Lauren Bacall - By Myself and Then Some

I am fortunate in that I was able to adapt not only to France, but to England and Italy too. Though by no means a linguist, I know roughly one hundred or more words in Italian and Spanish. French I am more fluent in, though far from fluent enough to satisfy me. Though basically I feel very much at home in France, let’s face it, sooner or later it becomes clear that I am a foreigner. No matter how many friends (and I have quite a few in each country – which in turn add up to more than I have in America), or how much time spent, you cannot get away from the fact that you are not one of them. Perhaps in spirit, but not in reality. Nevertheless, I always return feeling refreshed, feeling better about myself and gung-ho to face the job market and the questionable mentality that decides my fate. For more than a year after Waiting in the Wings closed, I seemed to travel endlessly.

W hile travel is the great escape from the pressures – meaning stress – of my real world, I still always seem to be glad to come home. Home to my own things around me – the putting away of suitcases – thank God – the packing scene being the worst aspect of travel. So, home again, I lulled myself into my routine of watching the news non-stop – dinner on a tray, feet up and Sophie by my side. I like this routine I’ve settled into. I don’t really remember how it came to pass but it’s part of my days – after six or six-thirty when the house is empty of people, the telephone stops ringing and I move around my apartment, which has been home to me for over forty years, freely and quietly. With the noise of my city, silence is bliss.

Just as I was falling into a breathing-easy, pleasant cycle, came a mammoth emotional blow for me – the illness of Jason Robards – great actor, my husband for eight and a half years and father of our great son Sam. It’s a funny thing: our marriage, though it didn’t work, our caring for each other did. We shared our work and our humor and we were always glad to see one another and enjoyed our time together. I never thought of his being ill. He had a fairly rough childhood and young manhood; he beat up on himself during his early years in the theatre but he was never sick during our time together. And suddenly there he was with a malignant tumor. He carried on for two years through some ups and major downs. Generally it was a bad two years for him and for those who loved him. Not long before he died, Sam was able to leave his own family in California and spend some real quality time with his father. As Jason had another life, I was not able to see him too often, but we did talk on the phone from time to time and that was a lot better than nothing. I count it a very special thing that he and I were able to connect with one another – and recognized, in spite of a divorce which was not altogether pleasant, that we did love each other and that a strong bond would last through our lifetimes.

In spite of knowing he was losing his fight against that miserable disease, his death came as a terrible shock. No more Jason. Thank God for memories of funny, crazy times together – even the not so funny times looked good. Jason, who had not always been around a great deal, saw what a talented actor and superior human being his son was – that was of great comfort to me. Jason is always in my thoughts and I happily remember the plays – his brilliance on the stage – those performances – always. Especially during our times together, though there were continuing attempts to keep us apart. Fortunately they were unsuccessful, and try though they might, no one could take those years away from us.

T he following year I was in Los Angeles for a couple of weeks visiting my children – grandchildren – friends – taking care of some business. Sam and Sidsel had come by the hotel to have brunch and a swim with their boys, Calvin and Sebastian. I was leaving the following day. I stayed in that night, packing and room service being the order of the day. I left a wake-up call for 9:00 a.m. That would give me time for breakfast and a farewell swim before heading for the airport. I got into bed late as usual – packing does that to me. The phone rang, waking me from a deep sleep, which I seldom have. I asked the operator, ‘What time is it?’ She replied, ‘Turn on your television.’ Still groggy and thinking it was another hotel screw-up, I said, ‘I left a nine a.m. call. What time is it?’ She said, ‘It’s seven a.m. Turn on your television.’ It was September 11 and the television came on as an airplane was flying into and hitting one of the twin towers. Enormous clouds of black smoke, flames – mayhem – voices of anchors. I woke up in a hurry, stunned as the rest of the country – indeed the world – was. Open mouthed, in shock and horror, I did not leave my television. (Nor did I leave California – not for five days after. I couldn’t – security was major – airports closed. Even when I was finally able to leave five days later, I had to go in a special car, special driver – that part of it was very like a ‘B’ movie.) I was on the phone all day to those near and dear to me. I received calls from all over Europe and New York. In all the horror, I couldn’t take my eyes off that screen. Who among us could ever forget the sights and sounds, that day of faces, people running through smoke trying to get away from it. And over and over came pictures of the planes – first one – then the second from another direction hitting another tower – pictures taken with a video camera by a man who happened to be there and who had the good sense to turn it on – though how he did it, I’ve never known.

It was the most horrifying yet surreal of days. Wives searching for husbands – husbands searching for wives – holding photos of them hoping someone had seen them – the wife talking to her husband who was on the plane that eventually crashed in the field in Pennsylvania. She kept telling him, ‘Don’t be brave, stay in the background.’ He kept saying, ‘We’re going to crash anyway. The hijackers are here with guns. I’ve got to do something about it.’ She said he was always doing things like that – trying to stop a fight. Save someone. He was that kind of person. His last words to her, as I remember them, were, ‘I love you. Take care of yourself and the kids.’ It was heartbreaking and the woman was amazing.

Then there was the interview with Howard Lutnick, C.E.O. of the financial firm Cantor Fitzgerald. They had lost more than sixty percent of their people having been on the top three floors of the first tower. Lutnick’s brother was there when the plane hit and somehow Lutnick had been able to record, or the networks had, a conversation with his brother and his wife. The only reason Howard was not there as well was that he had taken his young child to school. It was an incredibly moving interview. The man broke down continually. He would try to speak, get a few words or a thought out and burst into tears. It wasn’t an enormous company – he, of course, knew everyone in it and their families and continued to mention them with a cracking voice and tears spilling down his face. And his brother – his only brother. I heard after that he was criticized by some for trying to rebuild his company. What on earth was he supposed to do? Perhaps die with his remaining family members? Would that have satisfied those critics?

The shock, the actuality of it continued for months. A friend of mine, Berry Berenson, was on the plane leaving from Boston going to L.A. – a young, vibrant, beautiful and talented woman who boarded the plane in Boston filled with anticipation at seeing the first concert of her younger son in Los Angeles. I kept on thinking – and still do – what must it have been like on that plane, sitting happily in your seat so excited to see your son perform and what was it like for the son to be waiting for his mother who he would never see again? All the while the television was showing you the faces of those still looking, not giving up hope of finding that most important and loved person in their lives.