The Magnificent Strangers

CHAPTER 1

The early Spring’s damp, cool late-night air gave Sandy Kantor a slight chill. Bored and tired, he stood gazing down on a sexually charged couple who seemed oblivious to their elegant evening clothes, as they moved sensually toward one another in the waist-deep, quiet waters of Rome’s venerable, Fontana di Trevi.

Sandy shifted his gaze to the shadows of the fountain’s giant statuary that he had always found a bit eerie after its gushing waters had been shut down for the night. But this night, the motion picture floodlights were making the shadows especially vivid. The tableau was perhaps even more beautiful, but Sandy felt no pleasure in its beauty.

Noticing that dawn was only a few hours away, Sandy focused on the individual members of the tired film troupe. Each was working with an uncharacteristic efficiency and determination to wrap up this final scene and go home.

Sandy shared the Italian film crew’s desire for the long workday to end. He nodded with satisfaction at the realization that the usual behind-the-camera confusion and prattle were not as distinct as the clatter of the unmuffled camera motor.

He did not relish the thought of mediating the dispute between his client, Frank Ward and the actress, Marilu Mindy, with whom Frank was sipping a romantic glass of champagne in the fountain’s chilly water. He couldn’t understand why the director, Valerio Dragoni, would want to work with these two again. Sure, their last film was a big success at the box office, but having them together on the same film set was pure hell.

Frank was a perfectionist. Even in what he considered silly romantic tripe, Frank would accept nothing but the utmost effort from his coworkers. Marilu was Valerio’s girl friend and protege. Valerio had promised his producer, Gianni Micheli that he would have no problem covering Marilu’s inadequacies, while also, keeping Frank in a cooperative frame of mind.

He was wrong.

Frank and Marilu fought like tigers, each giving as much as they got. Everyone suffered. Gianni Micheli insisted that Sandy share in the suffering, which meant that Sandy would not have a peaceful moment until Frank had been put to bed at the end of each working day.

Sandy had arrived in Rome two years earlier to become the only American in the Italian affiliate of one of America’s largest talent agencies. His first assignment was Frank Ward. An assignment Sandy had come to regard as the ultimate test of an ambitious twenty-six-year-old’s dedication to the agency business.

Frank was the first American to make it big in the post-war Italian film industry. He was a good actor. Maybe a great actor, but the demons that controlled his emotions denied him the recognition his talent deserved. In spite of everything, Sandy had become Frank’s friend. He genuinely liked the dark, gruffly handsome man and admired his talent. The problem was, Frank had a nasty way of testing friendship to its outer limits.

Sandy glanced to the director who was hovering over the camera squinting intensely at the two actors. His gaze drifted to the wardrobe woman and her assistant who were furiously pressing their hot irons onto Frank and Marilu’s wet costumes. The women’s faces reflected their anxiety over the possibility of having to shoot the scene again. They also dreaded the prospect of having to tell the actors that they had no more dry costumes.

He ran his fingers through his tight, curly, straw-colored hair, wondering if Valerio Dragoni’s pale imitation of Fellini’s famous scene from La Dolce Vita was as obvious to everyone else as it was to him.

Then, as Frank and Marilu tossed aside their champagne glasses and fell into a passionate embrace, the film crew and the few remaining spectators, watched in hopeful silence until Valerio called, Stop!

At the same moment, Marilu screamed a curse in Italian and swung a violent slap to Frank’s face.

Frank immediately returned her slap. Marilu lunged for his face with bared fingernails. Frank grabbed her wrists and twisted her down into the water, where the two continued fighting furiously.

Led by Valerio, the nearest of the crew splashed into the water to separate the combatants. Valerio was the first to get between Frank and Marilu and received a fist in the mouth from Frank. Blood spurt from Valerio’s lip, but he was undaunted. He regained his balance and resumed his attack with a vengeance.

Sandy cringed and the onlookers cheered as the short but intense, fistfight between the two men left each of them bloody and bruised.

The opponents were separated but the tempers were still hot. The wardrobe woman quickly hustled Marilu into a dry wrapper as Frank, Valerio and Micheli, converged on Sandy, each demanding that he do something!

Inundated by the cacophony of complaints, Sandy raised his hands and retreated defensively.

He tried to placate the Italians by conceding that while Frank may not have been 100% at fault, he did deserve a major share of responsibility for the conflict.

What?? Frank screamed angrily. She slapped me first! Didn’t you see that? Didn’t you all see it??

Did you hear what he said to me?? Marilu demanded as she rejoined the group followed by a hairdresser who was towel-drying her hair. Do you hear the merda that comes from his mouth??

Fuck you, you dumb-ass pig! Frank spat. Then, before anyone could react, he turned on his heels and began to stride away.

Wait, Sandy called.

Fuck you too!

Frank mounted his sleek, powerful BMW motorcycle then turned to the producer, Micheli, I’m not working with that bitch anymore. You know as well as I do, that if she wasn’t screwing Valerio, she’d be selling her snatch to all the truck drivers out on the Via Aurelia!

Micheli and Valerio’s assistant, Hugo, restrained Valerio from chasing after Frank as he fired up his motorcycle and sped away. Windows rattled throughout the ancient piazza from the roar of the bike’s powerful exhaust.

Sandy resigned himself to the fact that it would be a while before he would be going home. He was searching for words to soothe the Italians ruffled feelings, when Frank suddenly reappeared from the opposite side of the fountain on his motorcycle. He drove it down the steps from the piazza to the edge of the fountain, where the group was standing; then got off, eased it onto its stand and moved to face Marilu.

If you weren’t such a cheap slut, he began with a grim smile, I’d probably be screwing you too.

Marilu was stunned. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Frank reached and pushed her over the low barrier into the fountain.

Valerio instantly leapt on Frank’s back and they tumbled to the cobblestone pavement.

The spectators nodded approvingly as the fight resumed.

Micheli began to scream at Sandy, who shouted at Frank, Stop it!

Frank and Valerio were again separated.

Sandy dragged Frank away from the others, What the hell do you think you’re doing? he demanded.

It’s all your fault, Frank insisted.

My fault?

You put me in this movie, didn’t you!

Don’t give me that crap, Frank, what’s wrong?

I’m tired.

Tired?

You heard me.

Then, give it a rest! For God’s sake, Frank, give it a rest!

I’m going home. Without another word, Frank mounted his motorcycle and again, rattled the piazza’s windows as he sped away.

Turning to face the irate Italians, Sandy could only raise his hands in a gesture of hopeless resignation.

CHAPTER 2

Sandy’s mind fought, turned and twisted to retain its grasp on his serenely satisfying dream, but the incessant pounding on his front door forced him to open his eyes and sleepily focus on his bedside clock.

I don’t care who it is, he groaned, I’ve had three hours sleep! He covered his head with his pillow, but the pounding didn’t stop.

When a woman’s desperate voice calling his name was added to the pounding, Sandy gave up.

All right! he shouted toward the front entrance of his small apartment in the American Palace, a comfortable residence apartment hotel in the fashionable, Parioli section of Rome. I’m coming!

Three goddamn hours, he groaned, then struggled into a pair of jeans and stumbled down the stairs from his bedroom alcove to living room door.

Sandy, you must come! Blond, Nordic, Marta Linson’s pregnancy was obvious beneath her bathrobe as she stood, frightened and disheveled in Sandy’s doorway.

Look, Marta, I had about enough of Frank last night.

Please, Sandy.

Okay, what’s he done now.

I don’t know, she stammered. He was drinking all night after he came home.

All night? He couldn’t have come home more than a couple hours ago!

He was yelling…screaming…even crying.

Did he hit you?

No…not really. But Sandy, he said he’s going to kill himself. He locked himself in the bathroom and he won’t come out. He hasn’t made a sound in over an hour.

What’s his excuse this time? Sandy asked, repressing a yawn as he glanced up to his bedroom.

His wife left him.

His wife left him! Sandy exploded. Jesus, Marta, you’re five months pregnant with his baby, and he’s upset because Sally left him? That’s insane!

Please, Sandy, she moaned, then began to weep softly.

Okay. Give me a minute to get dressed. I’ll be right there.

Thank you, Sandy, and God bless you! she whimpered, then turned to scurry down the stairs to her apartment on the floor below.

Let’s leave God out of this, Sandy sighed to himself as he moved into the bathroom and hastily washed his face and ran a comb through his hair.

So Sally finally left him, he thought. What did Frank expect, when he’s openly living with his pregnant girl friend? Sandy silently shook his head. Of course she left him, what else could she do?

He finished dressing and was about to hurry out of his apartment when the ringing telephone brought him to an abrupt halt.

Pronto! he barked, then immediately softened his tone when the downstairs porter, Furio, announced that his young Italian assistant, Alba Ferrara, was on the line.

Suddenly remembering that he had asked Alba to call and wake him up. Sandy cursed, slapped himself on the forehead, then told Furio to put her through.

Alba, Honey, I’m sorry, but I’ve had a hell of a night, and I’m afraid it isn’t over.

Do you not have an appointment?"

Alba, this is your lucky day, he said in weary desperation, I am going to do you a very large favor.

No, Sandy. Alba protested as she brushed a thick strand of lustrous black hair from her pretty, dark eyes. I don’t want a favor. Not today.

Rex Starr is arriving from the States on the Pan Am flight that gets in this morning at nine. I want you to meet him. Have Bruno pick you up with the Mercedes. Make my apologies and take him to the Residence Palace. Get him registered and see that he is comfortable.

I was going out to the country with Mario, she grumbled. Who did you say is arriving?

Wake up, Alba, Sandy responded gently, it’s Rex Starr. You remember, the good-looking sea captain you like so much on television? The one who never wears a shirt?

Oh, that one, Alba replied, suddenly brightening. Yes, I remember. Don’t worry, I’ll see to everything.

I thought you’d appreciate the favor, he answered dryly. And tell him his script is waiting for him at the reception desk.

Nine o’clock? I’d best hurry. Ciao, Sandy!

Ciao.

Sandy replaced the receiver, frowned uncertainly, then hurried out of the apartment and down the stairs that circled the American Palace’s ancient elevator.

Arriving on the next landing, Sandy was about to enter the open door to Marta’s apartment, when he heard Marta’s voice call out, Frank? Frank?

Then he heard a terrified scream, Fraaank!

Sandy dashed into the apartment, arriving just in time to catch Marta as she collapsed in front of the open bathroom door. The horrible scene in the bathroom held his gaze as he gently lowered Marta’s inert body to the floor.

The marble bathroom floor was covered with a glistening slick of blood and bits of human flesh. Frank was nude, astride the toilet bowl, his head slumped between his knees. The area around his genitalia was a bloody mass of cuts and slashes. A ring of sparkling, injector razor blades lay around his blood-drenched feet, forming a pattern similar to a grisly, broken string of shining beads.

Sandy dragged Marta to the sofa, picked up the phone and flashed the switchboard. Get Dr. Winston!—*—*—

It was one of Alba’s special pleasures to sit alone in the rear of the luxurious, new, 1962 Mercedes sedan. It gave her a unique feeling when the people on the street would strain to catch a glimpse of her mysterious figure being chauffeured in the black, highly polished automobile.

As the Mercedes sped smoothly down the picturesque, tree-lined Via del Mare, Alba became absorbed with the passing Roman countryside. She felt a surge of pride as she witnessed the magic of the spring sun reviving and revitalizing her ancient homeland. It was as if, in a last glorious effort, the giant cocoon of winter was being cast off and a new, young-again Italy was being reborn.

Alba’s thoughts drifted to Rex Starr as Bruno skillfully guided the Mercedes around the ruins of the ancient Roman seaport city of Ostia Antica, then across the site of the new, modern super highway being built to connect Rome with its recently completed international airport.

I wonder if he is as handsome in person as he is on television, she mused. He is so romantic, cruising across the tropical seas on his marvelous sailing ship.

It must be wonderful to see in color. I wonder when we will have color television here in Italy.

And what must his voice be like? It is always so strange when I hear the real voices of foreign film stars. I get so annoyed hearing the same Italian actors’ voices being dubbed into the American actors’ mouths.

I hope he is simpatico. The Italian journalists have likened him to an ancient Roman mariner, and the public has made him our national TV hero.

Bruno eased around the grotesque, hulking statue of the magnificent namesake of Rome’s, Leonardo da Vinci Airport, then drew up in front of the arrival section of its huge glass and steel terminal building.

Alba carefully studied the passengers filtering through the customs area, but when Rex appeared, she knew she would have recognized him anywhere.

She didn’t move as she watched his eyes search among the others around her who were also awaiting passengers on the incoming flight. Expecting to find Sandy, his gaze passed over Alba as she drank in his muscular frame, his relaxed feline grace and his boyishly handsome features.

Mamma mia, che bello! she murmured, moistening her full, red lips with the point of her tongue. Never before had she seen a man who projected such an aura of sexuality. She suddenly felt that her unexpected opportunity to take Sandy’s place must be a good omen. That something important would come of this.

Rex strode out of the customs area and was gazing impatiently over the crowd when Alba intercepted him.

Mr. Starr?

Yes, he replied, tentatively.

I am Alba Ferrara—Sandy Kantor’s associate.

Associate? Rex lifted his sunglasses and frowned down at her. The last time I saw Sandy, he’d just graduated from the mail room at the Morris Agency. Now, the little bastard is so important, he sends his assistant to meet me!

He’s very sorry, but he had an important emergency, she responded uncomfortably. He will ring you later at the hotel. He asked me to apologize for him, and see to your needs. Get you settled and everything.

Rex’s frown melted into a provocative smile. You look like you can handle most of my needs better than Sandy. Alba flushed as she turned away, struggling to maintain her composure. I have a car waiting, Mr. Starr. Rex, he quickly insisted. Yes, Rex. Ah, if you will please follow me. She spoke briefly to the porter, then led the way to the waiting Mercedes. Rex gave her soft, feminine figure an appreciative once-over as he  

w alked behind her. I’ve never screwed an agent before, he silently reflected. At least, not an Italian agent.

CHAPTER 3

The chic Vigna Clara quarter of Rome was once high, rolling, wooded farmland. It is located above a looping bend in the Tiber river, a few minutes north of Via Veneto and the city center, and between two of the ancient, legendary roads to Rome: Via Cassia to the west, and Via Flaminia to the east.

In the early 1960’s, the narrow, picturesque Via Cassia was lined by a small number of grand old palaces from former times, with their large, often neglected gardens; dignified churches, embassy residences and private schools—mostly hidden behind high stone walls and nestled under tall, stately Roman pines.

Via Flaminia crosses the Tiber, then veers up to the Fleming section, which was beginning to become popular with its newer, large apartment buildings and shopping areas. It passes through this hilly residential area, then drops down into rustic countryside where it continues north to climb over the mountain spine of the Italian peninsula, and down to the Adriatic coast.

Vigna Clara’s northern border is the green belt, an area roughly surrounding the city, where new construction and development was, and still is, forbidden.

The modern apartment complex, which throughout the 1960’s was known as the American Ghetto, sits on Vigna Clara’s highest hilltop. Its apartments facing north, look down upon a pastoral valley in the green belt. From their elegant, spacious terraces, one could, and still can, gaze down to observe the operation of a small vegetable farm where life goes on, much as it has for the past centuries.

Sandy’s young friend, Burt Prinz had one of the apartments that faced south, and looked into the complex’s large, inner courtyard, with its Olympic-size swimming pool, its tennis courts, and well-manicured gardens.

Burt pulled open the rolling wooden shutters that covered his bedroom windows and was momentarily stunned by the bright spring sunshine.

After adjusting his small, sharp eyes to the light, Burt sniffed disapprovingly at the stale morning air of his bedroom and opened the glass door leading onto his terrace. He poked his head outside to inquisitively observe the normal routine of morning activity in courtyard area below him.

It appealed to Burt’s innately Jewish sense of humor that the Italians had dubbed his apartment complex the American Ghetto.

The myth was that only Americans were rich enough to live there, but in reality, most of the American Ghetto’s residents were in fact, Italian.

Burt shifted his gaze to the dark red clay of the tennis courts, which were being prepared for their seasonal resurfacing. Feeling a slight shiver, he pulled his bathrobe more tightly around his medium-size, slightly pudgy body.

Goddamn marble floors, he muttered, looking down at his cold, bare feet. Why don’t they use carpeting in these lousy apartments? They cost enough!

On his way to the kitchen, he stopped in front of the closed door to his guestroom, listened a moment, then softly opened it and peered into the darkness.

Dick? Are you guys still here?

Dick. Dick! came a muffled female voice from the shadowy interior.

What is it, answered a male voice, groggy with sleep.

It’s me. Burt. Do you want some coffee?

No, I don’t want any coffee, the male voice responded irritably. And get the hell out of here!

Sorry, I didn’t know you wanted to sleep all day.

Burt gingerly closed the door and continued down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Why doesn’t the big sonofabitch go home if he’s so unhappy here, he thought. Who does he think he is? Coming here almost every night, bringing his women, eating my food, swilling my booze. Then he insults me!

Burt walked into the kitchen, looked, then without hesitation, turned around and retraced his steps. The chaos of last night’s partying was more than he could stand. Deciding to go to Jerry’s on the Via Veneto for some pancakes and bacon, he dressed himself in a pair of rumpled cords and a faded sweatshirt.

He reached for the telephone to invite Sandy to join him. When Furio told him Sandy was out, he remembered that Sandy had to meet Rex Starr’s plane.

There’s another asshole, he grunted. Rex Starr was as big as they get in television, but it wasn’t enough for him. He walked out on his series and got himself blackballed.

He looked at his watch, then called the Residence Palace to be informed, Yes, Rex Starr had checked in, but, no, Signor Kantor was not with him.

Fucking actors, he grumbled. Sandy must have brought him here because no one else will hire him.

Burt quietly left his apartment and took the elevator down to the ground floor.

As he walked out of the building, he slowed his pace to gaze upon a small group of American children playing softball; then continued his stroll down the driveway to the guarded gate that led to the piazza below.

Luigi, the portiere, was standing in front of the gatehouse, warming himself in the sun.

Buon giorno, Signor Burt.

Morning, Luigi.

Burt stepped through the gate into the piazza, which was surrounded by fashionable, modern apartment buildings. He was moving toward the news kiosk near the center of the piazza when the sight of its tightly secured and locked up shutters halted him. He stopped, turned around and glared accusingly at Luigi.

It’s closed, he growled.

Luigi lifted his hands and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture absolving himself from any responsibility.

E’ domenica, Signor Burt. Sunday. Always close Sunday. Twelve o’clock.

Burt nodded unhappily.

The newsstands are open twenty-four hours a day in the States. They never close. Not even on Sunday.

Luigi turned to reach into the gatehouse, then extended his hand containing an Italian language newspaper toward Burt.

You want this one?

No thanks, Burt grumbled as he turned toward the coffee bar at the other end of the piazza. Wise-ass, goddamn Wop. He knows I can’t read Italian.

Burt approached the outdoor tables on the cobbled sidewalk, but hesitated as he recognized Peter Watson’s wife, Ellen, sipping coffee and reading the Rome Daily American. Her medium length, flaming red hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore large sunglasses, a soft cashmere sweater over a silk blouse, and tastefully tailored wool slacks.

That’s what they look like when they’re married to the son of the richest man in the world, Burt nodded in silent admiration. These gentile broads really have it!

He put his hand to his chin, wishing he had shaved, then taking the plunge, seated himself at the table next to hers.

Hi, I’m Burt Prinz, one of your neighbors.

Ellen Watson turned her head, her clear blue eyes politely acknowledging him over the top of her sunglasses.

How do you do?

I’m sorry about the way I look, Burt said, brushing back his thinning, light brown hair with his fingers. But…ah…I was only meaning to come down for a paper, but…you know how it is in this country. They’re closed.

Oh, she responded graciously. Would you care for this one when I’ve finished with it?

That’s very good of you, thanks. Then, with a discreet glance to the front page, he continued. Anything interesting today?

Not very much. President Kennedy is arguing with Khrushchev, and they say the war in Vietnam should be over soon.

A waiter appeared and poised expectantly in front of Burt’s table. Signore?

Bring me a cappuccino and a… Burt began, then hesitated selfconsciously and turned to Ellen. Can I offer you another coffee?

Thank you, but this is already my second.

Okay then, I’ll have a cappuccino and one of those sweet roll things.

Un cornetto? the waiter smiled helpfully.

Yeah, a cornetto, Burt responded with a dismissive wave of his hand. I heard you moved in…you and your husband. And you have a couple of kids, don’t you?

Yes, two, Lauren and Dan.

Yeah, he nodded sagely. "I heard a couple months ago that you moved in. You like living in Italy?

Well, we think we like Rome. Milano was the first city we lived in after leaving the States, but it’s not very exciting.

Yeah, Milan’s no fun. After you’ve seen the cathedral and La Scala, there’s nothing much left.

"Peter enjoys La Scala. Opera is his great passion.

The Rome opera isn’t much.

That’s what Peter says. But he has his hi-fi, and he is in Milano quite often. He has an office there.

Burt took a sip of his cappuccino and burned his tongue. Damn! Why didn’t he tell me it was hot?

Are you all right? she asked solicitously.

Yeah, I’m all right, he answered, sucking in a mouthful of cool air. It’s just that these people would be a lot better off if they used a little American common sense.

I’m Canadian, Ellen smiled.

Oh, Burt reacted, taken off guard. I thought you were American. Peter is American, isn’t he?

Yes. Although we both have American passports, I am still Canadian.

But you like living here?

Oh, yes.

Me too. I’ve been here three years and wouldn’t live anywhere else—especially not the States.Burt paused to clear his throat,It must be rough on your husband, though, building factories and cities all over the world. They say the Arabs are even dumber than the Italians. Is it true?

Ellen suppressed her amusement. I’m afraid I don’t know. Italy is Peter’s primary area of responsibility. His father and brothers take care of the rest of the world. What is your business? she asked, changing the subject.

I’m in the movies.

The movies?

Yeah, Burt responded with an air of importance. "My father did all right too. Prinz Studios in Hollywood? That was my father. He started it and ran it, all by himself, right up until he died.

And now you…?

No, Burt interrupted, dropping his gaze. We sold the studio. I started a company here right after college. I’m developing a couple projects. Working on a few scripts. It takes time to make good movies.

That’s fascinating. I love the movies. I go often. In fact, when my friend Frances arrives, we’re going to see the new Doris Day, Rock Hudson, picture at the Archimede.

Yeah, Lover Come Back. It’s okay, Burt responded knowledgeably. If you’d like to see how the movies are made, I’ll have to take you out to Cinecitta’ one of these days. You and your husband, of course.

The sight of a sharp-featured, delicately attractive young woman approaching Ellen’s table diverted Burt’s attention. There’s another one, he concluded appreciatively as he took in the restrained elegance of her simple tweed suit and matching, finely crafted shoes and handbag. Class. You can spot it a mile away!

Frances Simcoe, my houseguest, Ellen announced with a warm smile. This is Burt Prinz, my neighbor. He’s in the movies.

Oh, Frances’ pretty, violet eyes opened wide. That’s very interesting… Frances paused as her attention was caught by the sight of an unusually large man running determinedly in their direction.

Ellen and Burt turned to follow her gaze and Burt recognized his houseguest, Dick Winters. Dick’s virile face was pale with emotion.

Burt, you have to come quick!

Burt was oblivious to the urgency in Dick’s voice as he gestured proudly toward the ladies. Ellen, Frances, I’d like to introduce…

Dammit, Burt, Dick interrupted. It’s Sandy. Doc Winston called. Frank Ward killed himself and Sandy found him. Dick completely ignored Ellen and Frances. It must have been a horrible mess. Sandy’s in pretty bad shape. The Doc took him home, but he wants us to go over and look after him.

Goddamn!Burt exclaimed,jumping up from the table. Goddamn! he repeated as he hesitated in momentary confusion.

Dick took Burt’s arm in his large hand, Let’s go!

Sure. Burt moved a few steps, then paused to call back over his shoulder, Excuse me, ladies. It was nice meeting you.

CHAPTER 4

The shutters covering the windows of Sandy’s apartment had been pulled up just enough to cast the room in a broken, horizontal pattern of sunlight and shade.

Sandy was lying on his well-worn, floral-patterned sofa, blankly staring up at the faint, spider-web cracks in the ceiling.

Dick and Burt let themselves into his apartment.

Hi, Sandy.

Hi, Pal.

Sandy didn’t respond.

His friends exchanged a grim glance, then Burt stepped forward. I ordered some food. I knew you wouldn’t eat. You never eat when you’re upset about something.

Thanks guys. I appreciate your coming, but I’d rather be alone right now. Sandy rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then sighed and turned his head to them. No. I don’t want to be alone. God, you should have seen it. I can understand how someone might slash his wrists, but to cut off your own…

Stop it, Sandy, Dick insisted. He was crazy. He had to be!

Yeah, Burt grimaced, unconsciously stroking his crotch. Let’s talk about something else.

There was blood everywhere, Sandy returned his tortured gaze to the ceiling. I’ve never seen anything like it.

None of us have. Burt said soothingly. But, there was nothing you could do.

I was his friend. Probably his only one. I might have been able to save him.

How? Dick demanded. Good God, Sandy, no one expected you to devote your whole life to baby-sitting that poor nut! Everyone knew he was out to destroy himself!

Marta lost the baby.

Lucky Marta, Dick reacted with barely controlled sarcasm.

Burt jumped and quickly snatched up the phone when it rang. Yeah, Furio, minestrone is fine. Send enough for three. And make it snappy, will you?

Burt set out three plain crockery bowls and began to carve the butt of a loaf of bread into thick slices. Dick opened a bottle of Chianti, poured a glass for each of them, and handed one to Sandy.

Sandy balanced the stem on his chest and gazed into the rich, dark red liquid. He told me that he never trusted women because his mother left him. He was five years old. He was in the car when it rolled over and she was killed.

That sounds like his kind of logic, Dick grunted while sipping his wine. He figured she got herself killed just to get away from him.

Sandy sighed. Yeah, he was crazy, all right. But he was a hell of an actor. I guess that’s why I’m an agent: I don’t have it myself, so that’s as close as I can get to touching that ‘thing’ creative people have.

When the food arrived, Sandy slowly rose from the sofa to join Dick and Burt at the table, and the three men ate in silence. Having little appetite, Sandy finished before the others and returned to the sofa. He flopped down, closed his eyes and gave the impression he was sleeping.

Burt cleared the table and dealt two hands of gin rummy. Dick’s dark, friendly eyes reflected his concern as he moved to gaze down on his friend. Then, Dick returned to the table and eased his huge frame into a chair, brushing a shock of straight black hair from his forehead, as he picked up the cards in front of him.

After about an hour, they were startled by the sound of Sandy’s voice. What’s wrong with actors?

What?

They fight with all their heart and soul to accomplish something, to gain some recognition for their talent. Then when they have it, they fight just as hard to ruin it.

I’ll tell you what’s wrong with them, Burt responded, shrugging his shoulders as he returned his eyes to his cards, They’re all fucking crazy, that’s what.

—*—*—

It is so good to make love in a bed, Alba thought as she lay next to the sleeping Rex. With Mario, it was always in the rear of his little Fiat, or on a blanket, hidden in the shrubbery somewhere out in the country. The routine never changed: a few hasty thrusts, and another handkerchief soiled with his misdirected seed. Then the guilty feelings.

No matter what he said, she knew he would never marry her now that he had slept with her, and he knew that she knew it.

It is so unfair being an Italian woman engaged to marry an Italian man, she reflected bitterly. Once he has convinced you to give yourself to him to prove your love, in his eyes you have only proven you are a slut!

Her eyes shined in the dim evening light as she admired the fully developed muscles of Rex’s chest.

Why can’t we think like they do in the rest of the world, she wondered? The Americans, the French, the Germans; they would not consider marrying a woman they did not know in every way.

She lightly traced her fingers across his sculptured shoulders and chest.

I do not pretend to be as pure as the Madonna is, but I am not ashamed either. Mario can take his primitive code of morals and find a virgin to marry. I do not care. As soon as she gives him two or three children, he will no longer sleep with her. He will find a virgin mistress to sleep with.

She gazed at Rex’s handsome, masculine profile as he breathed in peaceful, satisfied repose.

You should see me now, Mario. I am in bed with a man! Your poor virgin bride will never have that experience!

Rex’s hand found its way to her soft, full thigh, and he rolled in her direction as, already sexually aroused, he began to awaken.

The telephone rang.

Instinctively, Rex reached for it. Hullo? Who is it? Sorry, Operator, the only Prinz I know is dead.

Alba spoke up. It is his son. A friend of Sandy’s.

Okay, put him through.

Rex caressed Alba’s inner leg with his toe.

…An emergency, huh? Well, tell that flesh peddler I’m doing great without him… Rex winked his eye and smiled at Alba, then sobered a bit. What? Who killed himself?…Frank Ward?…I don’t know him.

Frank Ward? Alba exclaimed and abruptly seized the telephone. This is Alba. What has happened? How is Sandy?…O Dio mio, she moaned. Poor Sandy. Shall I come? Does he need me?

Alba strained to listen to the muffled conversation at the other end of the line.

Burt’s voice returned. No, Sandy says there’s nothing you can do…but, he wants you to come by his apartment in the morning. He’s going to take a couple days off and he wants you to take care of a few things. Don’t worry, Alba he added. I’m watching out for him.

All right. she sighed reluctantly, If you’re sure he doesn’t need me.

Wait! Burt called out before she could replace the receiver. There’s someone else here who wants to say hello to Rex.

Alba handed him the phone.

Yeah?…Dick who?… Rex smiled broadly. Hi, Dick. Who you doing over here?…Everyone you can, huh? He laughed. …Well, I’ll be tied up for about another hour, he said as he placed Alba’s hand on his erect penis. Great, I’ll see you then…Yeah, downstairs in the bar."

He hung up and grinned lustfully at Alba. You’re free for another hour, aren’t you?

Alba trembled in fervent anticipation as she snuggled closer to him. Yes. It is Sunday. I am free all day.

CHAPTER 5

Ellen Watson and Frances Simcoe rose from the sofa as Dr. Winston entered the reception suite of his Vigna Clara office suite. He greeted them with a harried smile, I apologize for keeping you waiting, but newborn babies don’t always arrive on schedule.

Don’t give it a thought, Doctor, Ellen replied, noticing the fatigue in the kind brown eyes behind the heavy, rimless lenses of his glasses. We still have plenty of time before our luncheon appointment on Via Veneto with my husband.

Dr. Winston turned to Frances and handed her the prescription he had already prepared. The instructions from your doctor in Toronto are quite clear. Take this prescription to any farmacia and they’ll give you your insulin and hypodermic syringes. If you’re headed for the Veneto, there’s one next to the Hotel Excelsior; and there’s another here in the neighborhood, around the corner on Via di Vigna Stelluti.

Thank you, Doctor. I know both of them.

Isn’t she marvelous, Ellen smiled. The second week she was here, she rented a car, and now she drives like a Roman.

I hope not, Dr. Winston cautioned.

Maybe not like a true Roman, Frances’ violet eyes sparkled as she laughed.

But, next week I plan to be ready for the chariot races.

You shouldn’t rush things the way you do, Ellen frowned.

Doctor, will you please remind her that a twenty-six-year-old with diabetes, is neither crippled nor blind.

She’s right, Mrs. Watson. So long as Frances watches her diet, is careful about infections, takes her daily injections and… Dr. Winston smiled, …and stays clear of the other Roman charioteers; she should live to a ripe old age.

All right, Ellen conceded pleasantly. I’m not very good with injections, but I can do something about her diet. Let’s go to lunch."

Ellen and Frances walked out of the office and began to stroll across the piazza.

The waiters at the side-walk tables of the bar, the elderly man leaving the tobacco shop, a teenager on his Vespa; all paused for a momentary, appreciative glance at the two women moving with the smooth, self-assured gait of well-bred women throughout the world.

We could have brought your chariot down to the piazza, Ellen remarked as the reached a small grassy area near the piazza’s center.

It’s only a few seconds walk. How lucky you are, having your family doctor so near.

We have just about everything here in the piazza—except a good restaurant, and a movie theater in English. The one next to the bar only plays Italian films.

Frances grinned, With a restaurant and an English language movie theater, you probably can live in your American ghetto and never again be touched by anything Italian.

Don’t exaggerate, Frances. You know how I love Rome.

I know you like it here, but have you ever considered taking part in the local culture? Frances paused as they were passing a carved marble tablet at the top of a slender, green pole, which marked the name of the piazza: PIAZZA ANDREA TOMASINI. Here, for example, who was she?

Well, if it’s culture you want, Ellen smiled confidently, Andrea is a man’s name in Italy. Like Andrea Doria. You remember the Italian passenger liner that sank about six years ago? July of Nineteen Fifty-six, to be exact. It was named after Andrea Doria, the famous Genoan admiral who fought for Charles V. And how is this for local culture: Andrea Tomasini was a lawyer and philosopher who helped organize the first Italian republic.

I almost forgot what a whiz you were at history, Frances conceded cheerfully. I’ll never forget how nervous you made our history teacher in boarding school because you knew so much more than she. Do you remember her name?

Miss Nancy Hillabold.

Yes, Miss Hillabold. You never forget anything, do you? I envy your memory. I have to really concentrate on what’s being said, even when I’m talking to myself.

Not when it’s important, Ellen responded soberly. You never forget important things. Useless places and dates; those are my specialty. You can ask me anything, just so long as it’s trivial.

All right, Frances answered with a teasing grin, Do remember the time and place of our date with your husband? And do you think he’ll wait for us if we’re very late?

Ellen’s mood lightened as she laughed and glanced at