Living With Miss G (20 page)

The coffee and juice arrived. The coffee was cold, the juice was warm. I
poured us a decent shot of Spanish brandy into the coffee. This improved things,
but I could tell by the look on Miss G’s face that this hotel was going to lose a
couple of clients very shortly. Maybe a long, golden beach and a bright blue
Mediterranean sea would raise our spirits.
In swim suits we raced out into a splendid sunlit morning. We sure were at
the wrong end of the wrong beach. The sand was gritty. The sea had washed up
a thick tide line of debris to its highest point: plastic bottles, pieces of old wood,
swathes of seaweed which looked like dead carpet, all sorts of nasties. Even the
rocks looked ugly. Spain was still in the throes of starting to keep its beaches
spotless and to welcome the package tours. We were way ahead of that time.
High rises, night clubs, the orange tree-shaded squares, lovely outdoor cafes,
and the chic, jet-set people had not yet arrived. We had beaten them to it. Miss
G waded in and swam a few strokes. She came back with that look on her face.
“We’d better find somewhere to eat.” She said. I knew she didn’t want
anything to eat. She wanted to get out of the place and fast. I said, “Bags, booze,
all packed and ready.”
We paid the bill; it was negligible. We cruised through the emerging town.
There was no chic anything anywhere. Miss G said, “Let’s turn inland and see
what we can find in the mountains. Spain’s supposed to be so beautiful inland.”
Some of the roads we followed were little more than tracks, and very
occasionally we encountered a smoke-belching lorry moving at minus miles per
hour. There were very few people at all, because we were crossing, without
knowing it, the high Sierra Mountains and circling into the region of Granada.
The road rose and fell, climbed and turned, and we began to notice small caves
in the barren sides of the mountains.
“Caves,” said Miss G, who had obviously read a guide book. “Jesus, Rene,
do you think this is where the Andalusian gypsies live?”
I stared at a passing couple. “They are a funny-looking lot,” I said
nervously. Miss G was now thrilled. If these were real gypsies then they could
play guitars and sing and dance like the real thing, and Miss G was really after
the real thing. We pulled to a halt in a rough open stretch of baked clay. Around
it there was some sign of habitation, a store and a bar, and big caves out of
which gypsies emerged in scores to see what luck had brought them.
We were shepherded into the largest cave. It was furnished. Carpets on the
dirt floor, wardrobes, chairs, tables, beds stuffed in the back corners, charcoal
burning stoves, oil lamps. Miss G’s anticipation was at fever pitch.
“Flamenco,” she said, dancing, snapping her fingers and making a few
swirls. An old gent in the corner immediately reacted with a nasal sort of
honking, haunting, and wailing that sounded to me as if he were about to leave
this world due to an acute attack of some rare Spanish disease. Miss G reacted
as if Paganini was just tuning up his violin.
Her next remarks, however, struck through to the heart of the matter.
“Vino!” she cried. “Vino!” That struck the bell. “Vino…vino!” many voices
took up the chant and fingers began making that whispering movement which
suggests “the dough first…huh?” We caught their drift very quickly.
“Rene,” carried Miss G. “Give them pesetas and tell them to go and get the
wine.” We were now on the right track. They took the money and brought the
wine, and we started on that long endurance test of flamenco dancing.
The guitars started to twang, and a lot of their cronies arrived. They were
all pretty grubby. Very few wore shoes. They wore a variety of gypsy clothes.
Everybody was very merry, and everybody drank the wine.
That first night we just sat there being entertained by a variety of singers
and dancers, and when the wine ran out they’d go and get some more from the
local store. It would arrive in traditional wine skins which they would squib into
their mouths with polished accuracy. Several of the women carried babies and
whipped out nut-brown breasts to feed them. Somebody plopped a nut-brown
baby on Miss G’s lap. I wasn’t certain whether it was supposed to be a present
or just on loan. Miss G crooned over it, it dribbled and laughed, and everyone
was pleased. We had no food, not a single mouthful, but that first night passed
away so quickly, we didn’t need any.
Miss G had discovered paradise–a whole cave full of genuine Andalusian
gypsies who were her friends, who taught her the staccato handclaps, who
whirled around her as she stamped and pirouetted, looking marvelous with her
erect Castilian-like figure.
The sun came tilting through the cave entrance, and we were still at it.
From time to time, someone lay down in a corner and had a nap, but not us. We
still had no food. We were simply living on atmosphere and wine. That day I
noticed if they hadn’t worn us out they were damn close to wearing themselves
out and were now operating in shifts. I guess there were enough shifts of gypsies
in those caves to keep Miss G going for a month. Honest to God, with very short
intervals we kept at it all that day and all that night.
By the third morning, after two nights in the cave, we were still at it. Now
it sounds unbelievable, but no one can really sum up Miss G’s energy when she
was dancing the night away. I kept giving them money for the wine and they
brought it back and gave me the change. I guess they were making a slight profit
out of the deal, but it wasn’t costing us much.
I’ve got to say also that those girls in the caves were really something, and
the way Miss G spun and clapped her hands and stamped her feet she could have
been one of them. Their skin was brown, so you couldn’t tell if that was
sunburn, nature or a lack of soap, but they all smelled very sweetly of oils and
incenses. They wore the round-necked blouses we all think of when we think of
Spanish senoritas, and their breasts like Miss G’s were turbulent and pretty.
They jangled with bracelets and necklaces, their fingers were latched with rings,
and their heavy dancing skirts had metal coins sewn into their hems so that when
they spun they swept around you heavy as stiff brocade. Their eyes were black,
provocative and exciting. In spite of those wanton looks, we heard that very,
very few gypsy girls were ever prostitutes. They had strict moral codes, and
those old mamas with bright, gleaming eyes had special powers to lay curses on
wrongdoers. They consulted their Tarot cards, and if they had it in for you, baby,
you better watch out.
On the morning of the third day I noticed the men looking at us a little
suspiciously. Either they were going to make us blood sisters of the group or
drop dead from exhaustion. They were getting into little huddles and
whispering, and with my newly found mastery of the language I heard them
saying, “La noche” several times. To my slightly jaded and suspicious mind, it
seemed slightly sinister. Maybe they were saying “Can you believe it, Pedro,
they’re going to stay for another night!” I decided there might be something
going on with this “noche” stuff. After all, “noche” was the time when the
ghosts ran through the mountains. All sorts of nasty things happened. I said,
“Miss G, why don’t we get the wine ourselves and perhaps get a bite to eat
somewhere?”
In our best sign language, off we went. Outside I revealed my feelings
about “la noche” and gave my opinion that if we didn’t want our throats cut we
had better jump in the car and exit!
Miss G got the message, and for once she didn’t protest. I think she was
too tired. Off in the car we went and hit some sort of road with a signpost saying
“Granada.” That was our cue to change our theme tune from “The Rain in
Spain” to the popular song, “Granada,” and, with our blood now replaced by red
wine, we sang all the way into the old city.
We stopped overnight in a hotel and slept, bathed, changed our clothes and
knew we just couldn’t make it all the way back to Madrid. We slept like logs but
woke early and headed for Madrid once again. The whole journey down and
back took six days and nights, and I think we only hit a mattress three times out
of the six. I can tell you we were pretty glad to sink into the comfort of the
Madrid Hilton.
Back with our friends, when we mentioned our adventure authorities on the
gypsies sprang out of every corner of every bar. The gypsies at Sacromonte,
where we had spent our last weekend, were apparently one of the last cavedwelling communities, not only in Europe, but in the whole world.
No one knew where or how the gypsies had gotten there. Legends were
endless. Learned authorities had studied their history and come up with a dozen
learned dissertations, all different.
Many of the Romany families themselves favored the romantic legend that
their origin lay back in the Old Testament with the story of Cain and Abel. Cain
had killed Abel, and because of that crime his whole tribe was cast out and
doomed to roam the world forever as a wandering nomadic people. They were
certainly that.
We also learned with a sense of surprise that Romany is not a written
language and that flamenco has no written music. We also realized, as
everybody did, that this lore and legend born in a long-ago time in history is
sliding away, the mystery of their past unsolved and probably soon to be
forgotten by this uncaring century. We felt it was such a pity. The memory of
this two-night stint in the caves near Granada we would never forget.

A
pparently the paparazzi foundusonone ofour Europeanjaunts.Withlittle or no
make-upandwind-blownhair,MissGwasstilla sightto see withher rare natural
beauty.

No matter how hard Miss G tried to ignore her film responsibilities, she
was stuck to her contract with MGM. It was obvious to MGM that there would
not be enough time left to make more than another three or four films–Miss G
intended to do her best to limit it to three–but they still had the contractual right
to summon her to various meetings and discussions, usually in Hollywood, New
York, or London.

It turned out to be three:
The Little Hut
, produced by MGM;
The Sun Also
Rises
, produced by Twentieth Century Fox with Miss G on loan; and finally
MGM’s farewell production,
The Naked Maja
.

For the time being we postponed these liabilities. Spanish life had a lot to
offer. It is not everyone who gets their basic flamenco training in the gypsy
caves of old Granada, and Miss G, having survived that apprenticeship, returned
to Madrid confident she could now conquer the flamenco circuit.

From our base camp at the Hilton Hotel we slept all day and danced all
night, the sound of heels banging, fingers and castanets snapping, guitars
strumming and voices hollering a perpetual echo in our heads. Then to alternate,
we danced all day and danced night as well. So days and nights sort of got
strung together, and how we survived those experiences I have a hard time
remembering.

We were known in every posh hotel, bar, tavern, and restaurant in Madrid.
We drank martinis, champagne, whisky, gin, sherry, red wine–anything out of a
bottle, flagon, goat skin, spigot or decanter would do. Miss G constantly
repeated her theme tune, “I don’t like the taste of any of them, but I sure do like
the way they make me feel.”

Miss G’s twenty-four hour desire for flamenco music and dancing did not
really endear us to the Hilton Hotel management, but as she was such a
spectacular advertisement sweeping around their corridors, they fixed their
smiles and counted up to ten. If, on our nocturnal wanderings, she discovered a
flamenco group she liked, she would invite them back to the hotel to continue
the party in our suite. The sight of the doorman’s face as he saw us tromping
across the foyer at four in the morning should have been painted by Picasso. I
did not even want to hear about the enraged telephone calls that must have
reached the desk when the feet started stamping and the singers started honking.
I would imagine that, by the time Miss G announced that she was going to buy a
house and settle down in the peace of the countryside, the sigh of relief that went
up from the Hilton management would have gotten the Graf and Zeppelin
airborne.

Newfound friends were willing to help us. One introduced us to Moraleja–
a new American-style country club being built about ten miles outside Madrid.
Several houses had already been finished, and Miss G chose a ranch style house
which was half completed. She bought it for fifty thousand dollars and spent
almost as much again in furnishings and changes to her liking.

Now cables were dispatched to Hollywood, New York, and Palm Springs–
everywhere she owned a stick of furniture or a treasured painting–with orders to
crate them and dispatch them immediately to our house, La Bruja. La Bruja–the
Witch–got its name because our weathervane was shaped like a witch riding a
broomstick.

Miss G had her own ideas about house furnishing and decoration. She had
a flair for it, a great feeling for color, texture and space. She also had the good
sense to utilize the skills of a marvelous interior decorator named Harris
Williams.