Discovering Vivienne (Part 1)

I'm finding myself obsessing about the men in my grandmother's life.

I am well aware that she kept secrets from her children, one of which ended up being my naive but loving mother. Vivienne, in her tenure as employable if not memorable actress of the golden age of theatre and screen, met several callers around the studios and (if letters serve as any indication) back alleys.

Whether I have more in common with Vivienne than I initialized could have realized, I know that she laughed off all decadence with a wave of Sally Bowles' hand gestures. "Oh, Viktor, mah deah, it waaaaaas wonderfullll... but I dearn't tell you too much. You'll get ideas."

I had lots of ideas. And when Vivienne died, I felt it only fitting that I completely discard her request for discretion and privacy and instead pore over volumes of her journals, scrap books, and notebooks marked "Viktor, you naughty boy."

She knew me too well.

But she didn't exactly hide it that well.


"VIKTOR... One must never apologize for curioisty. I am certain you waited a proper time after my burial (good heavens, if I'm on that fucking mantle!) to open these.

I suggest you move past the childhood years. They are lean and uncomfortable. You're after glamour. That comes--briefly--in my New York years. Los Angeles... more lean. The fattest and happiest times is in London. You can live longer than you'd suspect on the mash you find there. It helps that you have a swallow and then never want for it again.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

I love you, Viktor. You were the best thing my daughter ever managed to do.

Idolize me as I you,
Vivienne"

I moved Vivienne from the mantle that night, to the porch.

The chimes sang me to sleep.