The Daily Reporter, March 4, 1954
HOLLYWOOD
At Ciro’s, Alicia sat at a four-top beside the stage with the Roy Davises and her date, a prince and the brother of the shah of Iran. Already she was envisioning how she might report this to Hedda, or Harrison Carroll. She’d mention they were ringsiding, of course.
The crowd was pretty namey that night. A sweep of the joint revealed Nicky Hilton, Harry Rothschild, and Esther Williams teaching the mambo to anyone who cared to learn. Meanwhile, Marlon Brando roved the room with that hungry look of his.
Brando was hot news lately, thanks to the two-million-dollar lawsuit filed after he walked off the set of The Egyptian. His agent called him a “very sick and mentally confused boy.” Alicia felt sorry for the kid, but he’d provided her enough fodder to pay the next two rents. A good thing, as it was expensive living on her own. Her Doheny Drive apartment was bare bones, and on the unfashionable side of Sunset, but it was still a stretch to afford. At least the Corvette had its own parking space, and was no longer subject to housemates begging to take it for a spin.
As the music played, Alicia gently tapped the cylindrical candle in time with the beat. Meanwhile, Mahmoud chattered with Roy Davis, who was some sort of oil magnate, by Alicia’s best guess.
Sighing, Alicia accidentally caught eyes with Shelley Winters, who waved animatedly from across the room. Although Shelley was every gossip’s dream, Alicia was happy to leave her stories to other reporters.
Alicia cranked her head away and straight into the chiseled face of a man so handsome her breath snagged with one glimpse. He had wavy, dense hair and a dark and moody stare. His lips were full and red, his squint flirtatious and wry. Here was the thinking woman’s James Dean. James Dean, if we here sexier.
Alicia excused herself to the ladies’ so that she might assess the intriguing newcomer at closer range. Unfortunately, she only encountered Marlon Brando, who was muttering “I’m all right, I’m all right” to no one in particular.
“Alicia!” called a voice, high-pitched and ringing.
Alicia looked at her table and saw that the prince and the Roy Davises had decamped, and were replaced by Miss Winters. Of all the blasted luck.
“Oh, hello, Shelley,” Alicia said, approaching the table.
She forced a smile and sat down.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Rome?”
“Yes, I’m very much supposed to be in Rome,” Shelley said with a huff. “Everyone’s in Rome these days.”
“That’s what they say,” Alicia responded flatly, well aware that “everyone” included Shelley’s soon-to-be-ex-husband Vittorio and his seventeen-year-old-fiancée. “Roman Holiday has generated a raging case of Roman fever.”
“I’m missing out!” Shelley cried. “I’m only in the States to get my damned divorce.”
“Hmmmm,” Alicia said, and polished off her gin and sin.
“Vittorio’s acting difficult on purpose.” Shelley flicked a lock of hair off her forehead. “I wish he’d worked this hard at our marriage. Every girl dreams of the kind of man she’ll marry, but she never thinks about the sort of man she wants to divorce.”
Alicia sniggered, thinking this was actually a decent point.
Then, over Shelley’s right shoulder, Alicia spotted her dark stranger reentering the room.
“Hey, Shelley,” she said. “See that man? White shirt? Gobs of hair?”
Shelley craned to get a gander.
“You mean Ed?” she asked.
“Ed? That’s his name? That doesn’t seem right.”
“Edmund Purdom.” Shelley turned toward Alicia. “He’s a British actor. Rumored to be the next big thing.”
“The name is familiar,” Alicia said. “I must’ve read about him somewhere.”
“I’m sure you did,” Shelley said. “He has five movies coming out this year and just landed the lead role in The Prodigal, working with none other than my jerk of a husband. It’s a religious movie, to be filmed in the Holy Land, of all the impossibilities. The entire place will probably go up in flames.”
“Come on, Vittorio’s not that bad,” Alicia said.
Aside from the seventeen-year-old, of course. A few lines formed in Alicia’s mind.
What Shelley Winters told reporters about her estranged groom told a great deal more about Shelley, a very unhappy girl.…
“Vittorio is the worst.” Shelley shook her head. “The very worst. Also, Edmund Purdom is about to replace Brando in The Egyptian.”
“I thought Marlon was trying to win his part back?” Alicia said.
It’s what she’d told James Copp, in any case.
“A day late and a dollar short,” Shelley said. “Isn’t it crazy how Hollywood works? Brando might win an Academy Award for playing Mark Antony, and Edmund Purdom had a bit part in the same movie. Now the bit player is supplanting the marquee star.”
Alicia’s gaze shifted toward Edmund. He was more attractive than Marlon, more magnetic, too. Alicia was struck with the odd sense that within days he’d be plastered all over the press.
EDMUND PURDOM NEW SENSATION IN HOLLYWOOD.
EDMUND PURDOM IS HOTTEST NEW ACTOR IN HOLLYWOOD.
“I recognize that look,” Shelley said, and nudged Alicia with her elbow. “And it’s about to burn a hole in the drapes. Sorry to break the news, but Purdom is married. He has one kid, and another on the way. His wife fancies herself a playwright or some such nonsense.”
She batted the air.
“What a shame,” Alicia said. “He is certainly … handsome.”
She pulled her eyes away.
“Tell me about Rome,” she said.
“You’d love it! They’re calling it the new Hollywood, but it’s better than that. The Cinecittà. The shops on Via Serviti. The Via Veneto scene. It’s Parisian café society, but bigger and more decadent!”
“Sounds grand,” Alicia said, and signaled the waiter for another cocktail. “I wish I could see it.”
She did wish this, very much, for Alicia was getting restless in Los Angeles. Everyone buzzed about Rome, even Kate Hepburn, who rarely buzzed about anything, as a rule. But neither Alicia’s bank account nor her displaced status allowed for such a trip.
“Oh, Alicia, you should go!” Shelley said, and grasped Alicia’s forearm with a rather strong hold. “You’re an artist, aren’t you?”
Alicia chuckled.
“I have been,” she said. “At various times.”
“Rome is the only place for art these days. Paris is so passé. You’d adore Via Margutta! There are artists behind every door. Fellini has a place there. Picasso, too! My dear friend Novella is a painter and she says—”
“Wait,” Alicia snapped. “Novella? As in Palmisano? The painter of nudes?”
“Yes! That’s her! She’s the toast of Rome.”
“I saw one of her pieces,” Alicia said, “in a private collection. I’d love to see more but I’m not in a position to travel abroad right now.”
“Then I have great news!” Shelley said with a grin. “In a few weeks, Novella will be in the States for the first time ever. She has a show at the Karnig gallery in New York.”
“Really? New York? When?”
“Oh…” Shelley thought about this. “Mid-April, I believe? I’m sure you can call the gallery to find out the details. Might I have a sip of your drink? I’m quite parched.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Alicia said.
Alicia performed a quick mental calculation. Perhaps New York could cure her fitful, wandering mind. She would only have to spring for the plane ticket, as she had a permanent invitation to Kate’s.
“Listen, you need to get out of that rathole,” Kate had said, just last week. “I can hear it in your voice. You’re bored. Come to New York and stay in my townhome. I’m hardly there with all this back-and-forth to London.”
“Maybe soon,” Alicia replied.
But she was suddenly overcome with the intense desire—no, the compulsion—to see Novella
’s show, and spend a few weeks in New York. Alicia could find some work there. Like Hollywood, Manhattan was chock-full of fame and glamour and good-looking people behaving in horrible ways.
And in April this would be truer than ever. Imagine the types who’d descend upon the city to drink, carouse, and witness the spectacular wedding of Peter Lawford and his bride-to-be, an ambassador’s daughter named Pat Kennedy.
PRETTY GIRL IS LOOKING FOR PERFECT U.S. MAN—TO PAINT
Statesville Record & Landmark, April 16, 1954
NEW YORK
Alicia had to breach a wall of semi-nude men in order to reach the Sixty-second Street gallery. This was not what she expected when she thought “New York.”
“Hello?” Alicia called as she walked into the Karnig. “There’s supposed to be an artist showing? Am I expected to wait in line?”
“An artist showing,” repeated a man—the gallery owner, as it happened. “It’s a damned show all right. If you’re looking for Novella Palmisano, she’s over there and, please, take her with you.”
“Signor,” said another man, sweaty with desperation. “Perdonami, scusami tanto … my client, you must excuse zee behavior. Zis highly temperamental nature drives zee art. But mostly zee problem is … er … uh … gli uomini?”
“‘Woe-many’?!” the owner bellowed. “I don’t know what that means!”
“The men,” Alicia piped in, noticing a female reporter nearby.
She offered a smile, as the poor girl appeared quite puzzled.
“This gentleman,” Alicia said, “claims the problem is with the line of men, not the artist. And he has a point. I don’t see Novella on the premises.”
“She’s down there,” the owner said. “On the ground. Taking her sweet time, measuring the unmentionables. This is not what I signed up for.”
Alicia peered around the handsome, brawny assemblage, to find Novella crouched on the floor. She was an elfish thing with tousled little-boy hair, dramatic eye makeup, and a nude mouth. Her shiny black-and-white-striped blouse was unbuttoned to great depths.
“Excuse me!” Alicia hollered. “Miss Palmisano!”
“Don’t bother,” the owner said. “She only speaks four words of English: ‘Thank you very much.’”
“That’s okay. I speak Italian.” She looked at the man. “I thought Miss Palmisano was scheduled to have an exhibit? Are these men the art?”
“Evidently, she doesn’t plan to exhibit any art until the end of the month. Instead, she’s put out a bulletin asking all able-bodied, red-blooded American men under thirty to show up. She plans to paint one of them. In the nude. She is really quite the pill.”
“Miss?” said the reporter.
She walked up to Alicia, carrying a notepad, a camera dangling from her neck.
“Hi. Hello,” the woman said. “If you speak Italian, may I ask what Miss Palmisano means by ‘non troppo muscolos’?”
“Not too brawny,” Alicia said, pleased with her nimble translation.
Novella stood. With a tip of the hand, she dismissed the current specimen and signaled for a new candidate. Alicia watched a tall, dark-haired man strut up. He wore a fig leaf, as if he were a Greek statue.
“How many men are outside?” the reporter asked, pen poised. “Best guess?”
“I counted seventy-five an hour ago,” said the owner, “but more have arrived.”
The reporter scribbled something down.
“This is disastrous,” he ranted on. “We’ve been open less than four months and I don’t want to give people the wrong impression. Can someone please tell her to hurry up?”
Everyone glanced about, until their eyes zeroed in on the one person capable of communicating with everybody in the room. Exhaling, Alicia stepped forward and explained to Novella Palmisano that the man was concerned with his reputation, and wanted to clear the streets of men.
Novella didn’t acknowledge her request and instead continued to inspect one man’s loins with the diligence of a scholar. After a while, she paused, hand on hip. The room held its breath. Then, she erupted into a chicken-scrabble torrent of words.
Alicia snickered, and gave the woman a wink. She turned toward the gallery owner.
“Miss Palmisano said, ‘It is what he does. For he is right now doing it and he should be glad of the publicity.’”
“Doing ‘it’?” the man said, and threw up his hands. “Doing what? And this is not the publicity I want!”
“Can you ask Miss Palmisano,” the reporter said, “why she’s come to America? I thought Italian men were the tops?”
Alicia relayed the message, wondering if she might be paid for this translation work.
“According to Miss Palmisano,” Alicia said, once Novella answered, “Italian men are terrible models. She needs a rugged, tough American.”
The best sort there was, Alicia could not help but think.
“Vieni qui!” Novella yipped, gesturing toward Alicia. “Chi sei?”
“Ciao bella. Sono Alicia Darr. Sono il più grande ammiratore!”
“Ah! Anvedi!”
The gallery owner broke into a sweat. Who had time for chitchat when there were partially clothed men two blocks deep? Someone would call the authorities, before long.
“I saw one of your pieces at a friend’s place,” Alicia told Novella in Italian, “in Beverly Hills. I’ve been anxious to meet you ever since.”
“Beverly Hills. Ahò!”
“Conosco alcuni dei tuoi amici. Kirk Douglas e Shelley Winters.”
Novella made a face.
“Sì,” Alicia agreed.
Through it all, the current specimen stood patiently, his commendable-sized penis dangling unperturbed by the studio’s chill.
“What do you think of this one?” Novella said, and nodded toward the man.
“He’s very handsome,” Alicia answered with a shrug. “But too much like the others.”
If anything, he was too laden with muscolos, not that Alicia was a good judge. Her favorite physique was gangly, jaundiced, and broken most of the time.
“Get this one out!” Novella yelled, and cracked the measuring tape like a whip. “Bring me someone new!”
Next up was Don Armand, a twenty-seven-year-old unemployed dancer from Cloverdale.
“Perfetto,” Novella whispered, and pressed both hands against his stomach. “Il vincitore dei fisicos.”
Alicia swiveled toward the gallery owner.
“Good news, you can tell the others to leave,” she said. “Miss Palmisano has chosen her man.”
The man giggled, then clapped wildly.
“Miss Palmisano,” the reporter said, “of the hundred-plus men, how’d you settle on this one?”
“He’s got the body harmonious,” Novella said in Italian, for Alicia to translate. “He’s not overdeveloped like so many of the boys, and he’s got a classic profile. Now, everybody leave.”
As the scantily clad contestants filed out, Novella kicked her supplies into the corner and then grabbed her knapsack.
“Andiamo,” she said, taking Alicia’s hand.
And then, in English, she added:
“I can tell we will be friends.”
Novella’s English was stronger than she’d let on. The problem, she explained, was that most men weren’t worth more than four words.
* * *
“Kate!” Alicia called as they walked through the door of Katharine’s Forty-ninth Street town house. “I’ve brought a friend for you to meet!”
A man stopped them in the hallway—one of Kate’s employees. Wei Fung had no official title but made a full-time job of waving gloved hands and issuing orders in Chinese.
“Wei Fung, excuse me, but I’d like to see Kate.”
Charles, the stocky bodyguard-handyman-chauffeur, waddled in upon hearing Alicia’s voice. As he greeted them, Novella whispered to Alicia in Italian, a comment on the unflattering nature of his military-style buzz cut.
“She’s in a mood,” Charles said, righ
t off the bat. “The damned Sturges project.”
Alicia cringed. The screenplay Kate wrote had been killed due to “money problems.” She couldn’t find anyone to underwrite the film because, as she put it, Sturges was a “truly brilliant man, unfortunately a terrible drinker.” Kate offered to work for free and pay the director’s fee out of pocket, but that didn’t bring any takers, either. Alicia suggested she should move on, but Kate was not apt to listen.
“This is the project I want to do,” Kate had said. “If I wavered every time people asked me to, I’d forever be playing whores or discontented wives who always wonder whether they should go to bed with some bore.”
“Emily can make you a sandwich,” Charles said. “If you want to wait in the kitchen.”
“I’m not really hungry.…”
“I hear a familiar voice!” someone trilled. “Leesy, have you returned? How was the show? Did you get your nude?”
Kate appeared in the entryway, eyebrows arched in hand-drawn precision. She propped herself up against the doorjamb and swirled her glass, ice shifting in the amber booze.
“Oh dear, what sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into?” she asked in a voice more Katharine Hepburn than Alicia had previously known. “Hello, Novella, nice to see you again. Ciao. Et cetera.”
Alicia blinked.
“You two know each other?” she asked.
“Sure. We’ve met a few times, in Rome.”
“I can’t believe you never told me this.”
“I told ya I’d heard of her,” Kate said. “And everyone’s met in Rome. Where’d the wee one go? She seems to have vanished.”
Alicia glanced around.
“What on earth? She was here a minute ago.…”
“She’s tricky,” Kate said with a wink. “God love her, but you have to watch out for that one. Come. Let’s see where your new friend’s gone.”
The two pattered down the hallway and, after investigating several locations, found Novella sitting cross-legged on the library floor. She’d hauled in a cushion from some other room.
“So, kittens,” Kate said, and sprawled herself across the rug, her typical position that time of day.
It helped with digestion, she alleged. Alicia was in a skirt, so she took a seat on a green velvet settee.
The Summer I Met Jack Page 31