A Fine Imitation (12 page)

The first thing Vera did the next morning was to give Arthur's instructions about the dinner reservations to Evans. The thought of dinner out with her husband elated her, but she had two whole days and a night to fill until then. For once she was sorry to have a blank spot on her calendar. Lunch with her mother and preparing to go out would occupy her tomorrow, but this day stretched out in front of her, full of empty hours.

She dressed and had Evans call for the car to take her shopping. She was not a great shopper, as most of the women in the Angelus were, but it was a pleasant enough way to take up some time. Though most of her clothing was custom made, she liked the doting saleswomen at Bonwit Teller.

She rode the elevator down, considering whether she should have crackers and pâté in the library or have Gertrude lay out a more formal late lunch when she returned. The operator slid the elevator doors open, and she took a step out, only to find Hallan talking to the doorman. She stopped short.

“Hello, Mrs. Bellington,” Hallan said with a smile. “Something the matter?”

“No, nothing. I was lost in thought,” she said. “Are you going out?”

“I am. Thought I might go see a matinee. I was talking to Joe here about where to go.”

Vera turned to the glass doors of the lobby. “The weather is dreadful.”

His grin widened. “Don't have to worry about that inside the theater. Besides, aren't you going out, too?”

“Right. Of course.” She clenched her jaw and brushed past him, heading for the door. “I hope you enjoy the show.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to tease you. Have you seen
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
yet? That's what I'm planning to see,” he called after her.

She turned back, suppressing a sigh. “I haven't. Sorry.”

“Well, it just came out, didn't it? Silly question. But…do you like the pictures? I mean, would you like to go? I hate to go alone.”

She glanced at the doorman, who studied a list on his desk. “I don't know…”

“We had such a nice time at the museum. And I'd love to talk art with you a little more. Hard to do that at the dinner parties.”

A prickle of irritation ran through her. She did not want the doorman to get the wrong impression from Hallan's description of their accidental meeting in the museum. The doorman never lifted his eyes from his stack of papers, however, and her annoyance faded. A strong desire to go with Hallan surprised her. Besides, her afternoon still yawned before her, diversion free. A movie would be half a day's worth of distraction. And, despite her self-consciousness about the museum, she had to admit there could be no scandal about an outing so public. “Yes, thank you,” she said at last, with a nod.

Hallan's lips parted for a moment before he was able to respond. “Really? Thought it might be harder to convince you.”

She ignored his incredulity, afraid her certainty would waver. “Shall we take my car? It's ready at the curb.”

“You sure it's no trouble? You didn't have plans?”

“Nothing pressing.”

“Wonderful.”

Vera and Hallan hurried out to the sidewalk, where the driver waited with the door open. They slid into the backseat.

“So sorry to spring this on you, George,” she said, placing her umbrella on the floor far from her shoes. “I've had a change of plan. My husband doesn't need the car at all this afternoon, does he?”

“No, madam. Where may I take you?”

She turned to Hallan. “Do you know where it's playing?”

“Joe said something about a ‘Rialto'?”

“To the Rialto, please.” She settled back in the seat as George pulled the car into the lane.

Hallan shifted to face her. “Is that one of those picture palaces?”

“It is. It's lovely, like an opera house.” She smiled a little to herself. “I was never allowed to go to the pictures when they first came out. My mother would sooner have seen me cleaning coal out of a grate than at one of those nickelodeons. But now they have the Rialto, the Strand…it's almost like real theater.” She paused. “You don't have many of them in France, do you? Or in…I'm sorry, I'm not sure exactly where you're from originally.”

He looked out the window, gazing up at the towering buildings. The glass reflected the familiar gleam in his eye. “France will do fine. It's all the same over there anyway. There were some of those grand places, but the war shut most of them down. The ones that weren't bombed. More than a few smaller places to see a picture, though.”

Vera studied her gloved hands. “I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking about the war.”

“Well, I'm looking forward to seeing the Rialto, anyhow. And the picture. How often do you go?”

“Not very often. We're more regular at the opera, the ballet, the symphony, that sort of thing. When we go out at all.”

“Arthur must not approve of the way you look at Valentino, then?”

She swallowed a laugh. She would rather have been upset at his frankness, but she knew too many women whose gaze lost focus when talking of Rudolph Valentino. “I don't care for Mr. Valentino, actually,” she said.

“Mmm. Me either.” Hallan shot her an amused look.

“Why did you choose this movie in particular?” she asked. “Are you a fan of the novel?”

“I haven't read it,” he said. “But I saw the poster yesterday when I was out for a walk. Thought it looked entertaining enough.”

“Not a reader, then?”

“Never said I wasn't a reader.”

“Then what do you read?”

“Poetry, mainly.”

“Poetry, you don't say. Any particular favorites?”

“I've always been partial to Gerard Manley Hopkins.”

“I'd have pegged you as a Byron man, myself.”

Hallan laughed. “Byron's not bad. ‘She walks in beauty…' ” He motioned to Vera with a wry look. “In my experience religion is a safer topic than women.”

“Is that so?” She picked at her skirt. The corners of her mouth rose. “You'd never know that to talk to you.”

“Well, talking
to
women is a different thing altogether than talking
about
women, isn't it?”

“I'm sure I don't know,” she replied in a mock-haughty tone.

The car glided to a stop in front of a boldly flashing sign made up of hundreds of colored bulbs. Above the doors, between the second and third floors, a sign proclaimed
RIALTO
in blazing white lights. As they stepped out, Hallan craned his neck back, eagerly taking in the sight. Vera told her driver when to return and followed Hallan toward the entrance. He went to get a better look at a poster, and Vera stepped in front of him to the box office.

“Two orchestra, please,” she said. She pushed the money across the counter, and Hallan spun on his heel.

“Now, just a minute. I'm not going to let a lady pay,” he said with a frown.

“My pleasure. You are our guest, after all.” Vera accepted the tickets from the smiling girl behind the glass.

Hallan offered his arm. “And what does ‘best society' think of a woman paying a man's way into the theater?”

She looped an arm through his elbow. “I expect they think less of a woman going to entertainments with a man who is not her husband,” Vera said, careful to keep her tone light.

“I'm sure a midday picture show with a neighbor is no stain on your virtue.” He squeezed her hand in the crook of his arm and dropped back into a more casual tone. “I'm glad you agreed to spend a bit of time with me. I'm looking forward to talking more.”

The two stopped to give their coats to the attendant at the cloakroom and Hallan left his hat. They stepped down the thick-carpeted stairs to the middle of the house and took seats a few spaces away from the next people over. Vera was pleased to see that they were among the very few people in attendance, and most of the others appeared to be middle- or lower-class women sitting in the balconies. Hallan and Vera practically had the orchestra to themselves.

“I don't think we'll have much time to talk. I'm not sure how people behave in theaters in France, but in New York, it's considered very bad manners to converse during a show.” Vera held her skirt down in the back so it would not wrinkle when she sat on it.

“No, of course. Naturally.” Hallan surveyed the intricately molded ceiling and painted wall screens. “I'll have to convince you to have a drink with me after, so we can make up for our silence during the show.”

The house lights went down before Vera could make a retort, and she flushed. It was kind of him to invite her to the pictures, but she had no intention of going anywhere else with Hallan that day. She hoped he would not press the issue.

The orchestra started up with a booming tune that Vera thought a little too energetic for the afternoon. A piano solo followed that was much more to her taste, rolling and cool. The newsreel showed footage from the Frontier Mine explosion in Wyoming. Vera had already seen photographs in the paper that turned her stomach, so she feigned attention in the beading at the hem of her sleeve. Hallan had his eyes on the painted ceiling and the elaborate carvings at the edges of the screen. She was not sure if he was simply engrossed in the decor, or if he, too, lacked the stomach for the disturbing scenes of the devastation.

At last, the screen lit up with the opening credits. Then the cathedral at Notre Dame appeared. Probably a replica, Vera reasoned. The film must have been made in California; all the pictures were these days. The likeness to the original cathedral was astounding. Crowds spilled into the town square below it, filling the screen. On a balcony, the hunchback finally stepped into the light. A shock went through Vera that seemed to travel from her eyes to the tips of her fingers. She knew enough about the book to know that the monster was meant to be hideous, but she had not expected the actor to look so grotesque. Perhaps a disordered wig, a small shuffle in his step…but this man had a bulging, unblinking eye and lumps disfiguring the shape of his face. Joy lit up his features briefly as the bells tolled behind him, but his smile quickly fell away at the revelry of the people below him. He bared his ragged teeth at the crowd assembled in the square. Even though they were far below, the people recoiled. The hunchback began to move his twisted legs, stumbling across gargoyles as he made his way back into the cathedral.

Vera leaned over, ready with a whispered question about the actor for Hallan, but the expression on his face stopped her. His eyes were lit up from within, glowing with the same radiant joy that had shone when he examined the paintings in the museum. The flickering light of the film cast shadows on his face, accenting his high cheekbones. Vera turned back to the screen, her question abandoned.

As she grew more accustomed to seeing the features of the hunchback, she settled in to the story. The gorgeous and virtuous Esmeralda, played by Patsy Ruth Miller, met the dashing Phoebus, and their inevitable love story began to unfold. But it was increasingly clear that the monster loved her as much as Phoebus did. The hunchback saved her, even at his own peril, and destroyed his master for her sake. She would never choose the monster, would she?

Sadly, she had no such choice to make. The hunchback was stabbed in the final struggle and crept off to die as Phoebus and Esmeralda embraced. The monster's sacrifice meant Esmeralda was freed from any obligation to him.

Vera's throat constricted. An uncomfortable stiffness ran up her back, and she had the urge to run out of the theater. She pulled a handkerchief from her handbag and patted her temples as the lights came up dimly over the house. Hallan stood and held out his hand, still blinking away the awed look on his face.

“I didn't know you were so enthralled by the pictures,” Vera said, standing.

“It's always been a bit of a dream of mine to go out west. To California. See the studios.” A smile twitched on his lips, but it was not the usual clever smirk. He looked more like a child anticipating a gift. “It's just a new kind of art, isn't it?”