Loy didn’t mingle. For over an hour he stood by himself, nursing his whiskey and rebuffing strangers who tried to chat. Finally Fritzi suggested they leave. He agreed instantly, and she became concerned. If she asked, would he say what was troubling him?
They shook hands with one of the Bernheimers and thanked him. As they headed for the outer courtyard, they were accosted by a diminutive woman wearing a feathered hat three times as big as her head. She had a long nose and a squint.
“Fritzi Crown. Loretta Gash, Screen Play.”
“‘Gazing at the Stars at Night,’” Fritzi said. She hoped her distaste for the trashy magazine wasn’t too evident. Like gamblers and procurers and girls willing to sell their favors to help their careers, the publishers and writers of cheap gossip rags were proliferating.
“You’re doing so well with your little comedies, dear,” Loretta Gash said. “Is this your fella? I heard he’s a performer. What’s your name?”
Loy’s answer was a stony stare.
Fritzi grabbed his arm. “Come on, we’re leaving.”
Loretta chased them to the gates. “Are you just friends, or do you have a cozy arrangement? How about a photo? I have a man standing by with a camera.”
Loy spun around angrily. “No picture. Get away from us.” His red face upset Fritzi. She’d seen the look just before he hit someone.
“Wait a minute, handsome, the public wants to know about—”
“All they need to know,” Fritzi said sweetly, “they see on the screen. Dear.” She tugged Loy’s arm again, and out the gate they went.
Fritzi heard a snarl from Miss Gash: “Stuck-up bitch.”
The stars had a blurred look—dust stirred by the west wind, bringing the scent of rain off the ocean. Loy handed his auto check to the attendant. “I don’t imagine that did you too much good.”
“No, but it felt good. Loy, what’s wrong tonight?”
He gazed at her with troubled eyes. “Been trying not to spoil the evening for you. Reckon I did, I’m sorry. Let’s get away from here. There’s something I need to show you.”
When she heard that, the anxiety gnawing on her turned to dread.
Spatters of rain hit the windshield with increasing frequency. Street lamps spaced a block apart shone through the glass, making the droplets gleam. Fritzi turned her head slightly to study Loy’s profile. His lips were tight together, his eyes carefully fixed on the road—no clue there to what had upset him.
“Thought we might have just a spit of rain,” he said as it came down harder. “Reckon I’d better close up the top.” He slid the long auto to the curb near a corner bungalow with lights shining in every window. He jumped out, pulled the canvas over, and fastened it. “Good enough light here, I guess.” Seated again, he drew something out of his inside pocket, unfolded it, and angled it so the light fell on it.
“See that all right?”
“Yes,” Fritzi said, puzzled over why he wanted to show her a studio photograph mounted on flimsy card stock. The rectangular image caught three men in chaps and tall hats riding hell for leather past the camera lens. The rider in front was bent low over his mount’s neck. Wind had turned his hat brim up; Loy’s face was unmistakable.
“Director lined up a second camera for that chase shot. Never knew about it or saw it till I rode past. When I saw Blazing Bullets cut together I couldn’t believe it, but there I was, on the screen clear as day for three, maybe four seconds. Anybody down Texas way sees the picture, they’ll be on me like a hound on a coon in hunting season.”
Now she understood. “Did you ask the director to cut out the frames?”
“Sure I did. He’s a high and mighty little pri—toad. He kind of reared back and said did I know who I was talking to. I came close to knocking the hell out of him. But I didn’t. I slipped a few dollars to the laboratory fellows to print out this frame. Seems they may be using it for one of the publicity stills.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll speak to B.B. Maybe he can telephone someone and ask them to cut out—”
Loy’s hand fell on her wrist quickly. Gentle but firm, the touch of his fingers frightened her somehow. “Never mind. Been thinking for a while that I should mosey on. This put the burr under the saddle blanket, that’s all.”
Fritzi leaned back against the seat cushion, holding her breath. In the quiet darkness a night bird trilled. One or two streets away an auto coughed along, then backfired and died.
“You’re leaving town,” she said.
He pushed stray locks of long hair off his forehead. “That’s about the size of it.”
“Because your face is on the screen accidentally for a few seconds.”
“I told you about Clara,” he began. “How she needs—”
“Is this just a convenient excuse, Loy? Because you think I’m trying to tie you down?”
Silence. In the corner bungalow someone started a piano roll. Fritzi recognized “A Girl in Central Park.” She nearly wept.
Loy ran his tongue under his lower lip. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared through the streaked windshield. The rain had let up again.
“I wonder that myself, a little.”
Fritzi threw the picture in his lap. “I don’t know what to make of you.”
“I’m no storybook hero, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“I’m looking for someone to love me as much as I love him.”
“I’m not that fella, Fritzi. Tried to tell you plenty of times.”
“So what does this mean? Goodbye?”
“Reckon so.”
“When?”
“Tonight. I plan to light out north in the morning. Buy me a ticket on the daylight express to Frisco. Figure I’ll stay there a day or two, then go have a look at Hawaii, where the pineapples grow.” He cleared his throat, almost like a minister starting a sermon. “No matter where I go, I’ll never forget knowing you.”
Bitterness spilled out: “What a comfort. What a consolation after being thrown aside like—”
“Listen here, I told you I could never—”
“Reckon I don’t know that, mister?” she cried in a perfect imitation of his Texas speech. In the light from the corner she saw his face whiten as his hand flew up to strike her. She covered her face, but the blow didn’t land. Lowering her hands to her lap, she watched him draw his fist down slowly, open his fingers.
“Yes, ma’am, you surely did, all right.”
“Loy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mock you.”
“’Course you did. Did it damn well too. Forget it.”
Though Fritzi’s emotional control was shattered, she managed to say, “May we drive on before I bawl my head off?”
He started to reply, thought better of it. On the long drive to his squalid house behind a stable on Alessandro Street, she said nothing, digging her nails into her palms and hoping the sting would keep her from an outburst. When they arrived, he braked the car in the lane, stood outside with rain falling gently on his long hair. Fritzi pushed her door open and nearly fell on her face, she was so weak-kneed with grief and anger. She marched around the rear of the Locomobile. He stepped back respectfully, held the door as rain splashed into her eyes and mixed with tears.
“Are you steady enough to drive home?”
“What the hell difference does it make?” She flounced into the seat, blurry-eyed and barely able to find the wheel with her clammy hands.
Almost with a lover’s tenderness he said, “Makes a big difference. There’s millions of folks out there in the wide world who think you’re special. They love you.”
“The only one I care about doesn’t.”
“God damn it, Fritzi—”
“Take your hand off the car, Loy. Goodbye.”
She wheeled the Locomobile around in the lane and jolted out to Alessandro Street. Though she tended to weave from side to side on empty roadways, and had one close call with a Pacific Electric car bound home to the barns, she made it safel
y to Venice.
Her darkened bedroom mutely witnessed an emotional scene worthy of Duse or her idol, Miss Terry. Fritzi tore her party clothes off, trampled on them, and ground her heels to tear them. She rolled to and fro on the bed, stifling sobs with her pillow pressed to her face. Once she almost screamed aloud, but a pang of consideration for the Hongs and Lily forestalled it. Besides, at that point she’d been crying for two hours. Exhaustion set in.
She yanked at her ugly curly hair to make it hurt but quickly realized how ridiculous that was, and laughed, big, choking gulps of laughter without mirth. The suffering would last for years. Maybe it would never end. The loss of the boy she loved in long-ago Savannah was nothing compared to this. Loy had broken her heart beyond repair.
77. U-Boat
Thousands of miles east of Los Angeles, on the waters of Jadbusen—Jade Bay—in the German state of East Frisia, the sun was already up.
The new Unterseeboot bobbed gently on its mooring lines. Sammy unfolded the tripod on the U-boat’s forward deck while Paul strode up and down, studying the light falling on the water, the iron conning tower, the slate roofs of Wilhelmshaven on shore. Paul and Sammy had come to Germany for more footage to fill out a planned lecture tour. Paul was paying his helper from his substantial book royalties. The execution film had been safely stored at a London bank.
The U-boat commander, Kapitänleutnant Waldmann, stood stiffly, observing them. Feet spread, hands locked behind his back, spine straight, the German officer personified military correctness. Several decorations including an Iron Cross hung on his starched tunic. The points of his thick brown mustache fluttered in a brisk wind churning up white water in the bay.
Kapitänleutnant Waldmann was only in his thirties, but devotion to duty had drawn deep lines in his wind-burned face. Paul liked the man. He lacked the swaggering arrogance of the Germans in Belgium; he was showing off his vessel to the visitors like a proud boy with a toy. He recited all of its fine points: diesel motors, advanced periscope optics, a powerful wireless transmitter, bow and stern torpedo tubes, remarkable cruising range—five thousand miles at eight knots without refueling. The U-boat was the latest addition to the navy’s North Sea flotilla. Waldmann said Germany had made rapid progress with submarines since launching the first one in 1906, over objections of Admiral von Tirpitz, who thought undersea boats useless because of their limited range at the time.
Sammy locked down the camera and stepped back. “All ready, gov.”
“Right you are.” Paul straightened his cap and hunted for a cigar in a pocket filled with scraps of paper and flakes of Havana wrapper. Speaking German, he said to Waldmann, “I’d like to shoot your gun crew running a drill, is that possible?” Five of the U-boat’s complement of thirty-five ratings stood at attention near the 150mm deck gun.
“Most certainly, Mr. Crown. Anything you wish.”
“I appreciate your cooperation.”
“We are eager to have our undersea craft seen by your countrymen. I am told you do not receive similar cooperation from the enemy.” Fortunately, Sammy couldn’t translate the last word; he looked belligerent enough without it.
“None. They’ve shut us out. Berlin, on the other hand, is very friendly to journalists and cameramen.” Waldmann was right, the damn fools in Whitehall were still refusing to allow correspondents near their armies, their weapons, or even their training camps. Paul felt a certain guilt about moving freely and successfully in Germany; like Sammy, he believed she was the aggressor, and an increasingly pitiless and brutal one at that. But he needed footage.
“Where do you plan to take this vessel, if that isn’t confidential?” he asked.
“Not at all. It is common knowledge that the high command in Berlin will shortly declare the waters around Great Britain to be a war zone. When that occurs, we shall most certainly be operating there, to prevent shipments of arms manufactured in your country from reaching English ports.”
“Will you sink the ships?”
“I would hope they would strike their colors before that became necessary.”
“We’re talking of cargo vessels here?”
“Exactly so.”
“In London I heard rumors that arms are being sent over secretly on passenger ships.”
“Yes, we receive similar reports. It is said that some British liners carrying such contraband fly the flag of the United States to protect themselves. A cowardly deception, in my opinion.”
“But even in a war zone, you wouldn’t torpedo a ship flying a neutral flag, would you?”
“Oh, I am sure we shall never have to confront that unhappy question,” the Kapitänleutnant said, evading. He stepped close to Paul so as not to be overheard by his men. “However, Mr. Crown, I would urge you to exercise caution if you plan any trip to your homeland in the near future.”
“As a matter of fact I’ll be going over for lecture engagements sometime next year. These pictures will be part of my program.”
“Then I advise you to cross on an American vessel, not a liner operated by Cunard or White Star. While those may be passenger ships, they are not neutrals.”
“I see. Thanks for the warning.” Which he found appalling.
Gulls cried overhead, swooping above the whitecaps. The German ensign flapped and cracked on the conning tower flagstaff. Wilhelmshaven with its tidy streets and beach promenades had a quaint, peaceful look in the winter sunshine.
Paul reversed his cap and leaned into the camera. “Ready, here we go.” Kapitänleutnant Waldmann snapped to attention and saluted the lens smartly. Sammy turned his back and spat over the side. Several of the crewmen saw him and muttered. Sammy gave them glares.
That evening on shore, Paul and Sammy dined comfortably at an inn decorated for Christmas with wreaths and candles and a crèche. A procession of children passed in the street singing “Stille Nacht, Heilege Nacht” in high, sweet voices.
Sammy asked for details of Paul’s conversation with the Kapitänleutnant that morning. Paul obliged.
“When I pressed him about what would happen if he came on a passenger ship suspected of carrying munitions, he tried to leave the impression that neither he nor any other U-boat commander would open fire. He left room for doubt, though.”
“’Course he did, deceitful fucker.” Sammy mopped up veal gravy with a chunk of black bread. “He’d torpedo a boatload of babies if some admiral ordered it—him an’ all the rest of ’em in their fancy uniforms.”
Paul believed there was reason for Sammy’s pessimism. In this season of goodwill toward men, savage fighting that raged on the Western front threatened to spread seaward with the U-boat fleet. London repeatedly accused Berlin of scorning established rules of warfare, substituting a policy of Schrecklichkeit—terribleness.
Paul finished his glass of strong Christmas beer. “You may be right about that. I feel a duty to get back to the States and at least report what I see and hear. Millions of people are asleep over there.”
“Fancy the Atlantic protects ’em, do they?” Sammy said.
“That’s true. It’s time America wakes up to what’s really happening. Understands the threat. People have to be told the truth.”
“It’s noble of you to try, gov, but you can’t do the whole job.”
“I can make a start,” Paul said.
78. Winter of Discontent
December settled early darkness on the mountains and the shore of California. Fritzi hated to see the sun set because it meant the hour of sleep was that much nearer, and sleep no longer brought her release, but instead frequent nightmares of loss, failure, pursuit, even death. In one dream that recurred she was Richard III, humpbacked and ugly, raging against fate. In another Loy rode away from her on a stallion with a flowing mane, always out of reach, and laughing.
She hated Christmas 1914—found no joy in it, only burdens: shopping, wrapping, posting, giving, all empty and sad. Carols sounded discordant. Good wishes of the season voiced by friends and acquaintances sounded
hypocritical, meaningless.
Of an evening she began to cook in Mrs. Hong’s kitchen, for herself and sometimes Lily. She cooked simple fare that was hard to botch. Starchy, heavy dishes like spaghetti; if she was alone she would devour several plates of it, accompanied by beer. She brought home sacks of seeded rolls from a small bakery in Venice and ate two, three, four at a time. The eating was prompted in part by the comfort food provided, in part by a return of her lifelong conviction that she was scrawny, therefore undesirable.
She decided that too many bad memories lived under the bed in the room she rented. After talking it over with Lily and settling what she owed the Hongs, she leased a small house on a hilly side street off North Whitley, in Hollywood. California Mediterranean, it pleased the eye with its golden stucco and half-round red roof tiles. Or it would have pleased if there’d been room in her heart and mind for architectural niceties.
She moved in two days after New Year’s. To commemorate the occasion and relieve the long, lonely silences of the night hours, she replaced her old talking machine with a new, fancier one, a Victor, with a painted flower-shaped horn that poured sad romantic music through the house.
On her first Sunday in her new home, her friends and coworkers surprised her with a housewarming, organized by Hobart and Polo. Those closest to her knew of Loy Hardin’s abrupt departure, and the party was meant to cheer her up.
Eddie brought Rita, Jock Ferguson brought his Irma, B.B. brought Sophie. Al Kelly pleaded another obligation and sent a cheap vase of carnival glass. Charlie sent a telegram of good wishes.
Little Mary brought Fairbanks; their affair was an open secret in the picture community. The handsome actor’s memory had undergone a marvelous rejuvenation. He bussed and hugged Fritzi as though they’d been chums since childhood.
Mr. Hong furnished the champagne, obtained at a cut price through a wholesaler he knew. While Mrs. Hong beamed approvingly, Mr. Hong offered a toast to a happy house favored by the gods. No such luck there, Fritzi thought as she raised her glass. She had the solitude she craved, but no peace.