Cannes, 1946
From the Rubble
Now that the war was over, we were getting gruesome news from Germany. We wouldn’t have believed it, if we hadn’t seen the images. Newsreels showed soldiers wheeling piles of skulls and bones out of colorless buildings, the debris of war. Inanimate things that had once been human beings, children who played and sang songs, adolescents who dreamed, as my own daughters now dreamed, of becoming someone important—an actor, a doctor, a teacher, a fashion designer. People who prayed, as I still prayed. People with stories. Somebody’s brother. Somebody’s daughter. Somebody’s neighbor. My overactive imagination conjured up gut-wrenching scenes. The hulking storm trooper in his thick black boots, crushing infants underfoot, dragging a small child still clinging to her doll out from under a table. I could feel her terror. One moment, the world was safe, with milk and kuchen and a mother’s soft touch. The next, the world was a chaos of shrieks, bullets, exploding skulls, and blood-spattered walls. I remembered Lola once told me that, back in Durango, a strange man had entered her room at the outbreak of the Revolution, and she’d been terrified. That invasion of their property was what made her parents decide to leave Durango. Doña Antonia had borne her away in a laundry basket, but the children hiding under tables when the Nazis kicked down their doors weren’t so lucky.
I didn’t go to France with Lola, but after the festival, she flew from Paris to New York, and then to Los Angeles to visit Ramón and me and other friends. Her descriptions of the devastation were heartbreaking. France was in shambles—misery and disease everywhere. She had seen it on the drive from Paris to Cannes—disoriented Jewish refugees trudging along the roads, searching for their loved ones, needing shelter and food.
The movie industry was in ruins, but for that very reason, Lola explained, the Cannes Film Festival had to go on. Artists had to continue producing beautiful, creative things—films, paintings, music, dance. Otherwise, evil would triumph. We were back at the Biltmore, Lola, Doña Antonia and I, sipping coffee and eating sweets that Lola was going to pay for.
“You think a bunch of film people partying on the Riviera is going to save the world?” I said smugly.
She thought about it a moment. “Good old Mara,” she said, laughing. “Always there to prick my balloon and send it zigzagging back to earth. You’re right, of course. We’re not going to save the world. The best we can do is infuse our films with a sense of human dignity and hope they’ll have a positive effect.”
“You’ve grown up,” I said, surprised. “You’re actually making sense.”
“It’s just that, when you think of what the victims of war endured, those clashes with Emilio, the humiliations, the hours in the mud, all that seems insignificant.”
“Yes,” I whispered, “when you think of what people went through in the camps.”
She caught her breath. “And you, Mara...losing Gabe...” She fumbled with her napkin before going on. “You don’t think I’m doing enough, do you, Mara? Making movies, I mean. It’s not enough.”
I shrugged. “To wipe out evil? No, of course not.”
She stared across the room, crestfallen.
“At least, movies like María Candelaria make people aware of injustice,” said Doña Antonia.
I smiled. Doña Antonia was sixty-six years old and had just traveled halfway around the world, organizing Lola’s wardrobe, making sure she got her beauty sleep, staying up past midnight to keep Lola’s fans entertained, even hosting parties. Her midriff had grown pillowy, and the gentle furrows over her brow were now deep and jagged, like slashes made by a knife blade, but she was still defending and protecting her gatita.
“Tell me about the prize!” I coaxed, hoping to lighten the mood.
She perked up immediately. “I was so nervous,” she began. “A win for María Candelaria would mean we’d all return home in triumph. I wasn’t a candidate for best actress, but even so... By the time the ceremony began, my hands were shaking! I looked around the room at the other guests. You should have seen the clothes the women were wearing, Mara. Long, sweeping floral prints. Iridescent white silk floor-length sheaths. Shimmering strapless evening dresses pulled tight at the waist into a bow. I wore a midnight blue, chiffon tunic, cut on the bias, over an ankle-length crepe skirt. And Aztec jewelry. A heavy gold chain with a turquoise-incrusted amulet in the form of Tepoztecatl, the Aztec god of wine and pulque.”
“Slit to the thigh!” piped in Doña Antonia. “You should have seen how that skirt fluttered when she walked!”
Ah yes, I thought. The clothes. It’s always about appearance.
At the presentation of prizes, Lola sat between Pedro and Doña Antonia. Next to Doña Antonia was Emilio, pretending not to care about any of the hoopla. Lola struggled to keep her breathing even. Every announcement was preceded by music, entertainments, and sweaty brows. Every award was followed by speeches and sighs. It should have been me, some of the artists were probably thinking as they applauded for the winners. On and on it went. Best color. Best animation. Best cinematography. They had a chance at this one, Lola thought. Gabriel Figueroa was a master cinematographer. The rafts on the iridescent waters of Xochimilco. María Candelaria’s perfect jaw. The buzzing marketplace. The lifeless pig framed by the hunched-over bodies of María and Lorenzo. Gabriel produced images bathed in light and shadow with the deftness of a Renaissance painter.
“The winner is Gabriel Figueroa, for María Candelaria and Los tres mosqueteros!” announced the presenter.
“I almost peed!” giggled Doña Antonia, with uncharacteristic abandon. “Gabriel was beaming so widely that his moustache quivered.”
“I thought Los tres mosqueteros came out four years ago,” I said.
“Yes,” explained Doña Antonia, “but there was no festival between 1942 and 1945 because of the war, so they recognized it in 1946.”
By the time the Mexican contingent quieted down, the master of ceremonies was already on to Best Actress—Michèle Morgan for La Symphonie pastorale. Best Actor went to Ray Milland, for The Lost Weekend. At last, they came to the winners of the Grand Prix. Drum rolls, squirming in chairs, clearing of throats, deep breathing, squeezing of hands.
“María Candelaria!” announced the presenter.
“The applause was overwhelming!” squealed Lola. “Emilio stood up, looking very serious. He couldn’t pretend he thought it was all silly anymore. His film María Candelaria had made the New Mexican Cinema a movement of international importance. He smiled and bowed, then moved forward through the hall to accept his award. He didn’t gloat or wisecrack. For once in his life, he behaved appropriately.”
“Well,” I said. “You did it, Lola. You’re a world-famous actress! You have everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”
“Not quite,” she murmured. “Not everything.”
No, I agreed silently. Not everything.