Rita Moreno: A Memoir (32 page)

“Mrs. Gordon? Mrs. Gordon, your husband has stopped breathing,” she said, uttering the words without any affect whatsoever.

I jumped up from my blowup mattress and stood at the foot of Lenny’s bed. I just stared in disbelief at my still, nonbreathing Lenny. He looked so frail, almost tiny, this man who had loved too much. Can a man love too much?

I sat down on the edge of his bed and kissed and caressed his elegant head over and over. I ran my hands through his silvery silken hair and cut off a lock of it to put in a tiny silk pouch.

Then I went for my overnight bag and stood at the door for one last look. I saw a long montage of two lives wound around each other like a caduceus. Did Lenny take parts of me with him? I wondered whether he took the little girl, Rosita, still clinging, with him. How does that work, such an enormous, rich, complicated life emanating from this slender figure?

No tears at this moment. I was cried out. It was more like an aching dry grief. I went to the door and took one last look. Can a man love too much? I’ll never know.

I went outside into the stifling Manhattan night and hailed a cab.

THE ATTIC

A
self-portrait is painted from a reflection on a mirror. But for much of my life, the mirror offered only a flat image without the necessary angles, shadows, and bending of light needed to produce a three-dimensional portrait.

In 2004, while performing
Master Class
at the Berkeley Repertory Theatre in Berkeley, California, I met the producer and artistic director of the theater, the brilliant Tony Taccone. We became fast friends. I was drawn to Tony for his direct, unadorned style. He was forthright in his dealings with everyone, and I appreciated how he defended nonprofit theater in such an honorable way.

It was Tony who invited me to consider cowriting a play with him about my life. At first I didn’t give the idea serious consideration. I thought I didn’t have much to say and my life wasn’t that
interesting. But sometime later he broached the subject again. This time I brushed him off with an “I’ll think about it,” knowing that I wouldn’t. But I did. I found every excuse not to do it. First I blamed Lenny—
He won’t want to know some of the stories; they’ll embarrass him
. Then I considered the old wounds that it would open, and somehow I knew it would require me to feel unhappy, guilty, and sad. But Tony persisted and gave me one last nudge before I agreed. And about a year before Lenny passed I started working on the project, which would become a play about my journey,
Life Without Makeup
.

It was hard work getting started. But with Tony as a faithful guide, I began to unwrap the story of my life. Remembering caused me to tap into experiences I had forgotten. I was moved as I saw the arc of my life and how my journey was the American story, the American dream. Dreams come in many flavors, and mine, as I expected, would include sadness, hurt, regret, and unexpressed grief. But there were also wonderful epiphanies as well. Even some mysteries were solved.

The project was a success, first in its cathartic effect on me, and then for the theater; the play met with great success. It was wonderful to be onstage again. And it was especially moving to hear the shared stories of patrons who would come backstage after the show, or wait on the street to tell me their stories.

Realizing the impact of the play, my manager at the time, David, urged me to consider writing this book. I protested much less. I enjoyed the honest sharing with my audience, and learned that when the rusty hinges were freed, the door swung wide-open, and
their
stories poured out to let me know that I was not alone. Perhaps a book would permit the same thing to happen for a wider audience. So I went back to the attic of my mind, which offers treasures not to be found anywhere else. It is a vast, powdery
place; a beam of amber light shines through one window, displaying particles of memory like so much dust. This echo chamber of my memory is filled with moans and sighs, raucous laughter, squeals of delight.

I pick up the scent, the moist fragrance of the rain forest. I inhale deeply and I go there, into the cathedral green, with the mystical hanging orchids. I hear once more the call of the wild birds, the whistle of the coquí.

This is what I see: daguerreotypes of my maternal grandmother, Trinidad Lopez, a corseted patrician Spaniard. My mother is there, Rosa Maria Marcano, bent over a sewing machine. I see my little brother Francisco, three years old, my mirror image, grinning, his skin the color of shiny copper. I see Dennis giggling as I changed his diaper, Marlon squeezing me with those arms as I laughed till I cried, and friends from so many phases of my life. And Lenny, my dearest, my loyal husband and best friend: Lenny, always in my corner.

Past sorrows, recent sorrows, and the looming specter of guilt—of feeling not good enough—made up the flat image I saw on the mirror. But now I see my life in full dimension.

Yes, there are loose ends, but here I am, healthy, happy beyond what one reasonably expects, fully able to remember and reflect, and equipped to dream. I’m deeply grateful for the applause, and I thrive in the spotlight. Yes, I love the attention. But when the early morning fog blankets the hills where I live and the curtain lifts, I look out the window and see, far below, my daughter’s home filled with the lives of two budding little men, and my heart is full.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

“Rita,” he said, “we should write a play about your life.” And after much hesitation on my part and steady perseverance on his, Tony Taccone, the Artistic Director of Berkeley Repertory Theatre, coaxed Rosita Dolores Alverio out of the shadows and onto that Berkeley stage to expose my
Life Without Makeup
. Tony, my dear friend, thank you for being an inspiration, guide and collaborator.

“You must write a book, a chronicle of your life, the history of your career. Your story needs telling for posterity. Think of your grandchildren!” Those words, spoken by David Belenzon, sparked the genesis of this project. Because you valued my story, David, it encouraged me to tell it more fully.

For my literary agent, Dan Strone, CEO of Trident Media Group, my thanks for introducing me to the able team at Penguin. Also, thanks to Dan’s assistant, Kseniya Zaslavskaya.

Laura Shane Cunningham, my deepest gratitude for your intuitive observation. As an unrelenting romantic, you were the perfect cheerleader and collaborator; without you, I could never have translated passion to page.

To the entire Celebra publishing group, expertly lead by Ray Garcia,
publisher,
muchisimas gracias
to you and to Phil Wilentz, production manager; Alissa Amell, text designer; Craig Burke and Julia Flieschaker, publicists. And Denise Silvestro, my editor, what can I say? It was you who shepherded this project to a successful completion. You were endlessly patient with this first-time writer and thoughtfully constructive in helping sculpt the arc of the story.
¡Te aprecio!

Patti Pirooz, because of your skilled direction during the audio recording, the manuscript was further fine-tuned. Reading it “out loud” certainly helped iron out the last kinks. Good ear! Great job!

Allison Janice, thank you for researching and acquiring all the necessary photographic permissions for the book.

Judy Katz, of Katz PR, my publicist and friend, it’s my turn to put you in print and say thank for your steady and faithful service.

And finally, for John Ferguson, my guardian, consigliere, and purveyor of wisdom, my appreciation without end for seeing me through this difficult journey in unremitting pursuit of authenticity and fidelity. For asking the tough questions and demanding answers. For holding my hand through rivers of tears and ancient wounds.

But most of all…most of all, for helping me get my joy back.

Bracing myself against New York’s winter chill—it’s time to go home.

My beautiful mami and me.

A last memory of me, Mami, and
Abuelo
Justino.

Showing off Mami’s needlework—stitched, I’m sure, with love.

A smiling Dorothy on the outside, a conflicted Rosita on the inside.