Carissima

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  4

  Francesca

  I cannot believe it. They still care—about me! Even after all these years, the excitement that comes from being recognized and adored is just as thrilling as when I was first discovered at sixteen years old. True, it is just a small crowd in front of Giuliana’s home, but give it time. Word will soon spread that Italian silver-screen star Francesca Donata—La Sposa Pazza—is here in Astoria.

  Surely, no one will believe it at first. They will all wonder why a legendary actress chose to visit a working-class neighborhood in the borough of Queens no less. Manhattan is where they would expect to find me. I can just hear the rumors now: “She really is crazy. What is she thinking? The world hasn’t heard from her in ten years, and this is where she chooses to make her grand return—Astoria?”

  I can’t help but silently laugh to myself. After all the gossip that has been spread about me over the years, I have developed a tortoise shell. Instead of the ugly rumors hurting me as they did when I was young, I find them amusing now. And trust me. Not caring is a monumental accomplishment for an Italian. Fare la bella figura is everything to Italians.

  Fare la bella figura is the equivalent to what you Americans call “saving face” or making a good impression. In Italian culture, you strive to make a good impression in everything you do in life, whether it is being hospitable to a guest in your home, exhibiting the finest manners at all times, throwing the best wedding for your daughter, attending the funerals of everyone you know, looking impeccable—the list is endless. And as an Italian, you avoid at all costs fare la brutta figura—making a bad impression or “losing face.”

  But I will not lie. I wish I could say I do not care at all anymore about la bella figura. Where my appearance is concerned, I still work hard to look my best, though it is getting harder as I get older. I cannot control the signs of aging that are slowly but surely taking over my face and body. Well, between you and me, I have had cosmetic injections to erase fine lines, but I refuse to do anything more than that. The monsters some women have turned themselves into as a result of being slaves to cosmetic surgery are more reprehensible to me than wrinkles. But no matter how old I live to be, I will always wear nothing but designer clothes. My favorite designers are Gucci and Prada. I even like a few of Ralph Lauren’s designs on the rare occasion I wear more casual clothes. But that is very rare. I am from the generation in which people actually enjoyed getting dressed up and looking their best.

  As for the scandals in my life—some of which are public knowledge; others are not—I have committed la brutta figura one time too many to care anymore what others think of me as a person. That is the double-edged sword of celebrity. You want everyone to recognize your face and name, but the sad irony is the public only knows what the media feeds them. I will not pretend, like some of my peers have, that the media has told nothing but lies. Some of it is true.

  And I do still care very much that people have not forgotten about me. If it was not for trying to protect Giuliana’s privacy, I would have stepped proudly out of the car and waved to my adoring fans. Unlike other stars who do not want to be bothered by the fans who catapulted them to fame, I would have signed autographs for everyone who asked. I would even have talked to them. That is one thing the world has always loved about me—how I would ask my fans about their families and lives. I take a genuine interest in them. Of course, as a star, I have very little, if anything, in common with them. But I value the power of making that personal connection with my fans.

  I had hoped to keep my visit here a secret. Giuliana does not need a circus in front of her house, especially since she has led a very private life. No one even knows her connection to me. Though my bodyguards tried to conceal me, it was a pathetic attempt. I feel horrible for admitting this—even to myself—but I am glad they did not succeed. I have spent most of my life in the spotlight, and like a drug, I need the rush that fame gives me. After the ten years I spent as a recluse, I had hoped that I would have lost my insatiable desire to be loved by the public. But what can I say? I am weak.

  The door to the upstairs sitting room squeaks open, startling me out of my thoughts.

  “Meow!”

  A long-haired white cat rushes over to me, no trepidation that it has never laid eyes on me before. Even the cat senses my star power.

  “Look at you! Sei bella! Bella!”

  As if thanking me, the cat yelps a softer “meow” and rubs up against my legs, leaving a dusting of fine white hairs clinging to my sheer black hosiery.

  I bend over and pick her up. “Come ti chiami? Eh?”

  The cat purrs into my ear. Her breath warms my neck. I did not even know that Giuliana owned a cat. Then again, why would I? We have barely spoken over the past two decades, and most of our communication has been through letters. This saddens me—the idea that we don’t really know each other anymore. Once, Giuliana claimed she knew exactly what she needed to know about me. I suppose she was right. I close my eyes, going back to a time when Giuliana and I had been as inseparable as the moon and the sky. But my mind forces the memory out as tears spring to my eyes. It is too painful to go down that road. Though soon, my visit here will inevitably force me to travel down that path I have worked so hard to avoid.

  5

  Pia

  By the time I have dinner with Zia and help her clean up, it’s already ten o’clock. Zia’s not too happy to hear that I’m going for a short walk this late. Of course, she knows she has nothing to worry about since people are seen walking on Ditmars until all hours of the night, and Astoria is considered one of the safest neighborhoods in New York City. I don’t want to tell her that I’m really going to the Mussolini Mansion in hopes of spotting Francesca Donata again—though the likelihood of that is slim. Francesca has probably retired for the evening. I’ve always wanted to use that phrase “retired for the evening.” It feels like a fitting phrase to use for a silver-screen legend like Francesca Donata. Anyway, I’m beginning to go stir-crazy after hanging out with Zia almost every weeknight of my stay here so far. Besides, if I’m going to carry out the idea that sprang in my mind earlier, I must be diligent and stake out Signora Tesca’s home whenever I have the chance. That’s what a good journalist does.

  I know my idea will probably be dismissed by Colin Cohen. But I have to at least try—even if it means suffering humiliation when everyone at Profile finds out about it. I can just hear some of their voices now: “All these newbie interns think they have a great idea that will seal their future careers with us. They’re all the same! This isn’t the movies, where you have a great idea and you go from being a nobody to somebody in the blink of an eye!”

  Inhaling deeply, I focus on pushing every negative thought out of my mind. I imagine myself getting a few photos of Francesca Donata, going to Colin, and proposing to him that I can interview the silver-screen legend for an article in Profile—an article that I will write. The photos will convince him I’m not bluffing. Besides, the press is sure to soon get wind of her being here in Astoria, and Colin will then know I am telling the truth. All he’ll have to do is confirm my address with human resources, and he’ll see Zia’s address is on the same street where Francesca is staying. But I know it won’t be that easy, especially convincing him to let me write the story instead of a more seasoned member of Profile’s editorial staff.

  The fear starts invading every cell of my body again. What am I thinking? It’s a huge stretch entertaining the idea that Colin is going to let an intern, and one who’s been on the job no more than a week, interview a world-famous movie star, no less have her write the story.

  I sigh once again—my signature trait. I sigh all the time, whether I’m upset or stressed out or just want to take a deep breath. It runs in my family on my father’s side. People always ask me, “What’s the matter?” after hearing one of my drawn-out sighs. In this case, the sigh is related to anxiety. My father has always taught me to follow my instincts no matter how farfetched they might seem. So here
I am on my way to the Mussolini Mansion to stake out the house, along with the other obsessed neighbors on the block, in hopes of snapping a photo of The Crazy Bride that will convince my internship supervisor to let me do a story on the legend. Opportunity’s knocking—though I’m not sure if it’s opportunity that will bring me acclaim or shame.

  I know I am a good writer. My confidence isn’t lacking in that area. But Colin really has no idea how good a writer I am. After this past week that I’ve spent typing up business correspondence and proofreading countless pages, I’m beginning to wonder if Colin actually read the essay I’d been required to write for Profile’s internship application. My college’s guidance counselor had told me that the weight of the application rested on the essay and my writing skills, which made sense since I was applying to be an editorial intern at a magazine. So when I learned that I’d landed the competitive internship at Profile, I felt like I had arrived where my writing was concerned. This was validation that I was a talented writer.

  But harsh reality has set in over the course of the past few days, as it becomes more apparent that Colin wants a secretary rather than an editorial intern whom he can mentor. I’d even gone to him this morning and asked him if he needed help with editing any of the stories.

  “Pia. Relax. You’ve been here what? All of two days?”

  “Five days.”

  He’d waved his hand in the air as if it didn’t matter whether it was two or five.

  “Anyway, this is your first week. You need to learn and do everything that’s involved in getting this magazine printed and to the stands. There’s more to being a good magazine editor than just writing and editing. Trust me. You’ll get your writing and editing experience while on this internship. You’ll be here the whole summer. There’s time.”

  I had apologized, which only elicited another one of Colin’s annoying, dismissive waves. He waves a lot even when he’s explaining a project to me. It’s almost as if to say, “And so on; you know what I mean.” He waves his hand high up in the air, circling it in a frenzied, quick motion like an orchestral conductor.

  Maybe I’m just jumping the gun and worrying prematurely? Like Colin said, I’ve only been at the internship for a week. But then again, I can’t ignore what my instincts are telling me, and they’re screaming, “You’re not going to get any real editorial experience here!”

  Even if Colin lets me writes a short piece on the star’s coming to Astoria, I’d be happy with that. I’m not expecting him to let me do a feature-length story. I just have to give it my best shot.

  I join the crowd in front of Signora Tesca’s home, feeling a bit foolish that I’ve now become one of the gawkers. A few of the neighbors keep walking over to the driveway, just in case Francesca is hanging out in the backyard. This is ridiculous. I can see why Zia was so irritated on that first day when we came upon “the stockers,” as she calls them. Of course, she means “the stalkers,” but with her Italian accent it sounds more like “stockers.” That’s why I didn’t tell Zia my true motive for coming out tonight. She would’ve lectured me and told me not to be so “stupida”—her favorite insult and the quality she tolerates the least in people.

  I don’t see Olivia DeLuca even though she’d said she would be coming back out. Maybe she’s too tired after closing up her bridal boutique and making dinner. Paulie Parlatone is the only neighbor left of the crowd that’s slowly diminishing as one by one they give up their watch and return home. Only the Mayor of 35th Street and I remain of “the stalkers.” Though I’m wearing a loose cardigan that conceals my breasts, not that they’re hard to hide at their B-cup measurement, I still cross my arms protectively over my chest as Paulie approaches me.

  “It’s just you and me, Pia.” Paulie tips his longshoreman’s cap toward me and winks. Normally the sight of an old man winking at me would give me the creeps, but I can tell it’s a benign gesture. Unlike the day we first met, Paulie’s eyes don’t wander down the length of my body. He manages to keep his gaze locked with mine.

  “I can’t believe I’m out here.” I shake my head and start thinking maybe I’ll head back home to Zia’s as well.

  “You’re curious. Nothing wrong with that. Human nature. We’re all fascinated by the lives of the rich and famous. But I have to tell you, I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and laugh so hard at this bizarre dream I’m having. I mean, come on! Francesca Donata in Astoria and in the Mussolini Mansion of all places! Ha!” Paulie slaps his forehead, as if by doing so he will be awakened from this twisted dream.

  I laugh along with him. “Yeah, it is pretty weird. But I guess if Francesca had to visit, she picked the right house on the block. This is the fanciest one. And Signora Tesca does have money.”

  “That’s true, although you’d never know it by the way that woman dresses. I’ve seen her wear the same two dresses in all the years that I’ve lived here—a navy blue polyester dress and a dark brown one. That’s it! Oh, sometimes she has slacks. But she hardly ever comes out in the winter when it gets cold, so you don’t see her in the pants too often.”

  “How do you think they know each other?”

  “That’s a riddle if there ever was one.” Paulie lets out a low whistle. “We were all talking about it earlier. Ciggy said they had to have known each other when Signora Tesca lived in Italy before she came to America. That was a good thirty years ago. Someone said maybe they were childhood friends. But that don’t sound right. I stopped being friends with the kids from my childhood when I started working in high school. I didn’t have time for school and friends. Ahhh! That was a different time, too. You were focused on getting ahead in life and making sure you had a good paying job. It’s not like that now. All you young people care about are friends, friends, friends. And what’s this whole Facebook thing about anyway? How can you be friends with someone through a computer screen, for crying out loud?” Paulie slaps his forehead again.

  My ears are beginning to ring. Zia’s right that in addition to being the Mayor of 35th Street and sticking his nose in everyone’s business, Paulie can talk forever. I try reining him in and back on the topic of Francesca.

  “So, any other guesses as to how Signora Tesca knows Francesca?”

  “Torpedo Tits thinks they’re cousins! Oh, I’m sorry. Excuse me, where are my manners. I mean Betsy Offenheimer. Everyone calls her by the name I first used.” Paulie clears his throat and mutters in a low voice. “You’ll see why when you meet her if you haven’t yet.”

  I don’t know who Paulie’s talking about, but then an image of a woman I’d seen earlier with enormous, pointed breasts comes to mind. Her breasts had been difficult not to notice. They were cocked far out of her chest like machine guns. But more troubling than her very large breasts was the type of bra she no doubt had to be wearing. For only one of those Playtex bras that harkened back to the fifties could give her breasts that pointed “torpedo” look. In fact, everything about Betsy Offenheimer screamed, “I belong in the fifties.” She wore black cat-shaped eyeglasses that were attached to a long string of crystal pearls. And her white hair was tightly wound in a roller set. In one hand, she held a glossy black cane with a cat’s head molded out of the top of it. The cat’s eyes were glittering rhinestones. In her other hand, she held a leash that was attached to her black poodle’s collar. Obviously, she liked the color black. I had only seen her poodle from the back, but I do remember it had this odd habit of leaning its head from side to side as if it were trying to listen for something.

  “I think I know who you’re talking about. She has a black poodle?”

  “Yup, that’s Torpedo—I mean Betsy. Betsy and Mitzy.”

  Interesting. Mitzy’s name almost rhymed with her own.

  “She never goes anywhere without Mitzy, but that’s because she’s afraid of leaving her alone.”

  “Why is she afraid of leaving her dog alone?”

  “Didn’t you notice Mitzy’s eyes? She’s blind.” Paulie shudders. “It scares the crap out of me eve
ry time I look at that dog’s eyes by mistake. I try to avoid them at all costs, but sometimes I’m rounding the corner and then BAM! Those milky white eyes are staring right up at me. She looks like a zombie dog! Ugghhh!” Paulie shudders again.

  Now I understand why the dog’s head kept tilting from side to side when I saw her. She’d been trying to listen, since she has to rely on her sense of hearing to compensate for her lack of sight. My heart aches a bit for Mitzy. No wonder Torpedo Tits is afraid to leave her alone. Great! Now I’m calling Betsy “Torpedo Tits,” too.

  “Why does Betsy think Signora Tesca and Francesca are cousins? Or is she just purely taking a guess?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Pia! I like that. You remind me of me.” Paulie gives me the once-over look that he gave me when we first met. It’s my turn now to shudder.

  “Just curious. That’s all. Just like everyone else.”

  “Hold on! Antoniella mentioned to me that you are working for a magazine and like to write. That’s it!” He snaps his fingers and wags his index finger at me. “You want to be a journalist! No wonder all the questions. Bingo! I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Paulie looks really pleased with himself. I want to lie just so I won’t have to give him the satisfaction that he’s right. But there’s the chance Zia will blab, as she was telling everyone else in Astoria how I’m going to be a famous journalist someday.

  “I’m interning at a magazine. I would like to write for a magazine and hopefully start my own down the road. But I have a lot to learn until then.”

  “You’ll get there; you’ll get there.” Paulie pats my shoulder as if we’re now the best of friends. “Wow! What amazing luck this is for you! You come visit your aunt right when none other than Francesca Donata is visiting! This is fate, kid! Maybe she’ll grant you an interview.”

  Maybe Paulie’s right. We do think a lot alike. It’s scary to even entertain that thought. But I’m not going to let him in on my secret mission.