• 14 •

Judy, Judy, Judy!

The end of an adulterous affair can affect the participants in many disparate ways. In the case of Rod and myself, I believe we reacted very much in the same fashion by throwing ourselves into the creative work that had always had first claim on our lives. Miklos Alexandrovitch Is Missing (the story of the Russian ballet dancer who defects in Paris) was in its editing stage. I was ready to go forward and had decided on the themes and setting of the two remaining books of my three-book contract. Both had European backgrounds, for which I would have to do considerable foreign research. I chose as my immediate project Haunted Summer, a fictionalized version of Lord Byron and Mary and Percy Shelley’s summer of 1816 together in Switzerland, during which Mary wrote Frankenstein and Byron his epic poem, “The Prisoner of Chillon.” My story and characters were clear in my head, as was the way I planned to approach them. The book was to be written in the first person as though Mary Shelley was the narrator of her own life. I now wonder how I had the nerve to step into her shoes and—so to speak—write with her pen in my hand.

The work to follow Haunted Summer was tentatively titled Post Mortem and would be the novel I had waited so long to write, set among the expats in London during the McCarthy years. I put Mary Shelley, who was long in her grave, first as I was still not fully prepared to rake up the ghosts of the more recent past, or to expose—however much fictionalized—the lives and feelings of McCarthy’s survivors who were close friends.

My agreeing to deliver each of the books in two years meant I had a heavy schedule for the next four years. Also, neither book could be successfully written without my returning for long periods to both London and Switzerland. Cathy had decided to do her first university year in Switzerland at Leysin, to obtain an International Baccalaureate diploma which would, when completed, give her a one-year credit to most European universities if she chose to continue her education abroad, as well as to schools in the States. Her choice also figured into my selecting Haunted Summer as my initial project. She did, however, have her last year at Beverly Hills High School to complete.

I don’t know what I would have done without Jay. Never before had I the luxury of a secretary who could transcribe my handwritten pages at the end of a writing day (usually about three p.m.) so that I could edit them the following morning. Jay was also a brilliant organizer and a steadfast researcher, could drive me where I needed to go (I don’t drive), and always managed to crowd in household tasks, like taking the dogs to the vet, as well. He was a one-man staff. He agreed that if my decision was to return to Europe, he would accompany me, for he had never been abroad and felt that now in his late forties it was time he spread his wings and saw a bit of the world.

Leon and I were corresponding, but my letters contained no mention of the subjects and backgrounds of my two new projects. I was fearful that he might use this as an added reason as to why we should reconcile. I did not feel that my presence on the same continent should invite any such outcome, but Leon was persistently adding logs to the fire—an English school would be a good choice for Cathy. London was no farther from Washington, DC, for Michael to travel to see me than was Los Angeles. I had left behind close friends who were always asking about me and when I would return. Sidney had spent four days in London, having dinner with Leon three of the nights, and talked endlessly about how much he missed my help on his new project. Actually, I had heard from Sidney and was clear that I did not want to work on any film project—at least while I got my new career as a novelist established—and he had been supportive of my decision.

Mary Shelley had been of strong interest to me for a long time. About five years earlier, I had attempted a short story dealing with her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, famous for her Vindication of the Rights of Woman and staunch believer in free love. She had a child out of wedlock before her marriage to William Godwin, revolutionary, writer, publisher, whose great work Political Justice influenced the intellect of the youth in his era. Mary W. died shortly after their daughter Mary’s birth. Godwin remarried a Mrs. Clairmont (whose daughter Claire would become Lord Byron’s mistress). The Godwins’ London home had drawn young men of revolutionary spirit, such as the poet, Percy Shelley, with whom Mary eloped (although he was married and the father of two children). In the short story, I had dealt mainly with Godwin and his two wives during an earlier time. Now I wanted to carry the story forward with Godwin’s daughter, Mary, and his stepdaughter, Claire. The idea that these two stepsisters had been the lovers (and in Mary’s case, wife) of two of the greatest and most controversial poets of their time was compelling.

The last time I was in Klosters, I had taken the rather long train ride to the brooding castle of Chillon with its grim underground chambers where evidence remained of the wall chains that once had manacled prisoners left to starve and die. Chillon haunted me. It was there, in the summer of 1816, that the runaway lovers with Byron, Claire, and Dr. Polidori, an enigmatic infatuate and drug supplier of Byron’s, had often spent their nights exchanging self-composed horror stories and Mary’s Frankenstein had been created. My first sketchy outline of Haunted Summer had been written shortly after the publication of The Survivors, but I could not get a proper handle on it and had put it aside and moved on to Miklos instead.

Over time, I had made, re the McCarthy-era story, copious notes in my journals, recorded memories of conversations, descriptions of people and places—my observations on the changes and confrontations between the members of our group. Since Bob Rossen’s death, I had known the story would start with the death of the protagonist (which is why I had given it the working title Post Mortem) and then would flash back to his early Hollywood years, Washington, DC, during the HUAC hearings, and then to the great wave of talented Hollywood writers and directors who had washed up on the shores of Europe. It seemed ironic to me that less than two decades earlier, Hollywood had been the safe harbor for European filmmakers a step away from being victims of the Holocaust. Except for the technical artists (camera, sound, etc.) who had not been allowed into the unions of their crafts, these men and women had been brought into the studios, and their cinema style incorporated into what would be called film noir and had greatly influenced Hollywood’s steady output of dark detective, murder, and horror stories. Now it was the reverse. The invasion of American film artists to Europe had given birth to Italian spaghetti westerns and epic dramas (the latter much in the style of Cecil B. DeMille).

I missed Europe: the age of it, the beauty of its architecture, the culture that changed whenever one crossed a border. There was always something new to see, to learn—and something old to discover; history that came alive. What I liked best about Los Angeles (and Beverly Hills, although an incorporated city, is just a section of LA with no visible division except a corner sign that indicates you are either leaving or entering one or the other) were the Spanish/Mexican architectural influences, presently being replaced street by street with modern buildings. Most of the seedy artifacts like the Garden of Allah apartments and the motels along with restaurants in shapes of derby hats and giant hot dogs were gone, as were nut burgers (no meat served) and the flashy drive-ins with girls in skimpy costumes that had proliferated in the earlier days of the movie industry, captured so well in Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust. Lost were the glamorous nightclubs like Ciro’s, the Mocambo, and the Trocadero where the great stars of an earlier, more glamorous Hollywood had once graced such spots with their regal and splendiferous selves. Perhaps odd, but the detritus of those years still held a spell over me.

Growing up, I had been an avid biker and with my high school buddy, Greta Markson (an aspiring actress), spent every Saturday we could pedaling our way to the beach from Beverly Hills and back again, the wind in our face as we raced down the least traveled streets, each time trying a new route. Everything about Los Angeles, especially my corner that was Beverly Hills, was familiar to me. Each street I now turned down (on foot or in a car) brought back memories. I had old friends with whom I had never lost touch. Still, I had been away for a long time and had lived in such a different world from theirs that the adjustment was difficult at times. Political activism was now in the hands of a much younger generation. This was the time of the flower children, LSD, and other hallucinogenic drugs (which had also been part of the Shelleys’ and Byron’s generation); the time of civil unrest and protest (as was the background of Miklos). The years of the blacklist were not yet forgotten (certainly not by its victims)—but it was not a part of current life—especially among older liberal Hollywoodites who had escaped the sharklike jaws of HUAC. What irritated me most were the younger members of the Hollywood colony who treated former victims, now returned “home,” as though their experience (which had caused them such great losses—a divorced mate, financial ruin, a career upended, their identity stolen) should be worn as a badge of honor. How crazy was that?

The expats I knew who had returned to California were trying desperately to bury those dark days. This was difficult when they still found doors shut to them (their credits too far in the past—their names not yet restored on more recent work). It did not help to be confronted every day by the very people who had betrayed them—who were doing very nicely, thank you! Harold and Ruth Buchman were in LA. Harold was trying to find a writing assignment with not much success. He had depended on Sidney for years, and his brother had extended a hand whenever possible—hiring Harold for a first draft of a proposed project at times. This had caused considerable sibling resentment on Harold’s part. He had hoped to make it back on his own once in California, but it was not happening. Joyce Jameson (not a HUAC victim) had recovered (at least temporarily) from the throes of her depression and was now in love with the actor Robert Vaughn (nominated for a supporting Oscar for The Young Philadelphians and having given a fine performance in the recent Bullitt), who was extremely bright and politically active. I enjoyed his company and was pleased that Joyce (truly a better talent than her career offerings supported) seemed happy. We had shared our teens, our dreams, and many of the difficulties that our individual, complicated childhoods had involved. Despite our physical distance, Joyce had always looked to me for counsel (through voluminous letters when I was abroad). I never felt quite adequate to the task, for Joyce needed professional help, but I did step up to the plate and tried my best. Joyce had a bit of Marilyn Monroe in her (she would later play her in a Broadway takeoff) mixed with a natural intelligence that she had abused—and that the troubling circumstances of her life had caused. Joyce was always looking for someone or something to save her—a lover, a friend, fame, religion (later she was addicted not only to pills, but to television evangelical preachings).

As Christmas 1968 approached, and Rod and I no longer seeing each other, I decided to give a Christmas Eve party to cheer myself up. Michael would be home for the holidays and we three would be together, something I much looked forward to. The day before the party, I cooked up a storm. I had invited somewhere between twenty-five to thirty guests. A Mexican theme dominated the food to be served (this was Los Angeles, after all!). I made a huge pot of the now-famous Chasen’s chili along with pots full of other remembered recipes. Lucy had recently married a fine gentleman, who mixed a great margarita and took care of the bar.

We were a rather giddy group that included friends from disparate parts of my life. Besides Joyce, Robert Vaughn, Harold and Ruth, Bill and Betty Graf were present. The Grafs had been at my wedding to Leon, and Bill had only recently returned to the States after the international success of his film A Man for All Seasons. There was also another old friend, actor Jack Kruschen (nominated for an Oscar for his role as the neighbor and doctor in The Apartment), Nick Dunne, Jay, of course, and many more new and old friends. Both Cathy and Michael played host with me. As the midnight hour neared, I asked Michael to go upstairs and bring down a box of small gifts I had tagged for each of my guests. He did as asked and suddenly raced down the staircase, empty handed, and grabbed my arm.

“You have to come upstairs,” he ordered, his voice in control, but with a sense of urgency.

“What is it?”

“Biba.”

That was our toy poodle. “Biba?” I repeated inanely.

“She’s under your desk and either she has a furry mouse or she has just delivered a pup and she is in great pain.”

I must have looked dazed, not quite understanding what he had said.

“Please come with me,” he added sotto voce.

So I followed, making as graceful an exit as I could so as not to gain anyone’s attention. I entered my bedroom, where my desk was located, and stopped in awed surprise. Biba was, indeed, under my desk—which was an elongated, Spanish-style dining table that I had converted for my use as I could spread many pages out on it. She was whimpering and writhing—a tiny, apricot ball of fur trembling beside her. Thank God—it was alive, as was Biba. The whole thing was a complete mystery. The dogs’ vet had told me that Biba had been spayed and that, anyway, a dog of Sandy’s size would never attempt sex with a dog of her minuscule proportions. However, since Biba was never allowed off the leash when outside for fear of the heavy traffic, Sandy had to be the father. And, as she was a furry ball herself, I had not been aware that her stomach was swollen with pup—although she had been acting a bit churlish lately and when I thought about it, had some trouble going up and down the stairs.

I immediately started dialing vets from the Yellow Pages as it seemed that Biba had yet another pup to birth and could not do it on her own. However, this was Christmas Eve; no replies. Finally, I reached a live person and calmly explained the situation—as it seemed, to no avail. I became more dramatic. I knew it was a holiday, but our little dog had delivered one pup and we thought she had another but could not do it without help. I started to cry. “She could die!” I could not contain myself and sobbed mightily. Worn down, the man acquiesced but explained that as he lived in Santa Monica, it would be at least twenty minutes before he arrived. I put Michael back on and the vet told him what to do to make Biba as comfortable as possible until he got to us.

When the vet finally appeared at the door, there was a rush to greet him and escort him upstairs. He pulled back and shouted furiously at them, “Is this some sort of Hollywood joke?” for he had recognized one or two of his escorts as Hollywood players. He turned to leave but someone grabbed him by the arm. “This is not the least bit funny! It’s Christmas Eve and I’ve left my family. . . ,” he said as he attempted to break loose. A slight man, he was almost carried up the steps. He paused only for a moment as he took in the reality of the scene before him and then demanded everyone but Michael depart the room. My son—with absolutely no medical experience—was to be his assistant. Biba was gently lifted onto the top of the cleared desk, a clean, doubled sheet now covering it, as the vet prepared to perform a surgery to bring the reluctant pup forward and out into the world.

All’s well that ends well, as Shakespeare wrote. Biba had a second female pup (ascertained by the vet who joined the party, got pretty drunk, and seemed to have a very good time). She was weak but alive, and her progeny were settled into a small basket lined with a heating pad turned on low, Sandy crouched beside it. Biba could not yet nurse so the pups were fed from an eyedropper. We named the firstborn Chrissy, the second—Noel. It turned out that Biba was a terrible mother. She truly hated Noel. One day, when she was quite recovered, she pushed the tiny creature down the staircase. Thankfully, Noel seemed none the worse for the fall. But as soon as was possible I gave her to my hairdresser, a dear man who had just lost his dog. Chrissy was a hardy sort and survived her mother’s abuse and, in fact, followed Biba wherever she went. She grew to be much larger than her mother, and about half the size of her father. They were quite a curious trio.

In the weeks leading up to the Christmas Eve party, I had not been feeling too well. Since it was holiday time and we three united, I decided to put off seeing a doctor until the festivities were over. On New Year’s Day the Grafs gave a party. As it was somewhat open-ended, I decided I would go but leave early. They lived in a glamorous new tower building above Sunset Boulevard, their apartment overlooking the city from ocean to mountains to downtown. I was happy for them, pleased to be there (they had always been favorites of mine). Suddenly, I felt dizzy, weak; a pain stabbed through me. I made it into the nearest bathroom where I collapsed (in a pool of blood I was later told). The next thing I knew I was in an ambulance on my way to hospital where I was rushed into Emergency. I had suffered a massive hemorrhage and after tests were conducted, was told I had a tumor in my uterus the size of a grapefruit.

The doctor who had delivered Cathy sixteen years earlier (and actually had taken care of me when I was a young woman), a man in whom I had great trust, was still in practice. I had the hospital call him. He told me I needed immediate surgery. It meant removing my uterus and ovaries. After examining me, he explained carefully what this involved and asked me if I approved. I did. Everything was arranged for early the next morning. At dawn, a hospital executive appeared by my bedside, clipboard in hand.

“From your record, I see that you are married? Is that correct?”

“I am currently separated from my husband. He lives in London.”

He then informed me that my operation could not be performed until my husband signed a release form agreeing that he gave permission for my uterus to be removed and understood that I would not, therefore, ever be able to bear another child. To say I was stupefied would be an overwhelming understatement.

“This is a hospital rule?” I asked numbly.

“It is the law of California.”

“I need my husband’s permission to save myself from maybe dying?” I cried out in fury. “This is my body, my uterus! No one has the right to tell me what I can do with it!”

“Please control yourself,” he managed. “It is the law. I can’t do anything about it. Now if you can tell us how to get in touch with your husband . . .”

“Does California law give a wife the right to say yea or nay to an operation on her husband’s prick?” I shouted.

“Mrs. Becker . . . please . . .”

“Anne Edwards. I’m Anne Edwards!”

“Can we reach Mr. Becker on your behalf?” he went on calmly.

“Let me see where it says in the California book of laws that a wife has to have her husband’s permission. . . .”

“I assure you it is a law. Now where can we . . .”

I cannot to this day believe I did it. But there was a plastic pitcher filled with water on the bed tray, and I picked it up and threw it at him. Water splashed all down the front of his starched white hospital jacket. He jumped up and dashed out of the room, never to return. However, my own doctor was soon by my side.

“Look, Anne,” he said in his best “trust me” voice, “you can call the governor and petition the state Senate later [something I had threatened to do] but right now, I need to have Mr. Becker’s acknowledgment that he agrees to your surgery. Where can he be reached?”

Jay called Leon in London but had a hard time getting through. Finally, they connected. Leon called the hospital—as incensed as I was about the situation. The hospital insisted on written approval. And so Leon sent a telegram—which I saw—avoiding the word permission—stating that he understood his wife was in urgent need of surgery to remove her reproductive organs and that he agreed with her that it must be done. Yahoo! Leon!

Three days after the surgery, Leon appeared by my bedside. He had been given a visa by immigration to enter the country for a short stay due to my illness. This was the first time since he had left for England, in 1952, that he had been allowed to return. He remained with me until I was released to go home, about two weeks later, and then stayed with me in the apartment for another week as I had suffered some complications. When you are as weak and sick as I was during that time, vanity has little place. Leon truly tended to me, made sure in the hospital that I received immediate attention. When I came home he did all he could to make me comfortable. For the first time, I actually did look on him as a husband. He had come through for me, picked up and left the work he was doing, and conquered his own disturbing emotions of being treated as a foreigner in a country that he considered to be his homeland.

I did, indeed, write letters to the governor, who was none other than Ronald Reagan. I received rather murky replies from an assistant informing me that the matter would be turned over to the proper committee—committee? That appalling law was eventually repealed sometime in the 1970s.

By early March, back on my feet and on my own again, I realized that Leon had assumed that we were now reconciled (my fault, I fear) and was pressing me to join him in Madrid where he was still shooting A Talent for Loving. I was torn in having to make a decision both by gratitude for his coming to my aid and guilt that I had accepted it unconditionally, without setting any boundaries. He wrote me a letter.

As you know, the apartment I have here [in Madrid] was always meant for you to share with me. There is a maid to take care of all household tasks. You can take it easy. . . . Yes, we have been apart for almost two years. You have been on your own. But the few weeks we were together after your operation should have shown you that we could, and certainly in my opinion, should, cohabit.

There is Cathy, as you say. But Jay and Lucy can look after her as they did when you were on the book tour. She is sixteen—a very mature, intelligent sixteen, I might add, with her head in the right place. She also has her good friend Bridgette and Bridgette’s family, who are close by. And we are talking about three weeks, not an elongated period and she has plans, which you have approved, for her to be more or less on her own this coming summer. . . . I will take care of all your travel arrangements and you can be safely returned to LA before her graduation.

There are problems on the picture but you will like most of the cast and crew (you already know how difficult Topol [one of the stars] has been). Walter [Shenson] is here and his wife, who you like, will also be joining him. ILYVM (you know what that means) [I Love You Very Much]. LEON.

After much deliberation, I decided that I owed it to both of us to join him in Madrid and see if time and recent happenings had altered our relationship for the better.

Instead of going directly to Madrid, I flew first to New York for two days to meet with my editor there, then to London for the same purpose as all my books were to be published in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton and the editions would vary in small ways.

I had not yet removed my raincoat nor caught my breath (those evil stairs at Lennox Gardens) when the telephone rang. It was Mickey Deans, who was with Judy in London. Bobby had told him I would be in town for a few days. He gleefully announced that he and Judy were going to be married two days later. They had taken a mews house walking distance from Lennox Gardens, and were broke (“temporarily”). He was now Judy’s manager and working on her “comeback.” Judy was resistant, back on the pills, and had locked herself into the bedroom (the tiny mews house was built as all such homes had been, as staff quarters backing the main house on an alley or cul-de-sac. Judy’s bedroom was small and upstairs over the garage). Would I come over? I asked to speak to Judy. He insisted I just show up. I finally agreed to do so as soon as I could.

When I arrived a few hours later, Judy was in the living room. I was shocked at her appearance. She was pathetically thin, her face gaunt, her eyes filled with fear as if she was waiting for something terrible to end.

“Diana Dors, James Mason, Ginger Rogers,” she said, almost before acknowledging my presence. “I don’t know why Mickey’s invited all those people. I’ve been through too many weddings. I don’t want a Hollywood premiere. I just want a marriage.” She grabbed Mickey’s hand. “I’m going to be Mrs. Michael DeVinko!” she said with pride. An afternoon paper was opened on the coffee table with a picture of the two of them. Mickey had released a guest list to the press and sent telegrams (due to the shortage of time) to his invitees.

Shortly after my arrival, Mickey left the house on an errand. Judy and I were alone. “You’ll come to the wedding, Anne Louise?”

I said that I would, of course. “Do you love him?” I asked.

“I do, I do! He hasn’t deserted me like all the rest.”

She looked truly ill. “Can I make you some tea?” I offered. I glanced toward an open door to a small kitchen. “And maybe something to eat?”

“No, no. Just sit here with me. He loves me, you know.”

She was convincing herself, and I did not think it was my place to cast doubt. She was in a pitiable state. I could not see how she could get through the large wedding that Mickey had planned. “I’m sure he does,” I said.

“We’re going to Denmark! After.”

“For a honeymoon?”

“An engagement. A theater as large as Carnegie Hall. Bumbles [Dawson, a designer] has made me a gown. Mickey has handled everything. The orchestra, the arrangements. He says they love me in Denmark. They loved Hamlet, too! Look what happened to him!”

Between Judy’s situation and my jet lag, I had trouble getting to sleep that night. About three a.m. the telephone rang. It was Judy.

“Mickey’s downstairs on the couch having sex with a man,” she whispered. “You have to come over.”

“It’s the middle of the night, Judy. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe he just fell asleep on the couch.”

“No, no! I saw them!”

I explained that I couldn’t go out at this hour. I kept the conversation going on for a short time—small talk. Finally she said, “I heard a car. He’s leaving.” Then she hung up.

Leon rang me early the next morning to tell me, quite excitedly, that he was flying up to London late that afternoon to join me. He had some work that had to be done. It would take about three days. He would change my ticket and we could then fly together to Madrid. I told him about Judy and the wedding and he said we would both attend but warned me not to let Judy’s problems weigh too heavily on me.

Our reunion went exceptionally well. During the day, we both had things to do and people to see. We dined at one of our favorite local restaurants. He was full of stories about the company and production of A Talent for Loving, and had plans that he hoped I would like for some short side trips outside Madrid. He was caring, thoughtful, and loving, the gloom that often had followed his happy moments absent.

The grand ballroom at Quaglino’s, where Judy and Mickey’s wedding reception was held, was a bizarre sight. Mickey had invited something like three hundred guests, and the room he selected was tremendous. No more than forty or fifty people were present (at least half appearing to be members of the media) and seemed lost in the room’s vastness. Connecting tables bearing large ice statues (one was a lion’s head closely resembling Leo, the MGM symbol!), magnificent mural displays, and silver servers and platters containing an enormous amount of food lined one side of the room. They were manned by at least thirty uniformed waiters. Photographers’ flashbulbs exploded like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. Judy was overwound, appearing shrunken in a blue chiffon dress, too sheer and too short, that revealed her bony knees and her skeletal frame. Around her narrow shoulders was a dyed-to-match boa that reached the floor and that, to avoid tripping over it, she kept tossing over one shoulder as if it were the wires of a microphone, an action she often did on stage. She wore a blue band over the top of her head with pearls that dangled from it onto her forehead. If Bumbles was responsible, she must have thought she was designing a costume for Guys and Dolls.

However delusional Judy might have become, she was far too intelligent not to know in her heart what a horror the whole thing was. She clung to Mickey and beamed down from the rim of the room’s empty bandstand where a many-tiered wedding cake had been bizarrely set up on a table—obviously for a photo op, as gathered below were a host of photographers clicking away as the wedding couple posed to cut a slice. Although I recall the singer Johnny Ray being in the room, only a very few, well-known personalities—mostly English—attended. At one point Judy pulled me aside. “I think at least Ginger could have come,” she said tersely. (Ginger Rogers was starring in Mame in the West End.) “Mickey purposely arranged the time for when the theaters would be closed!”

Judy finally sat down (she looked as if she would collapse otherwise). She was all alone in a long line of unoccupied reception chairs. Mickey was mingling with the press, giving details of their upcoming trip to Denmark. I went over and sat down next to Judy. “It will haunt me forever,” I later wrote in my journal, “Judy with a desperate giggle like a distortion on a sound track of her old Rooney MGM films, grabbed my hand, her nails cutting into the flesh of my palms, holding on long after she had said, ‘I’m so grateful you came. Please stay till the end.’” There was no wonder left in those wide brown eyes. Leon approached and she tightened her grasp on my hand. “Don’t leave,” she bit out. She started talking—reeling off the words, really. She wanted to write a book—maybe one with her poetry.

When the time to part arrived, she grabbed my hand again. “It will be different now,” she said as she walked Leon and me to the doors of the emptying room, Mickey by her side. “I have Mickey now.”

He told us that Denmark was only the beginning of her new career. He had lined up the best venues for her in Scandinavia.

I ended my entry in my journal for that day with the comment: “Mickey plans to take over her career as Ethel and Mayer and Luft did. I cannot see how she will survive it.”

A studio car met Leon and me at the airport in Madrid. This was not my first trip to Spain, having spent a glorious time on the coast for the filming of A Question of Adultery, but I had not gone inland. My view of it through the car window as we headed for the apartment Leon had prepared for our reunion was not inspiring. Madrid, which is the capital of Spain, is a landlocked city, dead center of the country. The outskirts are on a desert plateau. Roads were rutted, dust flew about like volcanic ash as the car’s tires bounced about on the asphalt. Leon had warned me of the horrid extremes of the climate. On this day, the temperature must have been above one hundred degrees. There was mile after mile of small tract houses to pass before the car entered the city, which sat on higher land. Then, suddenly, the ground began to rise and the city of Madrid, like the Emerald City of Oz, dazzling in the strong sunlight, spread out before us.