Читать книгу The Resistance Girl - Jina Bacarr - Страница 10

Ville Canfort-Terre, France

1926

A loud, roaring crescendo coming from the old church organ draws me to sneak inside the stuffy movie theater. I’m missing the best part of the film. The heroine is tied to the railroad tracks and is about to get run over by a train… or a rogue sea captain is holding her tight in his arms and proclaiming his undying love.

I slide my fingers over the lever at the backdoor entrance… and giggle. It’s unlocked. I pull down the lever when—

‘Your ticket, madame,’ a man grumbles behind me. Insistent, coughing.

I turn, smile big, showing him my teeth smudged with burnt ash. ‘It’s me, Monsieur Durand… Sylvie.’

‘Ah, but of course, my Sylvie…’ He winks. ‘I didn’t recognize you, mademoiselle.’

He’s lying, but it’s a game we play. ‘Merci, monsieur, what do you think of my disguise?’

‘Wonderful, Sylvie,’ Claude Durand is quick to add. ‘You’re as good as any actor I’ve seen in pictures.’

I strike a dramatic pose with my nose up in the air and wild hand gestures. He laughs. I like him. He’s a good-hearted old soul who turns a blind eye to my escapades.

‘Ah, you’ve got a fine talent for pretending, mamselle.’ He lights up a Gauloise and draws it deep into his lungs. I frown. I wish he’d stop smoking; his cough is getting worse. ‘I saw that in you the first time you snuck into my theater and tried to convince me your little sister was lost and had wandered in. You were… thirteen, non?’

‘I was just a child then, monsieur.’ I stick out my chest. ‘Now, I’m a woman.’

His eyes turn serious. ‘Even an old braggart can see you’ve got a real talent for mimicking those actresses up there on the screen, Sylvie. You’re better than the lot of them. Be careful of those who’d take advantage of you. You’re a beautiful girl and with that angel-white hair of yours hanging down your back in that long braid, you make an old man wish he were young.’

I feel my cheeks tint pink as I push back wisps of unruly hair sticking to my forehead and sling my braid over my left shoulder. ‘You flatter me, Monsieur Durand, but I’m not interested in men of any age… only acting.’

He puffs on his cigarette, thinking. ‘Then follow that road and don’t look back, no matter where it takes you.’ He exhales a perfect ring of smoke, then smiles. ‘Now get on inside the theater before the picture is over. It’s one of your favorites, Mesdames en feu.’ He chuckles and opens the door of his private entrance then bows from the waist, inviting me in. ‘Free of charge,’ he insists, as always. I sometimes think he believes I’m his lost daughter. He’s always warning me to watch out for ‘bad men with pretty bedtime stories’ promising me fame and fortune, but I don’t mind because I know he speaks from his heart.

I can’t get enough of going to the pictures. I cherish these moments sitting in the dark with the magical light coming from the projector behind me, wrapping me up in a spiritual place between dreams and reality. A place where I can be free in my thoughts. And my heart.

The Order of the Sisters of Benevolent Mercy took me in when I was une petite jeune fille of three when my mother had to give me up – a grand drama in itself, or so Sister Vincent tells me. I don’t have any recollection of it and it’s too late to ask my mother since she died in a fire afterward. All the records were destroyed.

I swear Sister Ursula, the Mother Superior, has been there that long.

She makes it her business to order me about; she has me working on my knees scrubbing the stone floors until they bleed, or burning my hands in hot water in the laundry. She’s so crotchety and mean. I don’t know why she hates me so much unless it’s because my mother was an aristocrat.

She’ll send me to my cell for days without food or water if she finds out I sneaked out today (I conned Sister Vincent), but the movie theater is where I come alive, acting out roles where I can lose myself. I find the challenge of becoming somebody else exhilarating, which is why I hobbled my way to the private entrance at the back of the Théâtre Durand with a hickory branch I found as a cane, the long, ivory lace veil Sister Vincent made for my Confirmation day when I was fourteen, draped over my head and shoulders (it’s my favorite prop), and blueberry juice rubbed on my cheeks. Burnt chestnut leaves mixed with olive oil ring around my eyes for dramatic effect and voilà, I’m a woman of an indeterminate age, as Sister Vincent would say. I may be only sixteen, but motion pictures have taught me so much about life, I can play anyone.

Every time I say that, the sister smiles and rolls her eyes.

I love the jovial nun so much. She’s kind and the reason I haven’t run away from the convent – yet. She helps me slip away to the cinema, finding excuses to bring me with her when she goes into town to buy fresh lamb and apples and pears for the convent kitchen. I left her in the textile shop ordering silken and linen thread and pins to replenish the cupboards to make the beautiful handmade lace the sisters are known for.

Which gives me at least twenty minutes or so before she comes looking for me.

I rush into the darkness of the theater in my usual wild manner and bump into a large man standing off to the side near the stage. I can’t help but sneak a peek at the stranger when he steps into the light streaming in from the creaking iron door. I get a good look at him. Heavyset, wearing a white Panama hat with a black satin band pulled down low over his face, a dark grey, pin-striped suit like I’ve seen in the gangster flicks.

The strong smell of his lit cigar makes me hold my breath.

‘Pardon, madame,’ he tips his hat, respectful. ‘May I be of assistance?’

I giggle. He bought it. Bon. He thought I was an old lady.

Wrinkling my nose and completely in character, I say in a raspy voice, ‘No harm done, young monsieur.’

I stifle a giggle and go about my way, limping for effect, knowing how you make an exit is just as important as your entrance. It is, I’m proud to say, a success. I’m curious why a patron would stand in the wings where he can’t see the screen very well. The cozy theater holds about a hundred and fifty moviegoers and has a small stage platform in front of the screen for live acts.

I toss my braid over the other shoulder and forget about the stranger. I hover off to the side of the screen upstage where I’m nearly invisible in the dark. Once I see what’s happening on the silver screen, I can’t look away. A fancy party with beautiful people having such a lovely time flashes before my eyes. Flappers in beads and fringe and their beaux in black tuxes, smoking and flaunting champagne flutes and whooping it up at a supper club. We can’t hear their laughter, but the organist loosens his collar, foot-stepping on the pedals, hands flying over the keyboard to keep up with the raucous goings-on up on the screen. His lively tune begs to be heard over the audience filled with rowdy kids, whistling and hollering.

It’s too much for two elderly ladies. Shaking their heads, they get up and leave in a huff while I see a man sneaking a flask in the last row. I ignore them all. I love this film. I’ve seen it five times. I know all the parts.

I can’t resist tossing down my fake cane and whipping my lace shawl around me in a saucy Spanish swirl though no one can see me in the darkness. I start tapping my black flats with the white-button straps on the wooden floor, saying the dialogue on the title cards between the frames I’ve memorized in a loud whisper (no one can hear me) while pushing away cigar smoke creeping into my face. I look over my shoulder and see the man in the Panama hat huddling with Monsieur Durand and pointing to me. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but playing the part of the wild flapper.

I dance around the small stage in a tight circle, my derring-do shielded by the coveted black shadows hugging the screen in a cool embrace. Sweaty bodies, wild silent laughter… it’s all there on the big screen… and I’m in it… yes, I’m in the scene. Losing control… loving it… lifting the skirt on my ugly, grey convent frock, not caring if my left garter wiggles down my leg and my tan cotton stocking with it. No one can see me in the dark… Monsieur Durand and the man in the Panama hat wouldn’t be able make out more than my shadowy figure… and the first row of seats is far enough away I disappear in a blur… I’m dancing, acting out the lead role… filled with the exhilarating awe of being in the moment… reaching that pinnacle of complete loss of self where nothing can touch you, when you throw yourself down into the abyss and you become that character—

Till the reel of film breaks, thrusting the theater into a mesmerizing darkness.

The lights come on in a snap. Bright, insistent electric eyes beaming on everyone in the theater.

But none more insistent than on finding me. Spotlights. Hitting me in the eyes. Me, standing there like a puppet on stage with her strings cut. My cover of darkness blown. Holding up my skirt, revealing my bare thigh, my cotton stocking puddling around my ankle. And that ridiculous makeup I put on. I imagine my blue-red checks and the charcoal rings around my eyes glowing like the girl I saw in an old vampire film when Monsieur Durand ran a special showing before Lent last year. Scared me out of my drawers.

Now I’m scared out of my drawers again.

Because my secret’s out. My acting secret.

Sure, I’ve seen kids snicker at me when I’m acting out scenes in the back of the theater, tossing their leftover rotten vegetables at me instead of the screen (Monsieur Durand forbids tossing smelly food at the stage, but everybody does it). It’s one thing for me to let myself go and act in the dark when no one can see me, when no one can judge me, to fly high in my dreams. I always land back on my feet when the lights come on. But to expose myself in front of everyone like a tawdry fan dancer has set me on a new compass. That if I want to become an actress – and I do with all my heart – I can’t hide anymore.

I have to face the audience. Show them what I’m made of. Do something to entertain them while ignoring my state of undress until Monsieur Durand changes the reel. So I do it. What I was born to do. I’ll either make a complete fool of myself or find my footing as an actress.

I clear my throat, then go into a speech like I’m reading from a placard on the screen.

‘The film will resume in a few minutes, mesdames et messieurs…’ I begin with a booming voice and a grand gesture. ‘Ladies, please remove your hats. Gents, no smoking please—’

‘Ah, go home, Sylvie.’

‘Yeah, go back to the convent where you belong.’

‘You ain’t no actress… get out of here!’

I bristle inside, wanting to cry at their insults, shut down and pretend none of this ever happened. I can’t. It means too much to me. My soul has been crying out to act in front of an audience and though this is the most god-awful way to do it, I can’t stop. I love the spotlight wrapping me up in a warm embrace, a hug that feels so good, giving me what I never get – attention just for me. As if I am somebody.

I don’t back down even when I hear someone yell, ‘Let’er have it!’

I duck, but not fast enough. A big, juicy, rotten tomato hits me square on the shoulder, then another. I don’t stop. I march up and down the stage dodging tomatoes, then a soggy cabbage lands at my feet. I keep going, acting out the scene in the film as I memorized it, reciting every line on the title cards without taking a breath… giving it my all… the organist getting into the spirit and piping out a lively tune, keeping up with me, beat by beat.

Then the lights go out and the screen behind me lights up. And the film resumes.

But do I get off the stage? No, the rush of doing what I’ve yearned to do is too strong an addiction. A sugar high that won’t quit. I blink, glancing down at my hands, my grey uniform, the flickering lights from the movie projector dancing over me, tomato juice running down my cheeks and mixing with my tears.

I don’t wipe them away.

I look out at the audience, hands on my hips. In a saucy voice, I say, ‘You run out of tomatoes?’ I smell a mix of human sweat and moldy cabbage as I cross downstage and leer at the audience. I hear mumbling and snickering. ‘Good. Now we can get back to the film Monsieur Durand so kindly allowed you to attend for a nominal fee.’

Moving in a slow waltz across the stage in front of the film, I become the human shadow of the actors on the screen – the flapper and the playboy – performing their jazz baby antics in a nightclub scene bigger than life behind me, toying with the act of love and seduction with their body movements, their eyes, their lips…

I mirror every gesture, every movement… I’ve watched the film five times and memorized the title cards so it’s easy for me to recite the dialogue loud and clear like the film does have sound. Flapper with headband plays hard to get. Playboy offers her champagne.

Monsieur, you are too kind.

And you are so beautiful.

How do I know you won’t take advantage of me if I drink the champagne?

You don’t…

Now you intrigue me…

Mon Dieu.

‘Go home, Sylvie!’

‘No,’ someone yells in a loud voice with such authority, a hush comes over the audience. ‘Let her go on. She’s good.’

‘Thank you,’ I say to my unknown benefactor, giving him a wave. I can’t see who it is since the theater seats are again sheathed in darkness. ‘I’m staying right here. You’re all watching me, aren’t you? No one’s left the theater…’ I pace up and down the wooden stage, keeping their eyes moving on me so they can’t look away. ‘You’re glued to your seats because you can’t not watch me. I make you feel something inside you… hate, pity, even envy because I’ve got the guts to stand here and pour out my heart doing what makes me fly to the moon. I admit I have a lot to learn about acting, but the raw truth is, I set off your emotions. To be a great actress you need to show your feelings, not let anyone stand in your way. Sure, I memorized the lines, but to be a great actress, to make you, the audience, feel the depth of the character’s emotions, you have to suffer. To know the heartache when you cry yourself to sleep at night because it’s lonely and you don’t have anyone to snuggle up to, and it’s so cold your toes freeze or so hot in summer the air is as stifling as a tomb. It’s made me tough… and not anyone, not even you out there with your insults and rotten tomatoes are going to stop me.’ I pick up a mushy tomato and hold it up high before tossing it down on the stage and squashing it with the toe of my shoe. ‘I make this promise right now. Someday, you’ll see me up there…’ I gesture toward the screen with the party-goers dancing and boozing. ‘And you’ll have to pay to see Sylvie Martone on the big screen. Remember that when I’m a big star and you’re still sitting in the last row.’

Dead silence.

I tap my tomato-juiced toe on the stage, giving them a moment to think about what I said – brave words, but I’m not waiting to see what happens next.

I spin around on my heel and head for the back exit, my film career lasting not even twenty-four minutes.

The length of a one-reeler.

‘It took real guts to make that speech, mademoiselle, after those rabble-rousers kicked you around like a dead toad.’

I feel a tug on my arm and smell the cigar smoke before the man blows it in my face. I don’t cough, though I want to. I recognize that voice. He yelled at the audience to let me go on. I sense it’s more important I put all my attention on him, give him a pious nod for saving my butt. I look up slowly, not surprised to see the man in the white Panama hat.

‘Thank you for what you did, monsieur, but it won’t do any good. They’ll do it again the next time I sneak into – I mean, come to the theater and they’ll bring even more rotten vegetables.’ I wrap my lace shawl over my face. ‘I have to go…’

I try to be polite as Sister Vincent taught me, but the good sister is probably frantic waiting for me, saying a novena, wondering what mess I’ve gotten myself into. The sister often makes excuses for me, but today I dread showing her my uniform soiled with seedy tomato mush.

‘You’ve got real acting talent.’

I stop. ‘Me, monsieur?’

‘I’ve been watching you… Sylvie, n’est-ce pas?’

I nod. ‘Yes.’

‘At first, I was merely amused when I saw you acting out the scene in my film—’

‘Your film?’ My pulse races with a different kind of excitement than I’m used to when I’m called into Sister Ursula’s office for being late to vespers.

‘But that performance on stage, the way you grabbed the audience by the throat, pulled every emotion out of them and didn’t let them go…’ He smacks his fingers against his lips. ‘You were magnifique!’

‘Who are you, monsieur?’ I beg to ask, my head aching with the downside of my exuberant high crashing then soaring upward again at hearing his praise. ‘Don’t make fun of me, please.’

‘Allow me to introduce myself, mademoiselle.’ He takes off his white hat and bows from the waist, his cigar dangling from his fingers and dropping ash everywhere. I catch a glimpse of Monsieur Durand wiping his sweaty face with his long, black cravat, but he makes no move to reprimand the man. In the next moment, I find out why. ‘I’m Emil-Hugo de Ville, the esteemed and successful director of such films as…’

He rattles off a long list of motion pictures – some I know, some I don’t – but what’s most important is, he said he was a film director.

I try to get my feet to walking, but my fervor to leave the theater is gone. He proffers me a small white card, and, with sticky fingers, I take it. I hold it up to the bare lightbulb hanging from ceiling, turning it this way and that, marveling at the elegant, raised text on the pristine, white card. Under his name I make out an address in Paris on Rue de Sevis and the name of a film studio, Delacroix Films.

‘Are you really from Paris, Monsieur de Ville?’ I sound like a country schoolgirl because I am a country schoolgirl. ‘I’ve never been to Paris… the Eiffel Tower and the Moulin Rouge…’

‘Call me Emil,’ he says, then continues, ‘I often travel to villages and towns outside Paris to gauge how my films are doing.’ He leans down closer to me and I feel oddly breathless as if I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. He tells me at first his only interest in me was that he thought me pretty enough to be a background player in his next film, but after my stage performance—

I giggle. He calls it a performance. I call it my moment of liberation. I never expected it to last past this afternoon.

I don’t protest when he guides me out of the back of the theater toward his parked Citroën as shiny as a tart lemon. He keeps talking about how he can make me a film star if I leave everything behind and become his protégé. It will take hard work, he says, and I’m buying it. Long hours, hot lights, scripts to memorize, no time for anything but the work… and dedication. He doesn’t let me get in a word. I couldn’t speak if I wanted to as he opens the passenger door and ushers me inside the plush vehicle.

I should run, tell him I’m not that kind of girl, but I don’t. I have no illusions about my looks. Except for my white-blonde hair, I’m ordinary-looking. Taller than most girls my age, skinny with no bosom, and a deep dimple in my left cheek Sister Vincent says means I was pinched by an angel when I was born. Now I feel more like the devil is after my hide because I want to go with him. Want it badly.

I don’t protest when Monsieur de Ville puts the motorcar into gear and off we go.

‘I see a great future for you, Sylvie… what did you say your last name was?’ he asks out of curiosity.

‘Martone… Sylvie Martone.’

‘It has an elegant ring to it and perfect for a theater marquee. I like it.’

I grin big. ‘Merci, monsieur. My mother was a grand aristocrat who fell in love with a stable hand, a dark, handsome stranger who wooed her then mysteriously disappeared before I was born… it’s his name I bear.’

‘An amazing story, Sylvie.’ He looks over at me like I’m making it up. I’m not. I sit quietly, my jaw clamped, determined not to budge with my story. Sister Vincent told me where I came from, though I admit her black rosary beads were tightly wound around her fingers, her lips moving in silent words afterward, but I’m sticking to it.

The big, clunky motorcar rambles over the cobblestone driveway behind the theater as I settle back in the plush white seat. I let go of my final bout of butterflies and settle in. ‘Why did you pick me, monsieur?’

‘I meet a lot of girls who want to be in pictures, but I see something different in you, Sylvie. An exquisite, platinum-blonde with fire and tenacity, as well as raw acting talent. What you need is my tutelage. I have connections in the film business everywhere and the savoir-faire to know what the public wants, and they want you.’

‘What about my life here… the convent, the nuns who raised me… Sister Vincent might understand, but she reports to the Mother Superior…’ I make an anguished sound, ‘Sister Ursula will forbid it.’

He winks at me. ‘Then we won’t tell her. I’ll drop you off near the convent, then you get your things and I’ll come back for you for after I complete my business in town. I booked a call to Paris to check on the times of my film showings in another town. An hour, tops. If you don’t show up, then I’ll know you’re not interested in being a star.’

‘Oh, but I am, monsieur.’ I roll down my window to get some air. I stopped breathing a while back and I feel lightheaded. ‘Being in the films is all I ever wanted—’

I bolt up in my seat, panicked.

I see Sister Vincent waiting for me outside the theater near the box office ticket window as we round the corner. She sees me in the motorcar and drops her basket filled with wrapped packages then wipes her face shiny with sweat with her full black sleeve. The shocked look on her face will stay with me always. I’ve never seen her soft, kind face so taut, her pale skin pulled so tight with fear, her eyes big and wide.

She’s afraid for me, but that won’t stop her from throwing her rotund body in front of the car to stop it. My fear of seeing her body mangled over the front fender is real to me. I turn to Monsieur de Ville, the fear of the heavens opening and raining down on my plans draining my courage.

‘Stop the car, please. I must talk to Sister Vincent… explain to her why I’m leaving with you.’

‘We can’t stop, Sylvie. Make your choice. Do you wish to stay here and spend your life praying, your heart torn, your soul in chains? Or do you want to go to Paris with me and get into pictures?’