SAVAGE: Chapter Four - Erika

Erika was aware of Rusty's sullen glare as she sat brushing her mane of chestnut hair. They hadn't spoken for minutes. He sprawled across her bed, fully clothed including cowboy boots, sipping a beer from the can and smoking his third cigarette. Erika and Rusty had been friendly lovers for so long their relationship had become almost that of incestuous siblings. She no longer knew, nor cared to determine, if he was in love with her or not. In truth, she didn't really care. As a boyfriend, Rusty was comfortable. Like an old pair of slippers she could look forward to when she was in her Hollywood Hills apartment. Rusty suited her needs and her lifestyle; being always available to her should she want to take in a movie or go to popular restaurants. Rusty was physically large, amiable and trustworthy. A burly bear of a man with the tenderness of a kitten; his feelings too easily hurt, at times. Other men seeing her in public knew better than to try and hit on her, and that in itself made his role in her life important. She had to remind herself of that from time to time, and their sexual encounters, though never discussed in detail, were Erika's way of rewarding Rusty for his one-sided attention and devotion.

With a resigned sigh she placed the hairbrush on her dressing table and turned to face him.

"It's late, Rusty, Hon and I've got to get a good night's rest. Tomorrow's going to be a real ball breaker. You know what opening nights are like."

"Yeah," he grunted, "rehearse, rehearse, rehearse and then up goes the curtain. Shit, baby. I only see you between shows and rehearsals and most of the time you're complaining about being tired from dancing; tired from singing, tired from rehearsing or, better yet, tired from traveling. Why do you keep doing it?"

"I've got to make a living and this is how I choose to do it!" she answered with a sense of determination in her voice.

"Bullshit!" he shot back. "Your Mother's loaded. You wouldn't have to work another day in your life if you didn't want to. I can't understand you, sometimes."

Erika felt the familiar knot of anger twisting inside as she fought to control her voice. They had covered the grounds of this argument too many times and each time she had come closer and closer to spilling the hidden secrets she kept locked away for many long years.

"Leave Mother and her money out of this, Rusty. I've told you before and I'm tired of repeating it over and over again; I'm going to going to make something of myself without her or my family background. Jesus! You're wearing on my nerves. I'm doing fine without Mother, aren't I? I've been with Etta for two years now and no one knows. Maybe Etta and Joel, but no one else. I'd bet money on it."

"How many 'Magana's' are there in the world?" he asked, "doesn't anybody ever make the connection? Maybe they have and they're just too polite to ask. Or maybe everybody knows and they're just faking you out, letting you think you're getting by with it. Don't you think the minute they hear the name 'Magana" they don't remember your father?"

"He's been gone so long there's a whole generation who never heard of him, unless they watch one of his old movies on late night TV."

Rusty eased off the bed and stretched. "So much for Super-stardom," he said. "One minute you're an All-American hero and then, pfffft! You're dead and gone. No one remembers you. That's why I say take advantage of all you've got while you've got it."

"Well, I'm saving what I've got 'till I need it," she countered.

She moved from the dressing table to him and slid her arms around his neck.

"Now you'd better go home and get some sleep too. I can't have you here snoring in my ear all night. Pick me up in the morning? We could do Butterfield's on Sunset for breakfast. My treat."

"What time do you have to be at The Greek?"

"Ten-ish. Ten thirty, tops. No later. We all promised Malcolm; especially me."

"I'll be here at eight, then. And it'll be my treat, since you're going on another tour."

They kissed. Not passionately, but warmly. Almost too casually, Rusty continued his dialogue as he strode toward the door.

"You're getting awfully friendly with the new guy, aren't you?"

She was undecided if he was fishing or accusing. She would avoid a confrontation at all costs.

"How could I not be? We're together so much I think Malcolm's creating another Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire."

"Seems every time I come to pick you up you're with him."

"I work with him! He's my partner. As a matter of fact, I like him. He's fun to be with and is really working hard at being really good in the show."

She led him toward the door and kissed him lightly again. "He's fun and yes, he is gorgeous. But, so are you. In your own fashion," she added. "You're both very different. Don't be so possessive. You have nothing to worry about".

Rusty looked deeply into her incredibly green eyes, searching for telltale signs of deception and saw only a sincere desire for understanding and support. He chewed his lip, then shrugged and ambled into the night.

Alone, in bed, with a book in her lap, Erika found it impossible to concentrate on the words before her. She had read a sentence four times over and hadn't retained a thing. She gave up and allowed the book to fall, face down, on the coverlet. What Rusty had verbalized disturbed her. She and Savage were growing close. She found herself looking forward to being with him each day. To be next him. Touching lightly as they walked their dance routines, feeling the exciting promise of his catlike grace and strength. He had the natural movement of a dancer. With training, she felt he would have become a great ballet star. Although others could see and sense it in him, he seemed oblivious to it. As though he had never been told of his masculine beauty, presence and talent. Inconceivable. Of all the male perfection in Hollywood, Savage ranked among the top and yet he remained seemingly unaware; or aloof, she hadn't decided which. He had an aura and intrigue that defied description.

A woman of seventy would have seen echoes of Valentino. One of fifty would be reminded of Gable; taking the stairs in twos with Scarlet o'Hara in his arms. The forty year old would remember Burt Lancaster kissing Deborah Kerr on the sand as the surf surged over their bodies. A woman of thirty or below would most likely see the promise of romance, flirtation, potential violence, great humor and impending danger.

She had witnessed flashes of temper during rehearsals. Savage was very hard on himself and drove himself relentlessly to deliver all that Malcolm demanded. Savage was the first to arrive and the last to leave rehearsals. He was impatient with himself for not being perfect at everything. It was no wonder, she mused, that his family had named him 'Savage'.

While others might be taking a break or grabbing a quick smoke in the hallway, Savage spent hour upon hour before the mirrored wall repeating and repeating the smallest step, the tiniest movement of the hand or body, trying to perfect himself. A lean, lithe specter in black; dripping in perspiration and oblivious to all around him; answering the inner calling of a somewhat tormented spirit.

Erika had teased him one day about his highly prominent cheekbones and was surprised to hear him tell, with unveiled pride, of his American Indian ancestry. The instant he said it, she recognized a partial source of his masculine beauty and grace. Since then she had fantasized about seeing him as such; tanned and lean from riding miles across the barren plain in loin cloth and moccasins; perhaps a steak of warrior paint, a feather tied in shoulder length hair. He was a beauty, to be sure.

"In my veins runs the blood of the greatest Shawnee Indian warrior, Tecumseh," he had said, "and my ambition is to be all that he was and more."

He had starred at her mouth as he carefully enunciated his words. His eyes were those of a crouching Puma. Every emotion was mirrored there. Spidery black lashes framed them in double rows.

He never removed his black T-shirt during rehearsals, no matter how hot the temperature. She had tried to imagine if his chest were hairy or smooth. Perhaps just moderately so.

"Oh, God! Turn off the light, girl. You'll never get any sleep at this rate."

She resisted the temptation of placing her hand between her legs as she relaxed into slumber.

Rusty's words came haunting back. How she wished he would stop reminding her of her Mother. Every time he dredged it up the old wounds opened; the hurt, the humiliation, the empty promises and unfulfilled expectations.

She remembered her solitary meals taken at highly polished tables in vaulted formal dining rooms, she being the only person there except for her beloved Scottish Nanny.

Then came the years of boarding schools in glamorous sounding but ultimately remote and lonely places. The many nights of crying herself to sleep on immaculate linen pillowcases because of the denial of the one luxury her Mothers money could not purchase. Her mother's love, embrace, and attention.

Mother. Beauty incarnate. Acclaimed, adored, worshipped and idealized. How she wished Rusty hadn't dredged that up.

Erika's mother was the fabulous Baroness Alexandra von Londsburg; High Priestess of conspicuous consumption, darling of the international jet-set and sole owner of one of the most successful cosmetics empires ever. Alexandra Cosmetics; boastfully advertised and undeniably recognized as the most expensive products of their kind in the world. Just as Alexandra, herself, would settle for nothing but the very best and costly, the snob appeal of her product line ranked right up there with ownership of a private yacht, Rolls Royce, or your own 747. While Alexandra prided herself with ownership of all three, and several homes around the world, she condescended to accept the money of those less fortunate whose only hope of attaining the slightest illusion of luxury on the scale Alexandra lived was to smear some of her product on themselves and, perhaps, gaze upon her smiling countenance from the pages of Women's Wear Daily, Vanity Fair, or Elle. Indeed, even Erika was sometimes slightly overwhelmed at the frantic pace and glamorous scope of her mother's life as it was chronicled in press and magazines the world over.

Sadly, Alexandra's universe had never included her daughter. Motherhood had never been nor was it intended to be any part of Alexandra's life. That's what nannies, tutors and butlers were for. And, now that Erika was grown, an adult, mother and daughter had come to an unspoken understanding. They communicated through attorneys and business managers, investment brokers and, occasionally by telephone. There were millions in the bank for Erika. She could have any material thing she desired. Unfortunately, the only thing she could not possess was Alexandra's love.

Try though she might, Erika was incapable of blocking all thoughts of Alexandra out of her mind. During the nether world between sleep and consciousness her mind wandered back to a day when she was ten. Had it really been that long ago? Erika was now twenty-two. Had twelve long years really come and gone since then?

Erika's privileged childhood included a spacious estate in Bel Air with nannies and servants and gardeners to play with and watch over her. Her warm Scottish Nanny had been with her from the day of her birth and Erika grew to love her with all her heart. She had all that money could possible buy. She lived in the biggest home in the best neighborhood, had the finest of clothes and attended the very best schools. Alexandra even indulged in having her couturier design smart, fur trimmed outfits for those infrequent times when Erika was allowed to accompany her mother on special outings. Despite a veritable menagerie of pets and a host of highly paid groomers and vets to see they were well and able to amuse the child, there forever remained a dark void in Erika's life. The unspeakable, overwhelming knowledge that the one being she longed to please was unutterably and inalterably capable of focusing attention on any living creature other than herself.

On the day of Erika's tenth birthday, when the clowns had packed up their gimmicks and props, when the pony ride had been packed into the van, after the Movie-Star Cowboy and his famous horse had surprised and delighted her and her guests with rope tricks and rides around the vast, manicured grounds of the estate; after the balloons had been released into the heavens for children of lesser wealth to find and enjoy; after all of the servants, dressed in stiff, starched white collars and black formal attire had solemnly delivered her massive cake with candles held in place by sterling silver holders, after heaps of expensive offerings from Neiman-Marcus, Gump's, Saks Fifth Avenue, F.A.O. Schwartz and Amen Wordy had been catalogued and the last limousine had born the last guest away, Alexandra had the child brought to her in the dark and formal oak-paneled room they called the library.

By normal standards the room, with it's costly paneling and masses of Moroccan bound scripts and collection of books; it's jade green marble fireplace and priceless oriental rugs, the collection of centuries-old Chinese wedding boxes and coriander screens brought back as mementos of many trips to the fabled ancient cities of the inscrutable East would have been the crowning centerpiece of the hallowed home. Massive as it was in scope and content, it was one of dozens of rooms seldom used. For Alexandra, however, it was simply an ideal setting to have a chat with the birthday girl whose celebration she had not found the time to attend.

In tones so sweet and solicitous they could have melted stone, Alexandra inquired how the party had gone. Satisfied she had gotten her money's worth and that the caterer and party-planner had succeeded in once again cementing Alexandra's reputation as the foremost hostess anywhere, she came to the real subject of their brief meeting.

"You know, Erika, how very busy I am. I have a very large business to run and thousands of people who depend on me for their livelihood. Without them and the business there would soon be no money to buy all the beautiful things we have." She eyed the child carefully. "You do understand that, don't you?"

The child cast her eyes downward. "Yes, Mommy."

"With your Daddy gone, it's up to me to carry on," Alexandra continued. "You've never gone without, have you?"

"No, Mommy."

"Well, I'll be leaving soon. For Europe. I may be gone for a very long time. I'm exploring new markets there and then planning to explore regions of the Soviet Union where they have villages of people who supposedly live to be over one hundred! Can you imagine?"

"Yes, Mommy."

"You're a big girl now, almost all grown up. That's why I'm putting you and Nanny in charge of everything in my absence. Do you think you can handle that?"

Eyes still cast downward, Erika felt her lower lip begin to tremble. She fought back tears and whispered, "Yes, Mommy."

Alexandra's reply was cold and flat. "Good." It had the finality of closing a meeting with her Board of Directors. Her parting words were, "It's settled, then."

Without so much as a hug or kiss on the cheek, she swept out of the room, leaving Erika standing alone with an emptiness inside herself that could have enveloped the room, the entire house and grounds.

That incident had indelibly signaled to Erika that any hint of a relationship between mother and daughter had been severed. It was a death. A living death which haunted Erika every day of her life and over which she refused to allow herself to grieve.

There had been one and only one time when Erika had been overcome by feelings of betrayal and abandonment.

Alexandra had been gone for less than a week before Erika was reported missing. For hours she was nowhere to be found. Nanny was near panic as she hounded servants and gardeners to scour the estate. She used the heavy brass whistle held by a thick chain of gold around her wide neck and it's shrill blasts of alarm were heard everywhere. It was a sound designed for one purpose alone; to summon her ward and said ward knew there were dire consequences to be paid if the siren blasts were not swiftly acknowledged.

On this day, the first in her young life, Erika had elected not to respond to the insistent screaming of the brass whistle.

Nanny, terrified, began to form horrifying images of kidnappings past, of headless bodies found in rural fields and broadcast on the evening news. Even more terrifying was the specter of having to telephone Alexandra and inform her that her child was missing. Imagine the headlines! Imagine her own standing with all of the other Nannies in Bel Air. Imagine the dreadful publicity. Of all the horrors to be most frightened of, imagine being the object of public attention and ridicule!

"She was incapable of watching over a ten-year-old!"

She fought tears and panic and began to tear the house apart, overturning oversized sofas and lurching through room after silent room.

The child was simply nowhere.

In desperation, Nanny entered the forbidden inner-sanctum of Alexandra's private quarters. There was an eerie silence that fell like a mantle on the room. All peach colored carpet with silk moire' walls, peach colored marble and enameled white trim, the custom-made four poster bed was small in comparison to the dimension of the room. Draped in peach silks and covered in peach satin with hand-sewn lace, a dozen or so pillows piled silk upon satin; all was in silent suspension like a breath on hold until the mistress' return.

In the tomblike silence, Nanny stood, frozen with fear and a kind of awe. From deep, deep within came a sound so far away, so muted, so primal, it could only be described as the distant echo of a sob.

Nanny waited. She listened; her ears strained in the silence to hear it once more. Moments later the sound repeated. Muffled. Muted. As if coming from beneath the earth. Her foot advanced. She traveled further into the room, leaving a visible clue of her trespass and violation of the mistress' sanctuary; footprints in the carpet pile. Compelled now, she advanced toward the place that housed the vast collection of gowns and furs, velvets and satins, gloves, hats, scarves, shoes, handbags and accessories by the dozens. No mere closet, this. It was a room unto itself. A dedication to the ritual of adornment of the body. A museum of costly casings for the flesh designed for the purpose of illuminating and accentuating the perfection of the female human specimen known as Alexandra; the Baroness von Londsburgh.

In the dimness, Nanny saw a glass cabinet constructed in the center of the room, lighted from within, which guarded and displayed hundreds of shoes. Alligator, lizard, satin, patented, daytime, evening, slippers. Soft light illuminated glass drawers filled with scarves, dozens upon dozens of handbags for every conceivable occasion and a department store's equivalent of jewelry. It was impossible to determine what might be real and fake. The pirate Bluebeard would have been speechless.

Nanny was near to forgetting her original quest when the sound was heard again, this time much closer. Advancing around the glass cabinet, Nanny came upon her charge. There, kneeling on the carpeted floor and desperately clutching one of Alexandra's ball gowns, still heady from her signature perfume, was Erika, aged ten, the fabric tear-stained and badly wrinkled, knotted from having been stuffed in her mouth to stifle her sobs, repeating over and over into the folds of the gown the phrase, like a religious mantra, "I love you, Mommy; Oh, Mommy I love you."

Overcome with the emotion of what she was witnessing, Nanny fell to her knees and swept the child into her arms. Together, they wept, and Nanny cradled Erika as she rocked her back and forth, not making any move to halt the torrent of tears that seemed unstoppable. In time they ceased. Wordlessly, Erika clung to the one person she had known to be with her from her first day of life. She stared vacantly into space and allowed Nanny to carry her to her bedroom and place her little body under the covers. Nanny sat in utter silence until the child was asleep, knowing there were no mere words in existence that could take the child's hurt away.

The incident was never spoken of again. The following morning was as if the day before had never happened. From that time forward, Erika never again allowed herself to grieve over the loss of her very famous mother.

Erika was late for rehearsal. She stormed into the cement bowels of the Greek Theater clutching makeup, curlers, hot rollers, costume jewelry and the black dress she was planning to wear to the opening night party. Experience had taught that, once there, there was little chance of leaving the theater until after the final curtain. Only twelve hours to go.

The musicians had already done a run-through of the opening, a medley of Etta's most recognizable hits.

Mercifully, Malcolm was huddling with the lighting technician when she breezed in. Her late arrival went unnoticed by him, but not the other members of the group. She placed her things on the cold floor and slipped into the clutch of performers. She spotted Savage. He smiled, and then winked. She smiled back, but he had already turned away and she was left with the view of his clinging black tee shirt and jeans looking as though they had been painted on his curvaceous posterior. She blinked, shook her hair, and picked up her sheet music.

An hour later, Etta arrived. It was her practice to give the musicians time to acquaint themselves with Joel's charts. They were complicated and Etta allowed mistakes to be made out of her earshot. Unlike other performers who harangued and embarrassed musicians, causing endless delays, Etta knew if she were simply not present for the first few hours everything would run more smoothly. Nerves would be less frayed. It was but one of the many things that cemented Etta's reputation as one of the nicest stars in the business.

Hours later the rehearsal progressed from the cement bunker up to the actual open air shell of the Greek Theater. Thirty-six musicians were assembled in the orchestra pit. Although many had traveled with her, almost half had been obtained through local unions and were still somewhat unfamiliar with Joel's complicated musical arrangements.

Etta shared her stage with her backup singer-dancers. The finale of the show was the first piece on line for rehearsal. It required a strong backing from the string section to be joined by the brass as she soared toward the dramatic conclusion. Everyone, musicians, singers, dancers alike were swept into the powerful build and emotion of the piece. The eighteen combined voices in the chorus evoked the of sounds of angels as the number
thundered to it's climax.

When everything stopped, complete silence descended as everyone looked to Etta for approval. She stood silent for a moment, as if lost in thought or rapture. She then walked to the lip of the stage and peered into the pit. It was August. Many of the musicians were perspiring, but all eyes were focused on her, oblivious to the trickles of sweat on their brows. She pointed.

"You there, honey. What's your name?"

Thirty-six heads turned to focus on the elderly brass player who sat, speechless.

Etta continued, "On that seventeenth bar you played an E-flat and it should have been an F. Could you check that, please?"

She turned without waiting for an answer as fellow musicians looked over the offender's shoulder to verify that she had been correct. The regulars glanced among themselves and smiled knowingly. Etta Rawlings had the best ear in the business. Not only that, but her brain was a musical computer, able to isolate and remember one wrong note that might have gone unnoticed by another human being. She could successfully register and remember the note and still complete the song before going back to correct the error.

That display of genius was not lost on Savage who realized he had so much, much more to learn. Simply being able to sing was not enough for achieving stardom. He began to understand the great opportunity he had, simply being in the presence of
Etta Rawlings.

What a teaching experience this could be; so many tricks of the trade to be learned. God! If he could just absorb it through the process of osmosis. He was one lucky guy to be sharing the stage with her!

The LA critics were unanimous. Etta Rawlings was as good, if not better, than ever. Her sell-out appearance was one of the highlights of the summer of 1966. Only one other fledgling star, a dynamic performer with the unlikely name of Tom Jones had drawn such crowds.

And, night after night, performance after performance, Savage put his heart and soul into his every movement. It amazed him that, twenty feet away from him was the audience he had dreamed of for so many long years. Thousands of pairs of eyes, it seemed, focused on that very stage. Enraptured. Captivated and held in the glow of the footlights in seeming suspension from reality.

Etta captured them and held them prisoner to her amazing talent and vocal ability while they worshipped her by laying down dollars upon dollars at the box office. She was their goddess. Some would, no doubt, lay down their lives for her.

Would there ever come a time when they would come just to see him?