Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Lena spent the next weeks with the dream of Cinecittà sparkling before her. Beyond classes, and the courier jobs for Julia, she worked on sketches for her portfolio. Her professors helped when she told them that she was hoping for an interview at the Italian movie studio, though Signor Basile gave her a faintly disappointed look. “I had hoped to see you as a fashion designer one day with your own house,” he told her. “You have enough talent. The movies don’t deserve you.”
Julia said, “You see? They’re doing just what I said. Pushing you toward working for another designer.”
“He did say my ‘own house,’” Lena pointed out.
“Hmmm. It’s so small , Lena. Think about how many people watch couture fashion shows compared to how many watch movies. Think of how much more influence you’ll have. American movies show all over the world. England, Spain, even the Soviet Union.”
Lena snorted. “Yes, I imagine I’ll be very influential in the Soviet Union.”
“You never know,” Julia said with a shrug.
“Don’t the Russians only dress in gray?”
“It’s not just the clothes, Lena, it’s culture .” Julia spoke the word as if it held the secrets of the universe. “The best way to change the world is through the things people love, not through politics.”
“I didn’t know we were trying to change the world.”
Julia laughed. “Of course we are.”
Lena took it as a joke. People trying to change the world were like poor Harvey and Charlie—she still wondered what had happened to them. Men who belonged to organizations like the CRC, who risked being arrested and jailed, who went to protests and whose homes were raided and who were blacklisted and professionally exiled. But here in Italy she rarely heard concern about world affairs, nor about the bomb, and hardly any political talk. When she did, it was whispered and fleeting. Italy still stung from the days of Mussolini and the Nazi occupation, and with the Christian Democrats now in power, no one admitted to being an anarchist or a communist even if they were. No one talked about the war or what role they’d played in it. In Rome, no one wanted to resurrect the bodies; whatever ghosts haunted its citizens, they pretended not to see.
Summer turned to fall. Lena found she loved Rome even more when the heat faded, and with it the tourists, though the Holy Year still drew pilgrims by the thousands, and the streets were still so choked with monks and nuns that Lena was starting to be able to tell the Franciscans from the Dominicans.
There was something else that came with autumn. Strange shadows. At first Lena thought them cast by the ubiquitous pigeons and crows, and then ... just flashes from the corners of her eye. Slips in her peripheral vision. She would be at a kiosk on one of Julia’s errands and there it would be, a glimpse of movement, nothing she could pin down. The hair on the back of her neck would prickle, and she’d turn to find nothing there—or at least nothing curious, nothing surreptitious.
Lena brushed it off. And kept brushing it off. But then, one rainy day when the worn-smooth cobbles of the street were slick as oil in the wet, she felt it again as she came out of a pharmacy on the Via del Tritone with not a jar of the toothpaste she’d asked for, but a box of emetic (who knew what it really was), and she turned quickly, just in time to see a man in a black coat flit around a corner, or at least try to. Too fast; his heel slid from beneath him; he went down with a crack, his bowler hat rolling into the street.
She hurried over to help him. She wasn’t the only one. He was no one she would normally have remembered. He was very flustered from the fall, dark haired, like countless other men in the city. But when she offered her hand, he pulled abruptly away, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes. He got to his feet and didn’t thank anyone, but hurried off, leaving the good Samaritans who’d tried to help looking at each other in puzzled irritation, grumbling at his rudeness.
When Lena got back to the academy and gave Julia the package of emetic, she told the story.
Julia went very still. “Really? Had you seen him before?”
“No. Why would you say that?”
“No reason.” Julia shrugged, but Lena felt her tension.
After that, Lena was more aware than ever of those strange, peripheral movements. She became convinced that she was being followed, though it was more a feeling than something she could say with any certainty.
“I think that man was following me,” she told Julia. “Maybe he’s not the only one. I never see anyone really, but I feel them. Why would someone be following me? Do you think ... do you think the police are onto us?”
Julia half snorted. “You sound like a character in a movie. The police have a whole city of criminals to worry about. Why should they care about us?”
“I just ... I’m not imagining it.”
“I didn’t say you were. Maybe it’s just the way you look now.” Julia flipped the ends of Lena’s hair. “Italian men love blondes.”
“Maybe.” But she detected something in her friend’s voice that didn’t quite ring true, and it was the first time she’d heard such a tone, and Lena wasn’t sure what to make of it. Something was wrong, she knew, but she wasn’t sure what.
When they were at La Grotta next, she asked Petra about it, but Petra only gave her a lazy look and said, “Julia’s got a lot on her mind, you know? You shouldn’t bother her with your silly suspicions.”
“I don’t think they’re silly,” Lena snapped.
“Rome is haunted. Maybe you’re only seeing ghosts.” Petra smiled. “You are becoming more Roman every day, Lena.”
That was Petra—an insult followed by an assurance of belonging, leaving Lena perpetually off balance. She went to get a glass of wine and tried to forget about it.
The next day, Julia came bursting into Lena’s room. “We’re going to Venice.”
Lena stood at the window, brushing her hair, and she turned. “What do you mean? Who’s going to Venice?”
“You and me.”
“What about classes?”
“I’ve talked to all the professors already. They’ve promised to grant us the days away if we visit the Doge’s Palace and the Basilicas of San Marco and the Salute and write our impressions.”
“They’ve said that for me as well?”
“Of course for you as well!” Julia was ebullient. “Four days, Lena! Four days in Venice! Just the two of us.”
“When?”
“In two weeks. The most beautiful city in the world. Gorgeous light, ancient architecture, gondoliers singing sad songs ... we’ll drink wine and get lost. It will be wonderful.”
“But ... what brought this on?”
“Don’t you want to go? I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Yes, of course, but it’s so out of the blue.”
Julia stretched her neck. “I need to get out of this city for a few days. It’s feeling claustrophobic. And you’re starting to see things—”
“I see. Petra’s making trouble.”
“Petra has nothing to do with it.”
“Petra said I was having silly superstitions about being followed.”
“Well, you are,” Julia said firmly. “And we both need a vacation. So I’m giving us one. Tell me if you don’t want to go.”
Lena could think of nothing she wanted more, in fact, than to go with Julia to an ancient city where they knew no one, where they’d have no jobs to do and no classes and only talking and laughing and drinking wine. “I want to go.”
Three days later ... “We have a small problem,” Julia confessed. “Mr. Bon Bon.”
Julia had revealed—eventually—that Mr. Bon Bon was a client that she’d once made the mistake of sleeping with, and who she now felt obligated to entertain whenever he was in town, which was this week. “He buys a lot of commissions. I can’t just ignore him even though I’m not sleeping with him anymore.”
“What kind of commissions?”
“Oh, you know, paintings, sculptures, things like that.” Julia spoke dismissively.
Lena let it go, but later she realized Julia had never picked up a single painting or sculpture, and she’d never actually seen or known Julia to do any kind of business with those kinds of commissions. But Lena told herself that maybe Julia had done that sort of thing before Lena knew her, and pushed it away.
“He wants to go with us to Venice,” Julia said. “So we need to convince him not to.”
Lena was appalled. “Just tell him no.”
“I can’t really do that. He’s too important. Look, we’re going to meet him at Club LeRoy. I need you to do something for me. Flirt with him, fight with him—I don’t care which. I just need to be able to get angry with him about it. It’s the only way I can think of to get him to leave me alone for a few days. He’s been so clingy . Otherwise he’ll insist on showing us around Venice. Please, Lena.”
It was easy to agree. The last thing Lena wanted was for that dangerous-looking man to ruin their holiday.
The night they were to meet him, Lena dressed carefully in one of her own designs—a pink A-line off-the-shoulder cocktail dress with elbow-length sleeves and a peekaboo dotted tulle in the skirt. She’d begun wearing makeup in Rome, under Julia’s tutelage, and was stunned at the difference it made in how she looked. Elegant, almost. Sophisticated.
“Yes, the ribbon is better.” Julia leaned forward to adjust the bow in Lena’s hair. “That’s perfect.”
Lena twisted her head, watching her blond ponytail flip in the mirror, the fuchsia ribbon bouncing with it, and even she could tell how it changed her look, how it made her carefree and even ... frivolous.
“You see?” Julia handed her a pink lipstick. “Now try this. See how easy it is to change who you are just with a few little things?” She laughed as Lena applied the lipstick. “Look at you! No one would take you for anyone boring at all. Which is perfect for today.”
She rubbed her lips together and then blotted them. “So all I have to do is flirt with him?”
“That’s it. Just so he notices you—really notices you. Maybe you could tell him about your misspent youth.”
Lena caught Julia’s gaze in the mirror. “But I—”
“Not the truth.” Julia rolled her eyes. “Make a story for yourself, Lena. You’re ... Katharine Hepburn or Betty Grable or Ingrid Bergman. Yes, Ingrid Bergman. A woman capable of beguiling a director like Roberto Rossellini.”
Lena laughed dryly. “Oh, that won’t be hard at all.”
“It won’t. Believe me, he thinks he’s irresistible.” Julia turned away from the mirror and riffled through her purse until she found her own lipstick, a bright cherry red.
Club LeRoy was on the Veneto. It had been the hottest place in the city since it opened in the spring, a nightclub where all the actors and musicians working in the nearby theaters went after their shows to eat spaghetti or steak and drink and listen to the orchestra or the new acts the owner brought in from all over Europe. The club held theme nights every Friday—that night honored the Americans at Cinecittà shooting Quo Vadis . The staff wore togas and gilded laurel crowns and the orchestra played Roman numbers in between the mambas and rumbas. The lounge was decorated with shields and lances and brightly glimmering swords.
Mr. Bon Bon’s name was really Terence Hall, which was not so interesting, though up close he looked even more like a blond and blue-eyed Tyrone Power. He had that same adventurous, dashing air. He looked like he should be striding the deck of a pirate ship or swashbuckling his way through a musketeers movie. However, he dressed like a hipster or a bohemian, which ruined the vision a bit—a black turtleneck beneath a tweed jacket, slacks. He looked like some of the actors in the place. You could spot them a mile away, talking loud over the music, smoking and bandying their drinks about like extensions of themselves, sweating charisma.
Terence Hall already had a table, and Lena and Julia joined him. Julia leaned to kiss him. “This is my friend Lena. I’ve told you about her.”
“Yes.” Hall smiled politely. “So nice to meet you.”
He had a British accent that added to his mysteriously intrepid air. He raised his hand to call over a toga-clothed waiter and ordered them Americanos without asking what they would prefer. So he was arrogant too. But handsome, handsome enough to flirt with, and so Lena pulled her chair a bit closer to his and said, “Julia tells me you’ve lived in Rome for a while.”
He nodded. “A few years.”
“I’ve only been here since June, but what I’ve seen I love. I think I’d like to live here.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “It’s not a city to admire. Too many poor. Too much corruption. Julia, have you not educated your little friend on the evils of Rome?”
“She’s been too busy seeing the sights. She’s at the academy.”
“The school of the privileged.” He snorted and took a sip of his drink. “Americans.”
Lena peeked at Julia, who ignored her. “You don’t like Americans?”
“America is what is wrong with the world. You are American, yes?” His gaze swept over her disdainfully.
She was saved from having to answer by the arrival of the drinks. Lena took a deep gulp of the Americano, which was not very cold, but then, nothing was in Rome. The orchestra launched into a mamba, and couples pushed their way through the tables to the dance floor, their hips already swaying in anticipation.
Thinking it might loosen him up, Lena said, “Do you like to dance?”
He shook his head and looked at Julia, who was idly stirring her drink. “No.”
“Too bad.” Lena tossed her ponytail. “I’m a good dancer.”
“Most Americans are, I hear. They have nothing better to do with their lives.”
“You’re very dour, Mr. Hall. And I heard you were such fun. Julia, you’ve misled me.”
Julia’s smile was wry. “Did I?”
“You said your Mr. Bon Bon was delightful.”
Terence Hall frowned. “Mr. Bon Bon?”
“Don’t you like our nickname for you?” Lena took another sip of her drink and leaned closer. “Shall I tell you a secret, Mr. Bon Bon? You look like you could be a pirate, but you act like an accountant. Boring, I’m afraid.”
Julia laughed. “She sees right through you, Terry.”
He seemed taken aback. “Boring?”
“Am I wrong?” Lena put her elbow on the table, resting her cheek on it, leaning closer, pouting just a little. “Maybe you could tell me a joke?”
“I don’t know any jokes.”
“How about poetry? You’re dressed like a poet.”
“I’m afraid poetry is not my favorite thing.”
“What do you do then, Mr. Hall? What do you like? You don’t dance, you don’t tell jokes, you don’t know poetry ... or maybe ... maybe it’s just that you don’t like me.”
“I don’t know you well enough to dislike you.”
“This is the first time I’ve worn this dress. Do you like it?” She twisted in her chair, posing for him.
“You Americans care too much about how you look.”
“I made it myself. I designed it.”
She’d caught his interest at last. He looked impressed. “You designed it?”
“Um-hmm. I’m a designer.”
“It’s very pretty.” He spoke almost reluctantly.
She pretended she didn’t notice. “What part do you like best? The peekaboo skirt?”
He waved off her question. Julia reached into her purse for her cigarette case. “Tell him about the décolletage, Lena.”
Lena smiled. “It’s very special. My own design. You see how it lays just so—” she traced the neckline, watching him follow her finger across her cleavage—“pretty but not the least bit scandalous, not until I lean over and then ...” She leaned, moving closer to him at the same time, close enough that she could smell his cologne, which was piney and arctic, knowing the way the neckline would lower with her motion, revealing cleavage, the round tops of her breasts. His gaze went obediently to where she’d directed and she let him linger there, embracing the little surge of power she felt before she straightened with a smile. “You see? Do you like that, Mr. Hall?”
He regarded her with a dispassionate stare. “American women are decadent. I’m not surprised you designed a dress to show off your bosom.”
Julia extended her hand across the table to offer her cigarettes. Her gaze had gone icy. “But you looked, didn’t you, Terry? Doesn’t that make you a tiny bit decadent too?” She snapped the case closed before he had time to take one and turned to Lena. “Drink up. I’m bored already. We’re leaving.”
Lena frowned. “But—”
“It’s fine. Terry’s in a mood. Let’s go to Petra’s. She’ll be more fun tonight.”
“Don’t be a bitch, Julia,” Terence said in a low voice.
Julia motioned with her eyes toward the door. They were really leaving then. Lena didn’t know why Julia had changed her mind, but she was happy enough to leave Terence Hall. She took a long drink of her Americano and rose.
“It’s been lovely to meet you, Mr. Hall,” she said. “Maybe next time you’ll want to dance.”
“Julia—” Terence warned.
“Good night, Terry.” Julia grabbed her purse. “Call me when you’re not so dour .”
Once they were out of the club, Lena said, “I’m sorry. I tried.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Julia seemed distracted. “Let’s get out of here quickly, before he decides to come after us.”
The night was full of late revelers, the cafés crowded. Cars meandered down the narrow street while Vespas and motorcycles zoomed by. A siren blasted into the night, a police car trying to make its way through. Julia took Lena’s hand and pulled her off the Veneto into a vicolo , onto a less fashionable street, obviously so lost in thought that Lena wondered where Julia’s mind was. The meeting with Terence Hall had felt odd; he wasn’t what Lena had expected, and nothing had gone the way either of them had planned.
At Petra’s building, they went past the closed flower shop on the lower floor and into the dimly lit cracked checkerboard of the foyer, leading the way up the much-traveled stone stairs to the third floor. They heard the noise from inside before they reached the landing: jazz music blasting, talk and laughter. The smells of garlic and funky pecorino and smoke perpetually hung about Petra’s hall as if they’d permeated the walls for a hundred years or more.
Lena didn’t bother to knock. She opened the door; people spilled out. Over by the window, Tony uncorked a bottle of wine. Marco handed around a bowl of pasta. Petra and Renato and Paolo gathered around a table full of Petra’s photos. Everyone called a greeting as they came inside, but Petra—Petra gave Julia the strangest look. Lena couldn’t decide what it was. Questioning? Angry? Discouraging? Julia shrugged in response, and then she laughed and accepted a glass of wine, and Lena poured her own wine and took a bowl of pasta and joined the others and soon lost herself in conversation and the review of Petra’s photographs, which were different from her others.
These didn’t feature the juxtaposition of the ruined and modern Rome. The photos were extraordinary and disturbing, of the working-class districts like Pietralata, where people lived in dilapidated housing. They were pictures of broken sinks and rusty buckets of water and children in ragged clothing and filth, an apartment that housed three families in cramped quarters. Lena remembered what Terence Hill had said at Club LeRoy, that Julia had neglected Lena’s Roman education. She had never seen these places, or seen this level of poverty. The duplex in LA had been bad, but they’d had running water and plumbing that mostly worked. They’d been poor, but nothing like this.
“You see?” Petra asked her after Lena had enough wine that the night had started to blur. “You see what we are fighting? You understand now what you’re part of?”
“It’s horrible! Why doesn’t the government do something about it?”
Petra laughed dryly. “They do only the minimum—or better yet, nothing, if they can. The government is not the people, Lena. But one day we will change that.”
Lena was too drunk to wonder what that meant. She didn’t remember how they got back to the Augusta that night, but when she woke the next morning, her head pounding, her ponytail hanging awkwardly askew and her mouth still stained pink from the lipstick she had not removed before going to bed, she had a flashing, intense memory of standing at the Pincio Terrace and staring out at the lights of Rome in the very early morning and Julia whispering something in her ear—what was it? Something about her being a good partner? “The best ever ... I think I’ll keep you.”
Lena shook the memory loose and wandered downstairs in her pajamas for a glass of water—no Roman tours of antiquities for her this morning. The table was still spread with remnants of breakfast, but there was no one else there; they’d already gone to their classes or tours. Lena poured herself some orange juice and caught a glimpse of Il Messaggero as she poured—and then did a double-take, startled by the photograph on the front page of the newspaper.
Terence Hall.
She put the juice down and picked up the paper. She had learned a little Italian—very little, not enough to understand the caption beyond the word morto . But morto was pretty clear. Dead. Terence Hall was dead.
She stared in shock at the paper. When she heard the footsteps behind her, she knew who it was. She knew the sound of that walk in her bones, that presence that never failed to lift her spirits. This morning, however, it filled her with a strange dread. Lena turned to see Julia looking as hungover as Lena felt. She held out the newspaper. “He’s dead. Mr. Bon Bon is dead.”
Julia reached for the paper and scanned it, as dispassionate as Terence Hall had been last night. “Hmmm.”
“What does it say?”
“He was found in the street last night near Club LeRoy. They think it was a heart attack.” Julia set the paper on the table and picked a strawberry from the bowl. “Are all the others gone?”
“A heart attack? Then why is he on the front page?”
Julia shrugged and turned away, wandering to the kitchen. “I guess because he’s a foreigner. Poor Terry.”