Seducing Ingrid Bergman (11 page)

The memories revolve obscurely in her head, mixing in a mysterious way with the dark of the hotel room as she feels Capa reach across to touch her hand. The touch, though not unexpected, electrifies her. The air turns thin. Her heart bumps, and she laughs, which is all she can think to do.

Her arms and legs turn watery. The vibration widens to afflict her fingers and stomach. The sensation crowds her chest and stretches her from within.

It surprises her at first to be on his left side. With Petter, she habitually takes up a position on his right. And it seems to her for a minute as if she’s in some odd, reversed world that mirrors her own, where everything is slightly tweaked.

His face passes inside the focus of her eyes, filling the inches between them. They kiss, and it’s as if an icicle enters her head. It feels like his mouth is inside her. The sensation spreads to between her legs, where she feels splayed and achy.

She understands that he has opened her up, this man, this Capa, that he has dismantled her.

A blind sense of will attaches itself to her actions. She’s startled by the violent need she feels. A balance swings within her. She feels for a second her flesh melting, her inner space rising to the surface.

Afterwards they remain almost motionless for several minutes, rocking in a kind of seesaw, an impression of fullness ebbing, and though a gentle dip and swaying motion continues on inside her body, she feels drowsy and becalmed.

She knows that it has happened, that there is no going back. She feels the shift inside her, subtle but transfiguring; she understands that a line has been crossed.

7

Picture this.

Ingrid sits cross-legged on her bed, reading a script the studio has sent her. She’s underlining things with a pencil, scribbling notes in the margin, the tip of her tongue touching her upper lip in concentration.

She gets up, looks at herself in the mirror, feels in a flat mood, glances out the window distractedly.

There’s a knock on the door.

She moves to open it. And there stands one of the hotel waiters with a trolley on which lies a bottle of Krug in a bucket of ice, and two sparkling glasses.

‘Your champagne, Madame.’

‘I didn’t order this.’

‘No?’ The waiter stands there, uncertain what to do. He begins to retreat.

‘No, wait,’ she says. ‘Bring it inside.’

She sneaks a look down the hotel corridor as the jiggling trolley is manoeuvred into the room. There’s no one.

At least that’s how I imagine it. Perfect.

But what I don’t reckon on is the fact that an increasingly suspicious Joe, hearing Ingrid’s voice down the corridor, will emerge from his room to see what’s going on. And of course, he sees the trolley with the champagne and two incriminating glasses being wheeled into her room.

He surmises correctly that someone – probably me – must be about to make his way up, and in that instant resolves to intercept me. After a quick check of the stairs, he makes his way to the elevator.

So there I am downstairs, oblivious to this, waiting until the desk is busy and heading beyond reception to call the lift.

The light pings on, showing the top floor. It seems to take an age to descend. The waiting grows steep inside me. I watch the fan of numbers above the door. The light snags on 4, then 3, and 2. And by the time it finally reaches the ground floor and the doors slide open, there is Joe towering above me, standing ready, keeper of the castle, protector of the Queen’s bedroom. He recognizes me straightaway. His eyebrows form one unbroken line of dark hair. The line rises as he speaks. ‘Excuse me, sir, are you a guest here?’ He knows full well that I’m not.

‘I’m meeting someone,’ I say.

‘Are you registered?’

‘It’s all arranged.’

The doors slide shut.

I push the button. The bellboy opens the doors again, throwing a rectangle of light on both of us.

Joe looms over me, blocking the way. ‘I’m afraid it’s against hotel rules to allow visitors up to the rooms.’

‘I see.’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t realize that.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He’s enjoying this pantomime.

I notice a small gap between his two front teeth, which accounts for his slight lisp.

‘My friend will be disappointed,’ I say.

He smiles, relishing the power he holds over me. ‘I’m sure your friend will understand.’

It’s clear he’s not going to budge. I slope back through reception. But when he isn’t looking, I dart across the lobby.

At that exact moment, some instinct makes him turn and he catches sight of me as I head up the stairs.

I see him rush towards the elevator, but it’s too late. The doors have already closed. The lift has gone up again, so he’ll have to press the button and wait. I have a few seconds on him. I run up the stairs as fast as I can, taking them two at a time.

It is enough. Just.

I race down the corridor, its subdued lights and rich carpet, the oil paintings and smell of cleanliness.

By the time Joe exits the lift, Ingrid is already answering the knock on her door.

She sees first me, then Joe, and is quick to see what’s going on. ‘Is there a problem, Joe?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Have you met Mr Capa?’

His strength drains visibly, his shoulders falling. ‘He’s not on the list.’

‘He’s a friend.’

Joe says nothing. His eyes avoid mine.

‘You’ll be seeing quite a lot of him, probably.’

‘Does Mr Selznick know about this?’ He says the name with an odd emphasis. It’s clear he’s trying to intimidate her.

She stares at him.

He doesn’t back down, returns her gaze.

‘Mr Selznick and I understand each other.’

‘It’s my job to protect you, ma’am.’

‘You needn’t worry, Joe. Mr Capa was in the war. He can handle things.’

A look of subdued fury puts a kink in his brow. His fists clench and unclench, and his instinct is probably to slug me, but he knows he can’t, and that must make him mad.

Ingrid plants a kiss on his cheek as though removing a thorn from his paw. But if she’s hoping to placate him, she’s mistaken.

He walks away stiffly, humiliated.

Inside, I see Ingrid has already poured the champagne.

*   *   *

She’s late. I’ve been waiting at a restaurant on avenue George V for over half an hour. She isn’t coming, I think. She’s thought better of it. I take a sip of wine, then another, and resist the urge to check my watch again. Instead I consult the menu for the tenth time.

Maybe she misheard me, thought I meant somewhere else.

I try to remember details of the conversation. I’m convinced it was here. The arrangement was clear. I tell myself to stop looking at the entrance, to stop watching everyone who comes in the door. I decide to give her five more minutes.

Five minutes pass.

Does she have to spell it out?

She’s not coming. She’s changed her mind, had second thoughts. Isn’t it obvious that she regrets what has happened? Isn’t it clear she considers it all a dreadful mistake?

What begins as a tiny seed of doubt swells to a terrible certainty. She realizes how much she loves her husband, her daughter, her home. She realizes how much she values her career. She wants to erase everything that has happened, pretend that nothing took place. She has no wish to hurt me, but at the same time she needs the message to be clear and unambiguous. It’s over, and she wants me to leave her alone. Either that, I think, or maybe Joe has got to her, issued her with some threat.

Then, just as I’m about to give up and leave, I hear a few light footsteps, the rustle of stockinged legs, the long swish of a skirt.

I stand up. ‘I didn’t think you were coming.’

She sits down. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t remove her jacket.

I signal to the waiter.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’ she says.

‘I wasn’t sure you wanted me to.’

‘You’re right. I’m not sure I did.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Maybe you’d better not call again.’ A silence follows. She plucks a petal from a vase on the table, begins rolling it into a thin tube.

‘You’re joking,’ I say.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘And you?’

*   *   *

The next day, I figure she’ll be late again.

I’m wrong.

With a cigarette in my left hand and concealing a bunch of flowers in my right, I arrive mid-morning at the table where Ingrid is waiting.

‘Where were you?’

‘In the tub.’

‘All this time?’ A glass rests in her hand like a translucent piece of fruit.

‘I was reading.’

‘
War and Peace
?’

I smile.

She chews her lips for several seconds before making her announcement. ‘I’ve extended my stay for another few weeks.’

I nod, take this in. ‘What about your dentist friend?’

‘My husband?’

‘He won’t be upset?’

‘I don’t suppose so.’

‘You’re sure?’

She re-crosses her legs. ‘Maybe it’s me that won’t,’ she says. ‘Anyway, it must be a relief not having to look after me.’

‘And your daughter?’

Her mouth seems suddenly a hole through which everything drains. She puts down her glass. After a silence, she says, ‘Apparently she’s been trying on my clothes.’ She half-laughs, but the thought clearly pains her in its sweetness. She pushes her drink away, looks at me unflinchingly. ‘You know what scares me most in all this?’ Solemn, she doesn’t give me a chance to answer. ‘I’m getting to like you far too much.’

Not knowing what else to do, I hand her the flowers. ‘Happy birthday,’ I say.

Though still touched with sadness and not as happy as I’d hoped, she seems genuinely surprised. Slowly her face brightens. ‘How did you know?’

Her head tilts to one side like a bird’s. Her face widens into a smile before squeezing inwards in an attempt to contain it, like water brimming to the lip of a glass.

‘What do you want to do?’

‘Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought.’

‘Anything special?’

‘Why don’t you surprise me?’

‘You’ll be disappointed.’

She pouts, a little wearily. ‘I’m used to being spoiled.’

‘I can tell.’

She shifts her hips, makes a face. ‘So what
do
you give the woman who has everything?’

I consider for a second. ‘Penicillin?’

I buy her a scarf, organize more flowers – white roses – and present her with a photograph I took of her at the Étoile.

For lunch, I take her to a Hungarian restaurant in Montparnasse and order pepper-and-egg casserole. It’s the dish that most reminds me of home.

When I ask her what she wants to do for the rest of the day, she says she just wants to eat and drink and make love, and then eat and drink and make love some more.

I’ll do my best, I tell her, to fit in with her schedule.

We have late afternoon drinks at the Crillon, then dinner at Chez Anna. Tipped off, the waiter makes a little ceremony of presenting a cake.

‘Happy birthday,’ I whisper.

It takes two attempts to blow out the candles. With her eyes squeezed tight shut, she makes a wish.

I cut through the fine-spun icing sugar into the fruit cake below. We wash it down with a glass of Marsala.

I ask her if she feels any different.

She lifts her napkin with both hands to her lips. ‘I feel happy,’ she says.

Without moving her head but tilting her eyes, she indicates a middle-aged couple seated at the table next to us. They are silent, chewing their food. Since we’ve been here, they’ve barely exchanged a word. Ingrid leans forward, tactfully angling her fork. ‘Can you ever imagine us sitting together like that?’

‘Maybe they’re content.’

‘They’re not speaking.’ She pops a forkful of cake into her mouth, looks at me for a response.

I move closer. For once, it is me who wants to be serious. ‘What is it you want in life?’

‘Oh, the same as any woman.’

‘And what’s that?’

She considers for an instant. ‘The perfect pair of red shoes.’

I smile, lean back.

Her eyebrows rise as something occurs to her. ‘I forgot to tell you. A man asked me to marry him yesterday.’

‘He did? Who?’

‘I’ve never seen him before. He just came up to me in a café. He said he’d been observing me.’

‘A journalist?’

‘He said that from the moment he saw me, he knew I was the one, that I wasn’t to worry, that I could take as long as I liked to decide, that I’d realize in the end it was inevitable and that we were meant to be together.’

‘What did you say?’

She smiles, adds sugar to her coffee. ‘The wedding is next Thursday.’

‘Am I invited?’

She laughs. ‘You’re the photographer, silly.’

‘Is that how you think of me?’

She stops eating for a moment. ‘Who says I think of you?’

I look at her, her chin resting in one hand, and laugh. She’s funnier than any woman I know. We hold each other’s gaze for several seconds. The moment grows serious and we both recognize it. Having acknowledged this fact in silence to ourselves, I feel the need to make her smile again. ‘I should tell you,’ I say, ‘when I was born, they thought I was special.’

‘Why?’

‘I had an extra finger on one hand.’

She glances at my hand. ‘What happened?’

‘They cut it off.’

‘Ouch.’

‘At the same time as my foreskin.’

She winces.

‘More cake?’ Smiling, I hold the knife up, glinting, ready to cut another slice.

*   *   *

At Ingrid’s favourite nightclub, Chez Carrière on the Champs Elysées, we dance very close. The stately wail of the saxophones makes us cling closer. Neither of us wants to let go.

At five in the morning, we walk home in the city’s smoky light. The air is cool after the shock of rain. The streets are damp and lit. It’s funny: when you’re out so early in the morning, you can’t understand why more people aren’t up enjoying the start of the day. It seems criminal to miss the first light, the birdsong, the delicious chill in the air. You feel privileged because you’re in it from the beginning, getting an edge on everyone.

The metal shutters of the shops are still closed, the leaves glisten, and a film of mist hovers over the river. The only sound is that of our feet on the cobbles.