by Penny Feeny
‘We’re going to a club tonight, me and some of the other students. But they’re older and I’ve, like, got to look as though I’m one of them.’
‘Hey, they’re talking to you, are they? That’s good news.’
‘Yeah.’ Sasha brightened. ‘Wicked.’
‘What about Antonio’s mother? Can’t she help you get ready?’
‘I don’t know. She might take me to a beauty salon and I don’t like those kinds of places.’
‘What makes you think you can trust me?’
‘You looked amazing yesterday.’
Gina massaged the side of her swan-like neck. ‘And today I look like something the cat threw up?’
‘No! N-not at all.’ In fact Gina’s face was curiously bland, the features indeterminate apart from her eyes, which were large and intense. Even so, Sasha couldn’t tell their colour: reflective as water, they might have been grey or green or hazel. ‘If you do it for him,’ she said, indicating Sami, ‘you must have had training – as a make-up artist, I mean.’
‘Actually I’m a photographer,’ Gina reminded her. ‘I guess there’s a connection though: contouring, highlighting, retouching, sharpening. Different techniques, same results.’
The bathroom door opened and Yusef came out, fully dressed in T-shirt and jeans. He had a broad, sensitive face and a nose that was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken and misaligned. He wouldn’t look at Sasha when Gina introduced them, his long lashes downcast. He joined Sami and the two of them murmured together.
‘They were expecting another friend to show up,’ Gina explained. ‘That’s why they buzzed you in and you caught them on the hop. Stupid boys! They’re always looking over their shoulders, poor kids, and this is one of the places they can feel safe. But God knows, you could have been anybody! Bertie even!’ She scowled in a way that was distinctly intimidating. How could a person change so, from one day to the next? ‘You’re not a bloody spy, are you?’
She was a schoolgirl on a language course. How could she possibly be a spy? ‘Course not! What d’you mean?’
‘Bertie’s my landlord. He’s part of a property syndicate. Didn’t I already tell you that? Was he the one who suggested you come here?’
‘No, like I said, I got lost.’
Gina crossed her arms, tapped a slippered foot as if unconvinced. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him. He seems to think he has the right to walk in whenever he feels like it. I had to shift his bloody flowers into the hall, they were cluttering the place up so much.’
‘Signor Boletti bought you all those flowers?’
‘I had a rat problem,’ said Gina. ‘He wouldn’t do anything about it for ages so I had to put down poison. He brought the flowers as a sweetener, but he’s up to something, I’m sure of it.’
‘I noticed a smell,’ said Sasha, ‘soon as I got into the building.’
‘The trouble is, it’s not in his interests to make any improvements until my contract runs out and he can put the rent up. And if he hasn’t sent you, then I’d rather you didn’t tell him anything. We all have to be on our best behaviour. Giusto, ragazzi?’
Yusef continued to avoid eye-contact; Sami nodded. The pair of them edged towards the door and let themselves out with a soft click. Gina sighed. ‘I usually work from the studio, but sometimes it’s more convenient from home… Now, you go and sort yourself out in the bathroom. You’ll find plasters in the cabinet.’
The bathroom had no external window. The bath and shower-head were old and ornate – practically antique. Sasha ran the tap. After a dramatic groan in the pipes, a torrent gushed over her sore foot. When she had dried and bandaged it, she stood in front of the mirror, imagining what miracles Gina might work. A shelf above the basin held a razor and shaving gel, male paraphernalia among the moisturiser and cleansing wipes. Did a man live here? Or was the razor Sami’s, so he could shave before his makeover? Suddenly the impact of Gina’s remarks struck her. The young men weren’t making a social call; they were having their pictures taken. It didn’t take much imagination to envisage what kind of pictures.
‘Better?’ said Gina when she came out. She’d opened the shutters to the terrace and golden afternoon light flooded the room. She also had open, on the table in front of her, a vanity case packed with tubes and bottles, brushes and cotton wool. She passed her a wide hairband. ‘Put this on and sit on that low stool so I can get at you.’
‘You don’t have to do this, really,’ said Sasha.
‘I thought you asked me to? Keep still while I whisk your eyebrows into shape.’
‘I mean…’ The tweezers tweaked too fast to feel any pain, but her eyes watered. ‘You might want to work on your photographs or something.’
‘I’ll look at them later.’
‘Are they, like, models?’
‘The boys? Yes, in a way.’
Not modelling togas, that was for sure. ‘Glamour?’ suggested Sasha.
Gina barked with laughter. She laid down the tweezers and soaked a ball of cotton wool in toner. ‘Such a con,’ she said. ‘So many girls your age, they think that’s the way to go, don’t they? Pump up their tits and stick a feather boa between their legs. That’s not modelling. Jesus!’ She swabbed savagely at Sasha’s temples.
‘Ow! I didn’t say it was what I wanted. What do you call it then? Porn?’
‘It’s not hardcore,’ said Gina, as if she didn’t care one way or the other. ‘Believe it or not, darling, some people will pay money for a more subtle type of erotica. If it’s arty enough you can get away with hanging it on your walls, you see. No need to stash it in a back room. Now, how dark shall we go for your foundation?’
‘I’d like to look tanned.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ She massaged moisturiser with the tips of her fingers in a circular soothing motion. ‘And it’s not for my benefit either. You’ve no idea how sordid some of these kids’ lives have been. Wherever they come from – Albania, Afghanistan, Turkey, Tunisia – they’ve effectively been trafficked, like slaves. And things don’t get much better here. Even if they manage to escape, there’s nothing for them. No welfare, no jobs, just charity from the Church. Sami’s a bit better off because he’s good enough at what he does to earn a few euros. Illegally. No stability and not much in the way of prospects.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘Well, Sami and Yusef managed to find a room in a squat. Most of the others are homeless. Some sleep in the church crypt. I’m working on a project there – with the full cooperation of the priest, by the way. I’m aiming to build up enough material for an exhibition. We’re hoping it will help to raise funds, or shame the city fathers into doing something – although I doubt it. Romans are too used to scavengers.’
‘Is that what you’d rather be doing?’
‘Rather than private commissions?’ said Gina, patting on foundation with a sponge. ‘Portraits for the Bolettis and their kind? You could say so, yes. And don’t forget the weddings – guaranteed to put you off marriage, darling! They come here in droves, the Yanks and the Brits, for the romance of nuptials in Italy. They’re glad of a bilingual photographer, especially one who can shave kilos off them and turn them into fairytale beauties.’ She sighed. ‘Though that market may have been milked too far, there’s so much red tape: residence criteria to satisfy, documents to stamp, taxes to stump up. The important thing is that I provide a professional service. And, in the case of the boys, let me make it clear: I am not exploiting them. If I sell they’ll get paid. He has a striking figure, don’t you think?’
‘Who?’
‘Yusef.’
‘Oh, right… I didn’t really notice.’
‘You didn’t?’ Gina sounded amused. Her phone, lying next to the vanity case, vibrated and danced a little jig. She checked the screen with a cluck of annoyance and switched it off. ‘Don’t blink.’ She began to blend shadow over Sasha’s eyelids and tease out her lashes with a mascara wand. ‘A steady hand is so important, you know. Muscle
control. Ask Sami. And my mother. It was the only thing she ever taught me actually. I wasn’t her top priority.’
Sasha reckoned she knew how she felt. ‘Mine says stuff like I’ve got to stand on my own two feet. She’s done her bit. She wants to focus on her career.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Sixteen next month.’ On the plane she’d been classed as an unaccompanied minor, but she’d known half the attendants anyway; she’d been in good hands.
‘Oh, I thought you were younger.’
Sasha bridled. ‘I’m the youngest in my year, that’s all.’
‘Anyway, darling, your mother’s probably right. And at least you weren’t abandoned aged eight so she could go off with her fancy man.’
The remark was casual, but the notion stuck fast. For the first time, it occurred to Sasha that the PhD might be a smokescreen, that Corinne might have met someone else. It would explain why the atmosphere at home was so tense. When she’d been younger her parents had dovetailed their shifts so that someone was always around for her. This was no longer necessary, yet in the past month she could count on one hand the meals the three of them had eaten together.
‘How did she abandon you?’
‘Phoebe? She left me in boarding school while she went off to the States.’
‘With the fancy man?’
‘She was on tour – she was a dancer – but she hitched up with Mountebank Monty and got him to pay the school fees. She’s on her third husband now, Carlos, and lives in Santiago. That’s Chile, by the way, not Spain, so we don’t often meet.’
‘What about your dad?’
‘Oh, he was another brilliant example of crap parenting: a serial philanderer. Absconded, then divorced. I was a mistake they both regretted. Everybody thinks of the sixties as this incredible period of freedom from constraint, but unluckily for those two I was conceived before the Abortion Act.’
The bitter brittle tone in which she delivered this was making Sasha squirm on her stool. Gina cupped her chin firmly. ‘Don’t move. I’m nearly finished. I always do the lips last, though I don’t think a strong colour will suit you.’
‘My dad…’ Sasha began.
‘What?’
‘He’s a bit over-protective, I think. He wasn’t keen on my coming here. Mum had to help me talk him round.’
‘Obviously some fathers take their responsibilities more seriously than others. What does he do?’
Sasha couldn’t answer at first because Gina’s pencil was tracing the outline of her mouth. ‘He’s a pilot.’
There was a momentary silence while Gina swapped the pencil for a fine brush, uncapped different lipsticks and tested them on the back of her hand. Then she said, ‘Those were the days! I used to fly a lot myself. People wonder how you can get used to it, the constant hopping about, but you can adapt to anything really. Like the guys dossing in that crypt every night.’
‘He’s a captain,’ said Sasha proudly. ‘My mate Ruby does this ace impersonation of him, cracks us up every time: Morning everyone, I’m Captain Mitchell and I’d like to welcome you aboard this chicken coop with wings. Sorry about the delay you had being frisked by security and the fact that we’ve got to sit on the tarmac for an hour but it’s raining torrents at your holiday destination so why not sit back and enjoy… ’ She trailed off. Gina wasn’t cracking up.
‘Bully for him! Should I be impressed?’ Her hands fluttered slightly as if they weren’t so steady after all. She laid the brush aside and passed Sasha a mirror. ‘All done.’
Sasha pulled off the headband and peered into the glass. The same and not the same. Ruby had worked on her occasionally before a night out, when Sasha could be bothered to let her, but Ruby’s handiwork was nothing like this. Not so much a transformation as a re-emphasis: a creaming of the texture of her skin, a definition to her features that made her eyes stand out, reduced her hamster cheeks and gave her a luscious peachy mouth. ‘That’s wicked!’ she exclaimed. ‘Absolutely ace.’
Gina was putting everything away, screwing tops onto tubes, tucking the sable brushes into their nest. ‘Let’s hope it gets you through the nightclub door. Here, you can keep this lipstick. You’ll need to touch up before you go out anyhow.’
‘Thank you so much. Will you… I mean, would you… be able to give me a make-up lesson sometime? Before I go home.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve got a lot on my plate, I’m afraid. But enjoy the rest of your stay.’
She appeared to be detaching herself, keeping a distance from everything they had said and done that afternoon, almost as if she’d changed her mind about Sasha and decided she was a spy for the Bolettis after all.
‘Can I call you again? If…’
‘If?’
‘If I’m at a loose end or something?’
‘You should take your mother’s advice,’ said Gina. ‘Learn to stand on your own two feet.’
‘What have I done?’ She remembered the phone hastily switched off. ‘Have I been in your way? Some sort of a nuisance?’
‘I assure you it’s nothing personal.’ She relaxed a little and patted Sasha’s arm. ‘Come on and I’ll take you to the right bus stop this time. I have to get some shopping anyhow.’
As Gina checked her keys and her purse, Sasha looked at one of the wall-hung photographs. It was a wedding group: at any rate, they all wore flowers in their buttonholes, although the groom was the only member of the party dressed in white. He was clasping the hand of a sombre woman in black. Her hat had a little veil which hung over her face but Sasha recognised Gina. She didn’t mention it. During the bus journey she got out her dictionary and flipped through its pages. Sfortunata was the word Mario had used, but it didn’t, she discovered, mean lucky.
5
Gina was walking down Via Ripetta with her portfolio under her arm, containing a carefully chosen quantity of prints. She was on her way to the Galleria Farnon, which had a reputation for cutting-edge showmanship and striking visual images. She’d originally met David Farnon, its American owner, through Felix. Their first meeting hadn’t gone well, but they’d overcome a mutual suspicion and over the years she’d cultivated his friendship and hoped he could see promise in her work.
The previous Sunday he had expressed an interest – which she would hold him to – at a drunken lunch party in what he mockingly called his summer residence. Like the Pope’s, this was situated near Lake Albano: a converted farmhouse with a surfeit of marble bathrooms. David shared it with his partner, Sergio, who was older, indulgent and equally dapper. Sergio had cooked, with the help of a woman from the village. There were many courses, with long intervals between them and plenty of opportunity to pass the wine around the table. Discussion had centred chiefly on the forthcoming holiday season. Some guests were flying or sailing to exotic destinations; others were unwinding at their beachside villas.
‘It’s the busiest time of my year,’ Gina explained, to excuse her lack of plans, although this was not strictly true. ‘I have to snatch breaks when I can.’ In practice, this meant pursuing the invitations casually dropped by the villa owners with a text or call to announce she’d found herself in the neighbourhood of Sperlonga or Santo Stefano or Pietrasanta and might drop by for a couple of days. In the past she’d had some splendid holidays, but fortunes fluctuated. Bertie had promised a trip to New York, though not until September, and Bertie’s promises were rarely reliable.
While they were waiting for the cheese, Gina got up to stretch her legs. She’d ambled across the loggia, as if admiring the roll of the hills and the sparkle of the distant lake, and cornered David. ‘Such a delicious meal! Sergio’s a marvellous cook.’
He was opening another bottle of wine and raised his eyes to her briefly.
‘Will you be closing the gallery in August?’
‘I have the decorators coming in. It needs a revamp before the autumn shows.’ His voice had a rasping quality, his East Coast accent thinned from years of living abroad.
�
�Actually I have some new work I’d like you to see.’
He sniffed the cork and laid it on a starched napkin. The linen tablecloth had been beautifully laundered too; the sun through the tracery of vine leaves had tinged its whiteness green. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You should bring it round sometime.’
‘When?’
‘Whenever.’
Which was why she was now strolling into the gallery at an hour when she judged the place would be quiet. A smooth-shaven young man with flamboyantly trendy spectacles was sitting at the front desk. David, he said, was in the back office. She told him not to announce her and went on through.
David’s office was austere and immaculate. A safe was hidden behind a large monochrome canvas; box files were ranged on the shelves in order of height and depth, likewise the reference books. His computer monitor rose on a graceful stalk.
‘Gina! Ciao! Did we have an appointment?’
‘Didn’t you get my email after that lovely lunch? I said I might call by.’
‘Oh, yeah. What can I do for you?’
‘You remember you wanted to see my portfolio? With a view to… maybe exhibiting some of it?’
She handed over the folder, tried not to watch too avidly as he untied the ribbon and began to flick through. His actions were fastidious. He treated each photograph with care, but his face was impassive and she’d no way of determining his reaction. This was quite different from dealing with her customary clients whose purpose was to make a selection. David might yet reject everything. He waved her onto a white leather sofa and rocked gently in his own swivel chair, shuffling the photos in front of him.
‘I’ve been working on a new project,’ she said. ‘Down at the crypt.’
‘The crypt?’
‘In Ostiense. It’s an underground shelter belonging to the Church and Father Leone has agreed – ’
‘Father Leone?’
‘Yeah.’ She grinned. ‘I call him the Lion King to wind him up. Didn’t Felix ever introduce you? The priest who fell out with the Vatican? He can’t get promoted so he’s a thorn in their side instead. He runs the shelter like a little kingdom. It’s a halfway house for these kids, asylum seekers mostly, while they’re being assessed. Though if the authorities can drag out procedures for long enough they’ll be deemed adults and then they’re no one’s responsibility.’
