City of Myths Page 4

  Gwendolyn found Marilyn Monroe seated at a table in the middle of the bustling commissary trying to avoid spilling beef broth on her glittering red-and-gold costume.

  She spotted Gwendolyn and pointed to a second bowl. Gwendolyn was hungry for more substantial fare, but the wistfulness in Marilyn’s face made her rush right over.

  They exchanged a brief kiss.

  “It’s wonderful to see you,” Marilyn exclaimed, “I’ve been back from Canada for three weeks and we haven’t had a chance to catch up!”

  “They keep me real busy.” Gwendolyn sampled the soup. It was the thinnest broth she’d ever tasted; the bowl probably didn’t have more than twenty calories.

  “Isn’t it nutso?” Marilyn said. “You and me working at the same studio?”

  Whatever trouble Marilyn had experienced on the Canadian location shoot for her next movie didn’t seem to have left a mark. She glowed like a klieg light.

  “How’s River of No Return going?” Gwendolyn asked. “I hear you and Otto Preminger didn’t get along so good.”

  Marilyn rolled her eyes. “Frankenstein with dysentery would be a gentleman compared to Preminger. I was not looking forward to the reshoots. When I learned that he’s moved on to Carmen Jones, I almost sent his leading lady a note. ‘Good luck, Dorothy Dandridge!’”

  “What’s next for you?”

  Marilyn pushed away her bowl. She was only halfway through it. Surely she was still hungry. Or, cinched into a dress like that, maybe peeing was too hard to risk eating more.

  “That’s what I wanted to see you about. The How to Marry a Millionaire premiere is coming up and I desperately need something to wear.”

  “But surely Billy Travilla will be—”

  “Word has come from high above that he’s only to work on my screen costumes. I was distraught until I heard that you were on board. Do you think I could come over to your place and bounce around some ideas?”

  Every photographer in town would be jostling to capture Marilyn’s arrival. If she wore a Gwendolyn creation, it might be enough to lift her profile inside the studio.

  “Hello!” Loretta materialized in front of them like Constance Bennett in Topper. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was so thrilled with the new dress that I had to come find you. We haven’t met yet, have we?” she asked Marilyn as she laid her tray on their table. “I’m Loretta. Mind if I join you?”

  Even in a room packed with people used to seeing stars all day long, the sight of Loretta Young and Marilyn Monroe seated together made heads turn in their direction.

  “I’m sorry that I haven’t seen your television show yet,” Marilyn told Loretta. “I hear it’s very good.”

  Loretta lifted a bowl of the same beef broth from her tray and set it in front of her. “It was a bear to get off the ground, but now that we have, it’s skipping along nicely.”

  Sitting across from an It Girl of the past trying to impress an It Girl of the future, Gwendolyn realized that, even inside the citadel, women like these two still played the game.

  Gwendolyn thought about Judy. Growing up in the shadow of a movie-star mother, surely she’d witnessed the price that Hollywood exacted from its women. At least she knew first-hand what she was letting herself in for.

  “Haven’t you?”

  Gwendolyn blinked at Loretta. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I was saying you’ve probably already conjured a bunch of ideas for Marilyn’s premiere.”

  “Yes, I have.” No, I haven’t. See? Even I play the game.

  A twenty-year-old kid with a nervous twitch approached their table. “Miss Monroe?”

  Marilyn knitted her brows. “Ready for me so soon?”

  “Makeup’ll need you in about ten minutes.”

  “Thanks, T.J. Tell Ben I’ll be right over.” She turned back to Loretta and Gwendolyn. “Sorry ladies, but with reshoots cutting into the budget, poor Mr. Negulesco is under pressure to get them done as quickly as possible.” She made a point of shaking Loretta’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Young.”

  Loretta smiled but did not ask Marilyn to call her by her first name. Every pair of legs in a tight skirt is viewed as competition.

  Marilyn pulled at her corset and set off for the exit, oblivious—or pretending to be—to every eye in the cafeteria following her.

  “Gracious!” Loretta exclaimed. “That lass sure is something.”

  Gwendolyn wanted to reassure Loretta that she herself was still something, but another messenger appeared at their table.

  “Can I help you, young man?”

  “I’m here to see Miss Brick.”

  “Oh.” Loretta’s gray eyes lost their focus.

  “I’m the new messenger for Mr. Zanuck,” the kid said. “He wants to see you this afternoon.”

  Gwendolyn could feel Loretta scrutinize her face for signs of surprise. “When?”

  “Five o’clock sharp. His office.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The two women watched the messenger boy retreat.

  “Why, Gwendolyn!” Loretta exclaimed. “Is your luncheon table always this eventful?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Are you and Zanuck . . . close?”

  Loretta tinged the brief hesitation near the end of her question with bitterness.

  “We’ve met a few times, but I’d be surprised if he could pull my name out of the air.”

  Marcus had put pen to paper as soon as he’d hung up from Zanuck, detailing how he was tasked with finding a secluded penthouse where Zanuck could schtup his mistress. The mistress had an odd name. What was it? Belle? Delle? Is that why I’m being summoned?

  “Apparently he can pull your name out of thin air.” Loretta filled her face with a sweet smile. “Perhaps you could do me a favor?”

  “If I can.”

  “There’s a picture in pre-production called A Woman’s World with Jean Negulesco directing. High gloss, very classy. There’s a part I’d be perfect for. I got my agent to let it be known that I want the role, but it appears to have gone nowhere. Perhaps you could bring it up when you see Zanuck this afternoon?”

  “I don’t even know why he’s summoned me.”

  “In case you can find a way, I’d appreciate it so very much.”

  Gwendolyn admired Loretta’s refusal to be tossed aside in favor of fresher faces, but if Zanuck cast her in a movie, it wouldn’t be because some peon like Gwendolyn Brick suggested it. On the other hand, Loretta had been at this game since before The Jazz Singer. At the very least, Gwendolyn would be doing her boss a favor.

  “I can try.”

  * * *

  Darryl Zanuck was selecting a pipe from a chrome rack behind his desk as Gwendolyn walked through the redwood door that opened into the mogul’s huge office. “Miss Brick, always a pleasure.” He indicated she could take either of the chairs in front of his desk.

  She smoothed her dress as she lowered herself into the closest one.

  “I need you.” His candor made the hair on the back of Gwendolyn’s neck stand up. “You and Monroe are friends, right?”

  “We were having lunch together when your messenger—”

  “I know. Here’s my problem: she’s becoming difficult to manage. River of No Return has been a nightmare.”

  “The reshoots with Jean Negulesco have gone smoothly, so I don’t know that you can hold Marilyn solely responsible—”

  “She’s heading down the same goddamn road that every actress with great tits and a modicum of success heads down. She’s already started showing up late, or not at all. She stumbles over her lines or blanks on them, fusses over her hair and makeup for hours.” He lit his pipe. “I need her to quit draining the budget of every movie I put her in.”

  “You want me to give her a talking-to? I can certainly try, but I doubt—”

  “I need someone reporting every move she makes as soon as she makes it.”

  Gwendolyn had played enough poker to know that Zanuck was consciously refusing
to blink.

  “You want me to spy on her.”

  During the war, the FBI had approached Kathryn to inform them if the people she worked with showed signs of falling prey to Communism. After one particularly stressful encounter, Kathryn had told Gwendolyn, “You don’t know how it feels to be forced to squeal on people you love and admire.” Gwendolyn was getting a taste of it just now, and it made her chest tighten.

  “Don’t think of it as spying.” Zanuck used a gentler tone but he still hadn’t blinked.

  “A rose by any other name, Mr. Zanuck.”

  “Quoting Shakespeare now, are we?”

  The guy played with his gold cigarette lighter. He was using it as a prop to control the conversation, and Gwendolyn resented how well the tactic worked.

  He picked from his tongue a loose sliver of tobacco that she suspected wasn’t there. “Confidential magazine ran an article that was so damaging, you had to close your store. The merchandise you couldn’t sell was offloaded at a highly discounted rate, which failed to cover what you owed your suppliers. Consequently, Miss Brick, you’re in debt. Quite deeply, I believe.”

  He pulled a long draw on his pipe and blinked his eyes with infuriatingly slow deliberation.

  Everything Zanuck said was true. Her holding a regular job at Twentieth Century-Fox had helped convince Gwendolyn’s bank manager to agree to pay off a fraction of her debt each week. It was going to take years, but at least it saved her from the ignominy of declaring bankruptcy.

  Was Zanuck threatening to fire her? Or blackball her from the industry? After watching Marcus struggle for so many years, Gwendolyn knew the consequences of non-cooperation.

  “I guess you leave me no choice.”

  “Oh, come now.” He jumped to his feet again, but stayed on his side of the desk. “Don’t look at me like I’m the Gestapo and you’re the French Resistance. I’m just asking you to keep your eyes and ears open. Especially DiMaggio. If you catch wind of her marrying that wop, you tell me immediately. And I want you to talk her out of it.”

  If Kathryn could worm out of her enforced obligations with the FBI, I can get around this egomaniac without losing my job. “I’ll do my best,” she told him, “but I’m not her mother.”

  Zanuck’s eyes crinkled with victory. “I hope not—I hear she’s crazy.”

  Gwendolyn propelled herself from the chair. “I can’t make any promises.”

  “Did I ask for any?”

  It was a fair point, but Gwendolyn was in no mood to concede defeat. “By the way, Loretta Young wants you to consider her for the lead in A Woman’s World.”

  Zanuck snorted. “Her? For a theatrical feature?”

  “She’s made over ninety pictures!”

  “In the eyes of the public, she’s now just a television actress.

  “You cast Jack Lemmon opposite Betty Grable and he’s a television actor.”

  “That’s different. Jack’s on his way up. Don’t worry, Miss Brick. You’ve done what you promised. You can assure your boss that you pleaded her case.”

  Gwendolyn took a step backward. The carpeting in Zanuck’s office was unusually plush and as she turned to go, her heel sank into the thick pile. She managed to recover before she stumbled back into the chair like a messy drunk at Ciro’s. With her back now turned to Zanuck, she wasn’t sure if he’d seen the expression on her face. She made a straight line for the exit and didn’t breathe again until she closed the massive redwood door behind her.

  CHAPTER 6

  It was now a week since that day in the Piazza Colonna and the idea that someone had noticed him around Cinecittà still made Marcus smile. It was thrilling to be on the receiving end of such a flattering confession, but it also made him realize how rusty his flirting skills were.

  Seeing him redden like an ingénue, Domenico changed the subject. Was Cary Grant as handsome in real life as he was on the screen? Had Marcus ever danced with Ginger Rogers? How were the thick shakes at Schwab’s? He had listened attentively as Marcus described premieres at Grauman’s, parties at the Cocoanut Grove, and Hollywood Bowl concerts. Then without warning, he announced that he must take his mamma shopping for new shoes. He shook Marcus’s hand warmly, assuring him it had been a pleasure, and set off across the piazza.

  Seven days later, almost to the hour, Marcus was in his makeshift darkroom developing a roll of film that he’d discovered in his satchel, so he wasn’t sure what might appear. Signora Scatena knocked on his door and said that a Signore Beneventi was here to see him. When he told her that he didn’t know anyone by that name, a deep voice called out, “Zabaglione!”

  Marcus cracked open the door. The pint-sized signora wore an unsure expression over her usual scowl as she kept a grinning Domenico at bay. Though towering over her by two feet, he knew that to reach Marcus, he’d have to get past the signora first.

  Marcus thanked her and asked Domenico to join him in the darkroom. It was a tight fit but as long as Domenico didn’t move much, there was enough room for Marcus to do what he needed.

  Domenico studied the contents of Marcus’s developing tray. “What is this?”

  “I’m not sure. So how did you find me?”

  “You said you lived in a pensione on the Via Anzio so I started knocking on doors until your proprietaria di casa frowned at me like I was a Nazi spy and I knew I had the correct address.” He peered more closely at the emerging photograph. “Is that Rossano Brazzi?”

  About halfway through the Three Coins shoot, Negulesco had pulled Marcus aside and told him to take as many shots of Brazzi as he could. Joe Mankiewicz wanted to cast him in The Barefoot Contessa but was having trouble convincing Zanuck. If Marcus could get some great shots “of Brazzi in his natural habitat,” Zanuck would see why he was perfect for the role of Count Vincenzo and Mank would be grateful.

  It seemed to Marcus that his professional life consisted largely of accumulating favors for people with little hope that he would be in a position to cash any of them in.

  Marcus let the solution run off the photograph and pegged it to the string rigged up overhead. The image showed Brazzi at the Colosseum. His light-colored suit contrasted with the curved shadows of the ancient arches in the background. Marcus had caught him midway to a belly laugh with his on-screen love interest, Jean Peters, throwing his hands in front of him as though preparing to catch a falling damsel in distress.

  “You took this?” Domenico asked.

  Marcus dropped the second photograph into the tray. “I did.”

  Domenico drew his face closer to inspect it. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder now; Marcus could feel the heat of Domenico’s skin through his shirtsleeve. A heady blend of sweat, hair tonic, and cigarettes exuded from him.

  “Your work is as good as Emilio Conti.”

  Marcus pegged the second photo and immersed a third. “Who’s that?”

  “Rome’s most well-known scattino.”

  “Scattino?”

  Domenico pulled his face away from the Brazzi portrait. “If you want to know this city, you must experience it in the gutters.”

  Marcus wanted to find Zanuck a place to hide his mistress and return to Hollywood; diving into the gutters was not part of the plan.

  “What is the English word that means to take photographs very quickly?”

  “Snap?”

  “Si! A scattino,” Domenico explained, “means snapper. Someone who snaps a photo. Scattini are street photographers who take photos of people on the street, but also of movie stars drinking cappuccino and sipping Campari. They sell them to new movie magazines and make many monies.”

  “And this Emilio Conti, he’s one of the biggest scattini?” Marcus asked.

  “Si, but you could give him a run for his money. This expression is correct? A run for his money?”

  “That’s right,” Marcus told him, “but I won’t be in Rome for much longer. I’m not interested in giving anybody a run for any money.”

  Domenico moved on to the second photo,
in which Brazzi and Peters sat on the edge of the Trevi Fountain waiting for Negulesco to set up their shot. Brazzi held his fingers together like he was describing an especially delicious meal. Marcus had taken that shot just after he lost Oliver’s cufflink. Days later, when he waded into the water, it was gone.

  “Where did you learn to take photos like a scattino?” Domenico asked.

  He was staring at Marcus now in that open-eyed way that made Marcus’s heart quicken. “On the set of Quo Vadis, I guess.”

  Domenico’s lips parted. “You worked on Quo Vadis?”

  “I helped patch the script together, but once that was done, the director got me to shoot production stills. It was the first time MGM had shot over here so they wanted it documented.”

  Domenico let out a whooping laugh. “I cannot believe it!” He planted his hands on Marcus’s shoulders, his mouth pulled into a wide smile. “I have found him!”

  “Who?”

  “You are the famous mysterious scattino!”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “Sophia Loren!”

  The name meant nothing to Marcus.

  “Mamma mia! She is a new actress. Very exciting. Beautiful! So fresh and new. So Italian. Everybody is wild for her.” He took in Marcus’s blank face, then cast an eye over the undeveloped photos. “You finish these later?”

  Domenico pinched the end of Marcus’s collar and tugged him out of the darkroom.

  * * *

  The tall apartment buildings that lined Via Tuscolana sped past in a blur as their taxi headed north toward the old city. The tiny Fiat was a pre-war rattler that probably qualified as a jalopy. Domenico’s right leg pressed against Marcus’s left, from the hip right down to the ankle.

  “Where are we going?”

  A self-satisfied smile spread across Domenico’s face. “When MGM made the premiere for Quo Vadis, we said, ‘It is like Hollywood!’ A red carpet. The huge lights that shine into the sky.”

  “Searchlights.”

  “Si, si. Everybody wanted to know about making the big Hollywood movie with the big Hollywood stars. Every detail about Quo Vadis was news. We have many magazines now, but the most popular is called Epoca. They published four pages of photographs taken on the set and it caused a tumulto.”