Beautiful Ruins (58)

“Oh.” Pasquale had finally caught up with things, and found himself a bit deflated that this man was his competition and not the sniveling Michael Deane. “Then . . . is your baby.”

Richard Burton had barely flinched. “It would appear to be the case, yes.” And twenty minutes later, here they were, in Richard Burton’s Alfa Romeo, barreling through the outskirts of Rome toward the autostrada and, eventually, Dee Moray.

“Brilliant to be out driving again.” Richard Burton’s hair was rustled by the wind and he spoke above the road noise. The sun glinted off his dark glasses. “I tell you, Pat, I envy the punch you landed on Deane. He’s a bloody first-flight ten-year-old cocksuck, that one. I’ll likely aim a bit higher when it’s my go.”

The burning cigarette reached Richard Burton’s fingers and he flicked it over the side of his door as if it were a bee that had stung him. “I trust you know I had nothing to do with sending that girl away. And I certainly didn’t know she was with child—not that I’m thrilled with that part. You know how these on-set things are.” He shrugged and looked out the side window. “But I like Dee. She’s . . .” He looked for the word and couldn’t find it. “I’ve missed her.” He brought his hand to his mouth and seemed surprised there was no cigarette in it. “Dee and I had a bit of history, and we became friends again when Liz’s husband was in town. Then Fox loaned me out to do some bloody stock-work on The Longest Day—likely to get rid of me awhile. I was in France when Dee got sick. I talked to her by phone and she said she’d gone to see Dr. Crane . . . that they’d diagnosed her with cancer. She was going to Switzerland for treatment, but we decided to meet once on the coast. I said I’d finish my work on The Longest Day and meet her in Portovenere, and I entrusted this blood-blister Deane to set it up. The blighter’s a master at insinuating himself. He said she’d taken a bad turn and gone on to Bern for treatment. That she would call me when she returned. What could I do?”

“Portovenere?” Pasquale asked. Then she had come to his village by mistake. Or because of Michael Deane’s deception.

“It’s this goddamn movie.” Richard Burton shook his head. “It’s Satan’s asshole, this bloody film. Flashbulbs everywhere . . . priests with cameras in their cassocks . . . leech fixers coming from the States to keep the girls and booze away . . . gossip columns jumping every time we have a bloody cocktail. I should’ve walked off months ago. It’s insanity. And do you know why it’s gone over this way? Do you? Because of her.”

“Dee Moray?”

“What?” Richard Burton looked over as if Pasquale hadn’t been listening. “Dee? No. No, because of Liz. It’s like having a bloody typhoon in your flat. And I didn’t come looking for this. Any of it. I was perfectly happy doing Camelot. Not that I could get a bloody handshake from Julie Andrews—though, trust me, I was not lacking for female companionship. No, I was done with the bloody moron cinema. Back to the stage for me, regain my promise, the art—all that rot. Then my agent calls, says Fox will buy me out of Camelot and pay me four times my price if I’ll roll around Liz Taylor in a robe. Four times! And I didn’t jump right away, either. Said I’d think about it. Show me the mortal man who has to think about that. But I did. And do you know what I was thinking?”

Pasquale could only shrug. It was like standing in a windstorm, listening to this man.

“I was thinking about Larry.” Richard Burton looked at Pasquale. “Olivier, lecturing me in that buggering-uncle voice of his.” Richard Burton stuck out his lower lip and assumed a nasal voice: “ ‘Dick, you will, of course, eventually have to make up your mind whether you wish to be a household word or an ac-TOR.’ ” He laughed. “Rotten old sotter. Last night of Camelot, I raised my glass in a toast to Larry and his bloody stage. Said I’d take the money, thank you, and within a week I’d drive that raven-haired Liz Taylor to her knees . . . or, rather, to mine.” He laughed again at the memory. “Olivier . . . Christ. In the end, really what does it matter, whether some Welsh coal miner’s son acts on the stage or the screen? Our names are writ in water anyway, as Keats said, so what’s it bloody matter? Old sots like Olivier and Gielgud can have their code and shove it up each other’s arses, bugger off, boys, and on with the parade, right?” Richard Burton glanced over his shoulder, his hair mixed and blended by the wind through the open convertible. “So I’m off to Rome, where I meet Liz, and let me tell you, Pat, I’ve never seen a woman like this. I mean, I’ve had a few in my day, but this one? Christ. Do you know what I said first time I met her?” He didn’t wait for Pasquale to answer. “I said, ‘Don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this . . . but you’re not a bad-looking girl.’ ”

He smiled. “And when those eyes settle on you? God, the world stops spinning . . . I knew she was married, and more to the point, she’s a bloody soul-eater, but I’m not made of steel either. Of course, any right blighter would choose being a great actor over being a household word if the stacks were the same, but that’s not really the choice, is it? Because they pile that fuck-all money on the scale, too, and God, man, they put on those tits and that waist . . . and Christ, those eyes—and the thing begins to tip, old sport, till the scale goes right over. No, no, we are definitely writ in water. Or cognac—if we’ve any luck at all.”