On the deck of the ship, Ceferino felt nausea, but it wasn’t from the rocking of the waves. The drops of salt water splashed his face and cooled his thoughts. The journey felt heavy with meaning, even conclusive. As if the knot of his existential dilemma were about to come undone.
The meeting with Antonio, the dancer, never took place. Ceferino forgot to go see him. He lost all notion of reality, and with it, he forgot the reasons for his trip entirely. His eyes and his will belonged only to that goddess, the rest of his responsibilities be damned. The last heat of summer was still in the air during those weeks he spent with her, and when September came to an end, he had to return to the United States to prepare for war. He had made it out of Spain unharmed, that much he knew. But he wasn’t so sure he would be able to avoid Korea.
The police stopped him almost as soon as he set foot in America. León was just a kid, he didn’t have the heart to be a soldier, and he was about to face a military tribunal that would judge him for—who knew?—sedition, desertion, high treason. It was serious, the US was embarking upon a war, and he had turned his back on the country that had taken him in and given him an identity.
They shut him up in the brig on the base in Sacramento. He didn’t know how long he would be in that hellhole, but there was one thing he had faith in: despite everything, he was still lucky. Two long, monotonous days and nights passed, enough for him to reflect on what he’d been through since he’d left his home in Barcelona three years ago.
On the afternoon of the third day, they came to fetch him.
“Lion, come out of your cage!” The warden was making fun of his name.
“What is it? Where to now?” León asked, disconcerted, emerging from his cell.
“This is your first inspection,” the soldier told him. “It doesn’t look good for you, León.”
They walked to the sergeant’s office, where the door was cracked open. The soldier knocked, then stood at attention and brought his hand up to his temple as he announced to his superior:
“Sir, Justo Ramón León, sir.”
“Come in!” a deep voice commanded from inside.
For the next week, Ceferino had to go through a series of interrogations, psychological tests, and physical exams that left him exhausted but unbroken. After a few more days in his cell with no further interruptions, the surly soldier who watched over him constantly opened the door and handed him a piece of paper, telling him to get his things and go: “There’s no room here for traitors to their country.” The document Justo León held in his hands was his passport to freedom. The medical committee in charge of León’s file had declared him Unfit for military service.
Ceferino left the base and headed straight for the bus station. On the ten-hour ride to Los Angeles, he had time to think about what he would do. He had decided to stop giving in to that maddening despair that had dogged him during the past year, holding him back, crushing his initiative. He was tired of taking baby steps. He wanted to jump in with both feet. To put it all on the line.
A brave person does things his own way, he told himself. Nobody’s deciding for me, he resolved, remembering his father’s words. And he made a choice. First of all, he was going to be someone. New. Reinvented. He had thought of a name, a real one. One he would keep forever. He said goodbye, once and for all, to Justo Ramón León, not to mention Ceferino Carrión.
He was ready to pounce. Like that lion in the imposing and majestic Roman Colosseum he had admired in a painting in Paris during the impasse between his flight from Barcelona and his departure from Le Havre.
When Cefe and his fellow exiles, Pedro and Jaime, had arrived in that beautiful city, they’d moved into the attic of a Spaniard who had taken them in after seeing them wandering around Notre-Dame. Paris was about to celebrate the fifth year of its liberation from the Nazis, and the city was getting its groove back, swaying to the rhythms of jazz and swing, music the Americans had left behind. While Cefe and his friends worked in dive bars in the Latin Quarter, Ceferino absorbed the nightlife in a free city where art and culture were flourishing wherever you turned. At one of the many exhibits he saw, Ceferino was captivated by the works of one particular artist. Above all, he couldn’t stop looking at one painting showing a lion waiting respectfully while the martyrs prayed to God one last time. A final goodbye.
The painter was Jean-Léon Gérôme, and Ceferino decided on this name from that moment forward: Jean Leon.
And now he was ready at last: Growl you may, but go you must.
CHAPTER 4
As soon as Jean Leon settled into his new life in Los Angeles, he devoted himself, sometimes obsessively, to impersonation. He observed, compared, imitated, and reproduced behaviors and expressions he had thought would never come naturally to him. He brought the same steadfast ambition to his ever-impeccable manner of dress: jacket and tie, to give him style and elegance, to conceal his still-gawky body, and to add a touch of seriousness to his baby face. Jean Leon had an idol—he wanted to look like him, be like him, make it as far as he had. Jean Leon adopted his dress and mannerisms, tried to imitate his imperturbable poise: Frank Sinatra, the coolest of the cool.
The first time Jean had encountered the star was on his date with Eva María. They watched, hand in hand, as Sinatra, in a sailor’s uniform, sang “New York, New York” on the streets of the big city with Gene Kelly and Jules Munshin. Coming out of the theater, Jean had told his cousin Julio, Lara, and Eva María that his dream was to be an actor. It comforted him that Sinatra was lanky like him, and that gave him hope that he, too, could make it as an actor.
It was April 1953. Three years had passed since he’d been declared unfit for the military and had said goodbye to the name Ceferino Carrión. He was Jean Leon now. On life’s horizon lay a long line of promises and dreams yet to be conquered.
Jean eventually got a job working for Hollywood Yellow Cabs, driving a taxi on the night shift. It wasn’t his dream job, but he knew his time would come. The zone he was assigned to included Hollywood, but he had never come across anyone famous. Until one fateful night when the dispatcher sent him to Capitol Records, and the taxi door opened. In climbed a beautiful woman followed by the idol himself, Frank Sinatra.
“To Villa Capri!” the singer ordered sternly.
Sinatra took off his black felt hat with its narrow brim and white ribbon, a stylish contrast with his discreet striped suit and thin black tie. The woman wore a champagne-colored dress and didn’t take off her sunglasses. She removed a gold-filtered cigarette from the handbag resting on her knees and lit up. It was Ava Gardner.
“Right away!” Leon responded agreeably.
He wanted to make a good impression and keep it professional, but as soon as he pulled out, his nerves got the best of him and the car bucked, making the couple lurch forward. They didn’t seem to notice, though—they were arguing, and stayed at it the whole way to the restaurant. Leon was on edge, but he hid it, keeping his eyes pinned to the road. He pretended not to hear a word, but it was impossible not to eavesdrop on their dispute.
“We’re not having it, Frank,” Ava Gardner said curtly, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“What do you mean we’re not having it?” Sinatra asked. He, too, had lit a cigarette.
“You know good and well what I mean. Our relationship is a goddamn roller coaster. We can barely take care of ourselves, and you want us to have a baby?”
The actress’s voice was cold and penetrating.
“Plus, the studio will fire me,” she said.
“You should never have signed that contract.”
“Like I had a choice,” she said sarcastically. “It’s not the first time I’ve had to get an abortion. Or do you not know how these things work?”
“Isn’t it mine?” Sinatra butted in, apparently worried.
“Who else’s would it be?”
It was hard to tell if the woman’s insensitivity came from indifference or resignation. But it was obvious her words hurt Sinatra.
“I’m not about to bring a baby into the world so it can suffer through this mess,” Gardner said, shielded by her glasses, which allowed her to avoid ever looking at her companion.
“So my opinion doesn’t count for anything?”
Sinatra stared gloomily at his reflection in the glasses. It was clear he wouldn’t find a happy resolution to their argument. She was holding the reins. Ava Gardner, who had made him fly to the moon, as he had sung in that song written by Bart Howard, was now throwing him back down to earth. Leon would find out eventually just how head over heels Sinatra was for this woman, how crazy she made him.
Leon could appreciate Sinatra’s dilemma, to some extent. He, too, always found himself drawn to girls who were wild and unmanageable—or who tried to get him into a long-term relationship. He had always refused to be tied down. But then, he had never been with a woman as captivating and self-assured as Gardner. He visualized the kind of woman he’d like to have by his side, the kind of woman who could bewitch him the way Ava Gardner had bewitched Sinatra.
“Look at us, Frank!” Gardner continued her raging. “Our career is our life, and not even that is stable. We can’t have kids.”
“I have three, and—”
“And what? And what?” Ava seemed ready to go for the throat. “Three kids you’ve abandoned, and their mother to boot! That’s what you call being a father? Come on, Frank! Who are we trying to fool? Having children is for regular people, not for us.”
Jean Leon pulled to a stop in front of Villa Capri, and the couple fell silent, bringing their discussion to a temporary close—though it was clearly far from over.
“Here we are,” Leon dared to utter, his voice faint, his eyes glued to the steering wheel.
Gardner didn’t wait for Frank but strode quickly into Villa Capri alone. The singer handed Leon a twenty-dollar bill and got out of the taxi in a rage, slamming the door behind him and disappearing into the restaurant. Later that night, when Leon returned his taxi to the depot, he noticed Sinatra had left a tape in the back seat. Leon, of all people, knew an opportunity when he saw one.
The next day, Leon entered the exclusive Villa Capri for the first time, looking around in wonder. The place was well known to all as a magnet for stars and the press. All the aspiring actors jockeyed to get a table there: it was the place to see and be seen. It was spacious and divided into two distinct areas: On one side was the lounge, with walls of exposed stone and wood and a padded bar the customers on their barstools would lean on while they drank. On the other side, in the dining room, the tables were arranged so guests could hear the music from the piano next to the cigarette machine.
The place was empty at that hour. Jean Leon was disappointed—he would have loved to sit and people-watch for hours.
“You’re looking for Mr. Sinatra?” The question, asked by a man emerging from the back of the restaurant, unsettled him.
“Yesterday I brought him here in a taxi, and he left this.” He showed the man the tape.
The other man’s attitude changed, and he reached out for Leon to hand it to him.
“I’m sure Mr. Sinatra will want to show you his gratitude. If you wouldn’t mind leaving me a way to get in touch with you . . .”
Jean Leon passed him a card with the taxi company’s number and his name, but he insisted on handing the tape to the singer himself. The maître d’ looked at him disdainfully.
“What, you don’t trust me?”
“No, sir, it’s not that . . . You understand,” he said softly.
The maître d’ looked him over again from head to toe and disappeared, grumbling some curt comment about miserable bastards who’ll do anything for a tip. After a few seconds, Sinatra himself appeared in the door between the kitchen and the dining room. He waved the taxi driver over and sat down with him at a table near the bar.
Sinatra thanked him effusively for returning something so valuable to him. The tape contained all the recordings of the songs for his new album. After asking Leon how much money he made as a taxi driver, Sinatra offered him a job as a waiter in the restaurant.
While the two talked, a half dozen people came over to Sinatra’s table. They greeted him, nodding and squeezing his hand, made witty remarks, or praised him with what seemed like sincerity. Leon had the feeling he was watching some kind of ritual. And these repeated shows of respect intoxicated him. Leon knew the finer points of all these interactions were lost on him, but still, he finally had a chance to observe Sinatra in his element. He’d been waiting for something like this to happen for years.
Just a few minutes in the presence of the superstar offered Leon his first chance to get a sense of the composure, the presence you needed if you were going to become something in that city—which was like a stage, where appearances and illusions were everything. His meeting with Sinatra had lasted just a few moments, but it had changed everything for Leon. And he knew how to make something of this opportunity. Soon enough, he wouldn’t be just a former taxi driver to whom Sinatra owed a small favor. He would be a trusted confidant.
Just over a year and a half later, at one in the morning on November 5, 1954, Sinatra showed up at Villa Capri straight from Capitol Records, just a few blocks from the restaurant. Whenever he was in LA recording or doing shows, he usually dined there, stretching the night out as long as he could. He never came alone. That night, his companion was his friend and manager Hank Sanicola. Jean Leon led them to the singer’s usual table and served them dinner. The night passed calmly until, during dessert, an enraged Joe DiMaggio ran into the restaurant and headed straight for Sinatra’s table.
“That slut! That goddamn whore!”
Behind the baseball star, who was a partner in some of Sinatra’s businesses, was Barney Ruditsky, a private detective on DiMaggio’s payroll. Not even a month ago, Marilyn Monroe had filed for divorce from DiMaggio, and he couldn’t stand the thought that in that short time, she’d already replaced him. The list of candidates was unnerving: at the top of the list were the actor Robert Mitchum and the musician Hal Schaefer. Then there was a notorious lesbian he only knew by her first name: Sheila.
“Sit down, Joe, relax!” Sinatra said, meeting eyes with Leon over by the bar.
“She can’t even wait for the divorce?” DiMaggio roared in frustration.
“Don’t let that stuff go to your head,” Frank said, trying to calm his friend down.
“Ruditsky,” DiMaggio said, pointing at the detective, “has a very reliable source who says Marilyn’s with her lover right now.”
“Now? Where are they?”
“In some apartments over on Waring,” Ruditsky butted in. “I told Joe I can go over right now, snap a few photos, and she’ll be up a creek when we go to court.”
“That ain’t good enough,” the athlete said, draining the drink Leon had served him.
Sinatra, DiMaggio, and Sanicola jumped up from the table. Ruditsky followed suit. The four of them, Jean learned later, got in the manager’s car and headed toward the apartments on Waring. It was a short drive, no more than five minutes at that late hour. They wanted to surprise Marilyn in the act. All they had to do was find the apartment—the one that faced the street, according to Ruditsky’s information. They got out in silence and walked toward the unlit entrance. They stood on both sides of the door. When no one opened up, DiMaggio took the bull by the horns and kicked the door down in a rage.
They went in ready to teach the lovers a lesson, and DiMaggio started first, pounding on one of the two people in the bed.
“It’s not her, it’s not her!” screamed Ruditsky, watching the girl jump out of bed and run off to hide in the bathroom. She was brunette, with long hair, and didn’t look a damn thing like Marilyn.
Meanwhile, an enraged Joe DiMaggio kept unloading his fury and frustration on his wife’s supposed lover, a chunky, bald guy who absorbed half a dozen punches from one of the strongest arms in the big league. The outfielder milked the moment for all he could, dealing out blows that cou
ld have torn a tree up by its roots.
When Sinatra realized their mistake, he ordered everyone to leave.
“Let’s get out of here!”
They had to drag out DiMaggio, who was blind with rage at the supposed adultery. Ruditsky was at a loss.
“I don’t know what happened . . .”
“Can it!” said Sinatra. “I don’t want to hear another word come out of your fucking mouth, otherwise I’ll sew it shut for you, got that?” The Voice was shooting fire out of his eyes.
They hurried back to Villa Capri. It was two in the morning and there wasn’t a soul on the road. Only two waiters were left in the restaurant. One of them was Jean Leon.
“What happened?” Leon dared to ask from behind the bar, where he was cleaning up when they barged back in.
Sinatra had an innate sense of whether or not he could trust a person. And he decided to confess what had happened.
“If anyone asks, we’ve been here all night, understand?” he said, confident the staff would take his side.
Soon enough, the police burst into Villa Capri, looking for anyone involved in an assault on a couple. The two people had reported four assailants—the very number of guests seated at the table where the police now stood. The bruised victim, standing between the officers, identified two of them right away. Sinatra and Joe DiMaggio were too well known to go unnoticed.
“Inspector,” Sinatra began in a conciliatory tone, “we’re a couple of good old friends who met here for a bite to eat, and as you can see, we were just headed out. Isn’t that right, boys?”
They all lied. The waiter and bartender, too, when the detectives questioned them. Leon took the initiative, and his account was apparently convincing. They still said he’d have to testify in court—but the trial wouldn’t start for quite some time, and since the accused had two witnesses speaking on their behalf while the accusers had none, the charge was eventually thrown out.
Stars in His Eyes Page 6