The Muse of Fountain Avenue Michael Anthony
T
he last thing I needed at that point in my thesis research was another loose end. But, who was this Sophie Bitard and why did this otherwise unknown woman appear so prominently in the personal journals of three midcentury Hollywood screenwriters? I scribbled the name in my notebook, slid the chair in against the desk and left the university archives for the day. That evening I found nothing online about this mystery woman beyond the address of an S. Bitard across town on Fountain Avenue, a block south of Sunset Boulevard. Considering the woman, if even still alive, would easily be over ninety, perhaps this was a daughter or a relative? The following day, I pressed the buzzer
in the alcove entryway of the white stucco apartment building hoping to learn if the person whose name was printed inside the small brass rectangle on the front door could shed some light on this enigma. A harsh shout of “What?” came from behind a closed door that showed years of neglect. “I’m looking for Sophie Bitard.” “Who wants her?” the voice replied. “I do. My name is Matt Albrecht and I’m researching screenwriters.” “Did Willie send you?” The unexpected challenge—delivered with a distinctly French accent—tempted me to lie. I didn’t.
9.
