The Golden State
Joel and I had been coexisting, but the romance had disintegrated into a friendship and I had retreated to the downstairs bedroom. Why was I spending some of the best years of my life with someone with whom I was no longer in love? We had been performing in rallentandos for too long; I craved some accelerandos and allegros. Perhaps Joel would actually be relieved if I made a move, but it was hard to predict, as his emotional side had always played second fiddle to his brilliant intellect. During a dinner on March 22, 1990, to launch Pierre’s new book, Towards a Just Society, to which Joel had contributed a chapter, I observed the two cerebral men who had both played significant roles in my life as they charmed the gathering of Toronto literati. Yes, there were definite parallels between Joel Bell and Pierre Trudeau.
Although my loyalty to Joel prevented me from seriously looking for someone else, I started to harbour fantasies about a new encounter. An aristocratic Englishman wooed me until I realized our lifestyles were incompatible. How could champagne lunches with the polo crowd and weekends on his Saint-Tropez yacht accommodate a concert career? Conflicts would be inevitable. However, it did feel good to be appreciated again; the doldrums at Fallingbrook had been draining my energy. A relationship with more emotional depth and intimacy would require a new partner. Joel, preoccupied with his government lawsuit, did not seem to notice my extended absences.
That year, in addition to a string of solo performances, and the release of my children’s album Paddle to the Sea, for which I had narrated the story and composed the music, I gave a number of benefit concerts — including one for underprivileged children at Toronto’s Dixon Hall and another in support of Nelson Mandela — and received an honorary law degree from Brock University. Backing up Kimberly Richards, who recorded two country songs I had written, provided a welcome return to the familiar recording studios. I visited a Toronto girlfriend, Trish Cullen, who had relocated to Santa Monica, where she was studying composition and conducting. We bicycled along the Venice boardwalk, discussed musical ideas, accidentally exploded her VW convertible in the middle of the Santa Monica Freeway, and picnicked at the Hollywood Bowl. If Trish, already an established film composer in Toronto, could uproot to California to start a new life, why not I? After several stimulating forays to Los Angeles, where I stayed in Moses Znaimer’s house in the Hollywood Hills, I became more resolved than ever to investigate the possibility of a fresh life on the West Coast.
Christmas 1990 was approaching, and I suggested to Joel a vacation in San Miguel de Allende. I sensed it would probably be our last trip together, but I had not had the heart to confront him with these inner thoughts. The fundamental differences between us could never be resolved, and I was convinced we both needed new beginnings. Sheldon, whom we were to lose a year later to cancer, met us in Chihuahua, and then a dusty, smoke-filled train swung us along the scenic bends of the Copper Canyon.
San Miguel had changed little except for some new housing developments on its outskirts and the annoying presence of more cars ill-suited to the narrow streets. As I retraced the familiar paths of my youth, mulling over my new resolve to leave the man with whom I had shared the past eight years, my mind wandered back to another life-altering decision I had pondered while treading on the same cobblestones. Twenty-two years earlier, at one of life’s junctions, I had chosen music over my intended path of studying English literature. Now I was at another crossroads, with a difficult decision troubling my mind.
Joel flew back home and I went to California, where, despite my ambivalence about leaving Canada, I had persuaded Dale, my Vancouver girlfriend, to help me establish a base. With no immediate concert bookings, why rush back to the sub-zero temperatures, grey skies, and icy driveways of Toronto? We window-shopped on Rodeo Drive, attended movie premieres in Westwood, and tried on funky clothes on Hollywood Boulevard. Although we were both in our forties, we felt like carefree kids again. One night, while eating corn tortillas on downtown L.A.’s Olvera Street, I imagined I was back in Mexico with my beloved mariachi music; the next evening, I was dressed to the nines at the American Music Awards. I spent a day of recording on an album with John Lennon’s son Julian, and had brunch with the expatriate balladeer Leonard Cohen. All these contrasting experiences were waiting to be savoured in this complex metropolis — this city of dreams. For the rich, Los Angeles provides a paradise of trendy restaurants, exclusive clubs, and stretch limousines, but struggling actors and writers survive in a competitive jungle where agents and managers manipulate fortunes like cards on a Las Vegas gaming table. For those power brokers of the entertainment industry, life revolves around Studio City, Burbank, and Hollywood, where deals are hammered out over power lunches. Movies and television shows for global consumption are conceptualized, produced, packaged, and sold in legendary Tinseltown. It is a place built on fantasy, to which people pursuing their dreams have been flocking for decades — a place of year-round sunshine, palm trees, Pacific surf, and smoggy air. The droves of Mexican gardeners, San Salvadorean maids, Iranian taxi drivers, and Korean merchants that contribute to the ethnic patchwork of L.A. all gravitated to this melting pot intent on establishing lives better than the ones they left behind. I, too, had come here in search of a different life. I had already rejected Los Angeles once before, in 1982, but I wanted to give it a second chance. Toronto still provided the security of family and friends, and a man to whom I was still engaged.
A two-bedroom bungalow came vacant next door to Bette, and in no time Dale and I were playing house at 1310 San Ysidro Drive. In the fifties, Marilyn Monroe had apparently been a frequent visitor, as it was the residence of her drama teacher. Tastefully furnished, the place came with everything necessary to run an intermittent life in Beverly Hills: fax machine, filing cabinets, reference library, and photocopier. My flowery pink bedroom and marble Jacuzzi overlooked a hillside of gardenias and camellias. In addition to finding this temporary home in winding Benedict Canyon, another more important occurrence fuelled my feelings of exhilaration. A year before, while travelling in Thailand, Dale had met an American named John Simon. Over the Christmas holidays, while Joel and I were in San Miguel, Dale again ran into John, or Jack, as he was known to his friends, on the Crystal Harmony cruise ship. Impressed by his gentle nature and distinguished looks, Dale, my “Celestina,” told him that her close friend was planning to move from Toronto to California.
Shortly after my arrival in Los Angeles, Dale made the introduction. A few days later, he asked me out to dinner. In the flickering candlelight of a French restaurant, we offered random fragments from our lives — his days in the U.S. navy and studies at Duke University, my years of touring and recording; the tragic loss of his wife eight years earlier to leukemia; his sons, my albums; his love of classical music, my love of the Pacific coast. His voice was one of the first things to impress me: the strong voice of a man proud of his achievements, yet with a sensitive nature. We eyed each other with curiosity, and I took note of his chiselled features and shock of silver hair. This man was so different from the characters I had expected to meet in L.A.: those jaded and brazen entertainment-industry sharks with the grating telephone voices and leathery “lunch by the pool” complexions.
That night, I hardly slept — my emotions had suddenly been thrown into a mad spin. “Oh. Liona, don’t be ridiculous,” Dale reprimanded. “Jack is the first single man you’ve met here. He could be one of these L.A. phonies.” But something about his demeanour suggested sincerity, and my better instincts told me he was special. Zsa Zsa Gabor later confided to me, “Dahling, every woman in Beverly Hills tried to catch Mr. Simon, but he was far too elusive.”
Almost a week passed before our second date. Perhaps I had not made as much of an impression on him as he had on me — those uncontrollable female insecurities plagued me with self-doubt. Finally, the phone rang and a deep resonant voice spoke my name, asking if I would like to join him for dinner and bring along my guitar — ah, music, my favourite way to a man’s heart! After “Plaisir d’Amour,” Chopin’s Nocturne, and “Recuerdos de la Alhambra,” I knew that a tentative romantic note had been struck between us. He reciprocated, playing Mendelssohn and Schubert on the piano. One solitary Julian Bream album comprised his entire guitar collection, but I already sensed that this man was going to learn more about classical guitar than he had ever dreamed possible!
Back in Toronto, storm clouds were gathering. The awful task of explaining to Joel my desire to separate lay ahead. How sad and dejected he would feel when he learned that I wanted to abandon our life together. If only he had been unfaithful, things would be so much easier. There was no need to mention Jack, as my determination for a new life had preceded this recent introduction. Still, Joel was devastated. The pained look in his eyes as he attempted to convince me how right we were for each other was so sad that my stomach twisted into cramps. For nights, I lay awake agonizing, as I knew he must also have done. He wrote loving letters, hoping he could express his emotions better with the written word. If I had believed that marriage counselling would reconcile our basic differences, I would have given it a chance, but during the previous two years, I had become convinced that Joel and I were not suited to be husband and wife, and I had resolved on countless occasions to leave. Although we had shared some glorious times together and had enriched each other’s lives, our paths had to diverge.
For the next several months, I flew across the continent burning up frequent flyer points at a mad rate. The awful news that Trish Cullen had died left me in a state of shock for days. In the midst of this emotional turmoil, my mother accompanied me to Canada Week in Bermuda, where in addition to the evening concert, I treated the attentive white-clad crew of our Canadian icebreaker HMCS Skeena to an informal performance on deck.
In February, the fiercest month in Toronto, I took my family to the Caribbean. Regent Holidays’ “First Lady of the Guitar Cruise” featured eight islands in seven days, as well as a homegrown Canadian star. It was to be the MS Pegasus’s first and last classical booking. Standing on deck during a life-boat drill in the port of Santo Domingo, I flashed back thirty-four years to a similar scene aboard the Columbia when we were about to embark from Liverpool on our first transatlantic crossing in 1957. The Boyd Gang was once again on a Greek liner full of Greek waiters and cabin boys, both ship and men looking slightly the worse for wear. Our cruise director mischievously admitted that the Pegasus had already sunk once off the Alaskan coast, only to be dredged up by an enterprising tour company — such a comforting thought during a night of turbulent seas.
The island stops were enchanting: snorkelling with my brother and sister in the aquamarine reefs off Bequia, market-hopping with Mother in Antigua, and retracing our footsteps in old San Juan. As I sat in my cabin contemplating a future with Jack in Los Angeles, I fingered out “Lullaby for My Love,” a composition I had just written for him. Stan Klees, the organizer of Canada’s Juno Awards, danced salsas and lambadas with me during steel-drum deck parties, and ignoring the rock and rolling of old lady Pegasus, I gave a concert of Fortin, Falú, and Lauro.
The Caribbean gig provided our family with the chance to be together for a week, something we had not experienced since San Miguel. What a salutary way to combine my work with a family reunion! Three months after we bid farewell to Pegasus, she caught fire and sank back to the salt water cradle of Davy Jones’s locker. I imagined sea creatures gliding silently along the corridors toward my barnacle-encrusted suite, and the stage where my concerts were held draped in seaweed and shells.
My romance with Jack began to intensify, yet I felt obliged to host a Passover Seder at Fallingbrook. Joel could not believe I was serious about leaving him; California must be a temporary whim I would get over once I came to my senses. By May, however, I felt it was time to tell Joel about Jack. As I stood beside him in the provincial legislature building and accepted the Order of Ontario, I was overcome with guilt. Here was the man who had loyally supported me in countless situations, battled the record companies on my behalf, and sorted out my business and legal affairs. I flashed back to our adventures on the Missinaibi, our travels around the world, his attentiveness whenever I or my family had been ill, and his tolerance of the Persona rehearsals at Fallingbrook. Yet now I had to tell him that I was involved with another man. In a four-page letter, the most difficult letter I have ever had to compose, I tried to console him and take the blame for the final disintegration of our relationship.
Jack and I were sharing the magical feelings of being in love. For years, I had harboured fantasies of meeting such a refined, intelligent, and sensitive man. No one had ever captivated my heart this way, and I felt my defences and reservations about marriage dissolving in the euphoria of our days and nights together. Jack was my perfect lover, my prince charming — the ultimate romantic, who seduced me with handwritten poems and bouquets of flowers, candlelight dinners, and a Van Cleef & Arpels diamond engagement ring. There was a difference of more than twenty years between us, but his youthful spirit and zest for life belied the gap between our birthdates. My parents were overjoyed and his four sons embraced me with obvious affection, pleased that their father had finally found happiness. I was fascinated to hear about his adventures as a young naval officer during the Second World War, his brief acting career in Hollywood, his struggles to start a small glass company that eventually expanded into the largest chain in the western United States, and his trips around the globe with the Young Presidents’ Organization. I was dazzled by his photographic memory and his vast store of knowledge while he marvelled at my ability to compose and my dexterity on the fingerboard. Love had cast its spell over both of us, making even the mundane enchanting.
There were times, however, when I could not help questioning how my whole life had suddenly been transformed. Was Liona Boyd really about to trade in her single status and independence for a new role as Mrs. Simon? Were we rushing into marriage, each projecting our preconceived ideas of an ideal partner on the other? Could my career survive a more domestic lifestyle than I had chosen in the past? Surely these occasional misgivings and pre-nuptial nerves were to be expected. Finding such a husband seemed a miracle; I was going to make this relationship the focus of my life.
Simon Fraser University in British Columbia bestowed on me an honorary doctorate of law on June 6, 1991, and I could see the glow in Jack’s eyes as he watched me play guitar in blue velvet cap and gown. Weekend getaways to Newport Beach and Santa Barbara gave us long hours to explore the intricate subtleties of our two personalities. Yes, there were differences to be reconciled; I had been bathed in liberal ideologies and philosophy during my years with Pierre and Joel, and here I was with a Republican! We listened to each other’s views on important issues and found that, in spite of labels, there was a remarkable confluence in our thoughts. Rejoicing in our similar tastes and preferences, we felt that some kind of divine destiny had brought us together. All those times I had stayed in Beverly Hills our paths had been drawing close, yet the timing had not been right until then.
When my lease expired, I moved into Jack’s house on Doheny Road, where our neighbours were Frank Sinatra and Merv Griffin. The house backed on to Dean Martin’s former estate, and Rachmaninoff, in the thirties, had chosen to live in a house a few blocks south of us. My family was curious to meet the man who had swept me off my feet, so we flew to Toronto and he was introduced to the Boyd Gang. My parents were impressed by my fiancé’s obvious devotion and showed him the city where their daughter had spent most of her life. We danced with the colourful crowds at Caribana, and I introduced him to the world of recording when I had to re-mix the drum levels on “Renaissance Fair” from a jazzy new age album I had just completed called Dancing on the Edge. After I performed at the Baddeck Music Festival, we took advantage of a trip to Nova Scotia to explore the rugged coast of the Cabot Trail and retrace the steps of pirates and rum-runners on the old French colony of Saint-Pierre and Miquelon.
In the fall, after the tension of the Los Angeles riots, we travelled to a World Presidents’ Organization conference in Brussels, where, with Jack’s international assortment of friends and business associates, we attended lectures by Margaret Thatcher, Henry Mancini, and Deepak Chopra, among others. Having flown back from Paris for two days to play at a Montreal convention, I lunched with Pierre Trudeau. We walked through the city streets together — two old friends nostalgically reminiscing about times past. Cautiously, I told him about my decision to leave Joel and my joy at having become engaged. By phone a few weeks later, Pierre jokingly reprimanded my future husband for stealing “one of Canada’s national treasures”! Jack and I resumed our European holiday by visiting Bernard Maillot’s Savarez guitar-string factory in Montpellier, where we watched in fascination as copper and silver strings were spun, polished, measured, and packaged for guitarists’ fingers around the world. Then we sojourned at several private châteaux in the rustic hamlets of Provence.
Later that year, Gavriil Popov, the mayor of Moscow, invited us to a New Year’s Eve extravaganza. It was my first visit to the legendary city of the czars, which in the fall of 1991 was struggling with the incipient birth pangs of democracy. Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin were vying for power, promising major reforms in Soviet government and society. Anticipating inedible pork stews and salty salami, we packed a supply of health food to snack on when the Russian cuisine proved inedible. At week’s end, we braved the icy winds and sub-zero temperatures to distribute our leftover bounty on Arbat Street, where Muscovites were discovering the challenges of capitalism in a proliferation of stalls hawking wooden handicrafts, Western cosmetics, and clothing. We donated our food to destitute old ladies in moth-eaten woolen coats who kissed our hands in gratitude. The long queues of people patiently waiting to purchase their meagre rations of meat and vegetables made us realize how fortunate we were to live in the West.
During a private tour of the fabled Kremlin, I mischievously played the first chords of “O Canada” on Lenin’s piano and, when no one was looking, irreverently lay on Catherine the Great’s bed for a quick photo. On New Year’s Eve, we joined the elite throng in the ballroom of the Kremlin, where Mayor Popov’s gala was under way. The cream of Moscow society — politicians, scientists, and writers — were gorging on caviar and vodka. We sensed such a feeling of excitement in the air: a palpable hope for a more progressive system of government and a brighter future for the Russian people. At eleven o’clock, the gala performance in which I was taking part began, as guests sat beneath balloons at long tables overflowing with cabbage pies, sausage, caviar, and pâtés. When the Soviet Army Chorus belted out a hearty rendition of “God Bless America,” I was struck by the irony. Here we were in the former centre of Communist policy making, cheering “America, land of the free”! I was the only non-Russian to perform, and I realized what a great privilege it was to be able to communicate through music to our appreciative hosts. The warm audience response was gratifying, and my elegant tuxedoed fiancé looked as proud as a peacock escorting me back to our table. The concert, featuring a cellist, a tenor, a symphony orchestra, and soloists from the Bolshoi, concluded as the Moscow skies erupted with explosions of fireworks. The Soviet Union was now officially over. In its place had emerged the Commonwealth of Independent States. But although the hammer and sickle had been replaced, bitter rivalries persisted among the higher government echelons. Nevertheless, my guitar and I had been present in the Kremlin at a historic moment — the emergence of a new era in Russia’s long and troubled evolution.
Back in the sunnier climes of Los Angeles, after a concert in Washington, D.C., Jack and I busied ourselves with wedding preparations. I decided to wear the gown the CBC had designed for me for the 1982 Juno Awards. With its layers of white sequins and embroidered lace petals, it was perfect for my wedding, and I had been storing it in my closet over the years with such a purpose vaguely in mind. The Canadian Maple Leaf and the Stars and Stripes flapped together in the breeze as guests pulled up to the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel, where a classical trio and bouquets of butterfly orchids greeted their arrival. My mother and sister fussed around with my hair and dress, enjoying every moment.
As I walked down the aisle on February 2, 1992, on the arm of my father, I could hardly believe that this was really happening. There was my tall brother, Damien, looking handsome in his tuxedo; a pink-sequined Dale, my maid of honour; and Mother, sitting in the front row smiling at us all. The moment was extra poignant for those familiar with the loss in Jack’s previous life, and for those who never thought the day would come when I would put a wedding band on my guitar-playing fingers. Vivien’s nine-year-old son, Colin, acted as ring bearer, carrying the gold bands in a velvet-lined miniature guitar case that my inventive brother had sewn onto a cream satin cushion.
Once the ceremony was over, we led the dancing to “When I Fall in Love,” knowing that everyone in the room shared our happiness. Later, I took to the stage for a few pieces, including “Lullaby for My Love,” and this was followed by a whirl of toasts and speeches. Jack swept me up to our suite, along with mountains of ribboned gift boxes and a guitar that pleaded not to be left behind in the excitement. A few days at the San Ysidro Ranch offered us rest, relaxation, and horseback riding in the scenic foothills of Montecito, where John and Jacqueline Kennedy had honeymooned. We looked into each other’s eyes, ecstatic in the knowledge that we had found each other at last.
Three weeks later, to assuage my muse, I hit the road again for a fourteen-city tour, but this time in the company of a brand new road manager — my husband! Our life together became an exciting mix of inter-national travel, private times with Jack’s family, mountain hikes, theatre, and concerts. There were invitations to Zsa Zsa’s horse ranch, dinner at the Playboy Mansion, the inauguration of Jack’s cousin as mayor of Beverly Hills, picnics under the stars at the Hollywood Bowl, charity events, and private parties. We often had to beg off just to preserve our quiet times together. In our garden of palms, olive trees, oleander bushes, and birds of paradise, I composed “Habanera” and “Preludio Poetico” on a blanket spread for me by Ofelia, our Mexican maid.
We decided that we needed a new house with better office and entertainment space. While house-hunting, we saw many homes, including a few belonging to celebrities. Jaclyn Smith’s was too old-fashioned, Sylvester Stallone’s ranch too far away, Cher’s villa lacked good views, Burt Bacharach and Carole Bayer Sager’s place was overly quaint, and Goldie Hawn’s former house was too “country” for our taste. Eventually, we concluded that nothing we viewed pleased us entirely, so we decided to build. In the spring of ’93, the old house was demolished and one of L.A.’s renowned architects designed us a “contemporary Mediterranean.” The new house featured spacious offices, walk-in closets twice the size of my Parisian accommodations, a domed-ceiling music conservatory, a guest wing, a gym, a library, a huge sunny kitchen, wraparound balconies, and magnificent views of the city to the south and Greystone Park’s eucalyptus trees to the north. Jack and I were involved with every decision along the way, from structural engineering to tiling, and interior decorators shuttled us around showrooms to choose plumbing fixtures, fabrics, appliances, and marble.
During the year of construction, we opted for beachside living on the stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway called Malibu. Here surfers’ rusty jeeps and beat-up convertibles shared the road with Rolls-Royces and Ferraris. The rolling foothills and winding canyons concealed hideaways belonging to Barbra Streisand and Nick Nolte, while perched on the ocean cliffs sat the estates of Johnny Carson, Julie Andrews, and Bob Dylan. We leased a house in Paradise Cove which had sweeping ocean vistas and 150 steps to a sandy, kelp-strewn beach that expanded or diminished with the changing tides. Whitewashed walls blanketed in crimson bougainvillea delineated a grassy back lawn that was, to my delight, the playground of two wild rabbits and their progeny. Our guest apartment and pool attracted a stream of house guests, who found the sunny, blue skies and lullabies of breaking Pacific surf hard to resist.
Tina Turner had rented the place before us, and on the other side of our wall of crimson bougainvillea, Olivia Newton-John had built her dream house. The charming Australian who had risen to super-stardom in the seventies suggested that her subterranean bomb shelter might be a good place to record my new CD, Classically Yours. After testing it, we realized that although faint rumblings of breaking surf might have enhanced a New Age album, my classical recording required absolute silence. Jack and I were frequent guests at the home of our lovely neighbour, who used my guitar to compose new songs. It was there that I was introduced to Robert Redford, who mentioned that he had been collecting my records for years. The handsome “Sundance Kid” invited me to attend the orchestral scoring of his movie Quiz Show, and revealed that he had always dreamed of playing classical guitar. I realized, as I sat in the darkened control room at the MGM studio while he held my hands in order to check my nails and my fingertip callouses, that I would have been the envy of millions of women. With those charismatic eyes and tousled blond hair, he proved even more irresistible than on the big screen.
Jack and I alternated brisk morning walks up in the hills with runs along the ocean’s edge, filling our lungs with air scented by orange and eucalyptus trees. My previous life in Toronto seemed like another world, and when I returned to those familiar Canadian theatres and airports, I experienced a strange dislocated feeling, realizing that I now had a separate existence in California. I set about composing a three-movement musical tribute to Canada, entitled My Land of Hiawatha (Spirit of the Moving Waters, Spirit of the Forest, and Spirit of the West Wind), most of which was completed while staying at Baja California’s Rosarito Beach. Perhaps the distance from Canada fuelled my inspiration. One of our Malibu neighbours, David Foster, introduced me to Barbra Streisand, who looked puzzled when I whispered we once had a boyfriend in common. “You came before Margaret and I came after” caused her to smile at the memory of Pierre.
In November, tragedy struck. The Malibu hills, which had been carpeted in yellow daisies, Californian poppies, and sweet-smelling chaparral, were left charred naked by the worst firestorm in years. Whipped by scorching desert winds, the Santa Anas, uncontrollable fires had raced up and down the canyons, burning all the way to the ocean front. Not realizing the severity of the Malibu fire, Jack and I set off for meetings in Beverly Hills, presuming that it would be contained within a matter of hours. But radio reports became more frenzied and a sky-high plume of smoke could be seen for miles. Firefighting reinforcements were being flown in from neighbouring states, but houses and ranches were already being devoured by the monstrous conflagration. A full-scale emergency evacuation started, as people frantically rescued their pets and valuables. Horrific live pictures from helicopter cameras revealed the magnitude of the disaster. The Pacific Coast Highway had been closed down to allow the passage of firefighting equipment and thousands of fleeing residents, leaving us no choice but to return to Beverly Hills, where we sat anxiously glued to the TV, watching firefighters and water bombers trying valiantly to contain the blaze. We phoned our neighbours, who assured us that our little stretch of paradise was still safe, but said that people were hosing their roofs as a precaution. I began to worry about my guitars and stalwart bears, Mosey and Tonka, left alone in the house. When I was five years old and my family was holidaying in England, the sea wall near our campsite had caught fire, throwing me into a panic as I tried to persuade my parents to run back and rescue Mosey from our tent. Some things in life never change.
When night fell, the images of Malibu ablaze became more hellish on screen as the full extent of the fires became apparent. When we called our neighbours again for an update, we detected panic in their voices. “The fire just jumped around Pepperdine University and is heading toward us. You’d better try to get here, as we’re all evacuating.” Realizing it would be expedient to return, we looked at each other in silence, slipped on running shoes, and in separate cars, started the devious drive through the San Fernando Valley and the twisting canyons of Kanan Dume.
As we neared the ocean, we were met by a stream of loaded cars and horse trailers heading in the opposite direction. Police at road blocks demanded proof of residency, then warned us to exercise extreme caution. Against the night skies, an eerie, orange glow silhouetted the burning ridges; smoke masked the hills and white ash sifted down on us like snowflakes. Our neighbourhood was still two miles away from the fire line, but with the fickle “devil winds,” it was no time to take chances. We frantically loaded up guitars, bears, photos, musical scores, and Jack’s Picasso, Renoir, and Chagall paintings. The noises from wailing police sirens, helicopters, and water bombers were followed by eerie silences punctuated by the beating of our hearts. When our cars were filled to capacity, we bade farewell to the house, praying that it would survive.
The Spirit of the West Wind was kind to us and the fire abated by daybreak, but 350 houses had been burned to their foundations and thousands of acres of wilderness was destroyed. Our beautiful hillsides were strewn with blackened palm trees, baked cacti, fried bougainvilleas, and the smouldering remains of people’s dream homes — such a terrible toll in terms of both human suffering and ecological waste. I wept at the thought of the countless innocent creatures that had been burned at the hands of arsonists, and of the British film director who had perished trying to save his pet cat. Our life was unaffected by the tragedy, but I shuddered to think how different things might have been had we rented farther down the Pacific Coast Highway. Even with her resilient residents, poor Malibu would take a long time to heal. The Canadian media interviewed me for eyewitness accounts of the disaster, and I joined local artists for two concerts to benefit the fire victims, whose cheerful spirits and bravery filled me with admiration.
In December, I agreed to do a concert in an old fortress overlooking the Gulf of Acapulco, to benefit a children’s charity, Para Los Niños. “Señor Jack, we promise to your wife berry berry good sound system of Germany, and berry good pink colour lights,” the technical man insisted. My husband, a novice in dealing with sound men, felt confident that all would be in place as promised by four o’clock the following day, but I knew Latinos and felt a little sceptical. The next afternoon their “berry good system” had been replaced by ten apologetic Mexicans positioning five hundred chairs. “Sorry, Mrs., all good speakers used for especial Christmas shows. In one hour will arrive for you different speakers. Please no worry.” My promoter was nowhere to be found when the crew began to bathe me in jaundiced light, which alternately blinded me or left me in darkness. The “berry good pink colour lights” were obviously being used in their “especial Christmas shows” along with the speakers.
The monitors were completely broken, and no unplugging or rewiring of cables could make them functional. One speaker made a brave effort at amplifying my guitar, but the other emitted a deafening roar resembling Niagara Falls. “Muy bien tenemos sonido!” the triumphant technician yelled to his compadres, ecstatic to hear any sound at all. I despaired, knowing that three television stations planned to cover the show. I am often amazed how insensitive the average person’s ears are to musical sound. After the concert, congratulatory crowds assured me that the sound had been great! Maybe their hearing had become so impaired by the loud music levels polluting our world that they could no longer distinguish subtleties of sound and judged on volume alone. Nevertheless, the concert received a standing ovation, and enthusiastic locals offered to show us the sights. Our itinerary had already been arranged, however. The patrons of Para Los Niños, the Baron and Baroness di Portanova, had invited us to stay with them.
As we entered Arabesque, the most spectacular home in Acapulco, I could almost hear Robin Leach’s awe-filled voice speaking to me as I gazed in amazement at the huge Moorish arches, stone minaret, and life-size sculptured camels on a terrace large enough to accommodate helicopter landings. A funicular railway, which glided up and down the hillside to Arabesque’s six levels, transported us to the guest suite, La Mariposa, with its private turquoise pool. Our rooms were decor-ated with gold and pink mariposas: butterfly bathroom fixtures, butterfly headboard, butterfly silk curtains, butterfly sheets, rugs, and mirrors; even the tables and chairs were carved in the shape of mariposas. Bizarre surrealist sculptures of female heads sprouting butterfly wings, and human hands and feet emerging from ceramic eggs recalled the works of Bosch or Dali. The James Bond movie Licence to Kill had featured Arabesque, but neither film nor photograph could do it justice. The enormous open-air living room and its wraparound pool gave the illusion of stretching far out into the Bay of Acapulco. A heady aroma from agapanthus, frangipanis, and tuberose blossoms wafted from large vases, while operatic music played like a movie soundtrack underscoring the splendid opulence. Our bags were whisked away to be unpacked while iced hibiscus juice was offered for refreshment.
At cocktail hour, Sandra, the beautiful, buxom baroness, draped in orange and purple Arabian silks and accompanied by the debonair Italian baron, emerged to welcome us. The Portanovas were munificent hosts, and were in their element entertaining friends from around the globe: on the bar, signed photos of Henry Kissinger, Plácido Domingo, and Julio Iglesias shared space with those of Jackie Onassis and Frank Sinatra. We were introduced to the other guests: curvaceous Joan Collins, poured into a Ferragamo catsuit, and her blond British lover, Robin Hurlstone; Mariana Nicolesco, the corpulent Romanian diva, resplendent in turquoise velours and a gold-plated headpiece straight out of Aida; Kathleen Hearst and her friend, the Greek shipping tycoon Spiros Milonas; Lucky Roosevelt, Reagan’s former chief of White House protocol; Abe Rosenthal, editor of the New York Times; and lovely Anastasia Kostoff, with her British novelist husband, Roderick Mann. I felt as though I had been transported into a Fellini movie as I tiptoed down the stone staircase in a white-and-gold Grecian robe with my elegant husband at my side.
The Portanovas were consummate raconteurs whose dinner conversation, which flowed from politics and religion to society gossip, was always witty and urbane. Sandra and Rick shared a great appreciation for the performing arts, and their largesse extended to many charities, including an orphanage for Acapulco’s poorest.
Joan Collins and Robin fried themselves in suntan oil before lunch, Mariana trilled soprano exercises in preparation for La Scala, and I began to work on two new guitar compositions: “Danza de las Mariposas de Mexico” and “Aria de Portanova.” On New Year’s Eve, I chatted with a giggly Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson, several Mexican tycoons, a Kuwaiti prince, and a number of titled Europeans. The table centrepiece was a sixty-foot miniature railroad with trains transporting tiny tequila glasses to the guests. As I fingered my dainty mother-of-pearl spoon, scooping caviar from its delicate jewel-encrusted silver eggshell, I realized that my guitar had let me participate in a lifestyle that few are privileged to experience. I played in Arabesque’s disco, where mauve and turquoise lights shone from sculptured alcoves. Mariana sang excerpts from La Traviata atop the marble staircase, the dance floor throbbed with Brazilian lambadas, mariachis strummed, and fireworks lit up the bay to welcome in 1993.
On our final evening, as we sat aboard the billionaire Enrique Molina’s yacht watching crimson washes of sunset, my mind wandered back to 1967, to the innocent days I had spent with my family camping on the Acapulco beach at the Old Gringo’s Trailer Park. Who was that girl playing guitar scales and university-entrance repertoire under a palm tree? Could she ever have dreamed up Arabesque and the Baron and Baroness di Portanova?