Chapter 11 #2
That was that, really. Three to one, but for Rita, out of that vicious moment in the shadows emerged this single, attractive young man who looked more like a hero to her now than her Romeo ever had.
Freddy’s voice had been cajoling and soft; his lips were salty and soft.
His breath was usually spiced with liquor, and the callouses on his hands felt like rough excitement against her own smooth skin.
In retrospect, their connection had been entirely physical, from the moment in the alleyway to the ultimate consummation in his bed, weeks later: sweaty and unbridled and raw.
Their marriage had lasted three months, nine days. There were no loud fights, no massive discord between them beyond that of two people born into very different stations in life, on two very different trajectories, who unexpectedly found themselves bewilderingly, legally bound.
They’d wed in Gretna Green, a quick and slippery civil ceremony spawned of a haste that only lust and pregnancy could summon. Rita hadn’t even bothered to inform her family of the marriage yet. (In point of fact, she never would.)
Then the lust began to fade. Within a fortnight, it was clear that the pregnancy turned out to be a false alarm.
She awoke one morning in a cheap hotel room, one just like all the others on the tour.
She opened her eyes and turned her head to take in Freddy’s face pressed against the pillow beside hers, the stubble on his cheeks, his mouth agape.
A strand of saliva dangled in a thread from the corner of his lips to darken the linens.
In sleep, the comeliness she’d admired melted away into folds of flesh, his chin and jowls already going to fat. A clear bottle of gin still sat, mostly empty, on the nightstand beside him.
He smelled of stale smoke and that gin and pungent something else, something like turpentine. His hair was dirty. His nailbeds were rimmed with grime.
She sat up carefully, ran both hands down her face. She drew her knees to her chest and realized she had to do whatever it took to break free of him.
So, she broke free. An annulment, nearly as quick as the wedding had been, with Charles providing the name of a discreet barrister.
A generous lump-sum payment to her unprotesting groom.
(A bribe, Freddy had called it, but without venom; they both knew it was more money than he’d likely see again.
She’d told him to invest it, but, knowing him, it had probably gone to booze and cigarettes.)
It was years ago now, ages ago. Even so, Rita would never forget the dismay that had swelled through her that morning, relentless as an ocean wave, as she’d looked down at her sleeping, slovenly husband and thought, Oh, no. No, no, no. Not this.
BUT THAT WAS then. She’d fixed her mistake, and now, right now, the Italian meadow before her flashed gold on gold beneath a searing turquoise sky.
The feathered grass swayed and whispered; the solitary old oaks clattered their leaves.
Also right now, her beau, a man about as far from Freddy Stern as Rita could imagine, was looking back at her with warm, patient eyes and a half smile that was somehow a thousandfold comelier than her former husband’s.
Giuseppe wanted to marry her. It was as plain as the moon.
But she just … couldn’t. Not yet, maybe not ever, no matter how honorable his intentions.
No matter how much she enjoyed his company, his laughter, his kindness.
No matter the hampers stuffed with bread and oranges and charcuterie, with jugs of tea and limoncello, that he brought with him each time he appeared for one of her shoots, because he knew she’d be hungry and thirsty after a long day on the set.
Or the other four hampers he always brought for the crew.
Or how he took her hand when she stood alone, no one else looking.
How he laughed at her jokes, no matter how foolish.
How he murmured into her ear at night—in perfumed, silken chambers, nothing like those terrible cheap hotels—that she was a goddess, a dream, a spirit of power and mirth walking the earth, grace at her heels, wisdom ahead.
That man, that man wanted to wed her.
Great God. What sort of fool would turn him down?
She didn’t like to consider herself a fool, but even Rita had to admit her reluctance was illogical at best. Count de Cippico was no country lad who lived by the labor of his back and hands, no stagehand, no carpenter.
He was a nobleman, worldly and wealthy …
which also meant he wasn’t likely to be bribed into an annulment if she changed her mind about him.
For over half a year, their names had been linked in the social sheets here and abroad, especially in America (according to Inez, who regularly sent clippings). Half a year of innuendo and speculation, Yes they will, no they won’t.
The count would not be put off forever. No man would.
She studied him from beneath her lashes.
There was such confidence in the angle of his jaw, the shape of his lips.
Those slumberous eyes. On another man, it might read as arrogance, but on him it looked …
right. She’d kissed those lips more times than she could count.
Stroked his face, smooth-shaven or rough, and every inch of him still delighted her.
But as their eyes met now, the realization that overwhelmed her was purely this:
I want him, but I don’t want to need him.
Rita dropped her gaze, sipping her tea. It seemed best to keep the conversation lighthearted. Distract him, if she could. Amuse him. Giuseppe liked it when she turned playful, so after a moment, she tipped back her head and slanted him a lazy smile, hoping her lipstick hadn’t smeared.
“Sharks aside, sirens are famously fickle, or even deadly. I would never turn either way with you.”
“I never believed you would.”
“And they resort to magic to snare their lovers. Have I ensorcelled you, my Count de Cippico? Or—”
“You know you have,” he interrupted, his tone soft and serious. “You must know.”
“This isn’t sorcery. It’s serendipity. One of the most wonderful things in the world.”
Giuseppe lifted an eyebrow. “Forgive me. I am unfamiliar with this word.”
“A delicious chance. A happy fluke, a fabulous one that allowed our paths to cross. So that we may laugh and play and enjoy our time together.”
“I would say we’ve certainly done that.”
“We have indeed.”
He frowned out at the grass, then back to her. “Rita,” he said, his tone shifting again, even more solemn.
No, she thought, her heart beginning to beat hollow in her chest. Don’t ask me here. Don’t ask now.
He said, “I’ve been considering Mr. Frohman’s offer to you, the one that would take you back to America.”
“Oh?”
“I think you should accept it.”
She stared at him, genuinely surprised. “You do?”
He bent to place his drink on the ground, then took her hand in his.
His fingertips felt cool from the glass.
“The world is sliding into a precarious place. I know you know this. Austria’s archduke and his wife are slaughtered, and there are parties—governments—howling for blood, for justice, as if there could be such a thing to bring about peace at this point.
There will be a war, I have no doubt, and I think very soon.
It will start here, in Europe, and hopefully it will end here. It would be best if you were safe.”
“I know tempers are boiling, but nothing else has happened yet. Perhaps diplomacy will win.”
“It won’t. There are too many angry men in power, too many old, disputed lines on maps.
The kaiser is rumored to be unfit. The French and British distrust the Germans, and the Germans distrust everyone.
My own king stands frozen amid the madness.
There’s talk that the Russians are already mobilizing.
If it’s true, all the other nations will soon follow, because they’ll have no choice.
” He sighed. “If you could go to America, even for a while, I think I might rest better at night.”
“Well, but—” Rita bit her lip, then dropped her voice. “What of you, Giuseppe? You can’t seriously ask me to just sail away and leave you here. Not if what you say is true.”
“I could come with you. At first. For a short time. But I have obligations here. I have family; I have estates. I have people who depend upon me, generations who depend upon me, as they did my father and grandfather.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, remembering his palace in Mentone again, the splendor of the chambers.
The warm Mediterranean light sluicing through the windows, turning all the crystal and colored-glass drops into fire.
That footman who had ducked his head at the sight of her in the hallway and called her a countess.
A group of women gathered beneath one of the oaks broke into ripples of delighted laughter, drawing her gaze. A cloud of birds, more of those chaffinches, fluttered up from the branches above them, spiraling into flight.
“Yes,” Rita said again. “I understand, of course. You must take care of your people.”
“It would be my greatest honor to also take care of you.”
She was still observing the women beneath the tree, five of them costumed as peasants, two with arms looped around the other like sisters or best friends; it took a moment for his words to sink in.
Her heart heard him first, began that hard, hollow knocking against her breastbone again.
Then her mind caught up, her breath caught up.
She turned in the flimsy canvas chair and found him watching her with that patience, that kindness she’d found in him and no other man.
“Oh, Giuseppe.” She took his hand, lacing her fingers through his.
“If ever I was worthy of you, I would be so lucky. But I’m …
I’m a butterfly. I’m a swallow. Every instinct tells me to fly and fly, from one home to the next.
I have to keep moving, even across countries. I don’t know how to stay still.”
“I’ve known you still, beloved. Late at night, in my arms, I’ve known you still.”
“Then maybe it’s you who’s ensorcelled me,” she said with a sad smile.
“The point is, I’m selfish. I love my life, I’m greedy for it, every bit of it.
And yes, very honestly, I love you in it.
But I can’t trap either of us into something that might make us miserable.
Not when what we have right now is so magnificent. ”
His lips parted to speak. She lifted her free hand to stop him. “And, and, if I am to take Charles up on his offer, that means I’m leaving yet again, no doubt for months. If there’s a war—if you’re here and I’m there …” She shook her head, her throat closing.
What if I leave and the war comes and he dies? What if I marry him and the war comes and he dies? What if the world tilts into chaos and I don’t marry him, and I never see him again?
How would she bear it, any of it?
Giuseppe tightened his fingers around hers.
“Margherita, let me take on this burden between us, this distance. Let me be the one who reminds you of who we are together, even when we’re apart.
I do not begrudge you Hollywood. As much as I would prefer you at my side, I would grieve to steal this opportunity from you.
So, I will wait.” He smiled at her dubious look, then pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“I will, I promise. For how long, I cannot say. Until you realize you’re as greedy for me as you are for this splendid life. ”
Across the meadow, the assistant director was summoning all the actors back to their places. The peasant extras rose one by one, shaking out their tunics, stooping to place their cups and plates back into their baskets.
Rita stood as the makeup girl rushed up, no older than sixteen but surprisingly skilled, brushes and pots in hand. Rita’s lipstick was reapplied, her kohl redrawn, her face and neck and chest dusted with powder.
“Bene,” the girl pronounced, when she was satisfied. She offered a bashful smile to the count before dashing away again.
Rita straightened her wig and began walking back to her tree.
But then she turned. Giuseppe sat in silence, still caught in the shade of the umbrella, the mess of their meal at his feet.
Prosciutto and salami, sliced cheese, hunks of bread.
Orange rinds curling and drying on pastel porcelain plates.
“I like it when you call me Margherita,” she said.
His smile deepened. “I like it too. It makes you more mine.”
THE AIR TURNED sorrowful. She had no other, better way to describe it: sorrowful, weighted.
As if just the idea of war saturated it, molecule by molecule, turning it thick as syrup.
Hard to breathe. Even with the fresh wind blowing off the bay, Rita kept tasting metal on her tongue, something like rain but not rain, never the relief of rain.
Two days after her conversation with Giuseppe in the meadow, the week before her current film wrapped, Rita sent Charles Frohman a telegram, delivered express, care of his suite at the Knickerbocker Hotel, Manhattan, New York.
GLADLY ACCEPT THE UNAFRAID STOP LET ME KNOW DATES AND DETAILS STOP
Two days after that, Austria-Hungary rose up in fury, declaring war on Serbia.
Political wheels turned, diplomats argued, old wounds resurfaced, full of pus and rage. One week later, Germany, France, Russia, and Great Britain each issued their own declarations.
And Europe split apart, sliding into hell, just as Giuseppe had predicted.