“True,” she answered. “But she wouldn’t mind a little partying with you on the side.”
32
IT WAS A typical old-fashioned Mediterranean villa situated on a small knoll above the sea in Villefranche. Just slightly in front of the main house was the small guest house that Gianpietro had offered him. It was not decorated in the same manner as the main house—in former times, Joe thought, it had been assigned to the servants. But it was comfortable despite the tiny rooms, and it was far enough away from the villa so that sounds did not carry. There was a private staircase that led down to the pebble beach.
Joe placed his typewriter on a table in front of the large window through which he had the view of the whole bay of Villefranche across to the end of St.-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. He looked toward the villa. He could see a corner of the staircase that a guest in the main house could use to go down to the beach. In front of the beach there was a dock to which was tied a small Riva.
Late in the same afternoon Joe had arrived, Gianpietro came down to the guest house. “You like it?” he asked.
Joe smiled. “It’s perfect, thank you.”
The Italian smiled. “I thought you would like it. Here you have the privacy you need to work. No one will disturb you.”
“Thank you again.”
“I have a favor to ask of you,” Gianpietro said.
“Just ask,” Joe answered.
“Mara wants to speak American,” he said. “It is difficult to find a tutor for just a month here. Marissa said that she could help her and stay for the month even when you leave.”
“That’s okay with me,” Joe answered.
“Thank you, Joe.” Gianpietro smiled. He waved his hand out, gesturing to the bay. “What do you think of the Côte d’Azur?”
“What I see right now is beautiful.”
“It is the garden spot of the world,” Gianpietro said. “Get yourself organized, then come up to the villa at six o’clock. We will have drinks, then at nine o’clock we will have dinner at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo. After that we’ll go to the casino and maybe to a night club.”
Joe laughed. “You’re not wasting any time.”
“I only have the weekend, then I must go to Rome and work. I will return here every Friday night.”
“You should spend more time here,” Joe said.
“I can’t.” He shrugged expressively. “Even on the weekend here I have business. This evening I have some associates, Frenchmen from Marseilles, who will be joining us for dinner.”
Joe nodded. “I understand.”
He looked at Joe. “Do you think Mara has the talent she needs to become a star?”
Joe returned his gaze honestly. “Nobody knows. She has the look, but the rest of it is in the lap of the gods. She has one thing going for her in any case. She is not afraid of hard work.”
Gianpietro nodded seriously. “That is true. But I would prefer that she relaxes and we have a baby. That is what I really want.”
“Then why doesn’t she do it?”
“She said not until we marry. She does not want the reputation of being a putana like many other actresses we know.”
“Marry her then,” Joe said.
Gianpietro smiled wryly. “It’s so easy for Americans but not for Italians. I am already married, and even though I have not been with my wife for more than ten years I cannot obtain a divorce.”
“I’m sorry,” Joe sympathized.
Gianpietro laughed. “It’s not that bad. Being married, I cannot become married. And in the last ten years, Mara is the fourth girl I have fallen in love with. Perhaps next year I might fall in love with another girl. It is easier to get rid of a girlfriend than a wife.”
“I didn’t think about that,” Joe said. “But I guess you are right.”
“I am right,” Gianpietro said. “Think of the problems that Rossellini and Bergman are having. And, now, Ponti and Loren. His wife will not allow him a divorce either. And Vittorio De Sica, with one legal wife and another illegal wife, each living on the same grounds, one house behind the other, each with her own family of his children.”
“Do they know about each other?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Probably they do but no one ever discusses it. No wonder sometimes he seems as if he is going crazy and spends his spare time gambling all his money at the casino.”
“Do you know De Sica?” Joe asked.
“Very well,” he answered.
“Do you think he would do a picture with Mara?”
“He always needs money,” Gianpietro said.
“If I had an idea for a story,” Joe said, “not a script—he could select his own scriptwriters—could you give it to him?”
Gianpietro nodded. “Of course. And if he likes it, he would make it with Mara.”
“You’re sure of that?” Joe asked.
Gianpietro laughed. “There are many ways a man can get his balls squeezed. De Sica already owes me almost seventy thousand dollars.” He paused for a moment. “You have an idea for him?”
“I’m not sure,” Joe said. “De Sica is a classy director. I don’t know whether he would work with a writer like me.”
“He owes me seventy thousand dollars,” Gianpietro repeated. “For that kind of money he’ll work with a monkey in the zoo.”
“I’m feeling a different kind of love story. Usually the American soldier has a baby and leaves the baby with the girl. This asshole wants the baby for himself and takes it to the States. The girl fights her way by hook or crook and tracks him to a small town in the Midwest. Finally, when she sees that the child is really having a good life, one better than she could have given him, she leaves the baby with the father and returns to her home in Italy.”
“De Sica will do it. Of course, he will want you to collaborate with his own writers, but that is nothing. He will feel more secure with their Italian idiom. Within a few days I will arrange for him to meet with you.”
“And if he doesn’t like it?” Joe asked.
“Fuck him. There’s always Ponti or Rossellini plus a dozen others who owe me a lot of money.” He walked to the door. “Just leave it to me. All you have to do is get dressed for dinner tonight.”
The Hotel de Paris restaurant extended outside the huge great French doors to a terrace on a carpeted platform that reached almost to the edge of the sidewalk. The outside walls were a bank of beautiful flowers that prevented the tourists and hoi polloi from looking at the crowds of shapely ladies and the men who exuded riches and power. Each table was covered with beautiful linen and crystal and centered with artfully arranged flowers.
Gianpietro had reserved a table seating for ten placed against a corner in a secluded location. Besides himself, Mara, Marissa and Joe, three Frenchmen and their ladies were his guests. Unfortunately, none of them could speak, or pretended not to speak, English. They made the usual French handshakes of introduction, and after that, it seemed as if Joe did not even exist. The men spoke always in monotone, the women never at all. There was no laughter, and it did not take long for Joe to see that this was a business meeting, not a dinner. Joe smiled at Marissa and paid attention to his dinner for the food was superb. Joe was not unhappy.
Dinner was served quietly and quickly. Joe had the feeling that it had been arranged in advance because when the dinner was completed, the Frenchmen and their ladies said their goodbyes.
Gianpietro stood at the table until they had gone, then returned to his chair. “The French are always the same. They have no manners.”
Mara spoke to him in Italian. She sounded angry.
Gianpietro shook his head. “It’s business,” he said.
She was still angry. “You’re not going to leave me alone here this summer while you run around doing your business.”
“Just two weeks,” he said. “Then I’ll be back.” He called for the bill and turned again to her. “We can do our talking in the car on the way home. This is no place to allow anyone to hear what we speak about.”
“We’re not going directly home,” she said. “I thought we were going to the casino.”
“I have no time for that just now,” he said. “I’m leaving at six in the morning on the Rome Express from Nice.”
33
JOE AND MARISSA headed down the path to their small bungalow. It was almost one-thirty in the morning when they closed the guest-house door behind them. He asked Marissa what was happening.
She began slipping out of her gown. “It was simply business,” she answered. “The French want Gianpietro to get two hundred tons of raw untreated heroin from Sicily and deliver it to Marseilles, where they have just set up laboratories. If he can do this for two weeks, his share will be two million dollars.”
“Then what is Mara so pissed off about? She should know that Gianpietro will take good care of her.”
“She wants to show herself around the Riviera playing the star. He won’t be around, so who is there to show her off? She’s simply a selfish bitch.”
Joe had taken off his jacket and thrown his black tie and shirt on a chair when there was a knock at the door of the bungalow. “Come in,” he called.
Marissa had just slipped on her dressing gown when Gianpietro came into the room. He turned directly to Joe, not even looking at her. “I need your help, my friend,” he said.
“How can I help you?” Joe said.
“As you probably realize, I have to go away for several weeks on business. Mara became very angry, but I have finally been able to calm her down. First, and most important, she wants you to continue the script for her. Second, she doesn’t want to stay alone in the big house. She said that she would feel more secure if Marissa moved up there with her. I also arranged for her to have enough money so that she could shop and go out several times during the week for dinner and amusement. She also wants to speak only in English with Marissa so that she becomes very expert and fluent.”
Joe looked at him. “I agree with you, of course, but don’t you think it would be more discreet if I returned to Rome with you? After all, Mara is a very attractive lady and people will talk, as they always do.”
“Let them think what they will, fuck them. You are my friend and a gentleman. I know in my heart that there will not be any improper behavior between you.”
Joe turned to Marissa. “What do you think?”
“I agree with Franco,” she said. “This is, of course, the correct way to handle the situation.”
Joe held out his hand. “Then it will be done.”
The Italian embraced him. “Thank you, my friend. Thank you.”
* * *
DESPITE THE HEAT in the small room, he slept as though he were dead. But then a strange new aroma filtered to his nostrils. It was a new scent, not Marissa’s—he was familiar with hers. Slowly he opened one eye and looked at his watch. It was one o’clock in the afternoon. Then he opened the other eye and looked across the bed.
Mara was seated on a chair next to the bed, naked, her legs apart. She smiled at him. “I thought you would never wake up.”
He stared at her. “What did you do? It looks like you shaved off ninety percent of your pussy.”
She laughed. “You have a good eye. But this is the big style in the south of France. The new bikinis are so tiny that any hair will make you look like you’re wearing a beard down the sides of your thighs.”
Suddenly he was completely awake. “You’re speaking English?” he questioned. “I thought you knew only a few words.”
She met his eyes. “It makes more sense this way. People prefer it, they think that you are more stupid, and because of that they say many things that they expect you not to understand.”
Marissa came in from the bathroom. She was drying her naked body with a towel. She laughed at Joe. “How do you like it?” she asked. “I did a pretty good job on Mara. Maybe I should become a cunt coiffeuse.”
“I could do it better,” Joe laughed. “And I wouldn’t need scissors, I could nibble at it with my teeth.”
“Don’t be a wise guy,” Marissa said. “Grab yourself a shower, then throw some shirts and slacks into a valise. We’re on our way to Saint-Tropez for a few days.”
“Saint-Tropez? Where the hell is that?”
“About fifty miles down the coast,” Marissa told him. “It’s the fun place of the Riviera. Not with old people like Monte Carlo, but all the young rich and fun people. All day on the beach and parties all night long.”
“And Franco left me with money,” Mara added. “He already knows that an old friend of mine invited us to his house. He has one of the biggest homes near the beaches.”
“I don’t know,” Joe said cautiously. “Franco never told me about a setup like this.”
“There’ll be nothing wrong,” Mara said. “He knows my friend is a peole. As long as Marissa stays with me teaching me English and you keep writing, it’s okay. Besides, we’ll be home long before he returns.”
Joe looked at her. “But how are you going to explain the trimmed pussy?”
“My hair grows fast enough,” she said. “Besides, he’s a true Italian. He wouldn’t go down on a pussy even if he had a nose as big as Pinocchio’s.”
“I still don’t know,” Joe said doubtfully. “I wouldn’t want Gianpietro to be angry with me. He’s a tough one.”
Mara laughed. “That’s just his act. He’s really a sweet man.”
Joe stared at her quizzically.
She rose from her chair, and went to the bed and pulled his hand to follow her to the bathroom. “Get into the shower,” she said. “You’ll feel better, especially when I wash your prick and balls with my own perfumed soap.”
* * *
A TWO-HOUR DRIVE in the small Renault brought them to Saint-Tropez. Mara and Marissa took turns driving. Joe scrunched into the rear seat among the luggage. Most of the drive was interesting, Joe thought, as they passed along the RN 7, the coast road through Nice, Antibes and Cannes. After Cannes the road became uncomfortable, but the narrow asphalt-and-dirt trail was the only road between the mainland and the peninsula that connected Saint-Tropez to the mainland. That road was the only passage on land—there was neither railroad, bus service nor taxis, although during the day there were several sixty-passenger ferries that traveled from eight in the morning until eleven at night. Saint-Tropez was in the process of changing from a small village surrounded by vineyards that produced cheap table wines to a fashionable resort for the young, playful, monied French and other knowledgeable Europeans.
Mara turned the car away from the port of the village, where the lights allowed them to see that many people were still in the streets and the restaurants were still busy. She took the car up a dirt road and turned finally into the driveway of a large villa whose lights were shining.
Joe got himself out of the car feeling very much like a sardine pried from its can. Mara led them to the large open doors. The house was silent but in a moment a majordomo arrived.
He bowed politely. “I am sorry, mademoiselle, that Monsieur Lascombes and his guest have gone out.”
“I would guess that.” Mara spoke in French. “But he has invited myself and my friends to join him here in the villa.” He glanced down at the sheet of paper and read out Mara’s name.
“Correct,” Mara said. “The lady and the gentleman are my guests. I will arrange it with Monsieur Lascombes in the morning.”
“D’accord, mademoiselle,” he said. “For the moment, I will assign the two ladies to room twelve and the gentleman will occupy room nine across the hall from you. Each room is on the second stage.”
“Thank you,” Mara answered.
“I apologize,” said the majordomo, “that the porters have already departed for the night, but we will bring the luggage in first thing in the morning.”
“I understand,” she said. “We’ll take the things we need for the moment and we’ll manage.” She opened her purse and handed him a five-hundred-franc note. “Meanwhile, if you would be kind enough to show
us to our rooms, we will be content.”
The second floor in a French house is two flights up—this equal to the third floor in the States. The girls’ room didn’t seem too bad; there was a large bed and a private bathroom. Joe’s room was a horror. It had to be a maid’s room. A small uncomfortable bed, and in the corner there was only a bidet and a washbasin. But he was too tired to complain. Quickly he got out of his clothes and passed out bare-assed on the bed.
He felt he had slept less than an hour when Marissa touched him on the shoulder. “Joe,” she said in a low voice, “wake up.”
“I’m sleeping,” he said. “Wake me in the morning.”
“It is morning,” she said. “Get up. We have a problem.”
He opened his eyes and rubbed them as he sat up in the bed. The gray morning light came through the window. “What’s happening?”
“You’ll have to get out of here,” she said.
He stared at her. “How can I do that?”
“I’ll drive you over to Saint-Raphael. You can get a taxi there to take you back to the villa.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Mara said everything would be arranged.”
“She fucked up,” Marissa said.
He got out of bed and pulled on his pants. “Let me talk to her.”
“It won’t help,” she said. “She took two Nembutal and she’ll sleep until the middle of the afternoon.”
“How did you find out I have to go?”
“Lascombes came into our room. He said this room has been promised. Mara never told him that you were joining us. He doesn’t want any hassle from Gianpietro, so you have to go.”
“Shit!” he exclaimed. “I might have figured that she was a nut. I wanted to stay at the villa. I’m sorry I let her talk me into it.” He looked at her. “Can’t I move into a hotel in Saint-Tropez?”
“I checked all the hotels. They’re booked up. There’s not a room in the town.”
He looked at her. “Then you’re staying here?”
“If it’s okay with you,” she said. “Gianpietro is paying me for the month to stay with Mara. But I’ll go back with you if you want.”
The Storyteller Page 23
