The Cutting Room (12 page)

When I turned back, Erendira’s right hand was outstretched. I placed the helmet into it, and she put it back on.

No policeman had made an effort to stop us, and I soon learned why: All around, we heard faint cheers of “Fizz! Fizz!” Apparently, to all eyes—miraculously, without a camera—we had been filming a new commercial.

Erendira pulled off into a side street and came to a sudden stop.

“You better go,” she said. “I don’t want both of us being followed. If Jorge knows people at the Bar Bar, he knows them everywhere.”

“I’m at the Carabas Hotel,” I said.

Erendira nodded, taking in the information as fast as she could. Then, from her backpack, she pulled out a pile of typewritten pages, hugged by a rubber band. She handed them over to me.

“Here,” she said. “I had it translated. It’s my grandmother’s diary. It should explain most of it.”

Holding it, I hopped off the bike. Then, a second later, I watched her whirr away. A small black sedan was right behind her.

February 3, 1942

Today, I was dancing in the streets.

Who wasn’t? It was the first day of carnival. Many, many masked men and women, some on floats, others just on foot, went mad in the streets of Rio. It was my first carnival, now that I am away from Mommy and Daddy’s house and married to Bruno. Mommy and Daddy had never allowed me to go, of course. Bruno did not want me to go, either, but who is he? He is my husband, not my keeper! I left him, standing, yelling, in the doorway.

I kept covered up. I was not bold enough to parade around as shamelessly as some of the women did. Perhaps someday. But for now, it was enough to just dance and dance, and feel free in the streets. Being twenty-one is wonderful.

Many foreigners joined us in our crazy celebration. I think they were shocked at the kind of behavior we like in Brazil. One young American in particular kept smiling and nodding at me, his face so red, I thought he would burst. He was handsome, a little pudgy—and going wild!

Each neighborhood has its own carnival, of course, and each carnival has its own samba. Today, we danced in celebration of President Vargas (I will say no more about him—who knows who will read this?) and of Charlie Chaplin, the movie comic.

The young American followed me, and asked me to teach him the Chaplin dance. He was not well coordinated, but he was a very serious pupil. He told me I was “gorgeous.” To my shock, he took out one of those movie cameras and filmed me dancing!

“Are you with the secret police?” I asked him, flirting. I knew he wasn’t, but why would he be carrying such a thing, anyway? Even though I was confused, I couldn’t help but pose for him a little.

“I’m an American movie director!” he screamed, in very bad Portuguese, above the music. “I’m down here to help my country!”

How was he helping his country by filming me dance, and only below the neck, I should add? He screamed some explanation, but I lost it in the noise. I figured he was telling me a big story, but I was still intrigued.

People were spraying perfume bottles at everyone else. I don’t think they contained perfume, because it made us all feel so funny! Soon the American and I were dancing very close, the camera hanging limply from his hand.

“What is your name?” he asked me.

“Sonia,” I said. “What’s yours?”

At first, I thought he said, “Are Son,” but it turned out to be “Orson.” He said he was very famous, but I didn’t care.

“I think I love you!” he screamed, and his face got even redder and fatter.

The young American and I ended up in a doorway off to the side of the carnival. There I let him . . . but dear Diary, I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.

He asked where he could reach me. I told him I had no telephone—but I didn’t tell him that I was married. That soft American boy would be no match for Bruno.

He gave me
his
address, which was a very fancy hotel. Then he drove me there in his convertible car, with police on motorcycles in front of us, their sirens blaring. I was amazed. He must have
been
famous!

I know I am a wild girl, but I do not care. What a wonderful day!

February 10, 1942

Today, Orson started filming the carnival. Not the real carnival—a fake one! He’s built a whole street scene inside a studio and filled it up with people. There, along with many others, I danced the same samba and acted like I was having a great time.

I learned that, if I crawled up on an actor’s shoulder, I would stick out more in the shot. Orson told me I’d “make an actress yet!”

What with all the stopping and starting, this carnival felt even longer than the real one. But Orson didn’t seem to notice—he kept filming and filming and, after everyone was exhausted, he still wanted to samba!

Then, his face drenched with sweat, he made a speech. He told us, very seriously, that he had been sent to Brazil by the U.S. government and a movie company, to make a film to help relations between our two hemispheres, there was so much trouble in the world. He said he wanted so badly to be our “good neighbor.” Nobody listened to him, but everyone liked him, anyway!

Afterward, I went back with Orson to his suite, and we had another wonderful afternoon. He got a cable from America, but he crumpled it up, laughing that “RKO worries too much.”

I didn’t get home till late, and Bruno cursed at me about my new activities. He told me that actresses were whores, Americans were pigs, and something good about Hitler. He said I should go to church and ask for forgiveness. Then he slapped me. I just hope that the bruise does not show up on film.

March 1, 1942

Orson was very cranky today. He said it was because the U.S. government won’t let civilians fly overseas anymore since there’s a war and everything. So his friend from California, Robert Wise, can’t come with a copy of his new film for them to work on. He raged and raged, but it was nothing compared with Bruno—it was kind of funny to watch, really.

I told him that I thought he was working too hard, shooting so much film here and going out every night, and still working on that movie in the U.S. He yelled that if he wanted a wife, he would marry Dolores Del Rio! She’s the woman whose calls he keeps avoiding.

I calmed him down, in the usual way. Then I made him promise that he will write me into the next part of his film, the true story of the jangadeiros fishermen, who made a brave voyage. Maybe one of the fishermen needs a wife! I said.

He took a pill, and his mood improved, and then he had lots of energy again. He dragged me out dancing, and he stayed long after I left. The way he was samba-ing, I thought he would sweat the features right off his face.

Bruno had already left for work when I got home.

March 11, 1942

Another bad Orson day. We were shooting in the
favelas
(Mommy and Daddy would kill me if they knew), and the crowd turned on us, throwing rocks, bottles, and bricks at Orson’s big convertible. We had to put the top up.

I had warned him not to go, that the slums were dangerous, and they might not like Americans around. But Orson insisted. He even went through a voodoo ritual, though he had someone else bite off the chicken’s head. I think he has lost a bit of his mind here in Brazil.

Later, a big package came from the U.S. It was the film that Orson’s friend Robert Wise (a funny name I said, but he didn’t laugh) was not able to bring in person. Orson said, what good is it now, the preview is just six days away, there’s nothing he can do with it. And he complained like a little baby.

Then he told me he could not see me tonight, he had more work to do. I asked him if he was seeing other girls, but he told me he would do as he liked. I cried, and he slammed the door on me.

Because I was home early, Bruno tried to force himself on me. But luckily, he was so drunk, it was not to be. Then, lying next to me, he cried himself to sleep. I bet, wherever he was, Orson wasn’t shedding any tears tonight!

Note: Tell the big shot that he left his package in the cab when he put me in it.

March 17, 1942

Pomona! That was all Orson was going on about today.

It’s all the way back in California, I told him, put it from your mind. But still, he was going on, Pomona this, Pomona that!

So all right, I said, so the preview audience there didn’t like your new movie,
Magnificent
something-or-other.

Didn’t like?! he screamed. Didn’t like?! They laughed and hooted and booed! And he was helpless to do anything about it!

So, go home, I told him. Go home and fix it up.

“Don’t you see? I can’t!” he said. “I’m here to serve my country! Maybe you can’t appreciate a thing like that!”

Then he called me names that I didn’t understand, but which I knew were awful.

Before I walked out the door, Orson got a cable from someone named Joseph Cotten (another funny name), and he tore it up, screaming, “Judas! Judas!” Then he started throwing furniture out the window. I told him that Vargas’s police were probably watching him, and he should be careful. But he only responded by calling an ashtray “Joseph Cotten” and then hurling it into the street.

Giving up on him, I escaped, and had beers with the crew. Gary, a boy doing sound, told me that they all want to go home, but that Orson, “the patriot,” stays in Rio just so he won’t be drafted in the U.S. I asked him if he thought Orson was maybe seeing another girl, and all the boys laughed so much at me that I started to cry.

I told them I thought I hated moviemaking now. Gary walked me home and apologized, and I let him kiss me good night. But he was very nice, and didn’t try anything else, Diary.

April 8, 1942

Orson has stopped calling completely. That’s okay with me!!!

But Bruno brought me flowers tonight. Then he spoke very sweetly. He said he would stop drinking. He said I could keep on being an actress if I wanted. He told me I could do anything I liked.

I told him the truth: I didn’t think I wanted to be an actress anymore. Then we went to bed for the first time in a long time.

I think the damage has already been done, but I’ll leave that to your imagination, Diary.

May 10, 1942

I was very sick today.

Gary dropped by and told me a terrible story about Orson. (Gary’s very sweet, but I have to be a good girl now. Besides, I have broken out and gained so much weight that no one else besides Bruno would want me.) He said the company had just come back from starting the jangadeiros fishermen section. (I did not even know Orson had gone.) He said that, while they were shooting this true story about their perilous boat trip, Orson kept pushing and pushing, until one of the real fishermen drowned! Things here keep getting worse and worse for the big, famous American.

I didn’t say it to Gary, but I’ll say it to you, Diary. I wish Orson himself had drowned.

I have to go be sick.

June 8, 1942

Gary and the rest of the gang went back to America today. He dropped in to say goodbye, and Bruno was even polite to him. I’ll miss him, the little gentleman. Maybe not all Americans are such scum, after all.

Gary said that Orson wasn’t going back with them. He was staying to finish the fishermen (hasn’t he already done that, ha ha?) in the little town of Fortaleza. Orson wanted to go all by himself, and the crew gave him its crummiest camera. Gary said he looks haunted, very thin (!), bearded, and as dark as any Brazilian. Well, good luck to you, Orson!

Bruno doesn’t let me do any of the work around the house anymore. He says I need my rest, if I’m going to be a mother.

July 29, 1942

I heard that Orson finally went home today. I also heard that he was fired—or whatever they call it—by RKO. I guess they decided he had “served his country” long enough. It’s foolish to have hoped he would call me before he left. I guess he had lots of other girls to call. I wonder if he’s left something behind with them, too.

It’s not just the baby. I still have that package, the film he said he was so concerned about. I guess he gave up on it,
The Magnificent Ambersons,
because he never even asked me about it.

Bruno will never know the truth about any of this, and neither will Mommy and Daddy. Only you, dear Diary, will keep my secrets.

I never want to see another movie as long as I live. Carnival seems like a hundred years ago.

“You’re Orson Welles’s granddaughter,” I said.

Erendira only nodded. It was two o’clock in the morning, and she was standing, hugging herself nervously, in my hotel suite. She had not removed her sweater, nor, indeed, its hood from her head. Then, suddenly, as if weakened, she sank into a chair.

Her distant past now paled in importance to her recent one. She slipped off her hood, and I saw that her face was streaked with blood.

“Jesus Christ,” I said.

Wearing just my complimentary hotel bathrobe, I broke some ice from my mini-fridge. I wrapped it in a damp towel. Then I placed it against her cheek, washing away dirt and flecks of paint and plaster, and she winced, before thanking me.

Shaking my head, I could think of no worse curse than, “That soccer-playing bastard.”

“Don’t blame Jorge,” she said. “Like a dumb animal, he doesn’t know any better.”

“Well, he will soon,” I said.

Erendira only smiled a little, painfully. “He might be here any minute. And he won’t be alone.”

“Of course not. Cowards never are.”

The thought of confronting Jorge—this time, without the buffer of his charm or fine-fellow feeling—unnerved me. If he knew that I was harboring his disobedient mistress, the goal of tonight’s game might be my murder. Still, “I’m not afraid of him,” I lied. “Stay here.”

Erendira did not need much coaxing. She had only to be led to the bed before she had slipped beneath its covers and into sleep. Before she passed out, she saw the pages of her grandmother’s diary stacked on my nighttable. She opened her mouth to comment, but she never made a sound.

“Here,” I said. “Eat this.”

Not trusting room service to keep a secret, in the morning I went out and bought Erendira breakfast of a bun and coffee. Still wearing last night’s dress, her black hair flowing onto her pillow, she smiled, causing creases in her cut face.