Yes, there are red carpets, life-changing casting calls, and, sometimes, happy endings. But those compelled to write usually have something more earnest to convey. Being a ghost means being trusted with stories of rapes, beatings, reversals of fortune—the hardships that give celebrities the fierceness to claw their way to the top, and the price they sometimes pay upon reaching it. Always take a moment to acknowledge the trauma—a professional trick and the decent thing to do. Long before there is a book in the world, there are two people sitting alone together.
When Mari reached her room, she did a little shimmy of joy and relief, and then she sank onto the bed. This book was going to be huge. It was also going to be Anke’s last act, and no one knew it yet. Mari felt a physical pressure inside her. She didn’t have a moment to waste. Before she could rest, or eat a Lärabar, or pee, she plugged in all of her devices.
Her phone buzzed. Ody: “Please be in the den in 10. To see the archives.”
At least he said “please.” Not everyone did.
Twelve minutes later, Mari stood next to the glacier of a white couch. Two modeling portfolios obscured one whole cushion. Three gray fabric-covered boxes rested on the coffee table. Each had been labeled with a confident hand: “Band,” “Boat,” “Jewelry.” Here was her chance to touch the past she’d spent so much time occupying through Anke’s words. But she knew better than to overstep, especially as she was still awaiting the fallout of her earlier fuckup.
Ody materialized, silent in his suede moccasins. On another man, she would have found his fashion choices affected, but like his parents, he could pull off the theatrical.
“I’m sure these contain some incredible treasures,” she said, nodding toward the boxes.
“Anke is very private.”
Mari felt embarrassed, like he was chastising her for the journal, but shook it off.
“You’ve never seen what’s inside?”
“Do your parents tell you everything?”
She almost laughed—the thought of her dad being transparent was so ludicrous. “Say no more. How long have you worked for Anke?”
“Since I dropped out of university and started my band. At first, she was helping me. Now, I help her.”
Mari hesitated. Obviously, he knew about Anke’s diagnosis. But she didn’t want to push.
“That sounds like a good kind of family,” she said. “What’s your favorite photo?”
He raised an eyebrow, maybe surprised to be asked a question not about Anke—the designated subject—or maybe trying to anticipate what Mari would do with such info. He padded over to the piano, picked out a framed black-and-white photo. A shaggy-haired, sunglassed Dante cradled a hugely pregnant, Indian-kaftaned Anke, laughing as they balanced on a motorcycle, chrome flashing like hope in the California sun. Mari looked up at Ody, and they both smiled. If he wasn’t Dante’s biological son, Anke seemed to be the only one who knew.
Much like Mari had coveted the perfect boho serenity of the house, she now felt a pang of longing. She had two photos of her parents together, and one blurry Polaroid of her dad holding her as a girl—family hadn’t been her dad’s style, and he hadn’t cared to pretend. She shook off the thought and reached for a quick joke, even though she knew it was lame.
“Four out of five doctors recommend pregnant women avoid motorcycles in their third trimester,” Mari said. “But what a marvelous family portrait. They look so happy.”
“That they do. She wouldn’t dream of getting on a chopper now. Hates that I ride one. After the accident with Fritz in the Yucatan. Well, you’ve seen her cane.”
“Accident—we haven’t gotten there yet. What year?”
“I’m bad with dates.” Ody redirected them, opening a lid. “We don’t have much time.”
Mari smiled. “Of course. I’ll get started, then.”
Peering into the first box, she found labeled, dated archive envelopes. Maybe the stereotypes were right, and we never did outrun what our youth had imprinted on us. No matter how bohemian Anke had become, she was her mother’s daughter, careful of her precious objects.
The top envelope read: “1976.” The year she’d left Jack. Retreating to Germany, reconnecting with Fritz, and embarking on a round-the-world sailboat adventure. In a life this dramatic and picaresque, little could be skipped over. Mari stopped herself from thinking about how much hard labor she had ahead. One thing at a time—that was how books got written, how life got lived. She lifted out the envelopes. The bottom one read: “Los Angeles. Summer 1969.”
She paused, nervous. Her mind pinged with self-doubts. She knew she was stalling, but she couldn’t find her nerve. Too much was at stake.
“Anke doesn’t want to be here?”
“She hates old photos of herself. Says it’s too painful to see how much beauty she’s lost. You are to use whatever you need. If you have questions I can’t answer, she will do so.”
It was remarkable how little Anke romanticized her past—or present, for that matter. While the rest of the world had built shrines to her style, her place in pop culture—there were a dozen Instagram accounts and Pinterest pages devoted to her modeling days—her own social media presence was minuscule and managed with the savvy of a Midwestern grandmother. As far as she could tell, Ody wasn’t on social media, except for his band accounts, which he hadn’t updated much since his last album had come out three years earlier. How lucky, to have the kind of rich life that didn’t need to be market-researched or padded for others.
Mari went through each photo, taking a picture with her phone and making a corresponding note in a Word doc. Faded Polaroids and snapshots, they were less satisfying than the iconic images of the band. She was struck by how many other people were always around, and by how cool the clothes were—no wonder they remained style icons, fifty years on. Jack often wore a men’s suit vest, with no shirt, and a gold, flower-patterned choker with dangling teardrop bangles. He looked so current and cool, it was hard to remember how provocative and louche this had been at the time. Dante could wear a silk scarf like nobody’s business. Anke had a knack for simplicity—a perfect shearling coat over bare gazelle legs and thigh-high boots, a silk shift that showed her nipples. Mari doubted the photos were high-quality enough to be printed, but it would be worth the attempt—readers would devour anything new.
Mari focused on what she could use for her writing. In any photos featuring the whole band, Mal was always on the outside, often looking away, sometimes with Anke pinned to him like a trophy. Mari was unclear whether the other people would be important to the story or not. From her research, Mari recognized the band’s manager—as young as them, and even more flamboyantly dressed, often carrying a briefcase, allegedly full of cash. There were six unknowns, four women and two men—one was maybe the guitar tech, Simon. The other young man, who had shoulder-length hair and was laughing and passing a joint to Mal in one picture, was probably Syd. By squinting and doing a Google search, Mari worked out that the prettiest woman was the model Jack had been married to back then. The other women were, what? Groupies. Assistants. Nannies. One had a boyish bowl cut and always wore the same jeans and silk blouse—in most photos she was covering her mouth. When caught smiling, she had a brutal overbite. Probably not a groupie. Maybe Anke’s East German friend. The busty woman, forever in a bikini, was either a groupie or the most popular assistant ever. There was no way Mari could take notes on every photo, but she managed to put her eyeballs on all of them.
Anke looked so much happier after the band, on the sailboat. Of course she was thin, fit, and tan, her teeth flashing white like the inside of an eggshell. Her clothes were even more to-die-for, plucked from the markets and bazaars in the ports where they had docked.
In Mari’s three days in the desert, they’d gone over Anke’s entire life story, except for this final chapter of her youth, which Mari planned to request additional time with Anke for once she was writing—by phone if Anke was in Europe. Mari knew the tragedy ahead for this young family. She could hardly bear to look at the photos, especially the last one of Fritz, Anke, and Ody grinning over a picnic on the deck of their sailboat, taken a few days before Fritz drowned.
“What was Fritz like?” Mari asked.
Ody didn’t look up, and Mari wondered if he had heard her.
“I don’t know, really. I was only a kid. He didn’t speak English, and my German was basic for the first few years. He was nice to my mom. She was happy, and I liked that.”
Mari saw the pictures on the boat in a new light—when Anke was with Jack, Ody had still been in his father’s orbit. Suddenly, he had been pulled away from him, the only world he had known, carried across the globe, where he had lived in isolation with two German-speaking adults who had been deeply in love and improvising their life.
“Did you like the boat?”
“Sure, I was a little boy, and boats were cool.”
He gave his voice an impish enthusiasm, mimicking his younger self. Mari smiled.
“But there were no children, you didn’t go to school. It must have been lonely.”
Again, he paused for so long, she began to wonder if he had heard—but of course he had.
“I never saw it that way, but yeah. I wonder if adults know how lonely kids can be.”
“Especially if you’re one of those kids who doesn’t feel like a kid, but everyone insists on treating you like one. I seriously thought I was ready for my own apartment at eleven.”
He laughed, nodding his head. “When we were on the boat, we would dock somewhere for a month or two. My favorite city was Valencia. They had just had their first elections since Franco a few years earlier. But they had been conquered by everyone—the British, the French, the Moors—they were a mutt, like me. I tried to convince Mutti to let me stay there. I was ten.”
“Did you ever go back?”
“Nah, we had seas to sail, ports to explore. Fritz died when I was sixteen. My mum needed me. I did make a go at uni, but it wasn’t my scene. Really, it’s always been her and me.”
Mari nodded and smiled warmly, but something was cracking inside her. All her smug certainty. She had felt sorry for him, but he had a place where he belonged. He had a purpose. He had been needed, and he had stepped up. Mari never missed a deadline, but that wasn’t the same.
“It must have been very hard on your mother when Fritz drowned,” Mari said.
“She was devastated…” His words trailed off; his eyes snapped up. Mari heard the telltale sound of Rimbaud’s nails clacking on the tiles. Anke. “But that’s her story to tell, not mine. It’s all her story to tell, really.”
Mari studied Ody’s face, seeking Mal, but all she could find were Anke’s high cheekbones and dark eyes. And then she was looking into those very eyes as Anke stood behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders, leaning against his chair.
“What do we speak of?” she asked. “The archives have been helpful, ja?”
“Mari asked me about when we lived on the boat,” Ody said.
“And you told her what?”
“I told her about Valencia.”
Anke laughed. “You were a very stubborn little boy. I always love that about you.”
Mari was surprised Anke didn’t seem rattled to find her son and ghostwriter in such an intimate conversation. Mari realized it was because Anke trusted him. He was perhaps the only person she did. And she was right to do so. He was loyal and true. Mari felt a tremor at her own overall lack, and her approaching return to LA.
“Ody, please bring the wine Rosenda opened for us,” Anke said.
He nodded and did as he was told, also appearing at ease. Returning on his silent feet, he poured the wine. After Anke and Mari toasted, Anke sipped, allowed a tiny shiver of pleasure.
“Now we play hooky,” Anke said.
“I agree, when creating, it’s not good to push too hard.”
“Ja, Magdalena. We all can use a break. Nothing in life should be forced. Not art. Not love. Not money. You set the terms, but it must come to you.”
“You’ve been very lucky in all three,” Mari said. She was fighting to hide how much her nickname pleased her.
“I have lived. When you forge a life of the raw stuff you are given, there is no luck to it.”
“Of course. Luck is chance. And what you’ve accomplished is a kind of alchemy—that is, if that term seems right to you—hopefully, you’ll always feel comfortable correcting my words. I’ve been wanting to ask you, how has our collaboration been for you?”
“You are quite good at this part. Let us hope the writing can stand up as well.”
“It’s a process. But it always does.”
“Life is a process,” Anke said. “A little attitude, and these tits take me around the world.”
The women laughed. Anke had an eighth-grade education, but she had been a good student, just like Mari. Only she had excelled in different subjects—the ones learned outside the classroom, which Mari had devalued because she was not fluent in them: flirtation, poise, manipulation. Mari’s younger sister, V, was also a pro—it wasn’t enough to read a room; you had to know how to slice through the subtext and become the heart of the moment. Their father’s favorite, V had earned more of the little attention he’d given to either of them. There it was again—more proof of the power of that ineffable spark. Others fell over themselves to be near it. Mari had to work much harder to get anywhere and would be working for a long time yet.
Somehow, they had left the script behind. Mari was torn between her desire to have a real conversation with Anke, born of affection and curiosity about her graceful mastery of her life, and the danger of forgetting Anke was her client, and therefore her boss.
“How do you feel, to be revisiting your past?” Mari asked.
“It is more difficult than I expected. Also, more immediate, as if no time has passed. This is not for the book—”
Anke sipped her drink as Mari pantomimed zipping her lips.
“Even after we married others, Dante and I remained in each other’s lives, because of Ody. And we have that sort of connection—twin flames. Ring or no ring—priest or no priest.”
“Oh, yes, I was reading a Rolling Stone interview with Dante, from the ’80s, and—”
“Did you know Dante keeps bees?” Anke interrupted, as if they were two gossiping girls.
“No! How quirky.”
Mari took a large sip of wine, unfurled a smile. She had been right to be cautious. Anke made the confessions, not her. Any real intimacy was an illusion. She knew this. Mari had read many features on Dante that celebrated his homegrown honey, but she wouldn’t say so.
Anke pushed away her wine. “If you will excuse me, it is time for my walk.”
“Of course,” Mari said.
This was an abrupt end to a day of the kind of closeness she had cultivated since they had arrived, but Mari knew not to ruin the mood with too much talk. Anke did not wish to be investigated. She wished to entice. And so, Mari would be enticed. Mari wanted to reward Anke for letting her inside—to prove she belonged here, to protect her. And also, yes, she wanted to safeguard her right to remain here after work on the book ended, wanting—it was embarrassing to admit, even in her head—for Anke to admire her talent, to admire her, to like her.
Mari gathered her supplies. Pausing inside the door, she turned back. She thought to remind Anke of her absolute discretion, but she worried to bring it up now would make Anke question her. At least the publisher had lawyers who would know how to protect them both.
Mari was poised to ask Anke what she might like to discuss during their two-hour drive back to the city, but Anke sat still, looking exhausted. Done.
“I want to thank you,” Mari said. “For your courage today. It’s going to be an incredible book. I’ll send you a sample soon. Once we agree we’ve found your voice, I can dive in.”
Anke gave a curt nod. Pulling herself together, she said: “Thank you, Magdalena.”
Before Mari could exit, Ody reminded her of their departure time for LA. Smiling, Mari nodded and showed herself out.
Mari couldn’t bring herself to pack. She didn’t want to leave, and it wasn’t just because she must begin the hard labor of writing. Reaching out, she tickled her fingertips over the peacock feathers. She’d been lulled by the magic tranquility of the house and Anke’s company, and now she would be returned to her slapdash life with V. Sighing, Mari uploaded sound files and squeezed in some transcription, trying not to lose momentum. As Anke had alluded to something more than milk and sugar in Mal’s tea, Mari ranged her mind over the possibilities. Was it the Quaaludes from his toxicology report? Pausing the audio file, Mari considered the full implication. As she had learned the hard way, her job as a ghost wasn’t just to report her clients’ accounts of their lives. It was to be their first reader, their earliest critic, and, when needed, to protect them from themselves. Anke hadn’t intended to kill Mal, so it wasn’t like she’d committed murder. Or at least not if her version of events could be trusted. But given how cool Anke normally was, her tears for Mal suggested there was more to the story than she’d revealed. Still, with what she had been told, Mari suspected Syd was at least as culpable as Anke, if not outright responsible. She really needed to read that book. It was extraordinary that such a high-profile mystery could have gone unsolved for five decades. Mari had better know exactly what she was revealing and have total control over how it was told. There must be more to the story, other suspects, a version of the truth that would be accepted as definitive. With her journalism background, she should be able to track down more of what had happened that night.
But Mari had gotten off track—yes, she must untie the secret if she could, but her more pressing task was to find Anke’s voice, in order to speak as her throughout her book. Mari returned to her transcription. As the shadows darkened into full-blown night, Mari kept checking her phone. Ody had said they would depart for LA around seven p.m., after the day’s traffic.
Unable to focus any longer, Mari scanned her Word doc. Seeking bold items to follow up on, she saw her note about Anke’s Palm Springs house. At least these kinds of Google searches, which most people made out of prurient curiosity, were part of her job. Mari looked up their address. As the results loaded, she stretched, grateful for the break from her constant typing. In an attempt to win over the skittish Anke and secure the job, she had agreed to transcribe all their interviews herself, to avoid any leaks. It was a fuckload of work. But she was more sympathetic about Anke’s paranoia, given the secrets she now knew Anke had to manage.
There were several puff pieces in architectural magazines with the usual stylized photos of Anke. Also, there was the home’s Zillow page. Strange. The house had been purchased in 1968, for $75,000. Before Anke had been to America. Did Anke buy the house in a private sale? Or didn’t she own the house? If not, who did? Mari Googled around without success. Her phone buzzed: “New plan. We’ll stay in the desert. Your flight is at 9:30 and your Uber arrives in 30.”
This was a surprise. Had she offended Anke somehow? She needed to learn where all the mysteries were hidden, and who was being left in the dark. Then she remembered the queasy feeling of being caught returning Anke’s journal. Had he finally told Anke what she’d done? She hadn’t even read it, but of course they wouldn’t believe that. The thought made her sick. But Mari could still redeem herself by making her prose undeniable.
As Mari wrangled her luggage out her bedroom door, she slowed her steps and radiated a warm smile. The hallway was empty. Still, she held onto her poise, in case Anke and Ody came out to say goodbye. She wasn’t surprised when they didn’t; her clients were busy and often absorbed by their next task. Also, sometimes moving in and out of the intimacy of their meetings was tricky, like a one-night stand. Mari never took it personally. When she’d climbed into the hired car, and the driver had rounded first one and then a second corner, Mari exhaled.
Anke had paid for her flight and Uber, but Mari was responsible for her ride from LAX to Anke’s condo, to get her car. It would run her $50, with tip, at least. Of her final $140. She couldn’t deposit her check from Anke until morning; this was a close call, even for her.