"On With the Show"… Late Bloomers … Ron Hevener
Esmeralda, doyenne of the Havenburg mansion in the town that bore her family name, sipped champagne from her glass and considered why in the world she had agreed to the interview. After all, she reasoned, he was just another reporter looking for a story, different enough to pique the curiosity of jaded readers who had seen it all … and who could imagine nothing more.
“What do you think fella?” she asked the Sable and White Collie, never far from her side. “Shall we talk to the reporter? Hmmm? Shall we tell him what he wants to know?”
The adoring dog studied her face. The sound of her voice soothed him like water for a thirsty vine; much as the bloodline of champions from the kennel she had started so many years ago. Since his birth, her touch was his thrill, her every wish his command … her every desire, his own. In the sacred bond between the planner of a litter and each life brought forth, there was no life for him without her.
“Laddie,” she said, running her hands through the dog’s thick, lion-like rough of hair and petting his smooth face. “You are the love of my life.”
Strange to be saying such a thing to a dog after so many years … after so many loving opportunities. “He wants to know my story,” she said. “He wants to know how anyone could be so busy at my age.”
Why was the one he adored so glum and despondent, the dog wondered? Why were her thoughts so far away? “You’re no ordinary woman,” he seemed to whisper. “You’re bigger than life.”
“To you, perhaps,” she smiled gently. “To the rest of the world, I’m just a character … a character they’ve forgotten … from the pages of a paperback novel they can no longer find.” Pressing a button on the arm of her gold-plated wheelchair, Esmeralda purred her way to the phone and dialed Paris.
“Oui?” came the husky voice of a black-haired Coco Chanel puffing a cigarette, manicuring her red nails, and splashing herself with Perfume Number 5.
“Darling, it’s Esmeralda.”
“What do you want?” the designer demanded gruffly. “Why are you bothering me when you know I’m working on my new collection!”
“Laddie wants to say hello to Foofie.”
“Mademoiselle Foofie is out taking her morning walk. Besides, I’m not speaking to her. She’s been partying with strangers, and getting white hair all over my little black dresses!”
“No!”
Silence … (famous Chanel silence) … and a few irritated puffs. “Then! She has the gall to look to ME for her breakfast! I said, Foofie, this is too much! You must decide if it’s a family you want or a career on the runway! Either you get control of yourself or it’s off to the vet to be spayed!”
“Well … I can see I’ve called you at a bad time.”
“Nonsense! Adversity in life makes one stronger! She’ll see things my way. She always does. Of course I’ll have to make her a new collar with diamonds, most likely! Why are you calling me – really?”
“I’m being interviewed by a reporter, and he wants to know how someone starts a business at my age.”
“What!” Coco spat. “Is that how he asked you? What’s happening to people’s manners these days!”
Accustomed to Chanel’s bitter edge, designed to protect a romantic heart, Esmeralda shooshed her friend silent.
“Don’t shoosh me!” Coco snapped, like the alligator whose crinkly skin graced her Gucci purse. “How brazen! Believe me, I know his kind. I wear the scars from the claws of quite a few!”
“If you’re referring to the critics always at your door, be glad they still find you fascinating. At our age!”
“At our age, darling, I’m glad to be alive!” came the retort, sparkling with French laughter. “Every hair on my head was earned!”
“Why Coco,” Esmeralda purred. “I thought your black was natural.”
“The black is to match my dresses!” Chanel countered quickly. “Speaking of that, where is Foofie?” Placing a hand over the phone, she called out, “Foofie? Foofie?” Returning to Esmeralda, lowering her voice, she said, “If you want hair, call Marlene!”
“Dietrich?” Esmeralda asked.
“Now there’s a woman whose hair hasn’t moved in fifty years! She’s in town you know.” The wink in Coco’s voice as she hung up the phone was deafening.
Dietrich didn’t have much to say when Esmeralda called. Unless they wore pants, animals were not her thing.
“Dogs? Cats? I leave that to Rudi,” she said, referring to a long-forgotten husband in Nevada who raised chickens. “My advice? Make sure the lighting is correct and tell the photographer No close-ups! Picasso is the one you should talk with,” she said. “Now there’s an animal! Good-bye, darling, I wish you love.”
Unfortunately, Picasso couldn’t be reached by phone. “He’s at the bull fights in Madrid,” said the secretary. “Besides, he has work to do. He’s a genius, and he can’t be disturbed!”
“Well, please tell him his friend Esmeralda called.”
“Esmeralda? Esmeralda Von Havenburg? The dog breeder, who started with the family-fortune-that-was-no-more, and at the age of 70, built an empire in reality TV for pet lovers?”
“Yes,” Esmeralda said with humility. “That’s me.”
“I ADORE you! You must come to Spain!”
Esmeralda wondered about other friends and acquaintances she had made at the dog shows, horse shows, and county fairs of her life. Was their love for animals part of the secret? Or was it the love coming from the animals themselves that made the difference?
She dialed California. “Is Mr. Disney in?” she asked.
“Certainly,” came the polite reply, as her call was transferred to a special phone beside the drawing table of the man, himself.
“Esmeralda?” he said, sketching a bite of cheese for Mickey Mouse. “Is that you?”
“It’s me, Walt. How’s the movie business treating you?”
“Thanks to my friend, Mickey, here, we’re doing alright. And you?” …
And so it went … Einstein, in a rumpled suit, setting down his chalk and stepping back from the blackboard. “A call for you, Albert,” his wife said, handing him the phone. “It’s Esmeralda.”
At his laboratory in New Jersey, a balding Edison, wearing a comfortable sweater, took off his glasses and closed his notebook thoughtfully. After jotting down his observations of the latest experiment, he smiled.
In Hollywood, Mae West laughed as she fed bananas to her pet monkeys. “Esmeralda, honey, when it’s you on the phone, me and the boys stand at attention! So what’s this I hear about some reporter man thinkin’ you’re over the hill at 70?”
“Over the hill isn’t exactly over the rainbow”, Esmeralda observed.
“Whatsa’ matter? Ain’t he ever heard of late bloomers? Tell him to come up and see me sometime. I can teach him a thing or two about bloomers!”
“You have an interesting way of putting things.”
“Honey, words are my diamonds. It ain’t so much how they start out, but how they’re cut that makes ‘em sparkle.”
“Chanel says to be irreplaceable, one must be different. Edison says there’s a light at the end of every tunnel, Auntie Mame says Life’s a banquet and most poor suckers are starving.”
“Honey, we’re all just a bunch of twenty-five year olds in seventy year old bodies,” Mae laughed.
Voluptuous Mae with her monkeys, silver-haired Ralph Lauren and his polo ponies, Walt with his mice, and strong-willed Chanel and her “Foofie”. Was love for animals the secret of youth and vitality? Was there something magic and ageless in that connection? She didn’t know. She didn’t even pretend to know.
All she knew was, the dog at her side understood – or seemed to. He understood without question, believed without fear. To him, Esmeralda was not the heiress to a fortune that once was; not the last living symbol of a town carrying her name; not the “late-blooming” producer of a reality TV show for animal lovers. To him, she was the voice he had heard before he was born. Her touch was the first he could remember. Her dreams had wished him into being, and she would dream of him until Mae West became Bette Midler, and Bette gave the nod to Lady Gaga.
Age cannot define such lives, or what makes them tick -- not even the pages of a thousand paperback novels can explain away the magic. Pet lovers shine brighter than a hundred birthday candles. They’re louder than every song on the radio. For every dog, cat, horse and monkey that adores them, they are never at a loss for things to do. Age? I'll think about that tomorrow, Esmeralda decided, as she booked a flight for Paris ... leaning close to her dog, she whispered ... “Let’s go find Foofie!”
©2010 Ron Hevener—This illustrated story is brought to you by RonHevener.com
Mr. Hevener is the author of such novels as Fate of the Stallion, The Blue Ribbon and High Stakes. He is a successful designer inspired by animals and the adventurous, romantic, fun-loving people who make animals an important part of their lifestyle. Mr. Hevener's stories are broadcast on public TV and he is listed in Wikipedia, the on-line encyclopedia and reference guide to public personalities. Readers can ask him about issues facing them in today's crazy world by writing to Hevener@dejazzd.com
