A wrenching monologue that was usually given Sylvia in Reel 5, this was spoken without so much as one motion, standing behind a desk. The usual way to close it out was not to attempt to finish it, or make a great deal of sense out of it, but to give Sylvia’s matchless voice its chance as long as the scene would hold, as well as her incredible capacity to speak with no pantomime whatever, then let her do some trivial thing to bring the story back to everyday realities. Hazel again tapped her cigarette, opened the middle drawer, as though looking for a match. She tried to close it, but she was rapidly losing muscular coordination as her break progressed, and it stuck. She pushed against it with her hip, and her dress caught in it. Yielding for a moment to blazing rage, she banged it with her fist, got it closed. Then she opened the righthand drawer.
Sylvia was still sitting with her eyes closed, a look of terrible pain on her face. It was Vicki, who had wandered restlessly around the room, and was now behind Sylvia, who saw what Hazel lifted out of the drawer. With an exclamation he leaped forward, for the gun was leveled straight at Sylvia. Sylvia opened her eyes, didn’t move a muscle. She said: “I’ll be looking at you, Hazel. Every night.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
The crack of the Shoreham voice was followed by a terrible stare. Hazel looked away, as a cat does from a human being, whimpered, lowered the gun. Vicki, who was standing within an inch of her, took it, put it back in the drawer.
Sylvia said: “Damn you, Vicki.” Then she got up, went over to the wall behind her, and said: “You’d better go now. Because I don’t know how long God will give me strength to stay away from that desk. From what’s in that desk. Go. Don’t be there when I turn around.”
Chapter Five
Compared with Sylvia’s glowing twenty-five, Dmitri Spiro’s age was sallowly middle; compared with her slender curvation, his contours were distressingly blimpish. Yet he was still under forty, and in spite of pallor, fat, and baldness, he gave off something describable as magnetism. Spiro wasn’t his name, but it was a fair approximation of his mother’s name, she having been Hungarian; his father’s Lithuanian name was wholly unsayable and unwritable, at least to Americans, and he had dropped it. He had started life as stable boy on the estates of the late Baron Vladimir Alexis Gustavus Adlerkreutz, near Memel, where his father had charge of the cattle and his mother had charge of the cheese, curds, and butter. Respect for the Herrschaft was a prominent feature of the Spiro household, and young Dmitri early learned the deep bow that a peasant must give them, and the correct way to take off his hat to them, and the rigid stance that was required in speaking to them, to be relaxed only in case of critical moisture in the nose, when relief with the back of the hand was permissible. He had one friend, however: the young Vicki Adlerkreutz, son of the baron, and owner of a fine Shetland pony.
After the last war, however, his education was interrupted, for he returned to Buda-Pest, whence he had been taken as a child, and got work tending horses in one of the circuses there. It wasn’t long, however, before he persuaded the management to let him do a comic turn with the clowns.
Comedians are the business men of the theatre; indeed comedy is a business, requiring bookkeepers to keep track of its jokes, its emoluments, and its taxes. After that, his rise in show business was rapid, as was his increase in weight, and acquaintanceship with actresses of the grand, or Viennese style. Soon he had a company, first in Buda-Pest, then in Vienna, a theatre, and a monocle. But then came certain upheavals, and long before Anschluss he left hurriedly, for Paris. There he tried to get started again, but succeeded only in losing such money as he had been able to salvage. He came to Hollywood, and had been there only a few days when he met, at Vine and Selma, his former friend, the young Victor Alexis Olaf Herman Adlerkreutz, now baron in sight of God and all men except Hitler, who had taken his estates. It was the greatest moment of his life when Vicki recognized him, kissed him on both cheeks, dragged him into the Brown Derby, and borrowed $5. For the rest of his day he relaxed, and permitted his head to swim, and inhaled the iridescent beauty of the sunshine at the reflection that he, Dmitri Spiro, a peasant boy, had been thus treated by Adlerkreutz, a baron of Lithuania, with full seignorial rights over the peasant girls of his domain, and no doubt a great many actresses too.
From then on he and Vicki saw each other a great deal, and within a week had taken an apartment together in Beverly Hills. Then the ex-comic, the business man of the theatre, saw the use to which he could put his handsome friend. A young girl was just coming up in pictures, could be made into a star. She had been, not a waitress as she usually said, but a hostess in a Wilshire Boulevard restaurant that bought time on the air for a little lunch-hour feature called Your Favorite Celebrity. When the regular announcer failed to show up one day, she had taken over the mike, and managed it with such tact, wit, and charm, that overnight she was a celebrity herself. Then she got a part in a picture. So one night at the Mocambo, Dmitri appeared at her table with a sketch he had made of her, and asked her to sign it. It was small, risqué, and good. Laughing, she signed, and the next night he presented his friend, Baron Adlerkreutz. The month after that she made a picture, The Glory of Edith Cavell. The month after that, not quite sure how it happened, she was the Baroness Adlerkreutz, rather pleased at the title, wholly captivated by Vicki, and a little surprised, but not unduly alarmed, to find that somewhere along the way she had signed a lot of contracts.
From then on, Dmitri was successful indeed. Like most of his colleagues from the Danube country, he had a gift for the cute; i.e., for sentimental little situations with a slightly salacious twist, lending themselves to uniforms, peasant bodices, twirling slippers, and czarda music. Sometimes he used the same plot with goona music and South Sea atmosphere, with sarongs instead of bodices; once he switched to swing, with B-girls’ dirndles instead of sarongs, and the story became Love Pirate. Anyway he cut it up, it was the same old hotza; it didn’t make actresses but it made him; Sylvia slipped, but he grew rich. Now, as he sat here in this Western gambling hall, his appearance implied his career. The soft calfskin boots, now glowing under the Mexican boy’s fingers, suggested his present eminence, as well as his start among the horses. The whipcord riding breeches, fitted to his rotund rear, suggested the movies that now engaged him. The full duellist’s shirt, puffed at the throat by a silk handkerchief around his neck, suggested the mokos of Paris. His monocle, as well as his brown silk beret, suggested all the cafes of the world.
He was playing the first four and the first twelve, risking two 25c chips at each spin, and greatly enjoyed Mr. La Bouche’s admiration, and Benny’s admiration, to say nothing of the admiration of the little blond croupier who was serving the table. He frowned when he saw Vicki come in, but was reassured when the sunny smile broke in his direction, and Vicki rattled something at him in German about ‘wir beide,’ which seemed to mean that Hazel was with him, and that the scheduled ceremony was not far off. Tony bustled up, told Vicki his ring was in the office, if that was what he came for. Dmitri went back to his game with zest, and paid no more attention to what went on in the forward part of the establishment, even when Mr. La Bouche held up his finger as though he heard something, and the croupier spoke of the backfiring of trucks, and how the road ought to be renamed Artillery Avenue. Presently, Benny said: “There goes Vicki.”