Elvis' half-brothers, Dave, Ricky,
and Billy Stanley, they all found life after Elvis. Ricky is a man of God
now, with 2 kings guiding him, the Lord and Elvis, according to him.
Honestly, I never understood why Elvis didn’t include his
stepbrothers in his will… He was in the habit to give away diamond rings and
all kinds of gifts to total strangers, playboy bunnies and all…and nothing for
his brothers…? Maybe is the ‘conservatives’ way of dealing with their money!
George and Barbara
Klein divorced shortly after Elvis’ death. The string that had kept them
together was broken on August 16, 1977.
Sergio Leone called
me from Paris one night. He told me he was taking the next morning flight to
Hollywood to make his “biggest movie ever”, and would like to have lunch with
me as we did whenever in the same town.
He never made it to the airport. He died that night from an
apparent heart attack, I’m told. In the Seventies, during his Spaghetti Western
era, some even laughed at his movies by calling him an amateur - a clown who
tries to clone American art of film making and - how dare he, blah blah.
How ironic that now those same American filmmakers embrace
him as a genius, comparing his work to that of John Ford’s masterpieces.
Roman Polanski…his macabre fate never left him. I guess
he has learned to live with it by now…and probably will take his sacred secrets
to his grave.
He married a beautiful French actress, and named their son -
Elvis!
No, no, I wasn’t invited to the wedding!
One thing that’s remained an enigma in my mind throughout
the years is what Maurice Azoulay revealed to me one day while I was holding a
bag of oranges in my arms to go visit Polanski who was out on bail and staying
at Maurice’s house in Beverly Hills.
A couple of years earlier, Polanski had introduced me to the
French-Moroccan-American hairstylist, and we became real good friends. We were
never lovers, Maurice and I…just best friends.
With the mega success of the movie “Shampoo” a few years
earlier, starring one of Polanski’s closest friends and my one-night stand
lover, handsome movie mega star Warren Beatty, hairstylists had become
basically the new kids in town, that era’s ‘reality stars’ with their own
ultra-chic beauty barns, mansions, and many latest model expensive cars…and
women were wild about them, especially actresses, the innocent looking famous
ones that loved to get banged by their personal chef, or their hairdresser, or
maybe both.
The Touch-me, Feed-me, Fuck-me era of the rich and famous
women of Hollywood.
All that hair-glam and fame-fanfare appeared strange to me
since in Paris, hairstylist were service-people, the ones we tipped, and
therefore not really en vogue.
I was willing to become a ‘service-person’ and work with
Maurice as a hairstylist since by then I was already a licensed cosmetologist,
but I didn’t have my Green Card, yet, and Maurice just wouldn’t hire anyone
without at least a work permit. Anyway, so when Maurice came to pick me up in
his brand new Rolls Royce to go visit Polanski who was out on bail and staying
at Maurice’s house, I packed a dozen oranges in a paper bag and wrapped a bow
around it – as they do in France when visiting jailbirds.
"I can't believe he's accused of such a heinous crime,
statutory rape," I said to Maurice on our way to his house.
"You know, the girl (13 year) was with another guy the
night before…before she was with Polanski,"
he said, and then told me a bit about the case and made me promise to never
mention it to anyone.
"She's been the night before with Warren Beatty, you
know, and had sex with him."
“So how come Warren is not charged with the same crime as
Polanski is and jailed for statutory rape, too?” I asked, confused. Then I
thought, oh well, these guys always ‘share’ their girls, don’t they? In a way,
I truly couldn’t stomach the gravity of the situation...
I also thought of that night where Warren showed at my door
when staying at the Beverly Wilshire; the night Jolie and I had just come back
from Disneyland, and Warren knocked on my door, I opened, and told him that I
wasn’t willing to let him in; that I was tired and sweaty, and he put his foot
in the door opening or whatever it’s called, blocking me from shutting my door
close, and wouldn’t go away until I let him in…He was persistent, wasn’t he? I
thought.
Frankly, even if so young, in my early 20s, I still found it
disgusting for these famous men to think they can have any girl they want…and
do get the ones they want, don’t’ they, ouch?! Their lifestyle allows them to
be vain, cruel, and selfish. Their mirror is their best friend, their bank
account their best confidant. At their peak, they work a few weeks, make
millions of dollars, go to glamorous parties, and women - they just throw
themselves at their feet…
They consider getting a new pussy like a soldier receiving a
medal of honor…glorification of fornication!
So, when I asked Maurice how come Warren wasn’t accused of
that crime, Maurice shook his head and went on telling me the bizarre story
about what really had happened, and why Warren Beatty would never be charged
with the same crime as Roman Polanski was.
It turned my stomach upside down. It was about a ransom that
Warren had paid to the girl’s mother, but Roman Polanski had refused to pay, which
I rather not get into details of it all…but it was poignant to hear Maurice
repeating what Polanski apparently had told the girl’s mother.
He had told the mother, according to Maurice, that he, Roman
Polanski, was the wrong guy to be blackmailed; that he had lost his parents in
concentration camps…
With other words, I guess he wanted to say that he’s not
gonna pay for silence, for whatever reason…He also had told the mother, “I
thought your daughter was eighteen years old.”
I considered Polanski a close friend since he and
Jean-Pierre Rassam were friends and partners, and since I dated him on and off,
now and then, for four or more years…and now to judge him is really the hardest
thing to do, especially in a situation where I personally wasn’t a witness.
Maurice was way too close to Polanski, Warren Beatty, and
me…After all, Polanski was staying at Maurice’s house while awaiting
sentencing…
Maurice was a certified confidant aside being the most
sought-after hairstylist in Beverly Hills, which meant that Hollywood’s Who’s
Who were his clients…He would never take a chance and gossip about something
that could ruin his business. The situation was too dangerous for Maurice to
come up with a lie, accusing a mega star, a powerful Hollywood and political
player such as Warren Beatty by placing him amidst this scandal…
And the girl and her mother – I never met them; never
witnessed anything...
In all those years, Roman Polanski talked only once to me about
his wife, Sharon Tate, and some of his closest friends, murders by the Charles
Manson family members.
It was at the time when I was so loaded on Quaaludes and whiskey;
he was worried about my health and future. I had told him, “I knock myself out
because of my visa and work situation. I am hopelessly lost…”, and he told me
this:
“Even when all that with Sharon (Tate) happened, I didn’t do what
you’re doing to yourself. Go back to Paris. You’re a star over there in France.
Here, you won’t make it. You’re too naïve…Go back to Paris!”
I can’t recall ever seeing him wasted on drugs, or ever
giving me any drugs, pills, or
anything. He loved to drink a cognac after dinner, but was always upset when
seeing someone like JP, or me, on drugs…
So, when all that scandal happened about that 13 year old
girl, and that he was on drugs, and had given her drugs…I just wondered if any
of that was true at all because the Roman Polanski I knew was not the one
described by the media here in America.
One more thing: Polanski was not a big dick Latin-lover style of a man. He was not a sex-crazed
individual. He was never pushy when it came to romance, or sex…
On the other hand, Warren Beatty was all that.
But I did know how cheap Polanski was! He never sent me
flowers or gifts for my birthday or during holidays…very, very cheap!
Anyway, I chose to believe Maurice, yet I said, "You're
making it all up!"
He looked at me perplexed, and said, "Stella, this is
not something to joke about.”
Of cours it wasn't, I thought.
Arriving at Maurice's house, Polanski looked happy being
amongst a handful of his ‘close friends’ - Maurice's Italian wife, and a
Japanese woman introduced to me by Polanski as a, "Marlon Brando
girlfriend", while three Mariachis in a trance kept singing their hearts
out…
I gave him the bag of oranges, which was meant to be
something like a prank because, somehow, I wanted to believe that he was
innocent.
He laughed and said, "Don’t worry, they won’t lock me
up!”
He sure didn’t look worrisome to me. Maybe he was still in a
shock, not realizing the severity of it all.
“How do you know for sure?” I asked, worried
.
“I’ll show you a picture of her. She looks like - 18…I
thought she was. I honestly did.” He then added, “You know, Stella, by now you’re
apparently too old for me, ha ha ha!”
I was in my mid-twenties, and it took me a while to
get the joke – that by now rumor has it that he only liked very young teenagers
– as the press described him to be. He didn’t need to apologize to me, but his
demeanor was just that. He also never showed me any pictures of that girl he
allegedly had raped - the talk of town, or rather, the world.
I wanted to ask him about Warren Beatty and the girl, and
the story Maurice had told me earlier in his car about the ransom money, but I
didn't. I believed that the situation was not one of those where we could just
talk about things the way we used to - before misery had knocked on his door, again...
Polanski would
never ‘tell’ on his best friend anyway, even if I had asked him right there and
then, and he probably intends to take all those sacred secrets to his grave…
Maurice’s tale pretty much described Polanski’s character
and values, as I had learned to know, and how he would’ve handled a situation
as the alleged rape accusation and stuff. He had refused to be black-mailed,
and had given a very powerful explanation to that mother as why he wouldn’t
give her the money, one-hundred-thousand dollars - an amount that was a big
chunk in the late 1970s.
It wasn't my style to snoop on my friends. After all,
America was a nation of laws and the best of the best when it came to solving a
crime as such.
Then again - it would be unfair to hold back secrets that
others have imposed upon me. In AA, Alcoholic Anonymous, we learn that, “We are
as sick as our secrets.” Some I let-go, but some just keep coming back, nagging
at my brain, like this one…Maybe I should just pray about it and it’ll go away,
eventually…
I remember another incident…I just can’t recall if it was
before or after Polanski went to jail, or after he was out on bail…He invited
me to a party in Beverly Hills at Bob Rafelson’s house. Rafelson had produced a
movie with Jack Nicholson called, Five Easy Pieces…or something like that.…
The house was rather small for Beverly Hills standards,
surely not a mansion. I think it was a one story house…and about 30 or 40
people had attended…
So,, holding my scotch on the rocks firmly in my hand, I
decided to take a walk in that small garden and check out the plants and
flowers…and, oh, here comes Jack Nicholson walking through the green lawn toward
me. Well, he was probably there to join Polanski, I thought.
“Hi, Jack!” I said, and Jack said, “Hi!” -And if anyone on
earth wants to know how I did the things I did, the following is one of the
best examples of my naiveté – not realizing the consequences of my actions.
Yeah, to me, it was all just a joke.
Nothing in life could be that serious, right?
Here’s what I said to Jack Nicholson:
“Hey, Jack, do you know Roman is inside, waiting for you?” I
pointed at the house.
Jack suddenly stopped walking. He looked at me surprised,
and said:
“So?”
“Well, let me warn you. He just told me he’s mad at you…didn’t
tell me why…that if he sees you walking through that door, he’ll punch you!
That’s how mad he is,” I said with a serious tone of voice, hoping Jack would
crack up in laughter and move on.
I totally wasn’t thinking about the alleged rape that
apparently had taken place not long ago in Jack’s house. I already was buzzed
with a few double vodkas or whiskey on the rocks, and wasn’t thinking…just was
not thinking.
“Are you serious?” Jack asked.
Well, Smiling Jack-ass and I, we’ve had a ‘quickie’ one day,
as mentioned earlier, and he knew I was Jean-Pierre Rassam’s closest friend –
as close as an actor/movie star can get with a easy-money film producer - and that
I was also a very close friend and part-time girlfriend of Polanski…
So, he believed me, when I said:
“Yeah…oh, boy, he’s mad as hell.”
“Are you serious?” Jack said again, standing there, his eyes
crossed more than ever I can remember, and suddenly, he turned around and
walked back to his car, so fast, I think he actually ran for his life.
Wow! What was that all about, I wondered?
How come Jack didn’t get the joke? I was known to be a
jokester at times. So, how come he didn’t investigate, or ask some other person
if Polanski truly was waiting for him in that house, mad as hell, ready to
break his bones …?
Jack just took my word for it. Why? I thought that was very
odd.
I didn’t think much about it, and went back to the house and
Polanski walked by me…and I said:
“Jack Nicholson just walked in, and I told him you were
here, and he said, Oh, No! -and made
a U-ee, and…he left. He kinda ran.”
“What U-ee? What
do you mean he made a U-ee?” Polanski
asked, baffled.
“Yeah, you know, he turned on his heel…a U-turn. He’s gone!”
Polanski looked a bit nervous…shook his head as if
pondering. He, too, believed me. Again, not for a minute I thought of any consequence
of my action…I had a good belly-laugh, and that’s all it mattered to me…since I
didn’t know anything about anything that might have been right or wrong between
Polanski and Nicholson.
Honestly, I still don’t know why Jack got scared and ran away…I
never asked anyone much about any of their business. I still don’t.
If they, Polanski and Nicholson, ever read this Memoir here,
it would be the first time they may realize what really had happened that night
at Bob Rafelson’s house…and them knowing me, I hope they won’t get mad at me,
since they always thought of me as being a doll…a doll…a pretty,
self-supporting, Runaway Doll in glass slippers.
After Polanski left,
or rather fled the US for France, some tabloid contacted me, sending their guys
to get an interview with me to talk about Roman Polanski and his rape case. I
refused.
They then wanted to talk about - me having wild sex with Elvis
Presley! I had to pass on that one, too!
