The Slipper (63 page)

“Where are we going now?”

“To the Plaza Monumental.”

“But that's a bullring!” she protested.

“I know. I have two fabulous seats in the
barrera
on the
sombra
side. I believe we're in the first row.”

“I don't want to go to a bullfight!”

“You can't visit Mexico without seeing a bullfight. They won't allow you out of the country unless you can prove you've seen at least one. It's colorful and exciting, and this is the height of the season. All the best matadors will be in the ring.”

“Jim!”

“You're gonna love it,” he told her.

Nora sulked all the way to the Avenida Insurgentes Sur but she had to admit that the 50,000-seat Plaza Monumental was impressive, already packed solid with eager spectators when they arrived. They were indeed in the first row on the shady side of the ring, and it was altogether too close for Nora. Jim explained that bullfighting was a noble tradition, an artistic pageant celebrated for its stylish rituals. The bulls used here in Mexico City were carefully bred for the ring, the strongest, bravest creatures, a real match for the matador. Nora felt queasy already, but she relaxed a little when the music rang out and the pageant began. The richly dressed matadors strutted into the ring with embroidered capes swinging from their left shoulders, followed by the banderilleros and picadors. Making their way to the official box, right next to where Nora and Jim were sitting, the matadors removed their hats and bowed and Nora marveled at their costumes close up.

One matador in particular caught her attention. His costume was all gold spangled with silver and bronze. He was lean and lithe and graceful, with dark flashing eyes and a beautiful smile. He was smiling directly at her! She was startled a few minutes later when he removed his gorgeous cape and flung it at her. One moment she was sitting there admiring his thighs and the next moment she was being smothered in gold lamé and bronze satin.

“What'd he do
that
for?” she exclaimed, removing the rich folds from her face.

“He's honoring you,” Jim said, grinning. “You're supposed to drape the cape over the railing. He's probably going to dedicate a bull to you. If you play your cards right he might toss you an ear.”

“Tell him not to bother!”

The first bullfight began and the crowd roared when the enormous muscular bull came charging into the ring, a magnificent beast with a glossy black hide gleaming like satin in the sunlight. Nora held her breath as the picadors began their work, pricking the poor confused animal. The banderilleros followed and soon the bull was bleeding and festooned with short lances gaily decorated with colored paper, angry and charging wildly, the lances wobbling on his back as he wheeled this way and that, trying to elude his tormentors. It was horrible! It was inhuman! Nora covered her eyes. The crowd loved it, cheering with lusty glee. Peering cautiously through her fingers, Nora saw the bull in the center of the ring, snorting and stamping the ground. He wheeled suddenly and charged one of the horses. When she heard the horse's shriek and saw what happened Nora let out an impassioned cry and leaped to her feet.

“Get me the fuck out of here!” she screamed.

Jim yanked her back down into her seat. “We haven't even seen the matador yet!” he protested. “This is just the preliminary.”

“If this is the preliminary, I'm sure as hell not sticking around for the finale! This is pure sadism! That poor bull. That horse! How can sane people
allow
this?”

“It's a ritual of manhood. It's grace under pressure. Haven't you read Hemingway?”

“Hemingway was full of shit!” Nora shouted. “He was the world's biggest phony! Ritual of manhood, my ass! Grace under pressure! What does
he
do under pressure? He grabs a gun and blows his brains out!”

“People are staring!”

“Let them stare! Get me
out
of here!”

Jim was a little gray around the gills himself. As he led her out amidst the cheering throng he confessed that he'd never actually
seen
a bullfight before himself but he'd read all about them and he'd seen
Blood and Sand
with Tyrone Power and thought it would be fun. He was holding onto her hand tightly, and suddenly he let go and rushed down a corridor and disappeared into a restroom. He rejoined her a few minutes later, looking sheepish indeed, the sombrero in his hand.

“It was those enchiladas I ate at the Market,” he explained.

“Sure it was.”

“What happened to the horse had nothing to do with it.”

“Of course it didn't.”

“Guess going to a bullfight wasn't such a bright idea.”

“You've had better,” she said.

“Know what I'm gonna do as soon as I get back to L.A.?”

“What's that?”

“I'm gonna burn my copy of
Death in the Afternoon
.”

“I'll provide the matches,” Nora told him.

Back at the hotel, Nora made arrangements to have her pottery shipped and then went up to her suite, accompanied by a still-sheepish Jim. His multicolored serape was sadly limp now and he was holding the enormous sombrero by its brim. He asked Nora if she had any plans for tonight and she said no she didn't and he asked if she would let him take her out and she asked what have you got in mind, a cockfight, and he grinned then and said he was going to make it up to her, he was going to give her a fantastic evening, dinner first and then nightclubs, wear something very, very sexy.

When he came to fetch her at eight o'clock he looked very sexy himself in his white dinner jacket, black bow tie and plaid satin cummerbund. He looked like the successful television star he was, imbued with that special Hollywood glamor. Long gone were the days of motorcycle boots and leather jackets. Jim was one of the dearest people she knew, good-humored, bright, devastatingly attractive. He gave her a merry smile and, taking his arm from behind his back, presented her with an enormous bouquet of yellow-gold roses, the soft, velvety petals faintly tinted with pink.

“All they had downstairs,” he told her. “I wanted red, but these will have to do.”

“They'll do nicely,” she said, touched.

“Am I forgiven the bullfight?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On how well you feed me tonight. I'm starving, and I'm in the mood for something
very
expensive.”

“The studio's paying. You can have nightingale tongue if you wish.”

“Beluga caviar will do. For starters.”

She placed her hands on her hips, posing. She waited. Jim said nothing. Nora frowned.

“So?” she said.

“So what?”

“So whatta-ya think?”

“About what?”

“You bastard!”

Jim grinned, eyes full of merriment. Nora was wearing the cocktail dress she had told him about earlier. The form-fitting black velvet bodice had extremely narrow sleeves and was cut quite low, the midcalf-length skirt aswirl with alternate rows of gold, white, aqua and fuchsia ruffles, much like a flamenco dancer's skirt. She looked fabulous. She looked sensational. He let her simmer for a couple of more seconds and then told her he guessed she'd do. Nora looked around for something to throw at him.

The limo whisked them to Mexico City's most exclusive, most elegant restaurant, and all eyes followed them as they were led to their table. They were a strikingly handsome couple, of course, but Nora knew it was because her gallant escort was currently one of the most recognizable celebrities around, his television series an even greater hit in its second season. The movie he had made with Diane McBain had been a critical and box office smash, here in Mexico City as well as at home and abroad. Paul Newman had best look to his laurels, fan magazines claimed. Nora thought that Jim was much sexier than Newman and an even better actor, although she was decidedly prejudiced. Jim gave her a warm smile as they took their seats.

“This place do?” he inquired.

“In a pinch. Oh, Jesus!”

“What's the matter?”

“There's Luis Montoya, the guy I was telling you about who kept trying to make me last night.”

“Where?”

“Over there by the window, sitting with that smoldering blonde in antique white lace and emeralds.”

“Want me to beat him up for you?”

“She can't be his wife. She's gotta be his mistress. Why doesn't anyone give
me
emeralds like those?”

“Your day will come, babe,” he promised.

“Yeah, sure,” she said grumpily.

Jim ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon from the sommelier, and they studied the embossed gold menus and ordered. Classical music played discreetly in the background. Crystal chandeliers gleamed. Dark-gold carpet covered the floor, and heavy gold satin draperies hung at the windows. Look at us, Nora thought, a middle-class hooligan from Indiana and a Jewish girl from Brooklyn, mingling with the swells. Who says dreams don't come true? If Sadie could see me now she'd have a fit. Nora spread shiny beluga on a thin sliver of toast, feeling better than she'd felt in weeks. The meal was wonderful, the service impeccable, Jim the most engaging of companions. He asked her to tell him about the new novel, and she spent the next hour telling him about Andrea and Lilian and Ellen and how their stories would be altered and expanded and woven into a novel about American women living and working in another country.

“Sounds even better than
The Slipper
,” Jim told her. “There's only one problem.”

“What's that?”

“No part in it for me. I'm too strong to play the young diplomatic aide and too big a name to play the lifeguard, and I don't think I'd be a very convincing Norwegian explorer. It'll make a smashing movie, though, even if I'm not in it.”

“Don't you have another movie lined up?”

Jim nodded. “After the success of
Roughshod
, the scripts have come pouring in. During the hiatus I'm going to make
Hellion
, all about a temperamental young corporate lawyer in Philadelphia who dumps his stuffy wife and leaves her father's firm. He opens his own office and falls in love with a luscious call girl and then single-handedly brings down the crime syndicate responsible for her murder.”

“It's tailor-made. You'll be marvelous.”

“I figure I'll do one more season as Duke Henry and then do feature films full time. Television has been wonderful for me and I'm grateful for the series, but I need more variety, more challenge. I want to be a real actor, not just a glamor boy.”

“You're already a real actor, pet,” Nora told him, “and you're going to be one of the greats. I've known that for years, ever since I saw you as the Gentleman Caller in
The Glass Menagerie
back at Claymore.”

“That seems like a lifetime ago,” Jim said thoughtfully.

“I shudder to think of the person I was back then. A lot has happened to all of us since those days. I guess you've read about Julie's nominations?”

Nora nodded. “I believe it's the first time in the history of the awards that an actress has been nominated in two categories in the same year. If she doesn't win the best actress award for
Impulse
, she's bound to win as best supporting actress for
The Slipper
.”

“Naturally the press is making a big hoopla over it. They're calling her a genius, hailing her as the American Bernhardt, praising her to the skies and conveniently forgetting the stories they ran a few weeks ago about her temperament and drinking and such. The studio has squelched the bad press, and even Louella has come round—they must have paid her plenty.”

“I read the column,” Nora said dryly. “Julie's no longer difficult and temperamental. Now she's a ‘perfectionist' who's ‘setting a high standard for her fellow workers.' I know she's back from Arizona now, but I haven't heard from her.”

“I saw her just before I flew down here.”

“How is she, Jim?”

“She's holding on,” he said gravely. “She needs a long rest. She needs one badly. I—” Jim cut himself short, shook his head, and then he looked at her and smiled. “Hey, we're supposed to be having fun. You want some chocolate mousse?”

“I couldn't.”

“Coffee?”

Nora shook her head. Jim signaled the waiter and ten minutes later they were on their way to the nightclubs and the next three hours were an exciting, dizzying whirl of bright lights and brilliant colors and mariachi bands. Nora had been here for almost a month without drinking a single margarita, and Jim was appalled. He insisted she try one. He insisted she have another. At two o'clock in the morning they were in a tiny, tourist-filled dive festooned with balloons and streamers of colored paper and Nora was doing a flamenco with the slim-hipped, dark-eyed male professional and people were applauding and throwing confetti provided by the management. She was doing a creditable job with the castanets and stamping her heels with abandon. Jim applauded vigorously, and the female pro pulled him onto the floor and soon he was stamping himself, yelling “O1é!” for no particular reason. He bowed to one and all when the music stopped and then the pros taught them how to do the Mexican Hat Dance. It was a smash hit as far as the other patrons were concerned. Jim and Nora were deluged with confetti as they staggered back to their table.

“First time I've ever been the floor show,” Nora said.

“You were great,” he assured her.

“Thanks a lot. That's more than I can say for you.”

“I was fabulous!” he protested.

“You were awful. You stomped the sombrero to smithereens.”

“I did not!”

“Smithereens, and then you fell flat on your ass.”

“You're a liar!”

“In front of all these wonderful people. Didn't he fall flat on his ass? See. Everyone's nodding. You gotta lot of style, Duke Henry. You're terrific with a gun and great with the girls, but a dancer you're not. Furthermore, you're gonna feel like hell in the morning.”