and thorny and sweet and hard and pliant, all at the same time, my lover, Rex, as I called him, left our bed, tumbled and “smelling like a whorehouse,” I said laughing, to rush out to buy me a gift. Pearls. What else would a man like that think of as a perfect gift for a woman, lady or no lady?