Once Is Not Enough Read online

  And that was how she saw Rome on that sparkling June morning. The wind was soft and the early morning sun warmed her face. A few shop people slowly raised their blinds. Young boys in aprons began washing down the streets of sidewalk cafés. An occasional timid horn squeaked off in the distance, a horn that would join a pack that would blend into a screaming crescendo when traffic reached its peak.

  Mike pulled the car to a stop in front of a little restaurant. The proprietor ran out and embraced him and insisted on personally making them eggs and sausage, with the hot rolls his wife had just baked.

  The city was bursting with noise when they finally reached the block of the Via Veneto that housed the Excelsior Hotel. January stared at the small expanse—the sidewalk cafés lining both sides of the street, tourists reading The New York Times and Paris edition of the Tribune as they tried to drink the heavy espresso.

  “This is the Via Veneto?” January asked.

  Mike grinned. “Yep, this is it. Sorry I couldn’t arrange to have Sophia Loren passing by. The truth is, if you sat here for a year you might never see Sophia Loren on the Via Veneto. But in one hour, you will see every American who’s in town.”

  She was overwhelmed with the enormous suite at the Excelsior. The ornate marble fireplaces, the dining room, the two large bedrooms—it was almost palatial.

  “I left the room facing the American Embassy for you,” Mike said. “I figured the street noises might not be as loud there.” Then he pointed to her bags which had been delivered. “Unpack, take a bath and go to sleep. I’ll send a car to pick you up around four. You can come to the studio and we’ll drive home together.”

  “Can’t I go to the studio with you now?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Listen, I don’t want you to be tired for your first night in Rome. Incidentally, we don’t dine here until nine or ten.”

  He started for the door and stopped. He stared at her for several seconds and shook his head. “Know something? You really are goddamned beautiful!”

  They were still shooting when she arrived at the studio. She stood in the back and watched in the darkness. She recognized Mitch Nelson, the American actor whom the press releases billed as the new Gary Cooper. Through a granite jaw and seemingly immovable lips, he was playing a love scene with Melba Delitto. January had seen Melba only in foreign films. She was very beautiful, but her accent was heavy, and several times she fluffed her lines. Each time, Mike would smile, walk over to her, reassure her, and then start the scene again. After the fifteenth take, Mike yelled, “Print it,” and the lights came up. When he saw January he broke into that special smile that belonged only to her, and he crossed the sound stage. He linked her arm through his. “How long you been standing there?”

  “For about twelve takes. I didn’t know you were also a director.”

  “Well, it’s Melba’s first English-speaking part, and the first few days were pistols. She would fluff . . . the director would scream at her in Italian . . . she’d scream back . . . he’d scream louder . . . she’d walk off the set in tears. That meant an hour for new makeup plus another half hour for her to accept the director’s apologies. So I learned that if I just walk over and soothe the lady and tell her how well she’s doing, we save a lot of time and money and finally get a decent take.”

  A young man came toward them eagerly. “Mr. Mike, I was through work two hours ago but I wait, because I so much wanted to meet your daughter.”

  “January, this is Franco Mellini,” Mike said.

  The young man was in his early twenties. His accent was heavy, but he was tall and undeniably handsome. “Okay, Franco, you’ve been presented. Now scram.” Mike’s voice was gruff, but he smiled as the boy bowed and backed away. “That kid has only a small part, but he may walk off with the whole ballgame,” he said. “I found him in Milan when I was scouting locations. He was doubling as a singer and a bartender in a dive. He’s a natural. It’s wild to see the way he’s charmed every broad on the set. Even Melba.” Mike shook his head. “When an Italian has charm, forget it.” They walked arm in arm. The studio was empty and she felt as if all of her unspoken prayers had been answered. This was the moment she had longed for, the moment she had dreamed about. Walking beside him . . . being a part of his life . . . his work . . . sharing his problems.

  Suddenly he said, “By the way, I’ve lined up a bit for you in the picture. Just a few lines—hey.” He tried to pull away from her embrace. “You’re strangling me!”

  Later, as they inched through the unbelievable traffic, he told her about his troubles with the picture. Melba’s anxiety with her English . . . her antipathy toward Mitch Nelson . . . the language barrier he had with some of the crew. But most of all he groaned about the traffic. And she sat and listened and kept telling herself it wasn’t a dream . . . she was really here . . . this wasn’t just a Saturday . . . there would be no limousine to take her away from him tomorrow . . . she’d be with him like this every day . . . and she didn’t care if the traffic took forever . . . she was with him in Rome . . . just the two of them!

  When they finally reached the hotel another slim attractive young man was waiting in the lobby with several large boxes. January wondered how all the men stayed so thin. Didn’t Italians eat their own food?

  “This is Bruno,” Mike said, as the grinning young man followed them to their suite. “I figured you might not have enough clothes, so I sent him out a few days ago. He shops for a lot of the V.I.P.’s. Take whatever you want, any or all of it. I’m going to shower, make some calls to the States—that is, if I can break through the language barrier with the operators here. Sometimes we never get past Pronto.” He kissed her cheek. “See you at nine.”

  He was waiting for her when she walked into the living room at nine o’clock. He let out a low whistle. “Babe, you’re built like a brick—” He stopped suddenly and smiled. “Well . . . let’s say you’re better than any top fashion model.”

  “Meaning I really haven’t got enough on top.” She laughed. “That’s why I adore this Pucci. It clings and makes me look—”

  “Fantastic,” he said.

  “I took this and a skirt, some shirts and a pants suit.”

  “That’s all?” Then he shrugged. “Maybe you’ll have more fun finding all those hidden little shops the dames all talk about. I’ll have Melba tell you where to look.”

  “Daddy, I’m not here for a fashion collection. I want to watch you make the film.”

  “Are you kidding? Jesus, babe . . . you’re seventeen. You’re in Rome! You don’t want to stick around on a hot movie set.”

  “That’s exactly what I want to do. I also want that bit part you promised me.”

  He laughed. “Maybe you will be an actress at that. At least you’re beginning to sound like one. Come on. Let’s get going. I’m starving.”

  They went to a restaurant in the old ghetto section of Rome. January adored the old buildings . . . the quiet streets. They went to a place called Angelino’s. Dinner was served by candlelight in a Renaissance piazza. There were even strolling musicians. The entire evening took on a feeling of beautiful unreality. She sat back and watched Mike pour her some wine. She realized that another of her favorite fantasies was actually unfolding . . . she was alone with Mike in a storybook setting . . . he was pouring the wine . . . women were looking at him with admiration but he belonged to her. No phones could take him away, no long black limousines could take her away. She watched him light his cigarette. The waiter was just pouring their espresso when Franco and Melba came into the restaurant. Mike waved them over to the table and ordered another bottle of wine. Melba began talking about one of her scenes in the picture. When her English failed, which was often, she got her point across with gestures. Franco laughed and turned to January. “I speak the English language very poor. You will help me?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Your father, he all the time talk about you. He count the hours until you come.”

  “He did?”
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  “Of course. Just like I count the hours until I meet you tonight.” He reached out and touched her hand. She pulled it away and turned toward her father, but he was whispering something into Melba’s ear. The actress giggled and rubbed her cheek against his.

  January looked away, but Franco smiled. “Maybe love needs no language, right?”

  “I think your English is excellent,” she said stiffly. She tried not to stare at Melba’s hand, which was resting on her father’s thigh.

  “Oh, I learned from G.I. uncles.” Franco laughed. “My mother was widowed from war. She was very young . . . multa bella . . . she speak no English then, but she learn and teach me. And G.I. uncles good to my mama. But she’s fat now and I send her money because now no G.I.’s to help out. Just Franco.”

  January was relieved when Mike signaled for the check. He left a pile of bills on the table and they all stood up. Then he turned to January with a smile. “Well, I guess I’ve hogged you enough, babe. Besides, a beautiful young girl should spend her first night in Rome with a handsome young Italian. At least that’s what it says in all the movie scripts I’ve ever done.” He winked at Franco. Then he put his arm around Melba as they walked out of the restaurant.

  For a moment they all stood together on the narrow cobbled street. Then Mike said, “Okay, Franco. I’m gonna let you show my daughter some of the night life in this town. But take it easy. After all, we’re all gonna be here two months.” Then he took Melba’s arm and headed for his car. January watched them drive off. It all happened so fast she couldn’t believe it. Her father was gone and she was standing on a strange street in Rome with a handsome young Italian, courtesy of Mike Wayne.

  Franco took her arm and led her down the street to a tiny car. They squeezed into it, and with skillful maneuvering he managed to dart in and out of the crowded traffic. She was silent during the drive. Her first inclination had been to ask him to take her back to the hotel. But then what? Sit there and wait . . . and wonder what they were doing? No! Let him sit and wait and wonder what she was doing. He had walked out on her . . . left her with this boy. Okay. She’d show him how it felt.

  “Small car only thing to use in Roma,” he said. They went through winding streets and stopped at an outdoor ice cream parlor. “We go downstairs,” Franco said. They climbed out of the car, and he led her down a dark narrow staircase. “You’ll like . . . best discotheque in Roma.”

  The entire building looked as if it were ready for the demolition ball, but they entered a cavernous expanse that was packed with couples gyrating to blasting music and psychedelic lighting. Franco seemed to know everyone in the place, including the waiter, who led them to a choice table in an alcove. He ordered some wine and then pulled her onto the floor against her will. She was embarrassed because she didn’t know the new dances. She looked around. All the girls seemed to be undulating, oblivious of their partners. The entire floor looked like a mass of worms . . . wriggling . . . squirming . . . twisting. She had never tried it. Her last term at Miss Haddon’s had been dateless by choice, because Mike had been in New York and she had spent every weekend with him.

  But Franco laughed away her doubts. The beat of the music was strong, and under his guidance she began to move slowly . . . tentatively. Franco nodded encouragement and swayed to the tempo. His smile radiated confidence and approval. She found herself falling into a modified imitation of the other girls on the floor. Franco nodded . . . his arms waved in the air . . . his hips slithered . . . she followed his pace . . . the beat of the music grew louder . . . soon she was dancing with complete abandon. They fell into each other’s arms from exhaustion when the music stopped. He led her back to the table and she drank an entire glass of wine in one long swallow. Franco ordered a bottle and refilled her glass. Several of his friends came to the table, and soon a large group of young people had gathered. Very few spoke English, but they all danced with her, smiled easily, and even the girls seemed warm and friendly. She would actually have enjoyed herself except for the nagging thought of Melba and her father. She had seen the way Mike had looked at Melba . . . the way their eyes had held. She drank another glass of wine. Melba meant nothing to her father. She was just the star of the picture. He wanted to keep her happy. Hadn’t he explained that was why he went over and whispered to her between each take? But what had he whispered? She took another long swallow of wine and nodded in agreement when another handsome young man asked her to dance. The music was blasting. She was moving with the exact precision of the other dancers. (Were Melba and her father sitting somewhere listening to good music—music for lovers—sitting alone in some quiet place with violins?) She suddenly stopped dancing and walked off the floor. The boy hurried after her, jabbering in Italian, waving his arms questioningly.

  “Tell him I’m tired, that’s all,” January told Franco. She sat down and listened to the exchange of Italian. The boy stopped frowning, smiled, shrugged, and asked another girl to dance. At one o’clock the group began to disband. She wondered if Mike was home. Was he worried that she was out this late? Maybe he wasn’t home yet. She finished her glass of wine and reached for the bottle. It was empty, and Franco immediately ordered another bottle, but the waiter shook his head. A heated argument began. Finally Franco stood up and tossed some money on the table. “They are closing. Come, we go somewhere else.”

  She followed him up the steps. “Where does everyone go now?” she asked. “I mean, people who want to stay up late? Is there a place . . . well, like in New York we have P.J.’s . . .”

  “Oh, you mean meeting place? No, only Americans meet late here. Italians don’t stay up or go to late clubs. They have home-type social life.”

  “But—” She stopped as they reached the street. That would mean Mike was coming home just about now.

  “I tell you what,” Franco said. “We go to my place. I have the same wine.” He turned to another couple who were standing with them on the street. “You come too, Vincente and Maria.”

  Vincente shook his head with a wink and walked off with his arm around the girl. Franco led January to his car. Suddenly she said, “I think I’d better go home, too. I’ve enjoyed it very much, Franco . . . honestly. It’s been really neat.”

  “No. We have nightcap. Your papa think I am very bad escort if I bring you home so early.”

  She laughed. “Is that what you are? An escort? Courtesy of my father?”

  His face went dark. He stepped on the gas of the small car and it careened through the streets, swerving, taking corners at an unnerving speed.

  “Franco, we’ll get killed. Please. Have I insulted you?”

  “Yes. You call me a gigolo.”

  “No . . . really . . . I was just kidding. . . .”

  He pulled to a stop on a small side street. “Look, one thing we get straight. Your papa important man. But I am good actor. I am superb in film. I see rushes. I know. Zeffirelli wants me to read for part in his new film. I will get it. You see. Most of my part is finished in your papa’s picture so I am not playing the politic. I take you out tonight because you are beautiful. Because I want to see you. Your papa talk much about you, but I did not believe. But when I see you this afternoon . . . ah . . . then I believe.”

  “Okay, Franco.” She laughed. “But one thing . . . there’s no such thing as gigolos anymore. And you’ve got to learn not to be so touchy.”

  “What you call a man who is bought?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “No man is ever bought . . . or kept. The ones that are . . . I suppose you’d call them escorts, or fags, or muscle-beach types . . . male whores.”

  “I am not male whore.”

  “No one said you were.”

  He started the car but he drove slowly. “In Naples where I was born, we learn we have to fight for what we want. Women, money—even to stay alive. But we cannot be bought by women. We are maschio.” Then he smiled. “Okay . . . I forgive you . . . if you come back for some wine.”

  “But—”

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p; “Or maybe I feel you are only with me to please your papa unless we have one glass of wine.”

  “All right. One glass of wine.”

  He drove through winding streets . . . over cobblestones . . . past massive dark buildings with courtyards. Finally he pulled up in front of an imposing old house. “Way back this was private palazzo of rich old lady. Mussolini once stayed here with his mistress. Now it is run down and made into apartments.”

  She followed him through a dark courtyard with cracked marble benches and a broken unworkable marble fountain. He fitted his key into a massive oak door. “Come in. This is my place. Not neat . . . but nice . . . yes?”

  The living room was a wild contrast of modern disorder against old-world antiquity. High ceilings . . . worn marble floors . . . sofa strewn with newspapers . . . littered tin ashtrays . . . tiny kitchen stacked with dirty dishes . . . bedroom door ajar, with unmade bed. Here he lived in typical bachelor chaos.

  He seemed unabashed by the appearance of the apartment. He flicked on the hi-fi and suddenly music seemed to be coming from everywhere. What he lacked in furniture he made up for in speakers. She studied the moldings and fine marble while he worked on the cork of the bottle of wine.

  “This is same like we had,” he said as he came to her with the glasses. Then he led her to the couch, swept the newspapers to the floor and motioned for her to sit. The stuffing and some springs were leaking through the bottom, but there was pride in his voice when he said, “All my furniture donated by friends.”

  “This is a marvelous couch,” she said. “If you had it redone and-”

  He shrugged. “When I become big star I furnish place good. Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Well, if I’m big star enough, they send for me to come to America. That is where the real money is, no?”