A Story Lately Told (25 page)

One night Bob and I came back to the room from the cinema. I was wearing the red fox fur coat that Marianne Faithfull had given to me as a parting gift in London. The sleeves were tight, so in order to take it off, I was pulling at some rings I was wearing. As Bob and I were talking, the closet door opened and a youngish man, dirty blond and strung out, pulled a straight-edged razor on us. “Tie her up!” he screamed. He ranted about how evil women were, chattel for the corporations, pigs that should be eradicated. During this diatribe, he wielded the razor, waving it about with abandon. Quietly and calmly, Bob sat down, raised his open hands as if in a blessing, and said gently, “I understand, you need help. Take what you need and leave.” The intruder made a few more threats, then seemed to take stock and calmed down.

After severing the telephone cords and promising to cut our throats if we called the management, he grabbed my rings, took the key, fled the room, and locked us in from the outside. I had to climb across the outer balconies on the fifth floor to knock on the window of a lonely hippie girl in a bedroom. “Oh yeah, come in,” she said tolerantly, without batting an eyelash. “This happens all the time at the Chelsea.”

When we reported the incident, two cops came up to our room to take a statement, to examine the telephone cord, to
touch Marianne’s fur coat. They asked if I’d go along with them to the second floor, accompanied by Red, and proceeded to unlock a number of doors with a skeleton key. When I asked them about the logic of this, they explained that at the Chelsea, the perpetrator easily could turn out to be a patron. We didn’t find him. Later I saw more of the inner lives of the hotel, including a bearded man in an all-white room with only newspapers and a bowl of goldfish for company, and an apartment on the top floor that seemed to be lined with bricks of hashish.

The artist Richard Bernstein lived at the Chelsea and was just starting to illustrate the covers of
Interview
magazine. His best friend was Berry Berenson, my friend from long-ago vacations in Klosters, now a photographer. She shot one of the first color covers of the magazine—a picture of me holding a microphone in one hand and a cigarette in the other; I must have said the word “groovy” fifty times in the article. I loved Berry. She had unique style and class. She was an American exotic—green eyes, honey skin, hair cut close. Soon she was to interview Tony Perkins for
Interview,
fall in love with him, marry him, and have two sons, Oz and Elvis. She was often at Halston’s taking photographs. Andy Warhol’s muse Viva was living at the Chelsea. She was quite beautiful in an emaciated way, with a long nose, heavy-lidded eyes, and a slow, stoned drawl. And there was Gerard Malanga, a dark, handsome poet with bad skin, who would hand me poems surreptitiously in the elevator. One of the mysteries of the Chelsea that I never solved was why there were gray footprints on the ceiling of our room.

•  •  •

I never felt so fragile or vulnerable as when Bob became demonic and flew into a rage, or worse, when afterward he retreated into his shell. One morning, four days into one of these ordeals, I
walked into our bathroom at the Chelsea and, in desperation, drew a razor blade across my left wrist. I ran back into the bedroom, blood spurting from the vein, crying to him, “Will this make you love me?” Bob came to, applied a tourniquet, and took me to the nearest emergency ward. The doctor stitched up my wrist without anesthesia, looked at me suspiciously, and asked me a lot of questions. I claimed I had fallen while carrying a knife. Later, when I told Bob I could not live like this anymore, he decided we should go on vacation. We were under too much stress, he said; we needed some sun.

Bob chose the small town of Zihuatanejo in southern Mexico, on the Mexican Pacific Costa Grande. Lauren Hutton had recommended it. We were to stay at the Hotel Caraçol, some two hundred steps up a cliff from the beach—a horseshoe of sand under the cover of a green mountain populated with little houses, mostly beach shacks and vacation homes for hippies. On the bay, a hefty-looking vessel—which we joked could be one of Richard Nixon’s warships—idled out in deep water. On our first day in town, we met some students and shared a joint with them. We asked if they knew where we could get some grass.

That night a man came to the door with a one-pound paper sack of marijuana. Bob and I were having a disagreement of some sort and didn’t invite him in. Bob paid the man and he left. We smoked a spliff and the mood changed between us. Suddenly, we were happy and laughing. We decided to skip down to the beach at sunset for a swim in what looked to be a warm, inviting ocean. As we passed a group of soldiers, Federales, sitting by the seawall, we wished them a good evening. Gingerly, we made our way barefoot across a mound of rocks and through a tide pool to a second beach that ended in a cluster of black rocks, a promontory that jutted into the bay. Here we
undressed, smoked the rest of the joint, and swam happily in the dark waters for some ten to fifteen minutes. When we emerged dripping onto the beach, something brushed against me, and I made out the shapes of more than a few men moving toward us in the dusk. By now I had four gun barrels trained on my torso. Back and front. “Put on your robe,” Bob whispered after he realized that we were not alone. Silently, I obeyed him.

One of the Federales had a flashlight and was examining the contents of Bob’s bathrobe pockets. He came up with the key to our room. “We are American tourists,” said Bob, grabbing back the key. All I could think of was the pound of grass in the closet. Finally, the soldier gestured for us to walk on in front of them, in the direction of the hotel. He began to speak in Spanish on a walkie-talkie, but as we walked up the beach ahead of their guns, they began to overtake us, forcing us into the surf. It was a dark, moonless evening. A searchlight came on, shining from the mountain above, trailing up and down the sand like something out of a war movie, followed by a blackout in the village. Another spotlight, from the Nixon warship, burned a white hole through the night. The Federales began to load their rifles; by now they were surrounding us in a semicircle. Their leader called out something in Spanish and the men lifted their rifles.

I tried to scream for help, but the sound was smothered by my throat constricting and came out as a yelp. We were clearly about to be murdered. The soldier’s radio started to crackle, and Bob grabbed me by the hair. “Hit the dirt,” he said, pushing me down. I sank to my knees in the surf and watched in terror as the searchlights played on the surface of the water. The men lowered their guns. There was chatter among them. Some started to move off toward the jungle. Bob pulled me up
from the water. “Run,” he told me, and like an Olympian, I flew down the beach in front of him, fully expecting to get shot in the back, scaling in one fell swoop the rocks it had previously taken us five minutes to negotiate.

As we turned the corner of the street leading to the hotel, a flashlight shone directly in our faces. For a moment, I thought all was lost. But as we moved past, we realized it was only an elderly Mexican gentleman out with his dog in the darkness. He laughed at us, and we ran on until we reached our room, gasping. Later that night I tiptoed out to the building site behind the hotel and flung the bag of grass as far as I could into some weeds. The next morning I tried to book a plane out, but there were no flights for four days. Bob and I were like caged lions again. I was afraid to leave the hotel by night for the rest of our time there, and pondered whether it was worth it to retrieve the pot. Ultimately, I decided against it.

The Mexico trip seemed to provide more evidence that wherever we went and whatever we did held the possibility of disaster. It only strengthened Bob’s conviction that the world was his enemy. And I, trapped psychologically and physically, burdened by my connection and responsibility to him, had become isolated from my friends and family and found myself sinking into the misery that was suffocating him.

From John Huston

October 23, 1970

Darling daughter,

You’re right. I’m deplorable as a correspondent. No question where you got it from. Your lovely letter has gone hand-to-hand down the line, through Glades and B. O’K
[Betty O’Kelly]
and Nurse to the kitchen and finally the yard. All hearts were made glad. Likewise, yours to Allegra. I’m sure she answered by return mail, punctilious as she is. Pity you can’t get her newly acquired accent from the written word. It’s the despair of B. O’K who tends to admire things English. In any case, Allegra is now talking like a stage Colleen and rather more Irish than the Lynches. But she is in splendid form. No more circles under the eyes, has stand up brawls, sheds few tears when she falls off her bicycle, and makes the meadows ring with laughter. She’s not the horsewoman her sister was at that age, but considerably more studious. She devours everything in print and is so good at cards, I’m thinking of taking her to the Claremont and backing her game. If only Lord Darby played Old Maid.

Tony is in London—well established in his flat, surrounded by his collections. He too, is in great form, the best I’ve ever seen him. He’s a joy to be with. An extraordinary companion. We’re going on a trip in a few days to the Rothschilds in the South of France, then on to Spain and Italy. I bought some land in Italy. It’s between Rome and Florence and perfectly beautiful. If Tony really likes it, I’m going to help him put up a house on it.

I’ve two pictures lined up, one—the first—to be made in Spain, and the other in California. I start shooting January 4. Is there any chance of you and Bob coming over for Christmas? You’re much wanted. I see you in
Vogue
—looking wonderful. I’ve been painting quite a lot. There are about fifteen canvases now you haven’t seen. There’s talk about an exhibition. I don’t know—maybe it’s better to keep at least that part of my life exceedingly private. Only for relatives and close friends. The well disposed.

Seamus and Shu-Shu and Simba and Frisco, Kildare and the three thoroughbred mares and their three foals are all thriving. There has been one addition—ducks. A present of eight, from Kevin MacClorey. They perform amazing aerobatics in the river all day, then, when dusk comes on, they come up out of the water, line up, and march off single-filed to their house behind the barn. Two muscovys, six Indian runners, if you know your ducks.

I was in Africa for a month for a film on the preservation of wildlife—appearing, not directing, in Kenya with the wardens of the national parks—great game sanctuaries. It was a splendid experience altogether. They—the wardens—are an extraordinary breed, quite the best men I’ve met in years. I could go on about Africa and them and on and on. The best thing I can say about them is I envy them. The show will appear on the American Sportsman Program sometime early next year. I don’t know how good it will be, but it should have some unique scenes. I’ve never been photographed being charged by an elephant before.

The days are dwindling—but then it’s almost November. The avenue is carpeted with leaves. The rain is a cold rain. And the sun is a pale sun. The opening meet was day before yesterday. Nothing memorable occurred. Lots of falls, as usual, on the first official day, but no casualties. Lady Ampthill has retired from the field. Times toll.

Much Love, my Blessed One. And love to Bob, who from the way you sound, must be taking very good care of you indeed.

As ever,

Dad

In 1971 Bob and I decided to move to Paris. We loved to shoot for Dior with the great makeup artist and perfume designer Serge Lutens, whose extraordinary talent and eye for detail inspired us. Working for the European magazines was liberating in terms of content and expression. We shot for
Elle,
British
Vogue,
French
Vogue,
Italian
Vogue, Nova, Harpers & Queen,
and many others. Posing for Bob’s camera was like acting in a movie, and we always had a background idea or story.

Serge was a legend as a makeup artist and already a mysterious
and rare commodity in the beauty industry. He lived in Paris at no fixed address. When French
Vogue
wanted to book him for a feature, scouts were sent out all over the city to find him. Generally he could be located at his favorite table at the Café de Flore. Serge was like a nocturnal animal, with great dark eyes. He wore his jet-black hair straight, in a Dutch-boy haircut, under a John Lennon cap. He didn’t speak a word of English, but it never mattered, because the language between Bob and Serge was aesthetic. It was a great feeling to be the muse between them. At this time, Serge gave me the haircut that became my trademark—full bangs and dead straight, to just below the ears, like the silent-movie star Louise Brooks. It was to change my life as a model.

Bob and I had no friends to speak of in Paris, other than a few of his ex-models, one a beautiful girl called Ingemarie with whom I guessed he might have had an affair in the past; Joan Buck; and a photographer called Tony Kent, who had a big apartment in the 16th arrondissement where we sometimes stayed. Tony was also a good friend of Norma’s. He used to ride all over Paris on a high-handled bike like the Harley in
Easy Rider.
Through him and his wife, Susan, I met a lovely American girl, Phyllis Major, who was dating Warren Beatty.

From John Huston at the Alhambra

Palace Hotel, Granada, Spain

January 27, 1971

To Anjelica at the Hôtel Esméralda, Paris

Darling daughter,

How good to know you’re geographically near again. When the picture is finished I’ll come by Paris and we’ll all have a time—Tony
and Glades too of course, and perhaps Allegra. I’ve been promising her a trip if she learned French and from all reports, colored of course, she’s practically bilingual. I’ve put St. Clerans up for sale. Sad but necessary. The expense of running the place has more than trebled in the last few years, so it’s a luxury no longer to be afforded. I have to stay away making pictures to earn enough to keep it going, a vicious circle.