by Shawn Levy
Zsa Zsa, who would be seriously injured in her own catastrophic car wreck in 2002, was always keen to talk about him. She claimed that his last words were “Zsa Zsa” (when, of course, he had mumbled “Odile”). And she claimed to have paid to keep flowers on his grave at Père Lachaise Cemetery (where, of course, he wasn’t buried). Too, she always insisted that she wasn’t as stuck on him as he on her; asked if he was the great love of her life, she had a stock response that always got a laugh out of Merv, Johnny, and the studio audience: “No, but I was the great love of his.”
Back home in the Dominican Republic, Rubi not only faded from memory but was actively hidden away. The occasional Dominican polo player might still wear a red helmet as a tribute to him, but others saw him as an embarrassment, an aberration, and, worst, a throwback to the era of Trujillo, which people still shuddered to discuss. In 2003, a little war was waged in the opinion pages of Listín Diario over Rubi’s legacy, with one writer declaring starkly his resentment of the fact that foreigners still remembered one Dominican figure over all the others: “No, señor, yo no soy del país de Rubirosa” (“No, sir, I am not from the land of Rubirosa”). Letter writers shouted the fellow down for days. Absent children, absent a fortune, absent great works, absent a plaque marking the scenes of his birth, a vainglorious little gesture of sportsmen and a petty quarrel on the op-ed pages stood as his only legacies in his homeland.
A figure of fleeting fascination in life, he remained elusive in death.
He had given himself over to sensations, he created sensations, he ended in sensation, and, predictably, as those sensations faded, so did memory of him. People who knew him aged and died; those left remembered the stuff of the legend and not the man.
He had surpassed all expectations that he might have had for himself—a superstar from a backwater, a rich man with no career or inheritance, a cagey diplomat and schemer with no advanced education, a man more worldly, celebrated, and experienced than either Pedro Rubirosa or Rafael Trujillo—his physical and spiritual daddies—could ever have imagined.
He had epitomized the eras he lived in—Paris before and after World War II, Argentina in its Perónist heyday, Hollywood and Palm Beach in their postwar glow, Havana on the eve of revolution. And he had died at just the right time: Nothing would have been more ridiculous than a Rubirosa, all swank and elegant and bubbling with romantic innuendo, in the hippie era of free love and antifashion.
In leaving behind only a thin spoor, he was himself utterly—a man of moments, brief passions, and slight mysteries, a phantom of sorts, passing flimsily through an easily distracted public ken.
Could he have been more? He had the tools: the native cunning, the daring, the reflexes, the style. He might have been the salvation of his nation or an important international sporting or diplomatic figure.
But his ambition was not so much to do good as to feel it. He was, in the crudest sense, selfish—not greedy exactly, but rather intent on pleasures that could only be his own. The world was there for him, not vice versa.
He died in Paris, and best serve his spirit by remembering him as a Dominican boy arriving in that city in a kidskin coat, staring up at bombers, frightened by movies, dazzled by soldiers and fancy ladies, his tongue hanging out to visit a nightclub. That boy did everything he ever wanted, everything he could imagine, things he’d never heard of but knew he’d like; that boy and the man he became were closer than anyone ever imagined.
For forty years he gave himself over to his simplest urges. And the urge to do or mean more than that simply never struck him. He wanted the world only for moments. And the world—and why not?—returned the favor.
Look around for a trace of him: vanished: perfect.
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INSPIRATIONS, SOURCES, AND DEBTS
Dominican playboy Porfirio Rubirosa….
I came across that phrase for the first time in 1994 or ’95 when I was at work on a biography of Jerry Lewis and writing about Three Ring Circus, one of the last films he made with Dean Martin. Somebody named Porfirio Rubirosa had made some headlines by visiting Zsa Zsa Gabor on the Arizona set of the film.
I had no clue who Rubirosa was or why his visit was so notable or any other details of his life. I was simply taken with that phrase, the sound of it: Dominican playboy Porfirio Rubirosa, like a Stan Getz riff—I had to put it in the book.
Two years or so later, as I was writing a book about Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack, there he was again: Dominican playboy Porfirio Rubirosa, sailing off Hyannis Port with Ted Kennedy and Sinatra, cruising the Mediterranean with Frank and Dean and Peter Lawford and old Joe Kennedy. Again, I dropped the irresistible phrase into a couple of sentences.
By then there was such a thing as the World Wide Web, and I was able to troll for more information about this mystery man with the musical name. I learned he’d been married to both Doris Duke and Barbara Hutton, and I went to the library to find biographies of them. There were several, and in every case the author had stopped his or her book to tell a version of the story of the amazing Senor Rubirosa. I couldn’t believe what I was reading; I was hooked. It was 1997, and I knew I had to write about this guy.
Encouraged by my agent, Richard Pine, and my friend and editor Bill Thomas, I began research in New York, Los Angeles, Paris, and my own home city, Portland, Oregon. The book I had hoped to write didn’t, alas, find a home, but I never let go of what I knew was a swell idea; I kept doing research on Rubi even while writing a completely unrelated book into which I couldn’t even drop his name. When that project was behind me, my editors asked what I wanted to do next. I had yet another idea, but Rubi still stuck with me and I hit these foster folks with a brief version of his life. They got it—and, more important, they gave me the green light to go ahead and write it.
Et voilà….
I’m not the first person to tell this story. Rubi left the world a slender memoir, published serially in a French newspaper and then in like form in Spanish in the Dominican Republic. (Many of the direct quotes in this book are taken from my own translation of his words.) Two Dominican authors have written biographies of him—Lipe Collado and Pablo Clase Hijo—as have a German writer, Andreas Zielcke, a French writer, Pierre Delannoy, and a Dominican-American novelist, Victor Peña-Rivera. In English, Rubi appears at length among the playboys depicted in a singular book by Alice-Leone Moats. And there have been many, many magazine and newspaper portraits of him, from obituaries to retrospective features to contemporary accounts of this or that wild episode.
Inevitably, other people’s stories factored into the telling of Rubi’s. The Trujillo family and the Trujillo Era of Dominican history are covered by dozens of books, most notably those of Robert Crassweller, who wrote the definitive biography of the Benefactor, and Bernardo Vega, who has published the family’s letters and uncovered detailed accounts of Ramfis Trujillo’s medical history. As I learned early on, the lives of Doris Duke and Barbara Hutton have been the subject of perhaps a half-dozen books each, none better than those by Stephanie Mansfield and C. David Heymann, respectively. Flor de Oro Trujillo published a lengthy memoir in serial form in Look magazine in the mid-1960s and then gave no other interviews concerning Rubi until her death. And Zsa Zsa Gabor, unique among Rubi’s long-term loves, told her own story not once, not twice, but three times—and some details actually remained consistent throughout: well done!
Two of Rubi’s wives—both French actresses—were still alive when I was at work. Danielle Darrieux, through her agent, refused comment, as she has refused all comment on Rubi for more than a half century. The former Odile Rodin and her current husband thought about contributing their memories and then chose not to participate; I thank them just the same for their gracious consideration. Several other acquaintances of Rubi’s spoke to me but asked not to be named: I thank them all now in the fashion they preferred.
Quite a bit of
the material I used to construct this story—in balance, the majority—comes from two types of written sources: governmental documents from the United States and the Dominican Republic and contemporary newspaper and magazine accounts from those two countries as well as Great Britain and France.
Through Freedom of Information Act requests, I received literally thousands of pages concerning the activities of Rubi, Rafael Trujillo, Ramfis Trujillo, and various other personages who populate this story from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Central Intelligence Agency, the Department of State, and the Department of Homeland Security. I am grateful to those bodies for their assistance and especially to Marvin Russell of the United States National Archives and Records Administration for tracking down a trove of helpful documents at the NARA facility in College Park, Maryland. I received additional assistance from Ken Cobb at the Municipal Archives of the City of New York. And I was greeted with warmth, patience, and openness by Julio Campos, Eddy Jaquez, and the staff of the Archivo General de la Nación in Santo Domingo.
Inevitably, I worked long and often at libraries, where I found not only rare books but newspaper and magazine clippings, public documents, maps, sound and video recordings, and so on. I wish to acknowledge the facilities of the Library of Congress, the Margaret Herrick Library of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, the New York Public Library (both the Humanities and Social Science Library and the Library for the Performing Arts), and, especially, the Multnomah County Library in Portland, not only for its indispensable permanent collections but for the assistance of its interlibrary loan staff, who saved my bacon more than once. Overseas, I worked in the British Library Newspaper Reading Room at Colindale, the library of the British Film Institute, and two branches of the Bibliothèque National de France (the space-age François Mitterrand and the lush Richelieu). In particular, I wish to acknowledge the impeccable professionalism and grace extended me by M. E. Diaz and the staff of the Biblioteca Nacional Pedro Henríquez Urena in Santo Domingo.
I relied on literally thousands of newspaper and magazine articles in three languages covering more than seventy years of history (you should see my collection of 1950s gossip rags!). I’d like to acknowledge, if only with a broad sweep of my arm, all the work that went into those invaluable documents by all the writers and editors who produced them. In particular I want to extend special thanks to two colleagues who shared some essential leads and insights. Gary Cohen, who wrote a lively account of Rubi’s life for Vanity Fair in 2002, had every reason to be chary of me and did just the opposite; responding to my inquiries with courtesy and speed, he was a consummate gentleman and professional in every respect. And Stephanie Mansfield probably doesn’t even remember the help and encouragement she gave me back in 1997 when I contacted her with the first thoughts I had about writing this book.
For photographic assistance, I thank the staffs of Corbis, Getty Images, and, especially the gracious folks at Photofest and the generous staff of Editora Cole of Santo Domingo. I’d like as well to acknowledge the dozens of Web sites where I learned this or that odd detail about auto racing, fashion, night life, polo, Dominican history, or the lives of a number of the curious folks who are touched on in these pages: I can neither recall nor thank all the people who have built those amazing resources, but big-up yourselves.
And there were other people—almost all of them strangers to me when I interrupted their lives—who unstintingly shared memories, ideas, clues, books, information, and wise counsel. They include Cindy Adams, Paul Austerlitz, Diogenes Reyna Brito, David Patrick Columbia, Tom D’Antoni, Robin Derby, Christian Doumit, Leo Hollis, Patrick Jucaud, Douglas W. Keeney, Jim Long, Pete Lowery, Andy Miller, Jim Mitchell, Ed Morales, Raphael Pallais, Jeffrey D. Rowe, Jean-Claude Sauer, Liz Smith, Claude Terrail, Taki Theodoracopulos, Bernardo Vega, and Thomas Vincent. I am in debt to them all.
Finally, because, in a moment of goal-and-beer-induced merriment, I said I would, thank you to the Portland Timbers Football Club and, especially, the Timbers Army, for providing the release that a shut-in desperately needed to survive a grueling spring and summer of writing.
In the time I worked on this project I did some writing for The Guardian and Movieline’s Hollywood Life, and I appreciate the confidence of the editors of those publications in my ability to juggle assignments on deadline.
At The Oregonian I have long enjoyed the most heartening support network imaginable. The ability to take time away from film reviewing to write this book was granted me by a generous management team including Fred Stickel, Patrick Stickel, Sandra Mims Rowe, Peter Bhatia, and Tom Whitehouse. Closer to my desk, I could not have taken the first step on this project without the help and support of Jolene Krawczak and Karen Brooks. And the editors with whom I work on a daily basis—Grant Butler, Barry Johnson, and Shawn Vitt—were stupendous, as ever, offering encouragement, liberty, and, most important, friendship; I can’t imagine what I’d do without them. Lastly, as I wrenched these pages out of my head, my bosom pals Karen Karbo, Marc Mohan, and Michael Russell did an epic job of keeping the good readers of our newspaper abreast of all the film news that was fit to print. It was a treat to read them—and a comfort.
At Fourth Estate, Rachel Safko served the office of traffic cop genially. David Falk was equally genteel in his copyedit. Crucial early encouragement was offered by Matthew Hamilton, Clive Priddle, and Nick Davies, all of whom have moved on. Courtney Hodell, who found this project in her sure hands when the game of hot potato ended, proved not only a tremendous advocate but a wonderfully perceptive line editor and a boon chum to boot: my humble, grateful thanks.
At Inkwell Management (which will always be Arthur Pine Associates to me, sorry … ), I am in the perennial debt of Richard Pine and Lori Andiman, my longtime partners in genteel crime.
At home, I have yet again been encouraged, humored, tolerated, and even coddled while I put myself—and, too often, those around me—through the wringer. To Mickie Levy, Jennifer Levy, and Lucretia Thornton, my love and thanks. To Vincent, Anthony, and Paula Levy, ditto, and more, with ice cream on top. And to Mary Bartholemy, well, let me just say simply that I owe her everything.
WORKS CONSULTED
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Arzeno Rodgriguez, Luis. Trujillo … Chapita No! Santo Domingo: 1997.
Balaguer, Joaquin. Memorias de un Cortesano de la Era de Trujillo. Santo Domingo: Editora Corripio, 1989.
Beezley, William H., and Linda A. Curcio-Nagy, eds. Latin American Popular Culture: An Introduction. Wilmington, Del.: Scholarly Resources, 2000.
Brashler, William. The Don: The Life and Death of Sam Giancana. New York: Harper & Row, 1977.
Breuer, William B. Vendetta! Castro and the Kennedy Brothers. New York: John Wiley & Sons, 1997.
Brown, Peter H. Kim Novak: Reluctant Goddess. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986.
————. Such Devoted Sisters: Those Fabulous Gabors. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1985.
Bruno, Michael. Venus in Hollywood: The Continental Enchantress from Garbo to Loren. Secaucus, N.J.: Lyle Stuart, 1970.
Capote, Truman. Answered Prayers. New York: Random House, 1987.
Casanova, Giacomo. The Story of My Life. Trans. Stephen Sartarelli and Sophie Hawkes. New York: Marsilio Publishers, 2000.
Cassini, Igor. I’d Do It All Over Again: The Life and Times of Igor Cassini. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1977.
Cassini, Oleg. In My Own Fashion: An Autobiography. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1987.
Cirules, Enrique. El Imperio de la Habana. Havana: Editorial Letras Cubanas, 1999.
Clase Hijo, Pablo. Porfirio Rubirosa: El Primer Playboy del
Mundo. Santo Domingo: Biblioteca Taller, 1978.
Collado, Lipe. Anécdotas y Crueldades de Trujillo. Santo Domingo: Editora Collado, 2002.
————. El Foro Público en la Era de Trujillo. Santo Domingo: Editora Collado, 2000.
————. Porfirio Rubirosa: La Impresionante Vida de un Seductor. Santo Domingo: Editora Collado, 2002.
————. El Tíguere Dominicano. Santo Domingo: Editora Collado, 2002.
Collins, Joan. Past Imperfect: An Autobiography. New York: Berkley Books, 1985.
Crassweller, Robert D. Trujillo: The Life and Times of a Caribbean Dictator. New York: Macmillan, 1966.
Darrieux, Danielle, with Jean-Pierre Ferrière. Filmographie Commentée par Elle-Même. Paris: Ramsay Cinema, 1995.
Davis, Sammy, Jr., with Jane and Burt Boyar. Why Me? The Sammy Davis, Jr. Story. New York: Warner Books, 1989.
Delanney, Charles, Django Reinhardt. Trans. Michael James, New York: Da Capo Press, 1961.
Delannoy, Pierre. “Just a Gigolo”: Rubirosa, Le Dernier des Play-Boys. Paris; Olivier Orban, 1987.
Demaris, Ovid. The Last Mafioso: The Treacherous World of Jimmy Fratianno. New York: New York Times Books, 1981.
