Mirror, Mirror. Paula Byrne
at the base line, then fading up towards the eyebrow.
Together, they created the famous look, the mysterious face with the sculpted cheeks. The play of light and shadow created with diffused light. Nobody lights you like I do, because nobody loves you like I do. He is a painter of chiaroscuro who sees everything in terms of light and shadow. He places his light, and only then builds a scene around it.
Who else would think of using veils and nets to create shadows? To the amazement of the crew, he removes his cigarette, and burns holes in the net to make the individual spots shine through. Then, when he is satisfied, he sets her in the light he has created for her. He is a magician, a sculptor. She is Galatea, with skin as white as milk. He is Pygmalion. Herr Direktor, her master, Lord of Light. She is his willing slave.
Together they create magic. It is a perfect partnership. He is in love with the image on the silver screen, and so is Madou. But there is a third person in this relationship. Moi. I am the mirror, that never lies.
Mother slipped off her travel pajamas and dressed herself in tailored tweed trousers and a silk shirt. She was cooking goulash for Mo. She tied a lace apron around her waist, and twisted a scarf around her hair.
Mo had found us a new house in Beverly Hills, just north of Sunset Boulevard, on the corner of Bedford and Benedict Canyon. It was a low, white Spanish-style villa, set in an acre of manicured lawns, with the requisite blue swimming pool, ‘for the Child’. I loved the sun-drenched garden; a riot of colour, with huge red and gold trumpet-shaped flowers, orange and lemon trees, figs, camellia, gladioli, and lush green palms, which rustled like paper in the warm breeze. Beside the guest house was a miniature rose garden. Hummingbirds, tiny mechanical jewels, hovered and spun. My bodyguard showed me how to make a bird feeder with sugar and water, which I hung from a tree in the shade.
The Mirror House was perfect for a movie star. Inside, the walls were lined with exquisite hand-painted wallpaper, and lacquered floors were strewn with animal skins. The sunroom was dominated by a large jungle mural, and the sofas and armchairs were covered in butter-soft white leather.
I thought it was oh-so-elegant. Mother thought it vulgar and ‘oh-so-Hollywood’. She lowered the blinds to black out the sun, and rarely ventured out into the garden for fear of ruining her milky-white skin. The only rooms she liked were her ivory and gold bedroom, and the stunning mirrored dining room; its verre églomisé panels depicted towering palms, and wild jungle animals.
Mirrors. There were mirrors everywhere. It was a mini-Versailles. They lined the walls of the interiors, and if that weren’t enough, there were mirrored fireplaces and mirrored furniture; a French-style dressing table, a backgammon table, and mirrored lamps. The doors were framed with mirrors. In Mother’s bedroom, there was even a mirrored ceiling.
Wherever I wandered, I would catch a glimpse of a pudgy little girl, dressed in lurid puff-sleeved organdie dresses, which did little to conceal the rolls of fat around her middle. How horrid she looked. How she must be avoided. I resolved from the first to spend as much time as I could outdoors. That was easy to do if one lived in Hollywood.
Floating on my rubber ring in the blue pool made me feel weightless. Under the watchful eye of my bodyguard, I spent hours in the water as soon as I returned home from the studio. But I was always careful to ensure that I was dressed and ready for dinner when Mother called.
Today, Mother was in the best of moods. The rushes of The Red Queen were a triumph. Mo was happy. As soon as he arrived, Mother removed his shoes, washed and massaged his feet, and encased them in soft Turkish slippers. I poured him a glass of ice-cold champagne. Mother stirred the goulash. I always wondered how she managed never, ever to get a single drop on her clothes.
‘Oh Mo, those long dresses mean that for once they can’t see the famous Madou legs. Serve those damn furriers right. What a joke.’
Mother chuckled. She had also taken a hearty dislike to her handsome co-star, which made her director very happy.
‘Peter … that … useless abortion. Do you know he orders ice-cream for dessert? A grown man! Only Americans eat like children. You know he has Kotex stuffed down there. That mennuble.’
Mo puffed on his pipe and listened. Then he took a deep breath.
‘Sweetheart, have you thought about Kater’s schooling? She needs to be around friends her own age. She shouldn’t be in a soundstage all her young life. It’s not healthy. There will be no kidnapping. She is well protected.’
‘But Mo, she speaks only German. It’s impossible. I will engage a tutor. Maybe you’re right. You are always right.’
I froze. I wanted to learn more English, and I wanted to go to American school, but I couldn’t bear not to be with Mother in the studio.
‘Mutti, who would fetch your hand mirror? And sort the flower cards, and thin your fake eyelashes?’
I need not have worried. Mother had not the slightest intention of sending me to school. She was terrified of me becoming ‘American’, and I was never allowed friends of my own. I worried that I would not be allowed on-set the next morning, as Mother was filming the ‘Examination’ scene. It was my favourite costume, and I longed to see her under Mo’s lights.
When dinner was over, I excused myself from the table and prepared for bed. First, I took my bath. The water turned a rosy pink. My tummy hurt. I called aloud for Mutti who screamed when she saw me: ‘No, this cannot be. She’s only ten.’
(Oh, I thought, so I am ten, not eight or nine.)
‘It must be the Californian weather. Look at the Italians, and the Mexicans are even worse. I should have kept her in Berlin, where it’s cold.’
She was striding around the bathroom.
‘Kater, you must not go near a man. Do you understand me? Stay away from men. Why have you done this to me?’
She towelled me down and gave me a pink silk sanitary belt and a napkin, told me this would happen every month, and sent me to bed. I had no idea why I should stay away from men. Did that mean all men, like Mo, and the pool man? And what about my bodyguard, who helped me to feed the hummingbirds? Life with Mother was so confusing.
I knew she was angry with me. Later, she phoned her mother in Berlin to share her disappointment. I heard snatches of conversation: just a child, Californian heat, never stops eating this terrible food, enormous, diet, tennis lessons, so dreadful for me, how can anyone bear to be a mother of girls … and then I drifted into sleep.
Long after the Child is fast asleep in bed, Madou cleanses her face with witch hazel and puts on a dusky silk nightdress. She has sent Mo home. She wants to be alone. She sits at her dressing table, staring at me, without really seeing. I tell her, over and over again, that she is even more radiant, even more luminous than ever before. She searches her face for fine lines, but there are none on Nefertiti.
It’s that wretched child that has caused her to feel so bad. So selfish. So she’s growing up. No longer a child. Puff-sleeved dresses will return with a vengeance. But Madou has nothing to fear. In this new picture, she will be at her loveliest. Goldberg will make sure of that. It will be his parting present. He will leave her, again, but he will give her his light.
There are times when I have to administer a finger-wagging to those I love. Madou knows the growl of the Black Dog. Her friends see the relentless energy, the commitment, the long hours, the discipline. I see the days spent in bed, with the drawn blinds and the refusal to eat. I shall have to be firm. This business with the Child is a blow; a set-back. I need to impart