“I shan’t tell you,” Willie said sweetly, “unless you pay me a dollar.”
“A dolluh?” Mrs. Tashkent was shocked. “A dolluh’s a lotta money these days for just a movie stah.” She peered closer at Fedora and as though reading the riddle of the Sphinx, she asked again, “Please, ain’t chou a movie stah?”
“Yes”—Fedora finally acquiesced—“I’m a movie star.” As if to say: Yes, dear little Mrs. Tashkent lady, for you I’ll be a movie star. If my being a movie star makes you happy on this gloomy June day, I’m a movie star.
“Yeah,” said Mrs. Tashkent dubiously, “but are you a poimanent movie stah?”
Laughing, Fedora went out, and as Willie followed her, Mrs. Tashkent touched his arm confidentially and leaned up to him. “No kiddin’, mistuh, what’s her name?” Willie whispered in her ear; Mrs. Tashkent nodded, his words at last satisfying her. “I thought it was.” Willie went out, and before the screen door closed he could hear Mrs. Tashkent shouting to the rear of the store, “Irving, guess who’s just in fa’ lox and bagels—Verree Teasdale!”
“And don’t forget me,” Willie called through the screening, “Adolphe Menjou!”
They took their picnic onto the fogged-in beach, where they walked along, Willie waiting for Fedora to decide on a spot, which turned out to be the farthest point from any visible object—from the lifeguard tower, the trash can, the street, the pier. The sand was flat, moist, well packed. There were no footprints other than their own trail behind, and those of the sea gulls. The wide strand had a clean, just-raked look, pristine, unmarred by litter, and not another soul was to be seen. They could actually make out the individual silvery particles forming the fog; they touched their skin in minute glistening globules, cold and damply soothing. From the car Fedora had brought a light lap robe, and in a suddenly capricious mood she flung it around her head and instantly became a peasant woman, stretching out her hand and groaning, “I hongree. Plees, you geeve oldt lady foodt, yais?” The great face became Duse, became Bernhardt, became the movie Fedora. She flung herself against Willie, twining her arms about him, embracing him, then arching away with the impassioned expression of the classic tragedienne, breathless, pulsating, panting, eyebrows scooped, yearning at an imaginary adoring audience, accepting its homage, the entire history of acting written across her brow. And in men’s trousers, too; what a sight, thought Willie Marsh.
Then they heard it, the far-off sound of a military band rising above the waves. Beyond the pier the fog had rolled in so they could see scarcely twenty feet in front of them, but, unmistakably, there came the beat of martial music. Fedora seized Willie’s hand and dragged him along, running across the beach to the street, following the sounds, brass and glockenspiel, drums and fifes, tubas, then they stopped, astonished, as out of the swirling fog came a full marching band, high school kids in outfits like movie theater ushers, their shining instruments playing “Stars and Stripes Forever.” A befrogged drum major in his furry shako bowed to Fedora and Willie; he was followed by a pretty drum majorette, in short skirt, with shapely thighs, full breasts, and blond hair. A pretty thing, the vision of the all-American girl, with red lips and white teeth and a confectionery smile, as she spun her silver baton with its white rubber-tipped ends. Up in the air the baton flashed, and when it came down Fedora darted to catch it, then twirled it before her, strutting spectacularly, doing high kicks with her long legs, back arched, singing with a heavy Russian accent, “Oh, the mon-kee wrapped hees tail ar-round the flag-po-ole,” and with a mighty toss sending the baton into the air again, out of sight into the fog, waiting, looking for its return, the brass section ducking it, the French horns scattering, the percussionists shielding their heads against its descent. It dropped and the drum majorette ran to retrieve it. “Hurry up, Cookie,” someone called from the departing column, and the girl smiled and waved, then ran to take up her position again. Fedora watched them go, her face alight like a twelve-year-old’s, breathless from her act as the band disappeared again into the blurred white and the music faded away in the distance.
“Such a pr-retty girl,” she said of the blond majorette. “You know—she really ought to be in the movies.”
About the Author
Thomas Tryon (1926–1991), actor turned author, made his bestselling debut with The Other (1971), which spent nearly six months on the New York Times bestseller list and allowed him to quit acting for good; a film adaptation, with a screenplay by Tryon and directed by Robert Mulligan, appeared in 1972. Tryon wrote two more novels set in the fictional Pequot Landing of The Other—Harvest Home (1973) and Lady (1974). Crowned Heads (1976) detailed the lives of four fictional film stars and All That Glitters (1986) explored the dark side of the golden age of Hollywood. Night Magic (published posthumously in 1995) was a modern-day retelling of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Grateful acknowledgement is made to Warner Bros. Music for permission to reprint lines of lyrics from “Blues in the Night,” lyrics by Johnny Mercer music by Harold Arlen. Copyright © 1941 by Warner Bros., Inc., copyright renewed. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Chappell & Co., Inc.: Lyrics on page 91 from “LOOKIE, LOOKIE, HERE COMES COOKIE.” Copyright © 1935 by DeSylva, Brown & Henderson, Inc. Copyright renewed, assigned to Chappell & Co., Inc. International Copyright Secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
ABC Music Corp.: Lyrics on page 322 from “California Dreamin’” by M. Gilliam and J. Phillips. Copyright © 1965 by American Broadcasting Music Corp., Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1976 by Thomas Tryon
Cover design by Kathleen Lynch
978-1-4804-4231-3
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Thomas Tryon, Crowned Heads
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