Excerpt from Fame’s Victim:
My famous chap and his nearly-as famous actress girlfriend crash the party at Oktoberfest in Munich. But, it is OK – they were invited
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“Annie’s crackers – it’s Oktoberfest.” She pulls him forward. “It’s a feat you’ve managed to stay sober this long. Now it’s time for your reward.”
ST likes the thought of a reward so he snuggles closer, pressing his pelvis against her wondrous ass, encased in its very tight Harlequin pants. She shoves back, which she knows is only encouragement, then reaches and takes his hand.
“You wait until later.”
“Will it be better, later?”
“Depends if you drink too much.”
“You always sober me up.” ST links his arm through hers. “Schunkel, you say?”
“Don’t start singing.” She jingles her bells again.
“`Don’t shortchange us…'” He raises his voice with each word, making Garbo pull him off balance.
“Life of the party,” she hisses. “Not the death of singing.”
He stumbles slightly, making him fit in with most of the other patrons. Then he follows Garbo toward a table that is obviously the depository of dignitaries.
ST knows city officialdom will be involved, but he is unprepared for a mayor in crossed suspender short leather pants, complete with his massive chain of office. Others, whom he supposes are aldermen and various strata of bureaucracy, are also historically attired. They look as suspiciously in his direction.
“Garbo?” His hiss is in the high register.
“Keep your beard on.”
“You promise there’ll be Glen Grant.”
“Annie’s crackers.” She touches the mouth of her Venetian mask. “I’m going to want some, too.”
A functionary rises from the table, ready to approach them with a scowl.
“C’mon,” pleads ST. “Let him chase us away.”
“Too late for that.” Garbo holds her mask further from her face, glancing at him as she whispers. “Besides, it might come in handy to have the city fathers being fatherly toward you.”
“Why? So I can get a parade?”
“With a team of horses to pull you through the streets.”
“We’ve been together two years.” ST puts a hand on her shoulder. “You know I want nothing like that.”
“What you want, and what you need … ” Garbo brushes his forehead with a jester’s bell. “I obviously have yet to teach you the difference.”
Garbo turns toward the table of officials and lowers her mask. The grim face of the dignitary ready to bar their way changes in a second, replaced with a broad smile. He holds out his hand to shake, though obviously debating whether or not to give her a hug. The temptation is great, and the occasion offers a license to such familiarity. Garbo avoids the situation by holding her mask out between them, and pointing toward ST.
The official stops momentarily, the smile trapped on his face. He is confused, wondering if he is being introduced to a bodyguard or some secretary, equivalent to himself. Garbo smiles, and sings a couple of lines from `Don’t Shortchange Us.’ She sings loudly enough to be heard by the other officials at the table, and immediately two heads whisper into the mayor’s ear. The man jumps up, his chain of office clanging against the beer stein in front of him. He pushes past his own officials, and makes a lunge for ST’s hand.
“Mein Herr. Welcommen!”
The mayor’s grip is so forceful that ST is again pulled off stride and they both bump into the table at the same time. The heart shaped gingerbread cookie around ST’s neck gets caught in the mayor’s heavy chain, and they are pulled together as they try to come apart. ST smells the beer on the other man’s breath, and has a pang of envy. Alcohol would be a relief right now, Glen Grant or not.
“We do a little dance – yes?”
The mayor is laughing, but ST realizes that he may be in some danger of losing his disguise. He doesn’t plan any further excursions tonight but his life proves unpredictable, and he can never be sure. Plus, the pull of glue from his face will not feel very pleasant or look very dignified. He can neither escape, nor risk the energetic contact his dancing partner encourages.
“Does this mean you have no time to dance with me?”
Garbo eases herself close to the two men. She stands in such a way that she could be speaking to either of them. They are confused and stop moving. Garbo reaches over and using both hands, manages to untangle the ornate mayor’s chain, and the string which the giant cookie hangs from. She winks at ST, then nudges against the mayor with her hip.
“Or do you boys prefer each other’s company?”
ST has become used to this type of banter, but the mayor does not know if laughter is called for or not. People at this stratum of celebrity do strange things, and he neither wants to appear foolish, nor offend his high scale guests. However, his own photographer is already happily clicking away, and he must do something. Putting his arm across his mayor’s chain so it can catch on nothing else, he turns toward Garbo with a brief bow. Every voter will understand his attraction.
“You dress as Harlequin, yes, so you make the joke.” He extends his hand. “A few steps if the arena is not too crowded.”
“Even if it is crowded.” Garbo takes his hand and pulls him away from the table. “Let’s make that chain rattle.”
ST does not know how many people realize who is dancing with the mayor – he suspects no more than already know. It is late and dark and crowded and noisy, and much of that noise comes from people because they are drunk. Most will probably not even recognize the mayor, chain of office or not.
Because of photographs taken at the mayor’s table, ST has concern about his disguise – if photos end up in newspapers, will he have to discard it? Although expensive, it isn’t the cost or inconvenience which bothers him.
Over the years, even with the expertise of Hollywood make-up artists, he has found only a limited number of disguises which look authentic. In addition to this, they have to be comfortable upon his face for hours at a time. The one he chose tonight is a favourite, and he will regret losing it. He should have thought more clearly about the transition he was expected to make. It is rare that he goes in disguise to a place where he eventually is to be recognized.
“I thought a beard would hide a man’s frown.”
ST is startled back to his surroundings. He has been watching the dancing, though he long ago lost sight of Garbo and the mayor. He is astonished to see her standing at his side, Harlequin costume glittering in the subdued light. He notes the mayor sits at his table, beer stein in hand.
“You worked him into a thirst.”
“It wasn’t that difficult.” Garbo reaches for ST’s hand. “I’m about to do the same for you.”
Though ST is tired and has been on his feet a long time, he does not resist. Once out among the other revelers on this last night of Octoberfest, he makes use of the dancing lessons both wife number one and two insisted he have. He has come to quite enjoy the dance floor, and Garbo is an excellent partner.
“Tell me again why we are here.”
“You are `Lord of the Manor’ – literally.” Garbo stifles a giggle. “You should make your presence known in the country.”
“Why in Munich?”
“It’s a good distance from where you actually live.” Garbo aims him toward a corner. “You don’t want people too familiar.”
“I certainly do not.” ST picks up her direction and twirls her adroitly among the dancers. “Except, of course, for you.”
“Not to worry.” She slides a hand over his posterior and pulls him closer. “I’ll not only help you remove that beard, but everything else as well.”
“That will be appreciated.” He thrusts his pelvis against her. “But maybe you could start here and work your way up.”
“It feels as if you’re working your way up already.”
“Yes.” ST now whispers in her ear. “I’ve often thought that dancing is wasted by doing it on your feet.”
ST takes note of the most flamboyant dancers on the floor, and starts to copy their steps. Garbo is initially surprised, but quickly follows his lead. She is prepared to match his every move, and ST is determined to make her lose her step. Other revelers make room for them, and some even start to clap to the music. The bandleader has noticed the commotion, and after watching the couple for a minute turns the beat around to their rhythm. By this time even the mayor’s table is back on their feet, thumping their beer steins on its slippery surface.
“Bring it home, Mamma!” shouts the mayor.
Garbo growls with laughter as ST puts a hand on either side of her waist, and lifts her from the floor. She places her hands on his shoulders, and kicks back with her feet. ST actually aims her in different directions, and other dancers dodge away, squealing in delight.
“And another thing.” Garbo is panting and shouting into his ear at the same time.
“What would that be?” ST precariously leans back, almost losing his balance as he lets her slide to the floor off his chest. He twirls her on her stomach before he scoops her up again, and grips her hard against him.
“You’re heading into two months of Millennium stuff?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s going to be serious?”
“Yes.”
“Then ya gotta have some f-u-n.” She throws her hands over her head and leans way back, knowing he is not going to let her go. “And what better place is there than the biggest party in Europe?”
As she presses against him again he has a different answer to her question, and he whispers it into her ear. Her eyes go wide, and she brings up her hand in a motion to slap his face.
But she kisses him instead.
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