“Don’t worry about it. Not your mission. Tell Scottie to get close to Rosini. Feel him out on the NATO thing. If we can get a few key local guys to accept that having our bases on their soil keeps us all safer, we might be able to pull this thing off.” Duncan smiled at him.
Michael felt a sense of relief, and smiled back. “What is ‘this thing’ anyway?” He made it sound like a joke, though he really wondered what the answer was.
“Avoiding World War III.” Duncan slapped him on the back as if they were a couple of heterosexual lacrosse players. “Keep up the good work. And here.” He pushed a large box of Benzedrines at Michael.
Through the glass Michael could see Clare Boothe Luce coming through the office area, smiling at everyone, wearing a striped full-skirted dress and a large pin in the shape of a dog. Her swanning presence, floating regally along, gave him an idea.
“Are you sure she can’t come to the Palio?” he asked Duncan. “They’re planning on showing her a very good time.” He had been surprised by the excitement in the city about her visit—he had assumed that a city full of Reds would hate Luce on principle—but she was American royalty, and, if not a movie star, then like one, and the papers were filled with stories of how the contrade were planning extra-special displays for the eminent visitor. The Wave contrada planned to make a sculpture of her out of pecorino, the local sheep’s-milk cheese, and parade it on their float on Palio Day. The Tower contrada had commisioned a local poet to write an “Ode to La Luce,” which would be read in unison by a group of schoolchildren. The Snail contrada was building a giant papier-mâché sun, and the Caterpillers were choreographing an interpretive dance based on Luce’s play The Women.
“Not a chance, I’m afraid. Niarchos is counting on her, and Pam Churchill’s going to be there.”
“Do you think we could get a movie star or someone in her place? Maybe Charlton Heston or Kim Novak or someone like that?”
“Why don’t you ask Gordon? He runs in that crowd.”
“Sebastian Gordon?”
“Yes, just give him a call. He’ll know who you should talk to.”
FOURTEEN
IL NICCHIO, THE SHELL
“THE RED OF THE CORAL QUICKENS MY HEART.”
JULY 26, 1956
1.
“Good joke, inviting me to your party only to find my wife already there. Ha!” Gordon had had an agenda that night, and Michael wanted to know what it was. Gordon sounded jaunty on the phone, and when Michael suggested lunch in Florence, Gordon said he would come to the Ford showroom.
When he arrived, Gordon smiled impishly. “I’d been dying to have you two over. When she appeared on my doorstep looking so delicious, on the arm of a handsome marchese, it seemed too, too amusing not to stage a little Feydeau farce.” He was unrepentant, Michael saw, ignoring the insinuation about the marchese. “I thought you’d find it amusing. And it really was a lovely party.”
Michael thought of what Scottie had seen in the grotto. It made him angry that Gordon thought it was funny that a nice girl like Scottie should be exposed to things like that.
“I didn’t find it funny,” he said coldly. “I was surprised to see Julie there.”
“Julie. Was she the minx who came with Giannelli? I don’t know her, but she seems quite formidable.” Sebastian was examining everything in the office, picking up staplers and peering at them as if they were rare Greek vases. “I worried that you might react that way. You Americans are a little stuffy about certain things. Perhaps I was a bit naughty and I owe you a good turn.”
“Well,” said Michael, thinking this was a stroke of luck. “We’ll just put it behind us.”
Sebastian tried the locked cabinet and smiled, leaning against it. “Now I must buy a tractor or else my fattore Piero is threatening to leave me and go off to the Guicciardinis, damn them, and I want to buy one of your lovely American models. Aren’t they huge?” he said, walking down the row of gleaming gigantic machinery in the showroom.
“What are you growing?” Michael asked. Sebastian’s chatty confidence made him nervous.
“Grapes. Your country’s insatiable thirst for cheap Chianti is too good a chance to miss. I’ve planted three more hectares of Trebbiano and two more Sangiovese. I’m drowning in the stuff, so it better sell. I suppose I could have gone more high end. I hear there’s talk of regulating Chianti growing, setting the percentages of grapes according to old Ricasoli’s recipe. But for now, the more I can grow, the more I can sell. That villa costs an arm and a leg to run, I must say.”
“You could sell it and live quite comfortably, I imagine.”
“Never. I want to be buried there, after I die at age a hundred and ninety-seven surrounded by beautiful things. That property is in my blood. I can’t bear the idea of it being turned into a luxury hotel.”
“So this Lippincott wants your place, too?”
“He does, but I won’t sell. He’s no idiot—good time to be buying up properties,” Sebastian said. “Farmers are fleeing in droves. Not so good for you, though, old man. Sorry about that.”
Michael nodded. “I should switch to scooters. Those are selling like crazy.”
“Yes, I fear for my life sometimes, just walking down the lungarno, or here down Via di Città. The new urban plan for Siena should change that, though. They’re talking about banning scooters and cars from certain streets.”
“Yes, I’d heard that. And of course the highway will change everything.”
“Never go through, old man. Fanfani won’t hear of it.”
Amintore Fanfani was a leading member of the Christian Democrats and a former prime minister who led a faction that was suspicious of raw capitalism and wished to promote the common good rather than free markets. He was the bane of Luce’s existence, for a center-left alliance would put Communists in key ministerial posts.
“What do you mean?”
“The highway’s not going through Siena. It’s going through Arezzo.”
“Arezzo?” While a lovely city that was home to a Roman amphitheater and some marvelous frescoes by Piero della Francesca, Arezzo was not on a direct line from Rome to Florence, and would necessitate a sharp and expensive jog to the east. “How did that happen?”
“Fanfani’s hometown, of course. For all his talk about the dangers of capitalism, he wasn’t going to let it become a backwater. When that highway goes in, everyone in that province is going to be drowning in cash.”
“And Siena?”
Gordon smiled. “Will remain a beautiful jewel, untroubled by factories, pollution and crowds.”
“In other words it will be poor and backward.”
“Well, it’s still got Monte dei Paschi. And the Palio. You sound very loyal to your new home. I’m surprised they’ve won you over. The Sienese are not known for their warmth. Dante called them frivolous and vain.”
Michael was hot and irritated by Gordon’s barbs. “I must say, I’m annoyed by all of these generalizations. I’m just a person. I don’t want the responsibility of representing an entire country, and if someone from Siena, or Bari, or Rome cuts me off in traffic, I don’t immediately think ‘Everyone from Bari is a bad driver.’”
Sebastian grinned and thumped him on the back. “Jolly good. Though everyone from Bari is a bad driver, as any Italian will tell you. Now let’s go get some lunch and close this deal. I want the big red shiny one.” He ran a hand over the tractor’s wheel cover.
Michael wanted to tell the man to go to hell, but the sale would help supplement his rather meager government paycheck. For all the millions it funneled around the world, the CIA paid very badly. His personal account at Monte dei Paschi was overdrawn, and he was anxious about skimming any more out of the bribery fund. He locked up the shop and followed Sebastian in the Fairlane to a hotel outside the city walls with a good restaurant that Sebastian liked, the Villa Scacciapensieri.
They pulled up to the large yellow villa with its row of arched windows covered in brown shutters, looking like
it, too, had secrets to hide. The squat, square building with its jaunty striped awning was surrounded by beautiful manicured gardens with lemon trees in huge pots and bright red geraniums in small rectangular planters.
A light breeze cooled the sweat on Michael’s neck as they went out the back into the garden. A headwaiter showed them to a prime table with a pair of wrought-iron chairs in an elevated corner of the terrace, where they could see everyone else. A pergola of grapevines arched overhead, making the space feel leafy and secluded, and the view of hills, fields and castles was right out of Giotto. Sebastian ordered Campari and sodas without asking. He then took out his notebook and began sketching Michael’s profile.
“You might ask first,” said Michael, squirming.
“You’re so testy,” teased Sebastian. “So handsome and such a prick. Your wife must have her hands full.”
Michael was suddenly deeply uncomfortable.
“The world is your oyster, my boy. You should suck it down in one gulp and be happy. A beautiful wife, a good job, and an Italian assignment. It’s not the Belgian Congo, dear, for all its shortcomings. Life here is a party. Join the fun.”
The waiter brought them each a plate of prosciutto and melon. The salty prosciutto melted into the perfectly ripe sweet melon, yet Michael hardly tasted it. Why had Gordon picked this place? And why was he needling him? It felt like a trap.
“Ciao, Pippo,” said Sebastian to one of the waiters, a young man with olive skin and green eyes.
Pippo’s “Buongiorno, signori” was weirdly high-pitched, like Mickey Mouse.
“Castrato,” whispered Sebastian when the man had moved off to another table. “Illegal since 1870, but it still goes on.”
“Why would someone—?”
“Opera. The pursuit of beauty can be a terrible thing.”
Pippo smiled shyly as he returned with a bottle of champagne. “Compliments of the manager,” he said.
Sebastian smiled grandly. “You see, if you’re friendly to everyone, good things happen.”
A pasta came, with the lightest imaginable lemon cream sauce, which melted on Michael’s tongue.
“They make the tagliolini here,” said Sebastian. “A woman named Maria with forearms like oak trees.”
Michael had to admit it was the most delicious pasta he had ever tasted. And the champagne went right to his head. He badly needed a Benzedrine, but he had left them back at the office. Waiters with little metal rulers cleared crumbs as soon as they fell. Gordon seemed to know everyone, waving and ciao-ing and blowing kisses. The chef came out and made him taste something new he was trying. Sebastian pronounced it squisito, and the man beamed.
Michael supposed Sebastian was going to stick him with the bill for all this. He might as well get something useful out of it.
“Do you know any movie stars?” Michael asked.
“My dear boy. I do public relations for Italy’s top luxury brands. I know scads of movie stars. Do you have a crush on Deborah Kerr?”
At the Farm they had told the Junior Officer Trainees that they needed to learn to hold their liquor, because the Soviets would drink you under the table. Though Michael had always been a bit of a lightweight, he figured it didn’t matter since he was unlikely to go head to head in alcoholic combat with a Russian. He was now remembering his father’s war stories about the Brits and their legendary drunks. His head swam as Pippo flashed those green eyes at him and poured him another glass of champagne, then brought out a bottle of red wine to go with their bistecca, a thinly sliced rare steak with rosemary and peppercorns.
“I’d like to get an American movie star to come to Italy for the August Palio,” he said, trying to focus.
“I thought dear old Clare was coming.”
“Just between us, I’ve gotten word that she can’t make it. It would be nice to soften the blow with a big name.”
“Of course,” said Sebastian. “The Italians seem to be addicted to the American cinema. I saw Giant last week at the Excelsior, and it was packed. I think the Italians are falling in love with your lot. Bit jealous, I must say, though of course we Brits had our day of empire building. I wish we’d thought of using Elizabeth Taylor’s breasts to win our wars.”
Michael chewed his steak, thinking it was the finest he had ever tasted. All would be well. Gordon would find him a star, introduce him around, solve his problems without even realizing it. He wondered if he should recruit him formally, as an asset, or just pretend they were friends.
“Tell me about yourself,” said Sebastian. “What do you do when you’re not selling tractors?”
Michael’s caution was disappearing with the wine. He blinked and there was a grappa to go with the coffee. It was nice to be relaxed.
“I see a few close friends,” he said.
“Not an easy boat we’re in, is it?” Sebastian said quietly. “Always keeping our heads down, watching our backs.” The joking tone was gone.
Michael said nothing.
“Why must they hate us, when all we want to do is live our lives? We’re not hurting anyone. Your man McCarthy is the worst. And Hoover! I have friends in the States who ran screaming for their lives. It doesn’t make you un-American to be homosexual.”
He knew he should protest, protect himself, deny it, tell Sebastian that he hated all fags, but he couldn’t. In vino veritas, he thought.
“I suppose it doesn’t,” said Michael awkwardly.
“What a man does behind closed doors is his own business.”
Michael simply nodded and sipped his grappa, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be talking about men having sex with each other. As if it were not a crime, grounds for being fired according to the U.S. government, cast out of decent society. The Catholic Church was willing to let you mull it over, Michael thought grimly, but God expected you to stop there. Any action was a sin.
“Finding the male body attractive—how can that be a crime when you look at what we’ve all just been through, bombings and holocausts? Art is not a crime. Love is not a crime.”
Michael stared into his empty coffee cup. He wished Sebastian would stop saying these things, but he kept talking, and talking, and the waiter’s eyes were so green …
Sebastian went on, his voice soothing, melodic, capable, reassuring, “The Italians, of course, have a much more liberal attitude, as they do about most things. They understand the subtlety of human behavior. As you said yourself, labels rarely fit.”
Sebastian stood up. Michael tried to, but he felt woozy. God, he needed a Benzedrine.
“Looks like we’d better put you down for a quick pisolino before you get behind the wheel, old man.”
When Michael started to protest, Sebastian said, “No problem at all. Whenever the top-floor suite is empty, the manager always lets me in for a quick lie-down. Just the thing. A little siesta. Yet another aspect of life the Italians have figured out.”
Michael did not protest as the bellman took them up in a small metal elevator and opened the door of the suite at the far end of the hall. If the bellman had winked, or smiled or snickered, Michael would have run away, but the man’s face was perfectly expressionless.
The suite was spacious and airy. The shutters were closed but the windows open, so that it was cool and dark inside. Under dark stenciled beams were beautiful antiques, a white sofa and an inlaid table.
“What beautiful roses,” he said, admiring the bouquet in a silver vase.
“See? Just the thing. Two bedrooms. You take that one.”
Michael staggered into a room with a black iron bedstead painted with lemons. A white damask coverlet was pulled back to reveal smooth white linen pillowcases. Michael almost cried with relief at how inviting it looked.
He took off his jacket, his shoes and socks, his shirt, unbuckled his trousers and let them drop to the floor.
“Take a cool shower and you’ll sleep even better,” Sebastian called from down the hall.
“They won’t care?”
&nb
sp; “No no, no one in here tonight.”
Michael removed his undershirt and underpants, went into the adjoining white marble bathroom and stepped under the cool water. The soap smelled like lemons. He could have stayed under the water forever.
He padded back into the bedroom and lay facedown on the bed, his body sinking into the soft mattress.
“Isn’t that better?” Sebastian’s voice was in the doorway. Michael rolled over to see the man standing just out of the room in the hallway, wearing a white robe. His hair was wet and slicked back like a seal. Firm pale calves descended to beautiful feet.
Sebastian was a kind man, Michael thought. How had he not seen that before? Of course he had his defenses up, as they all had to, to survive, but Sebastian was clearly a man of great wisdom and compassion, and so very attractive.
Just one last time, he thought, and then I will be a perfect husband, till death do us part. He held out his hand.
2.
It was a hot, sticky morning. It would have been smart to hide out indoors until the inevitable afternoon rainstorm cooled the city off, but instead Scottie threw on her lightest casual summer dress and sunglasses, and leashed Ecco.
The Rome office wanted them to get closer to “Big Red,” Ugo Rosini. She was thrilled when Michael asked her to handle it.
She called Ugo and arranged to meet him for lunch at a small place off the beaten track in Via Sant’Agata, a simple trattoria, since she knew they would never have privacy in Siena. All of the workmen having their ribollita at the adjoining tables greeted Rosini warmly, thumping him on the back. As soon as they sat down, the waiter plunked bowls in front of them.
“You look beautiful,” Ugo told her. “Italy suits you. Can we be lovers now?”
“I’m glad you don’t hate all Americans,” she said. “That’s part of why I wanted to see you.”
She felt his hand on her leg under the table.
“Come away with me. We’ll go to Rome for the weekend.”
“Tempting.” She blushed, sipping her wine and ignoring the bean and cabbage soup.
“I’ve missed the taste of you.”
The Italian Party Page 26
