CHAPTER 14
Marcus chose a table in the sun outside Café Lombardia. He pulled out a pen and a postcard of the Spanish Steps.
Dear Kathryn, I have taken an Italian lover! We just rode on his shiny black Vespa past these steps to a café on Via Veneto where we’ll order espresso macchiato and biscotti. Delizioso! And so is he!
Domenico joined him at the table, all smiles and windswept hair. He spotted the postcard and smiled. “To your friend, Katerina?”
Marcus wished he’d addressed the card Dear Katerina. He passed it across the table and placed their order.
Domenico smiled. “I am delizioso?”
“You are.”
“Delizioso like espresso macchiato?”
“More like a biscotti.”
“Because I taste like almonds?”
“Because you’re so hard I’m surprised I haven’t cracked a tooth.”
The two men laughed. They did that frequently—it was one of the many blessings this fun-loving, joy-spreading, pleasure-seeking Italian had dropped into Marcus’s lap. His short-lived victory over the Conti brothers had taught Marcus to take happiness where he could find it.
Ten grand was too much money to leave behind—not that he had seen a dime of it yet. So until the money came through, why not enjoy Rome and its delights: the food, the cafés, the history, the architecture—and my Italian lover.
“Why do you smile?” Domenico asked.
“I was wondering if you minded me describing you as ‘my Italian lover.’”
“It is molto sexy. And it is the truth, no?” He ran his finger down Marcus’s arm. “And I am your lover, si?”
Marcus nodded, and pulled away as the waiter arrived. The biscotti at the Café Lombardia were extra thick and extra long, leaving Marcus to wonder if perhaps he could break with tradition and dunk it into his coffee.
He went to ask Domenico if such an act was considered tacky when he caught a familiar figure slinking along the sidewalk. Dressed in a white woolen skirt with a vibrant butterfly print under a teal swing coat, she twirled her patent leather purse around her wrist with the abandon of a well-dressed prison escapee.
Marcus lifted his sunglasses. “Ava?”
Ava Gardner let out a piercing squeal and swooped in for an embrace, enveloping him in Gwendolyn’s perfume. He breathed it in deeply. “Kathryn told me you were coming but not until the end of the month.”
She dragged a seat from a neighboring table. “I had my reasons for leaving early.”
A couple of times a week, Kathryn mailed off the latest Hollywood Reporter, and enclosed a letter detailing tidbits too salacious to print.
She described the quarrel when Ava had told Frank that she’d accepted the lead in The Barefoot Contessa and would be shooting in Rome for the first three months of 1954. The spat had disintegrated into a shouting match at Chasen’s that ended with shattered glassware and broken crockery, rice pilaf sprayed across a neighboring table, and a champagne carpet stain the size of an LP record.
Ava took measure of Domenico. “And who is this handsome specimen?”
“Domenico Beneventi at your service, signorina.” He gently kissed the top of Ava’s hand.
“Holy cannoli!” Ava turned to Marcus. “Hats off to you, baby.”
“How long have you been here?” Marcus asked.
She ordered a Campari from a passing waiter. “A few days.”
“Enjoying the peace and quiet?”
“Chasen’s has seen worse.” Ava lit up a Lucky Strike and sent him a deprecating smirk. “We’re in Rome, you’re in love, Campari is cheap—why talk about that scrawny little shit? Tell me, Marcus, what’s this I heard about you being a—a—what’s the word? Scatinski? Scattalini?”
“Scattino,” Domenico said. “Marcus is molto famoso.”
“Get outta here!”
“I’m hardly famous.”
Domenico slapped a hand on Marcus’s back. “After he photographed Sophia Loren, everybody in Rome says, ‘Who is this mysterious scattino?’ And then Marcus, he took some photos of Ingrid Bergman—”
“I saw that cover!”
“Now everybody knows Lo Scattino Americano.”
“Stop!” Marcus swatted Domenico’s arm. He took any opportunity to touch the man.
Ava tapped a fingertip against her chin with a slow, purposeful rhythm. “How about you take a scattino photo of me? Right now!”
“I’m sure Joe Mankiewicz will have plenty of opportunities for you to pose—”
“This is for Cranky Frankie. He accused me of accepting Barefoot Contessa so that I’d have a chance at schtupping Rossano Brazzi. He said to me, ‘You’ve obviously got a thing for wops. Three months oughta give you plenty of time to lure him between the sheets. And if you flunk out, you’ll have a whole city chock full of drooling wops to choose from.’”
“I can see why you want to punch out the lights of your husband,” Domenico said.
Marcus was impressed with Domenico’s command of English, but the ways he mangled it brought a smile to Marcus’s lips.
“Is there a park around here?” Ava asked. “Lots of trees and shrubs?”
“The grounds of the Villa Borghese are close by.”
“Got your camera on you?”
Marcus had trained himself to always carry it with him. “I smell mischief.”
Ava looked into the sky. “I’d say we have about an hour of sun left.”
* * *
She spotted a thicket of umbrella pines surrounded by a ring of citrus trees. “Perfect!”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I’ll teach him to accuse me of wanting to seduce Rossano goddamned Brazzi!”
“The man is handsome,” Domenico pointed out.
“That’s beside the point.”
They arrived at the ring of lemon trees alternating with orange that stretched twelve feet across and ensured absolute privacy. Somewhere between Café Lombardia and this quiet little nook, Marcus had warmed to Ava’s idea. He was determined to return home with his Metropolitana nest egg intact. Epoca had paid him generously for the Bergman shots, so how much would they shell out for titillating photos of an American actress fresh off her Academy Award nomination for Mogambo?
He pictured Emilio Conti sneering at him. Lo Scattino Americano. “You know who will hate this?” he asked Domenico.
“I do.”
“Who are we talking about?” Ava asked.
“A prick named Emilio Conti,” Marcus told her. “He’s Scattino Number One around here.”
“He was,” Domenico said, “until Sophia Loren and Ingrid Bergman. Epoca will be dancing with the joy over these photos, but Emilio will be furious like if you got to La Speranza first.”
“Who is La Speranza?” Marcus asked.
“She was in one of our big Roman Empire films. It was a success, so she got another movie and it did better. Her next film earned the biggest box office. We saw her everywhere but now she likes to play the mystery woman, like La Garbo. If you can get a photograph of La Speranza, it will make you the most famous scattino in Rome. Conti will hate that.”
Marcus removed the lens cap from his camera. “What about up against that tree?”
Ava let her coat slump to her feet. She cocked a leg against the tree trunk and pulled Domenico against her.
“Put your right arm over my head,” she directed him. “Grab my ass with your left hand and don’t be shy.” Domenico stifled a giggle as he followed her instructions. “Angle your head away from the camera.”
Marcus lifted his Leica. “Can I point out that Mank might not like this? It could have repercussions for his movie.”
“I’m playing a poor girl turned man-eating diva, so this plays into the entire scenario. The possibility of causing Frank to spontaneously combust from jealousy is purely coincidental.”
Marcus stood back to survey the tableau. “If you want to convince Frank, I suggest hitching your skirt. Or better still, Domenico, hitch it up for her, preferably as high as her panties.”
“Who says I’m wearing any?” Ava laughed when Domenico jerked his hand away. “Relax, my European paramour. I am. Today.”
Domenico pushed Ava’s butterfly skirt up her leg. When a hint of lace showed, Marcus pressed his eye to the viewfinder. “Stop! Before I get jealous.”
* * *
Ten days later, Marcus walked onto the Cinecittà studio lot with a copy of Epoca magazine rolled in his hand. He ran his eye down the blackboard inside the gates until he saw that Barefoot Contessa was filming on Stage Five.
The elaborate set of columns, arches, and frescoes was every bit as impressive as anything Hollywood could produce. At the center stood an artist’s studio reaching two stories high. A life-sized sculpture of Ava’s character stood on a pedestal, and to its right, resplendent in a sheer white gown of billowing gauze, Ava sat on a director’s chair with Bogie on one side and Bacall on the other.
Marcus jiggled the magazine between his fingertips until Ava spotted him. She let out a scream when she saw the cover photo of herself, leaning against an umbrella palm, her head thrown back, her lips parted in an orgiastic moan as Domenico kissed her throat.
“Show me! Show me!”
Marcus hadn’t seen Bogie since the shooting of Sirocco during his brief career as an extra, so he and Bogie and Lauren had some catching up to do. Soon they were bombarding him with recommendations for cafés, restaurants, and bars.
Ava pointed to the caption stamped across the bottom: IL SUO AMANTE ITALIANO MISTERIOSO. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
“Her mysterious Italian lover.”
She let out a whoop that brought Joe Mankiewicz onto the set. She showed him the magazine. “Frank’s going to flip his toupée when I send it to him anonymously.”
“Save yourself the postage,” Mank said. “He’s already seen it. Epoca tried to sell the rights to Look. They were too spicy so they said no, but Confidential said yes. They’re causing a sensation. And you’re right—Frank has well and truly flipped his toupée. I just got off the phone from ten minutes of his caterwauling.”
This news set Ava off into a laughing jag. “This is all too, too priceless!” She could barely wring the words out. “It couldn’t be better if I’d planned it myself.”
Mank examined the cover a little more closely. “Whoever took those photos has a great eye.”
Ava pulled Marcus next to her. “Meet the photographer,” she said, blotting her tears before the smudged mascara leaked onto her snowy-white dress. “Joe Mankiewicz, I want you to meet Marcus Adler.”
Mankiewicz’s handshake was firm. “Bette Davis has only the kindest words to say about you.” He guided him to a window draped in diaphanous silk. “You took those stills on Three Coins, didn’t you?”
“I hope you liked them. Negulesco said—”
“They helped me cast Rossano in this picture, so I have you to thank.”
Ava let out a screech high enough to set dogs to barking. Marcus caught the word “panties,” but Bacall’s baritone laugh drowned out the rest.
“Those photos you took of Ava,” Mank said, “they’re the sorts of stills I want for this production, so I’d like to hire you for that, but there’s also something else.”
“You need help with the script?” Marcus asked, his hopes rising.
“Rossano’s English was decent enough for Three Coins but I’m worried that American audiences might not understand him in this picture as well as they’ll need to.” Marcus didn’t know what The Barefoot Contessa was about, but if Joe Mankiewicz had written it, it was likely to be a witty, sophisticated script. “He’s especially self-conscious sharing the screen with Bogie and Ava, so I want you to coach him on pronunciation. If you’re around as production photographer you can help out whenever he’s feeling insecure. How does that sound?”
Mank was asking him to commit to the end of March, by which time he’d have been gone from LA for eight months, which was seven months too long.
“I can see you’re hesitating,” Mank said. “Is it a matter of pay? I have a discretionary fund I can draw from. Let’s call it one hundred a week for production stills, and another hundred to help Rossano with his English. I can pay you cash, dollars, or lira—whichever you prefer.”
On the other hand, your Zanuck funds are running out.
Marcus could draw on the Subway People windfall but he liked the “screw you, Conti brothers” quality to the notion of spiriting their money out of the country intact.
Across the set, Ava drew a line along her lips. “The identity of my clandestine Italian lover must remain secret!”
Marcus hadn’t been the focus of someone’s affection in a while. It was the little things that added up. Hearing the rhythmic breath of someone else in the bed. Looking for the pepper grinder and finding that someone was already passing it over. Knowing that his favorite Tuscan chianti would be waiting for him come dinnertime.
Marcus could hear Kathryn’s voice in his head: Three more months of that sort of treatment? A boy could do worse.
Marcus held out his hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Mank shook it with his right hand and with his left, pulled a compact English/Italian dictionary out of his pocket. “This is yours now.”
Since that day in the Villa Borghese gardens, Marcus had been meaning to look up a word he hadn’t encountered before. He flipped to the “S” tab.
la speranza (noun) – the hope
Domenico had described La Speranza as an actress who’d done well in a series of Roman epics.
Marcus smiled. He knew of an actress who fit that description.
Melody Hope.