Now all these years later she sat in a strange hotel, her tired trodden feet soaking in a porcelain tub of man-made warmth. Many of those plans that she dreamed by Uncle Faure’s pond had come true—some distorted, and others entirely mangled, if not neglected. There was no way that she could have known at the age of seven that even in dreams there are choices to be made. Everything good comes at the sacrifice of something else. And she inhaled deeply, trying to taste the pure air of the Neuilly farm, but instead took in the trailing remnants of a fresh coat of hotel paint. She had made all those plans, but had stopped there. She could not remember any time after that summer at Uncle Faure’s that she had opened her eyes and imagined something else. From the moment she had dreamed this future, ambition set in, and she went about in the most practical manners to make it come true. And now she sits, knowing that Max will soon burst through the washroom door, having calculated some way to muster enthusiasm for patron-brunch-number-one-million-and-four that will keep the dream floating along. But maybe fifty-five years later it is time to imagine something new, and then kick in the ambition to make that come true. Like really leaving acting. Just slide out of this Sarah Bernhardt skin and let Henriette-Rosine take over (but in a lucid and rational state, for once). She looked up at the ceiling and imagined it as a blue sky. She arched her back slightly and kicked her feet in the water. She saw it all as clear as a day at Uncle Faure’s. Stepping from one dream into the next.
As predicted, Max did knock on the bathroom door, after letting himself into the hotel room. She kicked the bathwater, watching the small waves tide up against the checkered tile backsplash. Let him knock another time or two. Weary him. Until her news about leaving will be a relief.
His knock didn’t lessen. He was worried about the schedule, he called out. She kicked at the water again. It was still warm. She was going to tell him. Poor Molly was about to get more than he ever could have imagined. But soon he would find that the anger and resentments were just a by-product of this lifestyle. He would thank her after he was done hating her. But hopefully he will see that it was her dream that brought Max Klein to life, and that it will be her new dream that continues to bring him life. He just needs to continue to trust.
She pulled her feet from the tub, delicately balancing while she reached for a towel. She was not going to rush. While she let the unused tub drain, Sarah rubbed the terry cloth over her left foot but forgot her right. She opened the door as he spoke her name, his voice sounding increasingly feminine. He didn’t even notice Sarah standing in a partial puddle in the lavatory doorway, with her arms crossed over her ribs.
She let a moment pass before she spoke in a calmed voice. “Molly, I am right here.”
“I just don’t want to get behind schedule is all.”
“Molly,” she repeated. It took every bit of her willpower not to tell him that he should catalog his expression. The way that his eyes seem to physically harden, his jaw bone nearly breaking out the cheeks. These were the emotions that actors treasured. Complete moments when the body has taken over the mind. She walked over to the bed and collapsed on it, doubling over a pillow and wedging it under her neck. “Now come here.” She patted the bed. “Come lay beside me.”
Max sat down obligingly but did not lay back.
“Come on,” she said, “lie back. Gaze at the stars with me. See if you can find me up there in the hemisphere.” She reached over and wrapped her hand around his fingers, squeezing gently. “I think my Molly is still feeling hurt. Come lie down. You refused my invitation in the train. Will you refuse me again? I want to tell you something. Please let me tell you why.”
She drew her knees up toward her chest and worked her feet under the bedspread, as though dipping them back into Uncle Faure’s pond, ready to start committing herself to the dream. “It is time for me to leave.” The word leave caught in her throat.
“Excuse me?”
“I cannot act anymore.” And the sound of those words seemed to come from some other place in the room, distant from beyond her body. When she was onstage assuming her characters, they became a part of her. It was their hearts that pumped through her chest. Their nerves that rattled her spine. Their breaths that she tasted and inhaled. But once she had to speak passionately from her own being, Sarah felt no connection. As though she had sacrificed herself for all those characters.
Max did not quite respond with the emotive outburst that she had anticipated. Instead he lay flat on his back, his eyes traversing the ceiling. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will smooth things out for you.”
“You don’t understand.” Her voice still did not sound convincing. Instead it fell rather flat and indifferent. “I can’t match their passion anymore. I am just a maypole for the young actors to dance around.”
“Perhaps this has been partially my fault,” Max said with hardly a pause. Now it was time for his prepared speech. “I probably have not considered the pressures that you have been under. For that I apologize. But we’ll be done with the tour soon. By the time we go back to France this will seem like a lost dream. Back to normal. We’ll be trying to remember what the bishop’s name even was.”
She shook her head, but all she could muster was a quiet no. “It is more than forgettable bishops.” It was all building inside her, ripping apart her gut and pushing on her rib cage as though it might shatter and splinter into a thousand kindling shards. She felt the curse of the French woman, where emotion is a closed-door endeavor, and any display that is shown outwardly is likely to label you somewhere between whore and demented. Or a world-renowned actress. She had never felt more debilitatingly ordinary.
“Our last chance for a thorough run-through is at four today.” He was already on with the schedule, and planning. “We can work out some bugs after dinner, in order that we’re ready for the first curtain tomorrow. You have a little more time here if you need it. Rest up. Gather some strength. Then you can enter the glorious diva at four.”
“I am not doing tomorrow night’s show,” she said. “Or any show again.”
He turned his head to her, awkwardly twisting his back. “Darling, the hysterical hour is over. You’ve already used up your comfort time. So now we are down to business.”
His matter-of-factness and ease with the situation suggested that she had made these types of declarations before—something that Max obviously attributed to jitters and pressures. And the way that he clapped his hands with such a rise-and-shine bravado and told her that the best cure at this point was a nice long bath, followed by a spoiling of Burgundy from the last case in his room, topped off by a good solid nap was further indication that all this was nothing more than routine. But this was not the regular accumulation of demands and threats and insolent posturing that accompanied her stubbornness. This decision was a conscious philosophical verdict born from soul searching and examination.
Max pushed up from the bed. “Now shall I run a proper bath for you?”
“No.” She did not move from under the covers. “You are not listening. I quit…I quit being an actress forever.”
Max’s body swayed with the irritation of someone late for an appointment. “Explain to me.”
“I can’t.” She sighed. “You will just think that it is everything that you have heard before.”
“You never explain why you are going to quit. You tell me the same thing every time—that there is no way that you can explain it to me in a manner that I will take seriously.”
“I have never…”
“As predictable as the full moon.”