Life with My Sister Madonna (24 page)

However much a man John is, he still isn't man enough for Madonna, who starts cavorting around with her twenty-two-year-old bodyguard, Jim Albright. It only takes me an hour with Albright to conclude that the attraction might be purely physical.

Ingrid, Madonna, Jim, and I take
Lola Lola
across the bay to Key Biscayne. The water in between is shallow. We've ridden the boat out that way many times, and I know you have to take a certain route. I tell Jim, but he doesn't listen.

On the way back, I again tell him what route to take, but he insists on steering the boat in the direction he wants. Seven hundred yards from the dock at the end of our garden, the water is only around two feet deep. I try to direct Jim, but he ignores me.

Two minutes later we are stuck on a sandbar.

Madonna yells, “Goddamm it, Jim, why the fuck didn't you listen to my brother?”

I call on the cell phone for a boat to tow us out.

We sit in the boat, waiting.

After twenty minutes, Madonna stands up. “I'm not waiting here anymore.” She starts to climb out of the boat and into the water.

“Don't, Madonna,” I say, and tell her about the nurse sharks that normally lurk around the bay. “Six or seven feet long, and not particularly docile, so it's not a good idea to go wading.”

She sits down in the boat again.

The sun is beating down on us. In a replay of our Moroccan trip, she starts bitching about the heat.

Finally, a boat pulls up to tow us home.

“You're driving, Christopher,” she says.

And that's the last I see of Jim Albright.

 

M
ADONNA AND
I spend Thanksgiving and Easter in the Coconut Grove house, and during the year, she often throws parties there. Her parties are relatively sedate and usually end with everyone sitting in the living room playing some stupid game she has suggested.

On one occasion, David Geffen, Rosie O'Donnell, Ingrid, Madonna, John Enos, and I are all in the living room. Madonna suggests we play a game—a hybrid version of truth or dare—in which we pass a lit match around and whoever is holding the match when it goes out has to answer a question.

The questions?

“If you have to kiss anyone in the room, who would you like it to be?”

“Who is the most beautiful person in the room?”

“If you have to have sex with anyone in the room, who would you like to have it with?”

The others answer: “Madonna.” “Madonna.” “Madonna.”

My answer: John Enos.

All the focus in the room is on Madonna, every question is about her, every answer—and they all go along with it. She is the be-all and end-all, the alpha and the omega, of all our existences, and we endlessly trumpet our allegiance to her.

In Coconut Grove, Madonna now owns three Chihuahuas—Chiquita, Rosita, and Evita—all selected for her by Ingrid. But Madonna is not a dog or cat lover. She won't walk the dogs and views them as little more than live-in accessories. She allows them to run all over the house and, even though they shit everywhere, pays scant attention to them.

 

I
FIND OUT
in April 1992 that Madonna is still seeing Jim Albright. John Enos also knows and is not happy about it. But he is so besotted with her that he doesn't end their relationship.

She says of him, “He's way too available and way too mainstream, although he's extremely handy around the house.”

One incident in particular rankles John. Madonna takes Good Friday off. Enos assumes that he will spend the day with her. Instead, she tells him she wants to hang out in South Beach with Ingrid and have lunch with her there, just the two of them. As it happens, Sean was also in South Beach with Robin at the time.

Poor John. Not only does he have to cope with Madonna and Albright and her intense relationship with Ingrid, but also her continuing fascination with her ex-husband, Sean Penn. Then there is Guy Oseary, now her manager, with whom she has had a long-running flirtation.

Madonna's breakup with John is inevitable. Afterward, he dates a glittering array of sexy women: Taylor Dayne, Heidi Fleiss, and Traci Lords—all a testament to his masculinity.

 

O
N THE CAREER
front, both Madonna and I are more than surprised when Oliver Crumes, Kevin Stea, and Gabriel Trupin, dancers from
Blond Ambition,
file a lawsuit against Madonna for invasion of privacy, fraud and deceit, intentional misrepresentation, and more, basically accusing her of exposing their private lives in
Truth or Dare.

I have little sympathy for them; all the dancers were aware, from the first, that they were being filmed for
Truth or Dare,
and no matter how much I might dislike the graveyard scene in the film, all the dancers knew exactly what they were participating in. Nonetheless, Madonna eventually chose to settle with them.

 

T
HROUGH THE YEAR,
Madonna and I remain extremely close. We both relish seeing legends perform, then meeting them afterward, and often go to their performances together. On February 24, 1992, we see Pavarotti at Lincoln Center. At intermission, we go backstage to visit him. In his dressing room, he is spread out on the couch, his big body all covered in warm, wet towels to soothe his voice, his head popping out of another towel. A translator is on hand for his conversation with Madonna.

“The show is great,” she says.

“It's an honor,” Pavarotti says.

“Grazie.”

“You're Italian! Isn't that great!”

“Shouldn't the whole world be?” she says.

 

O
N
A
UGUST
26, 1992, Madonna, Ingrid, and I go to see Peggy Lee sing at Club 53 at the New York Hilton. Peggy is wonderful, but can barely move onstage. She's seventy-two and infirm, but is still an incredible performer. She is wearing a wig, attached to her head by a large diamond brooch, which seems to be pinned into the top of her skull. It's an odd sight, but quickly forgotten when she belts out “Fever,” which Madonna will cover on her
Erotica
album. After the show is over, Madonna presents her with a bouquet of red roses. Then Peggy is wheeled out in her wheelchair.

 

I
N
D
ECEMBER
1992, Madonna's
Dangerous Game
is released. I tell her this is the best movie that she has ever made and that I think she can act. This time, I mean it. Soon after,
Body of Evidence
comes out, and I am once again tremendously embarrassed for her.

Despite the debacle of
Body of Evidence,
which critics universally pan, Madonna now has tremendous compensations—financial and otherwise—in her career, particularly after she signs a $60 million, seven-year contract with Time Warner, with whom she forms a new multimedia entertainment company. Her reviews for
A League of Their Own
are positive—and I agree with them.

True to form, she also fans the flames of controversy by modeling topless at the Gaultier amfAR benefit at the Shrine Auditorium, but the cause is good and the show raises $750,000 for AIDS research. I am glad that my sister still does so much for the fans who made her and against the sickness from which so many of our friends have died.

I
N EARLY
1993, Madonna calls and tells me she's going on tour again and wants me to work on it. She is also looking for a new house and asks me to come out to L.A. and help her.

I fly out, stay at Oriole Way, spend a couple of weeks looking at houses with Madonna. We look in Bel Air, in Pacific Palisades, in Beverly Hills. We never let the brokers pick us up from Oriole Way, though. Madonna can't stand real estate brokers and I know they don't like her very much either, for when it comes to real estate, she is an extremely particular and difficult customer.

Consequently, Madonna always drives us to the prospective houses. She likes to drive and enjoys being behind the wheel. She drives a little fast and is not a smooth driver, a little jerky. She doesn't particularly care about cars, except for a classic white convertible Mercedes with a red leather interior that she owns—an older model that she first has in L.A., then ships down to Coconut Grove.

So we drive to meet the brokers. Each time, we walk up the drive, but don't go inside the house, because it takes Madonna one glance at an exterior to know she isn't interested in a particular house—which bugs a lot of brokers, as she is depriving them of the chance to pitch it to her.

But then we see Castillo del Lago, the former home of gangster Bugsy Siegel—coincidentally the subject of Warren's movie
Bugsy
—which overlooks the Hollywood Reservoir and doesn't feel as if it is in L.A. at all, but more like a palazzo in northern Italy. Madonna loves it and so do I. The twenty-thousand-square-foot castle has five bedrooms, seven bathrooms, stands on four acres of land, and—with its 160-foot lookout tower—feels secure.

Madonna buys Castillo del Lago for around $5 million, and I start renovating it, working 24-7. Madonna doesn't give me a budget, and I end up spending $3 million on renovations, the interiors, fixtures, and fittings. Then she has second thoughts. She sends me a letter in which she writes, “I don't know how long I can live in this culturally bankrupt town,” and tells me I am spending too much money on Castillo. I probably am, but I'm having a great time doing it. Besides, every expenditure is necessary and accounted for.

We meet and discuss the budget. I explain what I need to carry on the renovation. To my surprise, for the first time ever while I am working on one of her houses, Madonna questions my judgment, and I find it disconcerting. Ultimately, she leaves me completely to my own devices, and Castillo del Lago ends up being the most enjoyable interior job I have ever done for her.

Part of the renovation of Castillo del Lago includes transforming the house's two turrets, and its massive retaining wall. I hit on the idea of copying a little church in Portofino that Madonna and I visited at the end of
Blond Ambition
and both loved, which is painted in alternating white and terra-cotta stripes. I tell her my idea. She says, “Are you sure it won't look like a circus tent?” I promise her that it won't, particularly after it has aged. She tells me to go ahead.

On the largest wall in the living room, we hang a Langlois nude of Selene and Endymion, which was first commissioned for the Palace of Versailles, which I had originally mounted on the ceiling of the Oriole house. With Madonna's imprimatur, I fly to London and spend a fortune on fabrics and furniture. On Lillie Road, I find sixteen William and Mary chairs—an expensive purchase, but well worth it—and buy them. Madonna loves them. They travel with her on all her moves and she still has them to this day.

Madonna and I are together all the time now, and—in shades of the past—whenever I wake up in the dead of the night, she is sitting on the floor in her library, reading books such as Paulo Coelho's
Alchemist.
Despite the intervening years, her patterns are still the same. Only the surroundings and the lifestyle are grander.

With the house under way, she asks me to meet with Freddy about my role on the tour. I tell her I want to direct as well as design. I ask to be relieved of my old dresser duties, and she says she will think about it.

I have long forgiven her for outing me. She is trusting me to do her house, and the chances are that she is now about to trust me to direct her tour. She is relying on me, I am part of her world, and I am perfectly content.

When I arrive at Freddy's and he gives me the good news that Madonna has decided that I can direct
The Girlie Show,
he also gives me the bad. She has certain conditions.

On tour, she will give me my own car and driver and will fly me first-class. However, she will not pay for me to stay in hotel suites. I am annoyed because even her assistant stays in a suite.

My sister stands to make millions from this tour. I ask Freddy why he is haggling with me over a few thousand.

“I have to, it's my job and she insists,” he says.

The remark is cryptic, but I think I know what he means. Although Madonna fully accepts that I merit the job of director and has willingly agreed to give it to me, strangely enough she partly resents her generosity to me. Refusing to allow me to stay in hotel suites is an expression of that resentment.

When we arrive in London and I am shown to my room—a single one, at that—I complain to the tour manager. He gets me a suite instead. My sister finds out and sends me a rather nasty letter of complaint. I go to see her in her suite, and for the first and last time, I resort to a tear or two. I tell her that I am so sorry if she feels I took advantage of her and ask her to forgive me. For the rest of the tour, she books me into suites. I win the battle, but the point is still taken. She is thinking in terms of costs, not human beings, and definitely not of me and all the years we have worked together. Or perhaps I am now getting too close to her, and she is beginning to pull away.

Starting in July, we begin rehearsing the show at Sony Studios on West Washington in Culver City. I am still designing Madonna's house, but I am also supervising the crew, designing the stage set, handling all the dancers, maintaining peace onstage, and—above all—directing Madonna.

To my surprise, though, at rehearsals she listens to me, and follows my advice on dance moves, costumes, lighting, and staging. We are together 24-7 and there are no more conflicts. Our creativity is perfectly in tune and I am having the best time of my life, although I have never worked harder.

At first, I do have some problems with the crew—about a hundred roadies who assume I am only around because I'm Madonna's brother. She doesn't disabuse them of that notion. It takes me two weeks to win their respect, but in the end I do.

In the evenings, Madonna and I talk about the show and, for inspiration, watch Bollywood musicals, Thai dancing, Burt Lancaster's
Trapeze,
Marlene Dietrich, and Louise Brookes. We decide on a burlesque circus theme for the show and that we will use five different choreographers. Gene Kelly is one of them.

He is to choreograph the “Rain” number, but from the first it is clear that he is uncomfortable with our dancers, whom we have picked for personality, and not because they are classically trained ballet dancers. He doesn't understand the show's concept of grand spectacle and burlesque with heavy sexual overtones.

I take Madonna aside and tell her she needs to come and watch Gene's number, as I don't think he is working out and we need to fire him.

She sits in on the number and strongly disagrees with me: “No, I think Gene will be fine.”

I shrug and bide my time.

A week later, she marches up to me and says, “Christopher, I've just watched Gene's number again. I don't think he's working out. I think we need to fire him.”

“Really? Are you sure, Madonna?”

She nods, shamefaced at having single-handedly conceived of such a terrible fate for this venerable American icon. “Will you break it to him?” she asks, somewhat tentatively.

“No way, Madonna. Your idea—you tell him!” I say firmly.

“I'll get Freddy to do it.”

Exit Gene Kelly, with no hard feelings, I hope. Madonna, on the other hand, is not sentimental and never has been.

 

I
N
J
UNE
1993, just before the tour begins, Danny and I celebrate our tenth anniversary. In commemoration, I design two matching platinum bands for us—one set with square-cut rubies, one set with square-cut emeralds—and have them made at the venerable Harry Winston. I have also translated to Latin and had engraved on the outside of the rings the words “As I am yours, you are mine.”

During our ten years together, once Danny has conquered his drinking issues, the only cause of dissonance between us has been my relationship with my sister. Although she and Danny are on friendly terms, and when I am working on the Coconut Grove house, he comes to stay there with me, but in private he tells me that he thinks she is using me.

He says constantly that she is sucking the life out of me. I counter with “You are wrong; she's giving me life.” He hates Madonna because he holds her responsible for tearing me away from the secure little world we've created together in New York.

I try to bring him into my world, but he simply refuses. He doesn't want to meet me on the North American leg of the tour; he hates L.A., doesn't drive, and won't join me out there. As much as I can, I encourage him to work again. He has always expressed an interest in architecture, so I offer to send him to NYU to study it. I get the applications, help him prepare all the forms, but a week before the interview he decides he doesn't want to go to college after all. He prefers to stay in our perfect little bubble, and to hell with the outside world.

Apart from his distaste for Madonna, he is also uncomfortable with many of my friends because he feels they take me away from him, as well. And when one of my lesbian friends begs me to father her child, and I consider it, he nearly has a fit.

I pay all our living expenses, but in the house we definitely live Danny's way. I cook most of the time, we regularly throw dinner parties, and I firmly believe that our relationship is for life, although the gulf between my life with Madonna and my life with him is growing ever wider.

 

O
N
J
UNE
1, 1993, Madonna and I see Charles Aznavour and Liza Minnelli at Carnegie Hall. After the show, we are whisked backstage and into Liza's dressing room. She is seated in front of her makeup mirror, dressed in the same red-sequined gown she just wore onstage.
“Hello,”
she blares in her distinctive voice, “I'm Liza!”

“I'm Madonna.”

“I know, I know,” says Liza, “I'm a massive fan of your work!”

“So am I,” Madonna says, hastily adding, “I mean of yours, of course.”

Madonna turns and introduces me.

“You were amazing,” I say to Liza.

Liza gives us both a broad, toothsome grin. The dressing room door opens. Her grin immediately fades. A group of fans enter. Liza's grin glitters again, only this time not at us. Madonna and I exchange glances. The audience is over. We tiptoe out of the room, leaving the fans to Liza and vice versa. One more legend under our belts.

On September 25,
The Girlie Show
opens at Wembley Stadium. Then the show moves on to Paris, where Madonna gives three concerts at the Palais Omnisport, to Frankfurt, and on October 4 to Tel Aviv, Israel.

On our day off, we take a trip to Jerusalem, where Madonna and I vist the Church of the Holy Sepulchre together. We see how in the Catholic Church every sect of Catholicism has its own section. We are both scared by the intensity of religious feeling in Jerusalem. Madonna says, “Everyone wants a chunk of this city. It would be so hard to live here and find peace.”

 

T
HE
E
UROPEAN LEG
of the tour ends in Istanbul on October 7, then we fly back to America. Since we left, I have inhabited Madonna's world, utterly and completely. With her, I live out all my creativity and travel to other countries, as well, which fascinates me and feeds my desire for inspiration and adventure.

She and I are closer than ever, but that doesn't stop her from forming her habitual on-the-road relationship with a so-called straight man—this time with Michael Gregory. And because I am lonely, and as I have done on every tour, I follow suit and develop an on-the-road relationship, this time with a dancer I'll call Richard. We form a close, platonic relationship, and from Richard, I receive a little of the affection to which I am accustomed at home. Our relationship is not sexual or romantic, but nevertheless intimate.

Before the London opening of
The Girlie Show
, all the dancers give me thank-you cards. I keep just one of them—a black-and-white thirties photo of ballet dancers—the one from Richard, on which he has written, “Thank you so much for being my friend. Working with you has been wonderful. You're an amazing director. All my love, Richard, xx.”

When I arrive back from Europe, I spend a couple of nights with Danny at our New York apartment. As Madonna is only going to do three shows—two at Madison Square Garden and the third in Philadelphia—and will leave straightaway for Asia, I don't bother to unpack my suitcase.