In May 1950 Melba Lyubova decided she'd had enough. Or rather, she took heed of the hints dropped by her producers, director, and co-stars and decided to cut her career relatively short, at the age of forty-five. She did not storm off the set of her latest picture, Deserts of Vast Eternity, flailing her arms and shouting like the diva some presumed her to be, but, instead, sneaked quietly out the back door of the studio and hopped the first plane out of the country, abandoning the bright warmth of southern California for the brilliant heat of lower France.

She'd always wanted to visit the Riviera, where she was confident no one would recognize her. French people didn't go to movies; they sat around in salons discussing poetry and God, philosophy and wine, an activity she hoped to participate in, one day. For now she wanted simply to revel in her freedom, soaking up the sun in the mornings and enjoying the hotel's bar at night.

For the first few days everything went exactly according to plan; Melba followed her self-assigned regimen in utter bliss. One afternoon she decided she was in need of a little intellectual stimulation and went down to the plage with a bag full of books (she'd always fancied herself the most literate person in Hollywood.) With her back to the sea, she set up her beach chair among the other chaises longues and umbrellas and settled down comfortably. She put on her sunglasses and attempted to read a passage of Baudelaire but found presently that the sunlight made her too sleepy. She dropped the book, leaned back, and closed her eyes with a sigh, listening to the cries of the gulls and the crash of the waves against the sun-scorched sand...

"Smile for the camera, Mam'zelle Lyubova."
Melba jumped at the sound of a click. She tore off her sunglasses and was instantly blinded by a blast of white sunlight.
"Who--who's there?" she demanded furiously. Her heart was pounding. She couldn't see a thing; dark shapes pulsed in a sea of white before her eyes. Gradually these gave way to a half-vision of a young man with a camera.
Melba was sitting upright on the chair, gripping it tightly and burying her toes into the sand. She squinted at the young man and was suddenly aware of her flabby upper arms and the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes.
The man had a nice face--serious, with dark hair and glasses. He looked rather uncertain, holding the camera awkardly, apparently not knowing what to do next.

Melba spoke first.
"So," she said, narrowing her eyes, "you caught up with me, eh? And to think I thought I vos safe. Person cannot have moment's peas."
The young man shifted guiltily, then lifted his head in an attempt to look more sure of himself.

"You might have left Hollywood ," he said, "but you can never just go away."

"Off course not," Melba said indignantly. She struck a winning, haughty pose on the chaise longue. "I am too important to be forgotten." She replaced the sunglasses and raised one eyebrow cynically. "Vot publication are you from?"

"A newspaper. The name of which I'm not permitted to disclose."

Melba was impressed by his use of big words. She maintained her fierce demeanor nonetheless. "And vot do you vant off me?"

"Naturally, everybody was wondering where you'd run off to. My boss got word that you had come to the Riviera. He sent me here for my first big assignment."

"Ah--so you are--how does it say--apprentice? That vould make sense; you don't look very old. How old are you anyvay?"

"Twenty-three."

"My God! Vot are you doing getting mixed up in business like this? You seem much too vell-mannered to go chasing stars all over Hollyvood. Vot is your name?"

"Roger."

"Have you no last name?"

"I'd like to keep that confidential, as well."

"Vhy? Just to sound...'cool'?"

The young man smiled in spite of himself. He looked at his feet.

"Well, I guess I should be heading along. My plane leaves in a few hours."

He turned to go. Melba suddenly felt inexplicably lonely.

"Vait!" she cried. Roger looked back. "Aren't you going to take another pictoor?"

"My boss said he wanted a candid shot. This should do."

"Pah!" Melba retorted. "He yoost vants to take up his paper vith pictoors of pretty young starlets--and harlots."
At that moment a clap of thunder thrummed overhead from a nonexistent raincloud. The wind picked up and blew the nearest umbrella away. The other people on the beach looked up at the quickly darkening sky and began to pack their things.
"Pah--a thunderstorm? But it vos so sunny a moment ago!" A thought struck Melba. "Hey--did you come here alone?”

"Yes."

"Vell, vhy don't you join me een bar for drinks?"

He looked surprised. "Well, I--"

"Please! I vould hate to spend all afternoon cooped up een my hotel room vith Baudelaire. And I must admit, I am eager for American company." She gave him her most imploring pouty-actress look over the rims of her sunglasses. "Please, Roger."

"Well--I don't see why not. But I do have a plane to catch pretty soon."

 Melba smiled in satisfaction.

They gathered up her things and ran to the hotel, narrowly avoiding the first heavy drops of rain. Melba led Roger up to her room on the third floor. He looked embarrassed, clasping the beach chair clumsily against his chest.

"Who was that man you mentioned spending the afternoon with?" he asked uneasily.

Melba laughed. "Oh--Baudelaire. You need not vorry about him--he's been dead for years and years!"

"Oh."

They had arrived at her room. Melba removed her sunglasses and smiled. "He vos poet."

Roger turned bright red. "Well...I'm surprised I didn't realize that, since I'm actually quite fond of poetry, and writing in general."

Melba opened the door to her room. "Oh? Whom do you like best?"

Roger stood doubtfully in the doorway. "Oh--you know--all the good ones.”

Melba turned to him and laughed. "My dear boy--you needn't be afraid of old Mam'zelle Lyubova! Step inside, von't you? I'm just going to slip out of this bathing suit and into something more appropriate.”

"No thanks. I think I'll just wait here," he replied sheepishly.

"Suit yourself."

She closed the door and changed into a black knee-length dress.

The rain was pounding audibly on the roof of the hotel as they made their way down to the bar. They sat by the window, where they could look out and watch the riotous storm-beaten waves. Melba ordered vodka; Roger, a gin and tonic. As they sipped their drinks they talked about Hollywood.

"The first movie I ever saw of yours..." Roger mused, "...was when I was ten years old."

"Oo, that vould have been...Ashes to Ashes!" Melba cried. "1937!"

Roger gawked at her in wonder.

"I'm good at math," Melba said modestly.

"Yes--that was it. You were wonderful in it."

"I vos only twenty-two; I had just started my career. The director, Miles Hamish, vos taking big chance on young Russian chorus girl to play the lead. At the time I didn't even speak English so vell!"

"You were born in...Leningrad , right?"

"Yis, back when eet vos still St. Petersburg. I was born soon after the '05 Revolution. Ve moved to New York vhen I vos eight years old. Then vhen I vos eleven, right before the '17 Revolution, ve vent back to visit Yalta: you know, big resort on Black Sea. That vos the last time I saw my home country, and since then I have alvays had a fondness for beaches." She sipped her vodka nostalgically. "And vhat about you? Vhere is your family from?"

"They were immigrants too, from Poland. Pawnbrokers."

"Ah--Jews?"

"Yes. I had an older brother who went to fight the Germans in the war. He shot down about three dozen of their planes before he got killed."

Melba stared at him. "How sad." She knocked back the rest of her drink and her eyes filled with tears momentarily. She was thinking of another handsome young man, whom she had loved terribly, and who had also been killed in the war.

They talked some more, about happier things: Melba's movies, Roger's interests and aspirations.

"You are too good, too imaginative to stay in this awful business," she told him. "Get out of it vhile you can. Forget Hollyvood--go back to New York ."

Roger sighed. "I guess you're right. I mean, I will eventually. But I'm happy where I am, for right now. I want to see as much of the world as I can, you know?"

Melba nodded. She adjusted her dress so that it inadvertently slipped up a few inches above the knee.

"You know, in Russian, my last name means 'love,' " she said for no apparent reason.

A few minutes later Roger got up and told her he really had to be going or he'd miss his flight. He insisted on paying for the drinks and thanked Melba for a lovely time. Melba gave him her address at the hotel and made him promise to send her a copy of the photograph he had taken.

It arrived a few days later, with a note attached:

Dear Mlle Lyubova,

Here is the photograph you requested. I hope you are more pleased with it than my boss was. He was furious at the presence of my shadow in the right-hand corner. He called it "unsightly" and "unprofessional," but I think having it there reminds you that an actual person took the picture.

 "It does indeed," Melba said, and smiled.

(April 2005)