Thus Bad Begins

by Javier Marías

  Anyway, when Muriel stopped filming in order to talk to me and hear my report, the rest of the team dispersed, apart from Lom, who, after he and I had been introduced, did not move, but stayed where he was, perhaps so as not to lose his concentration. He took a cigarette out of his cigarette case, inserted it into a holder that he removed from its own tiny box and began smoking with an elegance that seemed to belong to another age. His successful career had come to a halt towards the end of the 1960s, and he had fallen into the hands of Inspector Clouseau (bringing to life Clouseau’s crazed boss in the various sequels to The Pink Panther), and into the hands of Towers and even those of Jess Franco (he had appeared in the latter’s lesbian-prison fantasy 99 Women and in Count Dracula, which no one really thinks of as being the best version). Muriel, however, considered him to be a great artist and treated him with enormous respect (‘He’s worked with Vidor and Huston, with Mackendrick, Kubrick and Anthony Mann, with Dassin and Carol Reed,’ he would exclaim, enraptured). According to what I’ve heard, he was also an extremely cultivated man and had written a novel about Marlowe, to whom, as Rico had kindly informed me, some had attributed both a fake death and the entire works of Shakespeare. And so as not to be rude to the actor and leave him out of the conversation, unable to understand a word, my boss asked me to give my report in English, having first said to me in Spanish: ‘After all, he won’t know what we’re talking about and, even if he did, it wouldn’t matter, but, as long as he remains here in our company, I don’t want him to feel excluded or sidelined.’ ‘Couldn’t you ask him to leave us alone or couldn’t we just go somewhere else?’ I asked apprehensively. ‘It’s going to seem very artificial, you and me speaking in English, and I’m not that used to speaking English, you know.’ Muriel had made films in America, whereas I had made only a few brief visits to England.

  Despite his short stature, I found Lom’s presence intimidating, even terrifying, and not just because of the fear he had provoked in me as a child in the darkness of a cinema (I remembered him in a hat in North West Frontier with Lauren Bacall and Kenneth More, again playing a treacherous fanatic). His eyes were as glacial as they were magnetic, so intensely cold as to be almost troubling. His very thin upper lip (completely out of proportion with his rather plump lower lip) was clearly one of the weapons he used to radiate the air of sardonic cruelty that remained intact even though he was, by then, sixty-something years old. And yet he appeared very affable and friendly, and, having given his vehement fictional peroration, he seemed relaxed and contented, with a cigarette in one hand and, in the other, an android-green silk handkerchief, with which he was playing almost as if he were a magician. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that, boy.’ And Muriel shot me a chiding glance with his one eye. ‘It’s about time you learned some manners, Juan. Show some respect for the great man. Come on, we haven’t got much time before shooting begins again. But don’t leave out any important details. Come on, tell me.’ And to give me my cue in English, he added: ‘So, tell me, Juan.’ He shifted easily into English, as I had seen him do before with Palance and Towers.

  And I did my best to relay to him my conversation with Van Vechten. Now and then, I would turn to Lom, so as not to exclude him and as if this were also his business. What we were talking about would have been of no interest whatsoever and wouldn’t even have made much sense, but I noticed that he was nevertheless paying close attention, as though he were one of those very alert individuals, incapable of not paying attention to whatever was going on around him, and interested in any story or conversation. Perhaps he was one of those actors who absorb everything, just in case it might be of use later on. When it came to reporting the Doctor’s final words to Muriel, those that had seemed of possible relevance to the investigation, I translated them clumsily into English and then asked permission to repeat them in Spanish, apologizing beforehand to the eminent Mr Lom, who, to me, was still Ben Yusuf and Napoleon:

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Lom, but at this point, what the friend we’re talking about said was somewhat ambiguous and complicated, and it would be best if I gave Mr Muriel the actual Spanish.’

  Herbert Lom waved his handkerchief in the air in a gesture of largesse and generosity, so extravagantly in fact that it touched my nose, making me sneeze, not once but three times.

  ‘No, of course, go ahead,’ he said, adroitly avoiding these explosions and waiting until I had stopped. ‘It’s all very interesting, I must say. But, please, Juan, feel free.’

  He had caught my name first time. I felt very honoured and, given his cinematographic antecedents, rather troubled too. I had seen him treat people he was planning to kill with equal deference.

  Muriel looked concerned, or possibly discouraged or disappointed, when he heard the words his old friend had spoken. As if he would have preferred me to come back to him empty-handed, having made no progress, or to be able to reject what I had to say, which seemed, however, to affect him quite deeply.

  ‘Did he really say that?’ he asked in a gruff voice, seeking some opening for his incredulity. ‘He actually said, “Nothing gives one more satisfaction than when a girl doesn’t want to do it, but can’t say No”? Are you sure, Juan?’ Out of respect for Lom he was still speaking in English and translated those words more precisely than I had when I gave him my version.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure, Don Eduardo, I mean, Eduardo.’ The great actor’s presence prompted me to add the ‘Don’, which I hadn’t for a long time. I didn’t want him to think I was being overfamiliar with my employer. ‘I have a very good memory. Give or take a word, that’s exactly what he said. Does that clarify or illuminate anything as far as you’re concerned?’

  ‘Possibly. And what did you say? Did you try to draw him out? That’s what I told you to do, to encourage him to talk. That was obviously the perfect opportunity.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I told him I didn’t quite understand, I asked him what he meant by “resentment”. I asked him to explain.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. He burst out laughing and didn’t answer. And just then a niece of García Lorca’s joined us – she often goes to that same disco – and the conversation took a different direction. She’s half-American and has worked as a dancer in New York. She’s very pretty, a few years older than me. The Doctor couldn’t keep his eyes off her legs and he had a go at chatting her up, but I very much doubt he’ll get anywhere. She has a partner, a painter. And, to be honest, I didn’t want to return to the subject later in case it looked like I was being too nosey. Perhaps I should have persisted. But I think he’ll be more prepared to talk on another occasion if I don’t insist too much.’

  ‘All right, that’s enough,’ said Muriel somewhat dismissively, or perhaps he was merely distracted, weighed down by his own thoughts.

  Then I told him what I found most bewildering: how did Van Vechten manage to get anywhere with Maru or with my other girlfriends if he didn’t pay them or offer anything in exchange? This was a mystery to me. Muriel said nothing, as if he too were asking himself that same question. Or perhaps he was thinking about the past, perhaps his thoughts were focused on that.

  Seeing us both sunk in joint meditative silence, Herbert Lom intervened, with an elegant wave of his large handkerchief. This time it flicked my eye, and for a while I had to keep that eye closed, as if I had a speck of dust in it or, worse, some fierce insect. Or as if Muriel’s hard eyepatch had been placed over it.

  ‘Insofar as I have grasped the nature of the matter in hand,’ he said in his fine, deep voice, his eyes as sharp as nails, just as they were on the screen, ‘if this friend of yours, this Dutch doctor, neither pays for nor offers anything in exchange; if he neither promises nor tempts, then he must demand. There is, in principle, no other option.’

  Muriel and I looked at each other in surprise, we had assumed he wasn’t much interested in our conversation, even though we were, contra natura, speaking in English (my spoken English was only average at the time, though it improved subsequently). But
he had, it seemed, quickly grasped the situation. A bright, intelligent man, perhaps as fearsome as his characters, who had possibly been created simply so that he would play them.

  Muriel was about to speak, but I got in before him:

  ‘What do you mean, Mr Lom? Demand what?’ I don’t know how I dared question him so directly. He may have been short, but I still found him quite intimidating.

  ‘It’s obvious,’ replied this Lord of the B-movie, as if it went without saying. He threw his handkerchief in the air and caught it on his forearm, like a falconer receiving his returning falcon. It missed me this time, but I was beginning to grow weary of that android-green piece of cloth, or perhaps it was Nile green, which was fashionable that season, I had seen Professor Rico sporting ties and (rather smaller) handkerchiefs in that same colour, his handkerchief protruding from his top jacket pocket. ‘If someone wants something that the other person denies him, and he’s not prepared to offer anything or to pay for it, then he’s in a position to demand it. If that doesn’t work, then his one bargaining chip is silence.’

  I wasn’t following. Muriel, it seemed, was, because he asked:

  ‘So what the Doctor will have given in exchange is a promise not to do or say something that could prove detrimental to those women’s reputations. Is that what you mean, Herbert?’

  Lom had now tucked his silk handkerchief up his sleeve. Most of it, however, remained hanging out, like a waiter’s serviette, but at least he wouldn’t be able to unleash it on me again. He then made a sweeping gesture meaning Voilà, his floating handkerchief underlining the flourish. Kuchačevič ze Schluderpacheru was clearly a man of the world. And then he did actually say Voilà, as if he were quoting a piece of dialogue.

  ‘Voilà. If you give me what I want, I will say nothing and do nothing, and I will not harm you with what I could do or say.’ It had never occurred to me that this might be Van Vechten’s weapon or attitude, and I couldn’t imagine what he could possibly remain silent about with any of my female friends and acquaintances. Muriel, however, could, because he nodded sadly or perhaps resignedly. But then he knew what he was trying to find out about the Doctor, and I as yet did not.

  ‘This may, I fear, be the case here,’ he muttered. He appeared not to wish to say anything more.

  Herbert Lom, on the other hand, had perked up.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ he added, ‘and if he is a friend, let’s hope he isn’t mixed up with any activities such as those that caused our dear producer so many problems with the FBI. That’s all over now, of course, but, as you know,’ and he turned to Muriel this time, ‘it meant that he couldn’t visit America for twenty years. Or, rather, he avoided doing so, I assume because he would have been sent straight to jail if he’d so much as set foot there. These matters always end badly.’

  ‘Harry? Wanted by the FBI? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Herbert, nor what activities you’re referring to. Although, now you mention it, Jesús Franco did once say something of the kind. But tell me, what happened?’ Muriel’s anxiety had evaporated. His curiosity was aroused and proved to be the stronger emotion, after all, it’s always intriguing to learn that a semi-friend or false temporary friend (someone for whom you work and who pays you) is or was a fugitive from the FBI.

  It was clear that Herbert Lom liked to surprise people and to tell stories. He smiled with delight, and his thin upper lip vanished. He had doubtless mentioned this episode with the sole aim of telling us all about it.

  ‘Really? You didn’t know?’ And to justify his indiscretion, he added. ‘Well, now that he’s paid the fine and they’ve dropped the charges, I don’t suppose he would mind you knowing. Although, just in case, don’t tell him that you do. I don’t think he would care, I mean he’s often laughed about it with me, but one never knows. It’s also true that he has sometimes spoken with regret about not being able to establish himself in Hollywood because of that one mistake.’

  It was hardly surprising that Towers would have spoken about the affair to Jesús Franco or to Lom. He had produced eight or nine of Jesús Franco’s films, some of which were extremely erotic, and had collaborated with Lom on at least five occasions, this, the sixth, was never finished and never shown and appears in no filmography, as I discovered recently on the Internet: not in that of Muriel or Towers or Lom.

  ‘You have my word. Tell me, though, what happened?’ Muriel loved gossip, as long as it was lurid and interesting. In a matter of seconds, he had forgotten all about Van Vechten and was eager to hear about his producer’s criminal adventures. Towers was a very ordinary-looking man, with greying hair, a weak chin that threatened to become double, a broad, flat nose and very thick eyebrows darker than his hair. He would have been about sixty, and I had met him on a couple of occasions, but he had barely spoken to me. Not that this means anything, it’s what usually happens with secretaries and subalterns.

  ‘It is, needless to say, an incomplete, contradictory and confusing tale,’ said the man who had been Napoleon, and he lit another cigarette after first carefully inserting it in his cigarette holder, clearly pleased to have our full attention. ‘What I’ve gleaned (and not only from Harry himself) is that in 1960 or 1961, he took with him to New York a young half-Czech, half-English woman called Mariella Novotny, with whom he was having an affair. A very fleeting affair, needless to say. He had promised to help her build a career as a model in TV commercials; she was not, it would seem, a woman of high ambitions. By then, Harry was making his way in Hollywood, in Toronto and in New York, so he had plenty of American contacts. They stayed in a hotel where Mariella began to receive influential gentlemen from the world of politics and elsewhere, always at the urging of Harry and with him as intermediary, and also, later on, in the apartment that Harry shared with his mother – our producer has a most unusual mother. That at least is what Novotny told the FBI: that he had provided her with important clients, assuring her that pleasing them would help her in her modelling career; he was, in effect, acting as her procurer and keeping seventy-five per cent of what she earned from her various sexual acts, which, inevitably, included threesomes. She added that Harry was usually present, although it seems highly unlikely that any of those important partenaires would have agreed to that. (She resembled a slightly less voluptuous Anita Ekberg, in both face and body, and this doubtless contributed greatly to her success.) According to the FBI, when the couple were arrested, Harry was found hiding in a wardrobe, so maybe he was always a furtive presence. He, I need hardly say, denies it all.’ Herbert Lom gave a short laugh, which infected Muriel and, yes, why deny it, me too, for there was something intrinsically comic about the whole situation, or perhaps it was made amusing by the reborn Ben Yusuf’s comments. ‘One of Hoover’s undercover men used to attend some of the parties Mariella started to frequent.’ My cinematographic knowledge meant that I knew Hoover had been Head of the FBI. ‘True, Harry is a pathological liar, but, according to him, what alarmed Hoover was finding out that at one of these parties, Novotny had met – the first of several meetings – with Peter Lawford, President Kennedy’s brother-in-law and pimp.’ He used a rather more elegant term, calling him a ‘go-between’. ‘And things didn’t end there: at another party later on, in the apartment of the singer Vic Damone, no sooner was she formally introduced to Kennedy than Mariella was led into a bedroom where she had sex with him. Harry’s mythomania is quite insatiable, and he maintains that it was a case of coitus interruptus, because shortly after the two of them had disappeared into the bedroom, a tremendous ruckus broke out in the living room: Damone’s Asian girlfriend had shut herself in the bathroom where she had slashed her wrists, unsuccessfully of course. But the apartment emptied instantly, and the first to vanish was Kennedy, along with his small entourage and his bodyguard.’

  ‘Oh, I can believe that,’ said Muriel. ‘It’s a classic female ploy – locking themselves in the bathroom and slashing their wrists. The amazing thing is that they can almost never find their veins.’


  ‘Possibly,’ Lom responded politely, ‘but I wouldn’t know. There doesn’t seem to have been a single beautiful woman of the day who didn’t end up in bed with Kennedy. Or else in a swimming pool, a boat or a lift, it didn’t matter. If all those stories were true, he wouldn’t have had time to govern the country. Or even travel to Dallas, in which case, he might still be with us today. Harry, on the other hand, once showed me a copy of an internal memorandum about the Profumo affair from Hoover himself. In it he mentioned Mariella Novotny, adding in parentheses “see Kennedy Brothers file”. It also mentioned her “pimp Alan Towers”, and he very proudly, laughingly, showed me what it said about him: “He apparently now lives permanently behind the Iron Curtain. Novotny states that Towers was a Soviet agent and that the Soviets were collecting compromising information about certain prominent individuals.” Hmm,’ added Lom with an amused if sceptical smile, ‘it may be that the memorandum is apocryphal and was forged by Harry to impress his friends, he’s perfectly capable of doing that and more. Except that this was also exactly what Mariella told the FBI after she was arrested for soliciting, a charge that was mysteriously and instantly withdrawn, unlike the charges made against Harry for infringing the White Slave Traffic Act. They accused him of having brought Mariella from London to New York with the intention of prostituting her and profiting from her earnings. It was significant, too, that there was no mention in the press about the incident at Vic Damone’s party, despite the large number of witnesses and despite the presence of Hoover’s undercover man, who, it must be said, had a very pleasant job and was doubtless the one who ordered a colleague from his department to phone up (the conversation was recorded) and hire Maria’s services on the day she was arrested. This happened when she had just finished undressing for that FBI agent-cum-client in Harry and his mother’s apartment. According to our admired producer, he knew nothing about his protégée’s grubby activities and had no idea that she was a hooker.’ That was the word Captain Nemo chose to use. ‘He claims to have been quietly writing a script in the next room when the young woman burst in, stark naked, saying that there was a policeman in her bedroom. That is what he told the FBI and what he told me. He called himself ingenuous and stupid, but the FBI didn’t believe him, which is why he had to escape to England before the trial began, once he had been released on bail after spending a couple of weeks behind bars. He lost all his money and didn’t dare go back to America for years. Now, as I said, he’s sorted things out and will, at last, be able to return.’