by Arthur Japin
At least he can surprise her with the print. It fits into the collection of the pieces of Rome he and Gala have gathered from all over the city like magpies picking up aluminum. They’ve dragged all kinds of things back to their nest: marble from the forbidden passages in the Aventine, a lump of red-leaded stucco from Hadrian’s Villa.
Maxim tries to hang the Breenbergh so that Gala will notice it the second she comes in, which isn’t easy without damaging the aged paper. He slides one corner behind a loose piece of wallpaper, another under some cables, trying a few variations, but the draft keeps getting it, the Vatican curling up and fluttering to the floor. Maxim, who almost never loses his cool, swears out loud. His irritation with the uncooperative paper is mixed with his concern. When did she go out? The least she could have done was to leave a note with her time of departure, so he could know when to start worrying.
It would be easier to handle if concern and irritation didn’t create the same nagging pain in the pit of his stomach.
Disappointment was a factor: she wasn’t home, and he’d arrived hoping she would be.
He would say that he missed her, if he ever mentioned it, which he wouldn’t, at least not to her, because she would laugh at him, and she’s never once been concerned on his account.
When the print folds for the umpteenth time, it leaves an ugly crease. For an instant Maxim is annoyed with Gala, worried about the paper; but he immediately pulls himself together.
He opens her suitcase in search of a hairpin or something to attach the print. It goes without saying that there are no secrets between them. Why should you be able to run your fingers through a woman’s hair but not her toiletries bag? He dumps it onto the bed, almost at the point of tacking the print to the ceiling with nail varnish. He tosses the items back one at a time—boxes, jars, combs, curlers, powder puffs—no wonder they never arrive anywhere on time when Gala has to put on her makeup. The swirling powders and perfumes give off the scents he knows so well. They calm him down: he sniffs them and sees her before him.
At the same time, he’s fidgeting with a small glass jar, shaking it. Pills, but not for epilepsy, and he’s never seen them before: an Italian brand he’s never heard of. She must have bought them here. Suddenly it occurs to him: clothespins!
In the garden, the concierge is hanging the washing up on the rotary clothesline.
“Signora Geppi, good afternoon, I was hoping to borrow two pegs.”
“You were, were you? As long as it’s not for anything naughty,” she angles hopefully, but he doesn’t get it. Brazenly eyeing him over a pair of drawers, she takes two pegs and rotates them around her breasts in ever-decreasing circles until they touch the nipples that stand out under her worn black dress like stems at the bottom of a bag of plums. Opening them a few times, she lets the steel springs click shut, like a Spanish dancer’s castanets. Finally, she tosses them into the air and bursts out laughing, shrinking with embarrassment. On both sides of her mouth, she blows spit bubbles out through gaps in her teeth.
Maxim catches the pegs. “It’s just to hang something up on the wall.”
Geppi is so red that she has to duck behind a row of sheets.
“Do you know when you’re leaving?”
“We’re planning on staying.”
“Of course. They all want to stay. As long as possible. That’s why they go.”
“I don’t quite understand. You mean the rent?”
“Don’t worry. Signor Gianni has paid three weeks in advance. It’s just … He thought you would be going away on a trip soon as well.”
“A trip?”
“He thought so.”
“Where to?”
“Who knows? It’s none of my business. But I’d like to rent out the room while you’re away. We can share the takings, so it’s good for you too. And it will be there for you when you get back, of course.”
“But we’re not going anywhere.”
“But if you do, even just for a couple of days, even a weekend. It won’t be much longer. Let me know at least a day in advance. Our house just happens to be very popular.”
“I’ve noticed,” says Maxim, his initial suspicions confirmed. “Very popular. Especially with gentlemen, and never for much longer than an hour.”
Geppi pulls down the clothesline to see if he’s kidding. Then she lets it pop back up, the wash dancing in the sun.
“It’s an offense against Saint Julian to show people the door when there’s a room you’re not using.”
“There’s some mistake; we’re not planning on going anywhere.”
“I just thought you were. But what do I know? It just goes to show. I draw my conclusions. If you’ve seen one go, you think the next one will too.”
“Who on earth are you talking about?” asks Maxim. “Where are they going?”
“Who cares? Short trips. Wherever. And if a couple have gone, you think they’re all going. The same old song, I’ve shot my mouth off again. I’ve always been reckless. That’s what got me my nickname.”
“Yes, I know, la Bomba Atomica.” Yet another thing that doesn’t make any sense, thinks Maxim, who has pocketed the pegs and is searching for a chance to get away from the old fool.
“Not la Bomba, la Bimba, the little girl. The cartoon character! Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of her. It was the first story us kids looked for when we got our hands on the Campanello. Those magazines were long before your day. She was sweet, but rowdy: Geppi, la Bimba Atomica, much too rowdy. She always meant well, but things got out of hand, and by the bottom of the page she was always in tears. And later I even got her body. Irresistible! Explosive! No wonder the name stuck! A name to be proud of, because that figure of mine …” She slides her hands down her dress. For a moment he’s afraid she’s going to weigh her breasts in her hands, but fortunately she thinks better of it. “That figure of mine … Believe it or not, but in my day I looked like a secret weapon with a hair trigger. Which reminds me …” Sighing, she bends down to pull the last pillowcases out of the laundry basket, before disappearing into the labyrinth of hanging sheets. “There was a gentleman caller.”
“What?”
Geppi tugs on the clothesline, making the laundry spin and fan out in the sun. “Yes, a gentleman caller for your girlfriend. That’s what made me think of it, of course.”
“What gentleman?” Maxim asks. “Geppi? Geppi!” He heads into the corridors of laundry to find her between the fluttering walls, but she’s slipped out and away without a word.
“He’s seen our photos!”
“Snaporaz?”
“He’s seen them and picked them out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Snaporaz has graced us with a glance,” Gala teases, giving herself the air of a Grand Inquisitor, “whereupon it pleased him to make further inquiries.”
“Is that it?”
“Do you know how many photos a man like that sees every day?”
“Do you know how many people he then inquires about?”
“We’re up on the notice board in his office in Cinecittà! You and I. He can’t go in or out of his office without seeing us. That’s how far we’ve come.”
“How do you know that?” When she pauses before answering, just like when she’s forced to admit she didn’t take her pills, Maxim’s immediate mistrust is confirmed. “Who told you that?”
“You’ll never guess.”
“No, that’s why I’m asking.”
“Don’t worry, nothing happened.”
“Fulvani!”
“Meek as a lamb. When I suggested stopping by his office, he didn’t even want me to. We went to Tucci, behind the Piazza Navona. Did you know they have the most amazing tartuffo? I’ll treat you to some, soon. He kept it purely professional.”
“On a Sunday afternoon?”
“I told you, he’s scared of me. That seizure taught him once and for all not to mess around with actresses. All I have to do is touch his arm and our Casanova recoils as if I
’m a witch who wants to change his sword into a pin.”
“Why were you touching his arm?”
“Why not? He had good news. Maxim, sometimes I think you’re just not the kind of person open to being surprised by life. Isn’t it wonderful? Snaporaz! Face-to-face with Snaporaz ten times a day! He walks by. Sees our mug shots out of the corner of his eye. Stops to have a better look and, today or tomorrow, he’ll think, ‘I need them, I’ve got to call them!’”
“I’d just like you to be a little more careful.”
“What am I supposed to do? Hang up the phone when someone says he’s practically made an appointment for you with Snaporaz, who’s casting his new film?”
Maxim shakes his head, aware he’s being ridiculous. Only now does the news sink in. He screams so loudly that Gala jumps. Laughing, he grabs her, lifts her into the air, spins her around the room, and smothers her throat and breasts with kisses.
“Come on,” he says, throwing her onto the bed and dropping on top of her, “we’ve got something to celebrate.”
Now that she’s lying down, she spots the Breenbergh for the first time, still rustling from the wind they’ve whipped up. She studies it through squinting lashes for several minutes.
“Exquisite! The way he’s captured the light. Did you feel this paper? It’s almost like it’s real!”
“Yes,” says Maxim, pulling her up off the bed and out the door, “it’s our lucky day.”
“Buon natale!” shouts a Father Christmas at the Casina Valadier. The terrace is decorated with Christmas lights, but beneath the pine trees of the Pincio it is still warm. A law firm is holding a reception: ideal for celebrating free of charge.
Maxim and Gala mingle as if they’ve been invited. Their graceful self-assurance and casual arrogance keep even the most seasoned headwaiter from asking for their invitation. On those rare occasions that one of the organizers comes toward them, Maxim and Gala invariably seem to spy an old friend off in the distance. Surprised, they raise a hand to wave at a stranger on the other side of the crowd, then bear down upon him calmly but resolutely, leaving any awkward questions behind.
One cannot, like an amateur, accept every drink and hors d’oeuvre on offer. After a disdainful appraisal, Maxim and Gala reject almost all of them. Eventually, they request some exotic fruit or liqueur that they are sure cannot possibly be available. Disappointed, they can only make do with the champagne and the salmon canapés doing the rounds, but only as a condescending favor.
The Dutch couple have soon generated so much goodwill that no one raises an eyebrow when Maxim takes a full bottle from the bar, showily reads the label, then wanders off mumbling, “I guess this will have to do.” Gala follows, grabbing a dish of stuffed zucchini flowers while wishing Santa “Buon natale!” on her way out.
“What do you actually know about this film?” asks Maxim. Looking out over the obelisk of Ramses the Second and the traffic on the Piazza del Popolo, they drink to their future.
“Exactly as much as Snaporaz himself.”
“Nothing, in other words.”
“That’s why he drives producers to despair.”
“But he’s got to know which direction he wants to go? Hasn’t Fulvani said anything? How can Snaporaz choose us if he doesn’t know what for?”
“He’s got a story. There’s not much to it. Two actors. They’re old. Probably played by Marcello and Gelsomina.”
“Marcello and Gelsomina …” Maxim savors the names. He’s moved. He takes Gala’s hand. “Just imagine.”
“Elderly actors. Once famous, now forgotten. They loved each other but lost touch. They meet again in a clinic where they are convalescing.”
“The film they could make about us sixty years from now.”
“Exactly, Maxim.”
“Meager, but moving. That’s how it works. The less meat, the more emotion. At the end they dance together, the old actor and the old actress.”
“Dancing?” asks Gala. “No one mentioned dancing.”
“Completely unsuspecting, they come into the recreation room and find a band sitting there.”
“Dancing? Will I still be up to that?”
“Of course. I haven’t seen you for all those years. And suddenly you’re standing there. Old, but still beautiful to me. Because I see you as you were and not as you are. What should I say? What do you say? No words can express it.” Maxim jumps up, a little unsteadily. “But our bodies know exactly what it was like. It all comes back. Every step. Each movement.”
Gala plays along, cuddling up as they dance the waltz from The Mannequins’ Ball. The gravel, crunching underfoot, is all the music they need.
“Buon natale!” calls Father Christmas as he goes by. He’s done for the day. He’s carrying a red coat under his arm, he’s taken off his beard, and he’s tugging at his suspenders to lower his thick, quilted trousers.
The waltz degenerates into shuffling. Finally, the tipsy dancers stand there with their foreheads touching.
“Tell me honestly,” Maxim begins, “no one’s asked you to go on a trip, have they?”
“A trip? What makes you think that?”
“Nothing. Just curious. If anyone had invited you to go on a trip.”
“A trip …,” says Gala after a while. “Now that you mention it, someone did ask me, yes.”
“Fuck! See, I knew it. I knew it!”
Shocked by his intensity, Gala shrinks back, making Maxim lose his balance. He swings his arms as if lashing out at an invisible assailant, loses his balance in his aimless fury, and falls, cutting his hands on the sharp stones. Staring at the injured palms of his hands, he stays on the ground while the dust descends.
“A trip, God almighty, what’s that supposed to mean? Who with? Where? And what did you say? Who fucking well asked you?”
“You did,” Gala answers, sitting down beside him. “Who else, you fool?” She carefully brushes the grit off his hands and strokes his long fingers. “You asked me to come to Rome with you. We were in the bathroom. Don’t ask me why. I was sitting on the edge of the bath, you were on the washing machine. I didn’t even have to think about it. It’s the best thing we ever did.”
“You think so?”
“I feel it. Don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, I think I do feel something.”
4
The next morning, as soon as his hangover has subsided, Maxim walks to Skylight. Fulvani shouts through the intercom that waiting is the best strategy for the time being. It’s almost Christmas, people are going off on their holidays, offices are shutting down, and not much will be happening in the film world for the next few weeks.
When Maxim thinks of their photos on Snaporaz’s bulletin board, he feels an energy he finds hard to square with this news. It was only a matter of a few weeks before the edges would start to curl. A disappointed starlet could rip them down in a fit of jealousy; an inebriated cameraman might pull out a felt-tip during the New Year’s party and doodle a drooping eyelid on his picture, or a moustache on Gala’s.
Where would we be now if Garibaldi had kept bobbing around at sea instead of sailing into Trapani?
That very morning, they take the metro to Cinecittà. From the Istituto Luce on the other side of the road, they observe the comings and goings at the studio gate. Finally, they settle for the most brazen option. They cross the street and stroll in, ignoring the sign telling them to register and waving at the guards instead, like regulars: these guys see young people coming in for auditions all day long. They wave back from behind their newspapers, but emerge from the booth anyway to comment on Gala’s provocative hip swinging. The oldest insists he hasn’t seen anything like it since the day Sophia Loren arrived holding her mother’s hand to report to the set of Ben-Hur, where she was an extra in the chariot race. As always, Gala doesn’t notice, but their jealous stares make Maxim walk twice as tall.
A real border post stands in the forecourt, marking off the separate city. Gala fishes an Instamatic out of her shoul
der bag. To Maxim’s astonishment, she wants a shot for posterity.
He didn’t even know she had a camera.
He hesitates, but she presses the button before he can get away. Then it’s her turn.
After all, in a whole lifetime there’s only one first time you enter the land of Snaporaz.
Gala poses.
He takes the photo.
It moves him.
They really are crossing a border.
Gala has never before wanted to record anything.
Along the wide green avenues, there are no signs of the approaching holidays. In the studios, which are marked with large numbers, the movie business is in full swing all around. In the distance, an enormous 5 stands out like a beacon on the famous Teatro Cinque, the studio where, since the fifties, Snaporaz has shot all of his films. They head straight for it, their nervousness growing with every step. The bar, a kiosk in the middle of the grounds, is packed. In between sandwiches, actresses in Western outfits flirt with toothless medieval peasants. Gala worms her way through, orders two shots of vodka, and knocks them back.
“So I can be more relaxed,” she says, getting ahead of his criticism.
“More relaxed than who?” asks Maxim.
Teatro Cinque’s tall sliding doors are open, but the enormous studio is deserted. The offices are above it. Maxim tucks a few strands of hair in behind Gala’s ear and wipes a lipstick smudge off the corner of her mouth. She uses a little spit to tame his recalcitrant eyebrows.
“What do we say?”
“We heard he has our photos.”
“We had to be here anyway, and we thought we’d drop by to introduce ourselves.”
“And then?”
“Then you say something witty.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re so relaxed.”
Upstairs, a long corridor stretches the full length of the building. There are doors everywhere, but none marked with a name. They try their luck by knocking on a door and asking for the maestro. A young woman talking on the phone looks up with surprise.
