“What? What is it?”
“You’re wanted in Paris in five days for a screen test. I mean, you’rereallywanted.”
Nothing that Irving was saying made any sense. Paris? A screen test? “Irving, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a screen test for an acclaimed French director, baby. Jacques Becker saw you inThis Side of Tomorrow. I told him you speak French. He wants you to test for his next film.”
“You told him I what?”
“You had two years of high school French. You told me that.”
“I did, but, Irving, that doesn’t mean I speak French.”
“It doesn’t matter. The film is about a Parisian detective who falls in love with an American tourist who witnesses a murder. Youdon’t have to speak perfect French. He doesn’t want you to speak perfect French. You just need to understand filming directions. The role is perfect for you.”
“But…the blacklist.”
“There is no blacklist in Paris, Mel. And the HUAC can’t keep you from flying to Paris to make this movie. Melanie, this could change everything for you. You could make it big in French films. Becker said it himself. I already booked you on a flight next week. I want you on that plane.”
For a moment, Melanie could not speak. All she could do was look at her parents on the floor, playing with their grandson, racing wooden cars on the curves of the braided rug they sat upon.
Sometimes life was so hard you could barely breathe.
And sometimes it was so sweet you couldn’t wait to take your next breath…
“Send me the tickets,” she said.
January 5,1958
31
June folded the newspaper she’d found in the lawyer’s waiting room and placed it back on a side table with the Arts and Entertainment section on top so that the photo of Melanie Cole, the newest star of French film, was in full view.
Paris had gobbled up the bright young actress Hollywood had chased out of its studios the year before, and the new film she was starring in was apparently playing to rave reviews in France.
The movie had opened only three weeks prior in Paris and had already filled to capacity every theater where it had been shown. Extra showings had been scheduled. Additional showings had been slated for all of Provence and up and down the Côte d’Azur. And in Belgium, too.
Americans who wanted to seeCe Qu’elle a Vuwould have to wait a while for a dubbed version to be shown in its indie theaters, though.
Too bad, too, the article had said. Miss Cole’s performance was spectacular, and Hollywood was going to regret losing her, especially since they’d apparently lost her over nothing: The blacklistedcostar of her previous film, Carson Edwards, had been called to stand before the congressional committee eight months earlier and testified that his costar, Miss Cole, was never part of any conversation in which politics of any persuasion were discussed. The newspaper had reported he’d said his and Miss Cole’s off-camera relationship was arranged purely for photographers and fans.
“But you and Miss Cole also had an intimate relationship, did you not?” he’d been asked.
“Ah, that. That was merely for fun and the cameras,” he reportedly said. They weren’t even good friends.
That might have been the nicest thing Carson had done for Melanie, trivializing their relationship like that.
But he was still an ass.
And they were both still blacklisted.
June smiled at the photo of Melanie and then picked up the paper again, pulled out the Arts and Entertainment section, and stuffed it into her purse. She’d send the article to Eva in St. Paul.
An intercom buzzed on the desk of the receptionist at the front of the room. Seconds later June was taking a seat in the paneled office of Tobias Markham, Esquire. Elwood’s lawyer.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mrs. Blankenship. I know this must be a difficult time for you.”
“It’s all right. I’m not in a hurry.”
