My Kathryn. He said ‘my Kathryn.’
She opened her mouth but the words wouldn’t come, so she nodded and threw herself against him as the tears gushed out of her in heaving sobs, soaking his shoulder.
She didn’t care if she never stopped crying again.
CHAPTER 42
Marcus hung up the last of the photos he’d developed on the set of Too Bad She’s Bad. He particularly liked a shot he’d caught of the three stars, Vittorio de Sica, Sophia Loren, and Marcello Mastroianni, mid-laugh after their director had let out an Italian cuss word in the middle of a take.
He let himself out of his darkroom and pondered the monsignor cassock laid out on his bed.
Time felt different now that he had his passport back.
For nine months, he’d lost sleep worrying how he was going to get it back, whether he had overstayed his visa, and what the authorities might do when he left the country.
But after the excitement of that day at the Café de Paris had subsided, the urgency he felt to leave Rome had ebbed, too.
Life in Italy—with its chianti and its linguine allo scoglio, its Via Veneto and caffè macchiato, and especially its Domenico Beneventi— had taken on a charm that Marcus hadn’t fully appreciated. It was as though a cinematographer had snuck new lenses into his glasses that bathed the Eternal City in romantic, golden light.
After he and Ingrid made off with the cassock, he’d stowed it in his closet and put it out of his mind. But now it had started to preoccupy him.
No, he kept telling it. Now that I can leave at any time, I’m not sure that I want to. No, he insisted, I’m not going to try it on because . . .
He didn’t have any clear reason he could articulate about why he didn’t want to. I just don’t, he told it. That’s all you need to know.
But after returning from the Too Bad She’s Bad set, a burning curiosity enveloped him. He laid it out on his bed. The lace curtains cast a dappled shadow across the fuchsia piping.
I’m going to try it on. See if it fits. Nothing more than that.
He ran his fingers down the front. Smoother and more comfortable than he expected, he guessed it was cotton mixed with silk. He undid the six leather buttons from the waist to the collar and opened it up, exposing the large label that claimed it as the property of Cinecittà. He’d have to unpick it if he ever went through with this cuckoo plan.
He shucked off his shirt and pants and pulled the vestment over his head, letting it fall across his shoulders like a shirtwaist dress. The bottom hem brushed the top of his feet. He stretched out his arms like Jesus on the cross and wished he had a full-length mirror. Signora Scatena had one, but she’d probably keel over if she caught sight of him in this get-up. But it wasn’t necessary to put her life at risk: from collar to ankles, wrist to wrist, it was a perfect fit.
It was kind of like being in drag, but the sort of drag you could cross oceans in and nobody would pay the slightest attention, except perhaps to genuflect.
He walked into his bathroom and strained to see as much of himself as he could in the oval mirror over the basin. Black didn’t suit him, but with his horn-rimmed glasses and graying hair, he almost looked the part.
He pulled at the sides. Oh yes, plenty of room. Rossano’s tailor could sew secret pockets for his cash and travelers cheques. If the tailor was as discreet as Rossano promised, this could work.
A knock on the door startled him. “It’s me, Domenico! I have someone you must meet.” Domenico was two steps inside before he caught sight of Marcus’s costume. His gaze wandered up and down the cassock but he avoided meeting Marcus in the eye.
The chap behind him was in his mid-fifties, with a full head of gray hair and Cary Grant–level charisma. “You didn’t tell me he was a monsignor.”
Domenico frowned. “He’s not.”
Marcus couldn’t separate the emotions coursing across Domenico’s face. Disappointment? Anger? Desperation? He pulled at the edges of the cassock. “It’s a costume.”
Domenico drew the stranger forward. “Marcus Adler, may I present Clement Rousseau. Clement, this is Marcus Adler.”
Rousseau shook Marcus’s hand, but the hesitation in his smile broadcast This isn’t what I was expecting.
“Please ignore everything from the neck down,” Marcus told him. “It’s a long story too complicated to go into.” He gathered up his street clothes from the floor. “Give me two shakes and I’ll change.”
“I have a train back to Paris that I must catch very soon.”
“Let’s take a seat,” Domenico said. Marcus’s café-sized dining table had only two chairs. He dragged over an ottoman.
“Permit me to come to the point,” Rousseau said. “I work for Look magazine.”
“He heads up their entire European operation,” Domenico put in.
“Exactement. Monsieur Adler, your photographs, they are very distinctive. Vous comprenez? They are not like the work of other scattini.” Rousseau started counting off with his fingers. “Ingrid Bergman, Ava Gardner, Brigitte Bardot, La Speranza. Every one of them has a quality to them like no other. Perhaps because you bring an American sensibility.”
“Are they really so different?”
The Frenchman nodded sternly. “I pass most of my day looking at photographs, and I always know when a Marcus Adler lands on my desk.”
“I’m flattered.” Marcus stole a glance at Domenico, whose desperate smile had turned hopeful.
“I want to offer you a retainer,” Rousseau said. “Two hundred American dollars per month.”
“In exchange for what?”
“I want first look at everything. If we don’t accept it, you are free to sell on the open market. But we see them first. And I don’t mean only movie stars and celebrities. I want everything—cities, country landscapes, churches, taxis, beggars in the streets, aristocracy walking their dogs, nuns feeding stray cats.” Rousseau rested his elbows onto his knees and pressed his hands together. “Modern, post-war life. Whatever takes your eye, wherever you are, I want to see it.”
“He is not talking only about Rome,” Domenico broke in. “He’s offering you all of Western Europe. Imagine it! Zurich, Stockholm, Madrid, Brussels, Majorca!”
Marcus turned to Rousseau. “That’s quite an offer.”
“You accept?”
“I’ll certainly think about it.”
“Très bien.” He deposited a business card on Marcus’s table. “I hope to hear from you soon.”
Marcus held open his front door as Domenico and Rousseau exchanged Continental kisses on each cheek. By the time Marcus closed his door, he already knew his answer.
“So,” Domenico said, turning around and rubbing his hands together. “His offer! It is fantastico, no?”
“It’s a head-spinner,” Marcus said.
“‘Head-spinner’? Is this good or bad?”
“It could go either way.”
Down in the courtyard, Signora Scatena sang an old Italian song about unrequited love. Her off-kilter notes sailed through the open window as the two men gazed at each other.
Domenico was the first to pull away. He dropped down onto one of the dining chairs; it wobbled as it took his weight. “You will not accept, eh?”
“Dom—”
“You are returning to America.”
“It’s home.” Marcus joined him at the table. “It’s where my roots are. And it’s calling me back.”
“Oh!” Domenico threw his hands in the air. “So you make the offer to sponsor Emilio Conti to immigrate to America, but do you make the same offer to me?”
“I have no idea what the laws are. But if I can, would you? My sister works at Columbia. She does the same thing you do at Cinecittà. Maybe she could get you a job and we could live together at the Garden of Allah, and—”
But Domenico was already shaking his head. He sandwiched Marcus’s hands between his own while he found the courage to look him in the eye. “Italy is my home. It is my fatherland. I cannot l
eave it.”
“So you understand why I must go back to mine?”
They sat in silence and listened to the signora finish her mournful song. As her breath ran out on the final note, Domenico’s eyes glistened.
“As I heard Mister Bogie say once, I gave it my best shot. Clement was my ace in the sleeve. He owed me a big favor so I called him.”
“I’m sorry you wasted the favor.”
Domenico pressed Marcus’s hands even more tightly. “When you survive a war, you learn to play the gamble. You celebrate when you win, and also when you lose. So tell me, how much longer do I have you?”
“That depends on Rossano Brazzi’s tailor.”
“At least a week?”
“I’d say that’s about right.”
“We shall celebrate every night, my little Marcus Aurelius Americano Molto Simpatico.”
As they leaned in for a kiss, Signora Scatena’s reedy soprano warbled through the window, a new song, something about arrivederci e buona fortuna.
Goodbye and good luck.
It was almost as though she’d been listening the whole time.
CHAPTER 43
Gwendolyn ran a finger along the panels of white satin laid out on her worktable and tapped her cheek with a finger. “I don’t know,” she told Billy Travilla. “A six-inch slit at the back will only let her take the smallest steps.”
Billy nodded. “I’ve already pointed that out to Marilyn, but she said she was fine with it.”
“I hope her limo isn’t slung too close to the ground. She’ll have a devil of a time getting out all ladylike.”
“The press will have a field day if she can’t.”
“The press always has a field day at her premieres, but especially for this one. I hope The Seven Year Itch can live up to its publicity.”
“It will if she brings—” Billy cut himself off and kept his eyes on the table between them.
“Do you know who she’s bringing as her date?” Gwendolyn already knew, but wasn’t sure if Marilyn had confided in Billy.
Marilyn had been AWOL from Fox for a year. It was a hell of a long suspension, but it was self-imposed—a declaration that she couldn’t care less. She was glad to have escaped the stifling goldfish bowl that Hollywood had become and was thriving in New York. In her most recent letter, Marilyn had dropped one or two broad hints that she and DiMaggio weren’t completely over and that she might bring him as her date.
“We spoke long-distance on the weekend,” Billy said archly.
“I got a letter.”
The two of them looked at each other, their eyes wide with unasked questions. They started talking at the same time.
“Joe DiMaggio?”
“What is she thinking?”
“With everything she’s been through?”
“That night she filmed the subway scene—”
“I heard she got bruised—”
“And now she wants to start up again?”
“Sounds masochistic if you ask me.”
The telephone rang in Billy’s office. He told her to start with the bodice and they’ll figure out the bust later.
He returned a minute or two later. “You’ve been summoned.”
* * *
Irma sat at her typewriter, her back straight as a fence, her fingers a blur as she banged out yet another memo. When she saw Gwendolyn, her mouth melted into a smile.
Gwendolyn wondered if she was about to hear good news, or if Irma’s instructions were to soften her up. “Reporting for duty.”
Irma consulted the board of lights next to her intercom. “He’s still on a call. Won’t be long.”
“I don’t suppose you can give me a hint about why I’ve been subpoenaed.”
“And spoil the surprise?”
After the events of the past six months, Gwendolyn wanted to settle back into her costuming job and sew attractive clothes for attractive people. Was that too much to ask?
One of the lights on Irma’s board went out. “You can go in now.”
Gwendolyn opened the door to Zanuck’s office. Above his desk hung a grayish-white cloud of expensive cigar smoke. “Boy, oh boy! I’m about to put a great big smile on that beautiful dial of yours.” He motioned for her to take a seat.
She lodged herself on the edge of the chair facing Zanuck’s vast desk.
He drew a long pull of his cigar and let out one perfectly shaped “O” after another. “Remember when I said I’d make it up to you?”
Of course I do, you big-talking clod. But that was weeks ago and I never heard anything. Not that I expected to. “Yes, I remember—”
“Hold onto your hat, because I’m about to do it.”
“Okay.”
“That television test went better than we expected.
“I’m glad to hear it; the crew was pretty jumpy that day.”
He beamed wider than the Hollywood sign. “Honey, you’re a natural!”
“A natural what?”
“You came across like a goddamn real-life goddess. The camera loves you.”
Gwendolyn fought off a sinking feeling. “Excuse me, Mr. Zanuck, but I find that hard to believe.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve seen myself twice on film and both times I was awful. No, honestly! I stunk.”
“When you were acting, maybe. Could’ve been you were trying too hard, or could be you’re just a lousy actress. But trust me: television cameras love you. When you’re being yourself, you’re adorable and lovable and so goddamned appealing. People are gonna eat you up, so I want you to be the host.”
“Of what?”
“Fox Fanfare. You do a little spiel at the start, introduce the movie, maybe share some of the behind-the-scenes gossip—we’ll figure it out later. You’ll come back after the movie finishes, a few trivial facts, maybe show some stills, tell them what movie we’ll be presenting the next week and boom, you’re done.”
Gwendolyn maintained a honeyed smile as she figured out a nice way to say Not on your ever-lovin’, pea-pickin’ life, fella.
“Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Zanuck, but I’m going to say no.”
He vaulted to his feet. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I’m offering you the job of a lifetime. You’ll be seen in more homes every week than someone like Marilyn Pain-In-My-Ass Monroe has been seen in her entire career!”
And look where it’s gotten her. “Not everybody in Hollywood wants to be famous.”
“What I’m talking about is a hand-in-glove perfect fit.” He tapped the contract he’d pushed toward her. “This is your calling.”
“My calling is a gorgeous white dress currently sitting on my worktable back in Costuming—”
“Bullshit! Listen, I’ve built my career by judging people on their ability to become other people. This business of being yourself on camera is new to me, but everyone I’ve shown your test footage to agrees: you’ve got it.”
It was time to end this ridiculous conversation. Gwendolyn stood up, smoothing her skirt. “I appreciate the offer and the vote of confidence, but the answer is still no. It won’t be hard to find someone else to—”
“Let me show it to you. Your audition, I mean.”
“I wasn’t auditioning; I was filling in.”
Zanuck was on his feet now. “I want you to see what I saw. And that’s an order.”
Memories of her Scarlett screen test and Maltese Falcon cameo circled like hungry vultures, but as much as Gwendolyn hated to admit it, Zanuck’s dogged insistence sparked the tiniest flame of curiosity.
She trailed behind Zanuck as he marched down a short corridor and into a screening room with seven rows of ten seats. He flicked the lights on. A large television set stood at the front. Zanuck led her to the middle seats in the first row and switched on the set.
Gwendolyn pictured herself in that frightful panda-bear makeup. I should have said no on the basis of that alone. She buried her face in her hands. The trumpets of the famous fanfare
sounded woefully shrill through the set’s tinny speakers.
“Hello, and welcome to Fox Fanfare.”
Gwendolyn let out a tiny gasp. Was that MY voice?
“Each week, we’ll be bringing you one of the many Twentieth Century-Fox motion pictures that you’ve loved so much over the years.” She spread her fingers and peeked through the gaps. “But first, let me introduce myself. My name is Gwendolyn Brick and I do hope that we’ll become the very best of friends as I present a new picture—that is, a new old picture—for you to enjoy. For all of us to enjoy!”
Parts of that had been ad-libbed. She couldn’t say she was Betty Grable, nor could she say they were new pictures because some of them were twenty years old. So she had improvised, and after that, ignored the cue cards.
Gwendolyn’s hands dropped away as she examined the girl on the TV screen. Where was that god-awful panda-bear makeup? This woman looked charming. Where were her trembling hands and twitching fingertips? She seemed relaxed and confident, and so very at home in that makeshift den. This warm, personable version of herself waved at the camera and told her viewers to be sure to tune in next week for The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.
The television screen went black.
Zanuck took a drag of his cigar. “And this is with an inexperienced crew. Imagine how it’s going to look when the camera, lighting, makeup, and sound guys know what they’re doing.”
“I—I—” Gwendolyn groped for words, but they eluded her.
“You’re floored that you could be so delightful that all of America will want to invite you over for dinner?” He turned to face her. “Here’s my offer. Two-fifty a week, with an increase every season and a run-of-the-show contract.
“What about wardrobe?” The question popped out of its own accord.
“What about it?”
“I want full on-camera wardrobe approval.” Look at you, Gwendolyn scolded herself, and suppressed a giggle. Not even on the air and already making demands.
“I suppose you want Travilla to design it, too.”
He was being snarky, so she told him yes.
“Done.” He reached out to shake her hand. “Welcome to television, Miss Brick.”
City of Myths Page 38
