The Fat Lady Sang by Robert Evans

Author:Robert Evans [Evans, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-09-25T12:00:00+00:00

Apparently, Florinda wasn’t that faithful. She went on to become the Countess Marina Cicogna’s live-in girlfriend. By coincidence, the countess, one of Italy’s wealthiest, was also one of Italy’s most prestigious film producers. In time, it was easier getting a date to see the pope than it was to pull Florinda away from the countess.

I did get married, though. Not to Florinda, but rather to Camilla Sparv, a sensational Swede. We spent our honeymoon as guests of guess who? The Rubirosas. At Spain’s most royal resort: the Marbella Beach Club.

For two weeks, in July 1964, the four of us were inseparable. The only problem was Rubi’s continued insistence on picking up every check.

“Rubi, I’m not a charity case.”

“Ah, but Roberto, I am the best man. I’ll have it no other way!”

Seeing Camilla fixate on Rubi’s endowment, I couldn’t help thinking, Can’t disagree, Rubi. You are the best man.

The morning after a night of awesome fireworks over the waters of Marbella, Rubi insisted we travel by car to a small town in Spain.

The road, bumpy. The thermometer, tipping one hundred. Yeah, but Rubi’s ebullience was on high. Me? I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. We arrived at an ancient town. “Roberto, I take you here to offer you my gift of marriage to Camilla. We are now entering Ronda,” he pointed to a bullring. “It is the oldest bullring in the world.”

As we drove through the old town he pointed to the bullring. “It is the heritage of Ronda’s township. We go there now!” Smiling, “Within the corrida, my wedding gift awaits you!”

Nonplussed, Camilla and I followed Rubi and Odile into the ancient corrida. There, the most romantic gift of my life, one that no money could buy, one that only Rubi could arrange, awaited us. Dressed to the tens in their “suit of lights” were the two most legendary matadors in Spanish history: Luis Dominguin and Antonio Ordóñez. The two men were all but godly to the Latin peoples of the world—but both looked up to Rubi as though he were the godly one. To fulfill his wish, they performed mano a mano, each fighting a bull in honor of my marriage with Camilla.

They did it for Rubi. He did it for me.

Exactly one year later, on July 5, 1965, Rubi’s powerful Ferrari sports car jumped the curb and crashed into a tree in Paris. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. The wooden steering wheel—the type used in racing competition—had crushed his chest. At fifty-six, he died the way he lived: moving fast!

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