Marsha Hunt - Like Venus Fading

From the British reviews for Like Venus Fading :

‘A remarkable tale … This is a brilliantly written and intricately constructed novel by an author at the height of her powers. At times harrowing and at others wryly funny, it’s a story of emancipation and, above all, of hope. If there’s a lesson to be drawn from it, it’s that all of us, if we choose, can paint the stars.’

TIM HULSE

‘Marsha Hunt’s America, superbly described in Like Venus Fading , is urban, dangerous, unparochial. This tale of Irene O’Brien and her process of reinventing herself after a supposed overdose touches cleverly on many twentieth-century myths. The dark subtext is abuse, the gleaming theme survival.’

JANE HARDY, Sunday Times

‘ Like Venus Fading covers a vast geographical and social landscape, from the deep South to northern California, and a turbulent period of American history. But this broad canvas does not obscure the more tightly-observed scenes … our interest in [Irene’s] fate determines whether we want to turn the page, and the writing is good enough to ensure that we do … a challenging, thought-provoking book.’

PENNY FOX, Glasgow Herald

‘A vivid, magnetic novel … a mix of the story of Marilyn Monroe and the perceptions of Alice Walker, in a gritty, readable style that gives us Hollywood and ethnic America from a unique angle. Marsha Hunt is not afraid to face the unfaceable.’

MICHELENE WANDOR, Ham & High

‘Gripping, poignant and brilliantly written … Marsha Hunt is hailed by critics as a writer at the height of her powers and here that praise is completely justified.’

JENNY PARKIN, Huddersfield Daily Examiner

From the Irish Reviews:

‘A tautly written page-turner, Like Venus Fading tells the story of Irene O’Brien, a child from the slums of 1920s New Jersey who becomes America’s first black screen goddess, but at a terrible cost.’

LIAM FAY, Sunday Times

‘A powerful, horrifying story … But the tale is so sweetly told it seduces the reader into paying full attention to the subtleties of its flavour.’

DJINN GALLAGHER, Sunday Independent

‘A vividly written tale of abuse, identity, endurance and resurrection.’

DONAL O’DONOGHUE, RTE Guide

‘Hunt is a breathtaking writer and her story of Irene O’Brien, a poor little black girl from the South who finds triumph and tragedy in Hollywood, is stunningly well told … a wonderfully vivid, imaginative, memorable book.’

MADELEINE KEANE, Image

For Alan

Cover

Title Page

Praise

Dedication

The End

PART I Irene Matthews

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

PART II Irene Lomax

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

PART III Irene O’Brien

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

PART IV Venus Johnson

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Keep Reading

About the Author

Other Books By

Copyright

About the Publisher

‘And her joy was nearly like sorrow.’

JOHN STEINBECK

The Grapes of Wrath

Los Angeles. 6 September 1965. Sweltering.

There’s a dull stench. I think it’s the garbage. But it’s me.

The sun feels hot. Is it afternoon? No birds sing.

Why can I hear but not see?

The two ambulance men mistake me for dead.

The one popping chewing gum jabs my right nipple. ‘This can’t be the Irene O’Brien,’ he says. ‘Irene’s got bigger titties.’

I try to scream but nothing comes out.

The gum chewer coughs. ‘Wouldn’t no movie star be livin’ here.’

Tell me about it. Thanks to bankruptcy, my puny, one-bedroom apartment was on the wrong side of Sunset.

‘Let’s dump her at the hospital and drop by the Fat Burger.’

‘This here’s a morgue job,’ says the one with the deep voice.

‘Where’s the body bag?’

‘You left it downstairs. Throw a sheet over her. Fuck rules.’

I imagine that I am lying face up. But a newspaper picture I later saw showed me curled on my side on the kitchen floor. Stark naked. Which had never been my style. I always sleep in nightgowns and had put one on the night of 5 September before crawling into bed with a nightcap.

The gum chewer says, ‘Spooky that her hair’s all over the floor.’

I try to scream again but can’t get my lips to move.

‘Irene O’Brien. She was a credit to the race till she started fucking honkies.’

‘Shit … you ain’t had nothing but white pussy since I known you. Grab the stretcher.’

‘Stub out that cigarette,’ says the deep voice. ‘You droppin’ ashes on her head.’

As they lift my body, a siren blares with the sound getting closer until it halts abruptly outside my building.

The gum chewer says, ‘Check the window. Ain’t no coincidence that two ambulances get called out to the same corner at the same time.’

‘Betcha Claudeen at the office double-booked again. See her butt in that tight skirt today? She can call out ten ambulances.’

Suddenly from down in the street there is loud raucous laughter. The gum chewer says, ‘That’s Bobby Lee out there clowning. Don’t nobody else laugh that loud… He’s on duty with tired-ass Charlie Adams.’

‘Yell down and say we’re on the case.’

‘No wait. Let Charlie dump her at the morgue, so Bobby can eat with us.’

My neighbourhood was normally as quiet as a suburb. All white till I moved in. I figured the young professionals were peering from their windows. Blue eyes alarmed.

Then the poodle in 2c started barking.

It’s hard to believe that happened almost thirty-five years ago. Here it is, 1998, and who’d believe I’m still kicking?

Tired-ass Charlie Adams.

What would have happened had he not come along? I can still see him drawing on a joint and saying ‘Now is won spelt backwards. This minute, this second. That’s what matters. The past is memories and bullshit.’

Since he was destined to die young, Charlie should probably have been a musician. He would have made a great Mingus or a Thelonious chasing his angst back and forth through a melody.

On the surface he came across as a draft dodging militant, a college boy with half-baked philosophies. But like Mother used to say, ‘The good Lord comes in many guises.’

* * *

Just yesterday in a Berkeley bookstore, I heard somebody mention Irene O’Brien and the sales assistant quipped, ‘Killed herself back in the sixties.’

It was all I could do not to tap him on the shoulder and say, ‘No, I even messed that up.’

Charlie gave me the best advice when he said don’t look back. Yet sometimes when I sit out on this roof like tonight, it’s hard not to remember the things I made myself forget. Memories are so elusive. A bit like the stars when I’m painting them at dawn. Clear as day one minute, then I turn my back and they’re gone.