by Mario Puzo
And Cross was aware that Gronevelt had some special interest in him, showed him extra consideration. As witness the gift of black chips on this vacation. And there had been many other kindnesses. Cross had total comp at the Xanadu for himself and his friends. When Cross graduated from high school, Gronevelt’s present had been a convertible. From the time he was seventeen, Gronevelt had introduced him to the showgirls of the Hotel with obvious affection, to give him some weight. And Cross, over the years, came to know that Gronevelt himself, old as he was, often had women to his penthouse suite for dinner, and from the gossip of the girls, Gronevelt was a catch. He never had a serious love affair, but he was so extraordinarily generous with his gifts that the women were in awe of him. Any woman who stayed in his favor for a month became rich.
Once in one of their teacher and pupil talks, as Gronevelt instructed him in the lore of running a great casino hotel like the Xanadu, Cross dared to ask him about women in the context of employee relations.
Gronevelt smiled at him. “I leave the women in the shows to the entertainment director. The other women I treat exactly as if they were men. But if you’re asking advice about your love life, I must tell you this. An intelligent, reasonable man in most cases has nothing to fear from women. You must beware of two things. Number one and most dangerous: the damsel in distress. Two: a woman who has more ambition than you do. Now don’t think I’m heartless, I can make the same case for women, but that’s not to our purpose. I was lucky, I loved the Xanadu more than anything else in the world. But I must tell you I regret not having any children.”
“You seem to live the perfect life,” Cross said.
“You think so?” Gronevelt said. “Well, I pay the price.”
At the mansion in Quogue, a great fuss was made over Cross by the females of the Clericuzio Family. At the age of twenty he was in the full flower of youthful maleness—handsome, graceful, strong, and for his age, surprisingly courtly. The Family made jokes, not entirely free from Sicilian peasant malice, that thank God he looked like his mother and not his father.
On Easter Sunday, while more than a hundred relatives were celebrating Christ’s resurrection, the final piece of the puzzle about his father was made clear to Cross by his cousin Dante.
In the vast walled garden of the Family mansion, Cross saw a beautiful young girl holding court with a group of young men. He watched his father go over to the buffet table for a platter of grilled sausage and make a friendly remark to the girl’s group. He saw the girl visibly shrinking away from Pippi. Women usually liked his father; his ugliness, his good humor and high spirits disarmed them.
Dante had also observed this. “Beautiful girl,” he said, smiling. “Let’s go over and say hello.”
He made the introductions. “Lila,” he said, “this is our cousin Cross.”
Lila was their age but not yet fully developed as a woman; she had the slightly imperfect beauty of adolescence. Her hair was the color of honey, her skin glowed as if refreshed from some inner stream, but her mouth was too vulnerable, as if not fully formed. She wore a white angora sweater that turned her skin to gold. Cross fell in love with her for that moment.
But when he tried to speak to her, Lila ignored him and walked to the sanctuary of matrons at another table.
Cross said a little sheepishly to Dante, “I guess she doesn’t like my looks.” Dante smiled at him wickedly.
Dante had turned into a curious young man with enormous vitality and a sharp, cunning face. He had the coarse black hair of the Clericuzio, which he kept confined underneath a curious Renaissance-style cap. He was very short, no more than five feet and a few inches, but he had an enormous confidence, perhaps because he was the favorite of the old Don. He carried with him always the air of malice. Now he said to Cross, “Her last name is Anacosta.”
Cross remembered the name. A year before, the Anacosta Family had suffered a tragedy. The head of the family and his oldest son had been shot to death in a Miami hotel room. But Dante was looking at Cross, waiting for some sort of answer. Cross made his face impassive. “So?” he said.
Dante said, “You work for your father, right?”
“Sure,” Cross said.
“And you try to date Lila?” Dante said. “You’re sick.” He laughed.
Cross knew this was danger of some kind. He remained silent. Dante went on, “Don’t you know what your father does?”
“He collects money,” Cross said.
Dante shook his head. “You have to know. Your Dad takes people out for the Family. He’s their number one Hammer.”
It seemed to Cross that all the mysteries of his life were blown away on a sorcerer’s wind. Everything was very clear. His mother’s disgust of his father, the respect shown Pippi by his friends and the Clericuzio Family, his father’s mysterious disappearances for weeks at a time, the weapon he always carried, sly little jokes he had not understood. He remembered his father’s trial for murder, dismissed from his childhood memories in some curious way the night his father had taken his hand. Then, a sudden warmth for his father, a feeling that he must protect him in some way now that he was so naked.
But over all this Cross felt a terrible anger that Dante had dared to tell him this truth.
He said to Dante, “No, I don’t know that. And you don’t know that. Nobody knows that.” He almost said, And you can go fuck yourself you little creep, but instead he smiled at Dante and said, “Where the hell did you get that fuckin’ hat?”
Virginio Ballazzo was organizing the children’s Easter egg hunt with the panache of a born clown. He gathered the children around him, beautiful flowers in Easter garb, their tiny faces like petals, skin like eggshells, hats beribboned with pink, and their faces rosy with excitement. Ballazo gave each of them a straw basket and a fond kiss and then shouted to them, “Go!” The children scattered.
Virginio Ballazzo himself was a treat to look at, his suits made in London, his shoes in Italy, shirts in France, his hair cut by a Michelangelo of Manhattan. Life had been good to Virginio and had blessed him with a daughter almost as beautiful as the children.
Lucille, called Ceil, was eighteen years old and on this day served as her father’s assistant. As she handed out baskets, the men on the lawn whistled to themselves over her beauty. She was in shorts and an open white blouse. Her skin was dark with an undertone of rich cream. Her black hair was twisted around her head like a crown, and so she stood a youthful queen created by superb health, youth, and the genuine happiness that high spirits can give.
Now out of the corner of her eye she could see Cross and Dante quarreling, and she saw that for a moment Cross had suffered a crushing blow, his mouth crumpling.
She had one basket left on her arm, and she walked over to where Dante and Cross were standing. “Which one of you wants to hunt for eggs?” she asked, her smile flashing with good humor. She held out the basket.
The two of them looked at her with dazed admiration. The late-morning light turned her skin to gold, her eyes danced in delight. The white blouse swelled invitingly and yet so virginally, her round thighs milky white.
At that moment, one of the little girls began to scream. They all looked toward her. The child had found a huge egg, as big as a bowling ball and painted with vivid reds and blues. The child had been struggling to put it in her basket, her beautiful white straw hat askew, her face wide-eyed with astonishment and resolution. But the egg broke and a small bird flew out, which is what made the child scream.
Petie ran across the lawn and scooped up the young child to comfort her. It was one of his practical jokes, and the crowd laughed.
The little girl carefully straightened her hat, then shouted in a treble voice, “You tricked me,” and slapped Petie in the face. The crowd roared with laughter as she ran away from Petie, who was still pleading for forgiveness. He caught her up in his arms and gave her a jeweled Easter Egg dangling from a gold chain. The little girl took it and gave him a kiss.
Ceil took Cross by t
he hand and led him to the tennis court, which was a hundred yards from the mansion. They sat in the three-walled tennis hut, its exposed side away from the festivities, so they could have privacy.
Dante watched them go with a sense of humiliation. He was very conscious that Cross was more attractive, and he felt snubbed. Yet he felt proud to have such a handsome cousin. To his surprise he found himself holding the basket, so he shrugged and joined the Easter egg hunt.
Hidden in the tennis shack, Ceil took Cross’s face in her hands and kissed him on the lips. They were tender, brushing kisses. But when he put his hands under her blouse, she pushed him away. She had a brilliant smile on her face. “I wanted to kiss you since I was ten years old,” she said. “And today was such a perfect day.”
Cross was aroused by her kisses but only said, “Why?”
“Because you’re so beautiful and so perfect,” Ceil said. “Nothing is wrong on a day like today.” She slipped her hand into his. “Don’t we have wonderful families?” she said. Then abruptly she asked, “Why did you stay with your father?”
“It was just the way it worked out,” Cross said.
“And did you just have a fight with Dante?” Ceil asked. “He’s such a creep.”
“Dante is OK,” Cross said. “We were just kidding around. He’s just a practical joker like my Uncle Petie.”
“Dante is too rough,” Ceil said, then kissed Cross again. She held his hands tight. “My father is making so much money, he’s buying a house in Kentucky and a 1920 Rolls-Royce. He has three antique cars now and he’s going to buy horses in Kentucky. Why don’t you come over tomorrow and see the cars? You always loved my mother’s cooking.”
“I have to go back to Vegas tomorrow,” Cross said. “I work in the Xanadu now.”
Ceil gave his hand a tug. “I hate Vegas,” she said. “I think it’s a disgusting city.”
“I think it’s great,” Cross said, smiling. “Why do you hate it if you’ve never been there?”
“Because people throw away hard-earned money,” Ceil said with youthful indignation. “Thank God my father doesn’t gamble. And all those sleazy showgirls.”
Cross laughed. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I just run the golf course. I’ve never seen the inside of the casino.”
She knew he was making fun of her, but she said, “If I invite you to visit me at college when I go away, will you come?”
“Sure,” Cross said. In this game he was far more experienced than she was. And he felt a tenderness about her innocence, her holding of his hands, her ignorance of her father and the Family’s true purpose. He understood that she was just staking out a tentative claim, the lovely weather, the explosion of celebration in her body of womanhood, and he was touched by the sweet, unsexy kisses.
“We better go back to the party,” he said, and they strolled hand in hand to the picnic area. Her father, Virginio, was the first to notice them and rubbed one finger against another and said, “Shame, shame,” gleefully. Then he embraced them both. It was a day Cross always remembered for its innocence, the young children chastely clad in white to announce the resurrection, and because he finally understood who his father was.
When Pippi and Cross went back to Vegas, things were different between them. Pippi obviously knew that the secret was out, and he paid Cross some attentions of extra affection. Cross was surprised that his feeling toward his father had not changed, that he still loved him. He could not imagine a life without his father, without the Clericuzio Family, without Gronevelt and the Xanadu Hotel. This was the life he had to lead, and he was not unhappy to lead it. But there began to build up in him an impatience. Another step had to be taken.
BOOK III
Claudia De Lena
Athena Aquitane
CHAPTER 4
CLAUDIA DE LENA drove from her apartment on the Pacific Palisades toward Athena’s Malibu house and pondered what she would say to persuade Athena to come back to work on Messalina.
It was as important to her as it was to the Studio. Messalina was her first truly original script; her other work had been adaptations of novels, rewrites or doctoring of other scripts, or collaborations.
Also, she was a coproducer of Messalina, which gave her a power she had never previously enjoyed. Plus an adjusted gross of the profits. She would see some really big money. And she could then take the next step, to producer-writer. She was perhaps the only person west of the Mississippi who did not want to direct; that required a cruelty in human relationships that she could not tolerate.
Claudia’s relationship with Athena was a true intimacy, not the professional friendship of fellow workers in the movie industry. Athena would know how much the picture meant to her career. Athena was intelligent. What really puzzled Clau-dia was Athena’s fear of Boz Skannet. Athena had never been afraid of anything or anyone.
Well, one thing she would accomplish. She would find out exactly why Athena was so fearful, and then she could help. And certainly, she had to save Athena from ruining her own career. After all, who knew more about the intricacies and traps of the movie business than she did?
Claudia De Lena dreamed of a life as a writer in New York. She was not discouraged when, at the age of twenty-one, her first novel was turned down by twenty publishers. Instead, she decided to move to Los Angeles and try her hand at movie scripts.
Because she was witty and vivacious and talented, she soon made many friends in Los Angeles. She enrolled in a movie-script writing course at UCLA and met a young man whose father was a famous plastic surgeon. She and the young man became lovers, and he was bewitched by her body and intelligence. He revised her status from comradely bed partner to “serious relationship.” He brought her home to his family for dinner. His father, the plastic surgeon, was enchanted by her. After dinner the surgeon put his hands around her face.
“It’s unfair that a girl like you is not as pretty as you should be,” he said. “Don’t take offense, it’s a perfectly natural misfortune. And it’s my business. I can fix it if you let me.”
Claudia was not offended, but she was indignant. “Why the hell should I be pretty? What good does that do me?” she said with a smile. “I’m pretty enough for your son.”
“All the good in the world,” the surgeon said. “And when I get through with you, you’ll be too good for my son. You are a sweet and intelligent girl, but looks are power. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life standing around while men flock to good-looking women who have not one tenth of your intelligence? And you have to sit around like a dummy because your nose is too thick and you have a chin like a Mafia hood.” As he said this he patted her cheek and said gently, “It won’t take much doing. You have beautiful eyes and a beautiful mouth. And your figure is good enough for a movie star.”
Claudia flinched away from him. She knew she resembled her father; the Mafia hood remark had touched a nerve.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I can’t pay your fee.”
“Another thing,” the surgeon said. “I know the movie business. I have prolonged the careers of stars male and female. Now when the day comes for you to pitch a movie at a studio, your looks will play an important part. That may seem unfair to you, I know you’re talented. But that’s the movie world. Just think of it as a professional move, not some male-female thing. Though of course it is.” He saw that she still hesitated. “I’ll do it without a fee,” he said. “I’ll do it for you and for my son. Even though I fear that once you’re as pretty as I think you will be, he will lose a girlfriend.”
Claudia had always known she was not pretty, now the memory of her father preferring Cross came back to her. If she had been pretty, would her destiny have been changed? For the first time she took a good look at the surgeon. He was a handsome man, his eyes were gentle as if he understood everything she was feeling. She laughed. “Okay,” she said. “Turn me into Cinderella.”
The surgeon didn’t have to do that much. He thinned her nose, rounded her chin, an
d scaled her skin. When Claudia reentered the world, she was a handsome, proud-looking woman with a perfect nose, a commanding presence, perhaps not quite pretty but somehow even more attractive.
The professional results were magical. Claudia, despite her youth, obtained a personal interview with Melo Stuart, who became her agent. He got her minor rewrites on scripts and invited her to parties where she met producers, directors, and stars. They were enchanted by her. In the next five years, despite her youth, she was ranked as a Class A writer on A films. In her personal life the effect was equally magical. The surgeon had been right. His son could not meet the competition. Claudia had a string of sexual conquests—some really submissions—that would have made a film star proud.
Claudia loved the movie business. She loved working with other writers, she loved arguing with producers, cajoling directors: the first with how to save money doing the script a certain way, the other with how a script could be done on the highest artistic level. She was in awe of actresses and actors, how they were attuned to her words, making them sound better and more touching. She loved the magic of the set, which most people found boring, she enjoyed the camaraderie of the crew and had no compunction about screwing “below the line.” She was thrilled with the whole process of opening a movie and watching its success or failure. She believed in movies as a great art form, and when called in to do a rewrite, she fancied herself a healer and did not look to make changes solely to get screen credit. At the age of twenty-five she had an enormous reputation and friendships with many stars, the closest one being with Athena Aquitane.
What was more of a surprise to her was her ebullient sexuality. Going to bed with a man she liked was as natural to her as any act of friendship. She never did it for advantage, she was too talented; she sometimes joked that stars slept with her to get her next script.
