The Slipper (46 page)

Gaby came out of her coma at nine that evening. Her vital signs were good and she was moved to a private room. Her mother was going to stay with her and Jean-Claude drove Georges and his father to Gaby's flat and took Carol home and stayed the night. Guy called from Cannes, furious that his stars had departed. Jean-Claude promised him that they would be back in time for the awards ceremony the following Friday night. They spent the next day at the hospital and the next as well. Gaby had been given great doses of morphine for the pain and was incoherent. She barely recognized Carol when she was allowed to see her for a few minutes on the second day. Gaby continued to improve, and although she was still on morphine, the dosage was reduced.

Four days after the accident, Jean-Claude drove Gaby's parents to her flat for a much-needed rest. Georges was busy dealing with the press, who were trying to label the accident a suicide attempt, and Carol came in to sit with Gaby for a few hours. The room was aflood with flowers and cards and a huge stuffed aardvark perched on a shelf. Gaby looked dreadful, her left leg and her right arm in casts and her chest encased in plaster, her head bandaged, gauze beneath her chin and across her brow and her face discolored with bruises. Her enormous brown eyes were alert, though, and a faint, sad smile flickered on her lips as Carol came in with yet another huge arrangement of flowers.

“You're awake,” Carol said brightly.

“Please,” Gaby said weakly, “don't be cheerful. The nurses are cheerful and so are the doctors. They bubble with good humor. I long to slaughter each and every one of them.”

“Thank God. You're yourself again.”

“And you're supposed to be in Cannes.”

“Jean-Claude and I came as soon as we heard.”

“Jean-Claude is here, too?”

“We've been here for four days. You don't remember Jean-Claude coming to see you yesterday? He brought you that stuffed aardvark over there. You told him it looked exactly like him.”

“I—I don't remember too much until this morning. Everything before that is—rather hazy. I—it's so good to see you, Carol. There's so much I want to say. I've been doing a lot of thinking.”

“Gaby, I—”

“It
was
an accident, Carol, despite what people might believe. I know the press implied it was deliberate, that I was upset over Edouard and disappointed over the reception of the film, but—I simply lost control of the car. I was driving too fast. I always drive too fast.”

“I know, darling.”

“No more. I—this accident has suddenly made me realize that—that I am not invulnerable. I was carefree, heedless, hedonistic and enjoying every minute of it. The world was my oyster, and I loved it. I loved being rich, loved being famous, loved living in a rarefied world beholden to no one, not even beholden to myself.”

“I really don't think you should talk about—you're still very weak, darling, and you mustn't tire yourself out with all this—”

Gaby raised her left hand, silencing her friend.

“I need to say it all. I need to—to crystallize it all by putting it into words. Remember when Nora was here and we all three sat on the floor in my apartment and passed a bottle of wine around and talked about the slipper? It made a deep impression on me. I got the slipper at a very early age; a middle-class girl from Rouen writes a novel at seventeen, and suddenly she becomes one of the most famous young women in the world. I took to it like—how do you say it in America? I took to it like a duck to water—yes, that's it—and I took it all as my due, and I took my gift for granted and ignored the fact that it was this gift that made it all happen to begin with.”

Gaby paused, her brown eyes thoughtful. She reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and sipped some through the bent glass straw, and then Carol took it from her and set it back down.

“You got the slipper, too, Carol, and so did Nora eventually, but—it wasn't because we were merely lucky, because someone just happened to wave a magic wand. We got it because we were gifted, because we were unique, because all of us had worked very hard. I, for one, was too busy living the good life to accept the responsibilities that come with success. I realize now that it isn't the life that is important, it's the work. That's all that lasts. That's all we can leave behind.”

Carol nodded, silent.

“In the beginning, they compared me to Colette. They said I was destined to step into her shoes. Perhaps I could have—I
will
—but I was too busy having a good time to take my work that seriously. It came so early, you see. It happened so quickly. The critics were right. I was having a ball, but my novels had become shallow and repetitious. The jazz, the whiskey, the fast cars, the beautiful men—they were all exciting, but—they're all ephemeral, Carol. When all is said and done, there's nothing left except the memory of sensation. What I put down on paper, that lasts. That's what gives me real satisfaction, and—and I am going to devote the rest of my life to being the best writer I can possibly be.”

Her voice had grown gradually weaker until it was little more than a whisper. She paused again, weary. Carol sat down beside the bed and took her left hand and squeezed it, and Gaby managed another faint smile. She was in a great deal of pain. It was almost time for her next shot.

“The work—it is the work that counts,” Gaby said. “It was terrible for you when Norman left. You feared you had made the wrong decision, but the work is what counts for you, too, Carol. You loved him, but love is not enough for people like us. If you had gone with him, your career would have suffered, and ultimately you would have been even unhappier. Do you under—am I making any kind of sense?”

Carol nodded, squeezing her hand again.

“Perhaps we're not meant to have it all,” Gaby whispered weakly. “But we are the lucky ones, just the same. We have so much inside us, so much to give. If—if we don't give it, we die inside. I was dying inside because—because I wasn't giving enough, and you—your acting—”

“That's enough, darling,” Carol said. “I understand. And you're right, of course.”

“Love—love is ephemeral, too,” Gaby said. “It comes and goes, but the work is there forever, in print, on film. It—what it gives us no man could ever match.”

It was true. Carol realized that. Norman had realized it, too, and that was why he had left her, why he hadn't written. Silent tears spilled down her cheeks. She brushed them away as a nurse came in to give Gaby her shot of morphine. Gaby gasped and winced when the needle entered and then she drifted off to sleep. Carol sat with her until Georges came to relieve her two hours later. She and Jean-Claude came to see Gaby Thursday morning. Her condition was much the same but she recognized Jean-Claude this time and told him the aardvark was actually
prettier
than he was. He grinned and kissed her bruised cheek and informed her that she'd pay for that remark later, when she was back on her feet. Gaby smiled weakly. Carol told her they were flying back to Cannes that afternoon, and Gaby nodded, looking at her with huge sad eyes.

“Remember what I said, Carol,” she whispered.

“I will,” Carol promised. “Take care, darling. We'll be back in two or three days.”

Cannes seemed even more unreal than it had before. With the awards ceremony scheduled for Friday night, excitement was at fever pitch, and there was a frenzied air to the festivity. Voices were shriller, laughter sharper. Movement seemed speeded up. Carol was reminded of some glittering
Walpurgisnacht
. She and Jean-Claude were bombarded with questions when they returned. They refused to discuss Gaby. Carol kept to her rooms at the Carlton as much as possible, and Friday night, as she dressed for the ceremony, it was with grim resignation.
Le Bois
was certain to win, that was already a foregone conclusion, but she would have to sit there with a fake smile on her lips as they announced someone else as best actress. She wore a simple floor-length shift of midnight-blue velvet, sleeveless, backless, a chic, glamorous style Dior had created especially for her. The matching wrap was appliquéd with glittery silver and ice-blue lamé flowers and lined with ice-blue silk. Jean-Claude gave her the ultimate compliment when he came to fetch her. Carol couldn't help but smile as he stood there with hands on hips, steadily rising.

“I take it that's
not
a pistol in your pocket,” she said.

“I can't help it. You look ravishing.”

“Since there's no time for a cold shower, I suggest you think of something very neutral.”

Jean-Claude grinned, adjusting his trousers. He looked ravishing himself in his tuxedo. Carol was very, very fond of him, and she was going to miss him when this was all over. He would be involved with another film, as would she, and they would drift apart and there would be—how had Gaby put it?—nothing left but the memory of sensations. Carol linked her arm in his as they stepped into the elevator. It had been impermanent from the first, no strings, an amiable arrangement that suited them both, but those memories would be happy ones. She would always be fond of him, and they would always be friends.

Traffic was more congested than ever before, with mounted police directing the onslaught. Guy, again in black turtleneck, gnawed his nails to the quick. The
palais
was bathed in gold-and-silver light, the press going wild as the incredibly glamorous crowd moved into the building. Monica Vitti blew kisses and Yves Montand looked surly. Gina Lollobrigida, in strapless pink satin spangled with silver, had her own camera and snapped pictures herself as the photographers snapped her. Franco Zeffirelli and Luchino Visconti arrived at the door at the same time, each studiedly ignoring the other. A roar arose from the assembled crowd as Guy, Carol and Jean-Claude got out of their limo. Policemen held the hoi polloi at bay but the press swarmed forward. Guy told them to fuck off. Carol tried to smile as thirty flashbulbs went off. Jean-Claude tripped a reporter and grinned merrily as he crashed to the ground. It seemed an eternity before they finally reached the lobby, and there stood Eric Berne, talking with Genevieve Page.

Oh God, Carol thought, clutching Jean-Claude's arm. Just what I needed tonight. Eric was wearing a tuxedo and a black satin cummerbund and his face was pink and fleshy and his thick lips were smiling and his bald pate was gleaming. He saw her. He nodded. Carol acknowledged the nod with a polite smile, moving on into the auditorium with Guy and Jean-Claude. Eric's career hadn't fared so well since
Daughter of France
. He was no longer affiliated with any studio and was working independently now. He had done a dismal, overblown black-and-white World War II epic not even John Wayne could salvage at the box office, followed by a gritty, down-home, corn-pone story of modern-day southerners that featured an all-star cast and managed to insult the intelligence of every man, woman and child in America. He had recently purchased film rights to a gargantuan best-seller about Israel, and critics were already shuddering at the thought of what he'd do with
that
story.

Jean-Claude helped her into her seat, aglow with excitement. “This is fantastic, no?”

“Fantastic,” Carol said dryly.

“Jacques Démy, I meet him in the bar this afternoon. He buys me a drink. He asks me to do a picture for him all about a flashy gangster who wears a Borsalino hat and mows his rivals down with a machine gun. It is a comedy, set in the thirties, huge budget, Technicolor, and he hopes to get Brigitte Bardot for the gangster's moll.”

“It sounds marvelous.”

“Bresson and Bardot! Just imagine!”

He was already leaving her, but Carol had no regrets. She was very happy for him. He was going right to the top, and it couldn't happen to a nicer fellow. He squeezed her hand as the lights were lowered and the seemingly interminable ceremonies began. There would be another film for her too, and one day, perhaps one day soon, she would go back to America in triumph. She thought of Wichita and Norman and the life they could have had together, and she felt sad, felt empty inside, but, in her heart, she knew that Gaby was right. It was the work that counted, the work that gave her true satisfaction. She had wanted so desperately to become an actress, and she had succeeded, against all odds. She knew she had not been that good in the beginning—Julian Compton had seen it at once—and she knew she had had that first lucky break because of her looks. Eric Berne had taken a raw amateur and tried to transform her into a film star, and it hadn't worked. The movie had been a disaster, and … and I probably deserved all the vicious criticism I received at the time, Carol reflected, but I worked, I learned and I gradually mastered my craft. I'll never have Julie's magic, that's something you're born with, but I have a respectable body of work behind me now and I have actually been nominated for best actress at Cannes. I can hold my head high now. I no longer need apologize to anyone.

There was a blast of bugles and thunderous applause filled the auditorium. Guy and Jean-Claude were on their feet. Jean-Claude was cheering. Completely lost in thought for over an hour, paying no attention whatsoever to the tedious proceedings onstage, Carol had no idea what was happening. Jean-Claude seized her by the arms and pulled her to her feet and gave her a hug that almost broke her ribs and kissed her soundly. Everyone was watching. People were still applauding vigorously. “Go on!” Jean-Claude exclaimed, giving her a rough shove toward the aisle. “Go up there and receive your award!” And Carol found herself in the aisle in a state of shock, unable to believe this was actually happening. Photographers were snapping her picture. They were waiting for her up onstage. Filled with disbelief, Carol moved down the aisle in her high heels and the backless midnight-blue velvet Dior. Her poise, her serene composure belied the confusion inside. Somehow she manipulated the steps and moved across the stage without falling, and she smiled a radiant smile at the handsome movie actor who handed her the award. He kissed her cheek and led her to the microphone. The applause died down. People were waiting. What was she supposed to say? She was in the middle of a dream. None of this was real. She looked at the award cradled in her arms.