Los Angeles and Beyond, 1926–1927
Jaime Rebels
Jaime jumped up and exploded in front of everyone. We’d just finished watching the director’s cut.
“The first thing you see is her derriere,” he complained. “She’s leaning over a barrel, rolling it away from the camera. Of course, Flagg, who’s billeted at her father’s inn, gets ideas right away.”
“That seems pretty harmless to me,” said Ed. He was grinning at though he found Jaime’s outbursts amusing.
“She leads him on. She swings her fanny back and forth, and he gets all excited.”
“Well, what do you expect? He’s a marine stationed in France during the war.”
“He’s full of tattoos and she’s fascinated. Before you know it, she’s all over him. Her father, Cognac Pete, tries to control her, but he can’t, so he just tells her, ‘Don’t give anything away for free.’ Another thing, Ed. The language is appalling. Fuck this, fuck that. It’s a scandal.”
“Why?” said Ed, still grinning. “Nobody can hear them. There’s no sound.”
“People can read lips” snarled Jaime. “I’m telling you, Ed, people know what they’re saying.”
“What Price Glory? is a war movie, Jaime. Victor McLaglen and Edmond Lowe are consummate actors. They talk like marines because they’re playing marines. Don’t forget these guys are in the middle of a god-awful war. They’ve seen their buddies get their brains blown out. So they let loose with a few fucks and shits, what’s the big deal? That’s what Raoul wanted, a realistic movie! The war scenes are brutally accurate. A stuntman actually got killed on the set! Vic and Ed lose themselves in their roles. It’s called good acting, Jaime.”
“Well, I don’t like to see my wife playing a tramp!”
“Lola is perfect for the part.”
“How is a Mexican woman from a decent Catholic family perfect for the part of a slutty French barmaid?”
“We’ve been through this a dozen times before. There’s nothing Mexican about Lola’s looks. She’s exotic, unusual, striking. She could play any kind of foreigner. She has the energy and charm to play Charmaine and the sex appeal to sell tickets.”
“Listen, Ed, my patience is wearing thin,” shouted Jaime. “Don’t you get what I’m saying to you? Is it because I’m speaking a language that isn’t mine? Don’t you realize that her conduct reflects back on me, on my family! Her contract says—”
“Don’t tell me about her fucking contract. I didn’t direct this film. Raoul Walsh did. He wanted her for this role, and I gave her to him. Don’t forget I control her career. And that’s what’s in her contract.”
“This isn’t going to turn out well,” I told Gabe when we met that evening for coffee. “Carewe is despicable. He talks about Lola as though she were a racehorse to be bought or sold or rented out.”
Gabe wasn’t as thrilled as I’d expected about my new position as staff hairdresser.
“I can’t believe you want to spend more time with those people,” he said, sighing. “They’re such phonies. It’s one thing to do Lola’s hair when she needs you, but now you’ll have to be at Carewe’s beck and call all the time.”
“It’s a lot more money. And besides, seeing how films are made is exciting!” It’s true that I loved watching the actresses try on their costumes, and I loved doing their hair. It was fun being in the middle of it all. But even so, I was disgusted by Carewe’s treatment of Lola.
Gabe shook his head. “I can understand how Jaime feels. I wouldn’t want you prancing around in sexy outfits in front of the whole world.”
I contemplated that for a moment. Should I be angry that he thought he should have something to say about my clothes, or should I be thrilled that he was beginning to adopt a proprietary attitude? It was 1926. Women had had the vote for six years already. They were wearing short skirts and going out to nightclubs on their own. They weren’t letting men boss them around. But, I have to admit it, I liked that he was behaving as though I was his wife. When would he ever propose? I wondered.
“What do you think?” he murmured.
I smiled. Gabe and Ramón were the only men who ever asked me my opinion about anything. I’d kept Ramón’s secret, and he considered me a friend. But this was different because...well... Gabe was special.
“I see why Don Jaime is annoyed,” I said. “But I understand Lola, too. Her career is everything to her, and she does what she has to in order to get ahead.” I paused. “She complains all the time that Don Jaime, who used to be so sweet and loving, has turned into a jealous, controlling husband.”
He took my hand. I felt my body melt like warm honey.
“You’re such a beautiful, smart girl, Mara. I...” He let go of my hand and lit a cigarette.
Damn! I thought. Say it, Gabe. Say: You’re a beautiful, smart girl, and I love you! But he didn’t.
“You have to understand,” I went on, “Lola wanted children. The adoration of the crowds, the parties, the splashy photo spreads in movie magazines, I think all that fills a vacuum. But the kind of life she leads would never make me happy.”
There! I thought, I’ve left the door wide-open. Ask me what kind of life I want, and I’ll say a life with a nice husband and lots of kids. Then tell me you can give me that life, and ask me to marry you.
He took a drag on his cigarette. “You know, Mara,” he said, “I want to get away from the studios. My father has been a joister his whole life, but I’m going to take a course in cabinet making and open my own shop. Vince is going to help me. These movie people... How can you stand working for Carewe?”
“It’s not full-time,” I said. “I still work at Marie’s a couple days a week.”
“I’m hoping you won’t work at all when...” He caught his breath.
I loved styling hair, and working for both Lola and Marie part-time suited me fine. I met interesting women at Marie’s and shared in the excitement of filmmaking at the studio. I kept up with all the latest hair fashions and heard all the Hollywood gossip. But Gabe was saying he hoped that someday I’d give it all up. That meant...that meant he was thinking about marriage, and marriage was more important to me than anything else in the world. Say it, I thought. Say: I’m hoping you won’t work at all when we’re married!
Gabe looked down at his cup. He began to fidget with his cigarette, then put it out, paid the bill, and got up to leave. I felt as deflated as a balloon the day after the party.
Lola and Jaime had abandoned their tiny Hollywood bungalow for a spacious hacienda-style home on Outpost Drive. Lola loved the Spanish arches and red tile roof, the elaborate gardens and multiple patios. A flagstone path led to the entrance, where a mosaic of the Virgin of Guadalupe welcomed guests with her calming presence. A staircase of blue and white Puebla tile led to the interior. Colonial paintings embellished the walls, and a huge chandelier of Taxco silver hung in the vestibule. The salon was adorned with velvet and mahogany furniture from Jaime’s Durango estate. On the mantel sat a signed photograph of Queen Victoria Eugenia of Spain, who had given it to Lola when the couple visited Madrid on their honeymoon.
Lola sat brooding in the drawing room, a small spaniel at her feet. Her next film, Resurrection, was sure to cause a row at home. She was to play Katyusha, a Russian peasant girl who becomes the mistress of a prince. When he abandons her, she turns to prostitution. Jaime would have a fit.
The puppy stood on its hind legs and laid his head on her knee. Lola stroked its silky fur and scratched its ears. She’d named him Dimitri after the prince in the film, but now she thought that hadn’t been such a good idea. Every time she called to the dog, Jaime would be reminded of Carewe’s pull on her.
“Maybe we’ll change your name, cachorro,” she murmured, running her lacquered nails over the pup’s tiny head.
“Yes,” I said. “Change his name. The last thing you need is more trouble with Jaime.”
Carewe had made a deal with United Artists. They would release Resurrection, but he would have full artistic control. What Price Glory? had been a huge hit, and he was determined that Resurrection should do even better. It would establish him definitively as Lola’s director and Lola as his star. He was not about to lend her to Raoul Walsh or anyone else ever again.
Carewe was seeing to every detail of the production himself. The film was based on a novel by Leo Tolstoy, and Carewe had contracted an exiled Russian general to make sure the czarist uniforms were authentic. He poured over paintings of peasants for images of babushkas and even brought in Tolstoy’s son Ilya to serve as a technical adviser.
Lola had invited me over to see the new house, but what she really wanted was to talk—and not about hairstyles. She’d made a decision about Jaime, she confided, only she didn’t know how to tell her mother. There was no one else she could talk to, she said. She needed my advice.
Lola’s mother moved in with Jaime and Lola right after they’d bought the new house, while her father stayed in Mexico because of his job. Now Doña Antonia whooshed into the drawing room, her pajama-like trousers swiping the heavy brocade chairs. Lola knew she couldn’t hide her heartache from her mother much longer. Doña Antonia had always known how to read her like a script.
“Want some coffee?” Doña Antonia plopped down on a love seat. “What about you, Mara? I’ll ask Esperanza to make us some.” Doña Antonia had hired Esperanza as her personal maid in Mexico City, and she’d been with the family ever since.
“I don’t want coffee,” said Lola. I was sure Doña Antonia would notice she’d been crying. Her eyes were still puffy, and her nose was red.
“I have an idea,” said Doña Antonia. “Let’s drive down to the beach. You, too, Mara.”
“I don’t know, Mami,” murmured Lola. “I really don’t feel like it.”
“Come on! Get your bathing suit,” prodded Doña Antonia. “Your father’s socio Alejandro Bakovitch has a place in Malibu, a secluded property where no one will see you. He and his wife are out of town, and they told me I could use it. You love to swim, and you need to get away, at least for a couple of hours. I’ll tell Alfredo to get the car ready.”
The sky was a soft periwinkle blue. Feathery clouds dawdled above the seagulls. Rays of sunlight, glittering and irregular like a monstrance, reached outward as though to embrace the world. To the right, the Santa Monica Mountains. Clusters of wildflowers as yellow as egg yolks gleamed against swaths of gray-green chaparral. To the left, the watery fingers of the Pacific kneaded the air.
I sat in the front with the chauffeur. In the back, Lola and Antonia relaxed in quiet familiarity, with no need to fill every pause with chatter. After the rush and bustle of the movie set, the steady whir of the motor seemed to calm Lola’s nerves. I turned around to look at her. Her eyes were closed. The purr of the engine had lulled her to sleep. Yet I knew she was uneasy. She had to tell her mother what she’d already told me, and it wouldn’t be easy. For Lola, Antonia was the Madonna in Blue and Saint George the Dragon Slayer rolled into one. She was the queen of the Catholic Ladies’ Auxiliary League, the censor who glowered if a neighbor wore her skirt above the calf to Mass. How could Lola expect her to understand?
The gates opened and Bakovitch’s groundskeeper waved us in.
“Shall I ask the kitchen staff to prepare lunch for you and serve it in a cabana?” he asked.
“That would be lovely,” answered Doña Antonia.
Lola slipped into her bathing outfit—yellow-and-white knit shorts and a matching chemise—and ran toward the sea. From the shade of the cabana, Doña Antonia and I watched her strong, even strokes. The Bakovitch servants set out a rectangular folding table and lay a white linen cloth on it, and then, with remarkable efficiency, porcelain dishes, crystal stemware, and silver dining utensils. By the time Lola emerged, her arms dripping with foam and her hair in a frenzy, she’d worked up an appetite.
We chatted while we devoured our chiles rellenos, but Lola and I both knew we were tiptoeing around the issue: Jaime, the sacrificial lamb. Finally, Lola could no longer bear it.
“Mamá,” she said, her voice wavering. “I’m thinking of getting a divorce.”
I got up to leave them alone.
“No, Mara,” said Lola. “Stay. I’m not going to tell her anything you don’t already know.”
Doña Antonia chewed slowly, then took a sip of wine. Lola braced for the barrage of blame that was sure to come. She hadn’t been a good wife. She’d sacrificed her husband (the lamb) to her career. She hadn’t given him a child. If you’d attended to your marriage, como Dios manda, her mother would say. And then there would be a sermon about the sacred, indissoluble bonds of marriage.
But Doña Antonia just chewed and sipped. “Tendrás tus razones,” she said finally. “I’m sure you have your reasons.” Their eyes met. I could see the tenderness in Doña Antonia’s gaze.
She put down her knife and fork and signaled the attendant that they were ready for dessert. “We don’t count calories in this family,” she announced to no one in particular. “The only thing I’ll say is this,” she continued, after a long pause. “Don’t rush into anything.”
“It’s just that Jaime isn’t... I mean... He can’t satisfy me.”
“I understand,” said Doña Antonia calmly, “but even so, take a trip together. Go far away, where Edwin Carewe can’t distract you. You might come to some sort of...arrangement.”
So Doña Antonia knew about Carewe. Lola bit her lip, and I know what was going through her head: What must Mamá think of me? How disappointed she must be.
“I think Jaime may be like Ramón,” said Doña Antonia.
Lola looked stunned.
“We all know about Ramón,” she went on. “He is as God made him. If Jaime is that way, too, you won’t change him. But you have an image to uphold, and he has his family honor. If you decide to stay with him, I’ll stand by you, Lola. And if you decide to leave him, I’ll stand by you then, too. Mi gatita will never be alone.”
Lola threw her arms around her mother’s shoulders. “Gracias, Mami,” she whispered. “No girl was ever as lucky as I am.”
Gabe and I saw each other regularly for a couple of months—a Coke at the canteen, a baseball game, a party at a friend’s house. Then, one evening late in the summer of 1927, he called me. “I have something to ask you,” he said. His voice was steady. He sounded confident.
“Yes?” I held my breath.
“Could you come to dinner this Sunday? Mamá and Papá would like to meet you.”
I knew what that meant, and I had to purse my lips to avoid shrieking with joy.
“Of course, your Tía Emi must come, too. They want to meet the whole family.”