A Touch of Stardust (43 page)

All of Atlanta danced toward the weekend’s climax. For the Hollywood contingent, the next day flew by in a blur of lunches and speeches and meetings filled with popping flashbulbs, giggling ladies in their grandmothers’ ball gowns, schoolchildren clamoring for autographs, publicists ushering the stars through the crowds that gathered everywhere they went—in parks blooming with flowers, in their hotels, in the restaurants—all straining for a view of the mythical heroes and heroines of their fondly remembered mythical history.

Clark made his way through the day, flabbergasted. “They sure take us seriously,” he mumbled to Carole.

Dusk was gathering when, on cue, a dozen monster-sized floodlights placed strategically around the center of town suddenly switched on, sending columns of light cutting upward, to meet in a brilliant, glittering crown above Loew’s Grand Theater—where
Gone with the Wind
was about to be presented to the city of Atlanta. December 15, 1939, a day they’d all remember.

Julie peeked out the window of the car as their caravan crawled toward the theater, amazed at the sight that greeted them when they pulled closer. The façade of the grand old theater had been transformed into a replica of Twelve Oaks, the ancestral home of the Wilkes family. It was done so cleverly, Julie could almost imagine walking herself into the library once again. She smoothed down the
folds of her borrowed red silk gown, still feeling half naked without underwear, wondering how Carole could be so comfortable about her body.

“Honey,” Carole had said as they prepared to leave the hotel, “quit tugging at that dress. You
can’t
wear britches with my clothes, so relax and enjoy the feel of the silk on your skin.”

She was trying.

They were almost there. Julie saw a scattering of people waving placards and peered hard to make out what they said.
GONE WITH THE WIND
GLORIFIES SLAVERY
, read one.
YOU’D BE SWEET TOO UNDER A WHIP
, read another.

She had started to point them out to the others when a loud yipping scream rose from the enormous crowds on the sidewalk.

“What the hell is that?” Clark said.

“That’s the Rebel yell,” a soft-spoken Atlanta publicist said with a nervous smile. “They’re welcoming you.” Then, proudly, “People are more interested in
Gone with the Wind
than in what’s going on in Europe. Isn’t that grand?”

Julie glanced swiftly at Andy, hoping he hadn’t heard. His expression didn’t change, but he seemed subdued—he had been all day, she suddenly realized. Yes, ever since she saw him huddled with Selznick in a corner of the hotel this morning.

Now Clark’s attention was taken by something else: he pointed at a slight woman alongside their car on the sidewalk who was hurrying for the lobby, face averted from the crowd, looking like a skittery bird with her long tan coat flapping open. She wore laced-up black oxfords, and her hair was pulled back into a severe bun.

“Ma, is that who I think it is?” he said.

Carole peered. “Well, I’ll be damned.” She laughed. “Pa, I think you’re about to meet the woman who created you. And I sure don’t mean your mother.”

Margaret Mitchell turned her head at the sound of Carole’s voice and stared through the open window at Clark as their car pulled up to the curb. Her lips managed a faint smile.

Margaret Mitchell was waiting for them in the lobby, her husband standing protectively beside her. Julie guessed at once that she was not plain and drab, but was trying for some reason to appear so: to be overlooked, to make herself invisible. From what was she hiding, this woman who had written such an astounding book—a book that took her ten years to complete—who wrote seventy chapters, stuffed them into envelopes, and sent them off to a publisher? Who rocked the world of publishing and won a Pulitzer Prize? Who—a Southern belle, Smith College dropout, survivor of several marriages—then shrank back from the public scene but answered every letter sent to her about her book?

Introductions were made, but it was Carole who held out her hand first. “Miss Mitchell,” she said, “I have two questions. May I?”

“Yes, of course,” Mitchell replied, looking a little nervous.

“Did you really name your heroine Pansy at first?”

“Yes. Terrible choice, wasn’t it?”

“Lordy, yes, indeed,” Carole said with feeling. “I can’t see Vivien playing anyone named Pansy.”

“What’s your second question?” Mitchell was visibly relaxing.

“Now, this I have to ask. Were you thinking about Clark when you created Rhett Butler?”

Mitchell shook her head quickly. “I keep hearing that, but no, no.” She looked at Clark with an almost flirtatious glance. “Sorry, Mr. Gable. But if you do as good a job as I think you’ll do bringing Rhett alive, I’ll change my story.”

“I’ve done my best,” an obviously impressed Clark responded. He actually bowed, looking gallant in his white tie and tails, then took the author’s small white hand in his and kissed it.

Julie for a second feared Carole would come up with a wonderful, ribald joke about Clark’s true level of devotion to Rhett, but she managed to restrain herself. Fortunately, it was time to enter the theater.

Carole and Clark were ushered in first: Clark, trying not to look uncomfortable in his formal clothes, Carole sinuous and lovely in gold lamé. Vivien, escorted by Laurence Olivier—publicly, now
that Selznick had no objections to their liaison anymore—followed, her head held high and her eyes triumphant.

The crowd of guests filled the theater’s red velvet seats, chattering, speculating, eyes darting here and there; they were measuring their own importance by assessing that of the others lucky enough to be here at the premiere.

When David Selznick came striding out on the stage, silence fell. Once more, this feared tyrant and perfectionist looked different—eager, excited—and his voice shook with pride and excitement. He seemed smaller, somehow, standing on a grand stage—and yet, to Julie’s eye, larger than ever.

The movie began. The splendid, soaring score written by composer Max Steiner—working in twenty-hour shifts to produce the longest score ever written for a movie—exploded into the lofty, elaborately molded interior of the theater, taking Julie’s breath away. Selznick hadn’t wanted an original score—he had wanted all classical music—but Steiner had won that fight. It was breathtaking music, and Julie found herself again swept up into the world of
Gone with the Wind
.

Her enthrallment was not going away. Strange. Even though she had been part of
Gone with the Wind
only as a spectator, it had soaked through her skin and into her heart. This was what a movie could be. And it hadn’t come out of the sky, blazing and perfect. Nothing could soar, could become magical, without sweat and a touch of stardust. This “troubled project,” as critics enjoyed calling it, was the result of weeks and months of anger and tensions, of disruptions and mistakes and fears.
Gone with the Wind
was in constant turmoil from start to finish; that was no secret. I mustn’t forget that, she told herself. Not if she was staying in this business.

The applause that followed the final scene was deafening. The curtains closed and the lights went up and people stood as one, still applauding.

Carole knew whom they were looking for. She turned to Margaret Mitchell, who was seated next to Clark. “They want you, honey,” she said.

“No, no,” Mitchell protested, seemingly overcome by the response.

“Here, I’ll help you.” Carole took her by the hand and led her up to the stage, then stepped back. The applause grew even louder.

Margaret Mitchell looked tiny and frail against the backdrop of the heavy velvet curtains that reached to the rafters. She clutched a handkerchief, twisting it in her hands, then finally spoke. “Thank you,” she said. “I am overwhelmed. Thank you all for this movie. I thank you for me and my poor Scarlett.”

Late that night, lying in Andy’s arms in a giant bed that was filled with soft, billowing pillows, Julie couldn’t get that moment out of her mind. “Such a big book came from such a little woman,” she murmured. “Andy, you’ve been part of creating something wonderful. You should be proud.”

He didn’t answer at first. “Honey, I wish it could be that way,” he then said.

“Well, why can’t it?” She tried to hold back anxiety from her voice. Something was waiting in the wings again.

He was silent for a moment, taking the time to reach for his ever-present cigarettes on the bedside table. He lit one, inhaled, and stared at the ceiling. “I need to tell you something.”

She lifted her head, trying to see his face in the darkness. Then waited.

“Selznick wants to assign me to the next Colbert movie as director, with a big raise. Told me this morning.”

“Andy!” Julie bolted upright to a sitting position. She was wide awake now. “That’s wonderful. This is what you’ve wanted, isn’t it?”

“Well—it forces my hand.”

“What does that mean?”

He took a deep breath. “Julie, I realized today—with all this hoopla—I can’t do it. I can’t live this life, not now. It’s not enough
to be sending bribe money for French officials and offering sponsorships to get people out of Europe anymore. I’ve got to get into this thing. I can’t be happy if I don’t.”

“I will make you happy.” She said it, trying not to make it a cry of dread.

He kissed her forehead. “You do, you do. But I have to get over there. Leslie did it right. He didn’t waste a minute. He got the hell out of here. Maybe Ashley Wilkes is a weak character, but Leslie Howard—no matter how he played that part—is a strong man.”

“He’s British, you’re American. This is crazy!”

Andy leaned over and switched on the light. “I’ve dithered for too long, Julie. It’s souring me—I can feel it happening—and I don’t want that.” He took her hand. “I’m taking a job with the International Red Cross in Europe, doing whatever they want me to do, including going as a delegate to internment camps. Somebody’s got to monitor treatment of civilians as well as prisoners of war, and they’re the only ones who can do it.”

The hammer had descended. “You want to find your family,” she said.

“That’s part of it.”

They sat until the first weak rays of daylight crept up in the Atlanta sky, huddled in robes, on the edge of the bed. He told her his plan. It was simple enough. If Germany wouldn’t let the Red Cross delegates into their camps, he would volunteer to help at anything needed. He could set up auxiliary hospitals, go wherever they would let him go. “Even the British aren’t too fussy about accents these days,” he said in an attempt at lightness. “They’ll take anybody willing to sign up. Even a Yank will do.”

“You have this all planned out,” she said.

He lowered his head. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time,” he admitted.

She scrambled to muster arguments. “I need you,” she said. “You can’t leave, and you don’t have to. We’re not in this war.”

“We will be. I can’t wait any longer. And … look, you don’t need me.”

“How can you say that?” Even as she protested, startled, she heard the truth in his words.