by Ingrid Pitt
Setting up a role in the film proved difficult, but I wouldn’t let it rest. I met one of the minor players, a man I had been quite friendly with on Los Duendes, and though he couldn’t put in a word for me he did offer to introduce me to Mr Welles.
He invited me to dinner at the hotel where all the cast and Orson were staying. Mr Welles appeared with his coterie of yes-men and commandeered two tables not too far away from where I sat. I nudged my companion. Now was the time for the introduction. We could get up and casually pass Mr Welles’s table on the way out and he could say, ‘Ah, Orson, I’d like you to meet . . .’ I would do the rest. But my companion insisted the timing would be better after we’d eaten. I couldn’t think of food at a time like this so I focused on Mr Welles, giving him the full treatment: flashing eyes, a glimpse of leg, cleavage and any other part of my anatomy which might interest him and get me invited to his table. Welles talked, smoked and drank non-stop, and took no notice of me squirming around like an epileptic octopus with tentacles hooked up to the national grid. At last even I realised that I wasn’t getting anywhere. It was going to have to be the full frontal assault. I stood, shook everything into place and did a Rita Hayworth across the floor.
I was practically shoving my belly-button on to the end of his cigar before he noticed me. And then he wasn’t particularly inviting. ‘Yes?’ he said tersely.
I painted on a smile and dropped my voice an octave. ‘Hi, I’m Ingrid Pitt.’
‘Good for you!’ he said and went on talking.
Mortified, I quickly considered my options. If I slunk away everybody in the restaurant would know it, especially the creep who had brought me. It would also bring on a hot flush for years to come. On the other hand if I stayed and Mr Welles persisted in rejecting me even the sous-chef would know about it. I thought of Matka. She always played for the positive and said sod the humiliation.
‘I’m an actress. I’d like a part in your film. I’ve always admired you . . .’ It was all coming out wrong. I was gushing.
Welles stopped talking, looked ahead for a couple of seconds, then turned slowly towards me. He looked me up and down with an expression that told me he wasn’t very impressed. ‘If you are a professional actress you should know that there are certain channels. I do not give auditions when I am having dinner. I suggest you give your résumé to the casting director.’ He nodded dismissal and turned back to his companions. Smiling brightly, I acted as if he had been charming and gracious, and went back to my table.
The next morning I went to the casting office as soon as it opened. I told the secretary that Mr Welles had told me to see the casting director. The use of the hallowed name got me through the door, where I repeated my story. The director wasn’t as easy a pushover as the secretary. He excused himself and went out of the room, where he probably phoned Mr Welles because when he came back his attitude had changed. All the main roles were cast, he told me, but there was a walk-on as a hooker. The fabled Welles sense of humour I guessed. My immediate reaction was to tell him where to stick it but I double-guessed my mouth and kept it shut. After all, it was Orson Welles and it was an American production company. Marilyn Monroe had started with nothing more than a minor role and look at her, I told myself. I said I’d take it. He looked a little startled. After all the bullshit I had been giving him about my wonderful career, he’d expected me to flounce out. And I should have.
Orson might have been my idol, but I soon faced the fact that he had feet of clay. I couldn’t do anything right for him. My part, if it can be called that, was nothing, yet he was determined to humiliate me. He swilled back at least two bottles of brandy a day, was never seen without a massive cigar in his mouth and, not surprisingly, stank. He was also unbelievably crass. When, a glutton for punishment, I told him again that I had always admired his work and dreamed of working with him, he opened his flies and invited me to put my hand inside. The end came when the second assistant told me that Mr Welles wanted to see me in his hotel room. Full of reservations, I knocked on the door and he called, ‘Enter!’ I looked around but there was nobody in the room. Then the door to the bathroom opened and Welles came out in his underpants. Without so much as a salutation he grabbed me and manoeuvred us towards the bed. I fought back but Welles only laughed. Finding some strength in the fury that flooded my veins, I heaved at him and he tripped and fell on to the bed. As I rushed to the door, he shouted out that if it weren’t for bloody women men could still play happily in their caves . . . ! I didn’t hang around for my severance cheque.
When I told Lola about my escapade she screeched with laughter at the thought of skinny little me being suffocated under the whale-like form of Welles. After she calmed down she said she was surprised that I had taken it so badly. Hadn’t anyone ever tried the bedroom ploy on me before? I had to admit it was not the first time I had had a man face me in the altogether but what had hurt was that this was a man I had admired hugely and had never expected to be so coarse. The pomposity of that statement was enough to have Lola in stitches again.
Eighteen
When I got back to Madrid I was astonished to find my husband waiting for me in the flat. It was two years since I’d seen him. His stint in Vietnam had come to an end and he was visiting us before returning to Asia for a second tour of duty. I was devastated by this statement. Steffka sat on his lap and played with his medals while I became terribly morose. After my run-in with Mr Welles, my husband seemed so safe, so normal. Perhaps I was wrong to drag my baby around and deprive her of a proper home life. But what kind of life could my soldier offer us? To volunteer to fight in Vietnam not once, but twice . . .
I begged him not to go back and tempt fate, but he just smiled his slow smile. ‘I don’t belong in your movie life,’ he said.
I’ve not got much of a movie life here, chum, I thought, but I’d just told him how fabulously I was doing and dared not change my story and sob on his shoulder.
He asked me if I could stop and go back to the States to play army housewife. I knew the answer to that, as I did to all the questions we would argue over that evening. I was sure that Steffka would grow up without him.
We were a funny bunch in the bed that night, him holding me and me holding Steffi, and no one got much sleep. He told me stories about Vietnam and I gave him my six pennyworth about the war being a crime motivated by big business. He left the next morning. I was unbelievably sad. He’d given me the most wonderful gift of my life – my little girl – and I’d taken her away from him. I kept wondering if I wasn’t incredibly selfish and bloody stupid.
Troubled by these considerations, I took Steffanie to Retiro Park, where we played in the sand, fed swans and, in the afternoon, went to a circus that had just arrived in town. Steffka thought she’d had a wonderful day but I was depressed. I couldn’t forget the brief visit of my husband who’d become a stranger. Our daughter never even asked where he’d gone or whether he’d come back.
In the evening I didn’t feel like cooking so we went downstairs to the restaurant and had dinner. Most of the actors who lived in 42 Dr Fleming were there. There was a lot of work about in Spain at that time, and they all were in a very positive frame of mind and soon cheered me up. By the time we went up to our apartment I had relaxed and was feeling better.
Lying on the coffee table were the divorce papers my husband had brought for me to sign. It was all so final. I put Steffka to bed, then sat in a chair half the night thinking. When the sun came up I was able to accept the consequences of the decision I had already made on the night of his visit. I spent another day in the park with Steffanie but this time my mood was defiantly happy.
I’d heard about a forthcoming film called El Beso en el Puerto (A Kiss in the Harbour), so went to see my agent and, not trusting him to do his job competently, sat in his office prompting him while he sold my various attributes to Ramon Torrado, the director, and Arturo Gonzalez, the producer. Together we persuaded them that I was the ideal female lead to play opposite Manolo Escoba
r, one of the biggest pop stars in Spain at the time.
We had enormous fun shooting in Benidorm and the film was a great success. It played next to Richard Burton’s Beckett in the Grand Via of Madrid for three years. The music was also fabulous. For years afterwards if I went into a restaurant the band would strike up the signature tune, ‘El Porompompero.’
Manolo introduced me to a producer from the main Spanish television station. He was putting on a variety/chat show and was looking for a presenter. I convinced him that I would be perfect. The show was called Aqui España and although the format wasn’t too original it worked. On each show, I would present a piece about what was going on in Spain and in the entertainment industry, introduce a guest, usually a singer or a visual entertainer – no writers – and then sit back while the guest entertained the audience. It was a sort of Des O’Connor with a few olé’s thrown in. One of the guests was Julio Iglesias. I thought he was terrific. At dinner after the show I asked him what his plans were. He didn’t seem too sure and thought he might have a future as a footballer. I told him it would kill the velvet in his voice and he fell about laughing. With my usual reticence I told him he was daft. ‘You should learn to sing in English, go to America and conquer the world,’ I said, and recounted how I had taken on my first Spanish film with a vocabulary of ‘sí’ and ‘no’. I must have inspired him because he went to England and spent two years singing in a pub in Kent learning English. And just look at him now.
Fernando Rey was another guest who got my lip about learning English. Less than a year later he played second lead in The French Connection opposite Gene Hackman. I like to think it had something to do with me.
Although I talked about taking on Hollywood, I saw my future in Spain. My blondeness and intriguing accent, and the fact that I could now play in Spanish, English, German, Russian, Italian and French, was a great help. My resolution was only slightly shaken when a fey bullfighter read my hand and told me I would soon leave Spain and find success in England. He warned me to be extremely careful because someone who would claim to be my friend would cause me a great deal of harm. It was a ball-park prognostication but, within its limitations, it turned out to be pretty accurate.
Rumours had been floating around for some time that the Spanish were going to form an actors’ union. Nobody had taken the threat seriously. In Almeria the Americans were doing one film after another, sometimes two at a time. The locals were making fortunes. Anyway, I reasoned, what with my TV show and the work I was still getting in the theatre, I would be above any nastiness – such as slinging out foreigners – that a union might try.
At this time I seemed to be able to do just about anything I wanted. I’d now bought a big American Dodge and hung around with a torero who, a touch flamboyantly, called himself ‘El Zorro de Toledo’. Tino Sanchez was handsome and stimulating, and believed utterly in the big future all the cognoscenti predicted for him. He was the spitting image of Yuri and it wasn’t long before I found myself ferrying him and his quadriga (team) around. He called my Dodge his coche de quadriga and I found it all madly exciting.
At a bullfight in Ondara, near Valencia, El Zorro, assuring me I’d be in no danger, insisted I went into the arena. Unfortunately, the horse I was riding had been struck by a bull on his previous outing and was extremely nervous. I tried to preserve a little decorum and not throw my arms round its neck for stability. Things only got worse when the bull came into the arena. My mount began to jig about, which only served to attract the attention of the bull. As it started to come our way, the animal took off with me hanging on grimly, trying to smile and praying that someone would rescue me. To my relief the banderilleros, as is their job in a bullfight, distracted the bull and allowed my horse to make for the gate. In the forecourt the terrified beast stopped so abruptly that I finished up hanging round its neck and practising my newly acquired vocabulary of Castillian swear-words. The poor horse stood shaking and sweating, and I knew exactly how it felt. After that I didn’t mind wearing the traje campera and prancing about in front of the crowd but no one ever got me on the back of a horse again.
Spain was changing. Even I noticed it. The work at Almeria was drying up and non-Spaniards were getting the cold shoulder when they turned up for local films. I persevered, imitating an ostrich, until I received a letter from the newly formed Spanish Equity union saying that my work permit had been revoked, though I would be allowed to fulfil any contract I currently had in place. My Aqui España contract was on its final month and the one with the Teatro Nacional hadn’t been renewed so I knew it was the end.
I didn’t want to alarm Matka with my woes, but when I rang she caught my vibes instantly. She thought it was a love affair gone wrong and I didn’t disillusion her. In a way she was correct: my love affair with Spain was over. Once more I wondered whether I was doing the best for Steffanie and reviewed the options open to me. First there was my husband. In spite of coming to Madrid to give me the divorce papers he had made it clear that if I could just accept that he was a soldier and had to do soldierly things we could be reunited when he got back from the war. Now that he had become a major there would be more money, better housing, a chance to give Steffka the sort of education she deserved. I had turned him down but it wasn’t too late. If I wrote and told him I was coming back at the end of his second tour in Vietnam, was happy to give up my dreams and make a new home for us, I knew he would do his best to forget the last three years.
Then there was my mother. After all the things she had done for me why couldn’t I make her happy for a few years? Go home, take a secretarial job, spend the evenings playing with Steffanie, looking after Matka? It would all be so easy. Except that I never wanted to live in Germany again and wouldn’t do it for anything in the world. I hadn’t the courage or fortitude to walk away from the grasshopper life I had made for myself and do something as unselfish as dedicating myself to the two people I loved most in the world. I snuggled in bed beside Steffi and decided that I would make a decision in the morning.
For the next day or two I dragged Steffka around Madrid. I think I was hoping someone would offer me a job that wouldn’t upset the union pundits. I knew it was a vain dream. When, on the second night, I returned home to find an ornate envelope in my mailbox, I tore it open and read: ‘His Excellency, President Juan Domingo Perón, invites you to dinner at Puerta de Hierro.’ On the back in biro was scribbled, ‘Sorry about the short notice and formality. Blame it on my secretary.’
I looked at the date. The party was the following evening. I badly wanted to go to dinner with Perón. For one thing he had been such good fun in the Don Pepe and for another I was sure there would be plenty of high-rollers there who might be able to reveal a way out of my short-term difficulties.
Perón’s residence, Puerta de Hierro, was not at all what I had expected. It was quite small and other than one tiny photograph of Evita, in a niche with a candle burning before it like an icon, there was no evidence of her. I met Isabel, Perón’s new wife, who was mousy but kind and gentle, and we talked about this and that but had no real point of contact. She had been a folkloric dancer before she met Perón and seemed nice and uncomplicated, and obviously totally adored her husband. Lopez Rega, Perón’s eminence grise, was there, silent and threatening in the background. A few Spanish dignitaries were present with their wives and two Argentinians, who apparently had been in Perón’s government. One, Luis Sojit, was to survive through to Perón’s next administration and be very helpful when I went to live in Argentina later. The meal was asado – barbecued meat – cooked, in the tradition of the great outdoors, by our host who was splendidly apparelled in bombachas (gaucho trousers), check shirt, with a wide silver-adorned rastra (belt) around his waist. I tried to make some contacts but it soon became obvious that the Spaniards were there out of duty and the others were more interested in buddying up to the ex-President than opening some magical door for a down-and-out actress. By the end of the evening I was beginning to wish I hadn’t bot
hered to come.
When everyone started making moves, I was at the front of the queue but before I could get out of the door Isabel asked if I would come back the following week. She was a film buff and wanted to talk movies with me. This was more like it. After all, Perón was credited with flying the coup with countless millions and was currently the owner of some very expensive property on the coast. Perhaps I could interest him in backing a few projects I had salted away. He might also be able to sort out my problems with the unions. I said I would love to see her again.
As good as her word, Isabel rang. This time there were only Luis Sojit, Isabel and Perón at the dinner-table. Isabel prattled on about films and I told her some stories about actors and directors, most of which I’d picked up from fanzines and the actors passing through Dr Fleming. But when they waved me farewell I was no further forward than the day I first went there.
The following morning I had another leap of faith when Isabel phoned to ask if I could meet her at Horcher’s for blinis and caviar. A car came to pick me up and I walked through the door of my favourite Madrid restaurant bang on the hour. Isabel was already there – without Perón. Good, I thought, girl-to-girl. This time I was determined to be more direct but before we could get beyond opening pleasantries, we were joined by some friends of Isabel. It soon became obvious that I was in the middle of some sort of monthly hen party. Everybody was talking clothes, food, husbands and wallets. ‘Wait for it,’ I told myself. ‘They’ll all go in a minute and there’ll be just me and Señora de Perón.’ But Isabel was the first to go, taking me completely by surprise or I would have finagled my departure at the same time.
I returned to Dr Fleming completely demoralised and preoccupied with the question of how I was going to pay another month’s rent, so when the telephone rang and I was told 20th Century-Fox was on the line I was certain it was a wind-up. Before I could tell the joker to get lost and slam down the telephone, he mentioned an American writer-friend of mine, Mike Stern. Mike had insisted on taking some of my photographs with him when he returned to the States and now Fox wanted me to do a screen test.
