by Anne Edwards
I still cared just as my creation Max Seaman had cared, but I was no longer politically activated enough to become involved. Guilt infused me. Anger—at myself—tasted bitter. I was no longer young (in my forties), nor resident of the country of my birth, I missed my nonaction. But idealistic dreams belonged to the young, I rationalized. They were the future. Shit! Age had nothing to do with it!
When I finished writing that day, I knew I had to go home—not just for the time it took to write a screenplay or sell a book. I had to reroot myself. Home meant America to me. But where? Any place but the Southern states and Texas where as a first-time married woman (all of nineteen to the age of twenty-three) I had been exposed to a bigotry for race—black and Latino—that had made those years the darkest of my life.
Of all my American expat friends still living in Europe, only Sidney seemed to have truly put down roots. I knew he loved America and was just as certain he would never return to live there. Yet, although he had a home in France, he surrounded himself with Americans and American projects. Few of the friends that I had met at his home were French. That was the enigma that was Sidney. I guessed that I knew him as well as anybody (even his brother, Harold, who seemed to be a man living on the edge of the sea, unable to ever wade in to test the waters). Still, there were times that I felt I did not know Sidney at all. Falling back on my own experience in psychoanalysis, Sidney appeared not to have lost the guilt of his childhood—the accidental shooting death of his sister. I think he wanted to be somewhere that would not bring up those memories. Well, he was dear to me and that was all that I could concern myself with—that, and to return his friendship in whatever way that I could.
Shortly after the publication of Haunted Summer there had been a flurry of interest in the book for films. Raymond Stross was now the leading contender. He was remarried to Anne Heywood, a beautiful actress whom he liked to think he had discovered. As Violet Pretty she had, however, been a beauty queen and played small parts in several British films and television. Raymond had taken over her career and cast her in more international films where her costars were American actors. Her recent film had been The Fox, adapted from a D. H. Lawrence story and in which she had given a strong performance (opposite Sandy Dennis) as the dominant half of lesbian lovers. Raymond wanted my novel so that Anne could be cast as Mary Shelley, a role he felt would give her career another big lift.
Raymond owned a new, American, pink Cadillac, one of the largest models they were then manufacturing. He had obviously imported it, as it had an American left-hand drive, which would have been on the wrong side for Great Britain but fine for the rest of Europe. Which, as he and Anne were making a second home in Switzerland, it apparently did not matter. They were extremely late to arrive because once Raymond had turned onto the High Corniche the car was too wide for the narrow roads and he had to back up and take a different route. They were staying at La Reserve. He called upon arrival to tell me that he would be further delayed, as he had crashed the Cadillac into another vehicle when he went to park. It reminded me of the one time he came to see me in Beverly Hills before I left for England to work for him. He had driven his rental car over the curb and straight up onto my front lawn.
If his driving ability had not improved, Raymond had. Before anything else, I noted with great happiness for him that his stutter was only slightly noticeable. His attire was far more conservative, and no one could doubt that he was utterly in love with his beautiful wife. Yet this was a more mature caring. Anne was his equal, not his charge. She had dark hair and striking eyes that had years of close observance behind them. She was also charming and well spoken. I liked her immediately. I told him straightaway that any negotiation for the rights of the novel had to be done with my agent. Of course, he agreed, explaining that what he wanted was to discuss the adaptation with me, which he thought should more deeply center on Mary Shelley and show the strength she had as the leader of the runaway artists—Percy Shelley, Byron, and his mistress, Claire. I countered that the story would be best told as an ensemble piece and to alter Mary Shelley’s character would be to alter history. These discussions were left up in the air. After all, he had yet to finalize a deal for the rights, and even when that was done, I was not at all sure that I wanted to write the screenplay.
He brought me news of all that was going on (from his point of view) in Britain’s film industry, which he claimed had been nearly devoured by American interests. It was almost impossible anymore to make a film that was for a British audience. A project had to appeal to an international distributor and, to do that, one of the stars had to have international appeal. He was, it seems—if he did obtain the film rights to Haunted Summer—considering the idea of casting the rock star Mick Jagger as Byron. Nothing Raymond ever said caught me off guard. But, I admit, I paled a moment at that idea. When thinking about it in later years, I decided that Mick Jagger might well have given the movie a contemporary feel that would have brought a dab of modern-day reality to the story. Byron, Shelley, Mary, and Claire were brilliantly talented young rebels during a season of rebellion, a time not so different from what was happening currently throughout the world. Driven from their own country (how familiar did that seem!), they sought solace in writing, sex, drugs, dreams, heightened perception, and the supernatural (Haight-Ashbury and Woodstock—in the 1960s—as a comparison comes quickly to mind).
In the end, another producer acquired the rights. The cast was young and talented, but the film was a great disappointment to me. Early on, I found something wondrous about my characters being brought to life on a screen—small or large. Yet there is a measure of discomfit along with wonder. One’s written pages are now seen and made to animate through an adaptor’s eyes. A director puts in his take and the actors portraying your characters still another. I can’t speak for other authors, but in my case, I have a special vision of my characters. I can hear their individual voices in my head, understand their motivations—what they would and could do and what they would never attempt. In later years, when I was writing the biography of Margaret Mitchell, author of Gone with the Wind, I came upon correspondence between Mitchell and David Selznick, the iconic film’s producer. In one letter he inquires who she might see as the dashing Rhett Butler. Mitchell replied, “Jack LaRue.” Now, LaRue was of Italian descent and had made a name for himself in many early Hollywood films as an ominous thug or gangster and was a character actor, not a leading man. He did have dark, impressive looks and a sexuality that perhaps could perk up a young woman’s nipples. Mitchell’s seven-year work on the book had given her a deep understanding of who she thought Rhett Butler was—in fact she knew, guiltily, that she had modeled him after her abusive first husband. Her loathing and fascination of him had been hard to dispel. In her mind, Rhett was dangerous—a threat—yet sexually exciting, and he was rich (which her first husband was not). Selznick, wise filmmaker that he was, knew it was Rhett’s charms, not his darker side, that would appeal to a movie audience—who he thought, with this project, would be overwhelmingly female. Polls taken at the time proved that readers chose Clark Gable from the start and, of course, Selznick ended up casting him in the role. To this day, Rhett Butler will always be Clark Gable to those who view the film. He was not to his creator.
Jay was truly sick. He had continued to lose weight, and now he was coughing up blood. For several weeks he had adamantly refused my pleadings that he should see a doctor. Just one week after we had sent the final manuscript of Shadow of a Lion off to my editor in New York, he collapsed at the top of the staircase on the bedroom landing and fell halfway down. I called for an ambulance, and he was taken to hospital in Nice and diagnosed with an advanced case of lung cancer. After a week, I brought him home. Sidney suggested an oncologist in Cannes who was known to be one of the best in all of France. Paul Jarrico and Yvette had broken up, and he was staying with me at the time. He drove us into Cannes and Sidney met us at the doctor’s office. The oncologist explained to me—Jay’s x-rays clipped to a b
oard along one wall—just how serious was his condition. The lung had to be removed, and there was no way of knowing until then how far the disease had spread to other parts of his body.
He took the grave news like a major, although his mouth was drawn into a straight white line and, when I took hold of his arm, I could feel the quickened beat of his pulse. We left the office and drove to Sidney’s flat. Jay made it clear that he did not feel comfortable having the operation in France. Not that he thought French doctors were unqualified. “If the cancer has spread,” he said, his voice cool and collected, “I don’t want to die abroad.” Paul drove us back to Beaulieu. The next day Jay called his sister in Los Angeles and explained the situation and that he wished to return to Los Angeles and for her to do some research on oncology surgeons. Within two days everything was arranged for him to return to California. The next hurdle was how to get him safely returned. He would have to fly from Nice to Paris, change planes from the domestic building to the international wing for the last leg of the journey—a long hop, nonstop, to Los Angeles. Jay was entirely too weak to handle this on his own, even if Air France had allowed him on board without someone to accompany him, as he looked extremely ill. Paul offered to fly with him. He was anxious to get back to California and see what he could do about restoring his credits. He had good friends (former expats, Tiba and George Willner) living in Ojai, a fairly short drive northeast of Los Angeles, with whom he could stay. However, he did not have the money for a ticket. I was happy to oblige and Jay seemed to welcome the idea.
Twenty-four hours later, I stood at the gate of Nice Airport as Paul wheeled Jay down the ramp to board their plane. Jay had said, “No good-byes!” And had added, “Never forget that you gave me a new life and that I’ve loved every minute of it!” On my return to Villa Roquefille, only Sandy and Chrissy raced down the stairs to greet me. Biba was lying in front of the door to Jay’s room. She would return there every night to sleep as long as we were resident. It was uncanny.
Leon called when he heard about Jay to tell me how sorry he felt. Actually, the two men never did get on. In fact, the evening before his departure, Jay had told me in a hard voice, “You must not go back to that man, whatever you do!”
“I’d like to come down to see you,” Leon was saying. “I know we parted with great bitterness. But before we cast off our marriage, let’s be civilized and talk about it.”
I reminded him that he brought on the animosity by declaring I had deserted him.
“I was deeply wounded at the time. Let me come down. We can talk about it like two intelligent people.”
I said no, my mind was set. He just kept talking and finally wore me down.
“I won’t press. I just want us to be sure that this is the path we both want to take. I never said I didn’t love you. I do. I’ll come for the weekend. Just two days.”
“On one condition,” I finally agreed. “You cannot stay here.”
He arrived that Friday. Two painful days followed. He had not made a reservation at a hotel. By the time of his cool departure, caused by my refusal to even consider a reconciliation, I knew we would never see each other again and that he would, as previously decreed, seek the divorce on grounds of desertion.
Catherine joined me at spring break, bringing Wendy, her roommate at school. The sounds of young voices in the large house were cheering. I had heard from both Jay and his sister (who gave me a more detailed and realistic report of his progress). The surgery had gone well, but the cancer had spread. The doctors were hoping that with treatment Jay could be given some added time. His letters were optimistic. He sent me a photograph of himself smiling, wearing his spiffy Asian robe while a good-looking hunk of a male nurse stood behind him.
The silver Beetle remained parked in the garage. I decided to ship it to him, hoping he might see it as a positive goal. Jay had loved driving that crazy car. I wrote that it would take a month before it arrived in Los Angeles (actually in the port of San Pedro) and that maybe his brother-in-law could arrange the pickup. When it was finally delivered, Jay sent me a telegram: BABY DELIVERED LIKE NEW AND SHINY CAN’T WAIT TO TAKE HER FOR A SPIN LOVE YOU JAY. (He never was able to get behind the wheel, but in my head I can see him riding along the Pacific Coast Highway, breathing in the scent of salt on the sea and ignoring the horns for him to drive faster and not to hog the road.)
I suffered a true case of postpartum once Shadow was with my editor. I had not felt so grievous a loss on completion of my first three novels. Shadow was different. I had put so much of myself into it. I was not sure I could ever reach so deep again. There was also my responsibility to my colleagues and friends to deliver a book that was truthful to their history. My editor at Coward, McCann & Geoghegan was most enthusiastic and between the two of us (missiles flying back and forth across the ocean like homing pigeons) meticulous care was given to the editing of every page of the manuscript. I had one great dilemma. I had started the book in Madrid and had promised I would dedicate it to Leon. By now, communication had completely broken down between us. It was a strange thing to do, especially with our breach. Still, a promise is a promise. The acknowledgment page thus reads: “For Leon.” In retrospect, it seems right, for I believe we were both victims—politically and maritally—and that there had been good times—just not enough of them.
My lease on Villa Roquefille ended on June 1. I could renew it if I so wished. I did not. Every guest should know when it is time to leave—even a country. Catherine now chose to finish her college years in New England and had applied to several schools and was waiting for replies. The plan was that we would return to the States and spend the summer together. Where? was still the question. I wanted to be close enough to her school for her to travel home on weekends if she so chose. I did not want to live in Hartford, Boston, or any other large New England city. It had to be a small town with no personal history attached.
Catherine finally ended my indecision by conceiving a rather mad idea (the apple does not fall far from the tree!). She tore out a large map of New England from my atlas and tacked it to a kitchen wall. Then she tied a scarf over my eyes, took a bookmark, and pushed a tack into the end. “Turn around a couple of times,” she commanded, helping me to do so. “Stop!” she called out. “Now, hold out your hand with the bookmark in front of you and walk forward.” I did as she asked.
The tack had amazingly landed between three towns that appealed to me due to their history and their connection with the arts: Woodstock, New York (scene of the youth and music rebellion), Stockbridge, Massachusetts (home of Tanglewood and the summer residence of the Boston Symphony Orchestra), and Williamstown, Massachusetts (with a fine college and art collection). I wrote to the chamber of commerce in each town, although I was not sure that towns still had them! I asked about their community and the names of real estate agents. I received only one letter in return, from an agent in Stockbridge. I instantly replied with a list of my rental needs and the added information that I had three dogs. She answered that she had the perfect house for me to rent. It was on Christian Hill in the historic section of town, dogs welcome, a short walk from town, and would be available on June 10. It had been built in the early nineteenth century as a schoolhouse and was near the Daniel Chester French House, where the American sculptor had kept his studio and where he had carved the famous seated marble figure of Abraham Lincoln that adorned his memorial in Washington, DC. I agreed to a one-year lease with an option at the same price for another year to follow.
Now came the tough part. I had to pack up everything I had including all the files that Jay had kept for me, my small library of books, and all the paintings, furnishings, and tableware I had collected throughout the years I had been abroad. Decisions, decisions, decisions. I needed help to get everything sorted out. Someone told me that a young man working for the actor Dirk Bogarde (who lived on the Cote d’Azur) was looking for employment, that Bogarde was on location making A Death in Venice and this fellow was not happy in France and wanted a
position that would fill in until he got a visa to immigrate to the United States.
His name was Alex Cortez. He was from the Philippines and of Asian and Spanish heritage, a truly beautiful young man in his midtwenties, slim, tallish, dark, expressive eyes, ink-black hair, and light bronze skin. He had immigrated first to London to finish his education, done some modeling, and then worked in a restaurant to keep body and soul together. He had a passion and a talent for cooking and was hired as a cook by a British couple who had a second home on the Cote d’Azur. When they sold the house to return to England, he had gone to work for Bogarde. With the actor away for a long stretch, Alex decided to move on.
He was bright, could type passably, and brought me some Asian-style hors d’oeuvres he had made to prove his ability as a cook.
“I’m leaving for the States in ten weeks,” I told him. “It’s only a temporary job to help me organize. I’m a writer, I have mounds of papers, research, and books among other things. I can’t see myself throwing any parties during that time where your abilities would be an asset.”
“I want to go to America,” he blurted out. “I’m working on a visa. If I please you, maybe you would take me with you as an assistant. It would make it easier for me to obtain a visa.”
