Living With Miss G (16 page)

While we had been enduring Howard Hughes’ tour, David Hanna,
publicity director for
The Barefoot Contessa
, had been worrying about what
direction his campaign for this movie should take. The film had been edited and
was safely shelved. Investors associated with its success had previewed it, and
few were wildly enthusiastic. Rumor suggested this was not a Joseph
Mankiewicz smash hit like the award winning
All About Eve
. This was a “well,
we’ll have to see” production.

David Hanna’s job was not to act as critic or doubter. It was to generate the
greatest possible amount of media attention to the movie, hopefully to build it up
as one of the best movies to reach the screen since the camera was invented. The
gala premiere had already been planned. United Artists was already issuing
statements about it being their enormous smash hit of the fall season. How could
it fail when it was written and directed by the great Joseph Mankiewicz, with
Humphrey Bogart heading the cast, divine Ava Gardner playing the female lead,
and many other famous stars involved? David thought they were right about
Ava Gardner.

David knew one thing for certain. Until he saw her arrive at Rome airport,
he had known little about her except that publicity suggested she was just
another Hollywood sexpot who leapt from husband to husband and bed to bed
and exhibited not the slightest ability as an actress. Then he saw her standing at
the top of the airplane steps smiling down at the enthusiastic crowd and looking
so radiant that she almost glowed.

The crowd went wild. David went slightly numb with disbelief. As a movie
man who’d been in the film business for a long time he knew without any doubt
that if he hadn’t seen a great actress, he had seen a female of dazzling intensity
and a woman movie fans loved. David Hanna’s certitude never wavered in all
the years he spent with Miss G.

His time with Miss G in Rome added to that first impression. No one
wanted to know about Humphrey Bogart or any other member of the cast. They
only wanted to know about Ava Gardner, to see her, to be near her, to cheer her.
If he could implicate Miss G in this publicity build-up, his worries would be
over.

First of all, getting her to attend the gala premiere would be a good start. If
he could coerce her into spending a week before the opening giving press and
photo sessions in New York that would be an added bonus. He expressed these
ideas to Joe Mankiewicz and other United Artists personnel. With alacrity, they
agreed.

Where was Ava Gardner? Did MGM know? Did her agents know? Did
anyone know? The voices boomed at David Hanna. “You’re the publicity guru.
You find her. You bring her back to New York, not dead or alive, but wholly
alive and beautiful!” David started work.

He found that she was rumored to have been seen in North Carolina, Lake
Tahoe, Palm Springs, Miami–even as far away as Nassau in the Bahamas. His
starting point must be the West Coast. David arrived in Hollywood saying he
felt more like a wartime secret intelligence agent than a movie publicist trying to
track down a famous star. MGM was frosty. They had no idea where she was.
Still less, they didn’t care. Ava Gardner was still under suspension.

David, however, had one ace in his pack. During those months in Rome he
had made great friends with Ava and become equally friendly with her older
sister, Bappie. If anyone on earth knew where Ava Gardner was, it was Bappie.
He was right. A phone call to Bappie enlisted her help. No, she couldn’t reveal
Ava’s whereabouts without first consulting Ava. If he rang back in an hour, she
would probably be able to give him that information. David rang back in 58
minutes. Yes, Ava would talk to him if he rang her in Havana.

Nationale Hotel. She’s staying there under the name of Miss Gray.”
In our suite at the Nationale, Miss G put down the phone and said, “That
was David Hanna.”
I said, “Oh?”
“United Artists and Joe Mankiewicz want to do a gala premiere opening at
the Capital Theater in New York in October. They want me there as Queen
Bee.”
“Will MGM have words to say?”
“To hell with MGM,” said Miss G. “I like David. He was a great help in
Rome. Now I’m considering these publicity ideas of his. David thinks that if I
cooperate they can really give old Barefoot Contessa a real lift.” She turned to
me with a big smile on her face. I could see she was hatching something. “Want
to go to South America, Rene? We didn’t get to Argentina with Howard
Hughes, did we?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“David’s often talked about the time he spent in South America. He’s told
me how popular I am in those countries.” She paused, frowning.
“Miss G, what’s on your mind?”
“We’ve done a tour with Howard Hughes that wasn’t worth a damn. Why
don’t we do a tour for United Artists and have a lot of fun seeing South
America? Let’s make a change. What about it, Rene, honey?”
I said, “Great idea. Do you think David and United Artists will buy it?”
“They’d be crazy if they didn’t,” said Miss G. They bought it all right.
David could hardly believe it. What other famous star would offer to do such an
arduous tour for free?
United Artists’ foreign sales manager began to work out tour schedules
immediately, while David took over the actual day-to-day details. Miss G would
hold court at two receptions in each city, one for the local big-wigs and one for
the press. Where and when was the tour to start? “From where you are and
now!” said David on the phone. “I’ll come across to Havana, and we’ll fly from
there. We haven’t got a lot of time.”
I put in a word there. “And we can stop in Miami to pick up the other
sixteen suitcases from Howard Hughes?” We did.
The tour schedule was Havana, Miami, Lima, Santiago, Buenos Aires, and
Rio de Janeiro. Caracas had to be left out because Miss G had to get back to
New York for the gala opening.
It was thought better to leave Rio until last. There had been some sort of
scandal in Brazil suggesting that due to U.S. intervention President Vargas had
committed suicide. The country was still under martial law, and U.S. citizens
were not all that popular.
In the plane flying south to Lima, Peru, David warned Miss G that she
should expect thousands, rather than hundreds, to gather at the airport and that
they would not be as well behaved as the crowds she usually encountered in the
United States. Even David blinked when he saw the mass of spectators gathered
at Lima airport. There was even a military band. We landed, and a United
Artists representative informed us our landing coincided with that of the
President of Peru returning home after a foreign visit.
Nevertheless, the crowds cheered. They were there to see one person only,
and that was not their president but Ava Gardner. The police were polite and
helpful, and there were no dangerous crushes. Miss G waved and smiled as she
was led through the barriers and signed as many autograph books as she could.
The cavalcade of cars was cheered as we passed through the streets, and David
said, “Incredible, we could be royalty.”
The two receptions were orderly, and Miss G was surprised and happy.
With one more day left and only one more luncheon for the local dignitaries to
attend, Miss G made her big mistake. The evening before, she was introduced to
a drink called Pisco Sour. She liked it. She didn’t care what the drinks were
made of–she liked them and as far as I could see, see drank about a couple
dozen. I sipped far more gingerly, as did David.
Next morning, I took in her coffee to find a very unhappy and hung-over
Miss G. She groaned, “Coffee? Horrible! Take it away and just leave me
alone.”
I said, “Miss G, we’ve got a celebration drive through the streets to a local
function. Crowds will be there to cheer you up.”
“Rene, nothing will cheer me up except death. Go away.”
I took the coffee into the next room and drank it myself. David came
breezing in with his daily worksheet. As this was South America, he followed
local custom by calling Miss G “Senora.”
He looked surprised. “Isn’t the Senora up yet?”
“No, the Senora is not up yet, and I don’t think she is going to get up.”
“Rene,” he said sternly, “you must go in and wake her.”
“David, I’ve tried. You go in and wake her.”
David looked suspicious. He moved cautiously into the bedroom leaving
the door open. His light-hearted approach was received with contempt.
“Senora, Senora…wake up…we’ve got lots to do.” There was no reply.
“I think if you wore the red dress today, it would look absolutely great.”
A rebellious voice from under the sheets growled, “I am not wearing the
red dress. You wear the red dress. I am not going anywhere. I am not doing
anything.”
“Senora, you are the guest of honor at Lima’s swank Jockey Club. You’ve
got to present a Gold Cup to the winner of the big race.”
“No.”
David wailed. “But I’ve got to take you to the reception.”
‘You are not taking me to any reception. I’ve quit.”
“But what are we going to do?”
“Take Rene. She’ll be a great stand-in. She’s pretty, and she will do it.”
Miss G’s head poked out from under the sheets and she saw me through the
door. “You’ll take my place, Rene, won’t you?”
Miss G was submerged beneath the sheets again. We retreated to the outer
room.
“Jesus!” said David in a voice similar to a man being strapped into the
electric chair. “What do we do now?”
He took a deep breath and began to think and came to a conclusion. “Well,
we press on regardless, as they say.” He looked straight at me. “Come on Miss
Ava Gardner, go and put your best dress on.”
“I can’t do that,” I shouted.
“Yes, you can. It’s a closed car, a limousine, so no one can see you clearly.
You’ve got twenty minutes.”
We argued, and I lost. With what is known as a sinking heart, I went to get
dressed.
The police cars, the outriders, and the limousine arrived. David went out
first and held open the door of the limousine. I dived in like a rabbit and tried to
submerge myself in the leather seat. We moved off. The crowds on the
pavement cheered and waved.
“Sit up and wave,” ordered David, doing a rather grim-faced imitation of
the Duke of Windsor. “Wave honey, wave!”
I smiled and waved, and we moved at a sedate pace through the streets. I
suppose the poor Peruvians had so little to cheer about that even a surprisingly
new version of Ava Gardner was enough to give them something to remember.
Maybe a few who got a close look were surprised how dark and sunburned Ava
Gardner really was, but then the sun in Peru is really hot anyway. I thought that
just the idea of seeing a famous film star cross their paths raised their spirits. I
was sorry I was a counterfeit.
The luncheon and reception was held at the posh racetrack at the edge of
town. As we neared it, David said, “I suppose we can’t risk the lunch or the
Gold Cup.” He smiled at me. “You did real well.”
“We can’t risk the lunch,” I confirmed resolutely.
David nodded and continued, “I’ll go up and explain that the Senora is
‘indisposed’–that’s the best word ever invented by the female professional. I
hope the word is just as good in Spanish. They’re nice people, and they will
understand.” They did.
As I’ve said, David was a very resourceful young man. I was introduced to
a small number of guests as Miss G’s secretary and shook hands with a lot of
pleasant people. The next day, the newspapers went on printing the hundreds of
pictures they already had of Miss G shaking hands, holding babies, and looking
divine. We had passed the test and without me ever having to do my
impersonation again. Miss G did her own personal appearances from then on.
Receptions in Santiago, Chile, and Buenos Aires, Argentina, went well. In
Buenos Aires David picked up a scent that Dictator Peron, whose wife Eva had
recently died, would welcome Miss G’s company as he laid flowers on Eva’s
grave and perchance maybe Miss G could join him for dinner afterwards. Miss
G ruled out both the grave and any perchance immediately.
“David, our engagement book is packed…understand?” David did
understand. Strange coincidence though, when we were living in a rented
apartment in Madrid, who should be our neighbor but Peron, by then
Argentina’s deposed dictator.
David, who spent a lot of time in the company of Miss G, was remarkably
observant about her. In the book he wrote in 1960, which included details of our
South American journey, he wrote one passage which I think identified one
facet of Miss G’s personality in a way no one else has ever done–her astonishing
beauty at any time of the day.
David wasn’t the only one who saw it, though. There was an incident that
occurred on our flight between Buenos Aires and Montevideo, Uruguay, a
comparatively short hop between cities. Miss G realized that she couldn’t
possibly be ready in time for her usual spectacular appearance at the top of the
airplane steps. Worried, she implored David to ask the pilot if he could possibly
circle a bit before they landed to give her a chance to complete her star image.
The pilot, a big, tall Texan, knew he had Miss G aboard. He was not the
slightest bit phased by the request. In his slow drawl he told David to inform
“that sweet, little girl” back there to take all the time she wanted. When she was
ready all she had to do was let him know. Just come up to the cockpit and tell
him–alone.
What the rest of the passengers must have thought as the aircraft made
several wide sweeps around the airfield in a maneuver that lasted half an hour
has never been chronicled. A delighted Miss G dazzled the cockpit for at least
fifteen minutes and returned saying, “That Texan! He’s some fella!”
Flying north to Brazil, David had been worried about the hotel
accommodations that United Artists had reserved for us. He knew Rio de
Janeiro. He knew that in those years the Copacabana was miles ahead of any
hotel in the city. He’d never heard of the place we had been slotted into and had
misgivings.
We were not arriving until nine in the evening, which meant it would be
dark and the crowds might not be too ferocious. What a hope. News had traveled
ahead of us. As we turned off from the main runway, the crowds were already
amassed and were so undisciplined that through the windows we could see them
trying to keep with our plane’s trundling speed. By the time we reached our
parking space, we were hemmed in by an ocean of excited human beings. David
said, “We’ve got to wait for them to clear a space. You’ll never get through that
mob without being torn apart.”
The noise of people cheering and shouting outside was scary. The other
passengers took their chances, went down the airplane steps and fought their
way through. The crowds were getting restless and started chanting, “Ava, Ava,
we want Ava!” They also chanted a lot of other things in Portuguese which
conveyed the same message.
It was Miss G who said, “If the United Artists representative isn’t going to
show up, we are stuck. Hell! Let’s take a chance. There are policemen down
there. The fans will only push us around a bit.” Push us around a bit! Hell! They
nearly tore us apart.
With Miss G leading, trying to follow an almost submerged policeman,
David next and me bringing up the rear, we dropped into that seething mass of
excited spectators. I’ll never forget the experience with the shoving and
screaming, the lunatic cameramen, the TV lights, the exploding flash bulbs, the
hysterical waves of sound. At one point Miss G lost her shoe but with one
despairing dive managed to fish it up. There was no chance of her getting it on
again. We were dragged, pushed, and shoved but fought our way through to a
television hut. There we clung, all on the verge of collapse. Miss G was near
hysteria. The noise outside was still appalling.
At last someone located a back door. Someone else summoned an old taxi.
We piled in, and the taxi moved off. The taxi driver didn’t seem to know what
he was doing or where he was going. David yelled the name of our hotel a dozen
times. Then to help his concentration, Miss G in complete exasperation and rage
hit the poor man over the head with her shoe. It didn’t seem to faze him, but it
broke off the heel of her shoe. We eventually reached the hotel. The
neighborhood seemed crummy, the façade of the hotel dilapidated. We
scrambled out of the taxi, and a barrage of flash bulbs popped again. We hurried
inside. “Christ!” said David.
The manager and a dozen staff appeared. They were about as elegant as the
crowd we had just escaped from. We were taken up in a creaking elevator and
were steered along a worn carpet into a suite that must have seen not better days,
but better centuries. The bedroom was equally dismal. In order to sooth us, a
tray of martinis stood on the table. Miss G seized one.
I heard David say, “Jesus Christ!” a second time. The furniture was old and
stained. There was a stench of tobacco and cigarette burn marks everywhere.
The United Artists representative, Gilberto, had now arrived. David led him
aside for a quick and forceful discussion which we overheard.
“For God’s sake, who booked this accommodation? Miss Ava Gardner
can’t stay here.”
Poor Gilberto blustered, “The new office of United Artists. They said there
could be no cancellation.”
David raged. “I cabled them personally to change us to the Copacabana.”
“I had no authority…no authority.”
“Well, you’ve got authority now. Go telephone them. We want a suite and
two rooms.”
Gilberto hurried off. Plainly he also alerted the manager, who appeared
flustered and alarmed. Poor little guy. Later we realized he must have been only
a small cog in a well rehearsed plot.
He waved his hands in despair. If Miss G left his hotel his reputation
would be ruined forever. What reputation did a dump like that have to lose?
Then the truth, or at least a particle of it, emerged. The hotel was paying for the
cost of both of Miss G’s receptions in return for her staying in the hotel.
That did it. Miss G, who had been cool, calm, collected and apologetic for