Chapter 11

A Masquerade Ball for the Little White Doves

The Grand Hotel’s first formal party ostensibly had nothing to do with the film festival. The invitations had announced its purpose in gold lettering: Un Bal Masqué pour les Petites Colombes Blanches, and the ballroom was decorated with white papier-mâché doves to represent the inmates of the children’s hospital that would benefit from the proceeds.

Yet the images of the “little white doves” had now become a symbol not only for the welfare of the children but for universal peace, flying in the face of relentless tyranny: Mussolini’s Italy, which had invaded Ethiopia; Nazi Germany, which had annexed Austria and Czechoslovakia; and Franco’s Spain, where the dictator’s gang had overthrown the freely elected government with a shockingly brutal bombardment aided and abetted by Hitler.

Annabel felt a rush of patriotism in the air from “the free world.” It seemed to her that the rotunda ballroom of the Grand Hotel shone like a beacon of goodwill, with its gold and marble illuminated by crystal-and-gold chandeliers that reflected dazzlingly in the large gold-framed mirrors. The midnight-blue ceiling was dotted with gold flecks that twinkled like stars.

Scott was surprisingly at home in this highly charged atmosphere, elegant in the way he expertly led her into the ballroom. As he showed his invitation to a doorman, Annabel kept her head down for fear of somehow being recognized by the staff despite her disguise.

Masked guests, champagne flutes in hand, were already milling around, perfuming the air with their cologne like hothouse flowers. The blue smoke of their cigarettes rose in brief clouds until it was carried away on a breeze through the tall windows, which were flung open to an expansive view of the star-filled sky and the moonlight that made the sea shimmer.

Scott immediately danced her right out onto the ballroom floor, navigating the room with ease. Annabel said teasingly, “Something tells me you’ve waltzed with queens.”

“Coupla duchesses,” he replied. “Ladies-in-waiting, sopranos, an aviatrix, several ballet dancers. Ah yes, I remember them all—but I never felt happier than I did in one moment of solitude, when I stood at the top of the Riviera on a cliff, and I felt like the whole world was supporting me, because it, and I, felt young and full of possibilities. Like you are, now.”

As they whirled past other dancers, he murmured sly observations about the guests for Annabel’s entertainment. “See that actress in the corner? That’s Norma Shearer. She’s the only one in Hollywood who knows how to throw a decent party.”

Annabel glanced over his shoulder and saw a petite woman in a daringly tight flame-red gown and matching mask who’d positioned herself in a corner under the especially flattering light of a pink lamp. She was surrounded by a throng of men who leaned in to capture her attention and evoke her high, airy laugh, which was, astonishingly, somewhere between a loud giggle and a yodeler’s shout.

As Scott and Annabel drew closer, he said to the actress, “Salutations, lady fair!”

Norma peered at him with an exaggerated effort. “Is that Scott?” she cried, putting the back of her wrist to her forehead, as if about to swoon. “I don’t believe it! Could it really be he?”

“Shhh!” Scott said to her playfully, and he put a finger to his lips.

Norma put her red-nail-polished fingertips to her matching red lips and theatrically blew Scott a kiss. He danced Annabel away and explained, “I once had such a crush on her.”

“Oh! She was wonderful as Elizabeth Barrett Browning in The Barretts of Wimpole Street,” Annabel murmured.

Scott said, “She’s got a new film called The Women that George Cukor directed. I bet you’ll like that one. I worked on the script before the studio chucked me out and hired Anita Loos. It opens on September first. Irv—her husband—would have loved it.”

“Irving Thalberg?” Annabel asked after pausing to figure out who he meant.

Scott nodded. “Now he was one of the greatest Hollywood producers that town has ever known. He died young, from overwork. His heart gave way.” Scott’s voice dropped even lower when he admitted, “Thalberg was the inspiration for the hero of our Project Top Secret.”

He was referring to his new Hollywood novel, which he had now named The Love of the Last Tycoon. Annabel liked that he called it “our” project.

The band gave a drumroll, and suddenly an athletic-looking man leaped from the outside terrace through the open french windows and landed nimbly on his feet in the center of the dance floor. The crowd gasped, then laughed and applauded as the band struck up a new tune. The man, sporting a dashing mustache, was wearing a bandit’s black mask and a black Spanish hat like in the movie The Mark of Zorro. Even with his disguise, Annabel could see that he was extraordinarily suntanned, which made his smiling teeth look even whiter.

“That’s Douglas Fairbanks,” Scott murmured. “He was the king of Hollywood silent pictures—you’ll never see a better action hero. But I guess he was before your time.”

Now Annabel spotted Jack Cabot, looking handsome as ever but wearing an aggrieved expression, visible even behind his mask, because Sonny’s daughter Cissy was clinging to his arm as if she would never let go. “That girl is a nervous wreck,” Scott observed.

“But she has lost a little weight!” Annabel said. “She looks very nice, actually.”

Cissy was wearing a black-and-white gown, but she was teetering uncertainly on heels that were perhaps higher than she was accustomed to. She took a few dainty steps, cast a longing glance at a tray of canapés that a waiter was whisking by on a silver tray, and finally accepted a glass of champagne.

Her family was following closely, and Cissy’s mother, Adelaide, immediately snatched the champagne out of her daughter’s hands and handed it to Alan, who obligingly drank it.

Alan’s wife, Linda, wore a green gown with Grecian draping, making her look like a slightly angry goddess, carrying her cigarette in a long silver holder as if it were a weapon. Sonny was dressed up, too, but to Annabel he still looked like a grey mouse in a fairy tale, his spectacles catching the light and making his eyes seem to glint intently.

The band members conferred, then suddenly launched into a Charleston. Scott was mopping his brow with his handkerchief. “I think I’d better sit this one out,” he said.

Waiters were flashing by with more trays of canapés and champagne. One of them stopped in front of Annabel. “Champagne, mademoiselle?” he asked. Annabel recognized him but kept silent, hoping he’d never guess that she was Oncle JP’s niece.

“Yes, the lady would like a champagne,” Scott said, handing a flute to Annabel. “And I would like a glass of Coca-Cola.”

The waiter stiffened. “I am so sorry, sir. There has been an unusual amount of requests for cola, and we ran out of it an hour ago. I believe that more is on the way.”

Scott sighed. “Ginger ale, then,” he said resignedly. “At least it’s gold, with bubbles.”

The waiter said in relief, “Right away, sir,” bowed, and went off.

“I thought you allow yourself one glass of wine a day,” Annabel whispered.

“Sure. I’d love some champagne. But I don’t want to give this crowd the satisfaction of saying that old Scottie fell off the wagon again,” he said wearily. “Of course, they’ll see the ginger ale and assume it’s champers, anyway. By tomorrow they’ll say I fell under a table. Oh well. Whatever they accuse me of, I’ve surely done it at some point in my life.”

He was calm and deliberate as he slowly drank the ginger ale that the waiter brought him. Annabel sipped her champagne. Her father had taught her to be discerning about wine, so she knew that this was a nice, dry brut with lively bubbles that danced in the chandeliers’ lights. In fact, the whole room seemed like one big glass of shimmering champagne.

Mom would have loved this, Annabel thought, vividly recalling how her mother pored over the movie and theatrical magazines and the newspaper stories about the departures and arrivals of famous people who obligingly posed on the decks of fashionable ocean liners. It had all seemed like a fairy tale, full of magical creatures with strange powers.

Now here was Annabel, right in the thick of it.

As the band launched into a tango, a slim, wiry man in a white eye mask grabbed Norma Shearer and skillfully spun her onto the dance floor. Soon the other dancers stepped back to give this couple room at the center of the floor, but all eyes were on the man this time.

“He’s very good!” Annabel whispered to Scott.

Someone had grabbed a rose from a vase and handed it to Norma, who stuck it between her teeth. Scott had been studying the man to try to figure out who it was behind the mask.

“That’s George Raft,” he announced triumphantly. “Just did a prison picture with Jimmy Cagney called Each Dawn I Die.”

“I know about Mr. Raft!” Annabel said eagerly. “My mother told me that he grew up in Hell’s Kitchen, and it was his mama who taught him how to dance, so they could win prizes at dance competitions at carnivals and amusement parks.”

At the finale, George Raft gave Norma Shearer a dramatic kiss that looked as if he meant it. Annabel had heard that these two stars were having a “secret” affair, in total violation of the “morals” clauses in their Hollywood contracts. Evidently here in France, they didn’t seem to care who knew about it.

Scott was watching Mr. Raft with a look of admiration as he said in a low voice, “The FBI ‘interviewed’ Raft last year because they think he’s a member of the Jewish mob. He’s a self-made man. I think Raft and Gatsby would have gotten along very well.”

“I never read that in a magazine! How do you know all these things?” Annabel asked, still speaking in a low voice so that no one would notice her.

“Oh, I know an English gal back in Los Angeles who’s a gossip columnist.” Something in Scott’s tone indicated that he had some sort of relationship with the English columnist. Not wanting to embarrass him, Annabel pretended she hadn’t picked up on it.

There was a sudden stir in the crowd, like a loud rustle of leaves, as a couple entered, unmasked, flanked by deferential members of their party. A hush fell over the entire room as the crowd parted for the new couple to pass through. Annabel watched in fascination as the male guests bowed low and the female guests curtsied. The bandleader led the musicians to play a stately tune.

Under cover of the music, a murmur spread through the crowd like wildfire: That’s the Duke and Duchess of Windsor! Today’s Hollywood royalty had just deferred to a real king, who’d given up the throne of England to marry a divorced American.

Everyone seemed starstruck, except Scott, who watched the Windsors impassively.

“Those two,” he said dryly, “are just a little too palsy-walsy with Adolf Hitler himself.”

He eyed a stiff, arrogant-looking group of men whose entrance had passed largely unnoticed because of the hubbub surrounding the Windsors. “Hmm,” Scott said broodingly.

“What’s the matter?” Annabel asked, following his gaze.

She saw the rotund, apple-cheeked wine merchant, a man Annabel vividly remembered from that little episode at the front desk when he’d impatiently demanded a new room key. It took her a moment to recognize him because Herr Wilbert was the only one in his group wearing a disguise—a furry eye mask that made him look like a plump fox.

He and his friends moved to the outdoor bar on the terrace. The tallest man among them had such a severe military haircut that there was hardly any hair on the sides of his head, and he sported a pencil-thin mustache. He reminded Annabel of a painted toy soldier from another era. The others also wore slightly contemptuous expressions, as if daring anyone to challenge their supremacy.

“Who are those men without the masks?” Annabel whispered.

“New guests; they just checked in. Jack and I saw them on the tennis courts. The tall one is Herr Ubel—he’s Nazi military brass,” Scott added dryly. “The others are the German millionaires who shoehorned Hitler into power. They’re all on vacation with their wives. You should see them play tennis. No etiquette whatsoever, and they cheat.” He snorted. “Don’t let anybody tell you that the working class brought the fascists into power. It’s the businessmen who smile and sell us all the things we want—cars, cosmetics, kitchen machines, pills. Then the press gets on board and legitimizes the Führer’s gangsters with loads of free publicity.”

Annabel heard a small cry coming from the terrace, so she peered out the open doors just in time to see Sonny, with a look of displeasure, ordering two hotel porters to escort Cissy down a side path that would take her back into the hotel without reentering the ballroom.

“Her face is streaming with blood!” Annabel gasped as Cissy, who’d been so prettily made up, was hustled by. The rest of her family was pretending that nothing had happened, and they determinedly joined the crowd inside.

Jack, returning from the outdoor bar on the terrace, looked startled by the commotion and exchanged a brief word with Alan before hurrying over to join Annabel and Scott.

“What happened?” Scott asked.

“Cissy fainted and fell right on the main path. The flagstone sliced her face, poor kid,” Jack said, shaking his head. “She told me she’s been lightheaded all week. That damned diet that her father put her on. Sonny’s kept her on such a short leash ever since she got here, so she’s a bundle of nerves. I think that foul nurse gave Cissy a shot so she’d calm down for the party. Well, she calmed down, all right. Keeled right over on her face.”

“Poor Cissy,” Annabel murmured.

“So you made it to the ball, after all,” Jack said to her in amusement. He looked at Scott, who was still carefully nursing his ginger ale. “Mind if I dance with your date?” Jack inquired.

“Ask the lady,” Scott replied.

Jack held out his hand, and Annabel quickly took it. He led her across the dance floor with long, smooth strokes. He danced differently than Scott, for Jack was obviously professionally trained, perhaps at his studio, so his moves were more theatrical. Annabel knew that actors were expected to learn fencing, too, among other debonair movie skills.

“You look lovely this evening,” Jack said in her ear. “So glad fate has put us together again.” They glided past other dancers, as if skimming on the surface of a reflecting lake. Annabel was enjoying the very warmth and scent of him as he held her closely. She was mightily sorry when their dance was done.

A stout blond dowager now beat a small mallet against an antique bronze Chinese gong, startling the crowd into silence. “Mesdames et messieurs,” she trilled in badly accented French with an American twang, “faites attention, s’il vous plait!

“This looks serious. I think we’d better get out of her way,” Jack said, leading Annabel back to the sidelines where Scott stood.

The lady was evidently chairing the ceremony, and she declaimed, “It is mon grand plaisir to introduce to you the man who has made this entire evening possible—a magnificent benefactor to the children’s charity—I give you Mr. Rick Bladey!”

The crowd broke into applause and cheers, but Scott could not resist saying, “I never understood why people clap for boys who inherited every penny they’ve got.”

Annabel was feeling indulgent tonight and could not help smiling at Rick’s boyish enthusiasm. “Well, he really likes kids; he’s good with them. I think he’s sincere.”

“But that’s not why they’re clapping for him,” Scott observed.

Rick, his dark hair slicked back like patent leather, was wearing a black silk mask with a red crest of his father’s hotel logo in the center of the forehead. He nodded and grinned, which gave him a devil-may-care, schoolboy appearance.

Yet he seemed a bit bashful as he spoke. “Thank you. And what a stellar night it is!” he exclaimed. “I have never seen a livelier or lovelier party. We are here for the children, but first, I confess that my father pressed me into service tonight to make an announcement for him.”

The crowd, which had murmured appreciatively at his first words, now hushed itself again in anticipation. “I am happy to report,” Rick continued, “that this beautiful, beloved Grand Hotel is now the Riviera jewel in my father’s crown. On September first I will officially christen it as the Grand Palais of the Bladey Hotel Group!”

The crowd broke into even wilder cheers as an enormous bottle of champagne—the biggest Annabel had ever seen in her life—was wheeled out on a trolley by four waiters who carefully negotiated the turns, because they were heading toward a table that was piled high with cocktail glasses stacked in rows atop each other in a pyramid shape.

With great care, the champagne bottle was mounted on a stand above the pyramid of glasses, then opened with a pop that sounded more like a cannon firing. The bottle was then mechanically tipped, so that the champagne flowed out into the top glasses first, then went tumbling into the ones below, then the ones below that, like a sparkling waterfall.

“Ahhh!” The crowd’s cheers were even louder now. Rick ducked his head, looking relieved that he’d done his duty to his father. He moved on to his next announcement.

“But as I said, tonight, we are here for a higher cause,” he continued, then launched into his speech about the worthy children’s charity, urging all to give generously. “And that’s why, at midnight, we will all be unmasked, and we shall auction off, to the highest bidders, some kisses from the brightest stars of Hollywood!”

Everyone applauded and then surged forward to get their champagne. The band struck up a new tune. A giddy masked woman came over to claim Jack for the next dance.

Scott said to Annabel, “I’ll get you some of the champagne from that big bottle. I want to know if it tastes any better than what you had earlier, so you’ll have to sip it for me.”

“Okay,” she said, happy to oblige.

But as she stood there, she wondered if Oncle JP knew about this seismic change of ownership of the Grand Hotel. Of course, the staff had all been dreading something like this for years. The previous owner—the eccentric childless French widow who’d fought off buyers and speculators by leaving the hotel to her fleet of dogs when she died—had said, I’d rather have it go to the dogs than to strangers.

Even when those distant relatives had won their suit against the dogs and tried to sell the hotel, they’d been so unable to agree, and negotiations dragged on for so long, that prospective buyers had walked away. Annabel had found all this vaguely comforting, thinking that no other sale would ever go through and disturb this oasis of good taste and tranquility.

Yet apparently Rick and his kin had managed, at long last, to do the impossible, which was to get the heirs to agree on their price.

Scott returned with the champagne, and Annabel dutifully assessed it. “Very dry and bright, like stardust,” she reported. “And yet it’s very silky, almost creamy, not as rough as ordinary champagne bubbles going down your throat. A hint of lemon blossom, too.”

“Excellent,” Scott said, and he actually pulled out a small notebook with an even smaller pencil attached and jotted it down. Then he warned in a low voice, “There’s cocaine being passed around tonight. Nasty stuff. Keep away from it—and any man who offers it to you.” Nothing seemed to miss his sharp gaze, as if he were memorizing the entire event.

Annabel felt another presence near her now.

“May I have this dance?” a masked man at her elbow asked in French. And even before she could reply, the strange man whisked her off across the dance floor.