Almost Famous Women (11 page)

I painted this one in Paris, she says, nodding to a portrait of a woman in a fur stole with a commanding expression and the figurine of a black horse on the table in front of her.

Natalie, he thinks.

Paris must be beautiful, he says.

Je déteste Paris.

He's quiet for some time because he knows that's what she wants. He realizes that he's jealous of the life she's had, the money, the talent, the experiences. She calls herself American, but she's not American, he thinks, she is of the world, and how many people can say that?

I'd like you to leave now, she says.

I was sent to live with the maid, Romaine says when he brings her lunch, surprising him with conversation. My mother sent me away, abandoned me, left me to fend for myself, even though we were wealthy. I lived in squalor with a large family in an apartment that smelled of cabbage and spoiled butter.

Mario wonders if she is just talking, or actually talking to
him
.

Romaine pauses to choke down a stewed tomato. Then, she continues, I was sent off to boarding school. Mother didn't love me, you see, she never did. She loved my brother, St. Mar, and he was atrocious.

How so? Mario asks. He wants to engage her, be spoken to as an equal.

St. Mar was deficient, insane, violent, she says. You couldn't touch him. Not even to cut his hair, and it was long and tangled and he would grab the scissors and come at you. He was a boar that couldn't be brought out in public. When he was older his beard was long and he had sharp nails; he shuffled around the villa, moaning. Mother let him buy a monkey that bit children.

The women in my life were insufferable and strange, she continues, leaning back in her chair, the paleness of her face exacerbated by the maroon velvet upholstery. My sister, I'll have you
know, had a child with my mother's boyfriend, and married him. This is before St. Mar died.

How did he die? Mario asks.

He starved himself. After he died Mother became convinced she could summon spirits. And when
she
died? I went from being an impoverished artist to owning six flats in Nice. She left me boxes of things, wigs and false teeth and the sense that I was haunted, always, by St. Mar's incessant crying, and Mother standing over me at night.

That sounds—

She comes to me still.

Mario nods.

I'm a martyr, she says, reaching gingerly for her teacup. I always have been.

The sound of her body trying to swallow the hot liquid is repugnant, but he feels some measure of pride that she's confiding in him. This is her way of saying that she knows he is more intelligent than the average
domestico
, that he has potential, that he's trustworthy.

Maybe she will see that I need help, he thinks, and send me off to Paris with a little annuity, deliver groceries to my mother.

I'm planning to move to Nice, you know, she says, removing her green glasses again, looking up with clear eyes. Your services will no longer be needed. You should make other plans.

Enzo, he says, wandering into the kitchen that evening, can you cover for me for a half hour? I need to check on Mama.

Certo
, Enzo says, smiling at him with dark, wine-stained teeth. He's cleaning up the kitchen as if he's going to leave, but Mario knows he sleeps in the house so he doesn't have to pay rent elsewhere.

There is contempt between them, but that doesn't keep Mario from fantasizing about him. He imagines an angry, passionate tryst in the kitchen or the wine cellar. When he pictures these moments he has trouble looking Enzo in the eyes.

At home, Mario finds his mother sleeping on their couch. She's snoring loudly and her body is a fat little heap on the worn green upholstery. The small one-bedroom apartment with the concrete floor insults his taste. It's made for a rat, he thinks. I'm growing accustomed to nice materials.

He leaves his mother a baguette and a hunk of cheese and a note. He doesn't have the courage to tell her that soon he'll be out of a job.

When he returns to Villa Gaia, he hears shouting in the courtyard. Enzo has his shirt off and is swinging at a much larger man in a black T-shirt.

Lasciare!
Mario hisses. You're going to wake Romaine and we'll all lose our jobs!

He owes me money, the large man mutters. I'm going to kill him.

Enzo, presumably drunk, swings again. The man ducks.

Kill him down the road, Mario says.
Prego
.

Heart pounding, Mario slinks into Villa Gaia, and silently creeps to Romaine's bedroom door to see if she's awake.

I hear you out there, she shouts. Come in at once.

Mario, head bowed, enters her dark bedroom. Romaine is propped on her pillows; a small light glimmers on her bedside table. The room is sparsely decorated, only a bed and bureau and the bedside table, but the wallpaper is hand-painted, a gray-blue background with white and silver cranes fishing in pools.

You've been sneaking around, haven't you?

No, signora, I—

You're fired. I can't sleep. I have called and called for you.

I'm sorry.

I'm ill. I'm ninety-three. I'm going blind. I can't walk.

Can I make you more comfortable?

Just leave, she barks, raising a spindly arm, pointing a skeletal finger at the door.

He backs out of the room and leans against the wall, heart racing still. If he loses this job now there'll be no rent money, no food.

The next morning, he brings her breakfast tray to the bedroom. Romaine sits up and rests against her pillows, grimacing, squinting at him. Her hair needs washing, he thinks.

Didn't I fire you last night? Didn't I tell you to leave?

No, signora. Mario smiles reassuringly at Romaine. You didn't. You must have had a bad dream. May I put cream in your coffee?

I never take cream!

May I open your windows?

Only a little.

The dry air comes in, and with it the scent of tiglio blossoms, a smell that seems too delicate and sweet for a woman like Romaine, who reaches for her glass of carrot juice.

I win, Mario thinks, smiling to himself as he backs through her bedroom door. Power is a funny thing. Sometimes you can just take it.

The next morning Romaine cracks one of her ancient teeth on biscotti. The misery in this world is constant, Romaine says, one liver-spotted hand to her temple.

I have suffered again and again, she continues.

Mario leaves and comes back with a cup of lemon tea.

He has dressed her in a soft, looping bow tie. Her head is tilted back, eyes suspicious. I didn't ask for that, she says, looking at the tea in front of her.

Tell me again about the flora and fauna of Capri, he says, kneeling at her side.

Why should I tell you anything? she asks, frowning down on him.

Because I'll listen.

Why don't I tell you about the woman who locked her children in a cage? I was a boarder in her house. They used to scream like animals. But I was always in bad places then, living in squalor. I had no money. I wanted to become a singer.

Would you sing for me?

Never.

Why did you stop?

The notes of song could never replicate human suffering, she says, turning away from him. Not the way I could with line.

I want to see you draw, he says, casually brushing lint off her shoulder.

How dare you, she hisses, though he thinks maybe she is flattered. Perhaps the corner of her wry, bitter mouth has lifted for a second.

I don't believe you can do it anymore, he says, his voice teasing and almost, he realizes, malicious.

I can do it. I don't want to do it, but I
can
do it.

Do it, he says, thrusting a pen into her gnarled hand. He brings a sketchbook to her and scoots her up to the table.

No—my tooth is broken! Are you an imbecile?

Do it, he says, using the firmest voice he has ever used with her, with anyone.

I won't.

You will.

Looking up at him with confused, then furious eyes, she puts the tip of the pen to the paper. At first it does not move. She's just looking at it, or maybe she is looking within her mind. Her hand begins to slide across the dry paper, and a robed figure appears. She gives the figure wings and then draws two bald, stooped demons, which the angel presses to her chest as if about to nurse them. Romaine doesn't pick up the pen; the line is constant and never-ending, sure of itself.

He sees her tongue—God, it is an ugly tongue—examining the jagged edge of the broken gray tooth as she looks at her work, letting the pen fall to the table. She grabs his arm and whispers: I'm in pain. Please call the dentist.

This is the price you have to pay, he thinks, looking down at her bulging eyes, for having a good life, for being able to wake up when you want, fuck who you want, travel the world and sleep in soft beds and never clean your own toilet. This is for your closet full of opera capes.

I'll see to it, signora, he says, pulling his arm from her cold grasp, gathering the drawing, leaving the room.

As he leaves, the rottweiler begins barking.

Marco! The dog, Romaine says.

He pretends he cannot hear her, and continues down the stairs.

Before he phones the dentist, he finds one of the letters from the art dealer, and places a call.

I have new work, he says, in a confident voice he can't believe is his own. And we're willing to sell.

On his next shift Mario finds Romaine sitting alone. She doesn't look up or acknowledge him. She isn't sleeping, but her body is in a state close to sleep, he thinks.

Romaine, he says, addressing her by name for the first time. She looks at him, confused. Overnight he has come up with a plan, and he's determined to put it into action, to claim the experiences that should have been his.

I have something to tell you, he says.

Don't waste my time, she mumbles, fingering the silk of her blouse, brushing the morning's crumbs from her lap.

She looks weaker, he thinks, pleased with the idea that she might become more vulnerable. That's what he wants. Vulnerable, but not dead. He takes a deep breath and continues.