Marie Antoinette Comes To Marilyn Monroe In A Dream

A Flash Fiction by Judith Segal

Third Place Winner 2024 WestWord Flash Fiction Prize

Image from Adobe Stock

Heart pounding and cold sweat pooling between her breasts, Marilyn is jolted awake by a bad dream. It’s a dream she’s had many times before. She is walking barefoot along a deserted beach, enjoying the soothing sound of the waves and the kiss of the warm sand on her feet.  Suddenly, an old hag, dirty shift covering her pendulous bosoms, greasy grey hair, wrinkled ashen skin, pops up from behind a rock. The hag smiles, revealing toothless gums. The smile is gloating, vindictive.  She speaks. ‘This is you, dearie, in thirty years or so.’   

Now wide awake, Marilyn sweeps the hair out of her eyes and blearily reaches for the glass of water and sleeping pills on her bedside table. She swallows two of the boat-shaped capsules. Has she already taken some? She can’t remember. Oh well, it’s too late now. She reaches for two more. What she needs above all else is a good night’s sleep. A sound sleep. With no dreams.

But she does dream. An old-fashioned lady appears by her bedside, elaborately gowned, all satin and feathers and silk, wearing what must be a wig, white and powdered, towering above her head. The smell of perfume is overpowering. Not Marilyn’s usual Chanel no 5 but musk, lavender and orange-water.

‘Don’t be scared,’ says the lady in a heavily accented and melodious voice. ‘Do you not recognise me?’ 

‘Yes! You’re my fairy godmother. You can grant my dearest wish.’

The apparition bridles. ‘You stupid child. I am not your fairy godmother; I do not grant wishes. I am Marie Antoinette.’

‘Why are you dressed like that, Miss Antoinette? Are you off to a fancy dress ball?’

‘I am dressed like this because I have taste. And also because I am Marie Antoinette.  La Reine.’  

‘Lorraine? I don’t know any Lorraines.’

‘La Reine. The Queen of France.  You really are stupid.’ 

It’s Marilyn’s turn to bridle. ‘That’s twice you’ve called me stupid but I am not, I just haven’t had much schooling. But you - you are really rude.’

The phantom ignores this latter. ‘Not much schooling? Do you come from a poor family then?’ She looks around the bedroom, takes in the satin sheets, the expensive wallpaper, the fur coat slung casually over a chair. ‘But I don’t understand. This bedroom is beautifully appointed and yet you appear to have no money for nightwear.’

‘I choose to sleep naked.’

‘Ah! You are a grande horizontale perhaps? With a rich patron?’

Is there no end to this woman’s impertinence, Marilyn thinks. ‘I am not! I am a serious actress with an exceptional flair for comedy. That’s what the critics say.’ Honesty compels her to add, ‘The nicer ones anyway.’

‘An actress, hmmm. Not a kept woman?’

‘Certainly not. I keep myself.’

‘You can afford to keep yourself in all this?’ The apparition gestures expansively around the room. ‘I was wrong to say you are stupid. You are clearly very clever.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I wish I were an actress.’ The spirit sighs theatrically. 

‘Why?’

‘Because then I could have persuaded the common people to love me.’

‘Did they not love you?’

The spirit raises her hands, lifts off her head. ‘Obviously not. You really are uneducated, aren’t you? I would have thought everyone would have known about the tumbrils, the guillotine, the knitters….’

Marilyn gasps. Now that, that lifting off of the head, is what she calls a theatrical gesture.  She raises herself a little in order to have a better look at the bone and dried blood. ‘Now I remember. Norma Shearer played you in that movie when she was nominated for an Oscar.’ The apparition looks puzzled but she really can’t be bothered to explain what a movie is, still less an Oscar. ‘I wish I was as good an actress as Norma Shearer. I am trying. To educate myself. Earn some respect. Because of how I look, most people think I’m stupid, like you did. But I’m really not. And I worry…’  She stops abruptly, loath to articulate her deepest fear.

‘What do you worry about, ma chérie?’

She gulps. ‘That I won’t look like this forever. That I’ll turn into a hag. Audiences will drift away and I won’t be able to work anymore. Won’t be able to afford any of this.’ It’s her turn to make an expansive gesture.

The apparition waves her hand in a dismissive fashion. ‘There may not be many advantages to my position –’

Marilyn is drawn to protest. ‘There must be loads of advantages to being The Queen of France.’

‘Possibly there are. But now I am in the position of being dead. I may not be able to grant your dearest wish but I can see into your future and assure you that you are not going to turn into a hag.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. And now I must be going. It has been a pleasure to meet you. Adieu.’ And with a rustle of her voluminous skirts, the apparition is gone.

When Marilyn wakes up from this dream, there is no pounding of the heart, no panic in the pit of her stomach, just a warm feeling enveloping her like a mother’s arms. She regrets now not having asked the apparition exactly how she’s going to avoid the ravages of time. Perhaps Helena Rubinstein or Max Factor are even now toiling in their laboratories formulating miraculous age-defying cosmetics. She stretches languorously enjoying the cool touch of the satin sheets on her bare skin, and drifts off into an untroubled sleep.

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Author: Judith Segal began writing creative fiction after she retired from an academic career in maths and sciences. Her work has appeared in The London Magazine and in Strands Literary Sphere