“You are like all Americans,” she said. “Business comes first. Then if there is any time left over and you are not too tired, there are other things.”
He smiled, but there was no amusement in his eyes. “I’m not biting.”
She returned his smile but also without amusement. “You do not like me.” It was more a statement than a question.
“I didn’t say that.”
“My English is not that good. Perhaps I say it better like this. You do not approve of me.”
“I don’t think it matters. It is none of my affair.”
“You are very American. So correct,” she said. “But you are his friend and you think I am not good for him.”
“Are you?”
“I think so,” she said. “In many ways. For his career, for his, what do you say, ego?”
He didn’t answer.
“Sometime in every man’s life there should be a woman like me,” she said. “I am better for him than some cheap little starlet who will try to take him for everything. I give him as much as he gives me. With me he is a man.”
“He always was a man,” Steve said.
Sam came back to the table, his face flushed and angry. “Goddamn idiots!” he said, sitting down. He looked at Marilu. “I’m sorry but I have to break our dinner date. The director and the writers are in a hassle over the script and I have to meet with them tonight to settle it. We begin shooting in the morning.”
“Oh,” said Marilu. “And I’ve made plans. I was cooking pasta myself tonight.”
Sam looked at her, then at Steve. “I have an idea. Why don’t you have dinner with her? And if I get through early enough I’ll join you afterward.”
“Perhaps Steve has another engagement?” There was a hint of challenge in her voice.
“I don’t.”
“Good,” Sam smiled. “You’ve never really tasted pasta until you’ve eaten it the way she makes it.”
“I’m looking forward to it already. What time and where?”
“Eight o’clock. Bungalow three, Beverly Hills Hotel,” she said.
“That makes it easy. I’m staying there too.”
She got to her feet. “I’m due back on the set.”
They watched her leave and Sam turned back to Steve. “I’m so glad you didn’t turn her down,” he said. “Do you know, the poor kid thought you didn’t like her?”
***
He came from the cool dark of the air-conditioned Polo Lounge and stepped out the side doors into the heat of the fading day. He blinked for a moment and then walked along the flower-scented path. Bungalow three was just past the accounting offices. He climbed the steps and pressed the bell.
After a moment, the door opened. A dark-haired middle-aged woman in a maid’s black dress answered the door. “Signore,” she curtsied.
It was only slightly cooler inside. He glanced toward the windows. They were wide open.
Marilu came into the room as he turned back from the windows. “You can’t eat pasta in an air-conditioned room,” she said. “It does something to it.”
“Yes,” he said. “It makes it cold.”
She looked at him not knowing whether he was being sarcastic. “Yes,” she said, hesitating.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “It was just a wisecrack.”
She smiled. “I do not understand American humor quite good yet.”
“You will,” he said. “It just takes time.”
“Let me take your jacket.”
He suddenly noticed she was wearing an ordinary cotton housedress that couldn’t have cost more than three dollars at the Broadway stores, and no makeup. He took a deep breath. It made no difference what she wore. She was a for-real woman.
She took his jacket and placed it in a closet. “There are drinks on the bar,” she said. “Help yourself. You can also take off your tie. I have to go back into the kitchen.”
He watched her leave the room. It was all there under the housedress. Nothing but her. He was sure of that from the way it clung damply to her body. He pulled his tie loose and went over to the bar.
He was in the midst of pouring himself a large Scotch when her voice came from the kitchen. “Don’t take too large a drink. I don’t want you to lose your taste.”
“Don’t worry, Italian Girl,” he said. “I’m just beginning to acquire one.”
CHAPTER SIX
The meal was simplicity itself. First the antipasto, with the celery and the lettuce crisp, the radishes and scallions firm and crunchy, garnished with a chilled can of tuna, thin slices of Genoa salami, black and green olives, and tiny red and green peppers. Then the pasta. Lasagna al forno. Al dente with a delicious sauce and folded with layers of meat and pieces of Italian sausage. The Chianti classico was chilled just enough, and for dessert there was zabaglione which she beat at the table herself. Black, strong espresso from a little machine placed in the center of the table and that was the end of it.
He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t believe it,” he said, “I ate so much.”
“Not as much as I.”
“I don’t know where you put it.” It was true.
She had eaten like it was going out of style. She laughed. “I have more experience than you.”
The maid came and began clearing the table. Marilu got to her feet. “Let’s go back into the living room.”
The telephone rang. She went to the small desk and picked it up. “Hello.” It was Sam.
She listened to him speak for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Yes, tomorrow then.” She looked over at Steve. “Sam would like to talk with you.”
Steve took the telephone from her hand. Sam’s voice was in his ear. “I’m hung up here, I can’t get over. Was I right about the pasta?”
“You were right.”
“How long you going to be in town? I want to get together with you. I have some ideas.”
“A few days.”
“Tomorrow will be rough,” Sam said. “But the day after?”
“Good for me,” Steve said. “Just have your girl call my office with the time.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “Thanks.”
Steve was surprised. “For what?”
“For being nice to my girl. I appreciate that.”
He rang off and Steve put down the telephone. Marilu was standing at the bar. She turned to him with two glasses of Fior d’Alpi in her hands. He felt the trembling in her fingers when he took his glass from her. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
“You must be exhausted,” he said. “Working all day in that heat, then coming back here and cooking. I’d better go and let you get some rest.”
“No,” she said tightly. “Don’t go.”
“You’ll feel better if you get into bed.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I didn’t cook that meal. I had it catered. Billy Karin’s Casa d’Oro on Santa Monica Boulevard. He’s the only one that cooks it like we do at home.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You look shocked,” she said. “Why should you be? This is Hollywood. Nothing is what it seems, nothing is real.”
He didn’t speak.
“I can’t cook,” she said. “I never learned. When I was fourteen years old in Marsala, a film director who came to our town with his company saw me. I was big even then. Two weeks later I went to Rome with him. My father was glad. He had seven other mouths to feed.”
She turned away suddenly. “You see, Sicilians aren’t quite as tight about their honor as they would have you think. It’s amazing how far ten thousand lire went then.”
Ten thousand lire was less than twenty dollars. “I’m sorry,” he said finally.
“Why should you be?” she said with her back to him. “I learned something from my father. That everything has its price. Even honor. And I’ve done well with that lesson.
“After the director, there were others. There was always someone. And now it’s Sam.”
She turned around. “So you were right about me.”
He saw the tears standing in her eyes. “Not entirely,” he said. “Are you in love with him?”
She met his gaze. “No. Not in the sense you mean it. But I do love him in my own way. I respect him.”
“Then why?” he asked. “You don’t have to do it anymore. You’re a star now.”
“I say that to myself. But I don’t believe it,” she answered. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid if I don’t have someone I will fail.”
“It’s not true,” he said. “Whatever you are, no one did it for you. You did it yourself. You were there in front of the camera. You, alone. Not someone, but you. Up there on the screen in front of the whole world. You.”
She raised her glass to him. “You’re a very kind man, Stephen Gaunt. Thank you.”
“You’re a very beautiful woman, Italian Girl, and whether you cooked it or not, it’s still the best pasta I ever tasted.”
“And what about you?” she asked. “You don’t talk much about yourself.”
“There’s not much to talk about.”
“None of them have anything to talk about. But they manage. They never stop. But I have seen you twice now and each time you just listen. They are all busy telling how great they are. But not you. Are you great?”
“I’m the best there is.”
She looked at him seriously. “I believe that. Are you married?”
“No,” he said. “I was.”
“Divorce?”
“She died.”
“Oh.” A look of sympathy came to her face. “Did you love her?”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “I never knew how much though until it was too late.”
She nodded. “That is the way it is. We never really have appreciation for the things we have.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s eleven o’clock. I’d better go if you want to look good tomorrow morning in front of that camera.”
“I am not working tomorrow.”
He was curious. “What do you do on your days off?”
“Tomorrow I have some fittings in the morning. Then I come back here and wait for Sam to call. If he can, we will have dinner together.”
“And if he can’t?”
“Then I will have dinner alone. Watch some television and go to bed. The day after will be better though. I am working then. It is always better when I am working.”
“Don’t you go out? To the movies? Anyplace?”
She shook her head. “No. How would it look? Marilu Barzini, the star, going out alone? But it’s all right. I am used to it.”
“It’s not good,” he said. “To lock yourself up like that.”
“It will not be for long,” she said. “I have made up my mind. I am not signing the contracts for those other two pictures. I am going back to Italy. There I can be free. I am at home.”
“Does Sam know that?”
“No. How could he? I just made up my mind tonight.”
“Will you come through New York on your way back?”
“If you ask me to,” she said.
“I’m asking you.”
“Then I will come.”
He moved toward her and she came into his arms. She rested her head against his chest and they stood together for a long time. Then he turned her face up to him and kissed her gently. “Good night, Italian Girl.”
“Good night, Stephen Gaunt.”
He picked up his tie from the couch. She gave him his jacket. Silently, without another word, he left. She stood there looking at the closed door for a long time. Then she went into the bedroom, feeling better than she had in a long long time.
***
“Did you see this, Sam?”
He looked up from his bacon and eggs. “See what?” he asked, his mouth half full.
Denise gave him the Reporter. She pointed to the small story on the front page: BARZINI TO RETURN TO ROME AFTER RIDERS.
He glanced at it and nodded. He resumed eating.
“I thought you had her signed to two more pictures,” Denise said.
“We agreed to skip them. She’s not happy here. She prefers working in Rome.”
Denise tried to keep the sudden lightening of her heart from showing in her voice. “Will it affect your plans in any way?”
“Sure,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of food. “Maybe I’ll be able to get home early some nights now that I don’t have to follow her around holding a can every time she wants to take a pee.”
“Like tonight?”
He put down his knife and fork and took her hand. “Yes, Mama,” he said. “Like tonight.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Steve came into the apartment just after midnight and the telephone was ringing. He picked it up. “Hello.”
The faint accent echoed in his ear. “Stephen Gaunt?”
“Yes.”
“You told me to call you when I am coming to New York.”
“Italian Girl, when are you coming in?”
“I am in New York,” she said. “At the airport. My plane just landed.”
“The picture finished?”
“Yesterday. I had a few scenes to dub this morning or I would have been in earlier.”
“Does Sam know you’ve left?”
“No.” She hesitated. “I thought it would be better if I just went off quietly. I tried to call you, but you were never there.”
“Do you have a car meeting you?”
“No,” she answered. “I decided to leave this morning. I left my maid there to finish packing and follow me.”
“I’ll have a car there in thirty minutes.”
“It’s all right. I can get a taxi.”
“Don’t forget you’re a star, Italian Girl,” he said. “Taxis are for the common people.”
She laughed. “I’ll wait then. I’ll be in the lounge at United Airlines.”
He put down the telephone and picked up the house phone. “The front door, please.
“Tell my chauffeur I want to speak to him.” He hesitated. “No. Tell him to wait for me. I’ll be right down.”
***
The press and the photographers beat him to her. Despite the late hour they seemed to come from out of nowhere. She was sitting on a railing that gave them a chance to photograph her legs, the short skirt seeming even shorter.
He stopped behind them and waited patiently.
She saw him and waved. “Stephen Gaunt!”
They turned to look and made a path for him to walk through. She came off the railing into his arms. They kissed and the flashbulbs went off like Chinese firecrackers.
“Once again,” a photographer called. “My camera jammed.”
She looked at him questioningly.
He grinned. “Why not?”
They repeated the kiss for the photographer. He turned to them. “I could keep this up all night,” he said. “But Miss Barzini just came off a long flight and she is tired.”
They began to walk out. Some of the reporters followed them. “Is it a romance?” one asked.
“We’re old friends,” he said.
“How long did you know each other?” another called.
“How about a month?”
They laughed. The luggage was already in the car. His chauffeur opened the door for them.
Marilu got in and he followed her. “Will you be in town long?” a reporter asked her.
She smiled at him. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Steve signaled his chauffeur and the car moved out into the road, leaving the reporters behind. He pressed the button that raised the glass divider. When it was closed, he turned to her.
“Welcome to New York, Italian Girl,” he said.
She sat there looking at him for a moment. Then she spoke. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I believe you,” she said. “It’s strange.”
“What’s strange?”
“I am so used to not believing what people say.
Yet when you say it, I believe you.” She looked into his eyes. “Do you know—since that night we had dinner—I could not wait until the picture was finished. All I thought about was coming here to be with you.”
He was silent.
“Do you believe me?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Why is it you do not speak?”
“I don’t know,” he said hesitantly.
She picked up his hand and brought it to her lips. “I, too,” she whispered against the back of his palm.
***
She clung to him, the heat of her engulfing him like the interior of a furnace, melting in its fierceness. “Stephen Gaunt,” she cried. “I am lost! There is a whole world I never knew and I am afraid.”
He held himself against her fire. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “You’re with me. Give yourself up to it.”
“No!” Suddenly, frantically, she tried to get away from him, her hands striking at his chest and shoulders.
He trapped her against the headboard, his weight against her, his forearm across her throat cutting off her breath. She fought, rolling and squirming. Inexorably he increased the pressure. As suddenly as she had begun to struggle, she stopped.
She looked up at him, her mouth open, gasping for breath.
“You would have killed me,” she said softly. A curious respect came into her voice. “You are not like the others.”
Her body motionless, the sheath that was her being gripped him, tightened around him, pulsed rhythmically as she sought to empty him. He began to rise and fall, responding involuntarily to her demand.
“You like that?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said.
She nodded, sure of herself once again.
He held himself still. “You know all the tricks, don’t you, Italian Girl?”
She smiled. Suddenly, he rolled away from her and was out of the bed, looking down at her.
She followed him swiftly, her hand taking him to her mouth. “My strong, beautiful cock,” she whispered. “Let me make love to it.”
He stood there for a moment, feeling the tiny sharpness of her teeth on him, then tilted her face up toward him. “No. I want you to make love to me, not it.” He picked up his robe from a chair. “And I want to make love to you. If I wanted to just fuck you I would have done it that night in California.”
The Inheritors Page 24
