The Slipper (18 page)

Neither girl spoke. Majors was determined to put them at ease.

“Remember the scene where she left her car out in front of the restaurant? Remember the guy who comes and parks it for her? That was me. I filled in at the last minute. Used to do bit parts and stunt work myself before I started working far Eric, and I can tell you from my own personal experience—the man's the greatest.”

“I—I think I will take a cup of coffee,” Carol said.

“Sure. How about you, Julie?”

Julie shook her head. Ron brought Carol her coffee and then glanced at his watch.

“Well—you girls hang in there. I'll be back as soon as the Master's finished with Myrtle.”

“He's nice,” Julie said after Ron had left.

“I suppose. I was too nervous to notice.”

“Poor Myrtle. She was terrified.”

Carol nodded, looking thoughtful. “All that way on a bus, nursing a dream, and—I fear she hasn't a hope.”

“I guess we all need our dreams,” Julie said quietly, “even if they never come true. Without them life—life would be bleak indeed.”

“Hundreds and hundreds of girls all over America reading for Eric Berne and dreaming of the slipper—only to discover it doesn't fit. It—it's sad. What do you do then? What do you do when—when you finally realize it's all a myth, it's never going to happen?”

“You keep dreaming,” Julie said.

“You keep deluding yourself, you mean.”

“Dreams do come true, Carol. Sometimes they do.”

Carol was silent for several moments, gazing into space, examining her own dream, and then she sighed and took a sip of her coffee and set the cup down on the littered table. Julie sat quietly, clasping her hands together in her lap, looking so very young, looking so vulnerable and frightened. Carol felt a rush of affection for her friend. She hoped Eric Berne had the sense to realize how good Julie was, what a superlative actress. It would be so wonderful if one of them, at least, really did get the slipper.

“Good luck, darling,” she said. “I'll be rooting for you.”

“I'll be rooting for you, too.”

They sat in silence then, each immersed in thought as the huge clock on the wall ticked loudly. Half an hour passed. Ron came to fetch Julie and she had a moment of sheer panic and stood up on trembling legs and followed him out of the room. Was she going to faint? No, no such luck. Ron held her elbow in a loose grip and guided her around a pile of boxes and over a coil of rope and then they were on the stage and Ron left her. Stage center was brightly lighted, the rest in gloom, the area beyond the stage dark as night. Julie could sense people out there in the first two rows and saw soft blurs that might be faces. Two men approached her from the shadows.

Julian Compton moved into the lighted area, wearing his old tweed sport coat and a dull red tie. He smiled warmly. Julie felt a wave of relief.

“Hello, Julie,” he said softly. “I'm glad you made it. Julie, I want you to meet Eric Berne. I've told him quite a lot about you.”

The famous director joined them, and Julie was startled. He didn't look at all like his photographs. They showed a harsh, sullen man with brutal, Germanic features and a bulky body. Her first impression was one of great gentility. He was a large man, yes, stout, with broad shoulders and a thick, bullish neck, but there was a softness about him. His face was soft, too, rather jowly, the mouth thick, the nose blunt, the large, dark eyes woeful, half shrouded by heavy lids, bags beneath them. His thin brown hair was plastered flat to his skull in an attempt to conceal incipient baldness, and his ears seemed oversized. The director was undeniably homely, but he had incredible presence and personal magnetism that was absolutely mesmerizing. Julie could understand now why all those famous actresses had fallen in love with him.

“Ah, she is frightened,” he said. “This is foolish, Julie. Me, I am not a monster. You do not believe those stories they write about me? I do not torture the young actresses. I am the—what do you call it?—I am the pussycat.”

His voice was deep and guttural and strangely seductive, and even though he had been living in America for the past twenty years he had a pronounced German accent. Those dark, woeful eyes seemed to bathe her in warmth. He took both of her hands in his, squeezing them gently.

“Eric does not bite you. You are not afraid now, right?”

“I—I'm still a little nervous,” she confessed.

“This is natural. This is always the case. Eleanora Duse—I meet her when I am a young man in Germany, she comes to perform in Berlin—every night, she is terrified before she goes on stage. She trembles. Her knees shake. Duse is the greatest actress of her day, and she is pale and wishes to die each time she must go out and face an audience.”

“You—you actually knew Eleanora Duse?”

Berne grinned, and there was a mischievous twinkle in his dark eyes. “I am the handsome young man then. She takes a fancy to me. This is her custom. She pines for D'Annunzio, he breaks her heart, and she seeks consolation in the arms of the handsome young men. I am one of them. Seeing this ugly brute before you now, this is hard for you to believe, no?”

“I can—I can easily believe it, Mr. Berne.”

“Ah, Julian, this one—she is after my heart. Maybe we do not bother with the reading. Maybe I just take her home with me now.”

He was still holding her hands. He squeezed them again, tightly this time, looking into her eyes, smiling. He released them and patted her shoulder affectionately. The man was indeed mesmerizing, exuding a magic spell that seemed to work miracles. Her fear was completely gone. The nervous tremors had vanished. She wanted only to please him, to give him her very best.

“We are ready now?” he inquired.

Julie nodded and Berne asked if she wanted a script and she shook her head. The men left the stage and Julie could see the two dark forms moving in the darkness, heard a seat squeak as Berne sat down. She closed her eyes, summoning all her strength, and the transformation occurred and Julie Hammond disappeared, reality receded, and she was a young French girl in a drab gray prison dress, hair clipped off, face smeared with dirt, standing before the awesome guillotine with her hands tied behind her back. Maybe they wouldn't be tied, but it felt right. There was a vast crowd watching her, those who had come to jeer and throw rotten vegetables, those who had come to weep, and she knew she had only a few moments, knew she must somehow explain her action to these people and give them something to think about or else her sacrifice would be in vain.

“All right, Julie,” a guttural voice growled.

She didn't hear the voice. She heard only the voices of the crowd, and she stood quietly, waiting for them to subside. Finally there was silence and everyone was waiting, watching her. She spoke in a quiet, level voice that could yet be heard at the furthermost reaches of the crowd. She told them of her years in the convent and all the treacherous things that had been happening to her beloved country while she was saying her prayers, unaware. She told them of leaving, of seeing blood flowing in the streets, heads carried on pikes, terror reigning. She told them of her childhood, the France she had known then, the love and compassion that had prevailed even amidst the hardship. She was only one insignificant girl, it was true, but she knew she had to do something, anything, to prevent this horror from growing even more.

“My friends,” she said, and there came the faint tremor in her voice. “I did what I did not because there was hatred in my heart, I did it because there was love there, love for my country, for you, its people. It was not an act of retribution, there was no vengeance involved. It was an act of love.”

The smile came then, trembling on her lips, barely visible, and a tear was slipping slowly down her cheek. She looked up at the glittering blade awaiting its victim. She would not let them see the fear that swept over her, would not give in to it. She raised her eyes to heaven and then she looked at her fellow Frenchmen for a final time.

“I leave you now,” she whispered. “I leave you with my love and the fervent prayer that you will—will spread it throughout our troubled land.”

She bowed her head. The theater was so silent you really could have heard a pin drop. Several moments passed. Julie raised her head, Corday gone now, a timid, apprehensive girl in her place. She peered out into the darkness, waiting, and after another moment there were low voices and a seat squeaked noisily as someone shifted position.

“This is good, Julie,” Berne called. “Thank you so much.”

Ron came back onstage then and took her elbow and led her into the shadowy wings. He guided her to the long, dark hallway that would take her back to the outer lobby and told her she had been marvelous, told her they all appreciated her auditioning for them. It was over. Ron left her, and Julie started toward the lobby, feeling drained now, grateful that it was behind her. She felt sure Berne hadn't liked her or else he would have questioned her after she finished. She had almost reached the lobby when she spotted the side door that, she knew, led into the small inner lobby behind the rows of seats. She hesitated, remembering Lelia Standish's cautioning them to leave the theater at once as soon as they finished reading. She would dearly love to slip back in and watch Carol's reading. Why not? What would they do, shoot her? Feeling quite daring, Julie opened the door noiselessly and slipped into the darkened inner lobby and crept across it, taking an aisle seat on the very last row, a shoulder-high curtained partition separating it from the lobby.

The brilliant light bathed the worn floorboards stage center. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Julie could see the people down front, Compton and Berne and half a dozen others. Berne and Compton were standing, talking in lowered voices. This went on for some time—Julie wished she could hear their words—and then Compton shook his head and the two men turned as Ron led Carol into the light. She looked positively dazzling, tall and slender and serene in her tasteful pink dress, her hair like dark, molten gold. The light emphasized those perfect features, the wide mouth, the glorious cheekbones, the sad, lovely eyes. Eric Berne stood there, staring, and it was several moments before he and Compton went up onstage. She might have been a nervous wreck earlier, but Carol seemed completely composed now, cool and poised as Compton introduced her to the director.

“Ah, she is frightened,” Berne said, taking her hands. “This is foolish, Carol. Me, I am not a monster.”

He was no longer speaking in a lowered voice and Julie could hear each and every word and she was startled to find they were the identical words he'd used with her. He even told her about Eleanora Duse. He … he wasn't sincere at all. Julie had felt an instant rapport with him, had felt he was genuinely interested in her, and she realized now that it had all been an act. He was mesmerizing, yes, and he had pervasive, seductive charm, but it could be turned on and off at will. Maybe it was true what they said about Hollywood people. Maybe they
were
all phony. Eric Berne might well be the monster they said he was, and as she watched him plying Carol with that potent charm, Julie couldn't help but be reminded of the story of the spider and the fly. Won't you step into my parlor, he seemed to be saying, and Carol was every bit as overwhelmed as Julie herself had been.

The men left the stage and took their seats in the front row. Carol waited patiently for Berne's signal, and when he gave it she took a deep breath and began, and although it wasn't at all the way Julie had done it, it wasn't really bad. Carol declaimed, and there was passion in her voice, and she used many gestures, and, yes, they were rather broad, but Julie was caught up, and she believed. Compton had worked with Carol during these past months, and she had improved a great deal, Julie thought. She might not be the greatest actress ever to step onstage, but … she was so radiant, had such an incredible presence that it didn't seem to matter. Carol looked up at the invisible guillotine and trembled, fighting the fear, controlling it, and when she launched into the final part of the speech, her voice was strong and her eyes seemed to glow with a shining nobility. Back ramrod-straight, shoulders back, she faced her countrymen with courage and extended her arms as though to embrace them all.

“I leave you now!” she announced passionately. “I leave you with my love and the fervent prayer that you will spread it throughout our troubled land!”

Berne and two other men began talking in low voices down front while Carol stood there in the light, waiting, frightened now. Several minutes passed, and Julie could see that Carol's hands were trembling. Eric Berne finally stood up and said something to Compton, who also got to his feet.

“This is beautiful, Carol,” Berne called. “Ron will take you down to the office your Professor Compton has graciously let me borrow.”

“You—you want me to wait?” Carol asked in a pained voice.

“This is so. We have much to talk about.”

Carol looked as though she might faint. Ron sauntered out and took her by the elbow, and Carol shook her head, clearly in a state of shock as Ron led her away. Sitting in the darkness in the back row, Julie was horrified to see Compton and Eric Berne heading up the aisle. They would have to pass right by her. She sank down into the seat, terrified they would see her even though it was so dark. The men were talking and, intent on their conversation, moved past without even glancing in her direction. They stopped in the lobby, standing only a few feet away from where Julie was sitting.

“You do not tell me about this one, Julian,” Berne said in his thickly accented voice. “All the time I am with you you do not even mention her. She is something, this one. She has the look. She has the presence. She has much to learn, this is true, but this is no problem.”

“I think you're making a big mistake, Eric. Carol is a beautiful girl, but Julie Hammond is brilliant. She's the best student I've ever had, and she's already a more accomplished actress than dozens I've worked with. She has all the magic of a young Maggie Sullavan. You saw her. You heard her. She was magnificent and you bloody well know it.”