“I will be a star after this picture in America. An international star. Already they compare me with Garbo and Dietrich . . . they say I am bringing back the lost glamor. Here, look at my pictures—on Photoplay, Modern Screen, Movie Mirror . . . all of them. Wonderful stories about the great Karla. So do not worry—my publicity has been excellent. I have obeyed you to the letter. No interviews, closed set, lunch alone in my dressing room. No one can see me except Heidi.”
He sighed. “Karla, already in London there have been pictures of the two of you in pants, ducking cameramen.”
Karla shrugged. “Out here everyone wears pants . . . and many people duck cameramen.”
“Are you saving money—remember—for your child? You want the best schools . . . everything you missed—”
“Am I saving?” She threw her back her head and the throaty laugh filled the room. “I have been here almost seven weeks and have only cashed one paycheck. Heidi pays for everything!”
The romance between Karla and the German star didn’t last long. But Jeremy was amazed at how the top lesbians of the film colony came after her. He wondered if there was some sort of radar that passed among them—like a neon sign lighting on their forehead that only they could see. But Karla refused to mingle with them.
Byron Masters was cast opposite her in her third picture. He was dashing, handsome, did his own stunts, had been married three times, and was bisexual. And to Karla his resemblance to Gregory was startling. She suddenly grew coy. And when she learned he was currently living with another male star, the challenge appealed to her. Suddenly she wanted a young man’s strong body in her arms.
They began filming, and after the first week, Byron moved out on his roommate . . . fell insanely in love with her . . . to the extent that he allowed her to dominate the entire picture. She emerged a full-fledged star, and stories of their romance flooded every movie magazine.
For a few months she reveled in her love affair with Byron. She had him come to dinner at her sparsely furnished home. They cooked steaks and ate in the kitchen. Jeremy had discreetly moved to a furnished apartment and grown interested in a divorced real estate lady.
But Byron loved the excitement of Hollywood—the large parties, the klieg-light openings. Karla refused to attend them. In her own home when she picked up the steak with her fingers, he laughed—they were two kids on a picnic. But she knew her table manners were bad (Jeremy had given up on pleading with her about the slurping noises she made with soup or tea), and she was terrified of crowds, and of the brittle small talk that went with big parties. She was afraid they would laugh at her accent. So gradually her affair with Byron ended, and he fell in love with his new leading lady.
Karla took it very philosophically. There was always an ingenue who went into raptures at the idea of coming to the great Karla’s home. On the set Karla never even acknowledged the girl . . . so if the girl did talk about her “romance” with the great Karla, there would be no credence to her stories. And every so often there was a young man who reminded her of Gregory, and she allowed him to come and make love to her and eat steak in the kitchen. The press always lunged at these romances and blew them up. Fan magazines were screaming for stories on Karla . . . but the romances were usually over before the story got into print.
And then in 1952, Karla co-starred with Christopher Kelly. He was of Dutch and French extraction and had the combination of blond hair and brown eyes that always attracted her. Christopher’s popularity was also at its crest. He ate steak in her kitchen the first week they worked together. And throughout the three months it took to film the picture, the romance grew in intensity.
She learned she was pregnant the last week of shooting. She thought about it coldly and unemotionally. Theoretically, the practical thing would be to rid herself of it and Christopher. But for the first time she found she couldn’t just walk away. It caught her by surprise. She had never become involved with a man to the extent that she didn’t want him to leave her. Oddly enough she found it easier to handle her romances with women. She could make all the rules. She felt no fear of being hurt with women. They loved her. With women her problem was to ease them out of her life and cause as little pain as possible to the girl she was rejecting. And most men had also fallen into line, becoming almost effeminate in their desire to please . . . to acquiesce . . . to hold her.
But Christopher was different. He had actually dragged her to his palatial house with all the servants and taught her to swim. He tried to teach her tennis but she never got further than volleying the ball across the net.
And now the picture was almost over. In six weeks she was to start another. She could have him as her leading man if she wished. Century had already signed someone else—a newcomer. They didn’t feel the need of paying out two star salaries. Karla could carry a picture alone. But if she demanded Christopher, they would get him.
Christopher didn’t care one way or another. He was one of the new breed of stars who worked without a studio contract. His fee was two hundred thousand a picture, and he’d work for Twentieth, Metro, Century—any studio that gave him his fee, and offered a starring role and co-star billing.
She waited until the picture was finished. Then one night as they were taking a drive she told him about her pregnancy. “I am seven weeks late,” she said. He almost veered off the road. “Karla . . . it’s fabulous! We’ll head right now for Tia Juana . . . we’ll get married . . . keep it secret . . . then in about a week we’ll tell everyone we got married before the picture. Your little man Jeremy can fix everything.”
She agreed and watched him turn the car around and whip down from the mountains. “It will be great. We’ll give up both our homes . . . get a huge showcase . . . maybe have it built. There’s a great piece of property up on Crescent. I’ve got two alimonies to pay. But what the hell . . . I make two hundred thousand a picture, and with what you make we can live like royalty. We’ll call our home Karl-Kel . . . we’ll be the new royalty . . . we’ll entertain. Karl-Kel will be like Pickfair was in the old days, and we’ll be the new royal couple. We’ll live to the hilt!”
Live to the hilt!
“Turn back,” she said harshly.
“What’s the matter?”
“Turn back. I am not going to Mexico. If you dare to take me there I’ll accuse you of kidnapping me.”
They drove back to her house in silence. Live to the hilt! Have another baby! How had she allowed herself to think that way? She already had one child to support . . . one huge obligation. She could never live his way—sit back and watch people coming in and drinking her liquor . . eating her food. It would be like seeing them take her money . . . when she had worked so hard to earn it.
The next day Jeremy arranged for an abortion, and she changed her phone number. A week later Christopher Kelly attempted suicide. He recovered . . . but even this dramatic act could not get Karla to answer his telegrams.
She spent a great deal of money trying to trace Sister Thérèse. But there was no sign of her . . . or of her family. Finally she gave up and concentrated only on her work.
In the middle fifties, Karla was now firmly entrenched as “Karla, the living legend!” But her salary in no way matched her fame. Her contract with Century had originally started at five hundred a week. With raises and “holdouts” she had worked up to three thousand during the last two years. She knew she was underpaid, but in 1960 the contract would expire, and Jeremy said then they would make their real money.
Jeremy was rich. He had invested in the market and had tripled his money several times over. He had begged and pleaded with Karla to be allowed to invest her money or put her with an investment counselor. But she clung to it and deposited it in savings accounts, never allowing one to exceed ten thousand in any given bank.
She ran into a bad cycle of pictures in 1957 and 1958. But her personal publicity carried her through. The legend grew, and her isolation from the studio heads kept her totally unaware of the box-office receipts. Jeremy
saw to it that the public was also unaware of any slip in Karla’s popularity. The announcement of her retirement in 1960 caused headlines and shock waves throughout the motion picture industry—throughout the world. Neither Karla nor Jeremy had intended the retirement to become permanent. It began when Jeremy went to renegotiate her contract with the head of Century.
“I hear Elizabeth Taylor is getting a million dollars for Cleopatra,” Karla said. “I want a million one hundred thousand. Tell the Head I will give him a three-picture deal at three million, three hundred thousand.”
While Jeremy was negotiating with the studio, a negotiation that took several weeks, she busied herself building a ballet bar in one of the empty rooms of her house, doing four hours a day of bar exercises, and taking long walks.
Then one night Jeremy came to her house for dinner. He told her he had a deal, but that they would discuss it after dinner. She nodded with her usual detachment. They sat in the kitchen, and he watched her plough into the steak, the gravy running down the chin of the magnificent face so many people worshipped. “Karla, you know the book The Emperor?” He sighed as he said it. How could she know it? He knew and she knew that she never read books. “It’s number one on all the lists,” he went on. “And the Head is trying to get Marlon Brando or Tony Quinn to play the Emperor.”
“So . . . ?” She gnawed at the bone of the steak.
“They want you for the Empress.”
“So? Is it a right kind of part for Karla?”
“Marvelous.”
“And the money?”
“Very little.”
She stopped eating. “I thought we were getting a million.”
And then in the brightly lit kitchen he explained the facts-how her last few pictures had died at the box office. But her legend was so strong that no one except the top people in the industry realized it. She was to get a hundred thousand for the picture, and, after the break-even point, 2½ percent of the profits . . . which could only mean something after the picture grossed ten million dollars.
She was silent. Then he said, “We have no alternative.”
She pushed away her plate. “If I take so little money, then everyone will know I have fallen. But if I retire, no one will know.”
Jeremy stared. “You’re forty-two years old . . . at your peak.”
“Oh, I retire . . . but only for a year. Then they come after me. You’ll see. And each offer will get bigger.”
He stared at her. It was a brilliant move . . . but could she hold out financially? “You only have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he said.
“Invest it in bonds at six percent. I will not touch it.”
“But what will you live on?”
Karla crossed the room and stared out at the stone fence she had erected around the house. “It’s damp out tonight. But I think I will take a walk.” She threw on a coat and left.
Jeremy was in the living room watching the news on television when she came in.
He clicked off the set. “Have you made your decision?”
She nodded. “Have you ever heard of a woman named Blinky Giles?”
“Yes . . . she’s a millionaire from Texas or somewhere.”
“She is also a big bull dyke. For a year now she has let it be known among the girls that she’d drop a hundred thousand dollars at my feet if I would let her be my lover for one night. I will tell Sonya Kinella . . . she has those Sunday brunches that all the gay set attend. I shall tell her to allow Blinky to visit me this weekend.”
Blinky Giles . . . the fat heavy-breathing bull dyke. But she had entered the house and tossed the money at her feet. One hundred thousand tax-free dollars. It had been unbelievable. She thought of it now as Jeremy sat at her side. And after Blinky there had been the Countess. . . .
And as her retirement continued, the legend grew. And the offers also grew until one day, three years after her retirement, Jeremy came to her with a contract . . . one million dollars against 10 percent of the gross.
To his amazement, she refused. She openly admitted she was frightened about coming back. She had just met Dee Milford Granger, the “sixth richest woman in the world.” Dee was in love with Karla, the legend. What would happen if the picture failed? The legend would be smashed! Why chance it by making a comeback? By remaining a legend, there would always be women like Dee who would offer anything just to be with her. In the last three years she had managed to save almost half a million dollars without working. Dee had her own plane, a yacht, and a fag husband who didn’t care what she did. Dee wasn’t as generous as the others. She had that “prove-you-really-love-me-for-myself” attitude that some rich people get. But at least Dee was beautiful and Dee was security. So she refused the million-dollar offer. And all the ensuing offers. Because she felt secure in the knowledge that she controlled Dee . . . and could have her as long as she wished, on any terms that she wished. And everything had gone just as she had planned . . . until Dee’s fag husband got killed in an automobile race, which forced Dee to drag out David as their escort.
David . . . she had thought she was too old for all that. David with the blond hair and brown eyes. David, as young as Gregory . . . and she was so old. But a women never gets old. It’s only the years that mount up. Inside she is still eternally eighteen . . . and she felt young and foolish and wonderful when she was with David.
The car was approaching Park Lane. Jeremy was talking about her latest offer. (They still filtered in, no longer for a million dollars, but big money for a cameo “starring” role.) The latest was for half a million, two weeks’ work, and a thousand dollars a day expenses. She smiled as she shook her head. Why bother? What was she trying to prove? She had never really believed in herself as an actress . . . She had never even really believed in herself as a dancer. She had done that just to incur Sister Thérèse’s favor. Perhaps that was why she kept up with the ballet exercises—somehow she felt as if she was paying off a debt when she did them. She was not a religious person—she never went to Mass—yet each night she got on her knees and said a prayer in Polish that she had said since she had learned to talk. And often in the darkness, she felt God about her . . . and she hid her head under the pillow and silently told Him she was doing her best.
She entered the Dorchester Hotel and huddled her face in the sable coat that Dee had given her. She knew her future was with Dee . . . and that the affair with David had grown too important. It was time to leave, time to settle some business . . . And thank God for Jeremy.
But that night, long after Jeremy had left, she sat staring out at Hyde Park. She knew that Jeremy had noticed her un-lined face. When she had left David to have her face done, she had prayed David would be waiting. Because for the first time, she had known that she wasn’t really a lesbian. In his arms she felt safe and happy. Each time they were together, it made it more difficult to be with Dee. A woman’s soft body after David’s strong lean one suddenly was beginning to repel her. And when she got on her knees to say her prayers, she found herself also praying that David would be waiting again. . ..
Fourteen
JANUARY SAT in Linda’s office drinking lukewarm coffee from a plastic container. Linda was in one of her down moods. Linda was always morose on Mondays. But a rainy Monday in February was, as she put it, the “mother of them all.” January was cheerful in spite of the weather. After all, February only had twenty-eight days. And the twenty-first of March was officially spring. So once you cracked February, winter was practically over.
She had always hated winter. Winter had meant school. Summer and holidays had meant Mike. But now holidays meant Palm Beach. She had gone there Christmas Eve and stayed through New Year’s. But before Palm Beach there had been . . .
THAT WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS IN NEW YORK!
Holly and fake Christmas trees at the office even though everyone is working on the layout for the April issue.
The sudden change of attitude of all the employees at the apartment building. The doorman sprin
ging to open the door. The elevator man’s newly acquired talent of leveling the car with the floor. The fifteen names of hitherto invisible employees that suddenly crop up on the “Christmas list” the super slides under the door.
Sloshing through the rain. People on every corner weighted with shopping bags, futilely signaling at the empty taxis that flashed by flaunting their OFF DUTY signs. Dismal men in Santa outfits, their arms jerking with a spastic reflex as they rang their tinny bells. “Merry Christmas. Help the needy.”
Fighting through Saks—a madhouse encased with silver decorations. A cashmere scarf for David; squashing into the elevator to the third floor to get a Pucci bag for Linda, which Linda promptly returned. (“January, I’ve told you a million times . . . it’s Gucci that’s in . . . Pucci is out!”)
At least Mike had been easy. Two dozen golf balls with his name engraved on them. But Dee! What can you buy for a Dee? (And this was before she learned that the crystal icicles on Dee’s Christmas tree were from Steuben.) You couldn’t get Dee perfume. She had a closet full. At Palm Beach and the Pierre. Probably in Marbella, too. The salesgirl at Bonwit’s recommended a “Fun” present, like red flannel booties. She finally wound up buying some imported linen handkerchiefs at a shop on Madison Avenue. Dee could always give them to someone else as a gift.
CHRISTMAS IN PALM BEACH!
The twelve-foot Christmas tree! Massive and shimmering with its silver balls and crystal icicles. A displaced giant in a glass-encased room overlooking the swimming pool. It stood like an angry sentry. Uprooted, disoriented, its cold silver silence protesting the tropical atmosphere.
And there was Mike, tan and beautiful. Dee, white and beautiful. Parties . . . backgammon . . . gossip. A ten-day extension of the Thanksgiving holiday. Going to the track with Mike and wanting to sob at his indifference as he walked to the ten-dollar window to place a bet. Because she could remember the old days when he’d pick up a phone and bet five thousand on one race. Yes, she could remember. And so could he. After the first party, every other party seemed like an instant replay. And then there was the surprise party Dee threw for her twenty-first birthday. Five thousand dollars in floral arrangements, a dance floor covering the Olympic-sized swimming pool. Two orchestras—one indoors, one outdoors. David arriving to celebrate. Both of them dancing together, playing the “Hello, Young Lovers” bit for Dee. The guests were all the same people she had seen throughout the week. There were just more of them. They all brought “just a teensy remembrance” from their own Christmas surplus. (She was now set for life with silk scarves.) Some came towing lantern-jawed daughters or an uncommunicative son. And always the omnipresent photographers, shooting the same people they had shot at the last party . . . and the same people they’d shoot in the parties to come.