“This is what you think about in your workshop?”
Edison laughed.
She reached over and took his hand. There was nothing sensual or maternal in the touch. Two comrades falling through space, holding on boldly and passionately to make the landing more graceful. Edison squeezed her hand. And for a moment, that flesh and bones coupler of interlaced fingers was all that ground them to the earth. In a workshop in New Jersey. Where genius flowed so discreetly. Two wayward stars looking for a galaxy.
They did not leave the lab for another hour. Edison talked about how he always imagined the rhythm and structure of Shakespeare’s poetry with each invention that he was working on, knowing that the same balance and science of intricacy could be applied to both, while Sarah laughed and slapped the table, exclaiming at the irony that she only saw the fineness of invention in her art (and also mentioned that recently she had become intrigued by sculpting in order to be able to touch and feel the art). And where candles would have dimmed to suggest the passing of the hours, the electric lights burned bright and timeless.
When they finally got back to the house at half past two, Max and Edison’s wife were left sitting alone together, facing each other in sleepy silence, each with their own aggravations. Mary Edison’s fiery jealousy could be witnessed by her refusal to make eye contact with her husband. Her resentfulness was not rooted in the fear of infidelity, but in the betrayal of her husband’s isolated and private world, which she had ascribed to his genius. In fact, jealous may not have been the right word; instead maybe it was shock. The shock of discovering that her Thomas’s insular world was penetrable—just not by her.
And poor Molly. He was twisted and contorted in his chair, arms folded against his chest, his legs crossed tightly and kicked under the seat, as though closing himself off from any intimate conversation that might accidentally come his way in the deep and silent night. His greeting was one of relief and of frightened disappointment. In fact, he had whispered in her ear in French something to the effect that he was worried that she was going to leave him here all night drowning in dilettante discourse. Mary Edison offered a cordial but not forthright invitation to stay in the guest room, but the waiting coach (which was on the clock that only got punched in New York) was the saving excuse. They parted quickly. Standing on the porch under a light snowfall that diamond sparkled in the lamplight, each offered cultured graciousness in their farewells. Sarah forgot to thank her host formally for such an inspiring and magical evening. As she stepped off the porch, Edison ran after her, slipping on the last step and gripping the banister for balance. Mary Edison looked away. Max Klein hustled into the carriage (“we will be lucky to get back to the Albemarle Hotel by four A.M.,” he grumbled, “and then we’re sure to be a wreck for Boston”). Edison grabbed onto Sarah’s arm. He forgot to make the recording, he had said. She thought she would cry.
The next afternoon’s dailies hardly reported on it.
No conflict. No drama.
No drama. No news.
The hotel waiter served Sarah’s plate over her right shoulder, and then followed with Max’s. Abbot Kinney broke the conversation to say, “Thank you, Anthony,” before returning his attention to Max’s authoritative yet lacking dissertation on the science of the lime light. Sarah leaned over to paddle the eggs’ rising steam toward her. She took in the buttered perfume and let it awaken her stomach, allowing the steam to wash over her face. She barely heard Kinney when he asked, “Much more satisfactory now, Madame?”
She looked over at him without raising her head, and in her most rehearsed role of gentility and public manners, she told him that they were parfait.
“And by the way,” Kinney added, “I have spoken with some of my press contacts and it appears that this immoral business from those loudmouth Catholics will not have any effect on the box office here. Ticket sales are brisk.”
She blew delicately over her fork, watching the heat disappear. “That is good news.” She took the first bite, feeling the comfort and satisfaction of eggs properly cooked.
“We were really not worried on that account,” Max added. “I would say that nearly every tour that we have been on in the United States has seen some group that has cried out that Madame Bernhardt is immoral. In fact, we might even start to question ourselves if we didn’t hear that. We certainly plan it into our publicity budget. Right, Madame?”
“The American free press. Can’t take sides. Standing on the high wire of objectivity,” she said.
“Well,” Kinney stated, “I would suspect that we have benefited more than the bishop on this one.”
“The bishop,” she muttered. “The bishop…Do you know the expression ‘stage business,’ Monsieur Kinney?”
“I confess my lack of theater knowledge.”
“An actor conveys her meaning in two ways: one, by the way she delivers her lines, and two, by the small unscripted things that she does with her body. The way she fiddles with her hands. Or how she picks things up and puts them down again. Or the way she blows smoke rings. The combination of little gestures tells the audience so much about the character—often by contradiction, or sometimes by reinforcement.”
“Madame,” Max tried to cut her off.
“I have been asking Max this very question.” She turned to her manager: “You must be so tired of hearing it.” Then she focused back on Kinney. “What do you think this bishop was doing when he spoke to the press? They are always the contradiction, those of the higher order. They speak the words so eloquently and piously from the script, often with a curse of virtuous indignation thrown in for emphasis. But the little things they do tell you the real truth about them. What do you imagine this Bishop Conaty was doing with his hands?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Kinney replied, clearly enjoying the revival of the younger Sarah.
“He probably kept a hand innocently rested on his robe. And each time he talked with more passion, I will bet that he tickled his crotch. Talking of decency while actively pursuing his own indecency, thereby fueling the passion for his hatred of me. People like me just reinforce his shame.”
Max cut her off. “As I said, this is all in typical fashion. A little jousting match to try to draw attention. Only Madame is evidently much more skilled than any of her adversaries.”
Max was really starting to sound idiotic right now. In his effort to keep from being upstaged by Kinney, he was starting to turn into Kinney, all brash and strutting, telling war stories to build his character. And while it was true that they had dealt with this shit throughout her career, it was also true that those kooks had never been able to claim success before. But now they had kept her from playing in Los Angeles. Successfully exiled her from maybe the second greatest theater town in the States. Booted her hapless ass out to circus town. And while Max was prattling on with his own version of reality he had also forgotten that his center stage diva was a lot older now. He still lived the illusion of the impudent Sarah. When they decried her as ghoulish, she had had Max arrange to have Nadar take publicity photos of her in a coffin. If they said she conveyed debauchery, well next time she would lower her neckline a little. But people had grown immune to the vitriol, they hardly noticed that her brazenness had started to retreat now that she was older. They didn’t even talk about it anymore, and if they did it was in this same tone of bravado defiance that Max was adopting and that Kinney was loving. It is no wonder she found herself craving opium. Even at this early hour.
As they sat making plans for when the company arrived, Kinney and Max started looking like a couple to her, only she wasn’t sure if Kinney was starting to look like a full-on queer, or if Max was butching himself into a full-blown Max. Either way she needed to remind herself to talk to him about that ass that he was making of himself. She listened for a few minutes to their detailed logistics, and then took another bite. She closed her eyes and let the ghost steam rise over to seal them shut. If she couldn’t see it then it wasn’t there.