The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr

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СКАЧАТЬ to find a woman’s secret places with their kisses, who take me in their arms and capture my soul with their fire, who don’t care or don’t know I’m Sylvie Martone.

      Emil finds another way to make me do his bidding.

      I’m dropped from a film for allegedly violating an obscure morals clause in my studio contract nobody ever pays attention to or there’d be no one making films. I realize if I want to stay on top, I have no choice but to acquiesce to his wishes. A sour moment in our relationship that makes me feel young and raw again – that I have no say in my own life no matter how much money I make or how many box office hits I have. No doubt Emil was the ‘unknown source’ making the accusation that was never proven, but it was enough to ‘suspend’ me. I hate how he uses his dominance over me to make me date the producers and studio moneymen who pay my salary. I’ll bed them, if I must. But it’s a cold bed. Not hot and passionate like the straw pallet in an artist loft in Montmartre, or the book-filled garret of the dashing young philosophy student.

      Do I fall in love?

      No, Sylvie Martone cannot fall in love. It’s against Emil’s rules.

      God knows, my heart is fragile. I have no one to share everything I’ve worked so hard for.

      On a whim, I drive out to the convent in my new, Italian, red Bugatti roadster to show Sister Vincent and ask her advice on how to nourish my wandering spirit. She blesses herself numerous times when she sees the expensive vehicle and asks if we can go for a ride with the top down. She never stops oohing and aahing the fancy car and I never get around to telling her the real reason I sneaked out of Paris. I’m lonely. I don’t make friends easily – a byproduct of fame. The irony is I’ve built a golden cage for myself and even when I fly away, I must return to that cage alone. No man could ever understand my passion to make films, the sacrifices I’ve endured, that I’m not made to bear children and make a home.

      The truth is, I can’t bear a child.

      Or so it seems. More than once I’ve fallen madly in love with a man and find such passion in his arms he can’t stop and I don’t want him to, hoping a child will be born of that passion, knowing I can give that child everything, love her, and adore her.

      And pray the man of my passion will marry me.

      Then I wait… and again I’m disappointed. My monthlies flow and I nurse an empty heart instead of a baby.

      So I’ve embraced my fans as my children, my films are my legacy to them. I make sure the bouncy schoolchildren in my neighborhood behind the carriage gate of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine have shoes, the mothers have milk, and their husbands and brothers the tools they need to ply their trades.

      To do so, I must work.

      I have no choice but to fall in line, do what Emil wishes.

      I never want to go hungry. I’ve seen the destitute humiliation of the people who live in the northern parts of Paris, men with their backs broken from arduous labor, children begging for sous, women selling their hair to buy bread.

      That thought is on my mind a lot. The world is in a Great Depression, though France is hit later than the rest of Europe. What else can I do but act? I never learnt to make lace in the convent, I have no trade. I’ve gotten used to an extravagant lifestyle with an expensive haute couture wardrobe, jewels. Then Emil insists I take an expensive apartment in the Trocadéro in the 16e arrondissement where I can entertain film industry notables.

      But I’m still that girl who had the brashness to act out her 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 СКАЧАТЬ