Misfit by Adam Braver Page B

she’s about to come crashing, and no one in her circle has the strength to keep her from shattering. He says he can come out in the morning, but then the six weeks will be broken, and they don’t give you credit. They’ve got rules, the state of Nevada. He and Marilyn will have to start the wait all over again. Another six weeks.
    She says, “We’ll keep it quiet. We can meet somewhere in the valley. What are the chances? It’s worth the risk.”
    He says it’s a risk, but he’ll think about it.
    â€œThat means you won’t come, doesn’t it?”
    â€œNo,” he says. “It means I need to think about it. Figure it out.”
    â€œSo you’re coming?” She doesn’t try to hide the excitement in her voice.
    â€œI’m thinking on it.”
    The following afternoon he’s in LA. It’s safe for only an evening; he’ll have to be gone by the following morning. Arthur tells her he decided to come because he’s concerned about her, unable to admit that coming was also for him. But she lets him have that. They don’t talk about committees or divorces or movie sets, and hardly of marriage. They mostly stay silent. A sense
of surveillance still hovers. Together, she and Arthur sit in her room, number 41 at the Chateau Marmont, listening to a reel-to-reel tape of Mr. Strasberg that Paula dropped off, saying it had to be heard. On the recording, Mr. Strasberg lectures on the acting techniques of Eleanora Duse. His voice comes through the machine’s speaker, clear and distinct; anybody eavesdropping through the walls would think it was he who lived there. Mr. Strasberg doesn’t so much talk about Duse as pose questions about why she was so revered. There is authority in his tone, yet still Mr. Strasberg speaks with wonder; in a way it’s like religion, the very sense of structure Marilyn sometimes craves. She rubs Arthur’s thigh, occasionally glances over to him, looking for his reactions. She suspects that were she to stop the tape and ask him what Mr. Strasberg just said, Arthur wouldn’t be able to answer. His expression never changes. And when she does stop the tape, and Mr. Strasberg’s voice slows down and trails off, she senses Arthur snap awake. She says she’s hungry. She suggests a café she knows up the street, as old-world European a place as one can find on the Sunset Strip, where the walls are papered in thick browns, and the lightbulbs glow a dingy yellow, and the air moves only when the front door opens. She asks, “Should we go now? Or did you want to hear the end of the lecture?” And the way in which he offers the choice back to her, despite his blatant lack of interest in Lee Strasberg’s opinion about Eleanora Duse, makes her love him just a little bit more.

    A moist evening air blows off a horizon that’s starting to wilt into the haze. For the first time all week she doesn’t think about being watched. They move up the strip without speaking, until they reach the European restaurant and are greeted at the door by a host named Henri who speaks to them only in French. The European restaurant is even more ridiculous than she made it sound, with its piped-in cabaret music and an interior meant to replicate a street café. But she doesn’t say anything, other than how safe she feels to be there with him.
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    The restlessness returns the next morning, once he’s gone. The car will be arriving shortly at the Chateau Marmont to take her to the set. She’s already dressed, her hair tied back under a scarf. For once ahead of schedule. Paula Strasberg waits in the room next door. They agreed to meet out front when the car arrived.
    She sits on the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles in the bedspread. Then turns on the radio, adjusting the volume to a whisper. And she faces the wall and tries to breathe in. Hoping to fill her chest. When he left, Arthur told her he would see