Marilyn Monroe's Last Letter.

Marilyn Monroe

In the summer of 1996, came a sequence of episodes, that by themselves, were but vignettes of short sell-by date: of interest to only those involved. However, when strung together, they imply that an act of murder occurred. It began the day I came upon Marilyn Monroe's letter.

I was rummaging through the art materials of Javier de Murga, in his Estepona studio. My excuse is that I was curious about his way of painting. I wanted to appraise the materials that he used, his techniques on canvas, etc. Javier's being out somewhere made it the moment to do this. Besides, Javier himself searched through my own possessions when I was away in England. He told me that he read my playscript 'Minotaur'. Indeed, it was he who suggested I change the title.

"Call it Picasso,' he said as he sucked his pipe. He pondered awhile longer, then clarified his reasoning. 

"It will attract a larger audience, but mind, I'll want my name on the script and go fifty-fifty on the profit!" 

Ah, I do so miss the great man.

But I digress. After that incident, namely of artists not having secrets from fellow artists, especially ones sharing digs, my conscience was clear to... let's say, explore the rudiments of Don Javier de Murga's art.

Thus it was, as I inspected his box of paints and crayons, I came across a letter, franked with a US stamp. Unfolding the creases, I read. It was from a lady distraught. Phrases such as, "being used" and "...bastard brothers..." remain in my memory. I noted the woman signed herself "Marilyn". Carefully, I folded the letter, placed it back in its envelope and went back to examining his canvases and tools. Not for an instant did I connect the name with Marilyn Monroe. Why on earth would I?

It was some time later before the veil of ignorance lifted. That came the night of my theatre show. Produced and directed by Miguel Ponce, the presentation of my theatre piece 'Minotaur' took place in Marbella's 'Parque de la Constitucion. It was Thursday 22nd August, 1996 and I was on a cloud of delight.

Javier attended the show and afterwards joined us at our 'after' party, hosted by Miguel on his crumbling balcony. We sat tight bunched, like poseurs in a Beryl Cook painting. Miguel, emperor of affairs, sat tight-thighed beside young Carlitos, bookended on the other thigh by Rafiq, a young Arab whom he had espied in the audience during the show. Squeezed in at the rusty, loose balustrade end of our regal platform sat Javier and myself. The rest of the cast had to make do with the spacious apartment to our rear. 

The cheap, plastic table shook our drinks with each and every breath drawn by our cosy ensemble. To each and every self congratulatory comment. Javier was amused to see me basking in what, I since realise was only a pale moon's glory. However, it was my first work to have been stage produced so, it still merits the plaudit. 

"Your first play, produced," said he, sagely nodding the head. "Pity there was not an audience to view it."
"There was an audience," I haughtly retorted.
"Hmmm. Whom we awoke. Which speaks well of your work's potential," he replied. "There are many that perform to the opposite affect".
"They were British. They understood what I was saying," I floundered.
"They were drunk," clarified Javier.
"One was Arab," piped Miguel. 
His falsetto laughter caused our flutes of cava to depart the table as it went into spasm. A squeeze from Miguel's wandering hand on Rafiq's thigh kept me from securing the plastic vessels from the floor.

Miquel flapped a hand.

“Los siento, caballeros... distinguished guests. But be content, for we have more. Enough to bathe in, if we don't drink it all beforehand." 

His laughter went up an octave and I made a mental note to self. 

"Do not get paralytic this evening".

"Hmmm," Javier voiced in my ear.

I must have shown some shock on my face for as Miguel sent Carlito to provide us with new drinks, he whispered in my ear,

“You’re too old to be raped.”

Two flutes and an unopened bottle of Freixenet brut wended its way to us. Javier was meanwhile slicing a 'Romeo and Julliet' with his cutter. He only ever smoked cigars when being distinguished became his presence, I found. Only when he had lit his cigar did he continue his critique.

"The cast and our own numbers made for half the audience." 
He waived his hand up and down gently, as was his habit when I became perturbed. 
"It was simply an observation. A statement of fact. You learnt much more about your work through this than what a reading would have provided. But it remains..."
I was aware of the background music for all the troupe were listening. Miquel and his cohorts leant into me as we waited on Javier’s pregnant pause.
“…Not completely formed. Like a baby with two heads and too many limbs".
The balcony and apartment pondered this image.
"Una araña," piped up Carlitos.
"With two heads," replied Rafiq. "Hombre! Who ever saw an ankabūt with two heads!"
Miquel giggled and squeezed them quiet.
"Nothing like a spider." 
He shook his head at their misinterpretation and winked at my stern visage. 
"Like Javier said. A baby. Simply a malformed child,” he said reassuringly.
"Thank you, Miguel, for clearing up the mistranslation,” I huffed. “All that remains is do I finish my drink before or after slitting my wrists!”
Miquel made small bird tuttering noises in his throat and cooed me to calm.
“No, no, no, me querido. Oh, but what Javier means is simply that your great, magnificent piece still needs a bit more work. That’s all.” 
He placed a hand on my arm.
“For yours is a play that possesses that rare thing. The potential to become a masterpiece. I can see theatres and open spaces filling with audiences clambering for seats and merchandise. It is... maravilloso. Quite beyond, querido. Beyond all else.”
Javier placed his hand on my other arm.
"This work is the work of genius. I cannot detract from what it portrays. There are aspects to it, in its visual form, that are great. It is the tidying up of the piece that I suggest you attend to. It needs tightening."
Miguel chipped in.
"Work in progress. A draft. You can finish it. Then we'll put on another show. To a larger audience," he enthused. “Now quickly,” he stage whispered Carlito, “More cava. Tending sensitive playwrights I find, fast empties the flute". 

Javier reflected on another 'after' party occasion, "A proper one," he told us, when he was in London in 1953. He was a guest celebrating at a party thrown by Terence Rattigan and Laurence Olivier. Javier told me that he was sitting at a table with Peggy Ashcroft, David Niven and Marilyn Monroe... and that it was through this meeting with Marilyn that they became close friends. 

A little known fact about their friendship.

Javier and +Hugh Hefner were friends. Hearing that Javier was friendly with Marilyn and knowing Javier was a talented artist in both paint and with camera, Hefner asked if Javier would care to direct the photo shoot with Marilyn for the first issue of +Playboy. For whatever reason though, Javier turned the offer down.

Marilyn on Heffner's first issue of 'Playboy'

Though Marilyn was living in Hollywood, following a hectic ritual of photo shoots, parties and filming schedules, and Javier was travelling about Europe and the Middle East, the pair maintained an irregular correspondence.

Javier told how me Marilyn was a beautiful person, but that she ended up being corrupted by the Kennedy brothers. He spat vile about them. He told me John Kennedy had had an affair with her, then passed her on to his brother, Robert Kennedy. Both men had abused her. Marilyn became distressed and depressed as a result.

I asked Javier whether he thought it was this depression that caused her to commit suicide.

"She was murdered!" he retorted. "She wrote to me the day before she died... I should know what was happening ...No, she was killed by those who wanted to protect the President and his brother. The authorities... the CIA and the FBI... they knew that a letter had been sent to me. They didn't know what was in it. I returned home one time to discover the house that I was staying at had been ransacked. They were searching for the letter."

"What did you do with it?" I asked. 

He sucked long on his pipe before responding.

"I destroyed it".

Javier de Murga at work in his studio

Conversation turned to other topics and I gave the matter no more thought. Then a few days later I had a lucid moment, whilst I lay half awake in bed. The letter amongst Javier's paints... that was Marilyn Monroe last letter! I laughed and thought about going to confirm this. However, on reflection, I decided to leave it. Her words were quite possibly the last ones that she had penned. Also, she had addressed the letter, "My Dear friend, Javier..."

“Best leave some secrets be,” I thought.