Epilogue Venice, 1967
Epilogue
I cross over the canal at the Ponte dei Santi Apostoli, then walk through the Sotoportego del Magazen, that strange corridor that runs beneath the building above.
The water beside me sparkles with a thousand tiny spotlights.
A guitar strums and a gondolier sings a barcarolle, like the world knows that nothing less will do for this particular scene.
I push open the door. In the living room, Marzia, Alessia, and Arturo greet me with somber faces, then point to the stairs. My hand reaches for Flitter. There are no wisecracks from her today, just fissures in her eyes where the pain leaks out like tears. It’s what makes her such a good actress.
Up we climb.
In the bed in my old room is a woman. Her hair is almost gone, her face pale, her hands thin. She blinks when she sees us. “You weren’t supposed to figure out where I was,” she croaks.
I ignore that and point to her left ring finger, which is adorned with an enormous diamond. “You’re engaged?”
“Arturo asked me. He thinks it’s romantic to have a wife who dies young. And you know I’ve never been opposed to romance.”
Maybe we should cry—dying young is a tragedy. But Calliope, Flitter, and I, we all start laughing.
Now the room feels full—full of color and sound and love. Full of Calliope’s smile. She’s still lightning plus auroras to the power of heaven. Always will be.
She sits up slowly, propping herself on her pillows, then reaches over to her nightstand. Her hand struggles to pick up the magazine lying there. Time magazine.
The cover photo is of three young women at Schwab’s with chocolate and smiles all over their faces, taken from a dusty old Polaroid that I salvaged from Calliope’s burned-out room at the Chateau Marmont. “The Three Queens,” the headline reads.
Calliope opens the magazine to the article inside.
There are two photographs inset on the pages.
The first is of Miss Devine and Adele Winchester, who’s now a junior assistant at my agency and who is, everyone says, a terrifyingly good blend of me and my aunt.
Somehow, Adele gets away with calling my aunt Auntie D, whereas I still have to call her Miss Devine.
Adele mostly manages the screenwriters—she’s always had a nose for a good story.
The second photograph is of me and Theo kissing in the lobby of the Chateau Marmont, which we’re rebuilding.
It’s the one photo we released to the press of our wedding day.
I’m wearing a silver beaded and sequined mini dress—not a pink tulle veil in sight.
Theo looks so good I could swoon—in fifty years’ time, I bet he still makes me swoon.
“You look so happy,” Calliope says, fingertip resting on the photograph.
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“Marzia and Alessia bought all the copies in Venice,” she says. “They give them to everyone, tell them about the famous guest who used to live with them.”
“Do they tell everyone about the famous guest who lives here now?” I ask softly, sitting beside her on the bed.
Flitter lets out a huge sob. Then she rearranges her face and there it is—the Flitter grin. “Well, they’ll have to tell everyone about the three famous guests now.”
Calliope laughs, runs her finger along the paragraph that talks about Flitter, who just won an Oscar for Helen Burns. “ ‘Flitter Reeve is the greatest actress of her generation,’ ” Calliope reads aloud and Flitter strikes her most actressy pose.
Then she takes the magazine from Calliope and finds the part that describes the insatiable appetite that everyone has for anything even tangentially related to Calliope Burns, the beautiful actress who died in her prime, whose films are being rediscovered, whose face is on T-shirts and mugs and calendars.
Calliope is the number one name for babies born this year.
“ ‘She’s immortal,’ ” Flitter announces, quoting Time magazine.
“Pfft,” Calliope says, not able to hide the tears brimming in her eyes as she tugs the magazine away from Flitter.
This time she doesn’t just read aloud a sentence, but a whole paragraph that somehow says that Aria Jones has forever changed the culture of Hollywood.
That no woman in the future will ever have to get on her knees for a part; that Aria Jones (who has been utterly modern and refused to take the Winchester surname) is making movies for women and they’re spectacularly profitable.
Helen Burns, the movie with just a woman’s name as the title, is the highest grossing movie this year.
That Aria Jones declined to be interviewed for the article, but it was no matter.
All the actresses she agents have spoken to Time about her.
“You always wanted to be surrounded by the sea,” Calliope says, putting down the magazine, which means I can finally stop blushing. “And you are—by a sea of women.”
I burst into tears, despite my vow not to cry today. Luckily Flitter is prepared and she produces a fistful of handkerchiefs from her bag.
“Enough of that,” Calliope scolds. “Tell me why you’re here.”
I find my smile again. So does Flitter. We climb into the bed beside Calliope.
On cue, Arturo wheels in a screen; his sisters carry a projector. Calliope watches in wonderment as they set everything up. Then they bring up trays of burgers, fries, and mint juleps and leave us be.
Helen Burns flickers to life on the screen.
Flitter and I put our arms around our friend. “We’re having a sleepover,” I tell Calliope.
“Shh,” Flitter grouses. “You’re meant to be watching me act my heart out.”
“You’re not going to eat those, are you?” I say, relieving Calliope of her fries.
We pull up the covers. I rest my head against Calliope’s, Flitter does too. Three women snuggled together in a single bed—three women whose every wish came true.