Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade (17 page)

I need to drive up the coast to San Francisco,"
Mrs Wallis said.

I'm going to look at some locations for Hal. Want to
come, or should I get someone from McKinley?"

"Oh no. I'll be glad to drive you. I've never
seen San Francisco."

"We'll have a nice trip. We do have a good time
together, don't we?"

It was true. I enjoyed her company as much as if not
more than any nubile sixteen-year-old female I knew. Some of them were high
breasted and had round asses; they could arouse desire almost blinding in its
ferocity, but they were invariably ignorant of anything beyond their truncated
world of the street. I cannot recall any who had ever read a book. They
blossomed in the cracks of the mean streets, full bosomed and empty headed, and
of course they simply reflected the world where they had grown up. I had never
met the daughters of doctors and lawyers. Louise Fazenda Wallis had wit and
wisdom and many interests. She had great stories to tell, of Capone sending
emissaries to the train when she arrived in Chicago, of Hollywood in the heyday
of silent films. Mabel Normand, Desmond Taylor, Louise Brooks had been her
close friends. She introduced me to a world I'd never imagined seeing first-hand.
My image of success was to own a cocktail lounge, wear Hickey-Freeman suits,
drive a Cadillac and sport a blonde in a mink stole. She planted the seed in me
of greater dreams.

There was no freeway to San Francisco back then.
Ventura Boulevard was US 101. Beyond Sepulveda Boulevard it was mostly desert
with some citrus groves. The towns of Encino, Woodland Hills and Tarzana were
tiny hamlets. We passed children riding bareback and barefoot on the shoulder
of the highway, which was just two lanes along the base of the Santa Monica
mountains. Somewhere between Tarzana (so named because Tarzan's creator lived
there) and Thousand Oaks we stopped at a wild animal compound in a stand of
eucalyptus. Here were lions and tigers and elephants rented out to the movies.
She knew someone in Tarzana from the "old days."

The big heavy station wagon we drove ate up the road.
When we came down from a pass through the half mountains into a broad valley
and Ventura County, the landscape was all lush farmland. The sun was hot and
the fields were full of pickers bent low.

"Strawberries," Mrs Wallis said.

As if confirming her words, a truck stand beside the
road had a sign:
fresh strawberries
. Farther on were
vast alfalfa fields growing lush under the whirling sprinklers that threw
glittering water through the air. Then there were ranks of trees I did not
recognize. "What are those?"

"Walnuts."

"Everything grows in
California."

"Yes it does."

Beyond the town of Ventura the
highway followed the shore-line. The big station wagon seemed to race the
rolling surf for miles. Traffic was light and I was going fast when I saw my
first sports car, an XK120 Jaguar roadster. It was silver and fast and it first
appeared in the rearview mirror then blew by me. "Buy me one of
those," I said.

It made her laugh. "You
like that, huh?"

"Oh yeah." At the
time I had no idea what kind of car it was, only what it looked like and how
fast it was.

"I don't know about buying
it for you . . . but you could have that . . . you could have anything you want
if you want it bad enough." She laughed. "I'm a believer in
perseverance. It is the number one ingredient of success."

Following lunch in Santa
Barbara, we drove to Pismo Beach where Mrs Wallis was met by a town official.
He had been told what she sought and had a list of possibilities. Mrs Wallis
produced a camera and took pictures. It was mid-afternoon when we finished in
Pismo Beach.

"We won't make Monterey
today," she said when we were underway again. "Stop and let me make a
phone call."

At the Madonna Inn just south
of tiny San Luis Obispo, I waited while she went inside to use the telephone.
She was grinning when she came out. "I called Marion and we're spending
the night at San Simeon." She was excited, but I had no frame of reference
so I didn't react, so she added: "In
Citizen Kane,
remember Xanadu . . . 'the
stately pleasure palace,' or something like that."

I did remember, vaguely, about
Xanadu, but I rejected that film fantasy as exaggeration. Nothing could be like
that. I was wrong,
of
course.

Above San Luis Obispo we turned
from US 101 to California Highway 1. From Morro Bay north, the narrow highway
hugged the cliffs, below which the Pacific slammed into jagged rocks. The trees
were twisted by perpetual wind; their roots seemed
to penetrate the rocks themselves. Seagulls soared
and screeched. There was almost no traffic. On the rocks below, seals basked.

"The first time I came here," she said,
"most of this road wasn't paved yet. Let's see, Hal and I were in a car
with Marie Dressier. Do you remember her?"

I shook my head.

"Ah, how transitory is fame," Louise said.
"She was a big star in the '30s."

"I've probably seen her. I just don't remember
the name."

"Everybody calls San Simeon the Hearst castle. He
called it 'the ranch.' Believe me, it's more castle than ranch . . . although
it's two or three hundred thousand acres."

". . . hundred thousand?"

"Something like that. I guess most of it is
pretty worthless. The big thing used to be long horseback rides on Saturday. He
had giraffes and herds of zebras running wild. We'd be out in the middle of
nowhere and, come lunchtime, lo and behold, there were the servants with
linen-covered tables under wild oaks with some wildebeests or something looking
on. You'd think you were on the Serengeti." She brayed her big laugh that
always made people smile. She manifestly took great pleasure in telling me
about W.R. bringing the ceiling from tenth-century abbeys and making a guest
house fit under it. "There's two swimming pools. The indoor pool cost two
million dollars and nobody ever used it except the servants. Imagine
that."

It was hard to imagine. Two million dollars for a
swimming pool!

When we passed through the tiny hamlet of Cambria, she
was excitedly telling me one anecdote after another. As we got close proximity
refreshed her memory. "I'll never forget the girl Chaplin brought one
time. She was . . . maybe sixteen . . . and that's giving him the benefit of
the doubt. Boy, he did like them young. She didn't know if she was a temptress
or entrapped by a child molester.

"The servants used to go through your luggage
when you arrived and when you left."

"You mean they searched your suitcases?"

"They didn't do it in front of you. They did it
when they took your bags to one of the guest houses ... or to the cars on the
way out."

"Why would they search when you came in?"

"Booze. W.R. allowed one drink before dinner. It
was a boozy nine, and lots of Marion's friends had hollow legs . . . except for
a lew who did dope. One time we were getting ready for dinner, waiting for W.R.
and Marion to come down. Mabel Normand came in the door, mad as hell, and
yelled, 'Some sonofabitch stole my morphine.' I think Mabel got it back, but I
don't think she ever visited again.

"Did I tell you that the way I set my table, with
mustard and ketchup and all the condiments in their jars in the center is a
copy <>f San Simeon's table?"

A minute or so later she said, "Look, look, over
there to the right.. . up . . . up .. ."

Miles away, crowning the hills several miles from the
shore, was a flash of white towers. The view was suddenly blocked by a line of
eucalyptus along the roadside.

"Watch for the entrance on the right." She
paused. "The last time I was here was in '36. Good God, how time flies. I
remember the big concern that weekend was the Spanish Civil War. W.R. was
getting dispatches upstairs. We were asking each other where W.R. stood. All of
us movie people were for the Republican side, but we didn't want to make any
gaffes if W.R. was for Franco."

"How did he stand?"

"You
know ... I can't remember."

The castle was several miles from the highway. The
private road zigzagged through the hills. The castle appeared and disappeared,
growing larger each time we saw it. The twin spires reminded me of an old
Mexican cathedral I'd seen in
National Geographic.
To me it looked more like a palace than a castle.

Down
on the highway, the ocean had kept the air cool, but a mile or two away from
the sea breeze the air was heated
from
the sun pounding down on desert mountains. We finally
reached some green landscaping. The main buddings were still I some distance
away.

"Keep going," Louise said when we reached
the Casa Grande, as it was called. She had me go around it to some steps. They
were few, but very wide. Looming above us, seeming bigger because it sat atop
the "enchanted hill," as Hearst called it, was Casa Grande. I looked
up at the top and had to crane my neck.

"Close your mouth," she said. "You'll
catch a fly."

It was true. I was standing with my mouth agape.

A housekeeper was descending the steps. Behind her
were servants. I had already seen and experienced many things in my sixteen
years, but not until Louise Wallis had I had a servant to do my bidding. I
unlocked the rear of the station wagon, intending to pull out our two bags. Mrs
Wallis was talking to the housekeeper but when she saw what I was doing she
gestured for me to stop "Leave those. They'll take care of it."

The housekeeper led us up the steps. I was looking
around in awe so I faded to notice Mrs Wallis's dissatisfaction until I heard
her mutter "shit." It was her favorite bad word, she once told me. |

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"We can't stay in the main house. Some of the
family in here."

I scanned the immense building; it seemed as large as
Notre Dame. "They need the
whole
house?"

Mrs Wallis laughed. "No . . . but we are here
because of Marion . . . and the Hearsts hate Marion Davies. Mr Hearst's wife is
still alive, you know."

"No, I didn't know. I didn't know he was
married."

Instead of leading us into Casa Grande, the
housekeeper took u« along an immense veranda or terrace around the house.
Flowers were everywhere, and amidst them was a lass of alabaster marble
crouched beside a goat. It was all like the fantasy set of a silent movie.
Ornate. Fluted columns topped with round white spheres - lights for the nights.

The housekeeper led us toward an intricately carved
door that may have graced a Venetian palace in the fifteenth century. She
opened it and ushered us in.

A guest house! Bullshit! It was a museum of some kind.
In time I would come to appreciate the art and artifacts collected Wound the
world that graced this room, but back then it all merely seemed old to me.
Wealth to me was glittery black and white art deco back then. Or maybe my
reaction was governed by the stuffy heat of the room. The sun slanted at a low
angle through a huge window overlooking the sea far below. The guest house had
no air conditioning. Indeed, that was what had miffed Mrs Wallis, for the big
house did have air conditioning. Her dark attitude was temporary. Within a few
minutes her humor was back. She appreciated all of life. She showed me around.
Her bedrooms were abundant, but there was no kitchen. "The kitchen's in
the big house. Come on, flop down on Cardinal Richelieu's bed."

"The
guy in
The Three Musketeers."

"I think so."

"I'm ready for a little nap in Richelieu's
bed."

"Go ahead. I've got some letters to write."

The bed had a huge dark headboard and was so high that
I had to stand on a chair to reach it. Mrs Wallis said that beds were so high
off the floor to keep away from the rats that ran across even palaces. The bed
was soft but lumpy. Being accustomed to jail bunks and concrete floors, I did
manage to sleep for an hour. The sun was orange and just beginning to dip into
the Pacific when I woke up. I was hungry.

Mrs Wallis was
reading a book when I came in. "Feel better?"

"I feel great. When do we eat?"

I've been thinking about that. I don't know which of
the family is in residence . . . and I really don't want to run into them in
the dining room. But I want to show it to you. If it was round, you'd expect
King Arthur and his knights to be there. Here's what we'll do. You take a swim
while I go to the kitchen and see what's up. Use the Neptune pool, the one
outdoors."

I She saw my hesitancy. "It's
okay," she said. "Nobody'll say anything and it's something you'll
never forget."

"I didn't bring any trunks."

"You've got an extra pair of Levi's, don't
you?"

"Uh huh."

"Use those."

"Where is it?"

"Right around the stairs. You can't miss
it."

Barefoot and shirtless and carrying a towel, I went
outside. It was magic hour, that time when dusk smooths all the world's
wrinkles and blemishes. Everything seemed hushed and there was a feeling of
enchantment. Gone was the weighted heat and the squinting glare. The softer
light brought forth the luster of the marble. An evening breeze was just
beginning; roses, red and yellow, danced in it. Jasmine was already making
perfume in the air. Ever since that day the scent of jasmine has called up my memory
of San | Simeon.

The
steps to the Neptune pool were two strides wide, so l descended slowly.
Fountains of intricate beauty fell in stages to
the
pool. Decades later, in Rome, I remembered the fountains of San Simeon when I
saw these of Bernini. All were marble, as was the pool itself.

I
stopped in unabashed awe. It was truly an enchanted moment in an enchanted
place. Across from the fountains were pillars holding up an arch with a statue
of Neptune. The hillside beyond fell away to the distant sea, into which the
giant orange-red
sun I
was
sliding. Its rays came through the pillars and bathed the world I in a golden
hue. It was so wondrous that I ached with inchoate longing as I looked at it. I
turned to face the Casa Grande above and behind me. The twin spires were
superimposed on faindy pink clouds moving slowly across the sky. The rich
reliefs and detailing blended into the towers.

A breeze moved the water, and the geometric designs at
the bottom shimmered slightly. I paused on the pool edge. Into memory came my
moment with William Randolph Hearst, old and gaunt, sick near death. If he had
done nothing else. this alone would last as far into the future as I could
imagine.

I plunged into the
water. The cold shock changed my thoughts, I swam hard to warm up, finally
floating on my back, which gave me a better view of the Casa Grande. What Mrs
Wallis had once told me was true: this had been Mount Olympus for the
twentieth-century version of gods and goddesses, the stars of the movie screen.
She told me that Chaplin loved this pool, and that Greta Garbo and John Gilbert
made love in it. George Bernard Shaw did a lap or two; Winston Churchill had
floated here.

Between Neptune's fluted pillars came orange twilight
glare. I swam through molten gold toward the sunset fire. I was certainly In a
world removed from the swarm. I remembered the Griffith Park public swimming
pool where the children of the city were packed like a school of tuna. I much
preferred this.

I heard Louise calling me, "Eddie! Eddie!"
She was coming down the wide steps to the pool side. I swam across and grabbed
the edge. Her face was somber. "Marion just called. Mr Hearst died an hour
after I talked to her. I think we'd better leave."

I hoisted myself from the water and we walked up to
the esplanade. "She said the family took his body away that quick."
Louise snapped her fingers to illustrate. "They hate Marion, and without
W.R., she doesn't have any authority here. Maybe they wouldn't say anything,
but maybe they would. I don't want to be embarrassed."

I could understand, but
it seemed weird, too. I thought she was too rich and powerful for such things.

Driving down the long,
winding road, I looked back. The canyons were deep purple and black, but atop
the enchanted lull. Casa Grande gleamed in the last rays of the sun. The spires
sparkled and flashed. The old man in the wheelchair had certainly left a great
monument. What would I leave? Was there purpose? Could I make a purpose?

When we reached the
highway, Louise said, "We were the last guests of the great lord and
lady."

We stopped in Big Sur for dinner and she called Hal,
who was on location in Missouri. He called the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco
for us and made reservations. When we arrived, they put us in the presidential
suite. It had two bedrooms. The next morning, every newspaper had William
Randolph Hearst's image on the front page. The last mogul of the Age of Moguls
had died.