Mexico, 1943–1944
Time
The morning after our visit to Frida’s, I arrived at Lola’s house before dawn. Charlie was snuggled up on her comforter, so sound asleep that he didn’t budge when I tiptoed in and shook Lola awake.
Charlie was the long-haired, snow-white Chihuahua with pointy, perky, pink ears Lola had bought to keep Fiesta company.
“Come on, sleepyhead!” I coaxed. “You wanted to drive to Taxco today to buy some silver doodads for the house. You told me to come at five o’clock so we could get an early start. I’ll get coffee. Don’t bother Luz.”
She yawned. “Of course,” she said. “What else have I got to do?”
A few minutes later, I came in with coffee and warm bolillos for both of us. I didn’t bother to open the curtains. It was still dark out.
“Por Dios,” Lola moaned. “Marlene once told me that fame was like sex. It’s fun while you’re doing it, but it doesn’t last. So, what now? Once people find out I’ve lost my contract with the studio Emilio works with, Films Mundiales, no one will hire me.”
“Come,” I said, “let me give you a new hairdo. It will make you feel better.”
Dawn was breaking. Sunlight trickled through the window on either side of the heavy curtains. It settled on the bed and the cabinet, creating radiant stripes across the comforter and highlighting the grains of wood of the mesquite furniture.
An hour later, Luz was calling softly at the door. “Señorita Lola! A message just came for you from the studio.”
Luz entered and pulled aside the heavy curtain. Light flooded the room with a healthy morning glow.
Lola took the note that Luz handed her on a tray adorned with a small silver vase and a perfect button rose. She tore open the envelope. The note was from Pedro Armendáriz. Films Mundiales had demanded that Fernández apologize. Lola read the message five times before its meaning sank in. The filming was going to continue, she said. The studio had made Fernández promise to behave himself from then on.
“Should I go back, Mara?” she asked. But we both already knew the answer.
Doña Antonia tapped gently on the door and walked in. She hugged me and then sat down by Lola’s bed.
“Well?” She raised an eyebrow and waited.
“They want me to be at Xochimilco tomorrow morning, bright and early. Emilio is going to apologize in front of everybody.”
“Will you go?” asked Doña Antonia.
“Yes, of course I’ll go,” said Lola, without hesitation. “I want to see this film finished as much as anyone. You should be there, too.” She handed her mother the note. “They had to do this, Mami. Too much money is at stake to abandon the project.”
“Good, because...” Doña Antonia pursed her lips. “Have you heard about Orson?”
“What about Orson?”
“He just married Rita Hayworth. I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else. I knew you’d be upset.”
“Rita Hayworth? The one the American newspapers are calling ‘the new Dolores Del Rio’?” She sighed. “I’m not upset. I’m glad to have him out of my hair.”
Well, maybe that wasn’t completely true. She didn’t love Orson anymore, I knew that, but to be replaced by a younger woman, and one who was so often compared to her...
“Well,” I said. “I guess we won’t be going to Taxco today after all.”
“No, I guess not,” she said. “I’ll have to spend the day getting ready for the shoot.”
When the cast and crew gathered again at Xochimilco, Fernández apologized begrudgingly, and he remained civil throughout the rest of filming. The movie opened late in 1943. They changed the name from Xochimilco to María Candelaria. It was the main character, argued the marketing team, who would seduce audiences. Both Lola and Fernández held their breath. People were beginning to talk about the “new Mexican cinema,” which would put Mexico on the map as a leader in the film industry. If María Candelaria was a success, the reputations of the star and the director would skyrocket.
As for me, I was more interested in the newsreels. Allied troops were making progress, according to the clips. They had landed on the beaches of Salerno, near Naples, and it was just a matter of time before they moved north to take the capital. If only Gabe were here to see this victory, I thought.
Reviewers loved the film. “Look,” Lola said, handing me a couple of newspapers. “Efraín Huerta says beautiful things about my acting and Gabriel’s cinematography. Blanca Hernández says my portrayal of María Candelaria will make people see Indians in a new way.”
“It’s a wonderful film,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. I meant it. In spite of the misery Fernández had caused everyone, he had real vision.
The film was a sensation not only in Mexico. Soon US audiences were flocking to theaters to see it. The appetite for Spanish-language films was exploding in American cities, which were magnets for newcomers from all over the Spanish-speaking world. It was released in September 1944, in Los Angeles, without dubbing.
Lolly wrote that she and Gabi had seen it with Tía Emi, and viewers wept when the Indians stoned María. “The only bad thing,” she wrote, “is that Tía-Abu coughed during the whole show, and people kept turning around to give us dirty looks.” The girls called Tía Emi tía abuela, “great-aunt”—tía-abu, for short.
Lolly sent me reviews from Star World and the Los Angeles Times. Carla Myer wrote that Dolores Del Rio (Carla still spelled it the American way), had “rekindled her career in Mexico” and had played the lead in María Candelaria “flawlessly.” The Times said that even without translation, the meaning was completely comprehensible, thanks to the wonderful acting of the star, Dolores del Río, “a great actress.”
“You’ll see,” said Frida, one afternoon when she stopped by to drop off a painting. “The gringos will be begging you to go back to Hollywood.”
But the truth is, Lola didn’t want to go back. She was already working on a new film, Las abandonadas, and was convinced it would be her best. Her character, Margarita, ages from a young girl to a decrepit old woman—a challenge for any actress.
“Another film with El Indio?” said Frida. “Are you trying to self-destruct, querida?”
“There’s a scene in the bordello where Margarita is working. A handsome, kindhearted general, played by Pedro, comes in and sees her at the top of the staircase and instantly falls in love with her. We did so many takes... I had to walk up and down, up and down the steps. Afterward, I felt ready to collapse.”
“But you’re happy,” said Frida.
“Yes,” said Lola. “I’m happy.”
It wasn’t a sudden thing. I’d been toying with the idea for a while. Lola’s career was soaring, and she really didn’t need me anymore. I missed Lolly and Gabi, and I wanted us to be all together again. In the summer, I thought. When the school year ends. But, as they say, El hombre propone, pero Dios dispone. Little did I realize that fate had already made the decision for me.
A few days after Lola finished filming Las abandonadas, Felipa handed me a letter as soon as I got home. It was from Lolly. Even though she swore she wrote once a week, the mail service was horrible, and letters often got lost or stolen. When one finally arrived, I savored it. I stared at it and held it, smelled it and kissed it, before I ripped open the envelope. I lit a cigarette and sat at the table to read.
Dear Mom,
I hope this letter gets to you, because I have some big news! I won the Essay Prize at school, and my teachers are going to recommend me for a special Teacher Training program at UCLA! I could start in the fall of next year, right after I graduate. I know you want me to get a job as soon as possible because with Dad gone and all, we really need the money, but this is a big chance for me, Mom, so please, please, PLEASE say yes. There is no tuition fee for residents of California, but you have to pay $39 for “incidentals,” whatever that means. I’ll work at Marie’s in the summer as a shampoo girl, and if I save up my tips, I should have enough for the first year.
Gabi wants to work for Madame Isabelle after she graduates, and she is already making patterns and simple dresses. She’s really good at it. She says that as soon as she starts getting paid, she’ll give me a dollar every week to help me pay for college. Don’t tell her I told you, but she has a crush on a boy named Zach Mattaboni. She’s just a baby, though, every week she’s in love with someone new, so I don’t think you need to worry about it.
One piece of news that isn’t so great is that Tía-Abu Emi coughs constantly, just like a sputtering old motorcar, and I’m worried she’s got TB or something. She refuses to see a doctor. She gets up at 5 every morning and takes the trolley to work, but she’s so exhausted by the time she gets home that she skips dinner and goes right to bed, so Gabi and I eat alone.
Gabi sends her love. We miss you. I hope you’ll be back for my graduation. Tell Tía Lola to come, too! Give her our love. I hope she’s making lots of movies. I read in Star World that your friend Marlene Dietrich is entertaining the troops over in Europe, and that she became an American citizen. I also read that Cousin Ramón’s last movie was a big flop.
I love you, and I miss you,
Lolly
I put the letter in my purse to read again later. I knew I’d read it over and over until the edges frayed. It gave me a warm feeling just to hold it in my hands. My little Lolly! My baby girl! She was already going into her senior year in high school. And now she was planning to go to college and become a teacher! How proud Gabe would have been of his girls.
“I’ll go home next year, after the release of Las abandonadas,” I said to myself. “That will give me time to dispose of the apartment and the furniture.”
But then, a telegram came from Lolly: EMI ILL HOSPITAL. COME HOME.