Mysterious Murder of Marilyn Monroe Read online

  Later on in 1954 in an interview for a Brazilian magazine called “O Mundo Ilustrado” or “The Illustrated World”.

  “Feeling that the original clothing and beauty of Brazilian music would turn into a huge hit in the U.S., Sonja Henie - the godmother of my success - strenuously insisted with Schubert to hire me.” Carmen confessed.

  “He did not, but perseverance eventually won by my friend and one day to another I found myself in an American stage, surrounded by applause from all sides. The curious thing is that I feared that putting a Bahiana fit would be a tremendous turn off. I even asked a reporter to explain why I put a fantasy so vulgar."

  A fabricated image to manipulate the masses. That Carmen Miranda died of depression a year later and that Marilyn Monroe died on the same day almost ten years later doesn't seem a total coincidence.

  They were both fabricated bombshells who collapsed in a system, victims of a bigger enterprise, the business machine where the big people make fortunes out of their miseries, not of a miserable life but of a miserable self.

  So they were in need of a strategic coup. And for someone to take hold of all the public relations, with the heat and to hit the society not for its glamour or intellect but for its money. And in a time of depression when money was all that mattered, no one better than the richest man in Brazil to solve their puzzle on how to deal with a big nation and control a mentality with all the diversities that it involved.

  At the Copacabana Palace, the fabulous hotel in Rio de Janeiro built and founded by Castro Silva and by Octavio Guinle, a luxurious hotel in front of the Copacabana Beach and that had so many rich and famous people, all celebrities from around the world passing through its doors until these days, from Orson Welles to Diana, Princess of Wales, Jorge Guinle, the founder´s nephew, still had the energy to be a gentleman, playing the charming, rich and handsome man he was while conquering so many figures from Hollywood.

  There where he made his home and in one of the hotel room there which became his deathbed, he gave an interview to “Daily Telegraph” telling about the fairytale that began in 1942 when Roosevelt asked Nelson Rockefeller to win Latin American support for the war against Hitler. Guinle served as Rockefeller’s representative in Brazil and began traveling more frequently to the U.S., where Rockefeller introduced him to powerful studio bosses such as Jack Warner, Louis B. Mayer and Darryl Zanuck. And the rest is history.

  Jorge Guinle was born on February 5 1916. His family became immensely rich and had a huge fortune after gaining a 90-year concession to build and operate the port of Santos.

  So it was then that they built the Copacabana Palace Hotel in Rio, and a huge mansion at Botafogo, where Jorge grew up. When Franklin Delano Roosevelt visited Brazil in the 1930s, he stayed with the Guinles.

  As a young man, Jorge Guinle never worked. Then in 1942, when the American government was concerned to counter Nazi influence in Brazil and Latin America, Nelson Rockefeller persuaded him to work for the Allied cause, at home and in the United States.

  Rockefeller and Disney were fellows and also known for their vicious ambitious and worship for money and for trying to maintaining mass propaganda and on controlling the masses with their persuasive ingenious ties.

  Although Disney tried in vain to create a friendly character, more specifically and pejoratively speaking (no pun intended here) a parrot displaying Joseph Carioca (carioca meaning a person who is from Rio) or Ze Carioca, as it´s known in Brazil, dancing among tucanos, some black birds with enormous yellow plastic-like beaks and beautiful round blue eyes, not even that helped to connect people with America.

  By the chords of an Aquarela do Brasil and also having Sonia Henie figure skating spectacular dancing in her shows like Carmen Miranda proved to be big flaws to the foreign diplomacy. That good neighbor policy was a fluke in the ocean of despair around the WWII.

  No wonder Disney created Ze Carioca in the Copacabana Palace. He has been secretly working with the elite in Brazil to acting against M&M... no cookies or chocolates here and not even Marilyn Monroe, but Marx and Mao, as Communism seemed to have already had been infiltrated deep in the roots of South America.

  So for this matter, Guinle had to (such a big effort) work, and he was obliged to go travel between Los Angeles and Rio de Janeiro. Rio at that time didn't have the slums that are so famous now, and it was one of the most splendorous, full of life, ebullient, charming, glamorous and exciting cities in the world.

  And Hollywood, yet charming and glamorous but not as exciting, still with plenty of brightness coming from the scintillated dressed from the divas.

  Those were two cities with plentiful potentially extravaganza for a man with that amount of money and charm.

  And surely his wealth and polished manners would turn heads towards him, and leave him living the American dream, of course his paying his fortune and burning his money had a big deal to do with that too. But who is judging? It´s no secret that if you are rich and famous people will surround you with goodies.

  And he had it all. From gorgeous women to free access to private clubs and restaurants. And he was one of many; even Dean Martin had this kind of privilege. Even with no money he would be invited to have dinner in a fancy restaurant just because of who he was.

  Only telling the truth as crude and gruesome and sometimes filled with fake stars, with no brilliance at all.

  They were actually not as bright as a real star, with the likes of Marilyn Monroe, who was as rich and awesome from the inside as she was seeing from the outside world, with her inner beauty been reflected upon the spotlight from the external ambiance.

  And the studios were no different. They spotted a chance in Guinle´s meritorious fortune as well. So they soon gave his empty hands (or full hands, filled with dollar bills) a chance to do something productive, and he started working for the first time in his life. And one of his official tasks was to read film scripts. He had to make sure that it didn´t happen a terrible mistake, as it still does nowadays. His task was easy and simply this: to make sure that Brazilian screen characters spoke Portuguese, not Spanish. Or at least that they didn´t have a Spanish accent portrayed as a Brazilian character. (Sorry, Penelope Cruz, but you in “Woman on Top” didn´t do the trick, at least not from a Brazilian artist's point of view). And it was there, at the Los Angeles effervescent scenario that he met MM.

  The wealthiest Brazilian guy, a playboy, and one of the richest man on Earth at that time, with dazzling eyes to die for, and a charm that would sweep a less advised woman´s feet off the floor, made him almost like a myth. His figure was not well planned like most of the stars in the terrains where he was playing then. And yet everyone could sense that a God was emerging from a magnate, a new top guy who would circle their world with new possibilities with glory and charm, and who wanted anything else but this in that world. And how much they were thirsty for a new blood to suck on

  Guinle was the real deal. He was not there for the fake of it, I mean, sake of it. He was gambling with his own life, among so many other Gables, I mean, gamblers. To tell about this kind of life, one must be pretty cool, and laid back type not to be taken by excitement. One can even become blind by all its richness and brightness.

  So soon Jorginho (that´s the diminutive of his name in Portuguese and that´s how he used to be called by his family and counterparts in Brazil) starred in a real life event, having to play the character who was himself, and who had to play with so many other stars. It was indeed an epic movie shot in the hottest locations with a huge budget and an all-star cast to quote an undeniable source.

  To quote only two in a surreal yet so real account, in a real life movie that he acted with Ava Gardner, “the most beautiful woman Hollywood has ever seen"; and Anita Ekberg, the La Dolce Vita star who he said of being "very unsophisticated but so beautiful — when I saw her for the first time, I almost flipped".

  And to flip pages here, I won´t go much further for this suspense /mystery author is not the least interested in th
e lives of the rich and famous people in Hollywood, for that you have such programs as E! News, or some reality shows such as the life of the Kadarshians... exactly, who?

  But to be fair, and just to show that it still touches a bit how, I will assume that MM is so close to me as if she was behind my back, reading these same words as I type them. And if I was to come up with another theory, about the six degree of separation, I would go as far as to say that I am only two degrees of separation from Marilyn Monroe, since I acted with no one less than his grandniece, Guilhermina Guinle in a Brazilian soap opera. She´s the granddaughter of Copacabana Palace Hotel´s founder. And she was as gentle and discreet to me as all of her family members were. Well, maybe not Jorginho (as they used to call Jorge Guinle). No, I didn´t meet him though, or I would be only one degree of separation from MM. And as much as I love chocolate, M&Ms with all its colors are just too much for me.

  But then who is unforgettable? There she was: Marilyn, who stayed in his head his entire life... until he reached his eighty-eight years of age. Well lived then, now lived, because if you go backwards, the word “lived” means “devil”. And who wants to live forever?

  In 1962, Jorge went to California. He was supposed to meet Marilyn for she had promised him that she would encounter him, for he said that he would die if he didn´t meet her again. And he also told her that he would be the one to take her to the Venice Film Festival. Only that she wouldn´t appear for the occasion.

  And the luxurious, expensive and out of this world topaz necklace that he had promised to a jeweler friend of his that he would give to Marilyn went to another neck: Jayne Mansfield´s.

  As much superficial and little benevolent as this might sound, there was this devastating news that of having such beauty out of his sight. And as he came back to his feet and cleared up his own sense, he frantically looked over his pocket and went after his address book to search for his next “victim” which he proudly declared of spending the next two years together.

  Yet Guinle was heartbroken when he learned about the celebrity MM´s death. After all, the letter J came first, and yet he had first decided for the dazzling star. So much so that he didn´t take her image off of his head until recently. Even after two aneurysms.

  "I have no regrets," he says. "I had a much better life than I could have imagined. I met the A to Z of Hollywood and had a great time. I might not have any money left, but, when I sleep, I dream of Marilyn." But then he died ten years ago. Would he still dream of Marilyn yet? I guess his soul didn´t rest until he would be able to see this magnificent being, this light full of life and cheerful as she was, bright and spectacular on the day that he first met her when she was only twenty.

  Incidentally, it was an overdose of fatigue and disgust ball that killed her.

  No, I´m not talking about Marilyn now. I´m talking about another bombshell: Carmen Miranda who desperately tried to survive a life filled with mischief and sorrows that only she could explain how much misery she had to go through and how much more mystery surrounded her with her mother being sick and all; and to overcome so many obstacles to compound this tragic symphony. And she still had to play the role of a happy, sensual, sexy and exciting woman despite all the troubles that she had to go through.

  She crashed several times before she could spare some time with family and friends, and be rewarded by her achievements. She even reached to the point of having gone through a series of electric shocks. And again, to be clear, I´m not talking about MM, who also had the same kind of treatments, having to be taken against her will to a therapeutically psychiatric care.

  And definitely, I´m not taking it all on me, as you shouldn´t either. As I declared before, this is a work of fiction based upon facts, and any similarities with real lives... are no coincidences.

  But when talking about things that sound so familiar, things that did not only happen to your neighbor but you having being through the same things that others, celebrities or not, had been, stepping in the same stones, having wearing the same hats and experiences the many pains and aches, it's like wearing their own shoes. So it is not so unusual, then it´s time to take a closer look.

  For Carmen and Marilyn, they both had been taken into custody and against their will. And only those who had been through this could sense it in first person and relate to that and start putting the words out to reach more people who also had suffered in the hands of medical assistance with no clue.

  No, this book is not about me. Or is it, in some way that I felt obliged to put on some light on dark matters? I´m not in any way a speculative type, but when issues like this string a cord or two inside my heart I just have to play along in the rhythm of an orchestrated scheme and open up a rainbow of possibilities and a mushroom in a blast candy-bar wrap-up to make life worthwhile. I´m as sharp and conscious as any Buddha-like figure would be in the midst of a tempest of insane acts from this crazy, frankly frantic and murky nut job that´s this world we call reality. I try to unveil the illusion that some forces in power insist on creating in order to make us sick, so that we may be as blind as a bat, battling among so many rocks in a dark cavern. Hopefully my mission here will be echoed in many findings. I just so wish for it!

  When she last visited Brazil, between December 1954 and April 1955, Carmen stayed a month and a half in a self constrained diet of not seeing anyone or any words from the outside world; she spent exactly forty-nine days confined in a double suite at the hotel Copacabana Palace, by doctor's order.

  She was trying to turn away from the fake image that Hollywood created of her and recover her own self, just like Marilyn Monroe in that turning point where all fame and power dissuaded them to sell their souls to the devil. They both had that charisma that one cannot fabricate but be born with and a fire in their hearts that the world outside them was eager to consume.

  And in that fatidic year, in 1962, Brazilian playboy Jorge Guinle flew to the United States to give his old flame Marilyn Monroe some jewelry given to him by a friend (and his name is not revealed because first and foremost Jorginhos was a gentleman and didn´t point out names, at least not from his intimate circle). He was to accompany her to Venice for the city’s film festival and wanted her to show up with some added glamour, in a beautiful topaz necklace.

  Jorginho flew his way from Rio to L.A. As he so many times had made. And he walked off the aircraft when he felt a cold breeze.

  “No, it is not possible!” He had a premonition that something went incredibly wrong in his attempt to come back as the epic armored or enamored shinny knight who would take his lady by the arms. He put his two feet on the ground. He looked outside the window of the limousine that would take him to the Beverly Hills Hotel.

  “Can´t believe she´s dead!” He heard someone screaming in the short thirty-five minutes drive right there in the middle of the Rodeo Drive.

  And that´s when he learned about her death. No, actually, he saw it on the headlines, just like everyone else. There on the TV set where they announced Marilyn Monroe’s suicide in a loop of each and every second non-stopping, so it was hard to miss.

  Jorginho, although he was still called like a little boy in a sweet way, was then forty-six. And he was still a billionaire (in dollars) and amassing his fortune that he had inherited. But he was not loosing much as he was already spending so much, and still there was so much more on his shelves and under his sleeves. (I can only wonder where he would put that amount of money. Would he put all his fortune under the mattress?) And yet he was miserable, devastated.

  And less than a minute later (or hours, who is counting time with that amount of cash?) he didn´t freak out thinking that he had lost the battle. He called upon his white horse (or rather, his whiskey), poured it down his glass and started mumbling about whom he should call next. Who was next in his black book? His finger tip-tapped from head to bottom to arrive to the letter J. He reached his phone book; reached out to the phone in one of his luxurious five star bedrooms in the Beverly Hills Hotel, swung t
he rotary dial disk with one hand while holding the receiver near his ears with his shoulder. He got a ring (actually a necklace) and she answered to his call. There he had it in his hands, the necklace that he would put over the neck of the second most desirable women at that time: Jayne Mansfield in flesh and blood.

  "I phoned Jayne Mansfield, who had just divorced from her husband. I wasn’t able to give the jewels to Marilyn, so I gave them to Jayne. She was delighted. We spent the next two years together."

  Jorginho still keeps his memories very vivid. He was not the villain of the story after all. Although his vanity would make him sound very superficial, he had a warm personality and would never portray the soul of a bad boy. He was ever too fresh and gentle for this. And yet he kept that merry-go around routine of his, as much here and as in the afterlife.

  He stood there, with his head down, then looked around in a boyish manner and a little smile, while holding his right hand up.

  “Pleading guilty, your honor!”

  That´s all that he had to say.

  The blond woman took out her glasses and revealed a brownish eye embedded in a rosy secretion. She looked tired although her youthful appearance could easily disguise that she had just reached her early thirties. She put her glasses back on again and she was about to leave the Hotel´s reception hall when she remembered that she had her contact lenses in her eyes.

  “Oh that's why my eyes are burning,” she said to herself. “One can go blind by leaving those in.”

  She looked to her right and then to her left, clueless to where she could possibly be safe.

  “Where is the toilet?” Misses Murphy asked the receptionist.

  “On the left, near the telephone booth.”

  She entered the bathroom and washed her face. She looked at the mirror.

  “Oh, my gosh, do I look horrible tonight!”

  She then took a lipstick and passed it through her mouth like a car wash metallic broom brushing an automobile, like a vigorous brushing would do in a very resourceful and quick vehicle. She took her mobile phone that was ringing out of her bag.