Sarah pulled the covers up over her head, drowning herself in her own breath. She closed her eyes to make the darkness even darker, trying to recall this patterned conversation that Max alluded to. Maybe she was like one of those idiots that you always hear about—they can’t wipe their own asses but can play the piano with genius precision. Maybe it was faulty wiring that only allowed her to activate her feelings in performance. She kicked the covers off with a rage of emotion that felt more liberating than it did angry. “I am done,” she said. “Retired.”
Max walked into the bathroom, apparently ignoring her. He closed the door partway. The faucet squealed, and then the force of water burst into the bathtub.
“Molly, I will not be there today,” she yelled.
The sound of water rushed even harder.
“Do you hear me? I will never step foot on a stage again. I will not be there at four today. I will not be there ever.”
He called from the bathroom. “Should I put the bath salts in? Is it that kind of bath?”
“Do what you please,” she said to herself and pulled the covers back up, tucking them in around her neck. Maybe she would try to tell him once more, but probably she would have to quit before it became a reality. He would have to be sitting there at the 4:00 P.M. rehearsal nervously tapping his feet. She could picture him looking at the rear door in a combination of fury and disappointment each time that it opened and she wasn’t there. At some point Max would have to figure it out—reflect back on what she had been saying in the hotel room about losing the passion and the fight. He would have to give up his opium jag excuses and realize how serious she had been. And then she would be waiting for him here in the hotel room. She would still be under the covers, ready to comfort him. Hold him with the reassurance that what they were about to embark on would be fine.
Max stepped out of the bathroom and pointed to the door. “It is ready for you, dear.”
Sarah didn’t move. She didn’t smile or nod.
“Oh, please,” he said. “You are not mad at me for not taking you seriously. You know that I always do. It’s just that we have lost so much time after the change in plays, so we need to eliminate one step from the routine. Let’s just see this one through, get on to Paris, and then you can quit the theater business from there. But for now you should rest and relax in your bath, and then be at the stage at four.” He looked too rushed to have a definable expression.
“Don’t wait for me.”
“Please. Save it for Paris.”
Sarah pulled the blanket up over her face.
She left the covers over her head until she heard the door close. Even though she could barely breathe.
SHE HEARD MAX’S FOOTSTEPS fall away down the hall. But when they stopped, Sarah pulled the covers back over her head. The footsteps started again, thankfully fading in the distance, instead of returning for one more round of sparring. She stayed in bed. She wondered if her new life would afford her the comforts that she had become accustomed to. Maybe reduced to some level of charming squalor that eschewed the bourgeoisie yet had no true revolutionary or radical convictions—more a matter of gliding through and enjoying her life. Perhaps a quiet retirement, reinvesting herself in the occasional company of her son, Maurice (of course that is its own story altogether). She pictured her future in a modest fourth-floor walk-up apartment. She would be able to add some air of romance to the flat, instead of it being like a traditional actor’s flophouse (although the presence of all her pets—Bizibouzou the parrot, Darwin the monkey, and all the dogs might suggest otherwise).
She would be all right.
People would probably still care what she had to say (even though she wouldn’t care anymore). And at least this ongoing war with the Visigoths of morality might end, or at least see a truce that would fade from stagnation. And certainly all thoughts of opium would vanish (as they already did just thinking about it).
She had had a brilliant career. But, like the members of her company, the real passion had been reserved for her hungry youth. The days when the only serious matters were the moments between the opening curtain and the final bow. When she awoke each morning with gloved fists ready to take on the world, swinging and flailing, but always with a puckish smile. Nobody worried about anything. If she ran into trouble she would just make something up to cause it to go away. She had always been the master of weaving her own reality. She knew that. Most of the people around her thought she was impossible. That she was unable to see the truth in the world around her. She would take adversity and pretend it never happened. She would make up stories to explain away the bad past. She knew they whispered that she would have to open her eyes one day, that life is not an ongoing production with her as its director. And many in her circle treated her as though she were delusional, unable to distinguish between the stage and reality. But wasn’t that right where she wanted them? Keeping them off balance. Never being able to fully read her, and always relying on her to navigate the latest reality. In truth it was power. The unstable are always the most powerful. Unpredictability is a dangerous weapon. And even more so when it is being handled by puppet strings with a nod and a wink. She had used it to rule over everyone—her crew, the newspapers, the promoters. And the audiences loved her for it. Everywhere she went in the world, they gathered around her and waited for her to do something.
But somewhere along the line the act became routine, and she stopped fully trusting herself and her motive. She questioned her own versions of events. Her attempts at unpredictability seemed contrived and rehearsed. She had started to lose control. And once she lost the ability to control, the outside events that she was trying to deflect began to creep in and overwhelm her. Break her down. And those imbeciles around her who had whispered behind her back would never have once considered that she had only been protecting them. Instead they stripped her of her battle armor and sent her to the Coliseum to face the black-veiled gladiators, still leaving her there today. Even out on that pier, reaching into her arsenal for one last single shot, her interior demons had overwhelmed her capability to ward off the conservative reactionaries. The stunt on the pier may have brought on a wave of nostalgia for some (we have our old Sarah back), but in truth it did nothing other than to reinforce her helplessness. Nothing went away. It just seemed to get worse. Hence the need to escape, medicinally and literally.
Sarah cinched the covers around her neck. She couldn’t shake the chill that vibrated her bones.
The hands on the clock faced her at 3:11 P.M., leaning to the right with arms outstretched for an awkward embrace. She wanted to yank the covers over her head and not come out until it was after 4:00 P.M., with the rehearsal well under way without her. And there would be Max, nervously twitching, ready to ingest himself until he could disappear and leave nothing but a small spot of saliva where he had just stood. Kinney’s fury would rage though the theater while the actors paced not too far from their blocking marks, wondering if indeed the show does go on. Maybe a reporter would be there calmly taking notes, never moving from his seat, bowing his pen like Nero while the whole theater burned down. And his story would run the next day, and the bishop would tack it up on the announcements board in the cathedral where it would take on a shrine quality, a memorial to victory and perseverance—the trophy for decency. And then the bishop will go on and fight the next battle, realizing somewhere down the line how little effect executing Sarah Bernhardt had on the wages of morality.
She looked up at the clock once more. That minute hand wouldn’t move if she hit it with a chisel.