Scatter the Stars, page 36
‘My God, these are beautiful.’
‘Dad, look at this. It’s wonderful. And this.’ Shana was excited and for the first time she addressed Josie directly. ‘Aunt Josie, are these yours? Did you do these?’
Michael held one of the pictures, a pastel drawing of a house. The strokes were subtle but sure, conveying much in a few lines. ‘I recognise this. It’s the old house with the pretty garden across the road from the front gate. Look, Shana, you can see it from this window. Oh, Josie, why didn’t you show me these before?’
Josie turned her back on their questioning faces and went to the desk. In frenzied movements she picked up the pastel and scrawled over a sheet of paper, big childish strokes as if finger painting. Sometimes she looked out the window as her hand flew, not paying attention to what she was doing. Shana stared at her father. ‘You didn’t know she did this?’
‘Never. I knew that there were paints available for the patients. But I suspect not even the nurses have seen these.’
He walked to the desk. Josie stopped and threw down the pastel and flung herself on her bed, face down.
‘Shana, look . . .’ He held up the paper. Josie had deftly portrayed Shana’s face, the mouth and eyes reflecting a depth of expression Michael and Shana both recognised.
Shana felt her knees go weak. This was where her own talent for art came from, for some reason a gift she’d felt necessary to hide. Again the sense of being linked to the woman on the bed through their inherited genes overwhelmed her. For a moment she wanted to run, to never come back, to forget she had ever been confronted with this . . . madness. On the edge of flight, her nerves steadied and she went to the bed and sat carefully on the edge beside the unmoving Josie, still hiding her face in the pillow.
‘Aunt Josie. I think your pictures are beautiful. I draw too. And I always wondered where it came from. Now I know and I’m so relieved. I was always hiding it, and I’m not going to any more. I’m going to tell everyone that I share my talent with my Aunt Josie. I love this portrait you did, I’ll keep it if that’s okay. And you can have my tree. And next time I come, I’ll bring other ones to show you.’
Calmly she rolled the portrait and straightened the desk, unable to face the tears streaming down her father’s face.
They spoke little about the day on the way home. It was Shana who said she didn’t feel hungry and she asked Michael to drop her at her friend Gabby’s house. ‘I’ll call Mom to pick me up.’ She put the rolled sketch on the seat between them. ‘Look after this for me, Dad.’ And as he hugged her goodbye, Michael felt his daughter had somehow been returned to him, intact and no longer wounded. He hoped he too could heal himself.
And then he unrolled the sketch of Shana and saw the face of his daughter, his sister and his mother staring back at him.
FIFTEEN
Palm Springs 1955
The donkeys wound single file up the canyon trail, occasionally slipping slightly, scattering stones into the valley far below. The tour party of five was silent, each contemplating the spectacle of the sunrise, despite the hangovers from the previous night.
Knowing how outrageously they had partied, Francisco their guide was grateful five of the promised nine had turned up. The movie stars were the best paying guests at the ranch but the most unreliable.
Randy felt foolish on the small, chunky donkey. His long legs splayed over its broad back and dangled. The animal took little notice of any subtle rein tugging, plodding forward after the donkey in front. But he was grateful for the sure-footedness of the beast despite the odd minor slip. He was no show-off ‘Man from Snowy River’ rider, bravely racing down a treacherous mountain. Randy was glad he had a woollen jacket pulled over his thick cotton-knit sweater, blue workman’s shirt and sturdy Australian moleskin bushman’s pants. The rest of the party was dressed as if from the wardrobe of the Lone Ranger–suede chaps, fringed jackets, embroidered shirts, string bow ties and fancy cowboy boots and hats.
Randy looked around him, taking in a deep breath and exulting in the freshness of the morning and the wide open spaces. This was his third visit to Palm Springs and he found the desert of Southern California appealed to him, contrary to its apparent dullness. His first impression was of a grey-hued, flat and barren landscape that was waterless, treeless and featureless save for dotted rough herbage, wind twisted into stunted forms. Rising to the east were domed hills, a build-up of the wind-driven sand. On three sides of the town rose the mountains, split by four canyons – Palm, Tahquitz, Andreas and Murray – that sheltered pools, waterfalls, palm-fringed oases and clumps of startling-shaped trees.
Overlooking all, Santa Rosa reigned, often snowy peaked. Maybe it was the clearness of the sky, unexpected streams of melted snow, the subtle colours, but to an artist’s eye it was fascinating and beautiful. The plants intrigued him, the sudden flush of wildflowers that sprang from harsh soil and the great desert survivors, the cacti with delicate and exotic blossoms amidst their spikes.
The man in front of Randy called back to him, ‘Any of this remind you of Australia? The wide open spaces, huh?’
‘Strangely enough I was thinking it reminded me of India,’ he answered.
‘Man, never been there. Don’t plan on it either. G’ddiup, burro.’ He gave the rotund donkey a kick in the ribs but it took no notice.
The gait of the burro lulled Randy into childhood memories as did the stark wilderness of the empty landscape. He and his monk, Dorgei, had walked many miles in such barren beauty although there was always human existence close at hand; the mud huts of villagers, the tents of goatherds, dung fires, the lives of many eking out a subsistence living. His small legs had wearied and often Dorgei had hoisted him onto his back or shoulders, but this day a farmer had given them a donkey to take into the next village and Randy had perched on its back feeling very pleased with himself. As Dorgei led the little donkey he told the story of the monkey king who made his body into a bridge so all his people could cross over him safely into the Beyond. Each jakata fable held a lesson, the hero being a different incarnation of the Buddha’s journey to enlightenment. Randy had been taught the essence of the Ten Perfections to achieve good manners, good sense and good behaviour. He wondered what Dorgei would make of his current life but quickly brushed the thought aside as they approached the stand of Californian palms and tamerisks sheltering a natural spring, the destination of this Breakfast Burro Ride.
They were a mixed group but all shared the common bond of wealth or fame. Randy still caught himself wondering what the hell he was doing with his life. In a way it amused him that he had fallen so easily on his feet. And on the other hand he felt a pang of guilt that he hadn’t truly earned the popularity and perceived trappings of fame. There’d been two films after For Richer or Poorer. He’d had a dream run, each scoring high at the box office and Randy being hailed as the heart-throb of the moment. His lifestyle had changed dramatically. He now moved in the top showbiz echelon, his face smiled its crooked grin from the covers of fan magazines and he had been invited for drinks in the office of Rudi Lofts, the head of the studio – a signal he was one of the charmed circle at the top.
The buck stopped with Rudi. He was the man who decided who and what got the green light. He could start or stop any project. He was no mogul isolated in an ivory tower. He walked the lot in shirtsleeves, he knew the actors, had his favourite crews, directors and producers, and sometimes stood in the shadows at the back of the sound stages watching the filming. He knew everything about everything that was grinding through the giant machine that was Five Star Pictures, where every cent went and how the final product would be marketed. He was one of a unique clique who ran the major studios of Hollywood who didn’t realise they were a dying breed to be replaced by layers of executives, vice presidents, bean counters and creative and marketing whiz kids who all could say yes, but were rarely courageous enough to say no. Eventually the power of Hollywood would pass from the hands of leaders like Rudi, who loved the magic of the creation of cinema, to a corporation without faces.
While Randy had come into the personal orbit of the fabled Rudi, he was not much better off financially than when he’d arrived in Hollywood. Still on his original seven-picture contract, his salary had only risen marginally as his film options were picked up. He was expected to lead a flamboyant lifestyle, while taxes and percentages kept him living frugally at the Chateau Marmont. He dined out amongst rich friends who picked up the tab, pleased to have one of the hottest new stars in Hollywood at their table. When he was called upon to escort an actress to a premiere or a glamorous actress was assigned by the studio to be at his side for his own premieres, he persuaded the wardrobe mistress to outfit him in showy formal gear that had to be returned the following day.
Ariel flew in for the big events and was always two steps behind him. They privately laughed at all the pretension and posing. Excursions like this weekend at the Smoke Tree Ranch were covered by rich friends or the studio publicity machine if they could get mileage out of it. Ariel had told Randy to go along with it, it was a perk that went with the territory and made up for the inadequate sheckles they paid him.
Randy sat on the stationary burro, gazing into the pre-dawn sky until he noticed the others had dismounted and were heading to a lavish breakfast of hot pancakes, eggs, chilli and sausages.
‘Christ, it’s good to stretch my legs, my knees have been dragging in the dust with that short-arsed little beast.’ He headed for the coffeepot as their guide, Francisco, directed a silent, plump Indian woman to dish up the food. She was from one of the local tribes, a Cahuilla, whose land they were picnicking on.
‘So, Cisco, what’s the plan?’ asked one of the men, a famous and flamboyant oilman.
‘Whale into the food, and watch the sunrise. A swim in the springs . . . they’re hot and healthy . . . like me.’ The guide gave a lewd smirk at two of the pretty girls, invited along because they were pretty. Set dressers, Randy called the thousands of starlets in LA whose main employment was to add beauty to social functions. The novelty of beautiful women appearing around him at every opportunity had dimmed. He was jaded when it came to yet another clone of studio-prescribed glamour thrusting herself at him. He had slept with so many different women now that he’d stopped counting. Ariel, still closely monitoring his career from New York, warned him in one of her almost nightly phone calls to cool it. But, with the intimacy and distance of the telephone, he’d knocked back a scotch and drawled, ‘Hell, honey, it’s just a hole to put it in. They’re all the same in bed with a bag over the head.’
‘Randy Storm, that is a vile and crass comment that does you no credit. You’re smashed or you wouldn’t say that.’
He didn’t answer, rubbing the phone over his flushed face. ‘Yeah, I’ve had too much Scotch,’ he said thickly. ‘Forget it.’ Then added wistfully, ‘I wish I could.’
‘Randy, honey, you need a holiday. Maybe I’ll come over there. It’s been two months.’
‘Ah, got ’nother weekend in Palm Springs comin’ up.’
‘No, I mean a real holiday for a couple of weeks, somewhere exotic you’ve never been. My idea of exotic, not yours, which is possibly hauling your ass up some icy mountain or down rapids.’
‘So what’s exotic for little ole Ariel?’
‘Europe, you ditz. Go to bed, sober up and tomorrow I’ll see if we can spring you. Do some promotion in Europe. There has to be something due for release over there.’
‘I don’t want to go to Europe.’
‘Go to bed, Rands. I’ll fix it.’
Sitting by the fire where Francisco was heating peach syrup for the pancakes, Randy began to think a long break might be what he needed. ‘You’re very quiet, Randy. A heavy night, eh?’ Aurora Damon sat beside him. A stunning cool blonde from Iceland who had starred in several films in the forties, she was now retired from the screen and married to a wealthy manufacturer.
‘Yeah, I’m tired. My agent says I need a holiday, a proper one. Europe or something.’
‘A change of scenery and culture is always good. Why not Australia? How long since you’ve been back?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘You’re a big star now. Surely it would be nice to go home and be feted?’
‘I don’t think they’d be that impressed. Do you reckon I’m a star in Europe? The studio says the flicks have done pretty good over there. Dubbed in their lingo. Imagine me spouting French, Spanish and German . . . the mind boggles.’
‘You’d be mobbed . . . even if you weren’t in the movies,’ teased Aurora. She’d met a lot of handsome men in her life but Randy had the lethal combination of good looks, charisma and an endearing irascibility that stood him apart from the rest. Knowing his reputation, she still couldn’t help liking him.
‘That’s too bad. I was hoping to just go fishing, be a nobody for a bit . . .’
‘That sounds more like Scotland than the South of France.’
The red ball of the sun rose into the pink morning. With no clouds or haze but brittle clear sky, the sun burned in bright flames.
Francisco passed around the coffee pot. ‘Did I hear you say France? You going to Europe? We get a lot of folks from over there.’ He poured the thick black brew into Randy’s mug. ‘Y’know there’s that hot tamale Italian movie star staying at Charlie Farrell’s Racquet Club.’
‘Ah yes, Lena Lanfranci. She’s making movies here now,’ said Aurora. ‘Apparently she’s creating something of a storm, being temperamental and so on. That columnist, Gloria Harper, says she eats her American leading men for breakfast.’
‘There’s a gang going to the Chi Chi Club tonight,’ said Aurora, raising an eyebrow in Randy’s direction. ‘I bet Lena will be there.’
Randy gazed at the sky that had changed from pink to orange gold without answering the remark.
‘Perhaps we should get a table together,’ persisted Aurora. ‘I’ll ask Hank. My husband tends to prefer the Mink and Manure Club as it’s more casual, western rather than . . . chichi.’ She laughed. ‘Would you like to join us? Have you a girlfriend with you?’
‘No-one special. I came with Vic and Earl, two film buddies.’
She knew the actor and the cameraman Randy was referring to. Those three men wouldn’t lack for female company. ‘Right. Meet us in the bar at seven and we’ll head over to the Chi Chi Club.’
Showtime was about to begin. Plates were cleared, waiters brought new bottles of champagne. Aurora sat on one side of Randy, Hank her husband on the other. Hank talked golf, describing Palm Springs as the only place to play. ‘Spoils a good walk,’ commented Randy. ‘Having to stop and hit that little white ball,’ he explained. Randy was bored, wishing he’d stayed for the barbecue at the Smoke Tree with a promised fiesta of Indian folklore and dancing. He glanced down the table at his mates, but Vic and Earl were happy with their two lady friends. One was an actress and she was hanging onto Earl, much more interested in him now she’d discovered he was a movie cameraman.
Rescue for Randy came to the table in a flurry of colour, a flashing red mouth and brilliant brown eyes, sparkling jewels, a lot of bare voluptuous tanned skin, a dazzling smile and exuberant movements. In an accent thick as melting cheese, throaty from cigarettes yet mellow as vintage red wine, Lena came to say hello to Aurora and every eye in the nightclub fastened on the luscious queen of Italian and now international cinema. She scanned the table and dropped her hand on Hank’s shoulder. ‘I will sit here. With you, caro. Bring a chair.’ She twirled a hand knowing someone would leap to her command. As Hank rose gallantly from his seat, Aurora stopped him and graciously smiled at the movie queen. ‘Lena, I will move down. Hank, take my seat and put the rose between you and Randy.’ The women were all thinking what a demanding scene-stealing temperamental witch she was, but they were secretly envious. The men all wanted to get as close to the flawless flesh, flashing eyes and provocative smile as possible.
Lena blew Aurora a kiss. ‘Grazie.’ She smiled at Hank and turned to Randy. Two waiters assisted her as she sank into the seat in a dress so tight that movement seemed a small miracle. ‘The rose between the thorns, charming,’ she smiled in acknowledgement to Aurora.
‘A rose between the horns,’ quipped Randy to Hank. ‘A rose is a rose is a rose.’ Randy reached for his beer, which he raised in salute to the vivacious star. ‘Nice t’meetcha.’
A slight pinpoint of light seemed to burn in the centre of those huge dark eyes for a fraction of a second. ‘You’re from England, si? And you are?’
‘Fred Bloggs. From Sydney. Orstralia. And what was your name?’
Hank spluttered in his drink and the rest of the table waited for the fireworks, but at that instant the lights dimmed and from the wings came a voice, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, show time . . .’
‘Nice to meet you, also,’ came the surprisingly demure response from the femme fatale. Randy felt her hand fall in his lap and clamp on his penis with a tug. As everyone shuffled chairs and gave their attention to the stage, Lena and Randy exchanged a silent challenging look. Lena lifted her hand and slowly ran her fingers around her grinning lips as if patting away a champagne bubble or two.
Randy swivelled his chair to face the stage, his back to Lena, crossed his legs and spread his napkin in his lap. He didn’t look back at her until forty-five minutes later when Miss Peggy Lee left the stage amidst thunderous applause.
‘What a sexy voice,’ declared Hank. ‘She sure can sell a song.’
‘Do you sing?’ asked Randy almost offhandedly as he at last acknowledged Lena’s presence.
