Mirror, Mirror. Paula Byrne

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      My memory is hazy about our reunion. How did Mother get to me? The phone lines were down, and people were terrified of the aftershock and hid under tables and door frames. All was quiet. I guess I’ve seen so many film sets that the sight of Hollywood diminished to rubble didn’t seem so peculiar. I always had a problem distinguishing between appearance and reality, and who could blame me?

Find me she did. Our maid took me to her church, which was still standing, though its windows had been blown out. Long Beach was levelled, the House of Mirrors was a mountain of smashed glass, and so we moved into the Beverly Wilshire Hotel for the night. Mother and I lay together in the king-size bed, waiting for the aftershocks, Mother muttering, ‘There are no earthquakes in Germany.’ After running to stand under the door frame three times, we decided to get some sleep. Mother told me about Lacy’s impertinence, reassuring me that she would only ever want to die together with me. I was expected to show my gratitude for the honour of dying with her, but all I could really think about were the delicious black and white ice cream sodas at the hotel’s drugstore fountain.

      Our suite at the Beverly Wilshire was so elegant. In the main room, greeting our arrival, was an enormous bunch of white roses and lilies, and a huge bowl of fruit. Mother hated all fruit except for apples. She took a red apple from the bowl and bit into its crisp flesh, and a dribble of apple juice trickled down her scarlet lips.

Dream Girl

      They escape the House of Mirrors, but will not escape me. The most dangerous place to be in an earthquake is next to a mirror. Broken glass lines the streets of Long Beach; scenes of destruction and debris that look like a war zone in a movie, except for once, in Hollywood, it’s real life. All those broken mirrors create a tsunami of bad luck. In the end, 117 people die in the earthquake, and many more are injured.

It’s a good thing I wasn’t shattered because that would have been the end for Madou. A broken mirror is seven years’ bad luck. Seven because life renews every seven years. Every cell in the body renews so that the person is a different person. Shedding skin, like a snake. Every seven years, skin flakes off, hair falls out; nails break off and regrow. Regenerated cells in the hair, the skin, the liver, the stomach and intestines, the bones. Every seven years, they all become new people with new consciousness. How can anyone know themselves when every seven years the person is changing, the human body in constant flux? Seven years are enough to change every pore and every emotion.

      Some people believe the seven years’ bad luck could be washed away by immersing the pieces of broken shards of mirror in south-flowing water for seven hours. What an absurd superstition. No, you must apologise for your clumsiness and then bury the fragments of the glass in the cold earth, carefully and respectfully.

      If the person happens to be looking into the mirror when they break it, then they fracture their soul. Breaking a magic mirror is even more dangerous. Magic mirrors reflect the shadow soul, and show the true nature of the person being reflected. Certain death will come to those who shatter a magic mirror. The Child wants to protect her shadow soul, so she covers me, especially at night, before she retires to bed. For extra good luck, she recites her favourite poem:

      And moving through a mirror clear

      That hangs before her all the year,

      Shadows of the world appear.

      . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

      But in her web she still delights

      To weave the mirror’s magic sights,

      For often through the silent nights

      A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, went to Camelot:

      Or when the moon was overhead,

      Came two young lovers lately wed;

      ‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said

      The Lady of Shalott.

      Are the gods of Hollywood speaking through the earthquake? I have a feeling that for the next seven years things may not go quite so well for Madou.

Song of Songs

      ‘Papi, you will not believe this … now listen carefully and tell me what to do.

      ‘“Applause for Joan Madou, who has finally dismissed the Jewish director who has always cast her as a prostitute or a fallen woman, but never in the role which would bring dignity to the great citizen and representative of the Third Reich. Now, Madou should come home to the Fatherland, assume her historic role as a leader of the German film industry and end allowing herself to be the tool of Hollywood’s Jews!”

      ‘Do they really believe that I will be returning to Germany, when eight million Jews are trying to escape? Papi, you must leave at once, and you must bring Mother with you. I’ll send you more money. Now, speak to your daughter.’

      ‘Hello, Papi. How is Sofi?’

I knew from the silence that I had displeased my father by my reference to his long-term mistress. But I loved her deeply, and it was so long ago that I had seen her, and felt her arms around me. I should have remembered to be more careful.

      ‘I’m sorry, Papi. I’ve been rude. I miss you so much. I worry about Mutti. She’s seemed so worried, and Mo has gone.’

      ‘Do not worry, Kater. I need to speak to your mother, again.’

      ‘Papi, may I have a dog?’

      ‘Goodbye, Kater.’

      On my father’s advice, Mother contacted the studio’s head of publicity, and later that day announced that she would sever all ties with Germany and apply for American citizenship. She also released a statement, praising Mo as her God: ‘It is not my wish for our association to be broken. I would prefer to go on as in the past. He feels that this is the time for me to go on alone. So that is what I shall do.’

      Many years later, Papi told me of the danger he was under. On the evening of Mother’s statement, Papi was paid a visit requiring him to take on a senior position in the German film industry. He thanked the official for the great honour, and asked for twenty-four hours to think about it. As soon as he was alone, he packed a suitcase, threw it into his car and drove slowly and calmly all through the night until he reached Paris. Don’t bring attention to yourself. Don’t stop. Don’t panic. He told me that he had never been so afraid in all of his life. He then telephoned my mother. She cried with relief. I wondered why she had forgotten to ask about Sofi.

My father was pleased when Mother told him that the studio had renewed her contract, making her the highest paid star in Hollywood. She celebrated by renting a new house in Bel Air, and going jewellery shopping. She went to Trabert & Hoeffer-Mauboussin and bought magnificent cabochon emeralds. People said they were a present from one of her lovers, but that wasn’t true. They were a present to herself. They were to be one of her best investments.

      I called them my sisters. The emerald and diamond cuff was 128 carats, and its huge cabochon stone, the size of a bantam egg, could be snapped into a ring. There were two clips, one pin, a necklace, and a pair СКАЧАТЬ