by Mark Lee
I looked good, almost handsome, for the first time in my life. You couldn’t tell that I had stubby legs. My extra weight made me seem solid, not sloppy and fat. I wondered if my life would have turned out differently had I looked like this in high school.
“Grazie,” I whispered.
“Prego,” the family answered. They all looked tired and proud, like they had scaled Mount Everest with a pair of scissors and some thread.
I saw Daniel in the mirror, standing behind me. “Grazie infinite,” he told them.
The younger daughter brought out some grappa and poured it into little brandy glasses. I handed over my credit card while Daniel gave a separate tip to each of the tailor’s children. The money was folded over once, then slipped into each person’s hand like a gesture of friendship. It was the first time I ever realized that there was a graceful way to pay your bills.
Everyone shook my hand and complimented me, and then we were back out on the street and squeezing ourselves into the Spider. I was half drunk from the wine at the tailor shop or maybe I hadn’t sobered up from lunch. The alcohol blurred the streetlights and softened all the edges of the buildings.
“You satisfied, Nicky?”
“I guess so.”
“Good. Let’s go to the party.”
Daniel drove just as fast at night as he did in the daytime, but there were fewer cars in the streets and he was able to glide through most of the intersections. The warm night air swirled around us as we cruised back across the Tiber. Another Alfa Romeo passed in the opposite direction and the driver honked his horn. Shifting gears, Daniel explained that the single male driver was an Alfista, that we were Alfisti and that if we encountered a pair of beautiful Italian women in a Spider they were Alfiste.
“What if they’re not beautiful?” I asked.
Daniel shifted again and cut in front of a Fiat. “They have to be. It’s a tradition.”
On our left, the Castel Sant’ Angelo glowed with light. Its round walls and the towers of the inner castle made it look like an enormous cupcake. I began seeing photographs everywhere. Two lovers stared at some illuminated ruins. A drunk old man was doing a little dance on the sidewalk. A black cat perched on a white marble wall. I felt happy at that moment, or maybe it was just the grappa. Everything seemed possible if we just kept moving—perhaps we would even meet some Alfiste.
We turned off the corso and entered the narrow streets of the old city. The tires bumped over cobblestones, and I felt like the buildings were moving closer and closer together, forcing us into alleyways not much wider than the car. Finally Daniel parked near some trash cans. We got out of the car, walked past a church and through an archway, and then we were standing on the southern side of Piazza Navona. People were sitting at outdoor tables and a small band was playing a waltz.
“Is there going to be food at this party?”
“Of course. It’s Rome.”
Daniel strolled over to one of the large buildings circling the piazza. A burly doorman with a squashed nose stood in front of a steel and glass door. He recognized Daniel and waved us inside. The elevator operator was a tough little guy and I could see a shoulder holster beneath his suit coat. He guided us into an elevator that looked like a birdcage and pushed down the lever. We went up slowly, the elevator squeaking and shivering, until we reached the top floor.
The Count’s coat of arms was hanging on the wall of the vestibule. I guess it was real and historical, but it looked like a plaster-of-paris movie prop. Pop music was blasting from a stereo inside the apartment and Daniel had to knock twice before the Sicilian maid answered the door. She smiled at Daniel, whispered something in Italian, and he gave her a few bills.
If I had come there alone I would have been tentative, cautious, trying not to knock anything over until I met the host. Daniel charged down the narrow hallway and led me into a dining room filled with antique furniture. Platters of fruit and vegetables were spread out on a central table along with plates of pastries and a giant clamshell filled with iced shrimp.
I grabbed a chocolate-dipped strawberry and stayed close to Daniel as we entered a living room filled with guests talking, drinking, laughing loudly. There was a pig’s head floating in a Plexiglas box in one corner of the room. Directly across from it, in the facing corner, was a billy goat’s head.
“What the hell is that?”
“Art. It just arrived a couple of weeks ago.”
A little brass plaque was mounted on the wall, midway between the two boxes. It gave the name of the artist and the title of the installation—Fama e Fortuna. “So which one is Fame and which is Fortune?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Nicky. Take your pick.”
As I followed Daniel through the living room, I realized that both women and men glanced at him as he passed. I remembered taking photographs of two British actors who found themselves in a play with a Siamese cat. Because the audience never knew what the cat was going to do, they ignored the actors and watched the animal move across the stage. Daniel’s body, the way he carried himself, had the same degree of unpredictability. There was a restlessness within him, an energy, that was barely contained.
Daniel and I passed through some French doors and stepped out onto the patio. Darkness. Stars. Directly below us was the piazza; the tourists and the waiters and the Italian schoolgirls linked arm in arm circled slowly around Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers. A three-quarter moon had risen above the city. It glowed with a soft gold-colored light, like an old Roman coin that had been pulled from the earth and placed on a black velvet cloth.
“You’ve brought a friend, Daniel.”
I turned away from the city and faced a dark-haired woman in her forties. A well-dressed older man stood next to her.
“Mr. Bettencourt is a fellow journalist.” Then Daniel introduced me to the Contessa Something or Other and her husband, the Count. Having listened to the Contessa shout and weep on Daniel’s answering machine, I had figured that they were lovers, but here she was, talking to us like we were guests at a family picnic. I realized why Daniel had dragged me to the party. If he had showed up alone, his affair with the Contessa would have been more obvious. I was camouflage in a new suit.
The Contessa had good cheekbones and a strong nose. She had probably been a great beauty ten years ago, but now she had one of those unnaturally smooth faces that comes from too much plastic surgery. Her eyes were focused on Daniel and when he lit her cigarette, she touched his hand and pulled the match a little closer.
The Count and I were both dressed the same way: two British gentlemen. While we stood on the patio, he checked out what I was wearing. He disapproved of the camera bag slung over my shoulder, but his eyes lingered on the lapels of the suit coat, my shirt collar, and the burgundy-colored necktie. When he nodded slightly to himself, I was pleased. If he was the fashion inspector, then I had just passed the exam.
“How fortunate that you’ve brought your camera,” the Count said. “Michael Cesare is our guest of honor tonight. He has come to Rome to sing at the Baths of Caracalla.”
I must have looked confused because Daniel provided a quick explanation. “Cesare is an opera singer. The Teatro dell’Opera has a summer season at the Roman ruins.”
The Count looked annoyed. “He is not just an opera singer. He is the most significant tenor of this new generation.”
“We have other guests of honor,” the Contessa said. “The Texans.” Her husband sighed. “Ahhh, yes. The Texans.”
“They look very lonely tonight.” The Contessa grabbed my hand and pulled me away. “Come with me, Signor Bettencourt. You must talk to them.”
She slipped her arm through mine like we were two schoolgirls down in the piazza. I turned my head and my lips grazed her hair.
“You are working with Daniel?”
“Maybe.”
“What does that mean?”
“We might be traveling to Africa to cover a story.”
Her arm tightened slightly. “
He didn’t tell me this. He never tells me anything.”
I saw the Texans right away—two balding guys with their wives. They stood together in the middle of the living room like cattle facing a pack of dogs. They looked nervous and a little scared.
“Signor Garvey, Signor Price, this is Signor Bettencourt, an American news photographer.”
“Glad to meetcha,” said Price. Maybe the Contessa was right—the Texans were lonely—because everybody wanted to shake my hand. I met Tom and his wife, Arlene, Vernon and a woman whose name I immediately forgot. She was short, with big hair, and giggly.
The Contessa drifted away and talked to one of the servants. I chatted with the Texans. Vernon and Tom owned a motel chain called the Gold Star Inns. In the last few years they had bought controlling interest in a cruise-ship line and a resort in the Bahamas.
“Then Arlene here, she’s the reader, bought a couple of books about an American lady who lived in Tuscany. I didn’t think too much about them, either way, but Arlene said they’ve sold hundreds of thousands of copies.”
Vernon nodded. “I read the books and figured that lots of people would like to have the same kind of experience without the hassle. One of our attorneys got in touch with the Count and he started sending us faxes.”
“The Count is going to guide people around Tuscany?”
Arlene looked amused. “Of course not. He owns a village there.”
“An entire village?”
“The whole damn thing,” Tom said. “Lock, stock, and barrel.”
“We figured that we’d put in some detached units there. Gut out the existing homes and install American plumbing, central heating, and satellite TV. Everything first rate. People could come for a week or two months.”
“Where would the villagers live?”
“We’ll keep ’em around, of course. They’ll be the employees. But it will be a controlled environment. No cars, just electric golf carts.”
I stared at them, impressed and appalled. “And the villagers said they’d go for this?”
“Hell, yes. All the young people there want a good job. That working on the farm stuff gets old real fast.”
I excused myself, grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray, and drifted into the dining room. Everybody was talking about the two heads in formaldehyde. Apparently the Count had just bought them from a young British genius for ten million lire. The pig had pale skin with blue veins, like a human, and its eyes were closed. I asked one of the servants if the pig was Fame, but he didn’t speak English.
Perhaps I should have been angry with Daniel for using me to conceal his love affair, but the new suit changed everything. Although I didn’t know enough Italian to flirt with the women, several of them smiled at me and I smiled back. Usually I feel like I’m sitting in the cheap seats watching other people perform in an endless play. But with my Italian suit I was up on the stage—not in a big role perhaps, but definitely part of the story.
Daniel and the Contessa had disappeared. The Count didn’t seem to care. Around midnight Michael Cesare showed up with his entourage. The opera singer was a big man with a small blond ponytail. He demanded a special drink that included lime juice, cold tea, and a raw egg. The Count scurried in and out of the kitchen trying to find all the ingredients. It was difficult to figure out who was sleeping with whom, but one thing seemed clear: the Texans were going to lose all of their money.
I was drinking more champagne and eating my third plate of shrimp when the Contessa cornered me. She looked angry.
“You think that your friend is loyal, but that is not true. He only cares for his work.”
“Daniel isn’t my friend.”
“Good. I would not travel to Africa with him. He is a cold man. Un egotista. If you get sick or injured he will leave you there.”
The Count approached us and pointed to my camera bag. “You,” he said as if I were a plumber who had just shown up to fix a leaky faucet, “take a picture of me and Michael Cesare.”
“Why?”
“Our photograph must appear in my friend’s newspaper.”
“Then get one of their guys to do the job.”
The Count jabbed his finger at the breast pocket of my new sports coat. “I order you to do this! Immediatamente!”
I was going to tell the Count to go to hell when Daniel stepped in front of me and spoke in a soft voice. “What’s the problem, Nicky?”
“I don’t want to take their picture.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a news photographer. That’s what I do. I’ll risk my life to take a picture that’s important, but I won’t do it just to pump up somebody’s ego.”
Daniel nodded, but he didn’t move away. “We’re guests, Nicky. We’ve eaten the man’s food and drunk his wine. If you don’t want to do it, then give me the camera.”
He reached out and held both my arms as if to keep me from falling. I knew that he was going to take the picture, regardless of what I said. What the hell, I thought. Don’t want him touching my equipment.
“All right,” I told the Count. “Go over there and hug your buddy.”
The Count turned gracious and charming. He hurried over to Cesare, threw an arm around him, and they both grinned like school-boys. I raised my camera, took one step to the right to get the pig’s head in the frame, then took the picture.
Daniel whispered something to the Contessa and she laughed loudly. He coaxed me out of the apartment and led me down a marble staircase. I was still annoyed that he had maneuvered me into taking the picture.
“What’s the problem?” I asked. “Why did we have to leave?”
“You’re drunk, Nicky. Time to go home.”
“How come the Count lets you screw his wife?”
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“If we’re going to work together, then we’ve got to be honest with each other. I want to know what’s going on so I can evaluate the risk. I’m not going to get killed like Victor Zikowski.”
Daniel spun me around on the landing and slammed me against the wall. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned him. Are you making a point, Nicky? Trying to tell me something?”
“Maybe.”
“It was his idea to go up that road and I went with him. Victor knew how dangerous it was. We both took the same risk.”
I was too drunk to come up with a reply so I let him drag me out into the square. It was dark and the crowds had disappeared. An old man stood by one of the fountains and played a sad song on an accordion. Somehow we made it back to the Spider. I closed my eyes and leaned against the door as Daniel started the engine.
I assumed he was going to drop me off at the hotel, but when I opened my eyes again we were speeding north on the Appian Way. The road was very narrow and bumpy. Garden walls and pine trees lined both sides and it felt like we were trapped in a tunnel. No road signs. A faint glow came from the car’s instrument panel, but it was difficult to see Daniel’s face. All I knew was that we were driving as fast as possible toward some unknown destination.
• • •
I WOKE UP AT DAWN, still sitting in the car. My muscles were stiff and I felt sick to my stomach. A flock of sparrows were perched on the hood of the Spider. I lurched forward and they all flew away.
The car was parked on a hillside somewhere in the country. Peering through the windshield, I could see an oak tree and a clump of thornbushes. My hand found the door handle. I got out, took two steps, then felt ill and sat down on some gravel. Daniel had left me here. God knows where he had spent the night. After a few minutes of fighting with my stomach, I closed my eyes and lay on my side.
Footsteps crunched across the gravel, and I felt the shock of cold water splashed on my face. I sat up, sputtering, and an old woman carrying a red plastic pail began screaming at me in Italian. She was less than five feet tall, dressed in black with white hair slipping out from beneath her kerchief.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. But I don’t know what you’re sayin
g. If you could just talk a little slower …”
She tapped her forefinger on her head to indicate that I was crazy, then turned away from me and took a path that led up the slope to a gray stone farmhouse. A patio was at the front of the house and it was covered by a latticework intertwined with grapevines.
I stood up, still wobbly, and saw Daniel come out of the house carrying a silver coffeepot and some cups. He bowed slightly to the old woman. She pointed down the hill and delivered a few more comments, most likely about my sleeping habits and moral degeneracy.
My new pants were covered with dirt. Burs and stickseeds clung to my suit coat. Slowly I followed the pathway up the hill. I passed one terrace dotted with olive trees, then a second terrace supporting a large vegetable garden. When I reached the arbor I found Daniel sitting at a wooden table wearing a Bob Marley T-shirt, torn blue jeans, and running shoes.
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
He filled a cup with hot coffee and mixed in some evaporated milk. The sticky, sweet milk usually made me gag, but that morning it softened the harsh taste of the coffee and helped settle my stomach.
“Where the hell are we?”
“North of Rome, near the village of Bracciano.” Daniel made a circular motion with his right hand, taking in the farmhouse, the olive trees, and the vegetable garden. “This is my home.”
The old lady came out with more coffee and banged the pot down on the table. She spoke to me in Italian, not shouting this time, but giving me lots of advice.
“Nicky, I’d like you to meet La Signora. She lives in another house farther up the hill.”
“Buon giorno, signora.” I smiled, but the old lady kept talking.
“She thinks that you slept on the ground last night and is afraid that this habit will give you tuberculosis. La Signora’s brother used to get drunk and sleep on the ground, and that’s how he died.”
