Baker stood under the shadow of the immense structure, unsure of what to do. His past few days had been spent in the presence of an imposter. One who gives the appearance of ordinariness through her slight build, her coy gestures and ingratiating manner. But in truth Sarah Bernhardt was, and always would be, casting a shadow across him. And the fact that he even thought he could touch the edge of her world now seemed ridiculous. His letter must have looked so stupid to her, or even worse—insignificant.
He knew that he was not going into the Cathedral of our Lady of Angels. He could never willingly support the bishop’s agenda (nor could he imagine sharing a drink with Conaty in some illusion of camaraderie). And as much as he wanted to run back to the King George Hotel to intercept his letter, that scene too had been concluded. He knew he had to fold his hand. He had broken the reporter’s key rule: He had let the minutiae betray the obvious.
Tomorrow morning he would walk right into Graham Scott’s office and quit on the spot. He wouldn’t bother to explain how his integrity had been punctured, and that this fact was proof enough that it was time to hang it up. He wouldn’t bother to try to defend himself by saying that he needed to get out before he was assigned to the new roller skating ordinance for downtown sidewalks, or the potential early closure of banks on Saturday evenings. There was still real news in this town that had to be covered, he would tell Scott, and it would only kill him not to be part of it. For example, the fallout from last year’s land bust in Redondo Beach still remained untouched. Or just the other day, the massive Santa Fe depot contract had been inked. A quarter of a mile of building to be constructed on Santa Fe Avenue, just blocks from where he stood. And every paper in town seemed to be okay with it; they ran their pieces as though the depot were one more monument to the magnificence of Los Angeles. And not one reporter or editor even wondered or questioned how the builder, Carl Leonardt, had been awarded the contract. Baker wouldn’t be suggesting that Leonardt had done anything wrong, however it should still be looked into, right? But the new journalism conspiracy seemed to be to tout anything that made the town look better (while ignoring the underside), and then rely on the mundane scandals to replace the hard news. And you go where your editor sends you, those are the only stories that you need to grab. That’s the job now. Baker would tell Scott that he would rather leave than be a restrained observer. He could only imagine the reaction. Scott would laugh and say that Baker just got his balls busted by a broad—what else is new?—but that’s no reason to quit. It’s part of being a newspaperman. And then Scott would fade into his antiquated edict about their duty to comfort the tormented, and torment the comfortable—the newsroom philosophy that only lived in the memories of men of Scott’s generation. But the truth would always be cautiously unspoken, that this was now a business with corporate interests like anything else, and that if guys like Baker wanted to stay in it, then they were going to have to learn how to adapt. Scott would lean over paternally and tell him that he had to stop taking it so seriously, because taking things too seriously only leads to taking things too personally. Baker knew that in order to avoid Scott’s lectures he was just going to have to quit with nothing other than a two-or three-sentence resignation speech. It would be his last act of dignity as a journalist.
The shadow stretched long and thin, holding him in place. He wasn’t quite ready to go home yet (and cashing it in at Willie’s also felt too predictable, with its usual drinks and slobbering pheromones—a painful confirmation of his real status). Instead Baker thought he would just sit there for a while. Maybe all night. Wait until the morning sun shone again and wiped away the shadow. Then he would head downtown to hand his career back to Scott. Throw his desk belongings into a shopping bag, then go to his Pico apartment and load up the still unpacked boxes onto the bed of a truck heading east, hitching a ride back to Phoenix. Perhaps he could herd ostriches on his Uncle Martin’s farm, and then go join the ranks of defected journalists to write a book that told the firsthand plight of the common man. In between days he might get to know his family a little more. Brag about his L.A. days, dropping the names of those he had covered, sadly reminded of his frustrations when Sarah Bernhardt was who they undoubtedly would want to know about. He would tell them. Watch their faces turn dumb with awe. Maybe submit to the lies that all memories tell, and forget the humiliation; instead embellish her importance and his role in it. After being plagued by questions about her, Baker would excuse himself for the bathroom. There he would stand before the mirror. He’d stare deep into the reflection, looking to find the remnants of the man who hadn’t been seduced and trapped by the promise of Los Angeles.
But before he went near his office or the Pico apartment, Baker knew he would have to make a slight detour. Stop off at the local offices of the Santa Fe Railway Company. Do a little digging. Drum up a cigarette. Ask a few questions. See what anybody there might have to say about Carl Leonardt.
THERE WAS NOTHING COMFORTING about the room at the King George. Although her clothes and books and papers were scattered around the room, it still felt every bit as impersonal as the hotel room that it was. Beneath the bed she spotted the edition of the Herald that had run the original story. Just a dog-eared corner teasing out, a subtle reminder of how public her private issues were. And she almost wanted to pull it out, a pinch to remember that she wasn’t dreaming. But instead she walked closer and kicked it farther beneath the bed.
Max had said he would run down to the theater to inform the company of the delay. He would tell them to keep working, and that Madame would join them after a brief rest. After he left, she went into the bathroom and turned the faucet handles of the bath, swiping her hand beneath the stream to test its temperature. She turned it off and looked into the tub at the gentle ripples washing up against the side, banging anxiously until they eventually faded into the depth of the light blue water. She left her skirt on, but pushed the hem up past her knees, then sat herself on the edge of the tub and dangled her feet in the warm water, soaking her aching right leg. It took her back to Uncle Faure’s farm again. Seven years old. By herself at his pond. The water has been heated from the sunlight, and it is only as she steps out deeper that she will find the sudden coolness of the undercurrent. And the fish swim around her feet, tickling at the toes, and sometimes pecking the heels, as though mistaking them for food. From a patch of grass that fits just into the curve of her spine, she can watch the clouds blow across the sky, cleansing the blue like a sponge, spotless and shiny. And this is where the seven-year-old Henriette-Rosine imagines the rest of her life. The wedding, the husband, the two children, the servant, the diamonds. And she imagines her name being spoken on every pair of lips in France, and wonders how difficult it will be to shop or dine amid all the adulation. But it will not be hard on her husband because he will also be known throughout France—probably a war hero—but pity the children who are the victims of their parents’ success, until they find their own. Finally she narrows it down to being an actress—but a different kind of actress. She will be noble. A lady. And her mother will be proud (she would make sure to thank her during every interview), and Mama can even come to live with her and her family, and they will keep the spare room ready for Papa once he finally comes back from his travels in China. Under that deep blue sky, Henriette-Rosine reaches up to hug the world while kicking her feet against the water, as though the pond is ordained with a magical power.