A Ticket to the Circus

by Norris Church Mailer

  Norman had been in the Philippines during the war, and the government gave us a car and driver to take us out into the bush to see if we could find the spot where he had bivouacked. He thought he remembered exactly where it was, as he had been in the reconnaissance unit. We headed out of Manila, with our driver, in a huge stretch limo on a beautifully paved four-lane highway, but a few miles outside the city the pavement simply ended and we hit the dirt with a hard whump! And then we were on a narrow little pig trail through the jungle. Broad leaves slapped the windows and sides of the car as we drove through, and children appeared and disappeared in the dense foliage. People hung out of houses made of bamboo and reed that were up on stilts, grass mats rolled up and hanging over the windows. They had probably never had a big black limousine come crashing through their neighborhood before, and I’m sure it was terrifying. I had never felt so much like a rich American in my life. I wanted to duck down and hide from the faces peering in the window. I wanted to say to them, “This is not who I am! I’m really not rich at all! This is a borrowed car!” I was ashamed to be there, riding in such a car, while the people hardly had enough clothes to cover their bodies.

  Finally, we rolled into an open field that had a large tree in the center of it, and we got out. Norman thought it might be the same place they had bivouacked thirty years before, but even if it wasn’t, it was a tree much like one he remembered, and in the spirit of the occasion, we pulled out a picnic basket, spread a cloth on the grass, and had a picnic under the tree that once had (maybe) sheltered a young Norman Mailer when he was hatching the plot for The Naked and the Dead.

  Belinda Ali was a big, beautiful woman who looked like the female version of Muhammad Ali. She and Muhammad had gotten married eight years before, when she was a virginal seventeen, and they had four children, but she was not the woman he had with him at the fight. That was another beautiful, tall, thin woman named Veronica Porsche. He had been going around introducing Veronica as his wife to everyone, including the press, and it got into the papers in the States. He was a womanizer, and I’m sure Belinda knew the score about him. (Although I wouldn’t swear to it. It’s amazing how wives can not know what’s going on under their very noses. I know this the hard way.) But this was too much for her to ignore. He was introducing Veronica as his wife.

  Word got out that Belinda was on her way to Manila. Norman and I were supposed to go over to meet the champ that night, so we were waiting to see what was going to happen with Belinda. Belinda flew the twenty-two hours to get there, and I would imagine she slept little. She was driven to the hotel from the airport. She closeted herself with Muhammad for about thirty minutes. It could have been longer. I can’t remember exactly, and we heard from someone who was outside the room that she was screaming at the top of her lungs every minute she was there. Then she went back to the airport and flew the twenty-two hours back to America. This all happened the day before the fight.

  Nobody told us not to go for our meeting with Ali, so we showed up and were ushered into his suite. The air felt thick and heavy. It was an effort to breathe. He was sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, like the king on a throne. Veronica was there, wearing a long, beautiful white caftan, walking back and forth, wandering, seeming not to know what to do with herself. In the background, a screen had been set up and an old Ronald Reagan movie was playing, The Killers, with Angie Dickinson, where Ronnie plays a bad guy and Angie plays a femme fatale. We sat on the couch with several other people, his trainers and handlers and assistants, nobody speaking, as if we were waiting for some play to begin.

  A group of children came in. I’m not sure where they were from, but in my memory they had on school uniforms. Ali took the time to say hello to each of them, perched each one on his knee, and gave them a personal message, like “You have beautiful eyes,” or “You’re going to be a fighter one day, with muscles like that.” On it went. We didn’t say a word. We watched Ronnie and Angie scramble over rocks, have a shoot-out with someone. Ronnie got hit and died. Then the kids left, and there were still a lot of us in the room waiting, looking to Ali expectantly to say something, to give us words of wisdom.

  He took a tired, deep breath and began a sermon, one about the different kinds of hearts. Veronica paced behind him, back and forth, back and forth. “There is the heart of paper,” he began in a quiet voice. “It is beautiful, but soft, and the rains of despair beat on it and weaken it until it is nothing but a shapeless mass of sodden waste. There is the heart of glass, beautiful but cold, and although the sun shines through it, making it light up the corners of a dismal room, it is fragile, and the winds of evil blow it over and it crashes into a thousand shards.…” He went on… and on… about the different kinds of hearts, and we all worked to keep our eyes open. I pinched myself, bit my lip, did every trick I knew to keep awake, but I didn’t succeed too well, and Norman just about managed to keep looking interested. It was hot in the room, and dark. Perfect for taking a little snooze. The soft voice went on for another hour, more maybe, but finally he was done and someone gave the signal that we were all to leave.

  Ali stood by the door to say good night to everyone. As we walked by, Norman put his hand on Ali’s shoulder and told him that he was the true champ, he was the greatest, and he was going to win the next day. Ali nodded. Somberly. Norman continued on that he knew what Ali was going through with the women, but it would be all right in the end, that he would wind up with the woman who was meant to be with him, and he tried to offer more heartfelt good things from the well of his experience. Ali looked him in the face and said, “You know, with the troubles I got, if I was a white man or a businessman—I’d be dead.” Norman nodded. I shook hands with Ali. He pulled me into a little hug, whispered into my ear, “You’re so beautiful,” and off we went into the night, leaving Ali in the doorway.

  It was a moving experience, being there in his presence, which was overwhelming in the charismatic way that truly great people have. I’ve met more than my share of celebrities, but most of them are smaller than life, if you get that. Like movie stars, on the screen, are bigger than life, but when you meet them, they might be tiny. The glamour of the lighting and the distance between the screen and the audience is gone, and they are just like anybody else. Some are nice, some not so nice. There have been a few, like Clinton or Jackie or Norman, Fidel Castro, certainly Ali, that were larger in person than in pictures. There is a special electricity—for want of a better word—that permeates them.

  Frankly, I hadn’t been all that in love with Ali’s behavior toward Frazier in the days leading up to the fight. He’d called Frazier a gorilla and had talked about how dumb he was, what an Uncle Tom he was, which I know hurt and angered Frazier. Norman said it was just to get interest in the fight going, but it was so ugly that I wondered why Ali had to take it to those extremes. I certainly couldn’t criticize him for having someone there who wasn’t his wife, since I was in the same boat myself, but the way he was introducing her as his wife really rankled and made me sympathetic to Belinda. At least Norman wasn’t pretending we were married. We were good, honest adulterers.

  I also felt for Veronica, who was under such scrutiny and didn’t deserve the contempt people were placing on her, hypocrites that they were. I can’t imagine what percentage of the population has had affairs, but I’m sure it’s high. I think the unusual couples are the ones who marry as young virgins and happily never sleep with anyone else ever again. Somehow that didn’t seem natural to me, and at the same time, I desperately wanted just that. Fidelity was the goal, but it was hard to attain.

  The fight was held at ten-thirty in the morning, because of the time difference in the States. Norman sat close to the ring, but I was relegated to a seat farther back, and sat with Mara, which was comforting, as I had never been to a fight and the whole thing was pretty scary. The crowd was raucous. I was afraid I was going to get lost and separated from Norman, and I tried to keep my eye on him all the time. Mara was dressed in a big feathered b
lue hat and a dress to match, and I wore a straw hat and a rose-colored batik sundress I had bought in one of the shops. It was a good thing, because it was so hot in there that I could hardly breathe. Someone said the temperature was 104. Someone else said 125, and I believed them.

  Testosterone glowed in the air like phosphorus, and the smell of sweaty bodies was at a level I could just about tolerate without fainting. The crowd parted, and four men came in carrying a… well, a throne is what it was, a big gold chair that sat up higher than everyone else’s. Behind the chair, in a procession, was President Marcos surrounded by a phalanx of bodyguards, walking in formation. The chair was put into place, the president was installed on it, and the fight began.

  Mara and I had pretty good seats, right behind the press, and I could see the faces of Ali and Frazier. Ali came out with a flurry of punches that I could tell really hurt Frazier. I was shocked at the power and the viciousness. It was brutal beyond my expectations. How anyone could be hit with punches that hard and remain standing was a mystery. My head was still full of all the hearts in Ali’s sermon and Belinda taking that plane trip back and how she must have been feeling right then, knowing her marriage was over. Was she watching the fight? Was she rooting for Frazier? Was she scanning the crowd to catch a glimpse of Veronica? I’m sure she would have liked to be hitting Ali herself. I know I would have if I’d been her. Could he just forget about it while he concentrated on the fight, or was it bothering him?

  The sweat started to trickle down my front. The crowd was going crazy. First it looked like Ali was winning, then it looked like Frazier was. Ali had said that Frazier was like a wolf, and I could see that. He got in close, attached himself to Ali’s chest, and wouldn’t let go. I couldn’t believe the amount of punishment the human body could take. From time to time, they held on to each other like lovers, resting, then one or the other would push away and they would go at it again. It went on and on. I thought it was never going to end. I thought one of them was going to fall down dead. They both had puffy faces, and blood was everywhere.

  I recently watched the film again on HBO, and I didn’t see this happen, but in my memory a man in the corner took out a blade and cut one of Frazier’s eyes, and blood spurted out so the swelling would go down so he could see. Maybe I’m remembering another fight (or maybe I’m remembering Rocky), but I do know Frazier’s eye was swollen to the point that he could barely see anything. I thought at times I was going to faint from the heat and the brutality, but I just sat down and closed my eyes for a minute, and then they popped open again. I had to see what was going on. Mara was jumping up and down, as though she were right in the ring with them, yelling and punching the air and giving Ali directions. Her hat kept falling off; she kept putting it back on.

  Finally, it was over. Frazier’s corner stopped the fight after the fourteenth round, which was fine with me. I didn’t see how either one of them could go one more round. I didn’t know for sure who had won, but Ali was called the winner. Then he fainted, and there was a commotion over that. I tried to see Norman, but in all the tumult I lost him. Mara somehow got separated from me, too. I was sure I’d be trampled into meat loaf on the floor and nobody would ever see me again.

  Then, miraculously, Norman appeared, and we somehow made our way out of the crowd and located one of the cars that took us back to the hotel. I was exhausted, and with not much sleep the night before, all I wanted to do was take a cool shower and go to bed. Norman was so excited that he couldn’t sit still, so he went off to talk to the men about the fight. It was one of the most exciting fights of his life, I could tell. While I was relieved to get back to the hotel, I understood the significance of it all. The first fight I had ever seen was one of the greatest fights of all time, and I thought they were all like that. Come to think of it, most of the fights I’ve seen in my life were Ali’s fights, and while they weren’t all great, like that one, they all had the Ali magic somehow, even the ones he lost, the ones that he never should have fought, like the stupid one with a kickboxer that almost ruined his legs. After he retired, I don’t think we ever went to another fight. Not one I remember.

  That night there was a party at the palace for the fighters and the guests, but first, we were invited to a cocktail party at the home of the owner of Philippine Airlines, Benny Toda. I had never seen such a grand home (until I saw the Malacañang Palace a little later). There was an Olympic-size swimming pool in a glass room, and all around it were platters and bowls of fresh fruits, fowl, meats, fish, vegetables, and sweets of all kinds—a cornucopia of the world’s best offerings. More food than the people living in the jungles had in a year was being picked over by a crowd of the richest and most powerful people in Manila. There was no way it could all be eaten, and I wondered what would happen to it, if it would be thrown away or what. I hoped it might be given to the poor people roaming the streets, who all looked like they could use a good meal, but somehow I doubted it.

  Gorgeous girls in teeny bikinis were swimming, and we were in the middle of it all, talking to everyone, playing the part of American celebrities, which Norman was and I wasn’t, but nobody knew that. I was treated like a celebrity anyhow. I stuck close to his side, unsure of how to handle myself in this crowd. I was wearing an outfit I had gotten in Russellville, white palazzo pants and a long brown-and-white tunic top, and looked okay, but all the other women wore expensive haute couture gowns they had picked up in Paris or London or New York, and jewels. A lot of jewels.

  Imelda Marcos was wearing a lovely native design dress of pale green silk, with above-elbow-length sleeves and high shoulders that fluttered like butterfly wings. Her silk shoes were dyed to match. Someone introduced Norman and me to her, and he was totally charming, flirting madly, showing his dimple with the little smile I called his twenty-five-cent smile. (No matter how mad I got at him, he could give me that smile and I would reach into my pocket and pull out an imaginary quarter to give him, which would mean I had forgiven him. He got away with a lot because of it.) If he was throwing twenty-five-cent smiles away at her, I could tell he was smitten, but then she was the president’s wife, so I figured he was entitled.

  Up close, she was still beautiful, with smooth satiny skin, perfect hair and makeup, and while she obviously was not a kid, she was well preserved, as though rich cream were massaged into her pores every day. She spoke perfect English, and included me in the conversation, too. She was interested in where I was from and how I’d gotten there, how I had met Norman. I told her that my best friend in college was from the Philippines, and she wanted to hear all about Aurora, who had a sister named Imelda. Norman gave me a look like I shouldn’t be monopolizing so much of the first lady’s time, but on I went, oblivious. Then it was time to go to the palace, and Imelda invited Norman and me to ride with her in her limousine.

  She got into the backseat and motioned for me to slide in beside her. Norman perched on the jump seat facing us. She sat rather close and companionably linked arms with me as we kept chatting. She was gracious and included Norman in the conversation, too. He later told me that he thought she had a crush on him and had invited me to sit next to her in order not to make me jealous, but I’d heard that she had a girlfriend and liked women, so I think maybe that was the real reason. At any rate, it was not the worst, to drive up to the palace in the car with the president’s wife. Everyone was straining to see who we were, and flashbulbs went off everywhere, practically blinding us. We went inside a step ahead of Ali and Frazier, who arrived within minutes of each other. They both were wearing sunglasses. Their faces were swollen like blood sausages and they looked awful. (They should have been in the hospital, but they were the stars of the evening and had to work for their salaries, which I’d heard was six million for Ali and at least two and a half million for Frazier.)

  The president, Ferdinand Marcos, met us and took us on a little tour of his library, where he signed for Norman a couple of books he had written, telling him that while he didn’t pretend to be the writer
Norman was, he was a good writer, and he wanted his books to be in Norman’s library. He asked Norman to send him some of his own books, which Norman did after we got back home. He was good about fulfilling promises made like that, whether it was to a president or a fan.

  I was naïve about the world and had no idea what kind of people the Marcoses were then. The Philippines were an exotic and foreign place to me and I would have never even thought about the country except for my friendship with Aurora, who came to America from Manila when she was three. The poverty was evident everywhere you looked, and the contrast between Benny Toda’s opulent house, with its pool and glut of food, and the rest of the country was glaring, but as their guests, we didn’t dare say a word of criticism. It would have done no good and would have been ungracious. They joked about martial law, as if it were some minor inconvenience, and Imelda spoke about “her people” as if they were children. We just listened and didn’t comment.

  As part of the guest entertainment that week, it was arranged for us to float down a river in a canoe, where we saw the actor Hugh O’Brian and his wife or girlfriend floating in the opposite direction. We waved madly at them, and they at us, even though we didn’t know one another at all. We jumped out of the boat and swam in our clothes, ducking in and out under a waterfall. It was paradise, just like in the movies. Later, we went shopping, which is my favorite activity, and although I would discover in time how much Norman detested it, we enjoyed picking out trinkets for the kids together. He loved masks. There was one on the bookcase in the apartment he had gotten from Africa during the Rumble in the Jungle, the Ali-Foreman fight the year before, and over the years he sometimes gave me masks for Christmas. We got a big carved wooden mask with scary sharp teeth in a grimace for the apartment, and several small animal carvings as gifts for the kids. They were mostly elephants, made of some kind of shells, not too kitschy—well-crafted, nice souvenirs.