9

Hollywood, 1926

The Age of the Turkey

Sam Edelstein, the assistant publicist, Max McClelland, the advance man, and Edwin Carewe were sipping bourbon in the projection room. On the screen, Lola flirted with the camera, winking, puckering, giggling, and looking altogether seductive.

“Isn’t she lovely?”

“I don’t know, Ed,” murmured Sam.

“You don’t know? The girl is gorgeous! I’m going to star her in High Steppers.”

“She has possibilities, Ed,” piped in Max. “I have to admit she has possibilities.”

“Listen,” said Ed, incredulous. “She’s going to be the next ‘It’ girl. Look at those cheeks, that hair. Look at that figure!”

“Yeah, just like every other broad who comes out here looking to be a star,” mused Sam, sucking on his cigarette. “Does she fuck?”

“She’s married.”

“That’s not what I asked you, Ed. You fucking her?”

Ed Carewe mashed his cigarette into an ashtray and lit another. He looked at Sam Edelstein in disgust.

“Not yet, huh?” said Sam with a smirk. “But you want to. And you will, if she’s serious about her career.”

I was gathering up some hats and falls that had been left in the corner of the room, but they didn’t notice me. Lola was paying me fifteen dollars a week to work for her part-time. With that and what I made at Marie’s, I got along. Lola was still promising to talk to Carewe about hiring me for the studio, but, she said, he was a busy man.

“The thing is,” Sam was saying, “who’s going to go to the movies to see a Mexican? You got Mexicans cleaning your house, doing your laundry, mowing your lawn. You want to see Mexicans, all you have to do is look out the window... We’re not going to be able to sell her.”

“Oh, we can sell her,” interrupted Max. “If it’s true she went to a fancy French school, we can reinvent her.”

I felt like vomiting. These men were talking about Lola as though she were a lawn mower or a dishmop—a product to be marketed. I knew this sort of thing went on in Hollywood all the time, but still, I found it disgusting.

“Reinvent her as what?” Ed was interested.

“As some mysterious European aristocrat,” said Max.

“Aristocratic family. Fluent in the old parlez-vous.” Ed was beaming.

“Here’s the story—she’s a Spanish aristocrat,” said Max. “She might play a Mexican dance hall girl, but she’s really European nobility. Enigmatic. Glamorous. Dress her in white to highlight her coloring. Don’t overdo it—just enough to accentuate her foreignness. Get the makeup girl to emphasize her cheekbones. She’s the daughter of dons, of conquistadors. Dress her in gauzy frocks that will flow around her body as though they were caressing it. Sensual. Sexy. Cover the kid in diamonds and emeralds, Ed, and while you’re at it, get her a nose job.”

“Plastic surgery? You really think she needs it, Max?”

“Absolutely. Her nose is too wide. It has to be reshaped.”

“Is it safe?”

“Sure it is. The boys who came back from the war with burns and wounds...the doctors sewed them up just like new. And while you’re at it, get her bigger tits.”

I slipped out the door. I don’t know whether they saw me, but if they did? They’d just think I was one of those Mexican cleaning ladies, too ignorant to understand their conversation.

According to studio gossip, at the get-together to celebrate the New York release of Joanna, Ed had toasted Lola as the next new Hollywood knockout. Everyone seemed happy except Jaime. He smiled in his forced way, rubbing his hand over his bald head and staring into the champagne bubbles as though he were reading tea leaves. But you didn’t need to be clairvoyant to know what was in store for Jaime. He was going to lose her. Lola was too much woman for him—too energetic, too sassy, and too ambitious.

Carewe was still beaming over the New York reviews when Lola stomped into his office at First National, threw him her most seductive look, and arched her back. I could hear them from the hallway.

“How are the English lessons going?” he asked jauntily.

“We have to talk. Joanna was a calamity!”

“Darling,” cooed Carewe smoothly, “the reception in New York has been magnificent! Joanna is a big success!”

“I was practically edited out of it,” she hissed.

“Well, I can’t control...”

“You most certainly can,” Lola shot back, but without raising her voice. “You’re the director. You’re the one who took out my scenes!”

“I cut the scenes in which you didn’t look your best, darling.” He pinched her cheek teasingly. “My beautiful tiger with lacquered nails and magenta lips. So adorable!”

But Lola’s exquisitely ovaled nails were poised to scratch. “Maybe I should go back to Mexico,” she said, pouting. “Maybe I have no talent. Maybe I’m too ugly.”

Carewe must have seen this act before: the self-deprecation, the sniffing. I peeked through the door crack.

“This time it will be different,” he murmured, pulling her close to him. She wriggled away, but he caught her and kissed her gently on the mouth, then stroked her hair. She laid her head on his chest.

This couldn’t be happening, I thought. They were both married!

“Take your hair down, Lolita,” whispered Ed.

She looked up at him and giggled. “What? Why?”

“I want to run my fingers through your hair. Undo your chignon.”

“Promise that next time you won’t kill my scenes?”

“Promise!”

She reached behind her neck and began to pull out hairpins.

After that, I could hardly look at her. Poor Jaime, I thought. But then I put the whole thing out of my mind because something...someone else was occupying my thoughts.

Ever since Tía Emi had a fit because Nick Wasserman had walked me home from elementary school, I’d shied away from boys. I wasn’t afraid of them. I was afraid of her. She didn’t care much for men. She didn’t trust them and didn’t want them around me, so I kept my nose to the books while I was at school and my eyes on the curling iron while I was at work. I didn’t flirt. Sometimes I wanted to because they said I was pretty, and I knew the boys liked me, but I didn’t want to tangle with Tía Emi.

But now, this boy, this carpenter I’d seen working on the sets, his muscles bulging under his cheap cotton shirt, his taut skin the color of dark molasses, his angular jaw, high cheekbones, and spectacular smile, this boy was grinning at me. I didn’t know how to react. Should I grin back, or should I keep my eyes glued to the ground? Should I pretend not to notice?

It took him a while to say hello, but one day, as I was unpacking hairbrushes, he came and stood beside me. He was so gentle looking, so earnest and unaffected. I had the impression he was mustering courage to say something.

“Está usted...está usted muy linda hoy,” he finally whispered. “You look very pretty today.” He said usted, formal usage. He’s courteous, I thought. Respectful. I like that. I looked down and smiled. I think I may have blushed.

“¿Cómo se llama usted?”

“Mara. María Amparo, really, but they call me Mara.”

“Hey, Gabe! Stop fooling around and get back to work!” shouted one of the other men.

“Sure thing, boss!” He laughed nervously.

It didn’t sound like he had an accent in English. I asked him if he was from Mexico.

“I was born here,” he said. He glanced over at the other men. “I’ve got to go,” he murmured.

I watched him heave a board the size of a locomotive onto his shoulder, then carry it off. Inexplicably, I started to giggle.

“What’s the matter with you?” barked Tía Emi when I got home. “You look like a kitten in a bowl of catnip.”

I considered what to tell her. “I met a boy,” I said simply.

“Well, estás en la edad del pavo. You’re expected to do stupid things.”

Estar en la edad del pavo literally means “to be in the age of the turkey,” but it actually means to be young. “I haven’t done anything,” I said. “I just met him.”

“White?”

“No.”

“Good. Rich?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t get pregnant like your mother.”

I was furious. Tía Emi was not only ignorant, she was cruel. Why had she never told me anything about my mother? “What do you mean?” I snapped. “What happened to my mother?” But she just clammed up and left the room.

My anger didn’t last. I was, in fact, in the age of the turkey, and I had no time for Tía Emi’s absurd reactions. I went into the kitchen and started peeling carrots. They’d called him Gabe, I remembered. Was it Gabriel? Gabor? Gabrián?

In the morning, I looked for him at the studio, but didn’t see him. I felt irritable. I barked at the costume assistant and jabbed Lola with a hairpin.

“Ouch! Please, Mara, be more careful!” she complained.

In the afternoon, he finally appeared, lugging in furniture for the English estate scenes in High Steppers. He smiled at me and winked. His smile was so broad, his dimples so adorable, his teeth so perfect. What could I do but smile back?

During the break, he invited me to have a soda with him. He bought two Coca-Colas at the canteen, and we sat on a little bench on the studio grounds. He lit a cigarette and offered me one. I shook my head.

“I don’t smoke,” I said.

“Of course not. Anyone can see you’re a nice girl.”

In those days, nice girls didn’t smoke.

“You don’t drink either, I bet.”

I shook my head. “No,” I whispered.

“Because of Prohibition?”

“No,” I said. “I just don’t.” That wasn’t exactly true, but I liked him, and I knew what he expected of me.

He told me that his father was a traditionalist from an old-style Spanish family, and his mother was from Oaxaca. He’d been born in Los Angeles, but they spoke Spanish at home. His name was Gabriel Estrada, and he wanted to be a master carpenter.

“What about your family?” he asked me.

What was I going to say? I’m a bastard, and I have no family? “I’m an orphan,” I said. “I live with my aunt Emilia in the home of Madame Isabelle, who is a couturière.” I said couturière very distinctly, with a French r. “My aunt is Madame Isabelle’s assistant.”

“Ah,” he said, “I know who she is. She makes costumes for movies.”

“Yes,” I said. “She makes costumes for movies.” My use of the word couturière obviously hadn’t impressed him.

“Could I take you out this Saturday night?” he asked after we’d met a couple of times during breaks. “There’s a dance at my church.”

I hesitated. “I... I don’t know...”

“I promise never to get fresh with you, Mara. I can see you’re a nice girl.”

He thought I was afraid he’d touch me. Actually, I was afraid of how Tía Emi might react. What if he came to pick me up, and she accused him of being a murderer?

“Let me ask my aunt,” I said. But of course I said yes. I was already in love with him.

That Saturday, I begged Tía Emi to put on a nice dress and comb her hair. She wasn’t unattractive. Her ebony mane was turning salt-and-pepper, and her jaw had grown a bit slack, but she still had her high cheekbones and her fire-and-ice sea-goddess eyes. A bit of lipstick and a pretty updo, and she would look presentable.

Gabe was supposed to pick me up at six o’clock. At five thirty, Tía Emi went into our room and closed the door. She’s getting dressed, I thought. She wants to make a good impression.

At about 6:10, the doorbell rang. “He’s here!” I called.

Gabriel was dressed in what must have been his Sunday best—a gray double-breasted suit (probably a hand-me-down from his older brother), a white shirt, and a wide burgundy tie. He held two bouquets of flowers. “One is for your aunt,” he said, handing me the smaller one.

“I’ll put these in water and go get her,” I said. I showed him into Madame Isabelle’s living room.

“Hurry up!” I called softly through Tía Emi’s door.

“¡Me cago en la leche!” she called back.

I went into the living room to join Gabe. In a few minutes, Tía Emi came ambling in. She looked as though she’d just gotten up from her siesta. A frayed, flowered housedress sagged loosely over her body. A dirty slip hung out from under the hem. On her feet, she wore old huaraches I hadn’t seen in years. She’d worked her hair into straggly braids, like a campesina. A cigarette drooped from her lips. Gabe stood up and handed her the bouquet. She looked at it as though it were a basket of toads.

“What’s this?” she said finally.

“I brought you flowers,” he said.

“What for?”

“A gift.”

She started to scratch her arm violently, all the time staring at the flowers as if she had no idea what to do with them. Finally, she gave them back to him.

I must have turned magenta. “I’m sorry...” I began. But Gabe didn’t look perturbed at all. He handed the bouquet to me. “Lovely flowers for a lovely girl,” he said, as though that had been his plan all along. “You can put them together with the others.”

Soon we were spending every single break together. Of course, Lola noticed.

“So,” she teased, as I combed out her hair, “you’ve got a beau!”

So do you, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. Ed Carewe had been clinging to her like a moth to a wool coat, and I was afraid the result would be just as destructive. Were they really having an affair? Or was she just flirting and having fun?

Lola and I had just had lunch and were listening to music on the Victrola. As I remember, Ben Bernie’s “Sweet Georgia Brown” was popular that year. A car pulled up in front of the bungalow, a brand-new 1925 Lincoln touring car, midnight blue with a white canvas hood. Through the window, I watched Edward Carewe scurry up the walkway to the front door.

“Hola, Eddie.” Lola smiled self-consciously as she turned the knob. Carewe pushed into the house and gripped her around the waist. She knew I was watching and pulled away. He looked at her as though she were a huge chocolate candy he was about to bite into.

“I have news,” he whispered mysteriously. “Where’s Jaime, by the way?”

Lola looked down. “He’s at the studio. They gave him some scripts to read...well, to file...by genre.”

“That’s good. Your luck is about to change, Lola.” He kissed her on the cheek. A frisson shot through me. Obviously, he hadn’t noticed I was watching from the kitchen. He took her in his arms and pressed her against him. “The great Hollywood director Carl Laemmle has invited you to appear as guest artist in his new movie, The Whole Town’s Talking. And after that, you’ll star in my latest venture, Pals First. You’re a bona fide celebrity, kid. Never doubt me.”

He kissed her firmly on the lips. His cologne was musky, masculine—not that sweet-smelling cinnamon-vanilla stuff that Jaime wore.

I cleared my throat. Lola caught my gaze and tried to pull away, but Ed was engrossed in his seduction. “Ed!” she whispered. “Stop!”

Instead of stopping, he pressed against the small of her back until she was locked against his pelvis. “Ed!” She squirmed free. “Darling, we’re not alone!”

Ed reeled around, saw me, and stepped away from her, teetering. His hair was disheveled, his cheeks beet-colored, feverish. Lola’s warning had clearly interrupted an oncoming erection. I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing as he stood there, flummoxed. You idiot! I thought.

“Ed,” murmured Lola. “You remember Mara, my hairdresser.”

Ed opened his eyes wide, grasping that I’d been there the whole time.

“I was just leaving,” he stammered. “I just came to tell Lola about the new film, but I can’t stay.” If I hadn’t been present, they’d have made love right there in the living room.

When I saw Lola again, I avoided the topic of Ed Carewe. I was in love, I wanted to get married, and I thought her behavior was disgusting. She was the one who brought it up.

“You know what I was thinking about while Ed was coming on to me?”

“I can’t imagine,” I said dryly.

“My school in Mexico. The lilting prayers, the sweet incense, the weeping Virgin. Notre Père, qui es aux cieux... I can’t do this with Ed, I kept thinking. I just can’t.”

“But you did.”

“Yes,” she whispered softly. “Not then, but I did.”