Living With Miss G (30 page)

The days were long and sunny, beginning with dawns revealing opalescent
seas and pale pink skies and ending with blood-red sunsets. The Pacific Ocean
was always the boundary for our western horizons, and at night the moon
shimmered on its surface.

There were rains and storms during which John Huston retreated to the bar
with his film crew and played endless games of gin rummy while everyone
enjoyed bottomless margaritas. This scenario brought serenity to our existence
there—a timelessness in a peaceful Mexican lifestyle. We were all absorbed by
the pace and progress of the film, and every day we counted the advancing of
pages we had achieved. To me one thing was close to unbelievable. Miss G was,
for the first time in her film career, actually enjoying being on a set when she
wasn’t working. She enjoyed watching other members of the cast doing their
scenes.

In early October we were down on Mismaloya Beach watching Grayson
Hall’s marvelous characterization of Sue’s demented chaperone. There she was
standing in the shallows bawling hysterically out to sea. Out at sea was the
Reverend Shannon, neck deep in the waves enjoying playful antics with bikiniclad Sue as she squealed with joy.

“Come back, come back,” Grayson was yelling. “I command you to come
back. Leave that man alone. You are in my charge. Your mother will never
forgive you. Come back immediately.” Tennessee Williams sure could invent
challenging situations.

Making
The Night of the Iguana
, said John sometime later, was a serene
experience, but he also indicated his gratitude for Tennessee Williams’ near
genius ability to improvise. John remembered the time he was having difficulty
with one particular scene. On the scripted page it read well and was full of
conflict and drama. However, acted out, it was dull. It simply did not work.

The scene opened with Richard sitting at a chiffonier before a mirror in his
Hotel Costa Verde room, shaving. At his elbow stood a half empty bottle of
Scotch which he had been doing his best to empty. Without any tap on the door,
sexy Sue in mini skirt and mini everything else tripped in, determined, it
immediately became clear, upon her own seduction. Richard spun around, stood
up to defend his virtue, and in his haste knocked the bottle of whisky to the floor
where it shattered into pieces. He then tried to fend her off, to make her aware
that such an event would mean immediate exposure and ruin for him. But it just
did not work. John then turned to Tennessee for help.

Tennessee pondered and then rewrote the scene. In his new version Sue
bounced in and Richard knocked the bottle to the floor, covering it with broken
glass. Agitated and barefooted, Richard advanced towards her with hands
outstretched to keep her away, never noticing that his feet were cut and
bleeding. Sue sees this and begins to laugh. In a second she slips off her own
shoes and joins him in this painful sort of love-play. The scene was startling and
dramatic, and it worked.

Later, still in October, Richard and Miss G were shooting the hammock
scene. Richard was lounging in the hammock, and Maxine, feeling he had been
scruffy for too long, decided to give him a shave. Richard, tolerant with drink,
genially agreed. After he was smothered with lather the phone rang. Richard
yelled, “Ill tear that bloody thing off the wall!”

Miss G’s shouted reply should have come out as, “In a pig’s eye, you
won’t,” but instinct won as she shouted, “In a pig’s ass, you won’t.” Loud
laughter came from the crew–though, of course, it required a retake.

I thought there was only one scene in the entire movie when Miss G tried
to duck out of her part as the cheerful, sexy, blowsy hussy, and I guessed why.
But before I go into it, I would like to make it clear that the two boat boys (Ricki
was the name of one of them) had no part in the movie whatsoever. There were
also two beach boys in the movie with whom Miss G was presumed to be
enjoying sex and who sent her crazy with their insistent maraca shaking
rhythms. They were two young and gifted Mexican actors, Fidelmar Duran and
Roberto Leyva. Their dramatic scene together was played in the moonlight with
Miss G waist deep in the swirling sea, as the two beach boys shook their
maracas while circling around her like predatory animals. I guess it was pure
guilty conscience when she pretended to be quite huffed, and a little shocked.
“John, honey,” she protested to Mr. H, “don’t you think this scene is a bit over
the top?”

John, who knew every little detail of what was going on in his production,
looked innocent and said softly, “Yes, but you can do it, girl, yes you can.” To
make sure she couldn’t escape, he joined them in the waves, directing the scene
like old Father Neptune.

Finally it came to one of the big scenes in the picture—the iguana’s big
dramatic moment of being set free. Richard, in a symbolic gesture, suggested
that he too was freeing himself from the bondage of guilt and releasing himself
from Sue’s nubile body. With Deborah’s efforts to save him for God and
Maxine’s boozy entrapment causing him to feel ensnared, he decided to cut the
iguana free. The happy lizard was then supposed to scuttle away into the jungle,
but like hell he was. With no rope collar holding him, he turned up scaly eyes
implying he wanted to know what was for supper. Even a gentle prod with
Richard’s foot would not budge him. The animal actually needed a jolt from an
electric prod, a mild shock instrument invented by one of our technicians to stir
him on his way. Even then he only moved at a very slow pace back to his native
habitat. It was the slowest dramatic exit I’ve ever witnessed.

During the filming Miss G and I experienced a problem completely
unrelated to the film. We were visited by Miss G’s brother-in-law Larry Tarr.
He just came to have a good time for a bit. Miss G and I loved Larry very much,
but occasionally our love would dwindle. This was one of those dwindling
occasions.

Larry, mixing in film circles at a high or low level, inevitably thrust out a
firm hand and loudly introduced himself as “Larry Tarr, the man who launched
Ava Gardner into the movies.” This, regrettably, was absolutely true.

The saga began in North Carolina when Beatrice (Bappie) Gardner, Miss
G’s older sister by twenty years, got married to a very handsome young guy
named William. As a tiny tot Miss G adored him. He played games with her,
and she loved every minute of it. Handsome William, as a husband, possessed
one unfortunate trait. He simply could not be faithful. After he had half a dozen
consecutive affairs, Bappie finally got fed up and announced that she was going
to divorce him.

The reaction from the large Gardner family was one of horror. Divorce in a
tiny town like Smithfield, North Carolina, was unheard of. Did she not realize
that there had never been a divorce in the Gardner family–ever? With calm
pragmatism, Bappie retorted that there was going to be one now. She forsook
William, home, and relatives and set off to seek her fortune in Richmond and
later New York.

In New York she met Larry Tarr. Larry took an instant shine to her.
Larry’s father had five sons and owned a string of photographic shops and
studios. When he died he left one to each son. Larry inherited the one standing
on the corner of 45
^th
and Fifth Avenue. With fast talk and sweet promises, he
married Bappie, and they lived above the shop. Young Ava, now in her middle
teens and lovely, was allowed to visit during her school holidays, and Larry,
recognizing a really beautiful girl when he saw one, immediately began taking
pictures of her. One of these was exhibited in his showcase window on Fifth
Avenue.

The picture was spotted by a young passer-by named Barney Duhan who
held an errand boy’s job in MGM’s New York office. Barney tended to upgrade
that lowly position into that of MGM talent-scout when the need arose. It often
arose because Barney had a healthy desire to date young and pretty girls, and
certainly the girl in the showcase photo was that. His problem was how to get
her phone number and start his routing. He tried a little deception in Tarr’s
Photographic Shop.

Bappie happened to be filling in for Larry’s usual receptionist, and she
listened to Barney’s “innocent speech” with deep suspicion. Phone numbers
were not handed out to strange young men. Was he a talent scout for MGM and
did he have identification, she asked, as he looked far too young for such a post.

Barney knew he had lost this one, and he made a swift exit. Bappie
reported the incident later that day when Larry returned. Immediately all of
Larry’s entrepreneurial skills emerged. Within seconds he was on the phone to
MGM’s office, and brushing aside defensive secretaries he was put through to
one of the top executives. Yes, they were interested in finding new talent. They
were prepared to look at photographs if he brought them around. They looked at
Larry’s photos and were indeed interested. However, it took a few weeks to
retrieve Ava from Mama’s clutches and to get permission for her to take a film
test. As they say, the “rest is history”. With Bappie as chaperone, Ava was
transported to Hollywood and became a starlet.

Larry was a part of our lives, and Miss G knew all about him. With some
affection, Miss G informed me of Larry’s service overseas in World War II. “As
far as I could work out,” she said, “he was AWOL for half the time and behind
bars for the other half. I don’t think the Nazi panzer divisions felt threatened by
Larry.”

Nevertheless, we loved Larry. Born and bred in New York, he was short
and dark-haired, with no claims to good looks. In a crowd he would just
disappear as crowd wallpaper. He was dapper. That’s the word for Larry—
dapper. Sharp as a needle, he was convinced to the point of lunacy that life had
to be embraced, enjoyed, and fulfilled for twenty-four hours a day. In any part of
the planet he was prepared to start a party, which one felt might go on forever or
at least until Larry dropped. We were at that point now.

We were in Puerto Vallarta’s only building that passed as a nightclub, and
it was booming with the beat of drums, trumpets, guitars, and loud voices. Larry
had just fallen off a table where he had been performing a Spanish dance he had
tried long ago with us in Andalusia but never mastered. Ricki and friend picked
him up, dusted him off, and poured more margaritas into him. Off he went
between the tables, a plastic flower between his teeth, gyrating and hopping and
making a complete fool of himself. Larry was always the life and soul of the
party. Miss G and I exchanged resigned glances.

Larry was now fashioning a line of conga dancers to lead through the
tables and then out into the night. Knowing Larry, I said I hoped he knew what
he was doing. Miss G responded that Larry never knew what he was doing. We
gave another mutual sigh and gave up.

I believe Larry was drunk from the moment he set foot on Mexican soil.
Sticking firmly to the Dean Martin philosophy, ‘if you don’t want a hangover,
stay drunk’, he got himself into all sorts of trouble in every bar in Puerto
Vallarta. On several occasions with the luck of a veteran acrobat, he managed to
ship himself to Mismaloya without falling overboard. There he caused
maximum turbulence but was treated with affection by several of the crew who
could recall his adventures when he visited the locations of Miss G’s other
movies.

The police gave him the benefit of every possible doubt on a variety of
occasions, but on one particular night when he became over pugnacious they
popped him into the local jail. That was serious.

We were told that even a short sojourn in a Mexican jail is not a pleasant
experience. Being confronted by a local judge was not a hilarious occasion and,
knowing Larry’s ability to play merry jokes and his astounding disrespect for the
law in general, we decided such contempt might get him a sentence of from one
to five years!

Miss G had a heart-to-heart with John H., and judicious enticements to the
local judiciary were made behind the scenes. Larry was extricated from the
jailhouse, steered to the airport, given a one-way ticket to New York and firmly
pushed aboard the plane.

No doubt he would meet us again in some far off corner of the globe. After
all, he had given the world Ava Gardner. That must not be forgotten.
Despite that slight hiccup in Miss G’s personal life, the script pages ticked
steadily away, but then in November two events occurred—one that was very
close to us and the other a tragedy for the whole world.
Our hill at Mismaloya was decorated with apartments and cottages, and
some of the apartments had second floor balconies. Assistant Director Tom
Shaw and his side kick Terry were sitting out on their balcony when, without
warning, it collapsed, and they plunged downwards in a cascade of concrete
rubble. Terry wasn’t badly hurt and returned to work two or three days later,
suffering only aches and bruises, but Tom Shaw received serious back injuries.
He was taken away by stretcher from Mismaloya and then flown to Mexico City
and on to Los Angeles for hospital treatment.
The accident left us all depressed and a little fearful when it was revealed
that the builders had used sand from the beach to mix with cement—its salty
content making it quite unsuitable for that purpose. Those with balconies that
looked down on the rocks at the edge of the sea took deep breaths and did not
venture out on them again. Of course, any hope of the complex functioning in
the future as a country club and holiday center was ruled out, and it was soon
completely abandoned.
This distressing incident was insignificant compared with the news of
President Kennedy’s assassination. It struck into the hearts of Miss G and me
with particular poignancy. On several occasions the handsome, shock-headed
young senator from the east coast had sat chatting in our small apartment when
he called to take Miss G out to dinner, and each visit was a fond memory.
November 30th was scheduled as the last day of shooting, but, as usual,
there were a few retakes to be done. Nevertheless, the end of the movie party
went ahead as planned. It was held in the Mismaloya bar with spill-over into the
canteen and dance hall, and two hundred townspeople were invited. Everyone
dressed in their best, especially the ladies, but the wafts of expensive perfume
were almost obliterated by the drench of citronella oil keeping the mosquitoes at
bay.
Miss G wore an outrageously expensive harem-type outfit designed by
Pucci, while Liz wore a simple white jersey top with skin-tight white slacks. Her
skin glowed, and only the huge diamond brooch pinned to her jersey could
compete. A lot of drinks passed down a lot of thirsty throats. At one point, John
H. stood up to say a few words, but only a few people managed to hear them.
“In this strange movie business,” he said, “we come together and make
moving shadows on film, and when we disperse, the shadows are all that are left
of our close association. If the shadows are good, our trip together was
worthwhile.”
Then he gave one of his wolf-snarl grins and added how glad he was that
none of the six owners of the derringers had felt the need to shoot off a couple of
slugs at anyone in particular. The audience roared when he ended, “If this movie
had been Cleopatra, it would have been a massacre.” The sun was well above
the horizon before the last guests began to tread wearily down the steps and take
the boats. There were tears, kisses, hugs, and vows of eternal friendship.
Everyone was unanimous in their feeling that, though at times it had been
difficult, more often than not it had been glorious and certainly unlike any
movie-making experience they ever had or were likely to have in the future.
The next morning John H. passed me in high good humor with no
semblance of a hangover. “How’s Ava getting on with the boys?” I did a quick
second take. It was the first time the old buzzard had indicated that he had any
idea of what might be going on with Miss G, Ricki and friend. I decided truth
was best. I replied that Ricki definitely was the one in favor.
“I thought so,” said John H., still pausing. “I hope she doesn’t want to take
him back to Europe with her.”
I stared at his departing back. I felt a chill. My God, I hadn’t even
considered it. At lunchtime, I said to Miss G, “I’ve got the tickets for the return
flight to Mexico City. We leave Thursday morning, okay?” One of those
winsome, innocent smiles spread across Miss G’s lips, and I realized that John
H. was on the right track.
“Change the tickets to Friday. I have got one or two other things to do.”
Another chill crept down my spine. Most of the star players and important
technicians would have left by Thursday.
On Friday we boarded the aircraft. Miss G was ahead of me, but as I
peered round her shoulder, along the aisle, I could see Ricki sitting in the outside
of three seats there. Ricki was still in his open necked shirt, old slacks, and I’d
bet my last dollar he was still wearing those damn thong sandals. Miss G had
given him money to buy a ticket.
He stood up as Miss G reached him and allowed her through to the window
seat. He moved in to sit next to her, but I laid a quick arm on his, gave him the
“excuse me” smile and pushed past to occupy the center seat. For Miss G the
farewell party had never really ended, and at this moment she was still on a drip
feed of margaritas – margaritas that would inevitably be replenished by the
attentive cabin staff. For one of the few times in the past weeks I ducked the
drinks, for, if Miss G was more than a bit misty about our collective
responsibilities, one of us had to be sane and sober. I reset my face into a fixed
smile to meet the questioning looks some of the people we knew were giving us.
We reached Mexico City, and a hired car whisked us to our hotel. All of
those arrangements had been taken care of. Ricki stood next to us at the desk
with a broad smile on his face, as happy as Larry. He had never flown in an
aircraft before or seen a city as large as Mexico’s capital. And as I surmised, he
was still wearing those bloody thong sandals. I never could work out why those
damned things caused me such inner rage.
Without batting an eyelash, Miss G, adopting the touch of grandeur she
assumed when she was half-pissed, instructed the desk clerk to find Ricki a
room on our floor.
Up in our suite, with Ricki safe and sound in his, Miss G said, “Oh, Rene, I
hear Dorothy Dandridge is doing her great nightclub act at that neat restaurant
we know. Why don’t you give them a ring and book a table for three—we’ll
give Ricki a treat.”
“Miss G,” I said firmly, “It’s a swanky joint. He can’t go there in an old
white shirt and slacks and that, that”—I tried to keep the scream out of my
voice—“pair of thong sandals.”
“Guess you’re right,” answered Miss G. “Why don’t you take him out to
the shops and buy him slacks, shirt, shoes, anything he needs. He’ll look real
chic for the party.”
I extracted Ricki from his room, and he followed me to a nearby shopping
mall. I equipped him with the necessary clothes, and then we found our way to a
shoe store. The young man who served us was pleasant and spoke good English
but naturally chatted to Ricki in Spanish. What he thought about a black girl
buying a pair of expensive shoes for someone who was plainly from the sands of
some Pacific resort didn’t seem to have crossed his mind, as he said cheerfully,
“He tells me this is the first pair of shoes he has ever owned in his life.”
I offered what I hoped was an enigmatic smile and said, “Figures.”
Back in the hotel, Ricki took his new clothes and shoes up to his room, and
as I passed the desk the young clerk, who was talking on the phone, waved to
catch my attention and beckoned me across. When I reached him, he placed his
hand over the receiver and said with a smile, “Miss Jordan, can I take it that you
are Miss Gardner’s slave?”
“Her what?” I asked.
“Her slave. I have a young lady on the phone asking if I have seen Miss
Gardner’s slave. Her English is not good.” I knew who it was. It had to be
Juanita, our Spanish cook. “She does not think there is any difference between
‘maid’ and ‘slave!’”
I gave him a smile, “At this moment, I think she might be right.”
Juanita wanted details of when and how she was being returned to her own
country. She was reassured. That was okay, but nothing else was okay.
The visit to the nightclub passed without too much hassle. It was very
crowded. No one really noticed that Ricki couldn’t bear wearing shoes and
carried them in his hand. What was a little more worrisome was the amount of
alcohol Miss G was consuming. I knew from past experience that soon she
would recognize her own danger signals—she was pretty good at that. She’d
recognize that the days were blurred, the hands were shaking slightly, and she’d
need a drink before she got out of bed. Then she would quit, totally. She would
snap out of it as she would snap off an electric switch, and she would run for
cover to a hideaway, a health center or a rented house in Palm Springs. There
would be absolutely no booze for weeks or even months.
Sure enough, next morning she asked that I book us into that wonderful
health spa we used when we first arrived in Mexico. “What is it? Thirty miles or
so outside the city?”
I felt a wave of relief and said, “Only an hour by car.” So she had finally
recovered her senses? No, she hadn’t.
“Book a room for Ricki, so he can come too.”
The wave of relief turned icy cold. A vision of those faces flashed across
my mind—the faces of the women who inhabited that place. Those blue-rinsed
banker’s wives, those titled heiresses, those dictators’ mistresses, those pop star
celebrities, those terry clothed, wrapped and cream-encrusted ladies all flashed
before me.
“Miss G, I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“If you remember, men are not allowed in. I, as your maid, slept in the
motel a short distance away and visited you only if required.”
“We’ll take Ricki,” said Miss G, ignoring reality.
I knew there was not the slightest chance of Ricki gaining admittance to
this exclusive female establishment. They were all immensely wealthy and all
resolutely female. They were all enraptured by the whirlpools, mud baths, the
warm swims, the wax treatments, the gentle pummel and massage, the muesliyogurt and mint tea existences, and the outrageous prices that ensured peace,
privacy, and temporary oblivion. Men were objects who inhabited other planets,
captains of industry who signed the necessary checks.
Miss G drained her margarita and glanced to see if there was any more in
the pitcher, and there was. “I’ll only need one bag, Rene, honey.”
I filled her glass and said, “Miss G, I’m not coming.”
“Not coming?” Miss G looked puzzled.
“No, Miss G, I will stay here and wait for your return. I don’t think you
will be gone for long.” Miss G sipped her margarita and looked disinterested.
“Suit yourself,” she said, dismissing the subject.
I went to pack her bag. I arranged the car with the desk and saw them off
with my second-hand, fixed smile.
Next morning just before lunch, the phone rang, and the desk clerk
informed me that Miss Gardner had returned. I went down to the foyer to meet
the two of them. There she was, Ricki beside her, still carrying his shoes in his
hand and not looking very happy.
My heart bled for Miss G. She was white-faced, deathly tired, and still
hazy from drink. God, I knew her so well. I knew she was ashamed of herself,
and I knew she was ashamed of being ashamed. She had been humiliated, and
she knew it was her own fault. No doubt Miss G had been told in very polite
terms—for the Mexicans are invariably polite and understanding—that young
men carrying their shoes in their hands cannot become part of any recuperative
health program.
We all went in the elevator, and as soon as I opened the door of our suite,
Miss G went straight through to her bedroom and closed the door. She did not
say a word. The “experience” had finally fizzled out. I paused in front of Ricki
and said, “Ricki, it’s all over. Go back to your room and collect whatever things
you have there. I am going to arrange with the travel agent at the desk to get you
a ticket back to Puerto Vallarta, give you some money, and arrange a car to take
you to the airport.”
Ricki nodded and smiled. He knew his time was up. It would not have
surprised me if I had been told that Ricki didn’t know who Ava Gardner really
was. To him she could have been just one of those ‘film people,’ one of those
generous, pretty, amiable, heavy-drinking older ladies needing his solicitude.
After all, there would be a succession of those lovelies available on those Puerto
Vallarta beaches in the future.
Miss G woke around noon the next day. I said, “Miss G, we are packed,
and I have two departure times direct to New York and then on to Madrid. Three
o’clock or six o’clock.”
“I think we’ll take the first,” Miss G said.
Ricki was never mentioned. Not a word of explanation, justification, or
commiseration was exchanged between Miss G and me, either then or in the
future. It was just one of those experiences. There were a lot of those types of
experiences waiting in the future.