This Time We Love

by Reynolds, Mack

  And still she tantalized. As he tore out of his own clothes, fumbling in irritation with belt buckle and zipper, she lay face down on the bed and looked at him provocatively. When he came toward her, she said slowly, accusingly, “But surely you are a gentleman, Max, darling. I see you are ready — ” she turned down a corner of her mouth — “in fact, I have never seen a man … so ready. But what of poor Clara?”

  He reached for her, growling, “What about poor Clara? Poor Clara has been asking for this all day. Come here!”

  But she hid her head in her arms, still face down. “No. No, you must play with Clara. Tell her you love her. Coax her. Tell her she is beautiful. Am I not beautiful, darling Max?”

  And still she tantalized him, demanding his admiration, his preliminary caresses, his kisses here, there and everywhere. Finally, he could bear it no longer. All but brutally he turned her to position and mounted her in love. And then finally, her eyes rolling up, she opened to him. And as they raged in the combat between man and woman, she remained the devil, giving as much as she took.

  Chapter Six

  HE GOT BACK to the motel after dawn and scarcely found the energy to undress before falling into bed. He had a brief second before sleep reached up to engulf him and in that second he decided the woman was mad. He was a dishrag. No man should be expected to be able to …

  He was awakened by the insistence of the telephone. Telephone? He opened an eye in protest. It must be a wrong number. So far as he knew, nobody had his phone number. For that matter, he didn’t know it himself. He pulled a pillow over his head and waited for it to still. It kept ringing.

  All right, damn it. He fumbled for the instrument and brought it to him, saying into the mouthpiece, “Scusi, numero sbagliato.”

  A voice said, dripping disgust, “Like hell it’s the wrong number. This is Fielding, isn’t it?”

  Max looked at the phone in astonishment. He muttered, still in Italian, “Tenga la comunicazione, un momento, per favore.” He put the phone down, went into the bath and splashed some cold water on his face, grabbed up a towel and dried himself as he made his way back to the bed. He picked up the instrument again and said, “Who is this?”

  “Giotto! Do you know what time it is? Why aren’t you down here, Fielding? I want to run those tests and if they’re okay start you to work this morning.”

  “How did you get my phone number?”

  “Elimination, you fool. You had to be in some hotel. Now you get on down here or you’re fired, understand?”

  “Well,” Max said philosophically, “that’s the shortest time I ever held a job. Good-bye, Signore Giotto.”

  “What! What do you mean!” the other shouted.

  Max said evenly, “I mean non-pros like myself evidently aren’t dependable, Giotto, and I suggest you hire some professionals — at a reasonable wage, of course — to do your dubbing.”

  The Italian producer was sputtering in rage as Max dropped the receiver back on its cradle.

  Before he could get back in bed, it rang again. He picked it up and said evenly, “I’m sleepy. Please don’t bother me.”

  “Listen, Fielding,” Filippo Giotto said dangerously, “you don’t play with me, understand? Now you get down here or I’ll have you blackballed in every studio in Italy.”

  Max couldn’t help laughing. “Listen,” he said. “I keep telling you I’m not in the business. I’m not an actor, not even a dubber, or whatever you call them. I’m in the toy business. Can you blackball me in that field, in the States? My family owns the concern. Now go away and let me sleep.”

  He hung up again and returned to the bed.

  This time when he awoke, the usual morning sour taste was in his mouth. It didn’t go away as he rehashed the previous day’s activities. Oh, it had been interesting enough, seeing the cinema crowd at work. The set, the performers. That guy Alec had been interesting with his story about breakaway chariots and such. But the siege at the conte’s place. How far out can you go?

  As he made his way to the bath, depression upon him, he wondered how his father, Samuel Fielding, would have taken the Villa Piviali and its decadent owner. Old Sam had always been the dreamer, the storyteller of imagination. After a hard day’s work, he liked nothing better than to sit around with Max, possibly an atlas or tourist folders in hand, and tell about far lands and other customs, other foods to eat, exotic drinks to sample. He was always going to do it, was Sam. Going to find the time to make a really long trip. Possibly spend a year in Europe, or possibly take a world cruise. Yes, that was it, Sam Fielding would explain, his weary eyes sparking. He and Max. A world cruise. Use the ship as a hotel. See a hundred different countries.

  Max inwardly shrugged, even as he stood under the shower letting it play first hot then colder over his body. His memories of Sam Fielding were fond ones, and those hours spent hearing of the Sphinx and the Parthenon, of the Left Bank of Paris and the Kremlin in Moscow, of the Taj Mahal in India and Mayan ruins in Yucatan, of eating chicken barbequed in banana leaves in Mexico, and poi in Hawaii, of the real Pilsen beer of Czechoslovakia, and the delicious wines of the Wauchau Valley in Austria. But old Sam had never achieved the reality of his ambitions. He’d put his life into working with his brother Frederic, and establishing Fielding Toys. He’d never gone beyond the limits of the United States.

  Thinking of Fielding Toys brought his uncle back to mind again. Let’s see, he had last heard from the old curmudgeon while Max was still in Switzerland. Frederic Fielding had been demanding. Max owed it to the family enterprise to return and take up a position of responsibility. Business was bad, and they needed his efforts. Uncle Fred hinted that if Max would really buckle down, the position of sales manager would be open to him.

  Max, living it up at that time in Interlaken, was still fairly well in funds, and had no interest in returning to the rat race as long as that solvency prevailed. Tongue in cheek he had answered his uncle expressing his sorrow at the state of business at home, and suggesting that Uncle Fred bring out a new doll to hit the novelty market. The basic idea would be the same as the baby dolls which drank real fluid from real miniature milk bottles and then, later, wet their diapers and have to be changed. The difference was, this doll would be dressed as a grown man and would have a red nose and a bottle clutched in one hand. In short, a drunk. The gimmick? It really pukes!

  By the time he had dressed it was past noon and he decided to skip breakfast and make his first meal a brunch. In fact, he had a semi-date with Clara to meet at the “38,” a trattoria where evidently quite a few of the movie colony took their meals.

  He drove in along the Via Aurelia, through the Saint Pancrazio Gate, and over the Tiber by the Pontei Sisto. The “38” was located in Via Flavia, a few blocks from Via Veneto, center of the English-speaking foreign element. The streets were narrow here, but parking was more possible than further downtown.

  He had never been in the small restaurant before. You could live a lifetime in Rome and eat in a different trattoria each day, and never cover them all, these small, eight- or ten-table family restaurants with their unbelievably excellent food at low price.

  The “38” sported checkered tablecloths, a centered table laden with fruits and desserts and toward the kitchen in the rear, huge salamis and cheeses hanging from the ceiling. A tourist pamphlet would have called it picturesque.

  The tables were largely filled at this hour but Max couldn’t make out Clara Lucciola, nor, for a moment, anyone else he recognized. Well, the date had been a half-definite one. Clara hadn’t been sure whether or not she was on call today. Max had entered the small restaurant, now he turned to leave. Since he knew nobody here he had no particular interest in staying in view of the crowded tables, one of which he would have to share.

  But a voice called out, “There he is, the great labor leader! Let Reuther and John L. Lewis make room!”

  He didn’t realize at first that the voice was directed at him and continued to turn away. However, someone he vague
ly remembered meeting got up from a table and was hurrying toward him. “Hey, Max, hold it.”

  Now it came back. One of Bert Fix’s assistants in the publicity department on the Horatius production. What the devil was his name? Frank or Bill or something. The man wrung his hand, even while laughing and urging him back to the table. Max shrugged. Why not?

  There were six others at the table, halfway into lunch. Max recognized Jeanette, Bert Fix’s girl. She smiled shyly up at him and once again he thought of a little brown mouse. “Hi, Max,” she said.

  They made room for him, everybody chattering animatedly. The publicity man was laughing at Max. “You’re the day’s hero,” he said. Max didn’t get it.

  Jeanette said, “You were evidently the straw that broke Giotto’s back. He’s been trying to recruit Americans for his dubbing at cheaper wages and can’t find anyone adequate. So only half an hour ago he started rehiring the usual gang here that does that work.”

  Now it came back. His phone call with the Italian producer this morning. He’d forgotten about it. Max said, frowning, “But how’d you know about me?”

  The publicity man had the answer. “Giotto called Bert and ate him out. Our pal Bert doesn’t seem to think there’s anything wrong in scabbing.”

  Inwardly, Max was amused. It was the first occasion in which he’d been connected with a strike, no matter how small. In fact, as part of the Fielding family, he was more apt to be on the boss’ side in a labor quarrel.

  Jeanette was saying defensively, though softly, “Bert is a friend of Filippo’s.”

  The waiter was beside the table, menu in hand. As Max took it, he saw Nadine Barney briskly enter the place. “Messenger of doom,” somebody muttered.

  Nadine looked about the place, crisply. “Shooting schedule has been changed, folks. Everybody in the public baths scenes, chop chop, back to work. You’re all on call this afternoon. Sorry if you’ve made plans, but that’s how the ball bounces. Terry, Jimmy, Francesca, you’re on stand-by. Does anybody know where Roy is?”

  “I won’t tell,” somebody called out. “He has a date, and she’s a honey.”

  “Very funny,” Nadine clipped. She put her hands, knuckles folded in, on her hips. “It costs ten thousand an hour to hold things while waiting on a single actor. Is there any girl worth that much an hour?”

  The unintended connotation suddenly came to her and the prim and starched Nadine Barney flushed. The room laughed and the actor she’d called Terry said, “You, dear. Will you take a check?”

  The room laughed again. Nadine snorted, and to cover sat down at the table next to Max. The others, lunch over, began to get up.

  “Back to the salt mines,” the publicity man said. “Jeanette, can I give you a lift? I’ve got my Fiat outside.”

  The small girl gave her mouth a pat with her napkin and stood up. She said to Nadine, “I think Roy is having a hamburger at the Colony. Two weeks away from the States and poor Roy begins to think of corn flakes, hamburgers and malted milks as though they were the food of the gods.”

  Somebody else chimed in with, “Yeah, and when he’s back in L.A. he wouldn’t dream of eating the stuff. Hangs out most of the time in Tony Paranta’s spaghetti house on Vine Street.”

  They were all suddenly gone and Max sat alone with Nadine. He said blandly, “Not above associating with a Good Time Charley today?”

  Nadine looked at him. “Whatever you order, make it double. I’m too tired to figure out an Italian menu.” She looked at her watch.

  “You’ll get ulcers that way,” Max told her.

  “What way?”

  “Eating by the watch. Relax.” He snapped his fingers for the waiter.

  “It’s a madhouse today,” Nadine said, her voice not quite so crisp as usual.

  The waiter came and Max ordered prosciutto, sliced thin with figs, some cannellonis, pasta stuffed with paté and baked in cheese and tomato sauce, and pollo alla diavolo, a chicken-broiled-over-herbs dish. He chose Ber-toli rosé for a wine.

  Nadine said, “Your Italian seems to be excellent.”

  Max said, “My old man used to be a travel buff. He never went anywhere, but he loved to talk about it. Nothing would do, when I was in school, but to take every language course offered. By the time I got out of high school I’d had several years each of French, German and Italian. Since then I’ve had practice on the spot.”

  “What, no Spanish?” she said.

  “I picked that up kicking around Latin America and Spain,” Max said. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question? You mean my associating with a Good Time Charley?” She took up a breadstick and broke it in half. She said, crisply, “See here, Max, I made a mistake. The grapevine has it that this morning though you needed a job rather badly, you turned Giotto down when you found he was using you to try and bring some of the kids into line.”

  Max said uncomfortably, “I seem to be a hero in spite of myself.”

  “Well, you did need a job, didn’t you?”

  He shifted in his chair. This girl had a direct manner of looking at you that was disconcerting. “Well, in a way.”

  Their ham and figs had arrived, and both dug in. He noted approvingly that she had an excellent appetite. But then she’d have to have, burning energy the way she did.

  Their conversation was desultory for most of the meal but over the chicken Nadine said crisply, “Your Italian and French are salable commodities in the Roman film colony. For instance, our production workers are almost evenly divided between the three languages. How’d you like to work on Horatius?”

  Max hadn’t been expecting that curve to be thrown at him. In fact, he’d got himself into a frame of mind to return to the Fielding Toys treadmill for another stretch of accumulating a stake. He said, almost plaintively, “Doing what? I keep telling people I don’t know anything about acting, or dubbing, or anything else connected with films.”

  She said briskly, “Being an errand boy, a go-between in three different languages. Come to think of it, four. Some of the art department and set dressing department are Germans. I doubt if Mr. Rogers would pay you what Giotto probably offered, but it would be a living. They’d probably call you a second assistant director, or something. But that works out to errand boy.”

  It was not much more complicated than that. After lunch, Max drove her in the Porsche out of town and onto the Via Tuscolana. Ten minutes later they were at Cinecittà’s gates and being waved through by the guard.

  The production offices of Horatius at the Bridge were in the main administration offices leading immediately to the right from the entry to the massive studios. Everybody knew Nadine, everybody grinned or called out as she marched briskly by trailed by Max Fielding. Evidently, he decided, she might be called the messenger of doom, but the girl was by no means unloved.

  Mike Rogers, the production manager, was a surprisingly calm type, considering the pressures of the load he carried. He was short, fat and almost completely bald but carried withal an aura of brisk efficiency somewhat like Nadine’s. He had a swank, noiseproof office immediately off a bedlam of clacking typewriters, banging files, paper-strewn desks and harassed production workers in the room adjoining his.

  Nadine put the case to him briefly and crisply and he listened without comment. When she was through, he turned to Max and there was doubt in his face. “You’ve never been in the industry at all, Mr. Fielding?”

  Max shook his head. “And there’s another thing,” he admitted. “I had a run in with Filippo Giotto and he says that he’s going to blackball me in every studio in Italy. So — ”

  Mike Rogers snapped, “Oh, he did, did he? Well, let him put his arm-twisting pressures on the Italians if he wants, but Giotto isn’t going to — ” He cut it off suddenly. “All right, damn it, you’re hired. Whether or not you’ll be any use, I don’t know. Report here tomorrow at nine.”

  Max blinked. He said, “Look, what am I hired to do? I keep telling everybody — ”

/>   “To swear in Italian for me and all the rest of the Americans in Production and Direction who can’t speak the language. We’ll go further into it in the morning. “Nadine,” he turned to the girl, “you’re out on your feet. Stop taking all the weight of this fouled-up mess on your shoulders. What time is it by that overgrown watch of yours?”

  Nadine told him, then, “I’m not tired, Mr. Rogers.”

  “Don’t lie to me. You’re exhausted. Take the rest of the day off. For the moment there aren’t any crises.”

  “But Mr. — ”

  “I know. I know. You think you’re indispensable. Maybe you are. If so, that’s the best reason there is for not allowing you to collapse. Now get out of here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nadine said, less than crisply.

  Max followed her from the production manager’s quarters back into the bedlam of the office adjoining. Nadine said hesitantly, “Well, there are just three or four things I’ll have to clean up before …”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Max said, taking her by the arm. “Rogers is right. You’re exhausted. Come on, I’m taking you home.” He hustled her through the room and to the corridor beyond. They walked down it, passing wardrooms, the art department and chambers devoted to set dressing on the way. All seemed chaotic and to the stranger had exotic connotations. Two paper sets in toy miniature sat out in the hall, serious-faced men squatting over them, their faces in frown.

  Max said, “What kind of tiredness? Physical tiredness or just overpressure of the worries on the job?”

  Nadine Barney took a deep breath. “It’s ridiculous, Mr. Rogers sending me home. I’m not tired. I slept like a log last night. Nine hours.”

  “He knows what he’s talking about,” Max said easily. “You need some time off.”

  They had reached the car again. Max turned to her. “How much sight-seeing have you done since you’ve been here in town?”