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  As I had anticipated, Starr had a little trouble with Emily during the afternoon session. She made a beautiful-looking Maria in her poor but clean rags and tatters, but her performance in each of a dozen rehearsals was wooden, a little like a Bryn Mawr Baby Greek student reading Aristophanes in front of the class. Not that I could blame her; she had never evinced the slightest interest in being an actress, she was still furious at her father, and the presence of Bruce van Damm, all encouraging smiles and devouring glances, naturally made her self-conscious.

  “That wasn’t quite right, my darling,” Starr said patiently. “Perhaps you don’t quite realize the enormity of the situation. You’re standing here in this shabby patio listening to this damned fool of a woman—begging your pardon, Miss Herrera—” he said to the raw-boned character actress who was playing Emily’s aunt.

  “Pairfeckly ollraite, Señor Starr,” Miss Herrera said generously.

  “You know that the crops for the year have amounted to a handful of grain, that the hacienda is mortgaged right up to the roof, that everything is falling apart. And you know that your aunt knows it. But she still lives in the past, trading on a great family name, believing that because the place has prospered for the last nine hundred years it will again. And you are trying to . . .”

  “Yes, I understand all that,” Emily said coldly. “I’ll try again.”

  Emily and Miss Herrera began once more. Miss H. was a seasoned old warhorse who for the past fifty years had played unsympathetic roles such as the haughty infanta, the straitlaced duenna, the cruel stepmother, with the same tried and true competence. She wasn’t brilliant, but you could depend on her. You could depend on Emily, too. As sure as the sky was blue, she was dull, mechanical, and thoroughly bad. Starr was just about to break into the scene when suddenly a great change came over Emily. In the space of less than a second she turned from automaton into spitfire. In a trice her well-bred, nicely modulated voice rose a full octave, and she began to scream at poor old Miss Herrera. “Oh yes, Aunt Mercedes, I know. I know. We are the rightful heirs of the kings of Spain, the rulers of the earth. Well, look at the earth we rule—dust and filth and rubble!” With that, she picked up a handful of dry dirt and flung it in the poor old lady’s face, bringing on a terrible wheezing attack. In astonishment I turned to look at Starr, and then I saw the inspiration for Emily’s sudden burst of fury. Mrs. Worthington Pomeroy had arrived, had tiptoed up behind Starr, and was now making ringlets of his hair around her pudgy index finger.

  “That will do, thank you,” Starr said. “We’ll try a take now.”

  “But, Daddy, I really don’t . . .”

  “Are you ready, Lopez?”

  “Sure t’ing, Mr. Starr. Very well. Places please.” Starr put on the headphones and adjusted the sound console. “Quiet please. Camera. Action.” Miss Herrera began the scene in the same professional way she had always rehearsed it. Emily was sullen and seemed on the verge of tears. It was a rather long scene, and as it progressed I watched Starr with mounting interest. First he reached out for Clarice’s all-too-eager hand. He was seated where the gesture couldn’t have been lost on his daughter. The pitch of her performance began to rise. Still in his headphones and still twiddling with the dials on the console, he put his free arm around Clarice’s thickening waist. The fury mounted still higher, with Miss Herrera, slightly surprised by the turn of events, almost matching Emily for fury. At the climatic moment Starr pulled Clarice, simpering hideously, down onto his knee. Then the dam broke.

  “. . . dust and filth and rubble,” Emily cried. “Well, take your precious earth and live on it if you can. I won’t!” She swept up a load of dust and gravel and let poor old Miss Herrera have it square in the eye, whereupon the saintly Miss H. screamed “Madre de Dios!” and fetched Emily a haymaker that sent her staggering. Then they both burst into tears. It wasn’t in the script but it was sensational.

  “Cut!” Starr said, unceremoniously dumping Clarice to the ground. “That was superb, my darling, superb! Kiss Daddy.”

  With a sniff Emily said, “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not. I believe that’s all you wanted of me—for today?”

  “All I wanted of you, my precious. It was more than one could reasonably expect from Maggie Leighton. Oh, my beloved . . .”

  “Then if I may be excused. I’ll be with you in a moment, Bruce,” Emily said, and marched prissily to Starr’s apartment while Miss Herrera was led off by a couple of volunteers to the Farmacia Corazón de Jesús for first aid.

  Sadistic as it may have been, Starr had really dragged a performance out of his daughter. By that time most of the actors were finished for the day and had gone home, leaving our apartment a wasteland of Kleenex, cigarette butts, empty bottles, and forgotten articles of clothing. It was now time for Our Star of Stars, Catalina Ximinez, to do her stuff, and I was curious to see how Svengali was going to handle this particular Trilby. I felt that he had bitten off more than he could chew, but as usual I was wrong. Madame X was, to begin with, unable to read a manuscript in English, and Starr had not bothered to explain the plot or her role to her. Totally indifferent to anything as unessential as a story, la Ximinez simply assumed that she was the star, that she was going to be all sweet and sympathetic and that her acting would range from archly coy to coyly arch with lots of fluttering gestures and saccharine simpers. I knew that her limitations in English were such that most of the dialogue in her scenes would have to be spoken at her by better linguists and, accordingly, I had limited her speeches to mostly “yes” and “no” and “oh” and “please” and “thank you” and “good morning” and “good night.” The longest of her speeches, like a telegram, ran to just ten words, and I was prepared to cut that. I also knew that she was to play Doña Isabel, the vain nineteenth-century chatelaine whose stupidity and cupidity had brought about the turning point in the fortunes of the family and the hacienda. What I didn’t know was how Lucifer himself was going to get a vain, conceited, no-talent cow like Catalina Ximinez, whose only interest in Valley of the Vultures—if, indeed, she even recalled the title—was to see herself once again on the screen as a radiant young beauty admired by one and all, to turn in work that wasn’t downright ludicrous. But again I hadn’t reckoned with the evil genius of Leander Starr.

  Having sprawled on the chaise longue like a Matisse odalisque all morning, Madame X had disappeared into her own quarters for lunch and had not reappeared, but I gather that she’d been keeping an eye on things from her bedroom window, because when it was time for her to do her scene, she made yet another grand entrance—this time in costume. Either that bull dike from the Institutión de Masaje had beaten tons off her middle or else she’d been laced in to the bursting point. She was dressed in a wasp-waisted gown of the eighteen-eighties—white with red polka dots and faintly flamenco dancer in feeling—with the most prominent bustle ever seen. I wondered whether it was just a monument of wire, horsehair, and crinoline or if her excess poundage had simply been outer-directed. She carried a matching parasol, and to that rather fussy costume, bouncing with ruffles and tucks and pleats as it was, she had added, from her own astonishing wardrobe, a number of fans, stoles, mitts, artificial flowers, pins, clips, necklaces, earrings, bracelets, a towering celluloid Spanish comb, a cotton-lace mantilla, and harlequin sunglasses. “La Ximinez ees raidy,” she announced. Mamacita, in transports of joy and also dark glasses with skittish seashell frames, followed, moved her chromium U.S.O. Club chair to the very edge of the set and sat bouncing orgasmically.

  I suppressed a gasp. “Good Lord, Starr, who dressed her?”

  “Same designer who did the rest of the costumes—not all of it, perhaps.”

  “Well now, who’s going to undress her? She looks like a rummage sale.”

  “Be patient, dear boy. She may bring more to the character of Doña Isabel than you ever did. Ah, Catalina, how beautiful!” She removed her dark glasses and batted her Gordian knots of eyelashes. The only thing that Starr was firm about was t
he removal of the blood-red lacquer that had been applied to her artificial nails. Madame X was not pleased, but after I, Starr, the wardrobe man, her manicurist, and even Mamacita assured her that liquid polish had not been invented in the eighties, she grumpily consented to dunking her talons into acetone, from which they emerged looking cold, gray, and dead.

  When Catalina had appeared in her costume plus the plethora of dowdy accessories, I thought the wardrobe man was going to have a fit. When she started reading my lines, I was certain that I was. Starr had selected two extremely strong actors to appear in most of her scenes with her: one was the feckless, decadent husband; the other played the role of the overseer of the hacienda—a good and honest farming man who is driven to rebel against her.

  Through Heff, Starr started to explain the action to her. “You, my dear, are a lovely aristocrat, sweet and kind and adored by all. But the overseer is a slothful, lazy, inefficient son of a bitch, shifty and dishonest, and you have lost all patience with . . .”

  “Leander,” I said, feeling outraged, “that’s not at all what I . . .”

  “Shut up,” he muttered. Miss Ximinez beamed, and flexed whatever facial muscles she had that could still move under the burden of make-up into vacuity, idiocy, and grouch, which I suppose were to signify breeding, sweetness, and impatience. “Now, Heff, please ask Miss Ximinez if she knows her lines.”

  “Oh, ove coorse. Oll ove dem. ‘Yais.’ ‘No.’ ‘Darrleeng Don Pedro.’ ‘Deess monn eess lousy. . . . ’”

  “Lazy, Catalina. ‘This man is lazy.’”

  “Ah, ove coorse. ‘Deess monn eess lay-zee.’ ‘’ow we do know he don’t steal?’ ‘Ai om bore now. Most drass for de Heneral’s boll.’” She smiled in triumph. Still bouncing in her chair, Mamacita applauded enthusiastically.

  The two actors who were to appear with her had been coached separately, so that not too much time was wasted on rehearsal. The scene was to be played directly in front of Madame X’s own impressive doorway. The sun had descended, throwing the area into shadow, and Starr had arranged the most flattering lighting possible. If you didn’t know who it was, Madame X almost looked good—and not more than thirty-five.

  “Very well, Lopez,” Starr said. “I hope you’ve got lots of film. We’ll be needing more than one take of this. Now, Heff, Señorita Ximinez is to make a stunning entrance right through the front doors. When you hear Don Pedro say ‘Stupid, dirty Indians, who cares if they’re hungry,’ you give la Ximinez a slight push and she comes on. You’ll explain that to her, won’t you?”

  Heff, who tried to be as pleasant and helpful as his father managed to be repulsive and destructive, nodded and led Our Star into the house.

  The scene between the soft Don Pedro and the upstanding man of the soil went as scheduled, the overseer warning of discontent among the field hands, the master being indifferent to the plight of the workers.

  “Stupid, dirty Indians,” Don Pedro said with a fine lift of the lip, “who cares if they’re hungry?”

  With a twiching of ruffles and kicking of trains, Madame X hove into sight, paused on the top step a little like Carmen, her parasol open like a windmill behind her head, then she stepped forward, tripped on the hem of her dress, and went down like a sack of meal, cursing and clawing in the gravel.

  “Save that footage,” Starr said to the cameraman, “we may be able to use it.” Then he bounded forward. “Catalina, querida! Are you hurt?” I was so undone that I had to go to my apartment and mix a quick drink to pull myself together. By the time I returned, Miss Ximinez, dusted off and freshly powdered, was playing the scene as though she might have been Yvonne Printemps about to burst into song. I mean it was unspeakably bad. When she was finished, Starr embraced her. “Bravo! Bravo! And now, querida, would you do it just once more. The lights weren’t quite right. And would you also do it without the artificial eyelashes. They seemed to dim the luminosity of your eyes.” Heff translated, and Madame X, always the gracious star, magnanimously consented. In a twinkling Starr had the lights rearranged and this time—even I could see it—Miss Ximinez looked exactly like what she was, a shrill, silly, vain old frump. Following Starr’s nervous gestures, Lopez panned the camera in on the action, getting many a grisly close-up. When it was done, Starr kissed her on both cheeks and said she had been magnificent and that would be all for the day. I saw Mamacita’s hairy old mouth working, so I saved her the trouble. “I know. Your daughter big star.”

  With surprising speed the costumes were put away, the lights and Lopez’s camera were stowed in the big blue-tiled storeroom that had been the convent kitchen. The last remaining actors, the wardrobe man, and González’s Indians said good night and made for home. Starr, Lopez, González, the long-suffering Heff, and I were all who remained. González, looking pained and petulant, waddled over to Starr, his stomach swaying gently from side to side. “Leandro, Ai lak to tok to you.”

  “I’d like to talk to you, too, Aristido. Will you begin or shall I?”

  “Alone.”

  “There is nothing you have to say that can’t be said in front of Mr. Lopez and Mr. Dennis. Without them I don’t know where we would have been today.”

  Heff began to translate, but Lopez took over in a torrent of furious Spanish. His speech lasted for a good fifteen minutes, and I can’t believe that he even paused for breath. When he finished, González was too furious to speak.

  “What was that all about?” Starr asked, so impressed by Lopez’s eloquence that I thought he might even cast him.

  “Señor Lopez has said to my father . . .” Heff began. Again Lopez interrupted.

  “I told dat fat pig where ta get off at. What da hell, he’s s’posed ta be producin’ dis flick, and he don’t do nothin’ but sit on his ass. He calls dat a crew? A sound man? A grip? An’ I told him that tammara I want some help on the set—real help—or I’ll report him ta the unions.” More translation and a horrible torrent from González.

  “Well,” Lopez said, the wind somewhat taken out of his sails, “I guess I ain’t hardly in no position ta report nobody, but I’m not crappin’ when I tell ya that this Spic is strickly fum herring. Good luck, Mr. Starr. Hasta mañana.” He put on his little Madison Avenue snap-brimmed Homburg and strode off, every inch the young Republican.

  With Heff looking sick and ashamed, but still serving as interlocutor, Starr and González had it out. Amazingly calm and patient, Starr pointed out that González had been late, had brought only one can of inferior film, completely inexperienced technical help, and had done nothing but sit. In his own behalf, González said that the first day was always the hardest, that there had been a mix-up when it came to ordering the film and the lights, that some agency had double-crossed him when he had hired the crew, that it would never happen again, that they were devoted brothers, and a few opinions of me that seemed to lose a good deal in translation. There was an abrazo, effusive kisses on both cheeks, and González & Son were off, promising to be back with the dawn of tomorrow.

  Alone with Starr, I said wearily, “Well, it’s a good thing you refused to listen to me and you didn’t actually sign anything with González.”

  “Why do you say that, dear boy?”

  “Because now you can dump him. Keep Heff, if you like. He’s at least useful. But get rid of that old crook before he . . .”

  “My dear Patrick, I couldn’t.”

  “Why the hell not? You saw what he was like today. He’s forgotten whatever he once may have known about producing a picture. He brought the worst of everything and did nothing except make trouble. Lopez is dead right. He’s an old has-been, a phony, and a crook. And for this you’re paying him a thousand bucks a day. Give him a hundred and tell him it’s . . .”

  “But you see, I can’t.”

  “Why not, please?”

  “Because González has the money.”

  “Money? He hasn’t got a single centavo. You saw that crumbling pleasure dome he lives in. He literally hasn’t a pot to . . .”

/>   “He has all of the money. The Valley of the Vultures backing. I gave it to him last week.”

  “You what?”

  “I gave it to him. It was the only sensible thing to do. With all the judgments out against me. With Guber breathing down my neck. If I’d banked it, someone would have found out and attached it or . . .”

  “You . . . gave . . . one . . . hundred . . . thousand . . . U. . . . S. . . . dollars . . . to . . . that . . . fat . . .”

  “It’s customary, my dear,” Starr said, flushing slightly. “He’s the producer. He’s supposed to pay the bills. I know nothing of figures. Besides who else . . .”

  “You blathering old fool! You could have given that money to St. Regis, to Emily, to my wife and me, to Bunty or Monica—even to Mr. Guber—and it would have been in safer hands than with that . . . Oh, Starr, I give up. I’m finished.”

  In my dirty clothes I slammed across the patio to our own apartment and ran headlong into the Warburtons, the proper American couple my wife had invited to dinner. They were wearing evening clothes and warm smiles. “Patrick! You look just like a peon. You bohemians! Well, here we are, better late than . . .”

  “Nobody home!” I roared, and slammed the door in their faces.

  TUESDAY. Lydia’s b’day. Get children’s tickets. Write Trust Co. Call good divorce lawyer. Starr’s rushes.