Travels Through Love and Time

by Christine Hall Volkoff

  The portion of pier where the Orion was docked was locked so I could not get anywhere near, but I could see there was light on the yacht. I was trying to make out what I was seeing, and if any of the moving spots on the poop deck was actually Francesca. I could not really see anything and I went back home, a little dejected by the ineffectiveness of my spying.

  At around eleven, the phone rang. It could be my mother; possibly … She sometimes called at the strangest hours, especially if she was in a different time zone and had forgotten about it. Instead, I heard a man’s voice with a strong accent.

  “Allo? This is Demosthenes, I am purser for Mr. Spanodakis.”

  “Yes?”

  “La Signora d’Alessi has requested that Christina come and fetch her at the dock.”

  I could not help but smile …

  “Oh, all right. I will let her know, she will be there right away.”

  I did not have to tell Christina to jump on the bicycle and ride like the wind to the harbor. At the gate to the pier, I saw Francesca in a white evening gown which brought out her tan. She was wearing turquoise earrings and gold sandals. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Next to her was Demosthenes, standing by the golf cart. When she saw me, she smiled and rolled her eyes toward Demosthenes who kept looking in the distance for the Christina in question to come and fetch la signora in some kind of vehicle.

  She walked toward me, turned and waved at Demosthenes as I got off the bike and we started toward home, on foot, with me walking the bike. Demosthenes climbed onto the cart and disappeared along the pier.

  “So, how was it?” I asked, not really wanting to know …

  “It was good.”

  She was giving me no details, and I was feeling possessive.

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  She laughed, and frowned at me in mock annoyance.

  “Christina! No, of course not, what do you think!?”

  “Did he want to sleep with you?”

  She responded seriously this time. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. But you see, I can say no. I don’t have to sleep with everyone just to make a movie. It’s good to say no to things you don’t want to do! The hell with them!”

  She paused …

  “Christina, please take my hand, will you? You know I can’t see in the dark!”

  And on we walked, back to the house. The first thing she did was take off her shoes.

  “Let’s have a drink … a drink of water actually, I am very thirsty.”

  So we sat in the kitchen. I got some ice water from the refrigerator. I chose the best glass for Francesca, a red crystal one with cut designs, and poured her a nice tall glass.

  My irritation at her dinner with Spanodakis was completely gone. I wanted to take care of her. I reached for her hand across the table. She held mine in return and rewarded me with a smile which melted my heart even more. But she was still in charge.

  “Sweetheart, do you know what you are going to do? Like with school and all?”

  “No, not really … I still have a couple of years to decide.”

  “Just remember to always stop and think about whether something feels good before you do it. If it does, then follow it. Follow it all the way and don’t look back. You can’t go wrong.”

  This went against everything I had ever heard from teachers and advisors at school. Good feelings led to nothing but depravation and laziness.

  “How do I know when something is really good?”

  “You know it because it stays with you. You drink too much, it feels good, but then you wake up with a headache …that’s not good. You do something really good, it sticks to you, you can take it with you anywhere, and it will keep. It never goes away, though you don’t always know it at first.”

  I was looking at her, trying to understand what she was saying, trying to never forget.

  “I will miss you,” I said.

  “I will miss you too, my angel.”

  She finished her glass and got up. I did too. It was time to go to bed. As we were walking toward our rooms, she turned to me and we fell into a spontaneous embrace. I was holding her very tight. I could have sworn I could feel our hearts beating together. She kissed my neck just below the ear. The sensation was so strange and so powerful that I had to breathe in and out, too fast, almost in a gasp.

  “Oh my …” said Francesca, as she gently released me. “Tesoro, come on sweetie, time to go to sleep … Come wake me up tomorrow morning if I oversleep, OK?”

  She waited for my answer.

  “OK.”

  She went into her room and closed the door.

  Sleep was entirely out of the question. The mystery book was still at the bottom of my backpack from our trip on the Nostromo and I could not bring myself to pick it up. I went out onto the patio and waited for Francesca’s light to go out. She had closed the drapes and I could not see into the room, but I knew she was there, and I could imagine her. I stayed for a long time afterwards in the dark. I was not sad anymore. My heart was light, a strange energy was running through me, and every sensation seemed amplified. I could hear the night crickets, I could smell the pine needles and I could almost feel their warmth from having spent that whole glorious day in the sun. I wanted this feeling to never, ever leave me. I wanted this being I had become today, to remain within me forever.

  Day Seven

  I did not have to wake Francesca in the morning. I could hear her and Simone moving around and talking as I got up. When I joined them, the sun was already warm and the smell of jasmine was in the air. But what mattered most to me was Francesca’s smile, warmer to my heart than a thousand suns.

  At 10:30, the jeep from the Langoustier came to pick her up. I helped load her bags in the back while she sat next to the driver in front. I commented on the large number of bags she was travelling with when she had been wearing a minimum amount of clothes while on the island.

  “Oh, but I had gone half way around the world before I came here … ”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “Well, to Toulon, then Paris, and then I will fly to Los Angeles. You’ll have to come and visit me … ”

  I hopped in the back of the jeep with the bags and off we went toward the harbor.

  When we parked by the wharf, it looked like everyone had come to say goodbye to Francesca. The reporter from Nice-Matin was there, so were Ondine, Veronica and their parents. Next to them, I saw Bambi, Jean-Rémy and their parents, the one policeman of the island, the postman, and a small group of tourists from the 2 hotels in town, cameras in hand.

  Mr. Vernet had come to pick up Francesca with the Riva. I looked at the speedboat, the varnished wood, the chrome step, remembering where my adventure had started less than a week ago. I did not quite know what the adventure was, but I knew it had turned me upside down.

  Francesca was very gracious as usual. She went to my friends and kissed them all on both cheeks. I noticed with relief she did not spend more time with Veronica than the others. With Bambi, after she kissed him, she smiled and gently hit his cheek in a make believe slap, and I could swear I saw him blushing. Then she came to me. I was the last one, closest to the speedboat. She gave me a hug, and whispered in my ear.

  “Ti voglio bene … don’t forget … ”

  Then Mr. Vernet helped her onto the speedboat, she waved at the crowd, and off they went. I watched the Riva go slowly through the harbor. When they passed the jetty, it rose up like a rearing horse and sped toward the misty coast in the distance, disappearing behind its own wake.

  I had a big lump in my throat and my eyes were stinging, but I was determined not to cry. Francesca would not be around to take me in her arms and comfort me with kisses.

  I managed to return to some kind of routine in the days that followed. I still felt like all my senses were in overdrive. I was in a trance, favoring swimming and walking alone to being with my friends. When no one was around to distract me, I could think of Francesca and almost feel her presence. I could
swim with her, walk with her, talk to her, and tell her everything I had ever dreamt of telling her.

  When Felipe came to the house to bring the duffel bag, I asked him.

  “Felipe, what does ‘ti voglio bene’ mean?”

  He laughed, and shook his finger at me.

  “Who told you that? You’re just a kid! Who told you that?”

  “No one … no one told me. I read it somewhere, I just want to know what it means … ”

  “It means ‘I love you’, that’s what it means. Now stay out of trouble!”

  Summer’s End

  After a few more days, I grew tired of my languor and perpetual nostalgia, and decided I needed a change of pace. When my mother called, I asked for her permission to leave the island and finish the summer with some friends whose parents had rented a house near St. Tropez. She agreed.

  Simone was sad to see me go, but was happy to be able to close the house, go home and join her son in Vendée.

  In St. Tropez, life was very different from on Porquerolles. I lived it up as much as my fourteen years would allow me. We went dancing until dawn, we sat on the crowded beaches, gossiped and drove around with the older kids. One night, in Ramatuelle they had stretched a sheet on the little square to make an outdoor movie theatre. They played a Spanish film with Selena Hirschberg, and we all went to see it.

  Selena was indeed very beautiful, with long black hair and very intense black eyes. I don’t remember much about the plot of the movie as I was mainly interested in the love scenes. How good was she really? The love scenes were light and tasteful. I kept imagining Francesca instead of the male protagonist who seemed quite delighted with Selena’s performance. But I could not really tell what made their lovemaking so exciting except maybe the guy was somebody else’s husband, or a famous cop, or a saint, I don’t really remember ...

  Finally the summer wound down, and we all returned to Paris, including my mother who finally came back.

  I went back to school and settled down into the gloomy weather and everyday routine.

  Many times, I thought of writing to Francesca, or maybe calling her. My mother was not very forthcoming, and seemed to resent any interest I showed in Francesca. However, I knew I could probably get her phone number through my father and I hoped I could get her address through her agent in Paris. I went to see all her movies, read about her, and often saw her on television. When you love someone who is in the public eye, it is as if their public persona is somebody else altogether. People around you talk about them in familiar tones as if they know them personally, and little by little they don’t belong to you anymore. Every once in a while, I would have a dream about Francesca where we would hold each other and kiss as if we were in love. I would wake up and imagine she was having the same dream, and I could not help but let it brighten my day. Yet I grew shy about contacting her and, since I never heard from her, I eventually let my life drift away from the memories of that summer.

  I remember crying secretly in my room when my parents sold the house on Porquerolles and the Nostromo. They were separated and had no reason to keep them. This part of my life was over, and it was now time to grow up and be the best student I could be in order to leave school as soon as possible and move on to University.

  And so I did. I did very well in the baccalaureat and went on to the Sorbonne for an intermediary year, and then to the Institute for Political Studies on the Rue St. Guillaume. There, I arranged for an exchange scholarship with a university in California. This was not based on visiting Francesca in Malibu. I had read she had left Hollywood and had returned to Italy to live in Rome with her husband. So my decision I think had more to do with the fact that my father was American yet I had never been to America. He himself also lived in Rome, though I very seldom spoke to him. I think what I wanted most was to be away in new surroundings, just as I had escaped the island for St. Tropez two years before.

  My life was full of schoolwork and suspended living. I saved my favorite clothes for a future time where I would be fully alive. I had friends but I was always on the periphery of their circles, their conversations and their sexual games. I had flirted, kissed in cars and under piers in England where I had spent a couple of windy summers but I was disengaged from most things, except maybe books and films.

  One morning in May, the phone rang. I picked it up and it was a woman from United Artists in Paris. She told me they were presenting Francesca d’Alessi's latest film at the Cannes Film Festival. She said Francesca had asked if my mother and I would be able to attend and, if so, she had reserved a room for us at the Martinez Hotel in Cannes. I was flabbergasted, to put it mildly, and said of course we would attend, and please thank Francesca for us. I could not believe it. After all these years, Francesca was thinking about us! I told my mother the news when she came back home in the afternoon.

  “Sorry,” she said, “but I hate the Festival, and the idea of going there makes me sick! But you can go if you want … I bet you Francesca just wants to paper the audience, though … why else would she want us there?”

  I said I had no idea. I had long ago given up on any kind of argument with my mother. I was secretly delighted to be going on my own. I was eighteen years old and I had passed my driver’s license test a few months earlier. I decided it would be most fun to drive down to Cannes all by myself.

  I left early in the morning on the day of the screening. I had packed a new dress I had bought the day before. I wanted to look as good as possible but the task had seemed daunting. I did not know what to expect or what to think. I enjoyed the drive, and seeing the weather improve mile by mile as I approached the Mediterranean. My time with Francesca on the island seemed so far away and I was a little bit nostalgic for myself as the kid with the no brakes bicycle and the summer tan.

  I arrived in Cannes a little later than I had planned. The Croisette was swarming with people and I had to park in a lot on Rue d’Antibes as the Martinez garage was full. I went to the hotel and checked in. I did not have time to enjoy the room as it was already time to go to the screening. I took a quick shower, put on my dress, a jacket and some shoes with a reasonable heel, and walked over to the Palais des Festivals where the screening was to take place. I picked up my ticket at the will call window on the Croisette, and walked on the red carpet to the auditorium. This was my first time at Cannes. My parents had gone often, but had never brought me with them.

  The scene inside was exciting. I had a reserved seat amongst all the celebrities, some of them I had met before, but none of them would ever recognize me. Fine with me. I was only interested in one of them. I looked around for her for what seemed like a long time, and then I saw her.

  She was surrounded by people and photographers. She had the same easy elegance I remembered. She was smiling as she made her way through the crowd with her usual grace. She always drew people to her, yet knew how to keep some good natured distance. This seemed to serve her well in this kind of event, designed for grand entrances and flamboyant exits. She saw me. Her face lit up in a glorious smile and she fluttered a miniature wave in my direction as she walked toward the stage. Suddenly, it was all worthwhile, the drive, the dress, everything. I was happy to be there, to have come all this way to honor her.

  While she was on stage and they were introducing the movie, some woman came over to me, and whispered that the reception would be at the Carlton after the screening, and she gave me the suite number. Thank you … I will be there! Francesca was well received by the crowd. She was very popular in France, especially since she had left Hollywood. The film started …

  She played a prostitute who was trying to escape her situation in Palermo and rebuild her life. The film was harsh and violent. There were no love scenes, only sordid sex, but filmed in a grainy, abstract way which made them seem more like nightmares than any kind of reality. Francesca was on screen most of the time and she was good. There was a heartbreaking sadness in the character. I remembered what she had said that evening on the Nostromo abou
t how she acted feelings which had been hers at some point or another in her life. I had a brief moment of guilt, thinking of all she had given me and how little I had given her in return, back then …

  As the end credits rolled, the crowd roared and applauded. The director came to take a bow, and held out his hand to bring Francesca up for a standing ovation. It was a great success.

  I made my way to the Carlton with great difficulty as the crowd was thick getting out of the Palais and walking on the Croisette. I had to cross to the beach side, and I kept bumping into people. Finally, I got to the hotel and found the suite without getting lost. I knocked on the door and an elegant older man opened it.

  “You must be Christina!” he said. “… I feel like I know you already! Come on in … I am Marco d’Alessi.”

  He held out his hand. He had a strong Italian accent and thinning hair but he made me feel at ease and welcome.

  Francesca was sitting on the couch in the living room surrounded by people holding champagne flutes and various appetizing canapes.

  “Christina! Oh, Dio mio, how you have grown! Che bella! Marco, look at her … isn’t she beautiful!? Come here, come sit next to me…”

  She looked a little bit older. I could see new tiny wrinkles in the corner of her eyes but they gave her face a kind and soft expression which made her more real and more human. She gave me a hug and we had a few private minutes to talk. I told her I was going to a university in California in a few days. She asked me if I felt good about it, and I said I still felt a little bit tentative about everything. She caressed my cheek briefly and then took my hand. She held it throughout the endless procession of people coming to congratulate her.

  “Oliver, Oliver,” she called, “… come say hello to my Christina. Look how beautiful she is … she is going to California!”

  A young man approached, dressed in a tuxedo. He was extremely handsome, with straight longish brown hair and a charming manner. He shook my free hand and talked to me while more people were coming to solicit Francesca. His name was Oliver Schneider and he worked for United Artists in Hollywood. They were going to distribute the film.