San Simeon, July 1930
Soup Kitchens and Caviar
The country was in shambles. The guy with the little house and the mediocre job who had invested his meager savings in the stock market was now broke. He and millions of others like him had no money to buy food, never mind movie tickets. Factories and other businesses were slowing down production, laying off workers, reducing wages for those they kept. By 1930, four million Americans were out of work. A year later, the figure was six million. City streets were filled with breadlines. More and more people took their meals at soup kitchens. Farmers couldn’t afford to harvest their crops because food prices had plummeted, so they left them to rot in the sun, while in the cities, people starved. One after the other, the banks failed. By 1933 thousands had gone under.
At first, Gabe thought we’d get through it. We didn’t have stocks, we owned our little house, and Gabe had a bunch of orders for cabinets, bedposts, everything. But then, people started canceling. Why buy a fancy credenza for a house you might lose? People who had a little money spent it on a pork roast for their families, not on a new table. Lolly was toddling already, and we’d been talking about finding a bigger place, but now that was out of the question. Vince had been hoping to move out and marry Julie, but that plan was now on hold, too. Finally, Gabe had no more orders, which meant no more income.
“Don’t worry, mi reina,” he said. “I can always go back to the studio.”
He’d taken to calling me reina, queen, when Lolly was born. She was his princesa.
“You hated working for the studio,” I said. “There must be another way.”
But there wasn’t. There was no market for fine cabinets, and no businesses were hiring.
On the day he left to ask the personnel officer at First National for his old job back, Gabe put on his best overalls and brushed his teeth twice. One thing we had both learned from the movie crowd was the importance of image. He wanted to show he was clean, trustworthy, and ready to start right away.
But he was back before noon, crestfallen. “They’re not hiring,” he said.
“But they’re still making movies!”
“They don’t need me. Every poor slob who’s out of work is begging at their door. And now there’s the Okies.”
I hadn’t thought of that. Since the Okies had started pouring into Los Angeles, the studios had plenty of labor to pick from, and the personnel guys would much rather take a white carpenter from Oklahoma than the likes of Gabriel Estrada.
“They’ve set up camps by the studios. They live in tents and cook over open fires. And they’re there first thing in the morning offering to do anything the studio people need—run errands, drive cars, build sets, whatever. You can’t blame them. They were starving back home, so they pulled up stakes and moved west.”
Lolly had stumbled over to Gabe, and he picked her up and held her against him. He breathed in her sweet baby scent and kissed her on the back of the neck.
“Maybe I could go back to work,” I said. “I’ll ask Marie.” I loved staying home and caring for Lolly, but the thought of returning to the hustle and bustle of the salon was also appealing. On the other hand, I thought a new baby might be on the way, and spending time in a shop filled with fumes and smells might not be such a good idea. Still, we really needed the money. Our situation was getting desperate. I was torn.
“I don’t want you to go back to work,” murmured Gabe. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his lips back as if to let out a scream. Lolly started to squirm, and I took her from him.
“Maybe just a few days a week,” I said gently. “The thing is, Gabe, you need a license to fix hair, and I doubt many Okie women have one, so they won’t be able to compete with me.”
“No one can compete with you,” he whispered. He kissed me on the lips and took Lolly back in his arms.
I didn’t think it was a good time to tell him that I suspected I was pregnant again.
Marie said she’d had to let hairdressers go, but if things picked up again, she’d let me know right away. “Maybe two or three times a week,” I said.
Lola, on the other hand, was delighted to have me come back to work for her. She even offered me a raise. Gabriel slumped over his worktable.
“Who will take care of Lolly?” he said, when I told him.
It seemed logical to me that since he was home and without work, he could take care of her, but I knew better than to suggest it. He was a Latin man, after all, and he had his pride.
“What about Tía Emi?” I suggested.
“Your Tía Emi is—”
“I know, but she knows how to take care of a baby. We don’t have many options.”
“If she still has her job with Madame Isabelle, we can’t ask her to give it up.”
“I could drop Lolly off at Madame Isabelle’s in the morning. I grew up crawling over skeins of thread and scraps of cloth, and I turned out okay.”
“Better than okay,” said Gabriel, smiling weakly.
But he wasn’t comfortable with having Tía Emi care for Lolly. He arranged to take her to his parents’ house every morning. Señora Lupe still had children at home. One more wouldn’t faze her, she said. In fact, it would be nice to have a toddler around again.
While most of us were struggling, for Marion Davies, life was good. Davies had met newspaper tycoon William Randolph Hearst while she was performing in the Ziegfeld Follies, and she soon became his most grandiose project. Hearst formed Cosmopolitan Pictures for the sole purpose of producing films starring Davies, and he made arrangements with Paramount and MGM to distribute them. He bought the Cameo Theater in San Francisco and renamed it The Marion Davies Theater. From his office on Market Street, he could see the pink neon letters blinking and winking her name, a continuous reminder that he, like God, could create stars. Davies didn’t have to worry whether people like us could afford a movie ticket because her success was guaranteed. Hearst financed her films whether they made money or not. He even produced newsreels publicizing her social activities—flamboyant spectacles over which she presided like a queen. But his most magnificent contribution to Marion Davies’s renown was San Simeon, a sprawling 127-acre estate.
The centerpiece of San Simeon was the Castle, which had been inspired by the Church of Santa María Mayor in La Ronda, Spain. It was surrounded by smaller palaces and pavilions, some of which Hearst had transported from Europe, stone by stone, and set in reinforced concrete using modern engineering methods. An avid traveler, Hearst had combined different architectural styles he’d admired in Europe. The Castle featured fifty-six bedrooms, sixty-one bathrooms, and nineteen sitting rooms. All the details were in the newspapers, and I still have the articles. “Chaotic luxury,” is how they described San Simeon. The magnificent chandeliers were powered by electricity from the private power plant Hearst had installed for his own use. The grounds boasted tennis courts, an airfield, and the largest private zoo in the world. Zebras and giraffes and a host of other exotic animals roamed the grounds. Acres of woods were filled with redwoods, oaks, cedars, and Italian cypresses. The gardens, kept by an army of gardeners, burst with color all year long—bougainvillea, California poppies, azaleas, calla lilies, cyclamen, and roses of every variety. Hearst had imported antiques from all corners of the planet—delicate Venuses, handsome Adonises, Russian Orthodox Madonnas, and Indian Shivas.
Why so much luxury? Because Marion’s parties were fabulous affairs that lasted for days and brought together the most powerful tycoons, the most influential politicians, the most popular movie stars, the most successful artists. Everyone who was anyone was invited, and Dolores Del Rio was definitely someone.
When Lola told me about the invitation, I didn’t pay much attention. She was always going out to fancy parties. I’d do her hair beforehand, but I no longer accompanied her. However, this time, she made it clear, she expected me to go. Never mind that I had a family. She was a movie star, and she was single. She wasn’t used to thinking about childcare or how a husband might feel about being left alone. There was no way out of it. We needed the money.
“Lola is going to a shindig at San Simeon,” I told Gabe one afternoon. “She wants me to go with her.”
“Where’s San Simeon?”
“On the coast. In the Santa Lucia Mountains, about 250 miles north of here. I’d be gone for a few days.”
He sighed. “I suppose Lolly could stay with Mom,” he conceded gloomily. “I could stay there, too.” In those trying times, sometimes you had to say yes when you really wanted to say no.
Lola packed as though she were making a monthlong excursion to Paris. She stuffed her suitcases with gowns, slacks, shorts, and bathing suits. I threw a couple of loose-fitting sundresses into a valise. I was vexed. I’d never been separated from Lolly for more than a day.
“You should bring a bathing suit,” she said airily.
“Why?” I said. “I can’t swim.”
“Oh,” said Lola, looking puzzled. I suppose in her world, everyone knew how to swim.
On Friday afternoon, we picked up tickets at the Glendale Station for the private train that would take us to San Luis Obispo. From there, transportation would be provided by automobile.
I tried not to gasp when I saw our private compartment.
It seemed like a moving hotel room, with beds, an armchair, a secretary fully stocked with writing materials, and glass-doored cabinets with books and magazines. Brocade curtains covered the windows, and fine paintings hung on the walls.
In the dining car, we had our choice of filet mignon, lobster, or just about anything else, but I didn’t feel like eating. I knew that Gabe would be having chicken enchiladas at his mother’s house—if he was lucky. Any kind of meat was a luxury. I considered not ordering, but then it occurred to me that it might be a while before I could enjoy another meal this good, so I had a steak and French fries.
The train pulled into San Luis Obispo around two in the morning. A caravan of elegant cars, each with its own chauffeur, was waiting to take the guests up the coast. Lola dozed for a few hours in the back of the Mercedes-Benz, but I couldn’t sleep. I imagined Lolly in the old crib where Vince had slept, then Gabe, then Señora Lupe’s three younger children. Did Lolly miss me? I wondered. It was the first time she’d slept away from home. Was she scared?
Around eight, Lola opened her eyes. I raised the black shades on the windows, and we both gazed out onto a magnificent panorama. As the car climbed the narrow mountain road toward the estate, we marveled at the sprawling gardens vibrant with flowers, the terraced parks dotted with villas, and the pools glimmering in the morning sunlight. In the distance, the grandiose white marble Spanish-style Castle gleamed like a jewel.
At the entrance, we were met by Antonio and Sheila, Lola’s personal valet and maid for the duration of the stay.
“Or did you bring your own maid?” asked Sheila, looking me up and down.
“Mrs. Estrada is my assistant,” Lola said. “She will take her meals in our suite.”
Sheila looked annoyed.
She and Antonio escorted us to our lodgings, an actual Italian villa surrounded by plots of silver lupine, hydrangea, and snapdragon.
“We will bring your breakfast shortly,” said Antonio, handing her a menu. Lola looked at the long list of exotic dishes and opted for her usual egg and toast.
“What about you, Mara?” she said.
“The same,” I said. I was thinking about Gabe eating dry cornflakes at Señora Lupe’s kitchen table.
“Afterward, you may want to explore the grounds or engage in one of the many activities available to our guests—tennis, golf, archery, badminton, croquet, swimming, boating, or horseback riding. If you need anything, you have only to ask. Lunch is served at one.” Antonio bowed and left. Sheila stayed on awhile, fussing over Lola’s clothes.
After breakfast, Lola threw on a wrap, and we headed for the beach. Miles of milk-colored sand stretched along the water’s edge. Tiny pebbles and fragmented shells made ripples in the shallow drifts at the shoreline. Lola ducked into a cabana to put on her bathing costume, then ran toward the ocean and plunged in. I stood at the water’s edge and then waded in up to my calves. The salty water felt prickly against my skin.
I watched Lola propel herself beyond the breakers with strong, decisive strokes to the placid waters farther from shore. She paddled on her back awhile, drinking in the sunshine, then swam parallel to the beach, pushing herself hard, racing the boats on the distant horizon.
I tried to feel grateful. After all, Lola had given me my old position back, a job I desperately needed to keep my family afloat. Yet...the carefree way she was enjoying herself...all this pomp, all this wealth, when so many people were struggling... It just seemed wrong. But something else was bothering me, too. I’d tried to push it out of my mind, but it stung. She’d introduced me as her assistant. Whenever we went to an interview or photo shoot or a party, I became Mrs. Estrada, her assistant. Never her friend. Maybe Tía Emi had been right all along. I could be her playmate when there was no one else around, but I could never really be her friend. Girls like Lola just didn’t have friends like me.
Sunbathers dotted the beach. Some lay on chaise longues, others gathered in groups to chat or play cards. Cabanas lined the periphery, providing shade and privacy. To one side, under a large awning, was an elaborate buffet replete with fruits, juices, and breads of every type.
“That swim gave me an appetite!” called Lola, running toward me through the foam.
She threw on her wrap, and we headed to the table, where she reached toward a pyramid of strawberries arranged to look like giant red gumdrops.
“They look delicious, don’t they?”
We both turned in the direction of the voice. The man standing next to us looked as though he’d stepped out of an advertisement for the film, The Great Gatsby, which had come out a few years before. He was dark-haired and unspeakably handsome, with the kind of elongated, heart-shaped face, perfect nose, and full, sensuous lips that casting directors die for. It looked as though a costume designer had put together his outfit—a casual white linen suit, light blue vest, and loose trousers. A blue handkerchief peeked out of his breast pocket. Either he’s an invert or an artist, I thought. And then, maybe he needs a fine crafted cabinet for his house. Gabe could make him one, and he looks like he could afford it.
Lola smiled. “I was eyeing those strawberries, but it’s almost time for lunch, so I think I’ll wait. I hear that lunch at the Hearsts’ is an elegant affair.”
“It is. I hope you’re hungry.” He had the melodious voice of a movie Lothario.
I waited for her to introduce herself, and then me, her “assistant.” But she didn’t. “Well, I’d better go get ready,” she said, pivoting and nudging me toward the road.
“I hope I see you again,” he called after her. She did not turn around.
I washed and styled her hair, then helped her get dressed for lunch. After she left, I picked up the receiver and tried to figure out how the telephone worked. I fumbled around in the drawer of the table where it stood. A pencil. A notepad. A phonebook. A Bible. A card with instructions on how to use the phone. I wondered if it would be okay to call Los Angeles. I’d have to go through the operator and wait awhile until she made the connection. It might be expensive. Who would pay for the call? The Hearsts were fabulously wealthy, but they might not like their guests’ hairdressers making long-distance calls. I dialed 0 for the Hearst operator. I told her I wanted to call a different city. She sounded as though it were the most natural thing in the world and connected me with the Los Angeles operator, who connected me with Señora Lupe’s house. Gabe’s mom sounded surprised and happy to hear my voice. Lolly was fine, she said, not to worry. “Enjoy yourself!” she said, as if I were on vacation. “Gabe’s at the workshop.” He spent every day in the workshop, even though he had no orders to fill. I called the house. Gabe sounded tired. I listened for some hint of recrimination in his voice, but no, there was none. I told him about the buffet. “Eat a lot!” he said. “Now’s your chance!”
I realized that Lola hadn’t ordered lunch for me. How did one order lunch, anyway? I called the operator again and told her I wanted to eat. “Of course,” she said, and connected me with the kitchen. Wow, I thought, things are certainly easier when you’re rich!
I expected Lola to come back around three, but it was past five before she pushed open the door, all smiles.
“You can’t imagine what a fabulous day I’ve had!” she announced.
I must have rolled my eyes or shook my head, because she stopped in her tracks.
“Oh,” she said softly. “I’ve done it again. What did you do today, Mara?”
“I took a nap,” I lied. What was I going to say? I spent the afternoon moping around?
I felt ridiculous. Here I was, in a beautiful villa, surrounded by luxury, atop a majestic hill with views of paradise, and I was sulking. Gabe was right. I should just enjoy it. Why not? It wasn’t going to last, so why not relish the moment?
“How was the lunch?” I asked.
“Well, the dining room was enormous,” she began. “Waiters in white jackets escorted us in and took us to our places along an enormous antique table that William Randolph brought from some medieval European monastery. The host and hostess sat at either end, each with a preferred guest. I sat next to Marion, and that man we saw this morning by the beach buffet was seated next to Hearst. Suddenly, I looked up, and guess who was staring at me!”
“Mr. Handsome from the strawberry pile.”
“Well, I asked Marion who he was. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘That’s Cedric Gibbons!’”
Lola stared at me, waiting for a reaction. “Who’s Cedric Gibbons?” I said, finally.
“Only the artistic director of MGM, Mara. He was one of the founding members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. He’s the one who designed the Oscar!”
“And he threw himself at your feet and asked you to marry him, right?”
“He just won an Oscar himself for The Bridge of San Luis Rey, and he’s not even forty!” She lowered her voice, as if confiding a secret, even though there was no one else in the room. “Marion says he’s one of Hollywood’s most desirable bachelors.”
I shrugged.
“Well, after lunch, I set off to explore the artwork in the Castle. Every room is like a museum, Mara. I was staring at a huge painting of a delicate young man tied to a tree, with his hands fastened to a branch above his head to emphasize the contours of his body. Sensuous arms, gently rippling shoulders, supple belly, sinuous thighs, graceful legs. Everywhere shot through with arrows. I was sure I’d seen it before.”
“At Lou Samuel’s place,” I said. “In the bedroom. A nude, with Ramón’s face. I remember it left you rattled.”
“That’s right...” She was pensive. “Cedric came up behind me. ‘The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian,’ he said, ‘the patron saint of homosexuals.’ I didn’t quite know what to say, but now that you mention Ramón...”
She spent the following couple of days with Gibbons, exploring the grounds, admiring the wild animals... I don’t know what else. I went to the beach and lay in the sun.
“Lola,” I said, as I helped her pack to go home. “Why don’t you ask Gibbons if he needs a credenza? Gabe could use the work. And if not, maybe he could get him a job at MGM.”
“I don’t know, Mara,” she said. “I mean... I just met Cedric.”
“Lola, are we friends? Really, truly friends?”
“Of course, Lola. You know that.”
“No, I don’t. You always introduce me as your assistant, not as your friend. And now, when I ask you for a favor...because, frankly, Lola, we’re desperate...you hesitate.”
She looked as though I’d slapped her in the face.
“Gabe needs work, Lola. If you’re my friend, you’ll help me.”
“I am helping you! I gave you back your old position, didn’t I?”
“But I don’t know how long I can continue.” I could hear my voice quivering and struggled to steady it. “I’m pregnant.”
She looked stricken. “Pregnant?” she said, finally. “Again?”
I didn’t expect her to say “congratulations,” or “that’s wonderful,” but her reaction stung. I started to cry.
“Oh my God, Mara,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She put her arm around me. “Of course, I’ll help you,” she murmured, “because you’re my oldest, dearest friend.”
And she did, too. Within a week, Gabe was on the carpentry crew at MGM.
When I’d told Gabe I was expecting again, he stood staring at me a moment. Oh no, he must have been thinking, another mouth to feed. But all he said was, “Another gift from God, mi reina.” Then he kissed me on the forehead.