“She’s easier to pilot than a Wright plane,” Ryan said as Carl climbed up on the small, hard seat in front of the motor. “Take the wheel in your hands. That’s right. Push her forward, the plane will nose down. Pull back, she’ll come up. To bank left, turn the wheel left and lean that way. See? No harder than driving one of Mr. Ford’s motor cars.”
Not quite true, Carl discovered. Ryan first had him get the feel of the controls by sitting in the plane with the motor off. Carl slipped into the shoulder harness connected to short ailerons mounted between the ends of the upper and lower wings. When the aviator leaned left or right, it moved the ailerons via the harness. He’d have to practice to get the hang of looking over his shoulder at the engine without jerking the plane into a sudden precipitous bank when he was aloft.
His driving experience did help him learn fairly quickly. In a matter of days, Ryan fired up the engine and stood back while Carl taxied on the half-mile grass strip behind the barn. Ryan had wired the throttle so the plane couldn’t lift off by accident. Carl bumped up and down the field, exhilarated by the motor roar, the wind in his face, the flare of sunlight on his old driving goggles. This exercise of beating back and forth Ryan called “mowing the grass.” It was a staple of the Curtiss method.
When Ryan was satisfied with Carl’s progress in mowing, he guided Carl through the installation of a special practice propeller that allowed the Eagle to race down the field and lift six or eight feet off the ground. Carl’s first flight of about thirty-five feet, up and then gently down with a bump, set the blood to singing in his ears and made him feel like a conqueror of gravity. His second flight carried him fifty feet, ten feet above the field. The third time he made an error, pushed the control wheel too far, and slammed downward suddenly, fortunately only from a height of four feet; there was no smash-up. Ryan had built a strong plane.
In Riverside one Saturday, Carl called Los Angeles from the telephone office. He was eager to tell Fritzi that he might have found something he could do happily for the rest of his life. Of course, he’d felt the same way about driving, and look how that had worked out. Amid pings and whistles from the other end of the wire, Mr. Hong reported that Fritzi had left for New York.
The following Tuesday, they mounted the regular flight propeller. With his belly knotted so badly it surely must resemble one of Ryan’s hands, Carl opened the throttle as he sped down the field. He drew the wheel back. With his hair flying out behind, his mouth open in a soundless jubilation, he felt the lift beneath the wings. Eagle left the ground.
He leaned to the right in the shoulder harness, climbed above the barn with its wind sock, flew over the newly roofed addition, painted with white primer the day before. He climbed slowly to two hundred feet, watching the world expand to an incredible panorama of orange groves and country lanes, meandering buggies and busy workers spread beneath him in sunlit glory. For fifteen minutes he practiced long, slow turns, climbs into the eye of the sun, gliding descents. Finally he saw Ryan signal him by waving his arms like semaphore flags. Carl landed with a feathery thump and a long roll, killing the motor six feet from his mentor.
Ryan hobbled over to the Eagle and leaned against the lower wing. “You’ve got the touch. You’ll make a good aviator.”
Carl shucked out of the harness, jumped down from the hard seat. He and Ryan looked at each other with perfect and slightly melancholy understanding. Ryan voiced it:
“A few more practice flights, the bird’ll be ready to leave the nest. Got to hurry up and caulk everything and finish painting so we can call it quits.”
On a lazy June afternoon with bees making noise in the flower beds Ryan cultivated near the cottage, they examined the new Dutch door in the addition. Ryan slammed it several times, then took a penknife to scrape flecks of paint from the windowpane. He declared the addition completed.
“So what now?” he said as they returned to the cottage. Carl followed a step behind as usual, to give Ryan time for each crabbed step.
“I’d like to get a job flying an aeroplane. Are there any jobs like that?”
With one of his rare smiles Ryan said, “Sure, if you don’t mind risking your life once or twice a day.”
“I’ve done it before,” Carl said. “What are you talking about?”
In the kitchen a beef brisket simmered fragrantly in an iron pot. Ryan told him to sit down while he fetched something. He returned with a smudged business card with bent corners.
“This boyo passed through Redlands with his show last fall. Exhibition flyers. He told me that pilots quit on him all the time because the stunts are dangerous.”
RENE LE MAYE
“Circus of the Air”
—Rates Upon Request—
The card bore a one-line address: General Delivery, El Paso, Texas.
“Frenchman?”
“Right. Lot of them interested in planes. Blériot, Paulhan—he was at the Los Angeles air meet last year. Americans are behind compared to the froggies. This Rene told me the bartenders at the Sheldon Hotel in El Paso always know where he’s appearing.”
“I’ll look him up.”
“Have you got money for a rail ticket?”
“I don’t need a ticket. I jump on freights.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“No more dangerous than flying.” Or working for Barney. “Got to dodge the railroad bulls, that’s all. They’ll break your legs faster than a bad jump from a moving train.”
“Well, you may be just the kind of crazy damn fool the Frenchman wants.”
He shuffled and bobbed his way to the stove. They tore into the hearty meal of roast, boiled potatoes, California snap beans, and home-made sourdough bread washed down with some bourbon whiskey Ryan kept for special occasions. Ryan said, “I’ve liked your company. I’ll hate to see you go.”
“I appreciate what you taught me.”
“Send a new aeronaut out into the world, it’s like sending yourself. Well, almost.” He saluted Carl with the whiskey, then knocked it back in swift gulps.
“Marie didn’t like this flying business, or any of the new things, the new inventions. She didn’t understand the thrill of going up. Looking at the cloud castles, the toy towns, the little people. It takes your problems and squeezes them way down, till they don’t seem so important anymore.” Ryan ran his hand along the polished stick lying on the empty chair between them.
“Till they don’t hurt so much.”
“You’re right,” Carl agreed. “I felt that the very first time I left the ground.”
Maybe a new chapter was beginning for him. He wondered what Tess would have said about it.
57. Decision
Fritzi recuperated in the same New York Hospital where she’d visited Eddie. A doctor named Lilyveldt attended her, a handsome and austere man with a silver beard. He was aware of the circumstances of her fall and let her know immediately that he came of an old New York family that disapproved of actors. During his examinations he offered unsubtle advice about leaving the profession as soon as possible.
Apparently she’d wrenched her left ankle badly as she started to tumble down the last rungs of the fire escape. She remembered the spike of hot pain before she passed out, but nothing beyond that—not the impact that turned her forehead purple as eggplant, or the bloody gashing of her scalp that required six stitches. They’d shaved away her unruly blond hair to sew up the wound. When the dressing was changed, she saw herself in a hand mirror. She looked like a woman whose large bald spot had slipped to the right side of her head. It made her giggle.
Eddie’s wife, Rita, volunteered to pick up her mail and bring it to the hospital. The first batch contained a yellow envelope—a cable from Paul. He would be in the States shortly to confer with his American publisher, then undertake a month-long lecture tour in the Midwest and South, filming as he went. She couldn’t wait to hear news of Julie and the children, especially the new baby girl, Francesca Carlotta, whom they called Lottie.
B.B. brought candy, white roses in tissue paper, and apologies. “It’s my fault you’re hurt this way.”
“I don’t hold anyone responsible, except the man who set the fire.”
“Nix,” B.B. said emphatically. “Police picked up a tip. The bum was standing around swilling beer and bragging in a Third Avenue saloon. For a criminal, that fellow has the brains of an ant. They sweated him at the precinct house, and he broke down right away. He’s going to the pen.”
He pulled a chair close, chafed her hand while he said, “Liberty’s talent is too valuable to risk this way. Sophie and I talked it over for hours. Here’s what I decided. End of summer, I’m closing down production in New York. Not much left of the office anyway, the fire gutted most of the building. It’s back to California.”
A lump formed in her throat. “For good?”
“Right.” The way he chafed her hand told of his anxiety. “We want you to go with us, you know that. I’m offering you a raise to ninety-five dollars a week. A hundred if I can squeeze Al. How do you feel about that?”
Fritzi lay back on the rough pillow, her mind in a whirl. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
“Well, please decide soon, that’s all I ask. Just yesterday I telegraphed Lily to tell her she’s on the payroll starting in September.” B.B. patted her again, then put his chair back where it belonged. He twiddled his hat brim nervously. “Please consider what Liberty Pictures is offering you, Fritzi. You got a great future.”
She thought of the scornful Dr. Lilyveldt. “Thank you. I promise I’ll think about it.”
He waddled away down the aisle, tipping his hat to matrons and patients. Fritzi sighed. To throw her lot entirely with Liberty in California not only seemed cowardly, but a commitment to mediocrity. Yet that was a step better than not eating, wasn’t it?
Harry Poland sent a huge floral basket and an elaborately phrased letter explaining that he’d heard of the fire and her hospitalization. He wished her a swift recovery, and apologized (two paragraphs) for failing to pay a visit to her bedside. He was wrapped up in rehearsals for the first Broadway show for which he’d written all the songs; something called Pink Ladies. The rehearsals were fraught with personnel and technical problems, he said. Each time he planned to break away during visiting hours, some crisis intervened. If she would accept his apology, he would make amends when things settled down.
The curiously intense, almost boyish tone of the letter brought a smile. She felt warmly toward Harry, not so much because of his slightly scandalous attentions but because of the quick and decisive way he’d acted when Pearly stalked her in the subway. She was pleased for his success, of course; she recognized and admired his talent.
Eddie and Rita visited together, sharing their enthusiasm about a permanent move to Los Angeles. “For me there’s no choice,” Eddie said. “Pictures are the future. Someday they may even be art.”
After four days Dr. Lilyveldt released her, sternly warning her to favor her sprained ankle for at least two weeks. He insisted she wrap the ankle in elastic bandage, and he wanted her to walk with a cane, something her vanity would never allow. She hobbled into her two-room suite at the Bleecker House and sat down in the glow of a summer twilight, staring at her hands, still unsure of everything except her eagerness to see Paul, whose ship would dock next week.
Paul brought snapshots in quantity: Julie, the two older children, little Lottie in her fancy toddler’s dress, standing with her tiny hand on a velvet pedestal and a fixed, glazed look on her round face. “The photographer put a clamp on the back of her head so she’d stay upright,” Paul laughed. “Talk about medieval torture! Right after he got this shot, Lottie started bawling and that was the end. She’s a sweet child, but I think she’s headstrong.”
The photos were spread on the starched white cloth of their table on the stern deck of the dinner boat. The boat was docked at West Houston Street, scheduled to leave at seven p.m. for a cruise around the harbor. Harry was due to join them but hadn’t shown up yet.
The tables under the striped awning were rapidly filling. Middle-aged waiters wearing long white aprons glided among the guests, refilling champagne and wine glasses. A hot orange sky glared in the west; they were in the midst of a heat wave. Fritzi’s ankle bandage itched unmercifully. With the toe of her other shoe she scratched it under the table while Paul showed a photo of a dark-haired young man with a cheeky grin.
“Sammy Silverstone, my right hand. An absolute gem. Why I resisted help for so long, I’ll never know. Sammy saves my back, and I like his company too.”
“But you didn’t bring him over from England.”
Paul shook his head, fanned himself with his straw boater; it looked new, but there was a ragged half-moon torn out of the brim, as though a dog had chewed it. “I couldn’t justify the expense. I’m working for Lord Yorke only part of the time on this trip.” He jumped up. “Let’s move a bit, it’s stuffy here.”
He slipped the photos into a pocket of his summer jacket of tan linen, already badly wrinkled from the heat and grime of Manhattan. His round collar bore an ink smudge, and there was a blot on his striped necktie suspiciously like a catsup stain.
They walked to the stern rail, where the ensign of the cruise line drooped on its staff. In the harbor to the south, the great torch held aloft in Liberty’s hand shone brightly against the deepening blue of the sky. The harbor itself had a rich green patina, like dark jade rippled with red highlights from the western sky.
Fritzi folded her hands and leaned on the rail. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
“You mean about California—whether you’ll go or stay here?”
“No, it’s something bad that happened to me when I was with Harry.”
“He didn’t mention it.”
As quickly as she could, she described the horrible experience at City Hall station. “I killed him, Paul. I killed another human being. I think it’ll haunt me forever. Even now it’s hard to talk about it.”
She started to shudder uncontrollably. He put his arm around her. “I understand. I’ve seen men die. No matter who they are, there’s something profound and mysterious about it.” He held her until the shuddering worked itself out.
Someone hailed them from the pier. “Harry,” Paul exclaimed as the composer bounded up the gangplank. Harry embraced Paul, kissed Fritzi’s hand. His face had a sallow, fatigued look not typical of him. Long hours rehearsing, she supposed; success took its toll.
In contrast to her cousin, Harry was sartorial perfection. His three-button suit was pale gray linen, single-breasted, with rakishly slanted flap pockets. A blue and white polka-dot tie matched the hanky flowing from his breast pocket. Every crease was sharp; there wasn’t a single wrinkle, smudge, or stain to be seen.
“Sorry to be late. Problems with orchestrations.”
The engines started, crewmen lifted mooring lines off bollards, and with a toot of its whistle and clang of its bell, the dinner boat put out into the Hudson. Fritzi remembered her manners: “How is your wife, Harry?”
“Thank you for asking. I’m afraid she no longer recognizes me. A stroke victim who doesn’t recover strongly often experiences a decline, I’m told. Every organ weakens from disuse until the most important organ of all, the heart—I’m sorry, I’m being far too grim. Waiter? Some wine here.”
A three-piece band on the upper observation deck struck up “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” the hit of the hour. Harry perked up. “Isn’t that a swell song? Berlin’s a friend of mine. He used to be Izzy Baline; he changed his name the same way I did. I told him that if he never wrote another note, ‘Alexander’ would guarantee him immortality.”
“I’d second that.” Paul nodded. “They play and sing it all over London.”
Fritzi noticed their waiter hovering. He was a tall man with silver hair and imperial good looks. He set the soup course before each of them, hesitated, then addressed Fritzi in a rush:
“May I be so bold as to speak to you, mis
s? Zoltan Cizmaryk is my name. I am a great admirer of yours.”
“Of mine? We’ve never met.”
“Oh but we have, many times. I have seen you in every picture about the Lone Indian, and several others too. My wife and I are from Budapest, ten years now.” So that was the source of the juicy accent. “Might I beg you to sign a menu for my wife before the cruise is over?”
“Of course,” Fritzi said, pleased by the recognition but amazed again that silly little pictures could produce such a reaction in strangers.
A tail-coated captain snapped his fingers at Zoltan, who bowed and rushed off to his duties. “Quite the star you’re becoming,” Paul said with a smile.
“Yes, it’s wonderful,” Harry agreed. “I think it’s only the beginning.”
Basking in the flattery, Fritzi turned her attention to the excellent dinner served by Zoltan Cizmaryk and his colleagues. The dinner boat chugged slowly down past Battery Park, over to the East River, and north for a view of the Brooklyn Bridge. Then it backed around and chugged in the direction of the Statue of Liberty and the vast ocean beyond. Stars speckled the deep blue sky. The lifted torch blazed its message of hope and welcome, but Fritzi noticed that Paul’s attention was fixed on lighted buildings on an island to their right.
“That’s where Harry and I arrived after a hellish trip in steerage,” he said in a hushed voice.
Harry said, “When my mother was turned back for eye disease and we were forced to go back to Europe, I knew I would see Ellis Island a second time or die in the attempt.” His tone was light, casual, belying the emotion Fritzi saw in his eyes.
A few minutes later, finished with the meal, they strolled up to the observation deck, where couples and families gazed at the panorama of the harbor by night. Slowly, grandly, the copper-sheathed statue on its mighty pedestal passed on their right. Fritzi felt a lump in her throat. The statue hadn’t been there when her father had come to New York in the 1850s, but, like Harry and Paul, the General revered everything she symbolized.