Authors: Keir Alexander
At about six, with the light outside failing, the store is soft with shadows, the new sheen of brass somehow drawing deeper the air of melancholy. Standing at the cash register, Michael looks up as a figure goes past the window. It is Harrison dressed in a shirt and jacket and with sharp creases in his pants. As he arrives, framed in the centre of the pane, he turns, makes a gun of his hand and brings it over, slow and deliberate, to point it at Michael, his head tilted and eye looking down the barrel. And then he passes on, a smile wafting across his features. Michael is neither scared nor troubled, simply annoyed: who does he think he is now – Clint Eastwood? He calls down the rows: ‘Benjy!’ And when the boy sticks his head out around a shelf: ‘Did you just see that?’ But Benjy just looks puzzled and grunts, ‘Uh-uh.’
Before Michael has time to give it any real thought, the phone goes. It’s the hospital and a woman with a sharp no-nonsense voice saying, ‘Mr Marcinkus? It’s about Rosa Petraidis . . . I think it would be a good idea for you to come over. We think she’s coming round.’
‘My God!’ he says. Putting down the phone, he hurries down to find Benjy, ‘Listen, stop what you’re doing . . . No just leave it. I’ll pay you anyhow. We gotta close.’
■ ♦ ■
The ward nurse outlines the developments in Rosa’s condition: her eyes have twitched, her head moved – possibly. He asks if it means she’s coming round, and is told that it could mean that, but it could also mean the opposite: sometimes patients rallied like this, and even had moments of lucidity, but then just as soon slipped away altogether.
He stands at the bed, straight-backed, and speaks assuredly now, in hope of her hearing. ‘Hi, Rosa,’ he says, as if she has just walked in the room. ‘It all happens today, the whole damn shebang.’ He stands waiting, as if she would know what he was talking about and would have plenty to say on the subject. Ten minutes go by, during which his mind drifts and flits between foolish things – how there is a smell of aniseed in the room, how he will maybe buy a hot-dog on the way home and have mustard on it – and serious things: how he will go to the fateful place and look his betrayers in the eyes, and how, if the worst happens, he will face his accusers. And now he finds himself no longer looking down in pity, but in need of consolation.
‘Rosa . . . Rosa . . . Look, I gotta tell you this, I got us into one hell of a situation . . .’
And he confesses everything to her – about how they took her treasured slippers from her house, about the robbery by the crazy kid and him nearly dying, which showed how insane and ridiculous the whole situation had become. He tells her how people he loved and trusted had then made their move and taken things all into their own hands, and how he had betrayed her and wounded her and stolen her possessions and given what was precious to the devil, and all because of his own weakness and stupidity. ‘Forgive me, Rosa,’ he implores her. ‘Look at me, old and foolish, but I never, never meant it to go like it did. It was all to protect what was yours.’ He stands back, hoping against hope to see something, the faintest trace. Has he hurt her, he wonders? Has he sent her spirit racing to the precipice? There is no sign of any expression, no change in breathing, or in the luminous tracery of her heart on the screen. Nothing.
Just as he’s preparing to take his leave, her eyes twitch, a tiny tug, the black slits of them contracting with a glint of moistness between the lashes. And there is a sound, a muffled grunt behind her closed lips. He leans, urgently, over her, taking her waxy hand in his and whispering, ‘Rosa, it’s me – Michael.’ Something subterranean forms in her faraway brain and finally inches, broken, over her crusted lips: ‘Mi–hails . . . Mihails . . . My darling Mihails.’
■ ♦ ■
Already, before James has entered the bristling triangle, it is in his senses: a droning sound somewhere, coming through the haze of rain. As he heads into Times Square, the sound becomes a thrill of voices joined in song. A crowd is gathered at the base of the Walgreen Building, and in the heart of it a huddle of guys are delivering a sweet, melodious chorus of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’. A light in the sky filters down through the drizzle, causing James to look up at the buildings opposite, and there he can see Dorothy’s wide, hope-filled face splashed across a screen of stone and glass. Passers-by stop in their tracks, all in awe of ethereal Judy and her heavenly choir.
James lowers his head. He had been hoping for a more restrained affair, something he could approach quietly, conclude promptly and leave gracefully. But it is not to be. Rounding the corner, he is staggered to see a line of people stretching all the way to Seventh! He had not reckoned on it, but some of them immediately recognize him from the publicity, and as he walks past he finds himself glad-handing all manner of complete strangers. There are people wearing ‘ruby slippers’ T-shirts and hats, and indeed a few of both sexes wearing replica slippers. But there are other people, too, more ordinary in their ways – little old ladies wearing their childhoods on their faces; couples and families and groups all blessed with the same collective smile. James wonders, somewhat uneasily, if Jack might be somewhere in the crowd, another apparition of the blessed Judy, or was his cross-dressing for private viewing only?
He comes to the doors, bronze and imposing. He can hear people murmuring to each other, ‘Look, it’s that guy.’ A young snappy-suited guy in charge of the line gives him a respectful nod of the head and holds back the throng for him, not bothering to examine the pass James is holding out, but instead beckoning to another guy, who now holds the door open and gestures respectfully for James to enter.
■ ♦ ■
Michael Marcinkus, a tired and confused old man carrying the heaviest of burdens, gets on a subway train and finds himself alone in a carriage filled with schoolchildren – girls, all of them, most five years old. He imagines them on their way home from the zoo, where they have laughed at penguins and stood fearful of lions. Two teachers are going up and down keeping an eye on them, but the kids are quiet and contained, mesmerized by the jumble of light and shade rushing past the windows, or gazing at the colourful posters, all sitting there, sober and silent and adding to the world inside their heads. Inside Michael’s head there are worlds, each of them occupied by dark and painful things. And during the next few minutes he visits them: the world of treachery that has divided him from his loved ones and made him solitary; the world of cruelty beyond fathoming from which he escaped all those decades ago, and the world of an old woman’s sorrow, which he has just walked away from.
Sliding his subway ticket into his top pocket, his finger comes to rest against the letter pad in his inside pocket. He can read this now. Nothing more can hurt him. He pulls it out and opens it to the last few flimsy pages . . .
■ ♦ ■
It is important to understand the meaning to me of these wonderful slippers. They were the very first things that I kept and put away, never to let go, the first of the hoarded things. And yet, when I took them, it was not because I saw them as any kind of treasure. At that time they were never so magical or special, just pretty objects that made me smile to look at them. It was the rest of my life and how it took so many sorrowful turnings that made them so meaningful to me. So, they were just a pair of shoes and not even valuable. Several pairs of them were made for the production and nobody had any idea at the time of the tremendous significance that would come to them. And certainly they did not fit my feet, which were size 7, while hers were size 2! No, they were just things that anyone could admire for what they were and for the skill which had gone into making them. That Judy Garland herself had worn them also was meaningless. To the producers she was no more than ‘B List’ before this movie – an actress good for playing children
.
But if the slippers were hardly to die for, why did I take them? I suppose it was because Tom and I had gone to the studio that Sunday for so intimate a reason – to make love in the fairytale palace – and that when we found them, it was as if they were a gift to bless the love between us, a beautiful pair of shoes for a pair of young lovers. Even now, when I think about the ruby slippers, it always takes me back to Tom, who was my one true love. And all my happiness was around this time. Two years only in all my adult life when I was allowed to have around me beautiful things and beautiful people
.
Later on, it gave me such a shock when I discover how the value of them has gone sky-high, how history changes everything – a war goes by; a new age comes; a president is assassinated and an age is gone. A star is born, a star fades, a star dies tragically. And suddenly this crazy movie in which you played a tiny part becomes meaningful for millions of people all over the world, and the star of it, who was just a frightened little girl, she becomes a legend. It terrified me all those years later to discover that they even display a pair in the national museum and people pay money and queue for hours to see them. To think that there were times after I went from Hollywood when I had thought to destroy them and cut out the memories of good times because they were never to come again
.
And so the ruby slippers did come to have great meaning for me. For the further away those times have gone, the more rich and vivid they have become in my memory. And the more my mind is unable to keep hold of small details from today, the more I can remember perfectly those long-ago places and people and all the things they said and did
.
For a long time now the world has become weary for me and people intolerant and unfeeling. Just to drag my body around to eat, drink, sleep and stay alive. But truly it has given me comfort just to keep these shoes inside a box and no longer even need to look inside, only to remember that once there was love and beauty in my life. So, perhaps, the slippers have become for me a token of this: that always there is something beautiful that awaits us all and will be forever shining. Let no one take this from me
.
Michael looks up. Only one stop to go, then he can walk home from there. He closes the pad, thinking of the poor old woman: Let no one take this from me. But this prompts another thought: the memory of Harrison going past the deli window, making that gunman gesture. Suddenly it comes to him what it had meant. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he says to himself, rather loudly. The heads of the teachers switch round to glare at him and he shrinks back in his seat, embarrassed and apologetic for being such a foolish old man. As soon as the train stops at the next station, he goes flying out the door in search of a line to take him where he now must go.
■ ♦ ■
Siobhan sees it all for what it is – the whole Oz and Judy thing with the singing and the massive projections. She smiles despite herself. But she will not be distracted from what she has come there to do. She brings her gaze back down to street level, catching sight of herself in a store window. Yeah, at least she looks the part this time – the brown velvet jacket over the powder-blue roll-neck top and the grey jeans below. Cool. She looks across, sees the snake of people all colourful and excited. She goes along the line until the auction-house doors are in sight. Deftly, she slips in behind a stately old couple and in front of two guys under an umbrella.
Fifty or so yards shy of the entrance, a murmur ripples through the crowd and a voice comes down the line behind her, saying over and over, ‘Thank you, thank you.’ Instinctively, her head drops, her cheeks fired red. Her father! He is moving along, grinning, pressing the flesh like he’s a film star! As soon he is safely past her, she stands up on her toes to see him reach the doors. Behind her, one umbrella guy says to the other: ‘Isn’t that the Ruby Million man?’ And she feels warm and cold about it at the same time. She knows there is good in these outpourings of approval, and yet she resents her father for giving so much of himself to people he has never met, whilst allowing so little for her. She turns her head away, feeling foolish all of a sudden: what the hell is she doing here? Who cares whether he gets the damn shoes or not? But then she comes back, firm to her purpose.
Just twenty places from the front, Siobhan sees that people are holding up passes to an absurdly young guy in a flashy suit, standing guard near the door. Some people are being waved through by him, while others are being turned away. This she hasn’t planned for. A woman stands there arguing. She makes God knows how many protestations, but the sentry-man just keeps saying, robotically, ‘Like I said, the places are taken.’ When at last the woman turns away, defeated, others behind her also shake their heads and drop out of the line. But Siobhan seems to take strength from it and carries on against the flow. Nothing, nothing will stop her. She walks right up to the guy, smiling wanly and saying, totally matter-of-factly: ‘That’s better. I feel so much better.’
‘Uh, sorry?’ he says, already hassled off his feet and now not sure what to make of this latest annoyance. ‘I went out, remember? I went out to get air because I wasn’t feeling so . . .’ He looks at her, suspicious but conscious of others hovering behind, intent on stealing their way in. ‘I’m with my father,’ she rattles. ‘James McBride; he just went in.’ She glances behind her, seeking support among the crowd. ‘You know, the Ruby Million man.’ This brings about much murmuring and nodding in recognition, but still the suited boy stands his ground: ‘I don’t remember . . .’
‘God, this is crazy!’ she yaps, looking beyond him, as if seeking to catch the eye of someone higher up the food chain. With an intolerant shrug, she appeals once more to her supporting cast, most of whom oblige by looking suitably pissed. ‘OK. OK.’ Choosing the path of least hassle, the boy gives way and stands aside to admit Siobhan, who clumps towards the door, bridling in mock annoyance. But the moment the door opens to admit her, the hardness goes out of her and she whispers to herself, deliciously, ‘I am in.’
■ ♦ ■
Michael runs, trips, stumbles towards the place, clutching his collar at the throat to keep the rain out, to shut everything out. He is closed to everything except his absolute need to get there and get inside. And yet he cannot help but notice things: the sweet singing and the images diffusing down through the drizzle. And for the briefest of moments he is startled out of his indifference by the towering vision of Dorothy’s wide face – eyes, nose, lips all turned up to heaven. As he hurries past the dwindling line of people, a minuscule pulse of pleasure passes through Michael. Even in his closed-off, wilful state of mind he cannot set himself against the happiness of others. As he turns the corner, a sudden squall of rain flies chilly against his face and he longs to be inside, where at least it will be warm and dry. The rain seems to be falling harder here and umbrellas are going up. He can feel the droplets collecting in his wispy hair and dripping down to soak him through. He peers up at the sky, the tiny luminous patch of it, formed by the building tops so distant and beyond reach. Picking up his step, he hurries up to the front of the line, where he takes an instant dislike to the stripy-suited youth holding back the throng. It’s the kid’s swagger – the way his thumb is hooked over his waistcoat pocket, as if he’s about to pull out a watch and chain; the way he stands there in his path, his head cocked out of the shirt collar that’s at least a size too big; Michael bristles at it all. ‘You have to let me in,’ he says, muted but blunt. ‘I am the owner.’