Who is Lou Sciortino? (14 page)

To avoid thinking the usual thoughts that cloud his mind whenever he sets foot on a plane (the plane hurtling downward as he faces the last seconds of his life with great dignity, his funeral, his inconsolable father and mother, the women he's known—how many? thirty, forty, sixty? amazing how you can't remember a fucking thing when you're about to croak!—anyway, the women are all there, also inconsolable, his male friends, though, not many of them, are all talking about their own concerns…), Leonard keeps his eyes fixed on the top of the seat above which Greta's eyes keep bobbing and he gets an idea for a short: just eyes, nothing but close-ups of eyes, the eyes of women as they're fucking, all kinds of women, in all kinds of positions. Indifferent eyes, loving eyes, disgusted eyes, amused eyes, and … thoughtful eyes, thoughtful like Greta's. Because right now Greta doesn't so much seem busy with a blow job as with a think job. Maybe because Frank is moaning and can't speak, and if he can't speak she can think. Or maybe it's because she's got this bee in her bonnet that Frank is using her to make
the other woman
jealous, even though she doesn't know who the fuck
the other woman
is. Or maybe it's just because the unthinkable has happened!

My God, Frank inviting her to a party in Rome! A public party—her? Sure, it's normal for somebody like Frank, when he has to go to Italy, to take a woman with him to give him blow jobs in the plane or hotel. But then he expects her to stay at the hotel, because he's ashamed to be seen with her, like when he invites you to dinner
at his house
and buys crappy Chinese food in crappy cartons, and never, never, never takes you to Bobby's restaurant in Tribeca, where he likes to boast about black hookers and scumbag pimps.

Asshole!

The day before they left, what the asshole told himself was this:
Here's how I'll play it. I'll tell her about the party so it sounds really tempting, and sooner or later, she'll ask me to take her.
In fact, Frank felt a little ridiculous, because it's absurd trying to tell a whore like Greta about a party so it sounds really tempting, because obviously she's going to find it tempting anyway. All whores find parties tempting. But he had to do it, so Greta would ask him to take her with him, then if those FBI bastards questioned him he could say, “She's the one who asked me,” in front of everyone.

So he told her all the top Italian producers—De Angelis, Lombardo, Bernabei—would be at the party,
cazzarola!

Greta still couldn't see the reason why Frank was behaving with her like this in private.

He was telling her all these things about the party, and Greta was thinking,
I already give you blow jobs anyway, and I know you're friends with these people you're talking about, you don't have to remind me.
And besides, Greta had taken her first glorious steps in the movie business with Cameron! And Cameron had become a star, and she knew why! Because she always said, “Remember, Greta, when you go out with a producer, it's not because he can give you fame and fortune! You go out with him because you're genuinely interested in him, in his personality! So please don't quiver when you hear the word ‘producer'!”

Frank couldn't understand what the matter was with the whore, because for half an hour he'd been shooting off these big fucking names and she didn't react! He was going on and on about VIPs and the whore was filing her fucking nails! What the fuck was the matter with her? Was she on some kind of hand-job improvement mission? He ought to have worked on her better, given her more confidence.

Madonna,
what a mess!

Then suddenly, in a blinding flash, Frank knew: he'd never get Greta to ask him to take her to Catania, no matter who was on the guest list. Never. Frank felt a very distinct spasm in his colon. But he mustered his strength and, restraining every homicidal impulse in his body, even though it was quite obvious that Greta would rather be burned alive than show any interest in that shitass party, went closer to the blond cow, stroked her cheek, and said, “Obviously, sweetheart, you're coming, too!”

“Me?”

Without so much as a shiver of excitement, Greta went to the bathroom, looking bored, even her way of walking saying,
Shit, that's all I needed now, a party,
closed the door behind her, and, once she was alone, was seized with panic.

“Me? But what am I going to wear?”

“EXCUSE ME, YOU MUST BE NICKY, AM I RIGHT?”

“Excuse me, you must be Nicky, am I right?”

At Tony's barbecue, Lou suddenly finds himself facing a large woman with an impressively wide chest, four double chins, eight dangling corollas of fat around her face, a lacquered hairdo, a shiny black dress with a big blotch across the stomach (that was Nunzio's fault, after he tried some acrobatics with one of the slabs of beef from the prizewinning butcher Tano Falsaperla and Sons), and shoes that look like fifties convertibles.

“I'm Mindy's mother,” the woman says. “My brother Sal tells me you know my daughter.”

It may not happen to everyone, but when you're in a state of intoxication, it can be quite pleasant to be confused with someone else. Lou nods and, dodging arms, glasses, and plates with some difficulty, follows the convertibles across the lawn.

Suddenly the convertibles stop and Lou senses the presence of a scented body. The scent isn't perfume, it's naturally occurring. He looks up and meets the eyes of a girl dressed like one of Fonzie's girlfriends, eyes it's impossible to penetrate. Eyes that say,
Don't even think about it, you asshole.

Think about what? Lou doesn't understand. Obviously he's been thinking about something, but what? Has he acted like an asshole? But he just got here!

“
Piacere,
I'm Rosamunda,” the girl says with an offended air, and walks away in the direction of Nick and Aunt Carmela.

Lou watches her as she's moving away. He doesn't understand, but he likes that offended air.

*   *   *

“Nicky, this is Mindy,” Aunt Carmela says, giving Mindy's dress a final once-over.

“
Piacere,
I'm Rosamunda,” Mindy says with a forced smile.

“
Piacere,
I'm Nick,” Nick says, and thinks,
Fuck, they've already got this one decked out like a bride! But where does she come from? One of Tony's TV series?

Nick looks around in confusion and meets Valentina's eyes. She's still sitting with Rosy on the wicker couch. Nick smiles. Valentina gets up indignantly and walks away with an offended air. Nick doesn't understand, but he likes that offended air.

Champagne! Let's toast this meeting
 … Tony's voice, raised over the high-pitched sounds of the band, echoes around the garden, and even beyond the garden, as far as the other side of the street, between the sun-yellowed tufts of grass and the dark masses of volcanic rock.

IN ROME, CECCAROLI HAS DONE HIS JOB WELL

In Rome, Ceccaroli has done his job well. At the party after the premiere, at the Hotel Hassler Villa Medici above the Spanish Steps, the elite of Italian cinema—De Angelis, Lombardo, Bernabei, the top brass from Titanus, Medusa, Lux, socially conscious actresses, actors, and starlets, writers, committed critics, and paparazzi—really are there. If Sean hadn't canceled his suite at the Hassler only yesterday, it would have been a triumph for Ceccaroli,
a scene out of
La Dolce Vita
rewritten by him, and him alone.
Ceccaroli even managed to find, on the net, a photograph of Greta and Cameron, bare-breasted, whipping a bodybuilder, which he sent to the Roman magazines. The result is an impressive crowd of paparazzi outside the Hassler, who go wild when Frank and Greta arrive.

“Are you ashamed like Cameron, Greta?”

“Tell us about Cameron!”

“Everything
bene,
” Greta says, radiant. “Rome is
bellissima!
”

Frank, who's wearing a white jacket and black tie, grips her arm tightly, to stop her talking bullshit. But then the whore goes, “Ooooww!” and Frank thinks,
Cazzarola, the bitch has delicate skin,
before he realizes she's stumbled. He bends over to look at Greta's ankle, massages it slowly, and, trying to keep his paunch inside his white double-breasted tuxedo, says, “Did you hurt yourself, honey?”

“It's nothing, Frank,” Greta says, ever more radiant.

What the fuck's the whore laughing about?
Frank wonders while the paparazzi pop their flashes for all they're worth.

The fact is, Greta has a whole lot of reasons to be radiant, all these flashes mean fame and fortune, but right now fame and fortune are far down the list of things on her mind. This afternoon, inviting her to the party, Frank stroked her cheek and said …
Could it be? It's unbelievable … Is Frank really … falling in love with her?

Frank feels Greta's arm tightening around his.
What are you doing squeezing my arm, you whore?
But you've got to put a brave face on things. He squeezes her arm, too, and looks at her.

Greta's eyes are shining. And just then, a thought comes into her little head, a thought that, at least once in her life, comes into the little head of every Greta in the world.
But is this what I really want? To be like Cameron and Charlize? Do I really want a villa in Beverly Hills and a penthouse on Fifth Avenue? Or do I want nothing but to have this little man take me away with him to a cottage in the country, with me watching from the kitchen window while he cuts firewood, him maybe stroking my belly when I'm pregnant?

As all inveterate seducers, pimps, and users of every species know, there's nothing in the world easier than making a woman like Greta—or any woman—believe you love her.

When they enter the lobby of the Hassler, Ceccaroli comes up to them. He's looking nervous.

“For the seating, Frank, my idea was—”

“Ceccarò, I'm sure your idea's fine,” Frank says. “Did you put Greta on my right or on my left?”

After years of dinners and parties of every kind, Ceccaroli knows a thing or two about etiquette, and was thinking of putting Greta next to the famous left-wing critic, opposite Frank. Now he immediately says, “Of course, Frank, Greta's on your right.”

On the seventh floor, in the Rooftop Restaurant, Frank, who'd like to hurry things along, is forced to shake hundreds of sweaty hands. A real bullshit artist, with a face as red as a beet, perfectly groomed white hair, and a shiny blue tie, starts busting his balls about the view, the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, St. Peter's, Eisenhower, the Queen of England. Then Frank has a brilliant idea. “Thank you,” he says, “but I already know all about the Hassler, my friend John Gotti told me about it ten years ago, he was here for two weeks.” It takes just three seconds,
cazzarola,
for the bullshit artist to disappear.

All the important Italians—de Angelis, Bernabei, the people from Titanus, Medusa, and Lux—are at the table, along with Leonard, who's sitting opposite Frank, an Italian woman writer with a pissed-off face, her actor-director husband, the famous critic, an unwashed guy with dirty glasses, the woman president of the jury for a literary prize, an old lady who keeps asking Greta, “Would you like some water, dear? Are you tired, dear?” and the dear herself, who's radiant, eating a plate of pasta in front of Frank for the first time:
scialatelli
from Sorrento with seafood sauce and zucchini flowers.

Looking at his crystal glass, covered in oily fingerprints, Frank realizes he's getting nervous. The
macaronis,
the whore, the old woman, the unwashed critic, and all this bullshit about getting Greta to ask him to take her to Catania: everything's starting to get on his nerves!

“Do you know why I like your work?” He's distracted from his somber thoughts by the unwashed critic's thin little voice. The critic has decided the moment has come to say a few banalities to Leonard Trent, just to show they did the right thing inviting him. “Because you have no professional anxieties. It's obvious after seeing
Plastic Love
that you're driven by a single fixed idea: that the cinema exists and is therefore something that can simply be possessed, grabbed hold of, something you can enter, something that can and must be learned … But that's what genuine cinema always is, in every era … a revolt against the privileges of cinematic dynasties. Take De Sica. What do you think drove De Sica? Ideological concerns? No, simply the desire to see the birth and death of a few images and ideas worthy of birth and death.”

I'd like to see your birth and death,
Leonard thinks, forcing himself to smile like he's grateful for the praise.

Pleased with himself, the unwashed critic then decides to fulfill the evening's other obligation: to say a few words to the Jayne Mansfield type on his left.

“Do you like De Sica?” he asks Greta, smiling and showing her his yellow teeth with pieces of zucchini flower still stuck in them.

Greta, who's thinking about the steamed king prawns with Sicilian couscous, the mozzarella, and the buffalo ricotta she's finally going to eat with Frank at Babbo in the West Village, where Frank is sure to take her now, answers without hesitation, “Delicious. I went to Da Sica's in Tribeca with Drew and Quentin. A really hip restaurant.”

The unwashed critic is puzzled for a moment, then casually takes off his dirty glasses and polishes them on a corner of the tablecloth. Frank swallows with difficulty. He'd like to slap Greta: it wouldn't be the first time he slapped a woman in public. But instead, he decides to laugh, softly at first, then in that loud, vulgar way Italians expect from Italian-Americans at table and in public. They all laugh, of course, especially the old lady from the prize jury, who says, “You know, dear, when I was your age I often went to a trattoria called Da Sica's. But that was in Naples…”