The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr
dream at the Durand movie theater, except now I’m a star. And those kids who threw tomatoes and cabbages at me, made fun of me, have to pay to see me up there on the silver screen.
Just like I promised on that day… so long ago.
I have a string of big hits over the next few years. Unfortunately, I start believing my own publicity, the worst thing that can happen to an actor. I get cocky… sometimes arrogant if I don’t get what I want. It’s my way of lashing out at Emil for his mental abuse and demands, for his insistence I do his bidding with the men he chooses, men who can keep my career on top and his coffers full. It doesn’t help I’m spoiled by my fans who follow my every move, embrace every story in Ciné-Miroir about my escapades and who my latest lover is… and every time I’m photographed in a new frock or fancy hat, a knockoff shows up on the racks of Le Bon Marché and Aux Trois Quartiers department stores. The public adores me and I adore them. I’m at the height of my success and I’m only twenty-five. My figure is svelte and my platinum hair glows bright and shiny under the spotlight of the public.
But there’s another side to me.
My heart is dark… and the more I’m forced to do Emil’s bidding to gain favors from the studio, the darker my life becomes. A life filled with alcohol and wild parties, men who love me, use me, then leave me. Then I start showing up late on set, forgetting my lines, missing my cues because I’m drinking too much.
‘You’re on a downward spiral, Sylvie. If you don’t watch it, you’ll end up like your mother,’ Emil blurts out when he finds me in a drunken stupor in my Trocadéro apartment, empty bottles tossed about on the Berber carpet. ‘Lying on your back for a few sous.’
I open one eye, curious. What’s he talking about?
‘Your mother wasn’t an aristocrat seduced by a stable hand,’ he continues, knowing I hear every word, his harsh words rattling my brain and sobering me up. ‘But a prostitute who haunted the cabarets on the Butte.’
No, no, I insist, crying. It can’t be true.
Emil goes on a rant, reminding me the public adores me and believes what he calls the phony biography put out by the studio publicity department. If the truth ever gets out, he threatens, and my fans find out I’m illegitimate, it will destroy their nostalgia for Ninette along with my good girl trying to get a break image the fans love.
And my career.
I calm down, slow my breathing. ‘You’re wrong, Emil. The fans believe in me, sending me stacks of mail every week, pouring out their stories to me, their hopes, and their dreams.’ I bury my head in my hands, knowing losing them is my greatest fear. I’d die if the people of France hated me. Just die… they’re my true family and I’d be lost without them.
Again, I’m caught in Emil’s spider web, his cruel words digging in my spine like sharp claws, tearing away at my flesh.
‘Think about what I said, Sylvie. And don’t come back to the studio until you’re sober.’
He slams the door, leaving me to stew in my vodka… or whiskey… whatever I gulped down after Marcel left… or was it Henri? It’s not important. I can’t forget the director’s words. Is this why God is punishing me? Why I can’t have a child of my own? Because I’ve chosen this life in pictures instead of taking the veil? Because I abandoned Him and everything Sister Vincent taught me?
I have to know if what Emil said about my mother is true because he doesn’t make threats lightly. He never leaves a stone unturned when it comes to controlling me. I wouldn’t put it past him to hire a detective agency to dig into my past. I always suspected there’s more to the story than Sister Vincent let on, but I chose to ignore it. Not anymore.
I sleep off my binge, throw cold water on my face, then pick up my brassiere, stockings, and garters strewn about on the white carpet. I pull on panties and jump into a pair of tailored, grey-pleated trousers, white blouse, and houndstooth jacket. Then, as a misty dawn breaks over Paris, revealing blue and slate rooftops like stepping stones back to my past, I head west outside the city and cover the distance to the convent in Ville Canfort-Terre, pushing my fancy motorcar to go the limit.
I came back here soon after I had my hair bobbed and my film flopped to ask Sister Vincent for guidance, then again when I bought the car, revealing as much about my life as I had to, leaving out the compromising details. Guilt washes over me. I continue to write to her, though not as much as I should. (As long as I toe the line, Emil has given up trying to stop me.)
I have a raging hangover, my head is splitting, and confusion rules my brain. I’m so damn tired I can’t keep my eyes open—
My head droops and I don’t know why, but I jam my foot down on the gas pedal and accelerate through the wooded area outside the convent. The motorcar bounces over the road, hits a rock, bounces back and in an instant I’m wide awake.
My God… where did that tree come from?
I swerve, gripping the steering wheel hard and twisting it to the right, putting my shoulder into the awkward movement and ripping my jacket sleeve. Panting hard, I screech to a halt and, in a moment of self-deprecation, I bang my head on the steering wheel. Cursing… hurting inside. What insanity induced me to drive in this condition? I could have been killed if I’d slammed into that tall chestnut tree.
I push any idea of my mortality out of my mind. I’ve got bigger issues at stake.
Like, who is my birth mother?
I park the motorcar outside the gate and find Sister Vincent in the chapel, praying. In a pew. First row. On her knees. Her back is to me as my high heels echo on the stone floor, announcing my arrival. She continues mumbling in a voice as soft as a celestial cloud. As if she knows I’m coming and she’s asking God to give her strength.
I stop.
She turns. Smiles at me. She looks as calm and serene as she always does. A vibrant joy in her grey eyes shines through the glass of her spectacles with such intensity I wonder if the lenses will crack. The fine lines around her mouth have deepened. I like to think that’s because she smiles a lot, not because she worries about me.
‘Sylvie, ma petite, I’m blessed to see you,’ she says without breaking eye contact with me, which does nothing to dim my focused determination in my soul to say what’s on my mind. Now. Without a fancy prelude. I can’t wait any longer.
‘Who was my mother, Sister Vincent?’ I don’t kneel down in the pew, but remain standing. ‘I want the truth.’
She doesn’t back away. Her eyes pierce my heart. Their greyness turns dark. Very dark.
‘She was a prostitute from Paris…’ she begins without making excuses, remaining on her knees as if doing penance for keeping her silence. I see her twisting her beads, gripping the wooden orbs, rubbing her sweat on them till they shine. ‘A beautiful woman dying of consumption when she brought you here.’
‘A tragic heroine, n’est-ce pas?’ I snicker. ‘It sounds like a scene from one of my films. How do I know that’s the truth?’ I can’t stop looking at her, disbelieving what I’m hearing. I admire her courage to look me in the eye. I’m still reeling from knowing the fanciful story she told me as a child. How my mother was a wild and beautiful aristocrat who had a secret affair with a roguish stable hand. How she was forced to give me up lest harm come to me from her enemies. How she died in a suspicious fire rather than reveal my whereabouts. She made it sound so fascinating, I wanted to believe it.
‘Because I would never tell a falsehood in front of Him.’
Her eyes drift upward toward the crucifix with Jesus Christ hanging