Seeing his wine served at the banquet for the incoming president of the United States catapulted Jean Leon’s career. After the inauguration, Reagan even issued him a special license plate with the tag JLEON so that he could access any of the federal buildings in DC, including the White House, without problems.
Reagan wasn’t the first president Jean Leon had served. The late John Fitzgerald Kennedy and Lyndon Baines Johnson, as well as Richard Nixon and Gerald Ford, had been his guests. But there was no doubt about it: this was a very special order. For five days, all the Hollywood stars and the rich oil magnates from out West would mingle in the bars, hotels, and inner chambers of DC with Republican politicians who’d come from all over the country to celebrate one of their own making it into the White House.
On the banks of the Potomac, the Kennedy Center hosted performances by Les Brown, Lou Rawls, Tony Bennett—and that was just the tip of the iceberg. At the Sheraton, Ray Charles, Patti Page, Wayne Newton, and the Mills Brothers would all be playing. Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller, and Count Basie would trot out their repertory for the many parties that had been organized all over Washington.
Expectations ran so high that the president’s inauguration was broadcast on live TV. The gala was produced, directed, and presented by someone who knew and commanded the scene like none other: Frank Sinatra. The president’s table, set for eight, was in the center, the others arranged around it in circles.
At the rehearsal, Jean watched the master of ceremonies directing everything with his natural grace. Sinatra was at the top of his form. He would ascend to the stage where the orchestra was, then come back down, explaining to the lighting and sound technicians how to best cover each speech and performance. He was, no doubt about it—apologies to Johnny Carson—the best master of ceremonies of all time.
Organizing that event helped Sinatra regain the trust of the White House—this time, a Republican White House. In 1961, the actor and singer had overseen JFK’s inaugural gala. He had been a committed Democrat, but after being cold-shouldered by Kennedy for his supposed mafia connections, Sinatra started leaning more to the right.
Reagan gave him the last nudge he needed when he intervened with the Nevada Gaming Commission on his behalf. After losing his gambling license in 1963 in the fallout from the Giancana affair, he was applying for a renewal to become the entertainment consultant for Caesars Palace. Reagan wrote a letter to the commission supporting Sinatra, whom he described as an upright and honorable person. When Reagan put in writing that the rumors about Sinatra were just that, and that there had never been any solid proof of mafia ties, he won Sinatra’s support. And now Reagan was in Washington, and the new president had entrusted the Voice with organizing a very special party to celebrate his induction into the White House.
Jean remembered how Sinatra’s magnetism had seduced him in his Villa Capri days. When they saw each other from across the room at the rehearsal, they gave each other a brief wave. They’d made peace a long time ago now, and everything was fine between them.
A huge swath of the Hollywood elite would file past hours later, dressed to the nines, as protocol demanded. From Charlton Heston to William Holden, Elizabeth Taylor, Burt Reynolds, Glenn Ford, Robert Stack, Patti Page, and Kirk Douglas. Jean regretted that Dick Powell, the man who had pulled strings to make it all possible, couldn’t come watch Reagan take office, but a terrible cancer prevented him from being there.
Jean had lots of work to do that night, and he decided to leave off with the feelings and reminiscences, even though the music was giving him goose bumps. It wasn’t just any old melody—for Reagan, it had a special meaning. The trumpets, trombones, french horns, and tuba gave the piece an imperial air: it was music to greet the arrival of a new president, and it encouraged the listener to join in. The entire audience stood.
The National Symphony Orchestra welcomed the president with a suite Erich Wolfgang Korngold had composed for the soundtrack to Kings Row, the film that had been Ronald Reagan’s high point as an actor. Leon knew how moved the president must feel. He had no doubt that beneath Reagan’s dapper tuxedo, he was shivering at the memory of a movie that would mark his entire career.
Leon saw Reagan take the hand of Nancy, who wore a white dress of needlepoint lace and satin with precious stones, one of her shoulders elegantly and suggestively uncovered. She wore matching white satin gloves that ran up her forearms to the elbows. Her shoes and handbag, the latter encrusted with jewels, gave her a regal appearance. To Leon, she looked like a queen, a Republican queen, and no one could take their eyes off her.
As the last bars of the music died out, the president and the First Lady reached their table. Before sitting down, they waved to the applauding attendees. Sinatra grabbed the reins, and the first dishes emerged from the kitchen under Jean Leon’s supervision. Off in a discreet corner where he wouldn’t bother the guests during that momentous occasion, he was surprised to find himself suddenly the center of attention.
“Today I raise a glass to toast the future of this country,” Sinatra proclaimed. “And I want you all to know, you’re doing it with an excellent wine. A wine made by my old friend Jean Leon, so let’s give him a warm round of applause.”
The public responded with a long ovation. Then, with his typical roguish smile, Sinatra couldn’t help but add:
“By the way, Jean, I’ll never forgive you for opening La Scala and competing with me! That’s why I had to open Puccini, to stop you!”
The guests broke out into warm laughter. Leon laughed, too, and shook his head, marveling that despite all the years that had passed, Sinatra still hadn’t gotten over the fact that Jean had been more successful in the high-end-restaurant world. It hadn’t been a betrayal, and Jean knew Sinatra had forgiven him. Now the singer incited everyone to stand and raise their glasses.
“A glass of wine to celebrate the past, to enjoy the present, and to toast the future.”
Because dreaming is free, and I still have a lot of dreams to make come true, Leon added to himself, convinced his story wasn’t yet over.
EPILOGUE
The Port of Le Havre, France, January 1981
Life went on at La Scala and away from it, too.
After the presidential ball, Jean felt driven to face new challenges, find new motivations. Santa Monica, Hollywood, LA, the US were all becoming too small for him. Penedès and Barcelona weren’t enough, either. He wanted to go further. But he was dogged by that feeling of incompleteness, of eternal dissatisfaction, and he knew that before he opened a new door, he would have to close others behind him.
There were six famous names that had marked him forever: James Dean, Frank Sinatra, Marilyn Monroe, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Elizabeth Taylor, and Ronald Reagan. Four actors—well, five, counting Ronnie—and two presidents. Then there were Uncle Ramón, his cousin Julio, the Buenavida family. His two ex-wives, his children, and a winery with his name. Not to mention the Carrión family. But there was still one old, lingering debt, and the time had come to pay it.
He knew where to start looking. He had a name (and maybe even that was false), the memory of a tattoo, and a place. He went alone. It had been thirty-two years since that summer of 1949, and in that time, the port of Le Havre had been rebuilt. Jean walked over the promenade by the sea, with its views of leisure boats and merchant vessels. It was a beautiful, luminous stroll that led all the way to the loading docks. He repeated his inquiries tirelessly: to the stevedores young and old, to the maintenance staff, to anyone who seemed part of the ecosystem of the port.
All he needed was a hint, a little clue, a maybe. No luck. His life had been full of unexpected twists and turns, times when fate had smiled on him. Why couldn’t it happen once more? It was just a matter of insisting, of persevering, of not giving up . . . of not complaining. And of being in the right place at the right time.
Leon was convinced he would find that man. Joe. The sailor who had helped him cross the Atlantic as a stowaway on the Liberté.
&nb
sp; They told him to try at the Maison de la Mer, but it turned out to be closed. He left Quai de Southampton and walked down the surrounding streets. His steps took him to the Rue Georges Braque. He walked into La Taverne Paillette. He liked the traditional look of the outside, and the interior didn’t disappoint him in the least.
Like a good restaurateur, the first things he took note of weren’t the sights, but the scents, the feeling the place gave off. Here, you could breathe calmly. The decor gave him a feeling of trust, of comfort and peace. Then he regarded the other details: the order, the cleanliness, the people who would take care of him. The first impression, the one that counted, had satisfied him. His eyes grew moist. He remembered Donna and their conversation years ago, when La Scala was first opening, about what was most important for a restaurant to succeed. You’ve got to take care of the details, the things people don’t see, she had said.
A tall, lanky waiter came to meet Jean with a smile, and invited him to sit at a table. Leon thanked him with a nod. The kid laid out the menu and the wine list and made a gesture that suggested he’d be back soon to take Jean’s order. Jean took out his glasses and read the dishes and wines on offer. Seafood, local sausages with sauerkraut, escargot, salads. In the end, he decided on an old favorite, moules au Roquefort: mussels with blue cheese, parsley, and fried potatoes, a classic, but hard to find in America. Most of the customers were drinking beer—the place had its house brand—but he opted for a wine from Alsace, a Zind Humbrecht Riesling, not too dry, not too sweet, a perfect pairing for the sharpness of the Roquefort.
After the meal, when he was sipping his coffee, the waiter ventured a question.
“Excuse me, sir, you’re not from here, are you?”
“No, I’m American.”
“Ahhh, American. On vacation?”
“More or less. Actually, I’m looking for someone.”
“Someone from here, from Le Havre?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” The waiter’s face showed his confusion.
“Yeah, I know, it’s strange.” He smiled, realizing it was difficult to understand. “I came here on a hunch with nothing solid to back it up. But there’s something that tells me this person may have stayed here.”
“What makes you think that, monsieur?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing at all. I don’t have a clue. I know it’s crazy, but I just thought I’d find him here.”
“Oh, it’s not a woman?”
“No,” Leon replied with a smile. “No, no. A man,” he clarified. “A sailor, someone who was very important to me.”
“Ah, bon!” the kid replied, thinking he’d already asked too many questions. “Ask Mr. Taylor.” He pointed toward the bar.
There, drinking a beer, seated at a barstool, was a man in a faded green military field jacket, bent over slightly, his cap pulled down low. Jean was shaken. He was a sailor, dark skinned, with piercing eyes. It’s unlikely, but it’s not impossible. His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he thought, Could it be him?
The man downed his drink, and as he placed the bottle on the bar in front of him, Jean caught his eye.
“Can I have a word with you?” Jean asked the man in a scratchy voice.
“As you wish,” the man replied.
“Can I get you another? A beer, maybe? Would you join me?” Jean gestured to the empty seat at his table, looking Mr. Taylor over closely as the sailor raised the bill of his cap in agreement.
The man had a hard time getting down from the barstool. It took a few slow, heavy movements for him to drag himself from the bar to Jean Leon’s table. The sailor touched his thigh and sighed deeply.
“This leg has been my perdition,” he said, frowning with pain.
“What happened?” Jean asked.
“Let’s say it’s a keepsake from my years at sea.”
Jean was unsettled. His nerves made him excited and impatient. The old sea wolf in front of him began to talk, telling him stories about other immigrants like Jean. He said that in his day, he had helped lots of young Italians and Spaniards make it to America. It wasn’t for nothing that thousands dreamed of making it to the port of Le Havre to cross over to the Promised Land, to live their dreams of finding work and a place where they could have a future.
“I said to myself, who am I to wreck another person’s dreams?” the sailor told him. He opened his arms, looking like an immense albatross beating its wings over the sea. “Life has its share of ups and downs, and it’s hard to get through them. So I told myself I’d help those poor souls as much as I could. There were lots of sailors like me who wouldn’t tell if they found a stowaway or two. We’d hide them and take care of them until they reached their destination.”
He paused, as if sifting through his memories. “I used to always think about how, if I was in their shoes and the chips were down, I’d hope I could meet someone with a little humanity, who’d treat me like a person and not just some package you can throw overboard because . . .” He took a sip of the beer the waiter had left on the table. “Just think, that’s what happened to some of the poor guys when they ran into crew members who didn’t think like we did.”
“They’d just throw them into the sea and not think twice about it?” Jean asked.
“Yeah, yeah, it was that bad. I saw it happen more than once, and there was nothing I could do,” the sailor confessed. They sat there in silence.
Jean Leon thought how he would give anything to see if the man’s forearm sported that tattoo: a ship surrounded by a thick rope, an eagle above, with outstretched wings, and below, an anchor with that phrase, forever etched in his memory, though at the time he hadn’t understood the words. But with the man’s turtleneck sweater and green field jacket, it was unlikely he’d get the chance.
Jean had had to flee his country, his family, against his will. He hadn’t protested. He hadn’t complained. He’d had to do it, there was no way around it. He’d had to go in search of the future, a dream that wouldn’t have been possible for him if he’d stayed.
The sailor grunted and kept talking.
“I had a couple of partners who shared that same philosophy; we had a kind of unspoken deal, and we all took an oath. What makes a person strong is knowing how to keep a secret. If you can’t keep a secret, you’re lost. Especially on a boat.”
When Jean heard those words, he couldn’t help but ask, “Really?” Then, with a trembling voice, “You know something? All this . . .” He almost couldn’t get the words out. “All this you’re telling me is the same thing that sailor said to me. He knew how to keep a secret, like you, and he saved me.”
Mr. Taylor laughed.
“I told you, those of us who felt that way . . .” He trailed off.
“Could I ask you a favor?” Jean’s voice was full of excitement.
“Of course,” the sailor answered with a surprised expression.
“Would you mind rolling up your sleeve?” He had to try and calm himself, because his heart was pounding out of his chest.
“As you wish.” And as he began to do so, he warned Jean, “But I gotta tell you, what you’re going to see ain’t nothing pretty.” Then he added, “Can I ask why?”
Jean, whose eyes were centered on that sleeve getting shorter and shorter under the sailor’s hand, stayed silent, not listening, just holding his breath.
The rolled-up sleeve revealed a bare forearm, its skin aged and scarred. Jean’s face showed his deep disappointment.
“I told you that you wouldn’t like what you saw,” the sailor continued. “It’s from a fire we had on board years ago. I got bad burns on my arms and back. It reached all the way down into the cabins. It was a miracle we survived!” the man remembered.
That revelation brought the shine back to Jean Leon’s eyes. If he’d had a tattoo there, the fire would have obliterated all trace of it.
“What do you care about my forearm anyway?” the sailor asked.
“I wanted to see if you had a tattoo . .
. ,” Leon admitted, slightly embarrassed. “The guy who helped me had one I’ve never forgotten.”
“Ah, the tattoo!” the sailor repeated, smiling. “Yeah, I had one. Actually, we all did. It was our way of picking each other out.”
“Excuse me?” Leon asked, perplexed.
“The tattoo, I mean. It was the symbol of the Brothers of the Sea. That’s what I wanted to tell you, we felt we had a duty to help out people trying to get across, so we formed a kind of brotherhood. On almost every ship there were some of us, and our numbers increased every day. Since some people didn’t see things our way, we needed a way to distinguish ourselves, and we ended up settling on some lines from a sailor-poet, Luther Ripley, who worked on the Tiger, a whaling ship, in the nineteenth century. It was perfect. Growl you may, but go you must! Every time we found a stowaway, those of us in the brotherhood would meet eyes and touch our arm where we had the tattoo. And that meant we had to act.”
“So you were one of the Brothers of the Sea?”
“Yes, I was,” the sailor replied firmly.
Just as he was about to ask the man’s name, Mr. Taylor began to pull the conversation in other directions. Instead of pressing the matter further, Leon let him talk. There was no point in trying to figure out if the man in front of him was Joe, the man who thirty years before had made it possible for his dream to become reality. The man didn’t want to go into it, and Jean respected that. Maybe Jean wasn’t ready to know the truth about him, either.
Their chat stretched on over a few more beers and coffees, until Jean decided it was time to go. They took leave of each other with a handshake, and as Jean Leon walked out of the restaurant, he couldn’t help but think that by tying up those loose ends, with all the coincidences that had come up in his conversation with Mr. Taylor, maybe he really had found Joe. Why not? If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all these years, it’s that anything’s possible.
Stars in His Eyes Page 19