Stardust (10 page)

He heard a crunch of tires and turned to see a black Packard pulling up. The others had had to park near the gates. A driver hopped out to open the doors. First a little man Ben didn’t know, then Alma Mahler, making her entrance. She was dressed for a Viennese funeral the emperor himself might have attended, long black silk with a sizable hat, and without hesitation made her way to the front of the crowd. Ben watched her approach, fascinated. Everybody’s mistress, now broadened and grown outward, a kind of pouter pigeon effect, but still turning heads. She put her hand on Liesl’s arm as she took her place near the family, then nodded to Ben, her eyes interested, someone new.

Her arrival seemed to give permission to start: a man went to the wall and turned to face them, opening his hands. Ben had been told there would be a rabbi, but his dark suit was like all the others and the service was so secular, no religion specified, that Ben wondered if the cemetery had rules about who could be buried there.
Judenrein
. He looked at the flowers, bouquets, and wreaths with long name ribbons in the German style, then at the open square where they would put the box. After which everyone could move on. He felt Liesl next to him, holding herself erect, getting through it. What would Kelly find, a tabloid love triangle, with pictures of the Cherokee nest? Bury him. Why not a tipsy fall? What difference did it make?

“Heinrich Kaltenbach will say a few words.”

The little man who’d come with Alma opened a piece of paper, then closed it, visibly upset, his round face drawn.

“Only a few, not a speech,” he said, his accent thick, uncomfortable. “I speak also for Alma and Franz, for many of us here. There is for us a great debt. We owe this man our lives. He came with us. On foot. Only a little farther, he would say. To the border. You remember, Alma?” he said, looking at her, waiting for her nod, a little drama. “And you know what she’s carrying, in the suitcase? The manuscript. Bruckner’s Fourth. So not just lives, culture, he’s saving culture. For this everybody owes him. Please, if you don’t mind,” he said, then switched into German, his speech picking up pace, fluent now.

The Americans stood respectfully, trying not to look blank, but for the Germans it was a release, something real after the generic service, with the heft of language. Ben looked at them. Just the sound could take them back—the lucky ones, the ones who’d left. But what choice had there been? If they had stayed, they’d be dead. Like Otto. Ashes, too.

His mind wandered, the sound of German fading into the background, overheard but not distinct, as if it were coming up the stairs from one of his father’s parties. Danny would be down in the kitchen, sneaking drinks from the indulgent staff.

He froze. He looked at the marble wall, seeing Danny as a teenager, his head over a toilet bowl, retching, swearing he’d never touch brandy again. And never did. An almost allergic reaction, not his drink at all. But there was the bottle sitting on the counter at the Cherokee, suggestive. A prop. Which meant someone had put it there.

Ben felt a prickling on his neck. Someone else in the room. The door had been locked—the police had needed a passkey. But there could have been another, a duplicate to lock the door behind you. Without thinking, he turned, looking back at the crowd for the man in the gray suit. Near the edge, still watching, like someone on duty. But why come to the funeral if you’d already filed it as an accident? Case closed. Unless it wasn’t. His mind darted to the stairs, the alley, trying
to work out the logistics, as if somehow that would make it all plausible. But how could it be? Could someone really have killed him? Why? Why were people murdered? Jealousy. Revenge. Because they were in the way. In stories, not in real life. Then he thought of the film clips waiting to be assembled at Continental. Why. Millions and millions for no reason at all.

Kaltenbach finished, the sudden quiet like a touch to Ben’s shoulder. His eyes went to the rabbi, placing the box in the square, then handing Liesl a flower to put with it. She stood still for a second, then took Ben’s hand, drawing him with her to the wall. He was given another flower and then, as if it had been rehearsed, they put them in together, one on each side of the box. When she finished she gave Ben a weak smile, her eyes confused, still not sure how to feel. He looked at the box, suddenly overwhelmed, feeling a loneliness he’d resisted before. Danny was gone, for good. Not just gone, taken away. By what right? And it wasn’t just Danny. A death spread out in shock waves, touching other people, changing them, taking pieces of them, too. Demanding some kind of justice. You owed the dead that much. How could he want it for millions and not this one?

O
NLY A
few Americans came back to the house afterward, so the lunch turned into a German gathering, the language floating warm and familiar around the buffet table like the wisps of steam from the chafing dishes. The caterer had come through with the salmon and what looked like a dozen other dishes, but people had brought things, too, brisket and cakes, an unexpected homey touch. All of it was being eaten, heaping plates and seconds. Liesl, who might have sat in a corner, receiving, instead was everywhere, seeing to people, playing hostess. Ben watched her, waiting for signs of strain, but he saw that the nervous activity, with its chin-high assurance, was also a kind of protective screen, like sunglasses. There were no whispered concerns, no side glances to see how she was holding up. She was right in front of them, busy, in control.

Instead, to his surprise, he found that he had become the center of
attention, new ears for old complaints. The curfew during the war. The five-mile restriction for aliens. Gas coupons. All that over, thank god. And then, in lower tones, what was it really like now in Germany? You hear such stories. And the newsreels. You can’t recognize things anymore. That madman. Ben heard half of it, distracted, back at the Cherokee, his head noisy with questions. A bottle that shouldn’t be there. Someone else. An idea, once there, you couldn’t leave behind, not for polite conversation. So he nodded, answering with only part of his mind, and they backed away, respecting what they took for grief, not wanting to trouble him further. But keeping an eye on him, intrigued.

“It’s like any colony,” Liesl said when they got a moment. “They like to be with each other, not the natives, but they get a little bored, too. So you’re something to talk about. Here comes Heinrich. Be nice. I don’t know how he lives.” She leaned forward to kiss Kaltenbach’s cheek. “Heinrich, thank you. It was lovely.”

“From here,” he said in German, tapping his chest, then turned to Ben, the rituals of introduction.

“I didn’t know,” Ben said, “about his time in France. Getting people out.”

“Yes, many,” Kaltenbach said, still in German. “Some by boat, but that was difficult. So, Spain.”

“Over the Pyrenees?”

“Yes. The mountain crossings were easier than the trains. Not so strict. One guard, maybe two. Sometimes you could walk in. If you got up there. Imagine, Franz and Alma, at their age. Not hikers, you know, not young men like your brother. It’s a very dramatic story.”

“Excuse me,” Liesl said. “There’s Salka.”

“Very dramatic. A film,” Kaltenbach said. “I think so. Think of it, everybody waiting to get out. The noose tightening. You know what we called the house? Villa Espère Visa. But your brother
acted
. It would be a tribute to him. His story. I have a treatment of this, I’ll show it to you.
Exit Visa
. See what you think. They could do it at Continental. That’s where you are, yes? Your brother’s story. It would be a gift to his memory.”

Ben looked at him, feeling ambushed.

“I’m not really at Continental. Just putting something together there for the Army.”

And how had he heard about Continental anyway? Ben marveled again at the speed of news here, Lasner in touch even on a train.

“But you’ll read it. You’ll see,” Kaltenbach said. “An exciting film. And you know I can work with another writer. For the English. But who knows the story better? Who lived it?”

“Ben,” Liesl said, coming up to them, a short, plump woman in tow, “you have to meet Salka. She’s everyone’s mother.”

“Everyone’s cook,” the woman said, taking Ben’s hand. “They come for the chocolate cake, not for me.”

“No, your good heart,” Kaltenbach said.

“Daniel liked it,” she said, waving this off. “So maybe you’ll like it, too. Come Sunday. Any Sunday you like.”

“Thank you. I’ll look forward.”

“Even Garbo comes sometimes,” Kaltenbach said.

“So Lasner, now he’s letting people go to funerals? On his time?” she said, raising a finger. “Make sure he pays you for the day.”

“He doesn’t pay me for anything. I’m still in the Army.”

“You’re at Continental for free?” she said, amused.

“How did you know? About Continental. I mean, how does everybody hear these things?”

Salka looked at him, puzzled. “It’s in Polly. You didn’t know? You should keep up,” she said, a gentle tease. “Of course,” she said, catching herself, “on such a day. Who has time for papers.” She nodded to the room. “It’s too soon for this. A young man. But we don’t pick our time, do we?”

“No.” Somebody else had.

“I knew your father, too. Tell me something. I’ve always wondered. Why did he stay in Germany?”

The question mark of his life.

“I don’t know. I suppose he thought he’d be safe.”

“No one was safe,” she said, a settled matter. “Even then.”

“I don’t think he thought about politics. Just movies.”

“Otto? Children never know their parents. When he was young, he and Berthold could argue for hours. Hours. All the problems of the world. No, he knew.” She shook her head. “To make those comedies. To stay for that.”

He found the paper in the den, already opened to Polly’s column.

Off the Chief: Ben Kohler, new at Continental, here early to attend funeral of brother Dan after last week’s tragic accident. The surprise death suspended production on the upcoming Vera Ralston picture, which Dan was slotted to helm. Word on the lot: the picture’s set to be a breakthrough for Republic’s new star. Polly’s prediction: a new director and Vera skates over this rough patch of ice to big box office.

The funeral just a plug for Herb Yates.

“Spell your name right?”

Ben looked up. A burly man in a suit a little too tight for him stuck out his hand.

“Howard Stein. I just wanted to pay my respects. I can’t stay.”

“Thank you,” Ben said. “Actually, they got it wrong.”

Stein noticed the column logo. “Polly? She can’t even spell her own. Used to be Marx, like Groucho. But also like Karl. Somebody points this out to her—one of the Hitler Youth she pals around with— so the next day it’s Marks, k-s.”

“You’re not a fan.”

“That bitch?”

Ben smiled. “Not a fan.”

“I’m with the CSU. You know her with the unions. Like another goon with a club.” He looked up at Ben. “Sorry for the language. I don’t think she’s a joke.”

“Is that how you knew Danny—the union?”

Stein nodded. “He was a good friend to us. When he first got here. You don’t forget that.”

“But not lately?” Ben said.

“No, not lately.” He shrugged. “It happens. People fall away. It’s a hard place to hold on to something. You want—” He looked around at the house. “You want a lot of things. So you make some trades. But he was a good man. I’m sorry about this. You just get in?” he said, his voice gruffer, moving away from anything soft.

“Few days. Those pickets I saw in front of Paramount—that was you?”

Stein nodded. “Studios want the union they already got, not us. Why not—they’ve been paying them off for years. After Willie Bioff got sent up, they tell everybody they’re cleaning house, but nothing changes. That’s four years now.”

“Sent up for what?” Ben said, not really paying attention, a local dispute.

“Racketeering. So you’ve got the head of the union behind bars, it’s time for a change, right? Your brother thought so—we all did. And look. Four years later and we’re out there walking with signs and the studios are still paying off. Cheaper than paying the employees. In a year like this, when they’re making so much money it’s like sitting on a fucking oil well. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get started. This isn’t the place.” He looked again at the newspaper. “And now we’ve got her making it worse. Now we’re all Reds.”

“There weren’t any pickets at Continental.”

“No, you start with the majors—the big five. Then everybody else comes in. Who’s going to follow Lasner?” He looked at Ben. “Not that he’s any different. Dump the cash on some hotel bed and get yourself a new contract. They like doing business that way. It’s an outlaw town, they still have that mentality. You know, one day they’re at a meeting, the studio heads, and I see them walking out of the commissary and I say to myself, Jesus fucking Christ, it’s the boys from Chicago. Same look. Well. This isn’t the place.” He looked at Ben, hesitant. “I liked him,” he said, shaking Ben’s hand, then glanced around the room. “It’s some place he’s got here.” He turned back to Ben. “I don’t understand it.”

He followed Stein back into the busy main room, half-hoping he
could pass unnoticed out onto the terrace, but Liesl caught his eye, flagging him down. Somehow the funeral had made them a temporary couple, alert to each other’s signals. She took his arm lightly, lowering her voice as she steered him toward Alma Mahler, eating pastry near the table.

“She thinks you’re ignoring her,” she whispered. Then to Alma, “Found.”

But once they were past the introductions, the sympathies, there was little to say. She was a woman of such regal self-absorption that Ben suspected she had no conversation outside herself, so he fell back on the usual, how she liked California.

“For us it was very pleasant. Before Franz died. Now I never go out. But before—you know Stravinsky is here? Schoenberg? Like Europe, with sunshine.” Her eyes twinkled a little, waiting for him to respond, evidently a phrase that had worked before. “Of course, we were fortunate. Franz’s success.” She let the rest of the thought hover there, leaving Ben to imagine the riches. “You know it was a promise he made. He said if we survived, he would write about Lourdes, and look. So Bernadette blessed us, too. Who would have imagined it then? Such a success.”