something.”
He nodded.
“What happened to her?”
“She hung herself. Some folks said it was because she wouldn’t have been able to cut the mustard in the talkies, but that ain’t true: she had a voice you’d remember if you heard it just once. Smooth and dark, her voice was, like an Irish coffee. Some say she got her heart broken by a man, or by a woman, or that it was gambling, or gangsters, or booze. Who knows? They were wild days.”
“I take it that you must have heard her talk.”
He grinned. “She said, ‘Boy, can you find what they did with my wrap?’ and when I come back with it, then she said, ‘You’re a fine one, boy.’ And the man who was with her, he said, ‘June, don’t tease the help’ and she smiled at me and gave me five dollars and said ‘He don’t mind, do you, boy?’ and I just shook my head. Then she made the thing with her lips, you know?”
“A moue ?”
“Something like that. I felt it here.” He tapped his chest. “Those lips. They could take a man apart.”
He bit his lower lip for a moment, and focused on forever. I wondered where he was, and when. Then he looked at me once more.
“You want to see her lips?”
“How do you mean?”
“You come over here. Follow me.”
“What are we . . . ?” I had visions of a lip print in cement, like the handprints outside Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.
He shook his head, and raised an old finger to his mouth. Silence.
I closed the books. We walked across the courtyard. When he reached the little fish-pool, he stopped.
“Look at the Princess,” he told me.
“The one with the red splotch, yes?”
He nodded. The fish reminded me of a Chinese dragon: wise and pale. A ghost fish, white as old bone, save for the blotch of scarlet on its back—an inch-long double-bow shape. It hung in the pool, drifting, thinking.
“That’s it,” he said. “On her back. See?”
“I don’t quite follow you.”
He paused and stared at the fish.
“Would you like to sit down?” I found myself very conscious of Mr. Dundas’s age.
“They don’t pay me to sit down,” he said, very seriously. Then he said, as if he were explaining something to a small child, “It was like there were gods in those days. Today, it’s all television: small heroes. Little people in the boxes. I see some of them here. Little people.
“The stars of the old times: They was giants, painted in silver light, big as houses and when you met them, they were still huge. People believed in them.
“They’d have parties here. You worked here, you saw what went on. There was liquor, and weed, and goings-on you’d hardly credit. There was this one party . . . the film was called Hearts of the Desert. You ever heard of it?”
I shook my head.
“One of the biggest movies of 1926, up there with What Price Glory with Victor McLaglen and Dolores Del Rio and Ella Cinders starring Colleen Moore. You heard of them?”
I shook my head again.
“You ever heard of Warner Baxter? Belle Bennett?”
“Who were they?”
“Big, big stars in 1926.” He paused for a moment. “ Hearts of the Desert. They had the party for it here, in the hotel, when it wrapped. There was wine and beer and whiskey and gin—this was Prohibition days, but the studios kind of owned the police force, so they looked the other way; and there was food, and a deal of foolishness; Ronald Colman was there and Douglas Fairbanks—the father, not the son—and all the cast and the crew; and a jazz band played over there where those chalets are now.
“And June Lincoln was the toast of Hollywood that night. She was the Arab princess in the film. Those days, Arabs meant passion and lust. These days . . . well, things change.
“I don’t know what started it all. I heard it was a dare or a bet; maybe she was just drunk. I thought she was drunk. Anyhow, she got up, and the band was playing soft and slow. And she walked over here, where I’m standing right now, and she plunged her hands
He nodded.
“What happened to her?”
“She hung herself. Some folks said it was because she wouldn’t have been able to cut the mustard in the talkies, but that ain’t true: she had a voice you’d remember if you heard it just once. Smooth and dark, her voice was, like an Irish coffee. Some say she got her heart broken by a man, or by a woman, or that it was gambling, or gangsters, or booze. Who knows? They were wild days.”
“I take it that you must have heard her talk.”
He grinned. “She said, ‘Boy, can you find what they did with my wrap?’ and when I come back with it, then she said, ‘You’re a fine one, boy.’ And the man who was with her, he said, ‘June, don’t tease the help’ and she smiled at me and gave me five dollars and said ‘He don’t mind, do you, boy?’ and I just shook my head. Then she made the thing with her lips, you know?”
“A moue ?”
“Something like that. I felt it here.” He tapped his chest. “Those lips. They could take a man apart.”
He bit his lower lip for a moment, and focused on forever. I wondered where he was, and when. Then he looked at me once more.
“You want to see her lips?”
“How do you mean?”
“You come over here. Follow me.”
“What are we . . . ?” I had visions of a lip print in cement, like the handprints outside Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.
He shook his head, and raised an old finger to his mouth. Silence.
I closed the books. We walked across the courtyard. When he reached the little fish-pool, he stopped.
“Look at the Princess,” he told me.
“The one with the red splotch, yes?”
He nodded. The fish reminded me of a Chinese dragon: wise and pale. A ghost fish, white as old bone, save for the blotch of scarlet on its back—an inch-long double-bow shape. It hung in the pool, drifting, thinking.
“That’s it,” he said. “On her back. See?”
“I don’t quite follow you.”
He paused and stared at the fish.
“Would you like to sit down?” I found myself very conscious of Mr. Dundas’s age.
“They don’t pay me to sit down,” he said, very seriously. Then he said, as if he were explaining something to a small child, “It was like there were gods in those days. Today, it’s all television: small heroes. Little people in the boxes. I see some of them here. Little people.
“The stars of the old times: They was giants, painted in silver light, big as houses and when you met them, they were still huge. People believed in them.
“They’d have parties here. You worked here, you saw what went on. There was liquor, and weed, and goings-on you’d hardly credit. There was this one party . . . the film was called Hearts of the Desert. You ever heard of it?”
I shook my head.
“One of the biggest movies of 1926, up there with What Price Glory with Victor McLaglen and Dolores Del Rio and Ella Cinders starring Colleen Moore. You heard of them?”
I shook my head again.
“You ever heard of Warner Baxter? Belle Bennett?”
“Who were they?”
“Big, big stars in 1926.” He paused for a moment. “ Hearts of the Desert. They had the party for it here, in the hotel, when it wrapped. There was wine and beer and whiskey and gin—this was Prohibition days, but the studios kind of owned the police force, so they looked the other way; and there was food, and a deal of foolishness; Ronald Colman was there and Douglas Fairbanks—the father, not the son—and all the cast and the crew; and a jazz band played over there where those chalets are now.
“And June Lincoln was the toast of Hollywood that night. She was the Arab princess in the film. Those days, Arabs meant passion and lust. These days . . . well, things change.
“I don’t know what started it all. I heard it was a dare or a bet; maybe she was just drunk. I thought she was drunk. Anyhow, she got up, and the band was playing soft and slow. And she walked over here, where I’m standing right now, and she plunged her hands
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