Seducing Ingrid Bergman (6 page)

I didn’t even take her photograph.

The breeze continues off the river. The water stinks, but its wrinkles glimmer with starlight like bits of metal in the dark.

We walk on through the Tuileries back towards her hotel. When we arrive at the square, she stops.

‘Good night,’ she says.

‘Good night,’ I say, matching her formality.

Without looking back, she heads across the place Vendôme towards the revolving door of the Ritz hotel and the uniformed porters now standing inside.

I look down to see her feet, pale and slender on the cobbles, her toes making splinters of silver, her steps leaving not the remotest trace behind.

That I would eventually meet a woman like Ingrid, there has never been any doubt in my mind. I’ve always taken it as a given, like a card in the pack that must turn up. But where and how this would eventually happen has long remained a mystery, as remote as the notion of a long-lost twin. I always imagined that it would be announced somehow, foreshadowed by some sign, but in the blind way of things, it never occurred to me that she might arrive just like this, in a hotel lobby in the first weeks after the war.

What astonishes me most, though, given who she is, is the ordinariness of it. Still, it’s as familiar as all miracles turn out to be.

Am I sure that I’ve met her now? As sure as I can be with the dark of the night and the quiet of the city around me. The conviction grows within me. She exists, as solid as any object, as fragile and alive as the heartbeat in my chest.

Something about her corresponds to a shape inside me, a shadow stored within. I pursue the intuition and recall how my chin touched her hair while dancing, remember the rosiness of her ears, the smell of her perfume rising to my nostrils. And already, bathed in moonlight, the moment lives in my memory, one note short of golden.

Already I’m conscious of a hum inside my head. The sensation makes me, as I return to my hotel room, for an instant a little dizzy.

*   *   *

She’s exhausted, yet exhilarated. From the moment she stepped onto the metal staircase of the airplane and tasted the air wavy with the plane’s vapour, saw the grass nubbly like an old jumper, she knew she felt at home. And then tonight she had a ball with the two pressmen, one of them charming, romantic, with eyes so dark she wanted to wash them. She was able to forget herself for the first time in ages, able to drink, to dance, to walk freely in the warm night air.

Her publicity manager, Joe Steele, is less than happy, though. He has waited up, worried something might have happened to her. No one knew where she was. The war might be over, he tells her in the lift up to her floor, but it’s still dangerous on the streets, especially for a woman alone at night. What was she doing out until the early hours? She knew she had to get up early in the morning. If Petter or the studio were to find out, they’d be furious with her, with both of them. She’s here to work. He doesn’t want it to happen again. He hopes she understands.

Released from his onslaught by the opening doors, Ingrid waves away his concern, reassures him that she’s a grown-up and can take care of herself, that he can trust her. And when she says it, she believes it, and has no reason to think otherwise. At the same time, something inside her feels gleefully disobedient. Who cares what this man thinks? She wants to enjoy herself, wants to experience everything this city has to offer, and she’s not going to let Joe Steele prevent her from doing that. This time there is no script, no restriction, and there’s a limit to the influence even the studio can exert from five and a half thousand miles away. The sudden sense of freedom she feels is dizzying, like a blast of pure oxygen.

Reaching her room, she unlocks her door and is quick to wish Joe good night.

She sleeps soundly for five hours before the wake-up call, and then she’s amazed to find she doesn’t have a hangover. She kept the window open so there was fresh air in her room all night and drank lots of water before going to bed. Was she really dancing in a club until the early hours with those two newspapermen? And who is this Capa?

She sets the bath taps running. Removing her nightdress, she becomes conscious suddenly of how she looks in her own skin, away from everything. She strikes several sideways and backwards poses in the mirror before the glass steams up. Then she twists her hair and pins it up briskly. Her skin goes pink with the heat as she immerses herself luxuriously in the tub. The room around her warms and reddens as she closes her eyes.

4

The
Life
offices are packed and smoky, with the usual crowd of newspapermen playing poker in the locker room.

Though he confesses that he can’t remember how he got back to the hotel or how drunk he was in the taxi, Irwin still seems sore about what happened the other night. I join the table and he wastes no time in getting even. Usually extravagant, he establishes himself as a tight better and folds early, so that when he stays in and raises, the rest of us guess he must have a strong hand. It’s as though the cards are transparent to him. We’re completely suckered.

‘You can’t have all the luck,’ Irwin says, his eyes avoiding mine.

Luck?

I remember my father one year at Passover chewing on a cheap cigar, pointing at the rabbit’s foot dangling round my cousin’s neck. ‘It didn’t do the rabbit much good,’ he said.

Irwin collects his winnings, dragging a wrinkled heap of bills from the middle of the table.

My editor chooses this moment to retrieve a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘By the way, Capa, the accounting department sent this back. It seems they won’t allow you to put your gambling debts on expenses.’ He holds it between finger and thumb as if finding it distasteful.

I take the piece of paper, leaving him still holding his thumb and finger like pincers in the air.

Isn’t it great, I think, the way they keep the negatives and retain the copyright, the way they own everything you do, yet they won’t even agree to cover a few lousy poker losses? ‘It was worth a try, no?’

He looks at me with the same scrutiny he shows hunkered over contact sheets with his magnifying glass and blue pencil. ‘You may be the world’s greatest war photographer, Capa, but you’re a terrible poker player.’

I break into a smile, wonder what I’ve done to deserve this hostility all of a sudden.

‘When is she back?’ Irwin says, looking at me for the first time.

*   *   *

Sunday, it’s hot. The church bells seem sluggish, the leaves sticky in the heat. Only the river churns coolly under the sun.

I carry an outsize bottle of Arpège, over half my height, through the doors of the Ritz hotel and into reception. It’s heavy and square, the glass slippery in my fingers. I can just about manage to hold it sideways. The task is made more difficult by the cameras dangling round my neck. I drag it the last few yards screechingly across the floor.

The clerk at the desk winces, a look of horror overtaking his face. Hands on hips and clearly outraged, he regards me as if I’m mad. A gold tooth flashes inside his mouth.

I ask to see Ingrid. I know she’s returning from Berlin.

‘She’s not here,’ he says. And he can’t tell me when she’ll be back. He refuses to give me her room number. Nor will he disclose how long she’s intending to stay. He says, ‘It’s the policy of the hotel never to give out such information.’

I explain that it’s important.

‘They all say that,’ he says, peering over his pince-nez.

‘No, really.’

I ask him to check if she’s left a message.

He checks, tells me that she has left no message.

‘Perhaps she didn’t get my telegram.’

‘That must be it,’ sniffs the clerk.

At this moment, as if conjured by an act of will, Ingrid appears at the bottom of the stairs. She’s wearing a long navy skirt and a matching turtleneck sweater. Her hair seems a little longer and curlier since we last met.

The clerk looks astonished to see her, though he tries to hide the fact. He slips into silence, busying himself and fussing with some papers on the desk. It is obvious that he has not passed on any message. Ingrid in turn looks surprised to see me, and startled to see the monstrous bottle of Arpège standing there, attracting the stares of the staff and other guests. She seems more embarrassed than amused, and not the least impressed.

I brush some dust off the shoulders of the bottle. ‘It’s for you,’ I say. I spread my hands like a conjuror revealing the final trick of his show.

A giant clanking and hauling starts above us as I call the lift. A system of pulleys moves upwards as the counterweight falls.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘I liberated it.’

‘You mean you took it?’

‘You don’t approve?’

‘You have to take it back.’

‘I thought you’d like it.’

‘You thought wrong,’ she says, with irritated quickness.

We exit the lift, the bottle squeezed between us, its contents sloshing audibly inside. With some effort, I drag the enormous bottle of perfume into her room.

She closes the door. ‘How did you know I was back?’

‘I’m a newspaperman, remember. I know everything.’

She remains standing, folds her arms. ‘I’ll remember that.’

I notice how big the room is, how light inside, with long windows overlooking the square. The bed, its white sheets and coverlet, dominate the right-hand side of the room.

She sees me looking.

I look away. ‘Aren’t you going to smell it, at least?’

With a huff and a reluctant tug, she unseals the bottle. As I tilt it, she sniffs, dabs a little scent on her fingers and then sniffs again, first curious and then sceptical. She shakes her head. ‘That’s not Arpège.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m pretty sure it’s just water.’

‘You’re kidding.’

She sniffs again. ‘Coloured water.’

‘What are you talking about?’

She inhales once more. ‘It’s a display model,’ she says, with a hint of triumph. ‘Can’t you see? You think they make bottles of scent that big?’

‘They might.’

I smell it myself just to make sure. I can’t believe it. No distinctive scent or sweetness, no hint of a fragrance. Just the flat bland smell of water. I scratch my head.

Ingrid begins to laugh, relaxing. Her mood switches from mild anger to hilarity. Her smile widens to reveal a ring of white teeth.

I’ve never felt so dumb.

‘Capa,’ she says, adopting a schoolmistressy tone and shaking her head as though to scold me.

But I see with relief that she’s still smiling. And her blue eyes fall on me, two small bright things in this big grey city. Searchlights in the dark.

*   *   *

The afternoon is blue, translucent. The shadows on the ground look sharp enough to cut. Ingrid wears dark glasses. We sit under the alcoves of the place des Vosges, drinking white wine and smoking American cigarettes.

‘Did the tour go well?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Well, mostly.’

‘Why, what happened?’

She hesitates. Her nose wrinkles. ‘The soldiers started waving condoms above their heads.’

‘What were you doing? Dancing?’

‘Reading a poem.’

I laugh out loud.

She crosses her legs. ‘What was I supposed to do? I can’t tell jokes, I can’t sing, I don’t play an instrument.’

‘I wouldn’t worry. It’s not as if they have much chance to use them.’

‘I guess not,’ she says, blushing.

‘I use them all the time.’

She doesn’t look at me.

I sit back, remove the cigarette from my mouth. ‘They keep my cameras dry.’

Still she doesn’t meet my eye, but slowly her solemn expression melts into a smile. She reaches for her drink. Sunlight hits the glass and the reflected brilliance wriggles on her cheek. ‘How’s Irwin?’

‘Irwin’s fine.’

‘He got back all right the other night?’

‘He was drunker than he should have been.’

‘He wasn’t mad?’

‘No, why?’

‘At leaving me alone with you?’

‘You mean, was he jealous?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Should he be?’

A silence follows.

She puts out her cigarette. Her stockinged legs whisper as she re-crosses them. She glances at her watch. ‘I have to go.’

‘Already?’

She scribbles something on a piece of paper. ‘Here. You’ll be needing this.’

‘What is it?’

It’s her telephone number in Berlin, where her contract requires that she return for another week. I hold the piece of paper, look across at Ingrid, but she’s already gathering her pocketbook and scarf. I fold the paper carefully and place it in my breast pocket, over my heart. And it occurs to me suddenly that, if all the cryptographers in the world were asked to decode the mystery of a woman, to unlock her secret and discover some invisible key, then maybe this is what they’d come up with: a telephone number freely bestowed.

Standing, ready to leave, Ingrid removes her dark glasses and adopts a purposeful tone. ‘Come on, then. I thought you wanted a photograph.’

Afterwards I float down the streets feeling weightless. I’m running suddenly, full of energy. I run until my legs grow tired, until a stitch afflicts my side and my lungs begin to burn.

She likes me, I think. And I like her.

I feel suddenly invulnerable, handsome and alive. It’s like one of those photographs of a war-torn city where, amid the ruins, one building stands upright, glittering in the sun. The one clean note: happiness.

Then back in my room, I think of all the terrible things that have happened in the last few years, the people who have gone, who are lost for ever, the lives destroyed, of Gerda crushed by a tank, and without warning I begin to cry.

*   *   *

The next day, Irwin sees me.

‘What’s going on between you two, anyway?’

‘Nothing. I swear it.’

‘Really?’

‘We’re just friends.’

Irwin shakes his head emphatically as though talking to a child. ‘Men and women can’t be friends.’

‘You don’t think?’

‘Are you fucking her?’

I don’t respond.

‘Well, are you?’

‘What do
you
think?’ I say.