“If we could get on with the problems of producing Mr. Starr’s movie . . .” I said pregnantly. Heff translated. Through the folds of fat, González’s evil little eyes focused a look of sheer hatred upon me. He grunted a fairly long sentence in Spanish. Heff colored slightly, paused, fingered his collar uneasily, and began speaking to me. I was conscious of his embarrassment and of his digging for euphemisms to make whatever it was his father had said sound a little better. “My father says, sir, that it is his understanding that North American men are not really manly and that they indulge in sexual relations not for pleasure but only for procreation. He asks if this is true and if you do not have some personal erotic anecdote to relate.”
I smiled and said, “Please tell your father that in the United States sex is like money—the people who really have it don’t talk about it.” There was a full second of silence. Starr was the first to break it with a loud, throaty laugh, and then Heff broke up completely, one shrill, hysterical scream following another. He held his sides, he slapped his thigh, he rocked to and fro in his unsubstantial seat, and finally fell out of it and rolled on the wet pavement. The tears flowed, steaming up his glasses, punctuated by great choking sobs and gasps. I had no idea that I’d been that funny. Starr was ho-ho-ho-ing, but his laughter was nothing compared to the performance Heff put on. The only person who did not seem amused was González. He turned the color of a sunset and gave me a look of unadulterated loathing. I returned it. After a bit Starr’s laughter subsided, and he wiped away a tear or two with a splendid linen handkerchief. Not so the son; he was still gasping on the ground. It was embarrassing. At long last González got to his feet—agilely for such a big tub of guts—and roared “Váyase! Váyase y deje de molestarme. Salga!” Heff got to his feet with an effort and, bending double, all but crawled up the lava steps, still heaving and shaking. At the top he turned around and tried to stand erect. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I must ask to be . . .” One glorious squeal of sheer glee, and he bolted for the house.
“Loco!” González growled, tapping his fat head. “We continue alone. Now about the película—the ceeneema . . .” In pidgin English, in snatches of Spanish and French, Starr and González got down to business. Everything was to be an idyllic partnership based on the trust, love, and understanding born of their many years of beautiful friendship. They were, “how-you-say,” brothers. No unions, no working papers, no permits would be needed. González had connections with every bigwig in the Mexican film industry as well as the Mexican Government. González would arrange everything—the film, the processing, laboratories, the negative, work prints, rushes, dubbing, the works. Starr—dear, good, kind, lovable, wonderful Starr—need only leave everything in González’s hands. After all, who was the most famous film producer in Mexico? González. Who was Starr’s best friend? González. Who was the boon companion of every influential person or family in the country? González. Who was the best little fixer of everything in the whole hemisphere? You got it, González.
It was after one o’clock when Starr completed his arrangements and got up to go. I followed González on the climb upward, trying not to see his great rump undulating beneath his sour-smelling robe. Back in the house, Starr said, “By the way, do you mind if I use the telephone?” Without waiting for a reply, he picked up the receiver and jiggled the cradle.
“El teléfono está descompuesto hoy, Leandro. He don’t work. Must have fix.”
Suddenly Heff appeared at the top of the stairs. “My father says, gentlemen, that our telephone is out of order. It does not work. It is silent, gentlemen, and it has been silent for longer than a year.” Then he shot a glance at his father, snorted wetly, bent double again, and disappeared.
González waddled as far as the front door and treated Starr to an all-enveloping farewell abrazo and said a few more effusive things about being brothers. I didn’t get so much as a handshake or a word of farewell. And I didn’t mind. We walked down the overgrown driveway, negotiated the bolts and locks on the rusty gates, climbed aboard Mrs. Pomeroy’s terrible car, and we were off.
“Quite a character, Aristido,” Starr said. “May I have a cigarette, dear boy?”
“Starr,” I said. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Don’t believe I know what you mean, dear boy.”
“Look, Starr, this is your chance to do something decent so that you can go back home. Don’t louse it up by getting involved with a lard-ass like González.”
“Now listen to me, González is the biggest producer in Mexico.”
“If you mean in pounds and ounces, I’ll go along with you. But he hasn’t taken so much as a snapshot in more than twenty years. You heard what his son said.”
“Heff is an unhappy, neurotic child who is jealous of his father’s . . .”
“Of his father’s what? His looks? He’s a deadbeat and a fraud. His reputation is so bad that even I’ve heard of it. That filthy house, no telephone, no water, no light . . .”
“Your lamentable weakness, dear boy, lies in the undue importance you attach to earthly things. Aristido is my brother, you heard him say it.”
“Yes, and I heard him say that Jeff Chandler, Gary Cooper, Clark Gable, Ernest Hemingway, André Gide, Pancho Villa, and a lot of other people are his brothers. They just don’t happen to be around to deny it. But I’m around to tell you that your brother is a crook, and you’d better look elsewhere.”
“You just dislike him because he doesn’t like you.” Starr chuckled. “I must say that was a sly dig you got off at him. I mean sex is amusing, but it’s a frightful bore to hear about. Like travel.”
“I’m glad he didn’t like me, because I don’t like him or trust him or respect him or believe him or . . .”
“Ah, you say that now, but if you could only see him . . .”
“If I could only see him being turned slowly on a spit and basted at regular intervals, I’d give a barbecue for all of Mexico City—and we’d have plenty of leftovers. Now shut up, and I’ll take you to El Paseo for lunch.”
There was a general buzz of recognition and/or appreciation among the Junior League ladies as Starr entered the restaurant, not that his St. James Street outfit wasn’t enough to stop traffic up and down the Paseo de la Reforma. He was introduced to William Shelburne, the owner, graciously accepted a drink on the house, changed the location of our table only twice, and then said cordially, “Mr. Shelburne, do come and have a drink with us when you have a free moment.”
Starr ordered expansively and expensively, passed favorable comment on the food, and didn’t send a single dish back—high praise indeed. He talked rapidly about a number of unimportant subjects—the unsung merits of certain South American and Alsatian wines, the excellent quality of Austrian gloves, the necessity of having empty pockets if one’s suits were to hang correctly—anything to avoid the subject at hand, Aristido González. But when Bill joined us, I took matters into my own hands. “Bill,” I said, “you know everybody in town. What do you know about a certain film producer named Aristido González?”
“Please, Patrick,” Mr. Shelburne said with a pained expression. “I never discuss my ex-customers.”
“Ex-customers?” Starr said, his eyebrows rising.
“That’s right, Mr. Starr. I wouldn’t let González in the back door of my restaurant.” A waiter came up and said something in rapid Spanish. “Excuse me, Patrick, Mr. Starr. There’s a crisis in the kitchen. Enjoy your lunch.”
“You see?” I said a little smugly to Starr. “That may give you some rough idea of how your ‘brother’ is regarded locally.” But if I’d hoped to discourage Starr with a few well-chosen words and considered opinions, I was wrong. Instead, his back was up. He was so stubborn that he would have gone into partnership with Satan himself rather than admit that he could have been guilty of any crime so heinous as an error in judgment. “You Anglo-Saxons simply do not understand the inner workings of the Latin mind—least of all the mind of a great creative such as Aristido.
Our contract is sealed. We commence work immediately.”
“Speaking of contracts, Bill knows a very good law firm that can . . .”
“Insult my friend González with a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo? Are you out of your mind? The abrazo—the embrace—is all the contract I need with an old bosom buddy like Aristido. Now you leave this to me. I know what I’m doing. Why don’t we have some of that delicious-looking mocha roll and then call for the check. We have a lot to do this afternoon.”
“Such as what?”
“We have to nail down three ladies of considerable financial means—my former wife, Monica Lady Joyce; my former star, Catalina Ximinez; and Mrs. Worthington Pomeroy.”
X
From the chill interior of Mrs. Pomeroy’s car, Starr placed a telephone call to his apartment—or rather, he had me do it. In Mexico it’s often easier to reach Paris than the house around the corner.
“Ah, St. Regis,” he said into the orchid mouthpiece, “you certainly take your time answering the telephone. . . . Never mind. Excuses won’t do, punctuality will. Any calls? . . . Oh, Mr. Guber, eh? In person? Well, that must have been nice for you. So many old times and places to remember together. What did you tell him? . . . Good. . . . Anyone else? . . . Ah, Lady Joyce. . . . Three times? Just fancy. Hang on a moment.” He nudged me and said, “Do you know where Monica is staying?”
“Yes. With a couple named Maitland-Grim. They’ve taken a big house in San Angel. I know where it is.”
“St. Regis,” Starr said back into the telephone, “please return Lady Joyce’s call and tell her that I’m on my way to her house right now. And how is Miss Emily? . . . Oh, off with Mr. van Damm again? Well, I suppose that’s all right. Bathing suits and all, eh? Well, Mens sana in corpore sano. . . . Nothing. Now call Lady Joyce and then get back to your waxing. The floors are a disgrace.” He hung up and said, “Please direct the chauffeur to wherever it is that darling Monica is staying. Tell me about these Mainland-Grits; are they rich?”
“They’re not exactly on the dole.”
“Good. Splendid. Now, dear boy, if you’ll stop chattering like a gibbon, I shall attempt a very brief siesta.”
The Maitland-Grim household was having after-luncheon coffee around the pool—clean, clear, sparkling, turquoise-blue water with an ever-fresh supply gushing from the mouth of a bronze dolphin. Lady Joyce, rather shrouded in a long-sleeved dress, was protecting her skin from the sun in the shade of a pepper tree. Bunty, the color of a mulatto, was wearing a minuscule bikini and so many coral necklaces, bracelets, and anklets that they covered more of her brown skin than the bathing suit did. Bunty was talking. Henry, an empty glass at his side, his coffee untouched, was asleep in a deck chair. The introductions brought Bunty Maitland-Grim to the boiling point of effusiveness, and she was suddenly able to recall having met Starr at the 400 in London, or could it have been last winter in Davos, or was it at the Cannes film festival, or was it possibly at the Laird of Something’s shoot, or was it Biarritz last August or . . .
“Last Year in Marienbad?” I suggested.
“Yes, of course, darling. Oh, you’re joking!” She went off into peals of laughter. “Well at any rate, I’m so frightfully glad to meet you now. You must tell me when you can dine. We live so quietly here, what with poor Henry’s grueling work. His book, you know. Do let me call for some drinks. And wouldn’t you love to go in for a bathe?”
“I don’t think we’re dressed for it,” I said, feeling my shirt clinging to my skin under the heavy coat and vest. The pool certainly looked tempting.
“Oh, Henry’s got some old things you could wear. Or we could all plunge in nudie. I’ll promise not to look.”
“I’m afraid we shan’t have time, Mrs. Maitland-Grim. Or may I call you Bunty? I feel that I know you so well.”
“Oh, please do . . . Leander.”
“I’ve simply come to try to dissuade dear Monica from investing in Valley of the Vultures.”
“Investing?” Lady Joyce said, as though the word were strangely foreign.
“Yes, my dear. You knew, of course, that the film was to be a co-operative venture where all the principals involved put up the original production costs and then share in the profits—a sure yield of three or four thousand per cent. But I couldn’t allow you to do it. It’s too chancy—especially now that you’re a widow and in reduced circumstances.”
“Well, Leander,” Lady Joyce said with just a note of irritation, “what with the taxes and one thing and another, I haven’t perhaps all I might like to have, but I’m able to make ends meet, and the role, as you describe it, does sound . . .”
“No, my dear Monica, I can’t permit it. I could search to the ends of the earth without finding another actress who would be half as good as Doña Rosa as you and fail. But I cannot let you . . .”
“I thought you said her name was Doña Ana,” Lady Joyce said.
“Doña Ana-Rosa, actually, my pet, but I could never forgive myself if you squandered your widow’s mite—and your matchless talent—on a film that was one shade less than a classic and an all-time box-office winner. No, Monica, my advice to you is to take your few pounds and shillings and stick them into a nice, safe, tax-free building and loan society. Then you will never be in want, and I shall never be tortured by sleepless . . .”
“Now, see here, Leander,” Lady Joyce said warmly, “I think that I know more about the state of my finances than you do. I mean I should jolly well expect to recoup my initial investment and perhaps a bit more. But my second husband was a far cry from a spendthrift, and he did leave me amply provided for. That and what I was able to put by whilst I was making films—not that I ever got paid for the ones I did with you . . .”
“Oh, and mayn’t I put just a teeny-tiny bit in?” Bunty asked. She wriggled sinuously, showing off her superb figure. “I know I could get Henry to advance me my next quarter’s allowance. . . .” Henry snorted from his chair and dozed off again. “And I have had experience. Oh, nothing like Monica’s. But I did study at the Royal Academy, and I had rather a cunning bit with the old Crazy Gang just after the war—of course I was a mere child. But they gave me a specialty number. As for my hair . . .”
Half an hour after we arrived we left, Starr carefully folding two checks, drawn on Barclay’s Bank, into his empty wallet.
“Talk about the soft sell,” I said.
“Sell? Sell? My dear boy, I paid that call simply to dissuade the ladies from parting with their money. You heard me beg them, plead with them. Is it my fault if they absolutely forced their checks on me? Oh, and by the way, Dennis, when you go over the script, be sure to write in a fairly hefty part called Doña Rosa-Ana and something not too taxing for that old Tiller girl. Casa Ximinez, por favor!” he shouted to the driver.
Although my wife and I lived at Casa Ximinez, we had never been received, so to speak, in Madame X’s own lair, which sprawled across the entire rear of the building. A real-estate agent had shown us the two or three available apartments in Casa Ximinez, expressed his complete agreement and admiration for our exquisite taste when we chose the most expensive, and sent Abelardo to fetch our new landlady. After a most casual lease had been signed out in the patio, Miss Ximinez had snatched our deposit and disappeared back into her own quarters to remain, heard but unseen, except on Saturdays when she collected the rent and on the rare occasions when she ventured out of the compound. For some odd reason I felt that I was invading a cloister—or perhaps I mean a seraglio. Not so the intrepid Leander Starr; he marched briskly across the patio, averting his face only slightly from the general direction of Mr. Guber’s little flatlet, and thumped at the big double door. To my surprise the door was opened by what I had considered to be our own maid, Guadalupe. She had been on her hands and knees scouring the elaborate tiled floor of Madame X’s salón de entrada, and here I’d always thought that when she wasn’t eating she was sleeping. I asked in my inimitable mixture of English and Spanish for Señorita Ximinez. “You wait. Espéreme
aqui, por favor,” Guadalupe said. “Por poco tiempo. Little time. I go.”
Starr strode across the wet tiles, slipped, flailed his arms, and went over backwards. I caught him just in time. “Cuidado!” Guadalupe warned unnecessarily. “El piso está mojado. Wet floor.” With that she raced up a soaring flight of stairs—very grand indeed. I strutted gingerly about, gazing down a wide corridor that led to a series of rooms, one bigger and more opulent than the last. Madame X’s taste was eclectic to say the least. Staring in each direction I could see French rooms, Spanish rooms, Italian rooms, English rooms—all as fake as fake could be, I suspected, but very elegant and impressive when seen hurriedly at a great distance. In a moment Guadalupe was back. “You wait. Little time. Here,” she said, opening a door. “You wait. Aquí con la señora.” She ushered us into a dim little room filled with old tubular chromium furniture that looked as though it had come from a defunct U.S.O. lounge. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with pictures. There were great, gory bleeding hearts; graphic crucifixions and Pietàs; highly tinted studies of saints—Sebastian, Catherine, Julia, Lawrence, Lucy, and a lot of others—undergoing tortures of the most agonizing sorts. (We never know when we’re well off, do we?) They were painted on canvas, tin, zinc, wood, velvet, satin, and moiré, and all of them were—speaking aesthetically as well—hideous. One wall, which had been reserved for art of a more earthly nature, was papered with old stills of Catalina Ximinez clipped from fan magazines of thirty years ago.
In the center of the room sat Mamacita, bouncing gently up and down in a chromium and red mock-leather armchair, her Keds rhythmically slapping the floor. The television set was on, and Mamacita was watching what I guess was a popular Spanish-language soap opera. It was too colloquial for me to follow, but it was certainly filled with violence, passion, and characters who were very definitely good guys or bad guys. During the very few minutes we waited there, we were treated to a knifing in a night club, a hospital room, a deathbed repentence, a vow of vengeance, armed robbery, and an attempt at what I think was the abduction of a six-year-old girl dressed for her first holy communion. Mamacita bounced up and down more excitedly as the action grew more hectic. At the end of every scene she burst into applause, and she emitted a deep sigh of regret as an endless string of commercials appeared on the screen. During a very poignant commercial for a powder against, I guess, diaper rash, Guadalupe scratched on the door. “Señorita wait you now. You come, pliz.” Starr and I got up.
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