Decadence (24 page)

CUT AND PASTE. EVEN GENIUS HAS ITS LIMITATIONS.

I'D RATHER BE WITH YOU. IT'S BEEN WEEKS.

HOW IS THE YONI OVER THERE?

I WOULDN'T KNOW.

YOU'VE BEEN OUT OF CONTACT THE LAST WEEK OR TWO. YOU'RE A BUSY, BUSY MAN.

FEELS LIKE FOREVER SINCE I'VE KISSED YOU. I'M DYING TO HOLD YOU AND FEEL YOU.

THAT WOULD BE NICE. ON A RAINY EVENING LIKE THIS ONE, WOULD BE NICE TO BE IN BED HAVING SEX.

IT'S STILL EARLY EVENING THERE.

AND IT'S GOING TO BE A LONG ONE. I'M WITH MY MOTHER NOW. SHE'S GOING ALL OUT FOR THIS ONE.

THERE IS A PARTY AS WELL, AM I CORRECT?

AFTER-PARTY AT THE W WHEN THE FILM ENDS. WILL BE NOTHING BUT INDUSTRY TALK, SO IT WILL BE BORING. UNFORTUNATELY I HAVE TO STAY AND SMILE UNTIL THE VERY END. MIGHT TEXT YOU LATER. GET YOUR REST. KISSES.

I LOVE YOU.

GOOD NIGHT. MISS YOU. THANKS FOR TAKING THE TIME TO REACH OUT, BUSY MAN.

I returned to staring at traffic and counting raindrops.

My cellular buzzed with a text. Again it was from Rosetta, my designated new best friend.

Her message said,

WE'RE ALL HERE. THIS IS AMAZING, NIA. I JUST HEARD THAT REGINA BAPTISTE MIGHT BE INSIDE. SERIOUSLY, REGINA BAPTISTE? HAD NO IDEA YOU WERE ÜBER FAMOUS. HOPE TO SEE YOU AFTER IT'S OVER
.

My mother ended her call, leaned forward, and said, “Excuse me, driver?”

As we mixed with the madness of the traffic coming out of Hollywood and fought down La Brea Avenue toward Melrose Avenue, the driver of our sedan looked into her rearview mirror.

She responded to my mother, “Yes, Mrs. Bijou?”

“How far are we from the Regent? I mean, how long do you think in this traffic?”

“If there isn't another accident and if all the lights are working, ten minutes. We were stacked up so long because four lights were out and there were at least six minor accidents in the last mile.”

My mother nudged me. “Just received a text. The paparazzi have arrived in full force.”

Our driver asked, “Is that a good thing? Or should we slip you in through the back entrance?”

“We?”

“Oh, my partner will meet us curbside and open your doors, when you are ready. If there is a distance problem, if you prefer to not be touched or if you are uncomfortable when people get too close, we can handle that as well. We can play the bad guys so you still look good to the public. If there is anyone you prefer to not be in your space, we can intervene and make them back off. That's what we are here for.”

“No, all is good. Tonight it's fantastic. Even with the paparazzi. Never thought that I would be happy to see them again. All press is good press, even when it's bad press, and I foresee no bad press.”

I mumbled, “Other than that Rae-Jeanne Quash bitch in Trinidad.”

Mommy pinched me.

The driver nodded. “Then I will park and let you and Miss Bijou out of the car at their feet.”

I said, “In the rain? Thanks a lot. I should've worn flippers.”

She laughed. “They erected a covering that extends to the sidewalk, and just in case, my partner has an umbrella the size of one they use on the beach. He will take you from the car one at a time.”

My mother adjusted her black evening dress, and regarded herself in her compact mirror. She was here, in this moment, focused.

My mind was in so many places. I was back in college, at Decadence, trying to understand my needs, my fears, and the mental illness that many called love, the thing that made us all educated fools.

Returning to dialect, my mother asked, “What's wrong, Nia?”

“Nothing.”

“I know what every expression means, and now you have something else on your mind.”

“Mom . . .”

She whispered, “It's okay, chile. We alone here. Talk your mind.”

I shrugged and swallowed. The need to confess lived inside of me. The need to understand. The need to know what restlessness was inherited. There were so many things I wanted to tell her about her daughter, but I knew that I didn't want to ruin her perception of me, of her perfect virgin-child, of maybe the last of this branch of our Trinbago family tree. Still I wanted to ask her about the complexities of love and all of its manifestations, from lust to insanity, and the way it waxed and waned, and why there was forever an imbalance, why it waxed and waned differently for both parties.

I asked, “Have you dated? Have you been in love with anyone since the divorce?”

She paused for several moments before she answered, “I've dated, of course.”

“Have you been in love?”

My words, the seriousness of my question caught her off guard. My mother lost her look of power, her look of professionalism, and in that moment looked so vulnerable, so very young. It amazed me how my mother had moments when she ranted like a dictator, then others when she was a little girl.

I whispered, “Have you?”

My mother hesitated. My mother never hesitated, not even when she had decided to leave her birthplace. She was bold and brazen. Not a hesitator. You didn't conquer Hollywood by wavering.

But I also knew my mother in ways that Hollywood never would. I knew her as a woman, as a mother, as a real person. I have pictures of her when she was a little girl in pigtails, scars on her knee and mud on her face, when she was a precocious child living in Trinidad, years before she had met my long-deceased father. I have pictures of her during her youth participating in Carnival, partying with the revelers, drink in hand as she celebrated in the streets with men dancing up against her. I knew what was in her heart. She always read the last chapter of a book first or she always read the last fifteen pages of a script first. She wanted to know if it ended badly. If it didn't have a fairy-tale ending, she refused to read the book or was reluctant to touch the project. She knew what America wanted, but she also knew what she wanted as well. Mothers were women who used to be little girls dressed in Cinderella dresses.

I repeated, “Have you? Have you been in love with anyone?”

She whispered in return, “Why you ask?”

“Because you're beautiful. Because you're the best woman God ever made. You work hard, very hard, and you deserve love.”

“Stop it before you make me cry. This makeup is expensive.”

“Because I worry about you. The divorce was hard on you.”

“Why you bringing up the divorce?”

“Guess it's on my mind. It was painful. More on you than me. You were angry at Dad and were rough on the world. Whatever you were going through you were all smiles and hug ups and kisses.”

“You were angry too. It was hard on us. You were unhappy for a very long time. Even after he came to Hampton to fix that issue.”

“I know. I was. But now, my worry is toward you. And your job. I worry about your status as well. You work at a heart-attack pace.”

“It keeps me occupied. It keeps me from going home to that big empty house. And my job never let me down. It's hard, it's frustrating, but it has never failed me, never betrayed me, not once.”

I paused. “Since the divorce, you ever had a real boyfriend?”

She touched her neck, then spoke in a soft voice, “I was . . . I was fond of someone at one point.”

“
Fond?
So you were in love with someone since the divorce.”

“I said fond. He was younger. It didn't last.”

“When did this cougar thing happen?”

“Actually it was more than fond.” She waved her hand dismissively, the same way I had done for years whenever I was asked about my past. With a thin smile she said, “Was a few years back.”

“Who and when and why wasn't I informed?”

“It was over as soon as it started. We had a great opening weekend and fell off fast.”

“That's pretty vague. So it wasn't a box office hit. Why wasn't I informed, Mother?”

“It was of no major consequence, Daughter.”

“
Of no major consequence
? Really? Where is this mystery man now?”

“He's married.”

“Oho. Was he married then?”

“No, he wasn't married then. He married after. You done cross-examining me?”

“He famous?”

“Not an actor, if that's what you're asking.”

“He in the business?”

“Nia, stop macoing.”

“He fell in love and married someone else and moved on.”

“I guess . . . I guess that pretty much sums it up. So it goes.”

“It's in our blood. After they date us, they marry the next girl.”

“I've moved on. I pulled up my big girl panties and moved on.”

I heard so much contradiction in her voice. I knew that tone of leftover love. I had inherited that timbre. There was a happiness that I wasn't sure I would ever achieve, but that didn't stop me from wanting that fairy tale for my mother. I could deal with my restlessness, my foolishness, my unhappiness, but not with hers.

I asked, “Are you seeing someone now?”

“I have a friend.”

“Are you fond of this new friend?”

“It's nothing serious, mind you.”

“Play dates? Sleepovers?”

She pinched my leg.

I laughed. “Mommy, I know that you don't suffer from ithyphallophobia, so you can stop pretending that you do.”

She patted my leg. Mom didn't want to continue that conversation. I sipped my wine, let it settle in my mouth like a well-earned orgasm, like Prada's yummy orgasm, and after I swallowed I took my mother's cellular from her, read what she had posted on Facebook.

I said, “Sixty thousand followers. Impressed. Three thousand comments already. You have told the world where we are tonight.”

Then my cellular rang. I saw that it was Bret. He'd never called. Surprised, I answered.

He said, “I just wanted to call, congratulate you on your movie and to tell you to break a leg.”

“Bret, that means so much to me. How are you doing?”

“Well, I'm not going to complain. Anytime I'm not where it's one hundred and twenty degrees, not almost six thousand miles from home, not dressed in full uniform and carrying eighty pounds of gear and worried about driving over a bomb, it's a pretty good day.”

“I appreciate what soldiers do, but I'm glad that I never enlisted.”

“This is a busy time for you. Hope that I didn't disturb you.”

“Was just cleaning the last of the mud out of my ears.”

“Good. Glad to hear that.”

“Thanks. This call is like a venti soy latte on a cold winter day.”

We shared a few more soft words, promised to talk tomorrow, to actually talk on the phone and not text back and forth, and that had left me excited, and then with a smile on my end, we hung up. Again we talked as if a zipless encounter had never happened between us. Like old friends. Strange. Before I disconnected, despite all the
fuckedupness
in my life, the light side of Gemini almost told him I loved him.

My mother sipped her wine before she asked, “Who was that?”

“Just this military guy. One friend of many.”

“‘This call is like a venti soy latte on a cold winter day'? Seriously? How corny.”

“Get out my business.”

“Why you so shaky and secretive all of a sudden? This military man person has a name? He younger? Are you a cougar? Are you a DILF? I hope you still a virgin. I know that I am. We both should be.”

“Wait. DILF? Oh my God. DILF? Did you call me what I think you called me? Does that mean
Daughter I'd Like to
 . . . Oh my God. Mommy, no you didn't just call me a
DILF
. That was evil.”

“Where is this Bret from?”

“He's from South Carolina, but he lives in Georgia.”

“
Jaw-juh
. Isn't that how they say it in that godawful illiterate city?
I's frum Jaw-juh, suh
.”

I leaned forward. “Excuse me, driver. What's your name again?”

“Cynthia Smalls, ma'am. But I use the name Panther, ma'am. I used to attend Clark Atlanta. Clark Atlanta Panthers. I kept that nickname to remind myself to go back home one day and finish getting my undergrad degree.”

“Panther, I need you to pull over and put my mother out in the rain with the crackheads.”

“Can't do that, ma'am. She's paying the bill. But unfortunately I can put you out if she asks.”

We all laughed. I wondered how Bret knew what I was doing. I'd never told him. He knew who I was. I wondered how he had found out. I wondered how long he had known.

As we crept along in traffic our driver said, “Congratulations on your film, Miss Bijou.”

“Thanks, Panther.”

Then I regarded my mother. Again she looked so young. She had fallen into thought, was inside of some unseen abyss, barely blinking, as I had been when consumed by thought. She was somewhere else.

My conversation had redirected her mind, sent her on a journey, her road made of memories. She had opened the box that had been put away inside her mind and now she was traveling down a road paved with unwanted emotions. If not unwanted, then uncontrollable,
unkillable
. I reached over and held my mother's hand. She held my hand, squeezed my hand in return. Within seconds I was on my own road, a winding road that had many emotions.

Old lovers were the shadows that darkened my walls.

And old friends.

Siobhán.

I had so many memories of us as friends.

She had stolen from me.

She had stolen my happiness years ago.

And now I'd robbed her in return.

Like a thief I had broken into her marriage and burgled her.

I whispered, “Just the tip. Just the tip.”

The Regent Showcase Theatre
is one of the older art houses in Los Angeles, Hollywood-adjacent, a half block away from the world-famous Pink's Hot Dogs at Melrose Avenue where the Queen of Soul Aretha Franklin loved to pig out whenever she came to town, minutes away from the swank high-rent area that housed the Grove. It is a horrible area for parking in a busy New Yorkish–type of district, at least a hundred restaurants and wine bars and marijuana medical shops within its reach.

Photographers and the paparazzi were in full force.

“My God, so many people. You pulled it off, Mommy.”

“All six hundred seats will be filled. SRO for the latecomers.”

A section right outside of the entrance was set up with a backdrop from the film. It was far enough from the curb, so that area was dry and lit up like it was the set for a shoot. The photographers were stacked up front and the scum that comprised the paparazzi were off to the side at four levels, at least fifty of them stacked on top of one another, calling out the celebrities' names all at once, each trying to get the best shot. Controlled madness. Not only were the photographers and paparazzi in full force, but most of the patrons had out their camera phones and were taking shots and recording too. The posters for the movie showed toned, shirtless men, and three generations of exotic women.

Actress Lola Mack was featured on the advert poster here. When they sold it abroad, as they had done in so many movies, her blackness would be removed. A black face diminished sales abroad, retarded profits, so like they had done in the film
Couples Retreat
, as they had done with the adverts for
The
Hunger Games
when it went to DVD, the black-and brown-skinned portion of the cast would magically disappear from all advertisements. After I had signed the contract, my work belonged to the system, as did the power. In the islands the Indian actress in the film would be moved closer to the star. In some parts of the world she would vanish. Actors of color were still begging Hollywood for integration. Begging for acceptance. Silently I hoped that I was part of the solution, and not another part of the problem. And if I weren't part of the solution, I hoped that I wouldn't be seen as part of the problem. That interview with the Quash bitch had rattled me.

Some of the male power makers were in stylish suits. LA kept it casual, trendy, smart. Of the four hundred people who were out front and in the lobby, people of color were hardly represented. The film was sold using white actors. A black sci-fi would still be sitting in my computer. Again, the politics of Hollywood. I had been taught that you had to work the system to beat the system. Hollywood was a business, not an extension of the Civil Rights Movement. I had learned.

My mother said, “What's that terse expression all about?”

“Was looking at the movie posters and . . . nothing.”

“You grew up here. You know how it goes. Again, it's about the bottom line. Some say that it's a slow-changing system, but in reality, sadly, it's an unchanging system. Those who have tried to scream and shout and force integration on the system are blackballed in this business as if they were the spawn of Mel Gibson.”

“This is a world that continues to choose Regina Baptiste over Regina King.”

“Baptiste is talented. You can't take that away from her.”

“So is King. If she were white, she'd be a superstar.”

The theater was large with an art deco vibe from days gone by. Not even the forward-thinking people in Hollywood could let go of their past. The historic edifice was perfect for foreign or indie films, or tonight, a screening. It was like the theater that was used in the movie
The Artist
. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if this was the actual theater they used during the shoot of the Oscar-winning silent film.

My mother told our driver to open our doors in thirty seconds.

Panther placed a call and said, “Driver. Thirty seconds. Are you in position?”

A powerful male voice said, “I'm standing right here at the back door.”

My mother said, “Make that a minute. One more minute. They are cheering for someone. Never step on anyone else's laughter or applause. We could upstage them, but let them have their moment.”

I said, “Lola Mack. They are cheering for Lola Mack. She's singing for the crowd.”

Panther said, “Make it a minute, Driver.”

“Copy. One minute.”

I gazed at the controlled madness.

I gazed at a world that thrived on living in the realm of fantasy.

As a writer, there was bliss in creating, but there was no pleasure in this part of the occupation. I loathed insanity. I smiled at what my mother enjoyed. The madness testified that the fruits of her labor hadn't gone unnoticed. I didn't need the crowd or champagne or caviar. My paycheck was my reward. It had been that way since I was in college.

Ironically, I was more comfortable being nude at Decadence than I was fully dressed in this plastic world. Being gone so long, having lived in Virginia, Tennessee, and Georgia made this feel like a foreign country. Someone tapped on the curbside window and we jumped. I assumed that Panther hit the unlock button because the rear locks stood tall. The curbside door was opened by an Italian-suited tall, bald, well-built, and very handsome man who wore fashionable glasses. His skin was rich and dark as if he had been created from the finest of wood and rubbed with tung oil. He was a man made for pleasure and breeding.

Huge black umbrella in hand, he said, “Miss Bijou. Mrs. Bijou. My name is Driver.”

My mother nodded. “You usually drive Thicke and Baptiste.”

“I drove them tonight. They're already inside.”

“Did Baptiste walk the red carpet?”

“She did. She posed for photos. She chatted.”

“Wonderful. That will be great for publicity.”

Driver the driver was going to see us through the ruck of boisterous people while Panther stayed with the car and waited for us. I exited first, to pandemonium, to overwhelming chatter. Driver held the umbrella up high. Rain pitter-pattered on it as he rushed me to the dry area. On the billboard I saw my name in sizable letters. It wasn't as large as the names of the principal actors, but by contract it was noticeable, it looked important. There was some applause. The chatter paused when my mother was escorted from the town car and stepped her dazzling high heels and Trinidadian high fashion onto the sidewalk. On this dank winter night we pretended that we weren't cold. We had taped down our nipples so they wouldn't betray us. I wanted a coat on so badly, but this was all about us looking invincible. The world cheered and applauded. Like libertines at Decadence giving approval, all applauded. I was no longer Nia Simone. I was the daughter of Hazel Tamana Bijou. Or at least, I was N. S. Bijou. That was the name I had used. I employed a neutral name that could be assumed to be the Christian name of a man. It also prevented lunatics from finding me on Facebook and Twitter and somehow getting my phone number. If they googled N. S. Bijou, what came up, for now, was N & S Bijoux jewelry and watches. That made sense, especially since my surname meant a small, exquisitely wrought trinket. Cameras and handshakes and kisses on the cheeks came and Driver guided us to the red carpet.

We moved through the crowd that had paused traffic that was Hollywood bound on La Brea, moved by women in short dresses and high heels, and right away I saw that most of the men who were in the business, most of the executives, were accompanied by youthful eye candy. Blondes. Brunettes. Tanned. Big kiss-ass smiles. We greeted people and passed by powerful men wearing pointed or box-toe shoes, skinny jeans and Maddens, even Converse. And I thought that I saw Quince Pulgadas in the mix, but the crowd shifted. I looked for Rosetta and Chandra. I followed my mother to the section beyond the velvet rope. All of a sudden I was overwhelmed, so very nervous, so many noises and faces. The photographers shouted commands as cameras flashed, yelled for us to tell them what we were wearing, and in unison my mother and I proudly spoke the name of our Trinidadian designer. We said it the same way at the same moment and we both laughed because it was unrehearsed. They wanted to know the details of everything from our clothing to our hairstylist to nail polish. It was intrusive, it was obsessive, but I smiled. The photographers competed for the best shots. We gave red-carpet smiles as hundreds of flashes blinded us, as a gaggle of energetic cameramen yelled out our last name: Bijou, look here; Bijou, now here; Bijou, Bijou, Bijou, look this way for me. Moments later most of the cast joined us for another round of photos. The predominant actress of color in the film, Lola Mack, stood next to me. She wore an adorable pink-cropped jacket, which she paired with jeans, bright blue Burak Uyan heels, and funky, colorful, futuristic, geometric jewelry. Her skin was a deep brown and her hair was a perfectly volumized blowout. I loved her complexion, and it looked better in person than on camera. She owned brownness that was coveted in the film by the men of all ethnicities. But her character had sacrificed herself for her two lovers, for twin brothers, and died early on. She came from theater and was struggling to turn herself into a Hollywood actress. My mother said that this was Lola Mack's first big role, but she had as much screen time as Rue did in
The
Hunger Games
, her part equally as powerful. She was excited.

I said, “TMZ is here. I just threw up in my mouth.”

“Publicity is publicity.”

While we stood there I searched across the ecstatic faces in the crowd, sought out Rosetta in that multitude of parishioners of the cinema, I looked for other acquaintances from my hidden compartment. I'd find comfort in their faces. I even spied for my past. If Chris had shown up, it wouldn't have surprised me. The same for his wife; the same for Siobhán. In the middle of the crowd, beyond the shoulders of the cameramen I saw a pair of men watching me. Both had been waiting on me. The two men weren't together. Both were focused on me. Both loved me. Surprise registered on my face. It was too abrupt to mask. But I pretended that the flash from the cameras had blinded me, and used that as an excuse to look elsewhere. This felt surreal. When I looked again, both men were still there. This wasn't a hallucination.

One man was tall. In his very early fifties. French. Lean, six foot two, he too with a face that would make hearts swoon if ever it were on the silver screen, a man with the looks of Jean Dujardin. His silver-and-dark hair was cut short. The additional gray made him very distinguished and sexy. He wore an Italian blue suit, dark shirt, and dark tie. My stepfather. Francois Henri Wilson. The man who adopted me when he married my mother. This moment had brought him back to Los Angeles. I waved at him, blew him a kiss. My mother looked to see to whom I'd shown affection, and she almost lost her smile.

He blew me a kiss in return.

The surprises didn't end with my stepfather's unexpected presence. A different man smiled at me. His eyes were focused on me, on my every move. Hauntingly handsome, like an international model, clean-shaven, beautiful eyes, unblemished brown skin, he too in a dark tailored suit, his chic, as stunning as Billy Payne. He had flown at least twelve hours to come here and surprise me. I saw the mysterious businessman named Prada. I saw the well-learned man who told me that he loved me. I saw my lover, a compartment that I had done my best to keep segregated from this world. He held a dozen red roses.