Betty Boo

by Claudia Piñeiro

  Natwick’s creation was the first female flapper to appear in a cartoon. In the 1920s the word “flapper” was coined for young women who cast off the traditional corset or adapted it to the new shape, reduced the length of their skirts and sported unconventional hairstyles. These were women who liked going to private clubs to listen and dance to jazz, a rhythm that most people had never heard, let alone danced to. Flappers rebelled against the stereotype that had been imposed on women up until that era and transgressed the norms dictating how a woman was supposed to behave: they smoked, they drove cars or motorcycles at top speed, they drank hard liquor and wore little make-up. Or – at the other extreme – they made themselves up in a style more commonly associated with actresses and prostitutes. Do they always have to put us in the same category? Paula Sibona complained. A white powdered face with really black eyebrows and eyelashes to emphasize the red lips in “kiss-proof” lipstick. And lots of bracelets and strings of beads. High-heeled shoes for going out and comfortable ones for working. Opinions vary on the origin of the word, but in 1920 The Flapper was the title of an American film starring Olive Thomas and depicting the lifestyle of this new breed of woman. Thomas was considered the original flapper, and was remembered not so much for her career in silent films as for her tragic death: at twenty-five in a Parisian hotel, after a night drinking in the bars of Montparnasse with her husband Jack Pickford, Olive Thomas drank a bottle of mercury bichloride (a substance Pickford was using as a topical solution for sores caused by his syphilis), and this was the cause of her death several days later in the American Hospital in Neuilly, on the outskirts of Paris. Pickford and his brother-in-law were with her when she died. In the absence of other evidence, her death was ruled accidental, although suspicions remained about a suicide or murder.

  It was only some time after that Sunday devoted to Wikipedia, cartoons, flappers and the women who inspired them that Nurit Iscar was struck by how many coincidences there were between the deaths of Olive Thomas and Gloria Echagüe. And the deaths of so many other women. Do men more often kill their wives, or women their husbands? When the circumstances of a woman’s death are in question, does suspicion always fall on the husband? Are the suspicions always well founded? And what about when a woman kills her husband? Is she more likely to go to prison? Which of the two deaths – or murders – was, or is, more socially acceptable? Has any woman ever murdered her husband in a country club or a gated community? Why, after so many years, have we not forgotten the names of certain women whose deaths or disappearances were never explained: Norma Mirta Penjerek, Oriel Briant, Doctor Cecilia Giubileo, María Soledad Morales, or María Marta García Belsunce? How many unresolved or half-resolved cases of murder are lodged in the collective memory?

  The appearance of this new style of woman, Carmen continued after dessert, coincided historically with the First World War and some of its consequences: the scarcity of men (Tell me about it, quipped Paula Sibona), the need for women to join the workforce, fashion styles dictated by what actresses, dancers and singers of the era were wearing. But while writers like F. Scott Fitzgerald or Anita Loos popularized the image of flappers as attractive, seductive and independent women, Dorothy Parker dedicated a poem to them with the title “The Flapper: A Hate Song”. And as Carmen read the poem, Nurit wondered whether she could really be likened to Betty Boop, since she was also a fan of Dorothy Parker. Perhaps she was less of a fan than she thought? Dorothy Parker died at seventy-three, a few years older than Helen Kane and much older than Olive Thomas at the time of their respective deaths, but, in contrast to the singer who inspired the creation of Betty Boop and the iconic flapper actress, Parker died in a New York hotel, accompanied only by her dog and a glass of whisky. And Nurit wondered again who had died in better company. Who would provide a more loyal and loving presence: a much older husband, a syphilitic and potentially murderous one, or a dog and a glass of whisky? How will she, Nurit Iscar, die, when her time comes? How old will she be? And where? Who will be there with her? Will she be able to choose the answer to any of these questions? Why does she, a fifty-something woman, wonder so much about her own death? For that very reason: because I am over fifty, Nurit thinks, answering the only question for which she has an answer. More than halfway through life, on the other side of the hill, where the land falls away towards the next valley.

  Petting or sexual play without coitus or leading to coitus was an accepted part of life for flappers, Carmen went on. Oh that must be like peteras today, said Rodrigo, who was also at home that Sunday when his mother’s friends came round. What’s that? Nurit asked him. Peteras, Mum, girls who’ll blow you. Who’ll suck you off. Don’t be disgusting in front of my friends! You asked, Mum. Listen, young man, Paula Sibona interjected, you can grow up and leave this house a right-winger or a lefty, heterosexual or gay, a graduate or an illiterate; you can choose to belong to whichever urban tribe you like. The only thing neither your mother nor we are going to allow you to be is sexist. What did I say?! Nothing, nothing, I’m just telling you, in case; it seemed to me that when you referred to oral sex just then you were a bit contemptuous of the woman’s role. Not at all; I love getting blow-jobs. That’s enough! Nurit intervened. You brought up the subject of petting, not me, Rodrigo complained. Because we’re investigating something that has to do with flappers. With what? Flappers, a group of women that first appeared in the 1920s … OK, OK, forget about it, the boy interrupted, and went off to watch the television.

  Flappers were popular but they were defeated – as is so often the case – by an economic crisis: the 1929 Wall Street Crash and the Great Depression which followed. That decade saw a resurgence in conservative ideas and religious sanctions, and growing disapproval of these women’s liberal approach to life, and not only in sexual matters. Even the character of Betty Boop was toned down: they made the poor girl’s skirt longer, covered up her cleavage and finally took away her suspenders. But the real Betty Boop survived censorship, and various flapper symbols remained as a nod to future generations. To future generations in the western world, that is, which isn’t the whole world.

  Betty Boop is and will always be a definitively sensual and sexual woman. That’s what matters. She wears short skirts and stockings, she flaunts her breasts in low-cut tops (big breasts, but not enormous like Viviana Mansini’s since she went through the menopause, Carmen clarified), other characters in the series try to spy on her when she’s bathing, she likes to dance hula-hula, swinging her hips and repeating the phrase “Boop Boop a Doop” as she dances – a phrase Helen Kane tried to prevent her from using, filing a suit against the production company that she ended up losing. Betty Boop was one of the first cartoon characters to make a cameo, appearing in Popeye the Sailor. In the 1960s she went into full colour and in the 1980s there was a boom in merchandising; today you can see Betty Boop’s image on everything from underwear to Visa cards. In 1988 she made another cameo appearance in the Oscar-winning Who Framed Roger Rabbit? In 1994, her 1933 film Snow-White was selected by the United States Library of Congress for preservation in the National Film Registry. Is that good? asked Paula Sibona. I don’t know if I’d want my image preserved for all eternity in an archive; the thought of my image surviving my living body by such a long margin scares me a bit. But a cartoon’s body doesn’t age like ours, said Carmen. Well, thanks for clearing that up, said Paula.

  Do the secondary school girls who today have her image stamped on their folders, their pencil cases, their backpacks or T-shirts know what Betty Boop represents? Do they know that she had to be toned down in the 1930s? Why is a cartoon woman re-emerging so strongly in the twenty-first century? Is Betty Boop simply another marketing product for our unthinking consumption? Nurit Iscar doesn’t think so. She doesn’t believe that Betty Boop’s ubiquity is merely commercial. She still believes in the strength transmitted by the icon, even if it is working subconsciously on those who look to her eighty years later.

  7

  At half past six Lorenzo Rin
aldi calls Nurit Iscar again, and this time when she hears his voice she picks up. She’s nervous, but prepared. After his first call an hour or so earlier, she’s spoken twice with Paula Sibona, once with Carmen Terrada and exchanged a volley of emails with both of them. Don’t act as if I were about to screw up my life, we’re not twenty any more, she wrote, after the fifth email from Carmen insisting how dangerous it would be to get involved with Rinaldi again. At least ask him if he’s separated from his wife first, suggested Paula. So much time has passed – for all we know he might be free now. She was always the most optimistic of the three of them. It’s a work call, nothing more, Nurit replied, then shut down the computer so as not to read one more word of advice, warning or reprimand from her friends until after she had spoken to Lorenzo Rinaldi.

  This time you have to do it, Betty Boo; it’s been years since anyone heard from you or read you. When was the last time you had a new book in the shops? More than three years, the same length of time since we last saw each other, she thinks, though she doesn’t answer the question. A feature piece like this in a paper like El Tribuno will get you back in the ring. The thing is, I’m not sure I want to be in a ring again. Though, if I had to choose, I’d probably rather tackle a bull than throw myself to this city’s literary sharks again. OK, it’ll get you back in touch with your readers, does that sound better? Nurit Iscar doesn’t answer because for a moment she’s absorbed by the sound of Lorenzo Rinaldi’s voice rather than by what he’s saying. His voice is the same; it hasn’t changed in these three years. The voice takes longer to age, she thinks. And what about his hands? And will he still have those grey hairs at the temple that she used to stroke, or will his hair be whiter now? She makes an effort to concentrate again on what the voice is saying: How much do you want? A column? Half a page? She says nothing. Can you name me one writer today who can command half a page in a newspaper read by millions of Argentines? She sighs and tries a direct question: Why do you want me to do it? You’ve got Jaime Brena in the newsroom – who could be better? He must be the journalist who did the most investigating and knows most about the murder of Chazarreta’s wife. Jaime Brena is out. What does that mean, “out”? He’s moved to another section of the paper. Oh, I didn’t know that, she says. Why? An editorial decision, Rinaldi says. “Editorial decision”, that’s a nice way of saying nothing; look, tell me really: why me? For the same reason – an editorial decision. No, you don’t get round me with pat phrases. True, I’d almost forgotten how stubborn you are. Let’s see, Betty Boo, it has to be you because in a case like this, especially at the beginning, nobody knows zip because of the gagging order; at this stage, there’s no point in investigating and then repeating the few things everybody can say. We need thoughtful, imaginative and – above all – great writing. The way to pull people in at the start is with writing, not with information. You’re the Dark Lady of Argentine literature, and only the Dark Lady can provide what El Tribuno needs at the moment: I know all there is to know about the world of news and I’m the editor of this newspaper, that’s how I know that you’re the best option, just as you were three years ago, even though you didn’t accept the commission then. That’s what “editorial decision” means – do you like it better now? A bit more. So will you do it? If I did, what I could offer wouldn’t be journalism. I know that. I want you because you’re a novelist. Young journalists are getting worse and worse; you’d think they write with their feet. I want somebody who writes well, it’s as simple as that. Brena writes well, she says. But he has other issues. Who doesn’t? Look, Betty Boo, I’ve got a place for you in La Maravillosa; one of the paper’s directors bought a house there a while ago with the idea of using it at weekends, but he never goes. Move in there tomorrow with whoever you want – try not to make me jealous – and start writing. Listen, watch, think, invent and write. It’s not the truth I’m after, it’s writing that captivates, it’s your interpretation of that world, your description of the people you see around, all those things you do so well. Think it over and I’ll ring you back in two hours for an answer. She’s silent for a moment, then says: OK, call me in two hours.

  “Try not to make me jealous”? The shameless reprobate said that? says Paula Sibona incredulously. Yes, says Nurit, who has summoned her friends to an emergency meeting at her house. You know what? I can see that you want to do this, and that’s really alarming, says Carmen Terrada. But I swear it’s not because of Rinaldi. No, no, of course not, says Paula sarcastically. It’s for me, Nurit insists, because it’s a job, because in two weeks I’ll have finished untying the knots of Mr Transport’s ex-wife and there’ll be no visible means of support, because it could be an opportunity to change what happened three years ago. Is Rinaldi still married? Carmen asks. I don’t know, she replies. If he’s still married you’re not going to change anything, Paula asserts. I don’t mean to change my relationship with him, I mean to change a decision regarding my career that was probably wrong; I think that if I had accepted that job at the time I’d probably still be writing my own novels now. It looks better viewed from that perspective, says Carmen. But only from that perspective. Would one of you mind coming over to water my plants? Holy shit, you’re actually going to do it, Paula says. I don’t know; I just think that this would move me towards more fulfilling work than writing other people’s books. You’re right about that, says Paula. But be careful where Rinaldi is concerned, begs Carmen. I will be. Not just for your sake but for ours – how are we going to get you out this time if you fall back into that man’s clutches?

  As agreed, two hours after making Nurit his original offer, Lorenzo Rinaldi calls for the third time. Her friends are still there with her. Be careful, Carmen repeats, before Nurit picks up the receiver. And ask if the house they’re going to give you has a pool, says Paula.

  An hour later Rinaldi is making arrangements with his colleague, El Tribuno’s administrative director, for Nurit Iscar to move into his weekend house in La Maravillosa the next day. Meanwhile, she packs a small case the size of a cabin bag; it seems insufficient for a month’s stay, but Nurit doesn’t really believe she’ll last in the house that long. They have agreed that, before taking up residence in Chazarreta’s country club, Nurit Iscar will drop by the newsroom to pick up the keys and a few instructions about the house, and to have a chat with Rinaldi and the journalist who heads up the Crime section about the details of the case. From there, once they have finished, a car will take her straight to La Maravillosa so that she can get to work right away.

  At the very moment Nurit Iscar closes her case and places it beside her bed, the Crime boy is back on Google again, this time in his own house, trying out different combinations of keywords in the hope of finding some vital piece of information to take to Rinaldi the next day: “Chazarreta + slit throat + La Maravillosa”. Shit, nothing useful comes up. He looks down the long list of tweets on his timeline, but none of the Chazarreta posts go beyond the fact of his death. Then he makes two or three calls, again without any luck. He’d call his old boss, Zippo, who always has good info; the best. But Zippo is the competition now, and the Crime boy doubts he would be as forthcoming with him – someone he regards not only as a traitor but as an idiot for moving to another paper – as he was in the newsroom. He’d also call Jaime Brena, except that he’s tried that three times already and the guy’s not picking up. Besides, his girlfriend’s waiting in bed for him to come and watch the first episode of Grey’s Anatomy, so better leave that job for today, the boy thinks, as he closes various programs and shuts down the computer.

  In the taxi on the way back to their respective homes, Paula Sibona and Carmen Terrada are discussing their fears of Nurit falling prey again to the devastating Rinaldi effect. Although they can’t be sure that they too, in her shoes, wouldn’t do the same. That is, they are pretty sure they would do the same. And more humiliating things besides. There are plenty of examples best forgotten, says Paula. And Carmen Terrada adds: I’ve blanked it all out, believe me. But this isn’t
about them, it’s about Nurit Iscar, and their duty as friends is not simply to understand but to help her not get crushed by Lorenzo Rinaldi again. Meanwhile Gladys Varela, ever since returning from La Maravillosa, can’t stop giving exhaustive accounts of what she saw there to all and sundry. It’s gone midnight and the neighbours are still round her house chatting about her employer’s death. She’s become a celebrity. If Chazarreta’s death hadn’t taken place inside a gated community I’d have been on TV more, she complains. But camera crews can’t enter a country club without authorization, as Gladys knows very well; it’s not even easy for the police, not without a search warrant, though the governor has promised to get that policy changed – so if anybody wants to interview her it’s either going to have to be in her house or in the queue at the entrance to La Maravillosa. Although, now she comes to think of it, Gladys Varela isn’t going to be queueing up at the barrier any more, at least not for a while. She no longer has a job or an employer in La Maravillosa. She ought to start looking for a new job; she will soon, but not yet. She’s heard that some people from a news programme have been asking for her at the gate to the country club, that they want to take her to the studio, though they haven’t come to her house yet. Apparently you can get good money for these appearances. Someone told her that anyway, and someone else said it just now. Perhaps she should swing by La Maravillosa tomorrow, see if the cameras are still at the entrance and introduce herself to the reporter. Yes, that’s what she’ll do, Gladys Varela thinks, at the very moment that Karina Vives is selecting a classical music track on her computer and preparing to take a shower. Karina remembers what Brena told her about Chazarreta’s death and wonders if the news has reached the television stations yet, but she’s not interested enough to break the calm of her home by switching on the news. Chazarreta and the circumstances of his death really don’t matter to her very much at the moment, and she’s bound to hear plenty about it tomorrow in the newsroom. She does wonder if the Crime boy will have known what to do with the pink note in the wastepaper bin to which she drew his attention at Brena’s behest. And her fear is that he won’t. Actually it’s not a fear: she’s certain he won’t. Anyway, what does she care about what the Crime boy does? In the shower, with Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana at full blast and hot water cascading over her back, Karina Vives doesn’t think of Chazarreta any more, nor of the Crime boy, nor of Jaime Brena, but of whether the time has come to announce her pregnancy in the newsroom. She hopes nobody will ask whose it is. Because if there’s one thing she hates, it’s giving explanations. And they’d better not make stupid jokes or ask idiotic questions about what surname she’s going to give the child.