The Moon’s a Balloon

by David Niven

  A lot of the time we spent planning our lives. Lefty and Norah had made up their tpinds to leave the suburbia of Greenwich for the real country. They had masses of places to choose from and plans and prospectuses went with us everywhere. Their hearts were more or less set on the little village of Tryon, North Carolina, nestling at the foot of the Smokey Mountains. There they had their eyes on a delicious low white frame farmhouse called Little Orchard.

  Tommy had more or less decided to follow a literary career and looked like installing himself in New York.

  I was the problem and much of the planning time was allotted to my future moves. A letter from Dennis SmithBingham decided them.

  Lefty’s stories of his time in Hollywood had fired my imagination. Then Tommy had stoked the fires. Now Dennis’s letter clinched it.

  Immediately after Atlantic City, he had left for California: ‘This is a great spot. Come out and see for yourself,’ he wrote. ‘I’ll find you a place to live.’

  Deep down I had a sneaking feeling that I might be able to make a go of it in the movies. Norah and Lefty urged me on when I broached the idea but Tommy was more forthright—‘Your legs are too big,’ he said.

  Big legs or not, at the end of July, I packed my worldly belongings in my suitcases and the Flynns, Tommy, Anthony and the Peanut came to see me off. I sailed on a dirty old freighter for Cuba.

  I had a week to wait in Cuba before the President Pierce sailed for the Panama Gulf and California.

  Havana enthralled me and I loved the gay jostling mobs but there was a strange undercurrent of uneasiness and much that I did not understand. A lot of heavily armed soldiers were about and almost as soon as I arrived I witnessed a very brutal arrest.

  One night in Sloppy Joe’s Bar, I met an Irishman. He explained what was going on. The power behind President Mendieta was his Chief of Staff, Batista—‘a ruthless bastard’ according to my informant. ‘He won’t even let them have an election.’ The Irishman was fascinating and, I think, a little mad. I met him every evening. He tried to sell me the idea of becoming a soldier of fortune with him and joining some strange group who were forming ‘to fight for the rights of the people’.

  One night, on my way to Sloppy Joe’s, an English voice spoke to me from a doorway near the entrance to my cheap hotel.

  ‘May I have a word with you?’ The man was about 35 and wore a white linen suit.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You hold a British passport do you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m from the British Embassy—how long are you planning to stay here?’

  ‘I’m sailing on the President Pierce, the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. I hope you’ll do just that. You’ve been seen with a man whom the local authorities don’t view too highly. We got the word from them this morning. I suspect you have been followed, because they told me where to find you. Take my tip, don’t miss that ship.’

  He refused to join me for a drink and hurried away. I avoided Sloppy Joe’s that night and was the first in line when the gangway of the President Pierce was lowered.

  When travelling I have always lived in the hope that I will find myself seated on planes next to the most beautiful girl. It never happens. Usually it is a mid-European business man who spreads himself over my seat and smokes a foul cigar.

  I knew I would be sharing my cabin on the President Pierce with someone and I prayed that the agents might have slipped up and that I would find myself with one of the several attractive ladies I noticed going through the Immigration. My room mate turned out to be an Indian male—a Red Indian male but this was no lean copper-coloured warrior, mine was about two hundred and fifty pounds of pure blubber and he smelled like a badger. According to the purser, he had just become a millionaire because oil had been found on a small plot of land he owned in Oklahoma.

  The President Pierce had started her cruise in New York so by the time I joined her everyone was more or less acquainted and I was the new boy in the school. Most of the passengers were elderly but there was a few families headed for Panama and California. It came as a rude shock when I realised the ship was ‘dry’. I was fascinated by the passage through the Canal and at Panama, where we spent a day, I went ashore and played golf in a thunderstorm.

  The smell of hot Indian was so overpowering in my cabin that I regularly slept in a deck chair behind a funnel.

  I spent a great deal of time and energy avoiding the cruise director, a man who looked and behaved like a gamesmistress.

  ‘Come, come,’ he would say, clapping his hands. ‘Who’s for shuffle board…we don’t want to get ‘pepless’ do we? You look like a perfect ping-pong type’, he said to me, just as I was settling down to a good book. ‘This is Miss Weyhauser from Toledo, Ohio. ‘She’ll give you a good game…come…come…’

  Miss Weyhauser had a small brother of nine and he became the bane of my existence—a really horrid little boy who wore white plus-fours, a white shirt with a red bow tie and a white peaked cap with a pom-pom on the top of it. His name was Cyrus—Cy for short—he never left my side. He was intrigued by my ‘English accent’ and followed me round all day saying, ‘Pip-pip, old chappie. Jolly good show—what! any teabags anyone…?’

  His father, not surprisingly, was a Hollywood scriptwriter.

  Finally, after several warnings, I hit him. I was playing ping-pong with his sister and when Cyrus was not picking up the ball and throwing it overboard, he was pinching my bottom and crying out ‘The Redcoats are coming,’ so I let him have one really hard with the flat of my hand. It made a noise like a pistol shot. Everyone looked up from their chairs to find Cyrus lying on the deck holding the side of his face, and pointing and howling, ‘The Limey hit me! The Limey hit me!’

  Miss Weyhauser took a backhander at me with her ping-pong racquet and said, ‘Oh! how dare you strike a child!’ The cruise director materialised as if by magic.

  ‘Well, we all thought you were a gentleman,’ he swished off and picked up the blubbering little brute and cradled him in his arms.

  That night the cruise director said he-thought it might be a nice gesture if I apologised publicly to Cyrus and his mother after dinner. I had nothing to lose; no one was speaking to me anyway, so in the lounge, I stood up and asked for attention. I said that I was really sorry that it had happened and begged them all not to think it was typical of my race. ‘I am an orphan,’ I said. ‘I was abandoned in a cemetery by my mother when I was a few weeks old. I never knew who my father was. I was brought up by the parson but he drank the Communion wine and beat me every Sunday night.’ I went on along those lines. I was good—there was no question, and as I warmed to my work, I saw several good ladies sniffling and taking out their handkerchiefs. I began to wonder if my trip to Hollywood might perhaps not be in vain.

  I sat down to rapturous applause. My apology was accepted with smug bad grace by Cyrus and his mother and for the remaining days of the voyage, he redoubled his efforts to annoy me. I got even with the little sonofabitch on the day we docked at San Pedro.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Cy, about what happened,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, that’s okay, Limey, forget it.’

  ‘No really Cy, to show there’s no hard feelings, come and have an ice cream soda with me.’

  ‘Okay.’

  We sat on two stools at the only bar in the ship.

  ‘Banana split with cream?’

  ‘Okay.’ Then a little later, ‘How about a chocolate sundae with pistaccio nuts?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘A nice prune whip and caramel sauce?’

  ‘Okay.’

  I must say it was an expensive revenge. He was a veritable human disposal, but finally, after about seven mountainous concoctions his colour began to change.

  His mother’s last–minute packing must have been very interesting. Dennis had cabled that he would meet the ship and there he was with a beautiful golden-haired girl: I recognised her at once as Sally Blane, a fast-rising yo
ung star of the movies.

  The usual shipboard reporters were sniffing around for stories. They spotted Sally and I found myself improvising about the pony racing and my plans. The next day, there was a picture of me in the Los Angeles Examiner with the caption—

  BRITISH SPORTSMAN ARRIVES, PLANS TO BUY OVER A HUNDRED HEAD OF POLO PONIES.

  Sally was marvellous, endowed with a lovely open face. ‘It’s all arranged,’ she said. ‘Mom’s got a room for you. You are going to come and visit with us till you find somewhere to live:

  Mrs. Belzer was Sally’s mother and with her three other daughters she lived in a charming colonial style house on Sunset Boulevard between Holmby Hills and Westwood.

  On the drive up from San Pedro, we passed first through oil fields and citrus groves, then we stayed on the Coastal Highway with the endless sandy beaches and pounding Pacific surf on the left. In the distance, were the high hills behind Los Angeles and far away to our right, the snowy top of Mount Baldy.

  Mrs. Belzer was a beautiful woman, wonderfully sweet and seemingly vague with an impeccable taste in antique furniture. The girls all worshipped her.

  When I met the others I gaped. They were all spectacular beauties. Blonde Georgiana was the youngest, only about eleven. Polly Ann Young, an excellent and successful actress, was the oldest, probably twenty-two, a glowing brunette. Then there was Gretchen. Gretchen was already a big movie star and her working name of Loretta Young was known all over the world. There has never been in my experience such a beautiful family to look at, and the beauty came from within because each and every one of them was filled with concern for others, and kindness, and generosity.

  They have never changed.

  It was impossible to lie to people like these so when Dennis, a few days later, left suddenly for England, I confessed one night to Mrs. Belzer and the girls that I was hoping to break into movies. I felt an idiot doing it in front of three already established professionals but they took it in their stride and took great care not to put me off by telling me too many facts that I was soon to discover for myself.

  The next day I got my first taste of a major studio. Loretta was making a picture at Fox, something about hospital nurses and it was arranged that when the family car came to fetch her in the evening, I would be smuggled past the eagle-eyed police at the gate lying on the floor under a rug. Once inside the gate it was a dream world. The car slipped through Indian villages, jungles, sections of Venice, complete Western streets, New York streets and past a French château and a lake with a large schooner and native canoes on it.

  The studio buildings, the executive offices, cutting rooms, fire department, casting office and the huge towering sound stages seemed like a miniature city and everywhere the streets teemed with cowboys, Indians, Southern gentlemen, soldiers, policemen, troupes of dancers and tall willowy show girls. I just gaped and gaped and wondered if I could ever be part of it.

  Loretta’s driver took me inside stage 19 and I watched fascinated from a dark corner while she was powdered and primped and prepared for a close-up. What a strange, wonderful secret world! It pulled me like a magnet. I really cannot remember what I was using for money at that time. I know I didn’t borrow any and I don’t remember stealing but I do know that within a very few days of arrival I realised the vastness of the distances and the urgent necessity for some wheels and for an augmentation of my funds. The girls took me to a used car lot in Culver City and I bought a very old-Auburn for ninety dollars. It went quite well on the flat but hated hills and the small incline of the Bel Air driveway could only be negotiated in reverse.

  They also helped me in my search for a place to live. They never gave any sign of it but they must have prayed that I would soon be successful. It is with great embarrassment that I have to record that nothing suitable was found for a considerable time.

  The Central Casting Office was down on Western Avenue. It handled only the ‘extras’. Anybody who spoke lines was a ‘bit player’ or a ‘small part actor’—these the studios employed through agents. In the Auburn-t drove to Central Casting thinking that all I had to do was enrol myself and go to work. It was a forbidding moment. Outside the building was a large sign.

  DON’T TRY TO BECOME AN ACTOR. FOR EVERYONE WE EMPLOY, WE TURN AWAY A THOUSAND.

  I stood in a long line and finally was interviewed by a brisk elderly woman with protruding teeth and glasses so dark that I could not see her eyes.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like to be a movie actor.’

  ‘So would millions of others. What professional experience have you?’

  ‘None, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Nationality?’

  ‘British.’

  ‘Do you realise how many Americans there are looking for work these days?’ Before I could answer, she went on, ‘Well, the studios are making a lot of British stories right now so we might find something for you…fill in this form and mail it to us…you got a work permit okay?’

  ‘Work permit?’

  ‘You can’t work without one—it’s against the law. You got one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Give me back that form…the way out’s over there.’ There is an antidote to everything, even, we are told, hopefully, to the Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, and usually when those old Chinese weeds we wrote about earlier start clogging up the garden and things look pretty hopeless, out of the blue comes a weed-killer.

  The weed-killer at this point was Alvin Weingand, later a highly respected Congressman from California, but then a junior reception clerk at the Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard. My search for cheap accommodation had not been going well and Al gave me a room between a service elevator and a huge machine that shrieked and thumped all night as it inhaled warm air, cooled it and belched it downstairs for the benefit of the guests. When I say ‘gave’ me the room, he charged me so little that it amounted almost to a gift. I had a bed, a shower and a telephone, I needed no more. Unpacking, I came across a telephone number—a girl I had met in New York, Lydia Macy who lived in Montecito eighty miles away. I called her and was invited for the weekend.

  Not feeling I could trust the Auburn to undertake such a long trip, I packed my bag, including my frayed and frightful dinner jacket, and thumbed a ride up the U.S. Highway 101 arriving in Montecito in a fruit truck, in plenty of time for dinner. Montecito has more resident millionaires per acre than any other community in the United States. The houses are beautiful; the mountains behind them are purple in the evening light and between them and the white sandy beaches lies a palm-covered plateau, inhabited by charming lotuseaters.

  On the Saturday morning, I looked out of my bedroom window and, riding at anchor in the bay, off Santa Barbara, I beheld an old friend, H.M. S. Norfolk a county class cruiser. She had been in Malta when I was there and more lately, I had found her again in Bermuda. Now, she was on a goodwill tour of the West Coast of Mexico, the United States and Canada.

  I told Lydia that I would love to go and visit her as I knew several people on board—‘Well, you’re going tonight,’ said Lydia. ‘The officers are giving a party and all of Montecito is going.’

  That night, in a dinner jacket that had been rejuvenated by Lydia’s maid, I escorted her on board Norfolk.

  A huge awning covered the afterdeck and she was dressed with garlands of lights and bunting. The Royal Marine Band was grinding out a foxtrot…I looked around for a familiar face and nearly fell over the side—there stood Anthony Pleydell-Bouverie. Apparently, Admiral Sir Ernie Erie Drax had decided to join the cruise and his flag lieutenant had come too. Poor Lydia! I didn’t behave very well. The reunions were continuous and strenuous and I spent far too long in the wardroom. She left without me. All guests were asked to be off the ship by three AM At about that time, I mumbled to Anthony that it was time I left.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘don’t go ashore…we’ll look after you…there’s a bunk you can have…go to bed and have a nice rest.’

  It sound
ed fine and I was past being analytical anyway, so I removed my clothes and fell immediately into a deep black sleep.

  Next morning, about ten-thirty, I woke with a mouth like the inside of a chauffeur’s glove—nobody was around. It was Sunday and the ship’s company was at Divine Service. I looked out of the port-hole and couldn’t see much except sea and the sea was passing the window at a great rate.

  I lay there’ wondering what to do next. Whatever Anthony had said, it made no sense to be at sea, in the middle of the Pacific, in one of His Majesty’s county class cruisers…in broad daylight…in a dinner jacket.

  I continued to lie there. About noon a sailor poked his head round the door.

  ‘Compliments of the Ward Room, sir, the officers would like to see you.’ I doused my head with cold water, donned my crumpled suit and followed him through the humming interior maze of the ship. Sailors gave me surprised glances as I passed.

  Several of last night’s drinking companions were already at the bar. ‘Morning, Niven—pink gin?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Enjoy yourself, last night? Pretty girl you had with you,’—small talk, chatter, more pink gin, no sign of Anthony and nobody bringing up the question of why I was still with them.

  I thought to myself ‘Well, I’d better just play this by ear…if they’re not going to mention it—I’m not’—so I relaxed, joined in the small talk, accepted the pink gins and closed my mind to the future. At last, Anthony appeared. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been with the Admiral. He wants to see you!’