Living With Miss G (32 page)

The guffaws were loud. “Your decision, Rene. We will accept it.”
Again I took a deep breath. “Well, Mister Huston, Miss G says she’s cold.
She wants to go home. I’m cold. I want to go home.”
“Right,” said Huston. He looked at his gang. “Hear that fellas? We are
through for the day.”
And we were. I went back and said, “Miss G, don’t ever send me on a trip
like that again. It was terrifying.” I told her what had happened. She laughed all
the way home.
She was not laughing three or four nights later.
Over the years Miss G and I had perfected our party-starting equipment.
Why go out hunting for a party when you can carry all the makings with you?
Our portable record player, with about eighty records and our drinks, constituted
our party-starting equipment.
Miss G had gone out to dinner with George C. Scott, and a few of the crew
and cast had congregated in our suite to do a little partying. It was getting close
to midnight. That was our deadline because we all had to get up and go to work
the next morning. Most people had drifted away. Twinkletoes O’Toole and I and
a couple of others were still on our feet, but about ready to give up. I was
certainly ready. Usually Miss G arrived back after dining with Scott much
earlier than this, and I was worried.
I had reason to worry. The door opened, and there was Miss G. She had a
black eye, and her face was puffy. She was in a terrible state. She had been
beaten up.
“Good God!,” exclaimed Peter O’Toole. “What’s happened?”
Miss G did not intend to tell anyone. O’Toole was caring, but he soon
knew it was better if I took over.
While I was bathing Miss G’s eye and trying to calm her down, she
explained what had occurred. Their dinner at a small restaurant in town had been
reasonably successful. They arrived back at the hotel, and Scott had suggested a
nightcap.
Then he really began to drink. He started shouting. He started hitting. Next
morning our makeup man, DeRossi, almost went mad. “Your face!” he yelled.
“Who did this to you?”
Later, John Huston took me to one side and said, “It’s up to Ava. She could
pull away if she wants to. You protect yourself, Rene. It’s up to Ava.”
We all let it slide.
I understood Huston’s dilemma. He had to distance himself from events.
He had wanted someone titanic to play Abraham. He had wanted someone
imbued with the rage of angels. He had wanted someone with a heart of steel
and an almost demonic compulsion to found a nation. He got him in George C.
Scott.
Huston even admitted, “When George has downed a few vodkas, he is an
even greater actor.” Huston always thought that the scene in which Abraham
faced God, imploring him and bargaining with him in order to try and save the
city of Sodom and its people from destruction, was perhaps the most powerful
scene in the whole movie. The anger of Abraham and of George C. Scott never
abated.
A few nights later Miss G and I came down to dinner in the hotel
restaurant a little later than usual. We chose a table for two and sat down. Across
from us was Scott at a table with Huston, and Scott was boozed out of his mind.
He saw us, and his entire attitude changed. He kicked a chair out of the way,
stood up so violently that his own table fell over, and then he strode across to us.
John Huston was no slouch when it came to action. He leapt up on George
C. Scott’s back, winding his legs around his waist and clamping both his arms
around his head. Scott couldn’t see. He wrenched around like a blind man. Other
guys rushed to help.
Huston yelled, “Rene, get Ava out of here! Now! Get her out!”
I got her out, but there was more to come. There was a time when Abraham
stripped off all his Biblical robes and stormed off the set in his underclothes.
Then there was the time Miss G said to me, “John Huston’s asked you to
do him a big favor.”
“What’s that?,” I asked innocently.
“George has been smashing his way around town. He’s in prison.”
“Figures,” I said.
“John wants us to go downtown and get him out. George is Abraham.
Abraham is the Bible. No Abraham, no movie!”
We drove down to the prison. I took one look at it and screeched, “Miss G,
that ain’t no prison! There are no bars at the windows. It’s a loony bin!”
“Gotta go and try,” said Miss G.
She entered and then came out a little white-faced. “You’re right, Rene,”
she said. “It’s not a prison—just a sort of holding place for visitors who go nuts.
George will be back on the set this afternoon.”
Then came the incident that might have created a lot of trouble for the film,
since Miss G’s presence in the film was as necessary as Abraham’s. Miss G had
been with Scott when she slipped on a rug, fell heavily and broke her shoulder. I
didn’t believe a word of it, but she stuck to her story. She was in a great deal of
pain. Only Huston, DeRossie, the makeup man, the doctor who was called, and I
knew about it.
She walked around for four weeks in a football cast that the doctor had
plastered around her shoulder. She was in pain all the time. With her covered up
in biblical robes, you would never have guessed she was encased in plaster. No
one could ever accuse Miss G of not being a real trooper when working on a
film.
We asked around to find a harness to replace the plaster cast. Someone
knew a doctor in Madrid who had treated a great number of injured football
players for broken shoulders. Huston changed his shooting schedule, and Miss G
and I snuck off to Madrid. The doctor cut the cast off and bandaged her like a
mummy. She was bandaged like that until the end of filming.
For me the finale of our troubles climaxed when we were back in Rome.
Frank Sinatra had been making a film in Italy which coincided with
The Bible
.
He had been busy, and we had been busy. He had certainly heard about our
troubles. Being Frank, he had rented a beautiful villa outside Rome and flew by
helicopter back and forth to his various locations. He always called Ava
“Angel,” and one day he rang us at the Grand and said, “Angel, why don’t you
and Rene come and stay out here at this villa? My gang’s here, but there’s plenty
of room. I’m leaving in a few days, but you could stay on until your movie is
finished.”
We dodged his offer for two reasons. First, we knew that Barbara Marx,
widow of Zeppo Marx, one of the famous Marx Brothers comedy team, was one
of Frank’s assistants and was with his party. Miss G had introduced the two at a
tennis tournament years before, and now she sensed they had developed a
relationship. Secondly, as Miss G wisely remarked, “If George C. Scott finds out
we are staying with Frank, he will really go off his head.” He had done that
several times already.
When Sinatra left Italy he rang us again, repeating the invitation, “Angel,
come and stay here. There’s a big pool, and it’s all paid for and there’s a car.”
This time we accepted with alacrity, telling only John Huston where we
were. It was great! A glorious pool, beautiful rooms, terraces and endless drinks.
We settled down to enjoy the splendor, racing in by car when we were needed
on the set.
One night we had sat up pretty late drinking and chatting by the pool. Miss
G decided to go to bed, and I said that I’d finish my drink, clean up and lock up.
Rags stayed with me to keep me company.
It must have been around midnight when the iron gate leading into the pool
area suddenly clanged open. I turned my head, and, oh my God! George C. Scott
was bashing through, drunk out of his mind. He was a raving maniac as far as I
could see. He saw me and strode forward shouting, “Where is she? Where is
she?”
I didn’t stop to answer or argue. I fled. The only escape route was around
the pool, and I took it. In an absolute panic of terror my mind said, “If this man
catches me, he will kill me!”
Then a lunatic fringe entered the situation. Rags thought this was a game, a
happy chase around the pool. He was at my heels barking and having fun. I was
now running fast and George C. Scott was chasing me. How many circuits of the
pool I made, I’ll never know. Probably two or three. The circumference of the
pool was my only defense.
Then I suddenly remembered the small storeroom just off the pool that the
caretaker, who lived on the premises, had shown me. He kept all the tinned
goods there. I turned the corner, ducked inside and closed the door. Rags missed
this action and raced on, barking as if the game was still on.
By then Miss G had heard the commotion and foolishly came out onto her
terrace, which was one story up and overlooking the pool. I heard her say,
“George?” and of course he raced around and up the steps to get at her. They
went inside.
I thought, “Oh God, what now?” They were quiet for a while.
Then he started smashing up both Miss G and the room. The fact that he
thought the place was Sinatra’s helped his enthusiasm. I knew the procedure by
now. He started hitting and punching his victim, and she wouldn’t resist. If he
knocked her down, she’d stay down and pretend she was unconscious.
To resist him was to risk getting more of a beating. God knows why she
stood it. But Scott had made one mistake. He had wakened the caretaker, and the
caretaker woke the two big guys Sinatra had left for just such a situation. They
were quick to come to Miss G’s rescue. Scott was escorted off the premises and
taken back to where he’d come from.
Next morning Miss G was sore and confused. As there were only a few
days of our film schedule left, we decided to return to the Grand Hotel. We
heard that Scott had created so much disturbance in the hotel that the
management insisted that he pack up and leave. He found accommodation in a
third rate hotel about a mile from the Grand. I remember the entire incident
vividly.
After various troubled phone calls between Scott and Miss G, she decided
to move over to his hotel and join him. I couldn’t believe it. I was Miss G’s
maid. Rags and I were her companions and protectors. Was it our duty to move
over with her? It was, and we did.
Miss G couldn’t really explain her reasons. She knew it was crazy, but she
was driven by an awful compulsion. These days the truth about abused women
and wife batterers is out in the open and better understood. Miss G was behaving
in a well-known pattern of abused women. Scott’s sequence of abuse was
dangerous. It would start with a drunken rage, a quarrel, the beating, and then
there would be remorse the next morning. And of course, there was a declaration
of undying love and the blackmail of what he would do if she left him. Women
believe this sort of junk.
Often it is because they believe that they have nowhere else to go, no one
else to turn to, have no money or decide the devil they know is better than the
future alone. So they stay. Often they are killed because of that mistake.
One aspect was different about George C. Scott’s rages, and that was his
insistence that Miss G marry him. The fact that he was already married to
actress Colleen Dewhurst didn’t seem to matter. As Miss G remarked, “When
I’m flat on my back and he’s hitting me in the face shouting, ‘You are going to
marry me! You are going to marry me!’ it’s not the sort of marriage proposal a
girl enjoys.”
I tried to stay in the crummy hotel. I just couldn’t. I was simply too scared.
For two nights I had listened to Scott being awful to Miss G, and that was it. The
third morning, I spoke up, “Miss G, listen. I’m taking your clothes, the baggage,
and Rags back to the Grand. I’m afraid of this man, and I’m not going to take
any more chances. You can stay here or you can come with me.”
Miss G’s hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second. She said, “I’m
coming with you.”
We went back to the Grand. Miss G arranged for a friend to fly to Rome to
pick up Rags and take him on to New York, which would be our eventual
destination. The film was wrapped up. We had our small farewell parties with
John Huston and Peter O’Toole and the rest of our friends and took a flight to
London. We did not see George C. Scott. As the plane lifted off from Rome
airport, I thought, “Thank God that is the last we will see of him!”
I should have known better. I should have known that Miss G, at root, was
deeply, basically and unalterably female. She had given her mind, her heart and
her body to this man. She could not forsake him. God help us, she could not
forsake him.

The taxi took us into the center of London, and the talkative cabbie filled
us in with all the news: weather, sports, possibilities of war, great theatrical
productions, and an update on the royal family. We cruised down the Strand and
turned into the Savoy Hotel courtyard. It was raining.

As we marched in Miss G said, “Thank God we’re back. I’m beginning to
think that I could live here.”
“It’s raining,” I said.
“Good,” said Miss G. “I like rain.”
I had known for some time that Miss G was thinking of quitting Spain and
moving to London. First, she could speak the language. Second, the Londoners
left her alone. If they recognized her on the street or in a restaurant they might
smile and nudge a companion, but very few would come up asking for an
autograph or ask her how Frank Sinatra was getting on. Her privacy meant a lot.
We also loved the Savoy, with a room on the river and a sweeping view of
the Thames outside the bustle and noise of theatre land. There were restaurants
up every side street, theatres and cinemas in every direction, cheerful cabbies,
understanding bobbies, a lower climate of violence, and pubs in which people
would argue cheerfully and sociably.
We were back in a civilized world! We went shopping at Harrods, Peter
Jones, and all the little shops we knew about from our frequent visits to London.
We lunched and dined in our favorite restaurants. We had one lunch at Rules,
that old and well-loved restaurant off the Strand. We sat at a corner table
upstairs, where on the wall above our heads a picture of the bearded King
Edward VII stared with a saucy eye at an opposite picture of one of his most
favorite British subjects—the gorgeous actress Lily Langtry. Little did we know
that in the future Miss G would play Langtry in another John Huston movie,
The
Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean.
We visited various friends, among them writer Robert Ruark and his wife
Jenny. When Miss G was in Spain making
Pandora and the Flying Dutchman,
Bob and Jenny lived in Tossa de Mar on the Costa Brava where the film was
shot. They became very good friends.
Before Bob started his career as a best-selling novelist he had worked for
the Hearst group of newspapers. Bob said they operated two lists—the Angel
List and the Poop List. Bing Crosby and General Eisenhower and other favorites
were on the first list. Frank Sinatra and some others were on the second list, and
nothing commendable about them was ever printed.
Four days after we arrived in London, the phone rang and Miss G
answered. Her face changed, and she said doubtfully, “Well…” and went on
listening. Finally, she said, “Well…okay…about six.” She replaced the receiver.
I asked, “George C. Scott?” and then thought it just could not be. It just
cannot start all over again.
“He’s sober,” Miss G said. “He hasn’t had a drink for days. He wants to
apologize and make up for all the trouble. He has tickets for
Othello
. I’ve said
I’ll go.”
“He’s staying here, in this hotel?” I asked.
“It’s all right, Rene,” Miss G said. “This is London. This is the Savoy. He
will behave. He’s promised. I’ve got to give him a chance.”
Miss G had a suite with a lounge and a bedroom. I had a room directly
across the corridor from her. I went back to my room. I had no desire to see
George C. Scott. I thought, of all plays,
Othello
! That dramatic wife-killer! The
actor would soon be speaking those infamous lines: “Get me some poison Iago,
this night. I’ll not expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty un-provide my
mind again: this night, Iago.” And that rat Iago would reply, “Do it not with
poison; strangle her in her bed. Even the bed she hath contaminated.”
Othello would respond, “Good, good, the justice of it pleases, very good.”
Yeah, real good! Strong stuff to mix with a quart of vodka. I waited up. I
couldn’t bother with dinner. I thought, “Miss G, what is the matter with you?
Are you out of your mind?”
I heard them come in. No doubt Miss G had been drinking also, to ease the
pain. Then the noise, his shouts and the banging started. I thought, my God, the
hotel must hear this. It went on for maybe half an hour. Then there was silence. I
guessed he had run out of vodka or gone to the bathroom. I had to take a chance.
I left my door open, ran across the corridor and turned the knob quietly. No
sound. I peered in. Miss G was standing by a table. Scott was in the bathroom.
“Miss G…Miss G,” I whispered. “Quick. Quick.”
She turned, saw me and ran. We closed the door behind us, shot across to
my room and locked the door. Miss G was shaking. She sat down on the bed.
I asked, “Has he finished the bottle?”
She nodded. “Yes. What shall we do?”
“He’ll be furious when he sees you have gone,” I answered. “Then he will
go foraging for another bottle. That will take him twenty minutes. As soon as he
has left, I’m going to ring down to the desk and ask them to move us to another
suite.”
I was right. He was furious. We heard him muttering as he opened her
bedroom door and slammed it behind him. We heard his heavy tread moving
toward the elevator. I was on the phone before he had even pressed the button.
The desk was very helpful. I was passed on to a senior guy. I think they scented
trouble. Good hotels have noses for trouble.
“You would like to move to another suite, Madame? Yes, Madame. At
once, Madame. If Mister Scott asks any questions, we shall not answer them.”
The Savoy was magnificent. Within five minutes they had moved us to
another floor, bag and baggage, meaning the load of suitcases that Fontana had
specially made for Miss G. Ten minutes later we were relaxed. That night we
enjoyed a good night’s sleep. Next morning we discussed what we should do.
I advised, “We should ring TWA now and make reservations on the first
plane that’s leaving for New York.”
Miss G said, “Rene, I can’t do that. I have appointments.”
“Cancel them!” I urged.
“I can’t, Rene. George will never find us here. We’ll slip in and out like
ghosts.”
Miss G kept her appointments, and by late afternoon we were back in our
suite. About half an hour later the door burst open. It was always terrifying.
Scott never turned a door handle; he just hit the door with his full weight and, if
that didn’t do it, smashed it in with his foot.
Our second suite had a bedroom, lounge and bathroom with a transom
window that opened onto the corridor. How useful that window would later
prove to be. Scott advanced, sneering, “Ah, Rene…ah, Rene’s here!”
Rene wasn’t there for another second. I dodged through the door and
crossed to my bedroom with the speed of light. I sat on the bed wondering what
to do and found myself trembling. I never figured out how he found us. Maybe
he bribed a servant, but I always had a notion that Miss G might have told him. I
simply could not work out her tolerance for that man.
I listened to the usual shouting and arguing. A couple of hours passed, and
the row was still going on. Then I heard him leave and knew he had finished one
bottle of vodka and had gone to get another. He had sort of “rest periods”
between bottles.
As soon as he had gone I dashed to Miss G. She was dazed—almost a
willing victim, I thought. I went to the bathroom and got a wet a towel and held
it to her head.
“Miss G, we have got to get out of here!,” I said. “He’s dangerous. We
have got to run!”
By now I had spent five or six minutes trying to get Miss G together, and I
figured I had about twenty minutes before Scott returned. Scott, as I realized
later, had only slipped out to his room to pick up a second bottle of vodka. Now
he was at the door with the new bottle in his hand and an unpleasant look on his
face.
“Rene interfering again….uh?,” he snarled. He advanced, placed the full
bottle on the table, and took the empty bottle and smashed it against the side of
the table. It shattered, leaving jagged edges. I have had some frightening
moments in my life, but that was certainly the worst. It may have been only a
melodramatic trick, but I wasn’t waiting to find out.
I was thin and agile, and George C. Scott was slow and heavy. I was
around that table and out through the door like lightening. I heard the door slam
behind me and the key turn in the lock. Now, I really didn’t know what to do.
This was the Savoy Hotel in London, England. How could a small, unimportant
black girl rush screaming down the corridor yelling, “George C. Scott is
murdering Ava Gardner with a broken bottle!”
I stood out in the corridor, brain dead. Then I saw the transom window of
the bathroom. If I could get through that, I might be able to do something. But
what? I’d be trapped. I wasn’t built to be James Bond. How was I going to get
through that damned slit anyway?
A young man in a uniform was passing by. He looked like a bellboy. I
grabbed his arm. “I’ve got to get through there,” I said as I pointed up. “Have
you got a box or stool I can stand on?”
He might have said, “What the hell do you want to do that for?” Not in the
Savoy. “Certainly, Madame,” he said politely. “There’s a broom cupboard just
along here. Let me see what we can find.” He reappeared with a fairly stout box.
It could have been an orange crate for all I knew. I didn’t ask for a leg up, and so
he passed along the corridor and out of my life. I guess the guests at the Savoy
were always asking for orange crates to use to climb through transom windows.
It wasn’t too hard for me to leverage myself up, balance on my stomach
and swing my legs through. I wiggled down to stand on the edge of the bathtub.
No sounds came from the bedroom. I held my breath and opened the bathroom
door a crack. If I made a mistake now, I was in real trouble. Luck was with me. I
glimpsed Scott’s back. He was looking out the window at the River Thames. He
held a glass of vodka in his hand. Miss G was turned towards me. She looked
mystified as a brown arm appeared out from the bathroom door with a small
brown finger beckoning.
Miss G was a bright woman. I heard her say, “I’m going to the bathroom.”
She was beside me in a second. We locked the door. I pointed up at the
transom. Miss G was quick and agile as a gazelle. I flushed the toilet to give
credibility to her exit and to cover any noise. She dropped down into the
corridor and I joined her there. No words were spoken. We joined hands and
fled towards the sign that read EXIT. We went down those stairs at record
speed, pushed open a fire door, and we were out in London’s lovely evening air.
A left turn, left again, and we were among the scurrying pedestrians. Big
red buses were passing, shoppers with noses against brightly lit windows, taxis
discharging passengers. Freedom never looked so sweet!
To my surprise, I was still holding my purse. All those acrobatics with a
purse in one hand! A woman’s life and heart lie in her handbag!
We walked down the Strand toward Trafalgar Square and turned into a
crowded pub for a drink. I pushed through to the bar to get double scotches.
Miss G sipped hers, and I said, “No hurry. It will take him twenty minutes to
kick the bathroom door down.”
Miss G said, “Let’s go to Susie’s. She will put us up.” Susie was a friend
of Miss G’s, a nice American girl. We got a taxi and went there. She was
pleased to see us. We drank a lot that night, just to get over the shock.
Next morning, hung over, I rang the hotel and said, “This is Miss Jordan,
Miss Ava Gardner’s maid. There was a bit of a rumpus last night. Could you tell
me if it’s safe to come and get our luggage?”
In that sweet Savoy fashion the man at the desk said, “Quite safe, Madame.
The gentleman in question was arrested last night. He is now at the Bow Street
police station. I understand he will be brought up this morning or afternoon on a
charge of being drunk and disorderly.”
I thought, “Jesus! Disorderly?” In England for a drunk and disorderly
charge you can usually get away with a five pound fine. We had to get out of
London fast!
We rang TWA and made reservations to leave that afternoon for New
York. When we paid the bill at the Savoy, we had one last, sad surprise. The
manager said gently, “I’m afraid, Miss Gardner, that it will no longer be possible
for us to accept reservations from you in the future. The recent occurrences have
put the lives of too many of our clients in danger.”
Back in the New York Regency hotel we felt safe. That was a mistake. The
sad saga of George C. Scott’s infatuation continued endlessly.
A week later our hotel room door was kicked open. Scott had arrived.
Once again the same old round-about of recantations, apologies, outrages,
screaming rows, and beatings started. Never a sound emerged from Miss G.
Then impending disaster came. He had talked her into going up to his house in
Connecticut. I protested loudly.
“Miss G, you are mad! He will never leave you alone! He might kill you!”
“Rene, he has promised not to drink,” she replied. “He is fine if he doesn’t
drink. We will get along. I’ll just go with him. Everything will be all right.”
I knew I was beaten. I pleaded, “Miss G, if you are in real trouble, just ring
me. Say anything; anything at all and I’ll understand. Just please, please ring
me.”
I sat by the phone like a bomb disposal officer waiting for it to go off. It
did the next afternoon. I knew by her voice that it was bad. “Rene,” she said,
“could you give me that recipe for fried chicken with dumplings?”
Jesus! Fried chicken with dumplings? I made some silly reply and put
down the receiver. Miss G and her sister Bappie had been raised on Southern
fried chicken—not with dumplings! She was in deep trouble!
I had one hope to fall back on. I had read in the newspaper that Frank
Sinatra was in New York staying in his suite in the Waldorf Astoria. I got
through to him.
“Mister Sinatra,” I said, “I think Miss G is in bad trouble, and I don’t know
what to do.” I told him all about it. I didn’t have Miss G’s phone number or
address in Connecticut. Frank just said quietly, “Don’t worry, Rene. I’ll take
care of it.”
Later that evening Miss G was back in the Regency Hotel. She didn’t want
to talk about what had happened. I guess two big guys knocked on the front door
and told Mr. Scott to say goodbye to Miss G.
We left New York and took refuge at the Main Chance health spa in
Arizona. Miss G needed to rest, dry out and regain her health. She had the
Mamie Eisenhower suite, as usual, and Rags and I holed up at our usual motel. It
was the only one in the vicinity. I rented a car.