Pink Triangle: The Feuds and Private Lives of Tennessee Williams, Gore Vidal, Truman Capote, and Famous Members of Their Entourages (Blood Moon's Babylon Series) (114 page)

“I’ve always had this fantasy about going to bed with Honest Abe,” she said. “I know it’s crazy, but that’s how I feel. Since he’s cold and in his grave, I’ll settle for someone who reminds me of him. Call it second best, since I can’t have the real thing. He’s coming to the party tonight, if he’s not already here.”

“You have stumped me on that one,” he said. “Who might this august personage be?”

“My next husband,” she said. “Arthur Miller.”

—Truman Capote

Truman escorted a nervous Marilyn Monroe along West 57th Street, not her favorite part of Manhattan. He’d instructed her to dress, act, and talk like Grace Kelly. He also told her not to be too apprehensive. “Garbo will be intoxicated by your innocence. I mean, your innocent look, and Katie will adore you because you have no skin blemishes.”

Arriving at the apartment door of Constance Collier, the “secretary” to the actress and drama coach, Phyllis Wilbourne, showed them in to the dark, dank apartment where the furnishings had been young in 1901.

Although she had scheduled and defined the event as a luncheon date, Collier was attired in a mauve-laced evening gown. Looking like a character from an Oscar Wilde play, Collier sat on a battered sofa upholstered in fading red velvet. She extended a frail hand to Marilyn, as Truman made the introductions.

“My dear,” Collier said, “I’m nearly blind, but the luminosity of your face and golden hair illuminates this old room.”

“I’m honored to meet you,” your Highness,” Marilyn said, curtsying.

“Oh, Marilyn, Constance is not the Queen of England,” Truman said.

“That is true, Truman,” Constance said, “but I should have been. I’m regal enough.”

As they settled in and Constance was smoking her second cigarette, Truman explained that Marilyn wanted to take acting lessons from her. “In essence, she wants to reinvent herself as an actress.”

“I want to so much,” Marilyn said. “All the men, all the glamour, all the jewelry and gowns are not important. After all, I’m not using Elizabeth Taylor as my role model.”

Collier complained that she was losing feeling in both her hands and feet. Then she said, “I suppose I could teach you something about acting. At any rate, I need the money to supplement my meager income. My little darling, I could start you out by teaching you how to interpret the role of Ophelia. Once you master that, you can succeed in any part. The one thing I can’t teach you is how to play sexy.”

“I already know how to do that,” Marilyn said.

“I’m sure you do,” Collier said.

“You’re so elegant,” Marilyn said. “I wish I knew how to be elegant.”

“Darling, I’ve had decades to become who I am. Of course, I inherited exotic features.”

Then, like all actresses on their last legs, she wanted to relive past glories. “I inherited some of my features from my Portuguese grandmother. Believe it or not, I was considered one of the great beauties of the early 20th century stage.”

“Queen Victoria must have adored you,” Truman said.

“Truman, you’re such a nasty little demon,” Collier responded, “but I always like to have you around to sharpen my sense of bitchery.”

She spoke in a fading voice that still retained a husky, contralto quality. “My mother was an actress. She wrapped me in a blanket and left me backstage, nursing me between acts. At the age of three, I toddled out onto the stage, cast as Fairy Peaseblossom in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.”

As Collier wandered down memory lane, Marilyn evaluated the room, its walls covered with decaying, saffron-colored wallpaper highlighted with antique racing horse prints. On the sofa with Collier lay a little black fox terrier, which Collier stroked with one hand, holding a golden cigarette holder in the other hand. Marilyn also spotted the largest brandy inhaler glasses she’d ever seen.

With her weak eyesight, Collier followed Marilyn’s gaze, quickly adding, “Those glasses haven’t been used in years. I’m diabetic.”

A large portrait hung on the wall. Marilyn asked, “Was he your husband?”

“Constance is not the marrying kind,” Truman quipped.

“Truman, sometimes you smart-ass bitches think you know it all, but get it wrong. Marilyn is right. I was once married to an Irish actor, Julian L’Estrange. It was a perfect arrangement. He traveled most of the time with a young pianist, Albert Morris Bagby, who took care of my wifely duties. Julian was a homosexual and beautiful husband and a marvelous companion if I ever needed to be escorted to a gala. He died in this apartment, in Albert’s arms, in 1918, while I sat in the corner having a brandy and smoking a cigarette.”

Fortunately, the ringing of the doorbell broke Collier’s reminiscences.

With a forceful, confident stride, Katharine Hepburn came into the room wearing rose-colored slacks and a battleship gray jacket. She’d applied only a slash of lipstick, no other makeup, and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. “This divine creature must be Marilyn Monroe, America’s reincarnation of Helen of Troy.”

“Miss Hepburn, I’m honored. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve gone to see your movies. You were great as Mary of Scot land.”

“Oh, you sweet girl, never tell an aging actress you enjoyed her movies when you were but a toddler. It will only add another line to my face.”

“Your face will be eternal,” Truman assured her. “You’re one of the very few actresses from the Golden Age who will be appearing on the screen when you’re ninety.”

“Oh, Capote, you always say such flattering bullshit to old actresses. Later on, you tell your friends what you really think of all of us battle axes.”

Seated on the sofa with Marilyn and Collier, Hepburn learned that Marilyn was going to study acting with the aging duenna. “What a fabulous idea. Constance taught me every stage secret I know.”

“And a lot more,” Truman said with a smirk.

“Marilyn, why didn’t you lobby to get me that Jane Russell role in
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
?” Hepburn asked. “I would have been terrific.”

Marilyn seemed taken aback. “I don’t know…I’m sure…”

Truman came to the rescue. “There is a role you could play, Katharine. I’ve read an early draft. It’s from Tennessee Williams’
The Garden District
. You’d be ideal as Violet Venable, a cold bitch and tyrannical mother. Marilyn could play the beautiful twenty-five-year-old who ran away with your poet son, Sebastian, to write his annual poem. In the plot of the play, you’re trying to get a young doctor to lobotomise the girl and erase the unpleasant memory of how your son was killed.”

“Tennessee himself has told me about this play,” Hepburn said. “I’d be cast as a faded beauty who is now an old harpy. When I was younger and more beautiful, I was used as bait to attract the young men my son sexually desired. It’s a play about perversion. From what Tennessee told me, it includes both incest and cannibalism.”

“Oh, Miss Hepburn, you’re too much of a lady to undertake such a role,” Marilyn said.

“I wish you could convince Capote and Tennessee of that. The last I heard from him—he’s down in Key West—he told me he’s working on another Broadway play. He wants it to co-star both Bette Davis and me.”

“I’ve worked with Bette,” Marilyn said. “You know, on
All About Eve
. She’s not the actress you are—and not nice at all.”

“Truer words were never said,” Hepburn said.

“Oh Kate,” Truman said. “You survived Hollywood in the 1930s, going from John Barrymore to Marlene Dietrich to Howard Hughes. You’ve seen it all. If there’s something you missed, I’m sure Spencer Tracy will fill you in.”

“Truman, dear heart, you remind me of a naughty little chihuahua who has never been house broken.”

Hepburn turned to Marilyn again. “Constance is a wise choice as a drama coach—the very best, in fact. She has a real zest for all that is good and wonderful in life. You will blossom under her, find dimensions in yourself as an actress you never knew existed. I should know. She did wonders for me.”

The ringing of the doorbell signaled the arrival of the remaining guest, mystery and all.

Greta Garbo entered the room, an Hermès scarf covering most of her head and dark sunglasses concealing a good part of a fabled face that had not been seen on a movie screen since 1941.

Throughout the luncheon, Hepburn ate heartily as Garbo nibbled. She rarely took her eyes off Marilyn and seemed enchanted by her. Marilyn also seemed transfixed by Garbo, even more so than by Hepburn.

Collier retreated a bit, giving way to her age and a consumption of far too much alcohol.

Tanked up on pre-luncheon vodka and wine that had been set out on the table, Truman became even more provocative. “Katie, I’ve often wondered about something: Other than Bette Davis, female impersonators such as T.C. Jones like to imitate you. But I’ve never seen one of these drag queens do Greta.”

Collier suddenly seemed to revive. “Let me answer that. I know why. Among all the great film stars, Garbo cannot be impersonated. Her appearance and femininity are unique. She has the cold quality of an Arctic mermaid. She really is hermaphroditic on screen.”

Truman remained silent, but wanting to tell Collier that she’d stolen that impression from a magazine interview with Tennessee.

Garbo didn’t seem insulted to be hermaphroditic, and actually seemed proud of it. Hepburn seemed to suddenly become even more articulate. “Greta is to be congratulated for representing the aspiration of both sexes, uniting the two sides of her nature, the feminine and masculine, in every role she’s ever played. Her freedom from being trapped in either gender allows her to create a cryptic amorality in each part she plays.”

“I allow a film-goer to create his or her own fantasy,” Garbo said. “I do not let them look inside me—only inside their own dark desires.”

“The miracle is that such a face as Greta’s can even exist,” Hepburn said before turning to face the star. “I know at times you must feel regret, even view it as tragic, that you were given the responsibility of owning such a face. Your look represents the apogee of the progression of the human female face.”