City of Myths

by Martin Turnbull

  “How did you pull that off?”

  “Confidence, posture, smile, makeup, hair, clothes, voice—you put it together and you—” she threw her arms out wide “—pop! But if you want to go unnoticed, you walk like someone who has no reason to fear getting recognized.” Marilyn dived into her pocketbook and pulled out a dark brown wig snipped into a pixie cut. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I don’t often get to walk around like Miss Anonymous.”

  Ten minutes later, with the cake mix in the Frigidaire and Marilyn in a pretzel-colored wig, they jaywalked across Crescent Heights Boulevard and headed along Sunset. Every passerby was preoccupied with their bag of groceries or energetic beagle straining at the leash and ignored her.

  “I tell Joe all the time: Walk like a nobody and you are a nobody, but he’s not willing to let me prove it. But if you ever meet him, don’t tell him I told you that. He’s super-private about everything. He doesn’t like me bringing up anything we’ve talked about with other people, so keep all this between us, okay? I called him paranoid once. Oh brother, that didn’t go over well.”

  They ambled past a line of old houses being razed to make way for apartments. By the time they were clear of it, Gwendolyn couldn’t bear the weight of her conscience any longer.

  “I have a confession to make. Zanuck wants me to report any information about you that I feel he ought to know.”

  Marilyn faced Gwendolyn with a thunderstruck look in her eye. “Spy on me?”

  “He balked at my use of the word ‘spy’ but yes, that’s the gist of it. But you and I have scarcely seen each other.”

  Marilyn lifted an overhanging honeysuckle vine to her nose. She breathed in deeply, hoping for some scent. “Do you think Betty Grable had to go through this nonsense? Or Alice Faye?”

  “I think they were more content to do what they were told.”

  “So this is the price I pay for having an opinion and the guts to express it?”

  They were heading into the commercial stretch of Hollywood Boulevard, where foot traffic was markedly busier. The lights turned green and they stepped off the curb.

  “What’ll we tell Zanuck the Panic?” Marilyn asked over the rumble of a passing bus. “You’ll need to throw him a bone sooner or later. What would convince him that you’re an obedient undercover agent?”

  “He’s all worked up over whether or not you’re marrying Joe.”

  Marilyn sank back into her I’m-a-little-nobody posture as they approached The Hollywood House of Radio and Television. NBC had recently broadcast the Tournament of Roses Parade in color, but Gwendolyn hadn’t seen it. Four TV sets lined up along the store window showed only a test pattern but it was arresting to see the vibrant colors.

  “Joe didn’t fly to San Francisco because he was in a huff over Playboy,” Marilyn said, glued to the circle with eight colored panels, “but to arrange our wedding.”

  The eye-catching display attracted the attention of a pair of sales clerks dressed in Kress’s five-and-dime uniforms. Gwendolyn nudged Marilyn along. “Congratulations.”

  “It’s next week.”

  “But surely you don’t want me to tell Zanuck that.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Marilyn sounded remarkably sanguine.

  “He’ll either sabotage it or turn it into a three-ring publicity circus.”

  “I want you to tell him, but wait until that morning. It’ll be too late for him to round up a truckload of reporters, but he’ll think you jumped on the blower as soon as you caught wind of it.”

  “Everybody wins.” Gwendolyn wished the public knew how savvy Marilyn truly was, but audiences preferred their baby-doll blondes to be stupid.

  They were at the newsstand now, where several copies of Playboy sat on display. The cover showed Marilyn sitting on white fur, wearing a black dress with a white collar and a neckline that plunged almost to her navel. Her mouth stretched into a mile-wide smile, she was waving like a beauty queen in a small-town parade.

  Marilyn pulled the lapels of her plain woolen coat around her neck and sank her chin toward her chest. “I’ll meet you inside.”

  The newsstand guy showed no surprise that a woman in her forties was buying a bachelor magazine. He slapped a copy into her left hand and took the two quarters she proffered in her right. Gwendolyn tucked it under her arm and stole into the restaurant.

  Marilyn was seated in the second rear-most table, the large menu propped up in front of her. Gwendolyn passed the magazine over. She studied the cover for a moment. “I think they’ve shaded my breast to accentuate the curve.”

  “It is called Playboy,” Gwendolyn pointed out.

  Marilyn flipped open the magazine to the lead article and read the headline out loud. “‘What makes Marilyn?’ That’s not even a complete sentence.”

  Gwendolyn pointed to the shot of Marilyn in a super-low-cut polka dot dress that made it look like her bust was about to spill out for all the world to see. “I doubt anybody’s checking for grammar.”

  The roar of traffic swelled as the door opened and two men stomped inside.

  Marilyn gave a little gasp. “Who’s that?”

  “Victor Mature.”

  “I mean his pal.”

  “The British guy from The Robe. Zanuck wants him to play the brother of John Wilkes Booth in Prince of Players, but he’s refusing. Pretty ballsy, huh?”

  The Robe was still drowning Fox in box office profits when Zanuck had offered Richard Burton a seven-year, seven-picture contract worth an astounding one million dollars. Hollywood had shaken its collective head when the Welshman turned him down and headed home to portray Hamlet at the Old Vic in London for a hundred and fifty pounds per week. They must have reached some sort of agreement, because Burton had returned to LA to start his contract.

  Judy Lewis was happy to share what she’d heard on the studio’s grapevine while Gwendolyn toiled on her mother’s gowns. Gwendolyn, in turn, passed the best of the bunch onto Kathryn, who always appreciated a juicy squib.

  After the red-jacketed waiter took their drinks order, they watched the stars of one of the biggest movies of the decade take over the room. These two didn’t have to glad-hand patrons like a pair of politicians running for the Senate. By sheer force of personality, Burton and Mature were a pair of lighthouses shining their incandescence over a sea of spellbound faces.

  “I think Joe is having me followed.”

  Lost in Burton’s mesmeric presence, Gwendolyn needed a moment to take in Marilyn’s admission. “Are you sure?”

  She pulled at the edges of her wig. “Call it a hunch.”

  “You don’t have to marry him, you know.”

  The waiter appeared with their martinis and asked if they were ready to order. Gwendolyn shooed him away.

  Marilyn stirred her olive stick with resigned disinterest. She pulled it out of her cocktail glass then prodded the olive stick in Burton’s direction. “I wish I could be more like him.”

  Burton and Mature sat halfway along the bar. It was a classic movie star move: force everyone’s attention and pretend you don’t care. They executed it with perfect nonchalance, but Gwendolyn wasn’t fooled. Of course they care. Everybody cares.

  Customers and staff alike watched Burton and Mature clink glasses and boom “BOTTOMS UP!”

  Clark Gable and his whole Mogambo safari could come thundering through here and nobody would notice.

  “Of course!”

  “Of course what?” Marilyn asked.

  “Clark Gable asked me to do him a favor and I’ve figured out how I can help him.” Gwendolyn picked up the menu. “What do you think? The Chicken en Casserole Parisienne, or the Smoked Beef Tongue?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Marcus chose a table in the sun outside Café Lombardia. He pulled out a pen and a postcard of the Spanish Steps.

  Dear Kathryn, I have taken an Italian lover! We just rode on his shiny black Vespa past these steps to a café on Via Veneto where we’ll order espresso macchiato and biscotti. Deli
zioso! And so is he!

  Domenico joined him at the table, all smiles and windswept hair. He spotted the postcard and smiled. “To your friend, Katerina?”

  Marcus wished he’d addressed the card Dear Katerina. He passed it across the table and placed their order.

  Domenico smiled. “I am delizioso?”

  “You are.”

  “Delizioso like espresso macchiato?”

  “More like a biscotti.”

  “Because I taste like almonds?”

  “Because you’re so hard I’m surprised I haven’t cracked a tooth.”

  The two men laughed. They did that frequently—it was one of the many blessings this fun-loving, joy-spreading, pleasure-seeking Italian had dropped into Marcus’s lap. His short-lived victory over the Conti brothers had taught Marcus to take happiness where he could find it.

  Ten grand was too much money to leave behind—not that he had seen a dime of it yet. So until the money came through, why not enjoy Rome and its delights: the food, the cafés, the history, the architecture—and my Italian lover.

  “Why do you smile?” Domenico asked.

  “I was wondering if you minded me describing you as ‘my Italian lover.’”

  “It is molto sexy. And it is the truth, no?” He ran his finger down Marcus’s arm. “And I am your lover, si?”

  Marcus nodded, and pulled away as the waiter arrived. The biscotti at the Café Lombardia were extra thick and extra long, leaving Marcus to wonder if perhaps he could break with tradition and dunk it into his coffee.

  He went to ask Domenico if such an act was considered tacky when he caught a familiar figure slinking along the sidewalk. Dressed in a white woolen skirt with a vibrant butterfly print under a teal swing coat, she twirled her patent leather purse around her wrist with the abandon of a well-dressed prison escapee.

  Marcus lifted his sunglasses. “Ava?”

  Ava Gardner let out a piercing squeal and swooped in for an embrace, enveloping him in Gwendolyn’s perfume. He breathed it in deeply. “Kathryn told me you were coming but not until the end of the month.”

  She dragged a seat from a neighboring table. “I had my reasons for leaving early.”

  A couple of times a week, Kathryn mailed off the latest Hollywood Reporter, and enclosed a letter detailing tidbits too salacious to print.

  She described the quarrel when Ava had told Frank that she’d accepted the lead in The Barefoot Contessa and would be shooting in Rome for the first three months of 1954. The spat had disintegrated into a shouting match at Chasen’s that ended with shattered glassware and broken crockery, rice pilaf sprayed across a neighboring table, and a champagne carpet stain the size of an LP record.

  Ava took measure of Domenico. “And who is this handsome specimen?”

  “Domenico Beneventi at your service, signorina.” He gently kissed the top of Ava’s hand.

  “Holy cannoli!” Ava turned to Marcus. “Hats off to you, baby.”

  “How long have you been here?” Marcus asked.

  She ordered a Campari from a passing waiter. “A few days.”

  “Enjoying the peace and quiet?”

  “Chasen’s has seen worse.” Ava lit up a Lucky Strike and sent him a deprecating smirk. “We’re in Rome, you’re in love, Campari is cheap—why talk about that scrawny little shit? Tell me, Marcus, what’s this I heard about you being a—a—what’s the word? Scatinski? Scattalini?”

  “Scattino,” Domenico said. “Marcus is molto famoso.”

  “Get outta here!”

  “I’m hardly famous.”

  Domenico slapped a hand on Marcus’s back. “After he photographed Sophia Loren, everybody in Rome says, ‘Who is this mysterious scattino?’ And then Marcus, he took some photos of Ingrid Bergman—”

  “I saw that cover!”

  “Now everybody knows Lo Scattino Americano.”

  “Stop!” Marcus swatted Domenico’s arm. He took any opportunity to touch the man.

  Ava tapped a fingertip against her chin with a slow, purposeful rhythm. “How about you take a scattino photo of me? Right now!”

  “I’m sure Joe Mankiewicz will have plenty of opportunities for you to pose—”

  “This is for Cranky Frankie. He accused me of accepting Barefoot Contessa so that I’d have a chance at schtupping Rossano Brazzi. He said to me, ‘You’ve obviously got a thing for wops. Three months oughta give you plenty of time to lure him between the sheets. And if you flunk out, you’ll have a whole city chock full of drooling wops to choose from.’”

  “I can see why you want to punch out the lights of your husband,” Domenico said.

  Marcus was impressed with Domenico’s command of English, but the ways he mangled it brought a smile to Marcus’s lips.

  “Is there a park around here?” Ava asked. “Lots of trees and shrubs?”

  “The grounds of the Villa Borghese are close by.”

  “Got your camera on you?”

  Marcus had trained himself to always carry it with him. “I smell mischief.”

  Ava looked into the sky. “I’d say we have about an hour of sun left.”

  * * *

  She spotted a thicket of umbrella pines surrounded by a ring of citrus trees. “Perfect!”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I’ll teach him to accuse me of wanting to seduce Rossano goddamned Brazzi!”

  “The man is handsome,” Domenico pointed out.

  “That’s beside the point.”

  They arrived at the ring of lemon trees alternating with orange that stretched twelve feet across and ensured absolute privacy. Somewhere between Café Lombardia and this quiet little nook, Marcus had warmed to Ava’s idea. He was determined to return home with his Metropolitana nest egg intact. Epoca had paid him generously for the Bergman shots, so how much would they shell out for titillating photos of an American actress fresh off her Academy Award nomination for Mogambo?

  He pictured Emilio Conti sneering at him. Lo Scattino Americano. “You know who will hate this?” he asked Domenico.

  “I do.”

  “Who are we talking about?” Ava asked.

  “A prick named Emilio Conti,” Marcus told her. “He’s Scattino Number One around here.”

  “He was,” Domenico said, “until Sophia Loren and Ingrid Bergman. Epoca will be dancing with the joy over these photos, but Emilio will be furious like if you got to La Speranza first.”

  “Who is La Speranza?” Marcus asked.

  “She was in one of our big Roman Empire films. It was a success, so she got another movie and it did better. Her next film earned the biggest box office. We saw her everywhere but now she likes to play the mystery woman, like La Garbo. If you can get a photograph of La Speranza, it will make you the most famous scattino in Rome. Conti will hate that.”

  Marcus removed the lens cap from his camera. “What about up against that tree?”

  Ava let her coat slump to her feet. She cocked a leg against the tree trunk and pulled Domenico against her.

  “Put your right arm over my head,” she directed him. “Grab my ass with your left hand and don’t be shy.” Domenico stifled a giggle as he followed her instructions. “Angle your head away from the camera.”

  Marcus lifted his Leica. “Can I point out that Mank might not like this? It could have repercussions for his movie.”

  “I’m playing a poor girl turned man-eating diva, so this plays into the entire scenario. The possibility of causing Frank to spontaneously combust from jealousy is purely coincidental.”

  Marcus stood back to survey the tableau. “If you want to convince Frank, I suggest hitching your skirt. Or better still, Domenico, hitch it up for her, preferably as high as her panties.”

  “Who says I’m wearing any?” Ava laughed when Domenico jerked his hand away. “Relax, my European paramour. I am. Today.”

  Domenico pushed Ava’s butterfly skirt up her leg. When a hint of lace showed, Marcus pressed his eye to the viewfinder. “St
op! Before I get jealous.”

  * * *

  Ten days later, Marcus walked onto the Cinecittà studio lot with a copy of Epoca magazine rolled in his hand. He ran his eye down the blackboard inside the gates until he saw that Barefoot Contessa was filming on Stage Five.

  The elaborate set of columns, arches, and frescoes was every bit as impressive as anything Hollywood could produce. At the center stood an artist’s studio reaching two stories high. A life-sized sculpture of Ava’s character stood on a pedestal, and to its right, resplendent in a sheer white gown of billowing gauze, Ava sat on a director’s chair with Bogie on one side and Bacall on the other.

  Marcus jiggled the magazine between his fingertips until Ava spotted him. She let out a scream when she saw the cover photo of herself, leaning against an umbrella palm, her head thrown back, her lips parted in an orgiastic moan as Domenico kissed her throat.

  “Show me! Show me!”

  Marcus hadn’t seen Bogie since the shooting of Sirocco during his brief career as an extra, so he and Bogie and Lauren had some catching up to do. Soon they were bombarding him with recommendations for cafés, restaurants, and bars.

  Ava pointed to the caption stamped across the bottom: IL SUO AMANTE ITALIANO MISTERIOSO. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

  “Her mysterious Italian lover.”

  She let out a whoop that brought Joe Mankiewicz onto the set. She showed him the magazine. “Frank’s going to flip his toupée when I send it to him anonymously.”

  “Save yourself the postage,” Mank said. “He’s already seen it. Epoca tried to sell the rights to Look. They were too spicy so they said no, but Confidential said yes. They’re causing a sensation. And you’re right—Frank has well and truly flipped his toupée. I just got off the phone from ten minutes of his caterwauling.”

  This news set Ava off into a laughing jag. “This is all too, too priceless!” She could barely wring the words out. “It couldn’t be better if I’d planned it myself.”

  Mank examined the cover a little more closely. “Whoever took those photos has a great eye.”