By Myself and Then Some

by Lauren Bacall

  Dr Spivek found an English nurse with excellent references. I interviewed her from a phone booth in ‘21’ – a long, long interview. She sounded all right. I talked to May – Kathy – they were to report to me regularly. Mother would leave the day after we did. I tried to talk to Steve on the phone, but he would have none of it. Was I doing the right thing? As the doctor said, ‘Steve will be fine. You may not be, but he will be.’

  So we boarded the Liberté. Atlantic crossings are romantic happenings, no doubt about that. Your world is on that ship for five days – nothing outside can touch you. Bogie was in his element. I was surprised how much of my high-school French came back to me. Bogie was very proud of me speaking the language. It was very halting, but they understood me – vocabulary small, accent good. I felt mysterious and exciting speaking French. We docked at Le Havre, where a car and driver were waiting, and started out for the most beautiful, romantic city in the world – Paris. Our driver spoke English and was to stay with us all the six weeks we were there. We stopped at a roadside café in Rouen for ham, cheese, and the most incredible of French breads. Very early in the morning. Immediately I could see how artistic the French were – the simplest food looked beautiful, the furniture, even farm furniture, had its own unique flavor and tremendous style. I told the driver to warn me before we reached Paris so I could prepare myself. I was breathless with anticipation. The green of the French countryside was unlike any green I had ever seen. Suddenly he said, ‘You can see the Eiffel Tower – in about ten minutes we’ll be in the center of Paris.’ I held Bogie’s hand tightly – I couldn’t believe I would finally be there. I must have been French in another life, or why did it mean so much? And then there it was – Arc de Triomphe, Place de la Concorde, the Seine, Louvre, Left Bank – the beauty of it! My eyes were not big enough to take it all in. And then the Place Vendôme and the Ritz Hotel, where we were going to live. Paris seemed so open – no crowded New York streets, no skyscrapers – the Paris sky so blue – our suite at the Ritz so romantic. After settling in a bit, we met Harry Kurnitz, who’d lived in Paris since the blacklist. We started out to see some of Paris on foot with him, stopping at the famous Café de la Paix, where you were supposed to see everyone you knew if you just sat there long enough. To sit at a sidewalk café having coffee or a drink – the sound and sight of France all around. The Champs-Elysées was incredible – the chestnut trees – how could one city attain such perfection? Who had dreamed it up? Who had made it all come true? I wanted to see every corner of it. Harry took us to the Tour d’Argent on the Seine for dinner, with Frank Capra and Art Buchwald. The restaurant had an arrangement with the city that Notre Dame could be lit at their request. And there was this girl from the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Manhattan sitting in Paris at a window of the Tour d’Argent with Notre Dame, especially illuminated, to one side and the Seine and the lights of the bridge below.

  I was speaking French – Kurnitz was ordering dinner – and I felt sick. I couldn’t eat – my first night in Paris and I couldn’t eat. Not possible. My stomach was gone. Bogie took me home to the Ritz, where I collapsed in a storm of tears. It was all too much – the anticipation, the realization. I was too keyed up – emotion took over. There has never been a time since then that I haven’t had a gut reaction to that city.

  After my emotional release, every day was nonstop sightseeing – we went to every museum, Versailles, Fontainebleau – started our friendship with Anne and Art Buchwald (who became Bogie’s chess adversary) – went to the racetrack – flea market – Dior – the press dogging our steps. My French improved daily and I bought everything in sight. We’d walk down a street and strangers would shout, ‘Humphrey Bogar’’ and make like a machine gun. And Bogie, who had never wanted to travel, loved Paris – appreciated all the beauty, the pleasure. When it came time to go, I wasn’t ready. I have never been ready to say goodbye to Paris. I am in love with the Arch of Triumph – aside from the Lincoln Memorial, it is the most moving monument my heart has beat to. I cannot explain why – it does something emotional to me and I cannot see it often enough. From any angle, at any time of day, in any weather, it stands for something strong and true and beautiful.

  We went to London on the boat train, the first and last time I’ve done that – the rough Channel did not agree with me one bit, but the Golden Arrow that took us to Victoria Station did. Two countries so close and so totally different. After Paris, London took getting used to – Paris was fantasy, romance – London seemed unadventurous, solid, quaint, filled with pomp and circumstance. In both countries Bogie made a stir wherever he went – his mere presence attracted crowds and press. In California, stars are taken for granted – they’re everywhere – so I was unprepared for the reaction that greeted us abroad. It wasn’t for me, it was most definitely for him. Bogie had always said it takes ten years to become a true star. Definition: that wherever you go, anywhere in the world, you are recognized. He was, and I was impressed.

  Sam Spiegel, John, and Peter Viertel were in London, so work seemed closer. There was a press conference at Claridge’s for which I got myself all done up in a Balenciaga suit and Katharine Hepburn stole the show in her pants. I still hardly knew her, was in awe of her, and certainly didn’t know what to talk to her about. I just hoped she’d like me – we had eight weeks together ahead of us in Africa.

  Our next stop was Rome. At our first glimpse of it from the air Bogie fell in love. The color – it was all sepia tones, the red earth – he couldn’t get over it. For twenty-six years I had been ignorant of this other world, but for Bogie it had been fifty-one years. You hear the names – Paris, London, Rome – but you don’t really know they exist, not really know it, until you can view them with your own eyes and stand on their earth with your own feet.

  Rosalie worked for Boys’ Town of Italy and had introduced us to Monsignor John Patrick Carroll-Abbing. He promised to arrange an audience with Pope Pius XII for us. We had four days in Venice first. From the time the airplane put down, the Venetian press followed us across the Grand Canal in a parade of boats. It was so funny – they were taking pictures of us, we were taking pictures of them, every move was recorded. Our first visit to Piazza San Marco found us surrounded by mobs of people – fans and press – but none of it could mar our impression of that fairyland. Nothing about that city was disappointing.

  We returned to Rome to prepare for our audience with the Pope. With my Jewish background, I was ill prepared. The consensus of opinion was that I should do what everyone else does – in a ‘private’ audience there are anywhere from ten to forty people, depending on how private the private audience is. We were both excited – not only by meeting the Pope, but at entering the holy Vatican walls. The concierge had a selection of black veils to lend for the occasion – it was a business. We were collected at the hotel by a representative of Monsignor Carroll-Abbing and, with veil and photographs of Stephen in hand, took off for our adventure. We had to relinquish our invitation at the door, and no amount of pleading on my part would make the man in charge give it back. We were led into the Vatican Museum, then through a long hall of treasures to the Sistine Chapel, then into an enormous room called the throne room, whose ceiling was made of gold from the United States. After a while a guard came in, called us, with about ten others, and took us through five rooms, each smaller than the one before. We finally came to a very small one to await our moment – it was very quiet and I was holding tight to Bogie’s hand to calm myself. A cardinal came in and gruffly motioned us to stand back against the wall – very intimidating. We were in a semicircle. Another cardinal and a monsignor entered, and right behind them His Holiness. I had expected trumpets, but there was only silence. Everyone knelt and then rose and he started to greet each individual. He was smaller than I expected – all in white except for red velvet slippers. Each person knelt and kissed his ring. I was transfixed, and as he approached me, he stared at me so intently – took my hand and did not let it go – that when I tried to kneel I found that
my rear was against a table and I couldn’t move. He asked both Bogie and me what we did and where we were from – Bogie showed him pictures of Steve and he blessed them and us, and gave us a medal. I was hypnotized by the peaceful aura he seemed to emanate. And he did really give me a lengthy, steady, burning look – so much so that that evening at drinks Bogie’s joke was, ‘Don’t be surprised if you get a call from the Vatican saying the Pope wants to see you again!’

  Leaving for Africa, we arrived at the Rome airport to a battery of press and klieg lights. Katie Hepburn was nowhere to be found – the rumor was that she was already on the plane, but someone had looked and not found her. After a while Bogie, clever fellow, whispered to me to get on board and look in the ladies’ room – I opened the door and there was Katie laughing uproariously at having outwitted the press. We sat chatting for a while, then to our horror the newsreel man with the klieg light climbed on board. Katie stayed locked in the loo – Bogie and I were photographed to pacify the man – the doors closed – Katie emerged – and via Sabena Airways we were on the first leg of our trip into darkest unknown Africa. Our destination was Léopoldville, the capital of the Belgian Congo. I don’t know what I expected of the Congo – grass huts, drums beating – but one thing I did not expect was the Congolese press and the American consul waiting for us when we landed. Bogart and Hepburn were certainly known throughout the world; if I’d had even the slightest question, it was dispelled. We drove through the village. There were huts, but not grass ones – a great white Mohammedan church with a green dome in the center – women dressed in marvelous bright cottons, and each carrying something on her head and a child on her back, walking very straight.

  We were in a hotel for the night. Before dinner I took a bath. As I was sitting in the tub – an ordinary tub – something made me glance over my shoulder. There at the joining of the ceiling to the wall by the door was a scorpion. I didn’t want Bogie to know I was terrified. I got out of the tub carefully – so the scorpion wouldn’t hear me – and picked up the slatted board that was on the floor in place of a mat. I had to get that creature before he reached the floor. I hurled the board – in a lightning move the scorpion came down the wall and ran to escape through the door. With Bogie saying, ‘What in God’s name happened?’ I related the drama. He went after the beast, trapped him, and killed him. I was destroyed – my first day in Africa. Bogie set me straight: ‘Listen, if you’re going to have an attack every time you see a bug, you’d better get on a plane and go back. You’re in Africa now, sweetheart – bugs and animals everywhere – get used to it.’ ‘I never will,’ I thought – but, ‘Of course I will, darling,’ I said, ‘it just took me by surprise.’ Ha!

  Next stop Stanleyville on the Congo River, where Sam Spiegel and Peter and Gigi Viertel were awaiting us. Our hotel was called the Pourquoi Pas. Why not, indeed! It was clean – food good – they even had a golf club nearby as pretty as any in the U.S., and the village here was deep into Africa. On our first afternoon there was a celebration for us – natives dancing in costume; painted faces and bodies. The streets were mobbed. It was very hot and humid. We sent our clothing back to London and ordered safari clothes – and tin trunks so that the dampness wouldn’t seep in. Even with the rain, the temperature never varied – always hot. Easy to see why one might go mad in the noonday sun.

  Finally we bade farewell to the Pourquoi Pas, crossed the Congo River, and boarded a train for Ponthierville. It was a Toonerville Trolley kind of train with an engine, two passenger cars, two freight cars, and a tin boat. We passed many villages, noting that they became more primitive as we moved deeper into the Congo. From Ponthierville we moved into Biondo. After an hour’s ride we arrived at a small river. The car rode up onto a raft consisting of four large pirogues – four men pole the raft across the river. After another hour’s ride we arrived at our camp, where John was awaiting us (in the bar). We stayed up until 1:00 a.m. listening to John talk about Africa and elephant hunting. He wanted to take me on a shoot – ‘You must only remember to stay downwind of them – if one of those big tuskers senses foreign matter in the air, you’re a goner.’ He was in love with the country and animals and the hunting life – all very Hemingway macho. We fell into bed exhausted under our mosquito netting, but not to sleep before Bogie made it clear that I was going on no shoot with John, who, he maintained, could not hit his hat. Bogie disliked the idea of killing animals anyway.

  Our camp was an amazing feat – eighty-five natives had built it in eight days, from pure jungle. The bungalows, of which we had one, were made of bamboo and palm leaves, with small screened windows and curtained closets. Patio with hand-made furniture of the same ingredients. There was one large building with dining room for the company – and an adjoining bar. There was a company mascot – a tiny monkey named Romulus (after the film production company). Outdoor privies and showers. The showers consisted of a tin barrel overhead filled with water. When a chain was pulled, the water came out through specially constructed holes.

  At first Katie seemed nervous and talked compulsively. She and I still didn’t know each other well – at the time I couldn’t appraise her. I concluded her talking stemmed from being a woman alone, in an inaccessible part of the world, at the mercy of Huston and Bogart, about whom she’d heard all sorts of stories, the least of which was that they drank. I thought she was apprehensive – was trying to make it appear that she could handle any situation, that she knew all about men like them. As it turned out, she could – and she did. She talked to me about her family, about her work in theatre and the movies. It really took guts to travel so far without a friend or companion. I had no idea what she thought about any of us. Our friendship would happen slowly. But very surely. And would become one of the most affecting, influential, and treasured friendships of my life and for always.

  While the three of them went off to rehearse, I set about trying to make a home. Everything was so damp there was little to do – our floors were Mother Earth, with a few mats scattered about. Bogie and I had our own boy named Caballa, who fetched for us and pressed for us. We had drinking water to brush our teeth in, a basin to wash in, and that was it. There was nothing to do but read, write, eat. We decided first night out that it was advisable not to ask what we were eating – we didn’t want to know. I had a list of fifty basic Swahili words to study and darts to play after dinner. It was not animal country – I had my usual run-in in the shower with a flying bug, but I rose above it. Katie and I began comparing ant bites – even with the mosquito netting those little things inexorably found their way to human flesh, leaving large red welts in their trail.

  We had two days of heavy rain. Sam Spiegel arrived at two one morning, having been stuck on the raft crossing the river en route to the camp. When the weather broke we went downriver on a large towing boat like the African Queen to try it for maneuverability. Each of us had a native fanning with reeds to keep the flies away. On the first day of shooting it rained, finally clearing enough for us to go to the river and head for the location. The local chief arrived dressed to kill (not literally), with feathered hat, red blanket between his legs, medals, knives, bracelets, medallions, spears. He’d been led to believe that he was to be in the film. On the basis of that, he’d put all the locals to work on our camp – without him nothing would have been possible, in addition to which he provided the daily labor for the boats, the camera raft, the camp, everywhere. He boarded the African Queen, uninvited, with wife and child. After setting up the next day’s work (as there was no sun again), we returned to camp on the African Queen – leaving the chief behind. To pay us back for our bad manners, we ran out of gas and had to be towed by the raft.

  When the filming finally did begin, the trip downriver was a riot. Besides the African Queen, there was another boat like her for towing and filming, a raft with camera equipment and crew, and Katie’s dressing room, which was put together with bamboo. She carried a large mirror so that she could check her costume – it broke in half early in t
he shooting. Instead of forgetting about it entirely – being a pro, knowing it was a necessary object – she carried the larger half herself for safety’s sake and for the remainder of the location. The woods was our loo and Katie and I would trudge out as the spirit moved us, standing watch for each other. The natives didn’t know what we were about. When a match was struck and a flame followed, they’d mumble in Swahili. They didn’t know what a camera was for. I would sit at a typewriter in my shorts, that alone a freakish sight to them, and as the keys hit, they’d look at each other and chant in Swahili – I knew they thought it was voodoo. We must have looked very strange to them – I certainly did, in my shorts.

  The work was very slow, the sun very hot. Tempers flared once between Bogie and John. When it rained, John would go off hunting, but Bogie wanted him to pay attention, God damn it – be practical and figure out what to do if the weather proved insurmountable. John really became a white hunter in Africa – he believed he was one – and he adored it; he didn’t care how long he stayed. That was John. Bogie was different – he wanted to be back in civilization. He had a life that he’d built, nurtured, cared about. John’s seemed to be wherever he was with whatever film he was making. He liked moving about. So they complemented each other, and the resulting work was always their best. John was fantasy – Bogie reality.