Stars in His Eyes

by Martí Gironell

  He remembered the day he had seen New York from the deck of the ship, as imposing and powerful as the dreams of the recent arrivals, which no obstacle could defeat. America meant the chance at another life, at being reborn. It was true that after five months, he didn’t have much to show for his time here—not yet, anyway—and he sometimes felt he was stagnating, spinning his wheels. But now, with his new identity, a whole range of possibilities had opened up to him.

  Ceferino said nothing. His uncle Ramón stayed silent as well.

  It seemed his time there was at an end, but he knew his adventure in America wasn’t over.

  Growl you may, but go you must!

  The message of that sailor’s tattoo resounded in his head. He thought it over, along with the words of his father’s he remembered so well: You make your choices. You and you alone. He knew the path he would have to take even if he wasn’t sure yet where it led. New York was just a stage in a journey that was far from over.

  That night, Eva María showed up in the darkness of their secret meeting place behind their apartment building. The wrought-iron frame of the staircase protected them from prying eyes.

  “Eva María.” Ceferino’s voice was more subdued than usual.

  “My mother told me about your letter from Spain.”

  They hugged.

  “I have to go.”

  “But where will you go?”

  When they’d had quiet moments, the young lovers had made lists of the projects they wanted to share. Eva María’s dream was to become a teacher; she studied at night, determined to make it. Ceferino’s was to climb the ladder from helping out in his uncle’s restaurant to driving a taxi, and finally to running his own business. But for some time now, the girl had also noticed how excited her boyfriend got about Hollywood. When they went to the movies, she would talk about the characters and their stories, while Ceferino would carry on about what the lives of the actors must be like—he wanted to be loved and admired like them. And after the night of that fight at the Garden, Cefe had to admit that he longed for the kind of prestige and dignity Rocky Marciano enjoyed.

  “Will you go to California?” she asked.

  Cefe nodded silently. It was the only place he wanted to be, other than right there, in the stairwell with her.

  Eva María threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. She didn’t want to stand in his way. She knew, even if he hadn’t said so, that in his heart he was already gone. Without her. They held back their tears, like promises that couldn’t be kept, as their warm bodies embraced in the night . . . Suddenly, Eva María pulled away from Ceferino, just far enough to be able to hand him something.

  “I want you to take this.” She showed him a triangular stone with human features that she wore around her neck. “It’s a cemí. In Taino it means ‘angel,’” she explained. “It was my grandmother’s; her ancestors were Taino. She gave it to me to protect me on the sea voyage that took me here from our country. It will help you, too. I want you to have it.” And she took it off to give it to him.

  Her hands trembled. Ceferino accepted the gift, moved.

  A shiver ran up his spine, because he knew there was no guarantee they’d see each other again. A jumble of feelings buffeted him inside.

  That night in December 1949, Ceferino Carrión made a decision. Or, more accurately, a date with destiny.

  He had come this far already, hadn’t he? He was convinced he was made of the same stuff as Carmine Vingo, but also that he could be like Rocky Marciano. Nothing was going to hold him back, stop him, keep him from his goal. He would win by points and would get the knockout, too, even if it meant he had to stay alert and on his toes.

  The next morning Cefe put his most prized possessions in his suitcase from the Liberté. He caressed the cemí he’d hung around his neck and said goodbye to his family, the Carrións, and to the Buenavidas. Then he went straight to the army enlistment office downtown, close to Wall Street, to fill out his selective-service papers.

  At the Greyhound terminal behind Penn Station, he bought a bus ticket to Los Angeles. One way.

  Before getting settled in his seat, he had time to see the front page of a newspaper, which showed a photo of Carmine Vingo with his thumb raised, surrounded by nurses at St. Clare’s. From KO to OK, ran the headline. Carmine had come out of his coma, and though the aftereffects would keep him out of the ring forever, Renata’s boy had pulled through.

  Now it was Ceferino Carrión’s turn to chase destiny.

  CHAPTER 3

  On the West Coast, in the summer of 1950, it wasn’t just the high temperatures eating away at Cefe’s spirits. The added anxiety of the Korean War was terrifying the entire country, as the headlines reminded Ceferino every day, much to his consternation. The shadow of war had followed him ever since he had left Spain, and news of this kind affected him deeply. Then, a few days ago, he’d received his enlistment papers.

  Ceferino was working the bar at Maxwell Coffee House, a café on Hollywood Boulevard, fretting about that faraway conflict that he, as a Spanish immigrant without any military calling whatsoever, neither understood nor felt a part of. He asked himself impatiently if America really needed more heroes in a far-off corner of Asia.

  Heroes like him—not even an American. Or was he? He had his doubts. Who was he really? The citizenship he had so yearned for no longer gave him a refuge if it meant he had to fight in a war, this time for a country that wasn’t even his own. He had suffered the aftermath of armed conflict in the flesh, had seen how it had made his family suffer. Now that he’d made it this far, now that he was comfortable with all the opportunities California offered at his feet, he didn’t want to run away again. Let alone go back home.

  Maybe, he repeated to himself over and over, trying to make himself believe it, maybe this is all just a mirage. Perhaps California wasn’t the paradise he’d described to his uncle Ramón, who would send word on to his mother by letter, the only safe way to communicate with his family since the Spanish authorities could be intercepting Ceferino’s mail. Once a month he talked to Ramón on the phone; he told his uncle all the humdrum details of his day-to-day life, and his uncle wrote it all down and passed it on to Cefe’s mother. Those melancholic conversations left Ceferino glum for the rest of the day. He was no longer so sure what he was doing there or where he was headed. He didn’t understand how his life had grown so complicated, when all he wanted was to be someone. To triumph.

  Soon it would be six months since he’d arrived in Hollywood, which he quickly realized wasn’t like the Hollywood he’d seen in magazines. He met wannabes just like him, men and women who had come from all over and would take any job—jobs like his, boring, dead-end jobs you could find in any corner of the world—so long as the schedule let them show up at the studios for auditions, be reachable by phone, and have enough free time for singing and acting classes . . . or anything else that might catch the attention of a talent scout.

  Now that the army was on his tail, he felt all his aspirations and dreams for the big screen pulling away from him, before he’d even made any headway. In September, he would have to show up on the base in Sacramento. There wasn’t much time to think, to decide, to find a workable solution. He didn’t want to go on worrying. When the moment came, he would act.

  “Hey, kid.”

  Ceferino was startled out of his spiral of dread. One of the café’s usual customers, a guy who always sat at the corner table, was trying conspicuously to get his attention.

  “Yeah, you!”

  The man was beckoning him with an index finger, and Cefe hustled over to him. He was tubby and bald and had a shadow of a mustache under his nose. Ceferino hadn’t seen him come in. As usual, the man was wearing a three-piece suit—this time a very white one—and a green shirt and a tie with yellow flowers that made the entire combination garish.

  “Sit down a minute,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I’m working.”

  Ceferino preferred to remain
standing, and not just for the sake of formality. There was something about this guy that he didn’t trust.

  “Of course,” the man agreed, sarcastic, and leaned back in his seat. “I’ve had my eye on you for days. I like how you treat the customers.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “The other day I saw you waiting on Jorge Negrete himself, and doing a hell of a job, too. I reckon you two were talking in Spanish, right?”

  Ceferino nodded.

  “You don’t hear that language too much around this part of the city . . .” The man suddenly seemed to notice Ceferino’s discomfort. “May I introduce myself?”

  With a cordial expression, he pulled a card from his coat pocket and handed it to Cefe. José Durán, Artist Representation. Ceferino’s eyes showed interest for the first time.

  “Now do you want to sit down?”

  Naturally, he did. That day, which had begun with the dreadful shadow of war bearing down, now brightened up with the unexpected proposition the man was about to make him.

  “Like I said, I’ve been watching you. You’ve got initiative, kid, you’re sharp, people like you right off the bat, you’ve got that thing the French call . . . what’s the word . . .”

  “Du charme?” Ceferino offered.

  “Exactly.” He nodded, pleased. “Sharp as a tack. I’m convinced you and I could do interesting things together. I hope you don’t feel too attached to your waiter job.”

  Ceferino shook his head.

  “My agency represents artists internationally, and, as you must know, Hollywood is the center of the world when it comes to show business,” he said, his voice getting louder as he pointed one finger toward the ceiling. “From your conversation with Negrete, I guess you know the Cansinos.”

  “Yes. I go to the Cansinos’ flamenco school. It’s close by, just around the corner,” Ceferino told him.

  “You must know that Eduardo Cansino is Rita Hayworth’s father,” Mr. Durán said.

  Ceferino nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, she comes whenever she can.”

  “You like Rita?” Durán asked him mockingly.

  “Eh . . . there’s someone else I like better.”

  Ceferino shared a run-down bungalow with a guy and a girl, both from towns with unpronounceable names; they both went to Eduardo Cansino’s dance school. Cefe dropped in now and then, and it was there that he had met the most captivating woman he’d ever seen in his life: Melita Cansino, Rita’s cousin. She was a dancer in the studio, and he was head over heels for her. They had gone once or twice to a bar packed with people dreaming of being stars. And despite their differences, there were things about her—her face, her smile, especially the way she danced—that reminded him of Eva María. When Melita gathered her long black hair back into a ponytail, he felt a strong pull toward her, perhaps stronger than anything he had felt in the past. She was pure energy and passion. She would tug up the flounces on her skirt and dance. And dance and dance. When she did, Ceferino let himself be carried away by the spell for an eternity, bewitched by her sensual movements.

  “If you know your way around that world, then you must have heard of Antonio and Rosario, too.”

  Mr. Durán spread a poster in front of him, unrolling it across the table. It showed a pair of dancers done up in flamenco dress.

  “Yeah, I know them,” Ceferino said, nodding.

  “They’re Andalusians and they’re making a name for themselves all over the world. They’ve toured in South America. Mexico, Peru, Venezuela, Argentina . . . Not long ago, they had a billing at Carnegie Hall in New York. They’ve danced in the theater on the Champs-Élysées in Paris, at festivals in Scotland, Holland, and Italy, and in Spain, of course.”

  Ceferino’s eyes were on fire.

  “I’ve been following them for some time now,” the agent continued, “so remember how not too long ago, the Americans were going crazy for the Dancing Cansinos—I mean Eduardo and his daughter Margarita, the one everyone calls Rita Hayworth, as you know . . .” The man swiped his hand through the air, as though chasing off a fly. “Well, I figure the moment’s come for Antonio and Rosario to make their name in Hollywood.”

  Ceferino had held his breath throughout that perilous torrent of words: Spain, triumph, Hollywood. But before he could ask a question that would quell the fear welling up inside him, Durán laid out his plan:

  “I want you to help me convince Antonio and Rosario to come here.” Durán moved his head energetically as he spoke these words.

  “Me?” Cefe’s emotions, equal parts dread and joy, were so overwhelming, he didn’t know what to say.

  “I want them to come to Hollywood to make a film. I have contacts in the industry that I know would interest them. You could go to Spain using my name, offer them a contract, and . . .”

  Durán smiled, revealing a row of very white teeth, save for one that stuck out conspicuously. Ceferino stared at that swatch of gold with its timid brilliance, like a spark. A very brief spark.

  “So, what do you say? You can’t reject an offer like this!”

  It didn’t matter that he had no experience in business, let alone the kind being proposed now, because one thing was true: Ceferino Carrión hadn’t been put on this earth to turn down an opportunity. Much less one as exciting as this one, traveling the world as a bona fide film professional, getting to see Spain again, and putting some distance, at least for now, between himself and the dangerous question of Korea. He told himself it was work, not fear, that was pushing him back to Spain—maybe he didn’t have a job in Spain per se, but he was going there with a mission, a purpose, even if he had to do it undercover. And Justo León’s papers would allow him to thwart—momentarily—Franco and his military justice.

  When opportunity knocks, you’ve got to answer, Cefe thought. This was the first real door that had opened for him in Hollywood. But that door had been opened by a man who was more traveling salesman than showbiz magnate. Without nailing down any financial details, with nothing but the money for a round-trip ticket and a slim budget for expenses, the boy went down to the Los Angeles passport office the next day to apply for his visa. A week later, he was headed for Gibraltar on the Saturnia, a ship very similar to the Liberté, but on a journey as different as possible from that one a year earlier—even if the feeling of breaking the rules was the same. This time he wasn’t a stowaway, but a deserter. Ceferino Carrión, traveling with his first US passport under the name Justo Ramón León, consoled himself with a thought as encouraging as it was dubious: What if everything works out right?

  The journey was a smooth one—the furthest thing from his first horrifying crossing, huddled hidden down in the hold, scavenging for scraps. His persistent faith in his own good luck took him from Gibraltar to Málaga and on to Madrid, on the hunt for Antonio and Rosario, who were touring with a new show. The only thing he knew for sure was that they would make a stop in the capital at some point. It was his first time there, but he was nervous about sticking around. When he got out at Estación del Norte, he asked the way to the theater, and a passerby gave him directions to the Teatro Real, next to the Plaza de la Ópera. To his surprise, he found a decrepit building, beautiful but boarded up. Someone told him it had been closed down since 1925—the work on Madrid’s metro had damaged the foundations, and then it had suffered an explosion during the war. Further inquiries revealed that the dancers were in Barcelona, not Madrid. The place he’d been harboring in his mind and heart: Barcelona.

  Barcelona! When he heard the name of his hometown, Ceferino felt a shiver. Immediately he felt the urge to call home to tell them he would be showing up the next day. He wasn’t sure if he should, he didn’t want to jinx himself. He didn’t know if his voice would be steady enough to give them the good news.

  “Hello?”

  His suspicions had been right. His vertigo, his shakes, the relentless pounding of his heart left him speechless.

  “Hello?!” the voice on the other end repeated impatiently. It was his sister A
na—Chiqui, as he called her, the little one, the youngest of nine (or really of eight, since his older brother José had died).

  For several seconds, his welling emotions crowded out the words, and he struggled to unravel the knot in his throat.

  “Chiqui!” Ceferino finally shouted.

  And then there was a silence.

  “Cebollita? Is it you, Cebollita?”

  His nickname, Cebollita, little onion—they had always called him that, but not because he made people cry. No, it was the way he looked. Skinny and small-framed, like a scallion, pale and tender, with a round head.

  “Yes, it’s me!” Cefe crackled explosively, his nerves on edge. “Chiqui, I’m in Madrid, and I’ll catch the train to Barcelona tomorrow. I’m coming to see you! I’m so excited . . .”

  “Cefe, I can’t believe it’s you,” Ana said in a strained tone, her euphoria seemingly cut short in a way that unsettled her brother.

  After almost three years apart, exchanging information only sporadically, all Ana managed to tell him was “You can’t come.” There was no other sound but the usual static of a long-distance phone call.

  “Why?” He didn’t understand his sister’s refusal.

  “You won’t be safe here. If they see you, they’ll tell the authorities. It’s not worth it, Cefe!” Chiqui insisted. “It’s too risky.”

  “But I want to see you!” he protested.

  “And we want to see you!” his sister assured him with a catch in her voice. “And if things were different, this would be the perfect time.”

  “Why?”

  “Conchi’s getting married this Saturday!” she told him, elated, despite her anguish, to share the news about their sister.

  “What are you saying? How can I come to Barcelona and let a moment like that slip by me?” he insisted.

  “You know what, Cefe? To hell with it! You come see us and we’ll work out the rest.”

  Ceferino arrived at Barcelona’s Estación de Francia at night, making it easier to get to his house without being seen. Being there stirred up those memories of the day his family moved to the Catalan capital after Santander, the city where he was born, had burned down. One of his oldest memories was also one of the most terrifying. Saturday, February 15, 1941. The night of the fire.