“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help noticing the photo. Is that you and Signora Tesca?”
Francesca pauses as if she’s wondering if she should answer my question. Then I remember her rule of my not asking about her family. I’m about to apologize again, but then she answers, “Yes.”
Another awkward moment of silence elapses, but then I’m saved by Carlo, who wheels in a cart with a huge, silver tray that is covered. Just like the movies, I can’t help thinking. Now I’m wishing that Carlo was attired in the stereotypical butler’s uniform. It would complete this bizarre scene.
Carlo quickly sets up our espresso cups and then places a large platter of assorted biscotti and sfogliatelle on the coffee table in front of us. Does Francesca eat biscotti and the flaky pastry that’s filled with ricotta cheese every morning for breakfast? If so, how does she manage to keep that figure of hers in her fifties? I can’t imagine her being a slave to working out. She probably can’t tolerate even a bead of perspiration.
“Is this fine? Or would you rather sit at the table?” Francesca tilts her head in the direction of a small, round table in the corner of the room.
“No, this is fine. Thank you.” I’m actually surprised she’s consulted me.
“I thought we would be more comfortable here.”
I nod my head. Trying to act nonchalant, I take a sip of my espresso, which is strong. Even with the milk I’ve added to it, I can taste the pungent bitterness. If I don’t want my nerves to be completely shot, I’ll have to avoid drinking it. My stomach growls loudly.
“I’m sorry.” Mortified is an understatement. Here I am, sitting across from silver-screen goddess Francesca Donata, who looks as good as she does on the magazine covers she’s graced over the years, and my stomach has to grumble.
Francesca actually looks a bit embarrassed for me, but I know my eyes must be failing. She picks up a sfogliatella and softly bites into it. Even the way she eats is done with the utmost grace and flair. I’m too terrified to eat even though my stomach lets out another wail.
“Please, help yourself. Or do you not like biscotti and sfogliatelle? ”
I can’t help but laugh. “My aunt would murder me if I hated Italian desserts or anything Italian for that matter.”
I pick up one of the Regina biscotti that are also on the platter and try to nibble on it delicately as Francesca had, but the sesame seeds that are sprinkled generously all over the cookie fall onto my lap along with an avalanche of crumbs. A few land on the cream-colored settee. Of course, Francesca is watching me and doesn’t so much as blink when she notices that I’m made uncomfortable by her staring. I pick up the crumbs as best I can.
“Leave them. Carlo or Angelica will clean them up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“While I appreciate your manners, Miss Santore, you apologize too much. It is quite unbecoming of you.” Francesca takes a sip of her espresso, never lifting her intense gaze off me.
I’m stunned by her brutal candor, but I don’t know what to say, so I remain silent.
“Why would your aunt murder you if you did not like Italian sweets?”
“She owns a bakery on Ditmars—Antoniella’s Bakery. Ever since I arrived here, she’s been feeding me nothing but biscotti and pastries.”
“Is this the aunt you mentioned the other day when we met in the jewelry store, the aunt who knows my sister?”
“Yes.” I’m silently praying she doesn’t mention anything else about that disastrous meeting.
Her face grows somber for a moment.
“Maybe your aunt can come over for a visit the next time we meet. I have not met any of Giuliana’s friends, and she could . . .” Her voice trails off. She shrugs her shoulder and continues, “Anyway, we will see how this first interview goes.”
Strange. She’s just pulled a Jekyll-and-Hyde on me. Still reeling from shock over her inviting my aunt, even if she reneged on her invitation a moment later, I nod my head and say, “I want you to be happy with this interview.”
She stares at me and says, “Naturally, I must be happy with it or else the interview will never make it to press.”
The knot in my stomach twists even more.
“Gregory thinks highly of you.” She’s on her second sfogliatella now.
“I think highly of him, too.”
“Do you?” Francesca asks in a somewhat incredulous tone.
“Yes. I have him to thank after all for getting me this interview. That was very kind of him, especially since he and I haven’t known each other long.”
“So, is that the only reason you think highly of Gregory? Because he was able to help you?”
“Oh no! Of course not. I can tell he’s a good person.”
Francesca’s lips slightly curl upward so that she has an amused smile.
“I assume he gave you my list of conditions?” She gets up and walks over to a small escritoire desk. Pulling open one of the drawers, she takes out a legal pad and returns to the settee.
“Just in case you forget any of the conditions.” She holds up the pad.
I can’t believe she’s keeping them handy. My blood, which has already been simmering, is rapidly approaching its boiling point. I take another sip of espresso so she doesn’t see my scowl.
“Why don’t we begin?” Francesca glances at her diamond-studded wristwatch.
She’s actually going to time the interview! But why am I surprised? So far, her behavior is precisely what I expected. I’m trying to keep an open mind and not judge her like Gregory asked. But it’s becoming increasingly difficult.
Opening Zia’s Gucci purse, I take out my little notebook and pen. Francesca is staring at the purse with much interest.
“A knockoff, I see.”
“Excuse me?” I’m not sure what she’s referring to.
“Your purse. That is quite a good knockoff.” The amused smile reappears. I want to slap it right off her smug face.
“This isn’t a knockoff.”
“I guess it is my turn to apologize now. It is just that Gregory mentioned to me you are an intern at Profile, and I cannot imagine how you would be able to afford a Gucci, no less a vintage one like that. I have not seen that style of purse since shortly after I started making movies. But I should not presume. Your family has money?”
“No, they do not. But you are right. The purse is vintage. It’s actually my aunt’s.”
“The one who owns the bakery?”
“Yes.”
I’m feeling embarrassed and angry as hell that I’m letting this prima donna bitch make me feel ashamed. I suddenly realize this is what she wants—to show me she’s in control. Remembering my earlier resolve to stand toe-to-toe with her, I clear my throat and begin the interview.
“Please tell me which city and country you were born in?”
“Messina, Sicilia.” She pronounces “Sicily” in Italian.
“At what age did you become interested in wanting to be an actress?”
The first ten questions sound like I’m taking a census survey. Though I’m following her conditions so far, I intend on sneaking in a few provocative questions. She’s not the only cunning manipulator. By asking her the questions she’s vetted in the beginning of our interview, I’m lowering her guard. After half an hour, I’m ready to test the waters.
“How did it make you feel to be a sex symbol?”
“I was flattered, of course, but I was more than a sex symbol. My awards attest to that.”
“Yes, but you must admit, ‘sex symbol’ has always been attached to your name whenever the media talks about you. Did it ever bother you that more attention was placed on your physical attributes than your talents?”
Francesca’s nostrils flare slightly. Obviously, I’ve hit a nerve. But she manages to quell any eruption that’s threatening to surface.
“No, it never bothered me because my acting was also appreciated.”
“Surely, it must have bothered you. After all, you detested the nickname you
were dubbed with—‘Dolci Labbra’—which was also the title of your fourth film release.”
“I never said I hated that name. Where are you getting your information from?” Francesca’s voice rises slightly.
“There’s an interview you gave to Italian Vogue in which you admitted not only hating the nickname the media had christened you with, but also the movie’s title because it sounded like a pornographic film. I’m surprised you don’t remember this article since it created quite a stir in the media.”
Francesca looks absolutely livid now. Her face is ashen.
“I stand corrected. Your research is quite thorough. I am just surprised that you would have gone that far back. That interview was done in the seventies. I almost forgot about it, and I never forget anything.”
“So the name ‘Sweet Lips’ or ‘Dolci Labbra’ was a thorn in your side?”
“A little. But can you blame me? I am a serious actress, not a porn star.”
“So you still consider yourself an actress even though you retired from acting a decade ago?”
“I will always be an actress.”
“Do you think you will ever act again?”
“I do not like to say never, but I doubt it. That part of my life is over.”
“So how can you say you ‘will always be an actress’?”
“It is part of my fiber. I cannot think of myself as anything else.”
“So you have no other interests is what you’re saying?”
“That is not what I am saying. Do not twist my words, Miss Santore.”
Deciding I’m getting into dangerous waters, I shift gears.
“Clearly, you still have a passion for acting. A few critics have said that you still had a few good movies left in you when you retired.”
“Really? They said that?”
“Yes, at least here in the U.S.”
“Ahhh! America has always been good to me. Italy just wants to remember the Francesca Donata from decades ago.”
“What does that mean?”
Francesca waves her hand in the air. “It is not important.”
Just when I feel she’s starting to open up, she clams back up.
“Were you not being offered the right roles?”
Recognition reaches her eyes. That’s it. She was probably being offered more matronly roles, and her ego couldn’t stand it even though she also didn’t like all the attention that was placed on her sex-symbol status. Francesca is a contradiction.
“I was merely ready to retire. After acting for so many years, it was time I took a rest.”
“You’ve rested for ten years. And now your visit to the U.S. has placed you in the spotlight again. Do you think there’s even a slight chance you’ll consider another role? That is, if you were offered one?”
Francesca’s brows knit together as she stares at me through squinted eyes.
“I am always offered roles.”
“Really? Even in this past decade that you’ve been out of the limelight?”
“Yes. Why do you sound so surprised?”
I mentally chuckle to myself. Who’s in control now?
“It’s just that I thought if you were offered roles at the start of your retirement and you kept refusing them, the knocks on your door would’ve inevitably stopped.”
“Trust me, Miss Santore, they are still knocking.”
“Which was your favorite film?”
“I think we’re done for today.” Francesca looks at her watch.
“Does this mean you’ll continue with another appointment? We haven’t even covered a quarter of the questions.”
Francesca waits a few seconds before replying, “I am not sure. To be quite frank, Miss Santore, I do not appreciate some of the questions you asked me today. And more important, they were not on the list of questions that I approved.”
“I apologize.”
Francesca holds up her hand, imploring me to stop. For someone who can be such a bitch, she really hates it when people apologize to her.
“Why do you hate it so much when I apologize? Do you forbid your staff to apologize to you?”
“Of course I do not forbid my staff to apologize to me. If their actions warrant an apology, they should apologize. I just cannot stand to see a young woman like you so insecure. Trust me, you will get nowhere in your career or life if you play the good-girl part and apologize for everything.”
She’s managed to stun me once again. So this is how she sees me—lacking confidence and playing the good-girl role. I’m probably about to ruin my chances of receiving an invitation for a second interview, but I don’t care.
“Miss Donata, as you stated earlier, you should not assume. You know nothing about me. You asked that I treat you with the utmost respect, but you have been condescending toward me since I first met you in Castello Jewelry. If you will excuse me, I will show myself out.”
And with that I storm out of there.
14
Francesca
“How did your interview go?” Giuliana is propped up with four pillows in her bed. This is the first chance she has had to ask me about my meeting with Pia Santore. She did not feel well yesterday and slept for most of the day.
“Eh.” I shrug my shoulders. “Fine.”
“You said the girl is Antoniella’s niece?” Giuliana barely gets the words out before she starts coughing.
“Here, drink this.” I offer her our favorite childhood drink, orzata, which is a combination of seltzer water and almond syrup.
“I can’t believe you still drink these. Grazie.”
Giuliana is smiling, a sight I have not seen much since I have come here. Actually, she has not smiled much since her husband died all those years ago.
“And I cannot believe you ever stopped! You were even crazier about orzata than I was when we were growing up. Do you remember what you asked our father?”
“Of course. ‘Baba, why can’t you grow almond trees so we can make our own orzata?’ ” Giuliana starts laughing silently to herself.
“Si, si. I remember how expensive it used to be—well, at least for us.” I shake my head at the memory.
“I remember when you first made it as an actress and you sent me five cases of orzata. Mama and I were astonished when we figured out how much the cases cost you.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything, Francesca.” Giuliana laughs, but then she notices my staid expression. Our eyes meet, and she quickly averts her gaze.
“So where were we? Oh, yes, Antoniella’s niece, the girl who interviewed you. What is she like?”
“She is like any other young woman in her twenties—insecure, naïve, a dreamer.”
“Like any other young woman in her twenties or like you?” Giuliana sips her orzata, but continues scrutinizing me.
“I see your candidness is still intact, Giuliana.”
“It runs in our family. You can be just as blunt.”
“I guess she does remind me a little of myself but more before I was discovered.”
“Naturally.”
Giuliana is done with her orzata. I see her staring longingly at the almond syrup bottle. I get up and make her another drink.
“She does have courage. I gave her a list of conditions that were to be met for the interview, one of which was that I had to vet all of the questions. But she still decided toward the end of our appointment to ask her own questions. And I am almost convinced she was intentionally trying to upset me.”
“You’ve always been overly sensitive and paranoid, Francesca. Why would she sabotage herself that way? You mentioned she is still trying to make her mark as a journalist.”
“Well, like me, I think she has a bit of a temper beneath that seemingly sweet exterior, and I think she got frustrated that I was making it hard on her.”
“Of course, you were making it hard on her. That has always been something I never understood about you, Francesca. Why are you so intent on only showing this prima donna s
ide of yourself? It has often cast you in a poor light.”
“I make no apologies for who I am.”
I get up and pace the room, not happy with where this conversation is going.
“There is more to you. We both know that.”
I am surprised and touched by Giuliana’s words. Has she perhaps finally stopped punishing me?
“How can you be so sure that the girl you once knew has not vanished completely? You of all people have witnessed the worst of me.”
“Vero, vero.”
Giuliana nods her head and looks down at her clasped hands in her lap. She finishes the second glass of orzata just as fast as the first one. From now on, I am going to make orzatas for her every day. It is a small pleasure, and Lord knows she has so few of those these days. I begin searching my mind, thinking of other ways I can make her happy.
“Giuliana, I was thinking we should go out. Get some fresh air. It would do you good.”
“Ha! With that herd out there following us? That’s not wise.”
“I can ask Edgardo to make arrangements so that he and my other bodyguards can sneak us out of here. No one followed us the day I visited the jewelry shops on Ditmars.”
“How did that go? You never did tell me. I also have not seen more gifts arrive. Perhaps word did get out that you were investigating and you scared off your secret admirer.”
Giuliana looks amused.
“Perhaps.”
Giuliana is right. No other gifts have arrived since the last one. It is for the better. I do not need a deranged stalker. Stupida! I silently scold myself. To think I thought there was a man who might be infatuated with me. I am in my mid-fifties, past the prime of my life. I must accept I am no longer the young woman whom every man desires.
“Francesca, if you would please excuse me, I need to take a nap. My medication makes me so drowsy.”
“Certainly. Let me lower your pillows.”
Giuliana has given up on resisting my help. Part of me hopes that her stubbornness is finally dissipating, but I also suspect she is getting weaker and welcomes the assistance.
“I will ask Edgardo to make plans for us to get away.”
Carissima Page 19
