Almost Famous Women (12 page)

The cook—you remember Enzo?

Of course I remember!

He's been using the galley kitchen as his private meeting space, Mario says—sighing as if this has bothered him morally—and there's been trouble. I broke up a fight the other night; I was worried they would wake you. Did they wake you?

I've told you that I rarely sleep. My mother—

What would you like me to have done?

Fire him, of course, Romaine says, sighing, sagging into her chair.

Would you like to do it?

Take care of it, Romaine says, turning her large eyes to the window. I don't have the energy.

Mario goes first to the galley kitchen, which is hot and rank with spoiled vegetables and forgotten, decanted wine. A raw goose, head still intact, lies defeathered and gray on a platter, beak resting on its pimpled back. The unwashed butcher block is scarlet with blood, marred by years of haphazard cuts. Unable to find Enzo, Mario moves from room to room until he comes to Romaine's gallery. This is a sacred room, he thinks, and so when he finds Enzo sprawled in the corner, a sheet over his body, a white enamel pot of piss in the corner, he is furious, shaking with anger as he walks toward the sleeping cook and nudges him with the toe of his shoe, his father's shoe.

You've been let go, he says.

Enzo rubs his eyes, sits up, spits onto a corner of the sheet, and rakes it across his face. You're a big shot now? he says, blinking. How did you manage that?

If you don't believe me you can go and speak with Romaine.

Fuck Romaine, he says, rising, standing nose to nose with Mario. Did you stick your tongue in her mouth?

Please don't make a scene, Mario says. He can smell Enzo's musky body odor and unwashed hair.

I'll take everything, Enzo shouts, getting angrier by the second.
Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo!

Do what you think is right, Mario says, turning to leave. He's shaking inside, waiting for Enzo to strike him or throw something, but he doesn't. Mario calls the night nurse and tells her not to come, that Romaine has asked him to stay on for the night.

That evening, the house is quiet. Enzo has taken all the wine, and the cellar is barren. No matter, Mario thinks, running a finger
along the shelves to clear the cobwebs. I'll order more. I can order anything. There are no limits.

Now he has absolute privacy and authority in the house. Romaine is asleep in her chair in the parlor; Mario enters her bedroom and walks straight to the closet, taking a silk opera cape from its hanger, sliding it over his own narrow shoulders, admiring himself in the Japanese mirror. He can't stop stroking the black silk. He wears the cape downstairs to clean the kitchen. He wears it to put out the trash. When the rottweiler begins to bark, he is so bold as to walk past Romaine wearing her own clothes, the fine clothes of her youth, and onto the patio, where, beneath a purple sky, he pelts the barking dog with Romaine's uneaten dinner, undercooked goose thighs and roasted potatoes. His fingers are greasy from handling the food, but he continues stroking the opera cape. The streets of Fiesole are quiet. The families are eating their late dinners in their fine homes, congratulating themselves, he thinks.

He wears her cape as he runs downstairs to the gallery, silk trailing behind him. He opens the door, not hesitating this time, and stands in front of Romaine's sad, beautiful paintings, imagining that they are his, that he is capable of such fine work. He wonders if it comes out of her naturally or how hard she had to work to master the shape of a face, the arc of human hands, the color of flesh. He doesn't want to imagine her working hard at anything, but it's worse to imagine her so fortunate as to have been born rich and egregiously talented as well. How miserably unfair.

The next night, after leaving Romaine to fall asleep again in her chair, he puts on her delicate, pale pink pajama set, so pristine he's sure she's never worn it. The silk feels incredible against his skin, nearly liquid. He brushes his hair at her vanity using her
brush. He buffs his nails. He sprays himself with the expensive French perfume, a glass urn of amber liquid marked Guerlain with the unmistakable whiff of vanilla.

He opens the windows and stands on the marble windowsill. He can see the lights of Florence in the valley below, the sheen of the Duomo. How could you get tired of this? he wonders. He has never felt so opulent, so himself. He smokes a cigarette, flicks the butt down onto the street.

He rubs cold cream onto his face and, letting it sit awhile, begins sifting through Romaine's drawers. In the top drawer of her bureau he finds yellowed photographs, and one which immediately stands out from the rest. It is not a beautiful photograph. Here, in some studio, some mansion from another time, another life, there is a boy in Victorian breeches seated on a tasseled velvet pillow. The boy has a wild dog's eyes and long, tangled blond hair. Mario shudders and places the photograph back in the drawer.

At 3:00 a.m., still wearing her pajamas, he wheels Romaine to the toilet, then to the guest room and helps her to bed, turning back the heavy duvet, easing Romaine's diminished body underneath the sheets.

What are you wearing? she asks, wincing, her eyelids swollen. She reaches out to touch him with a finger. Why are we in the guest room?

He notices her nails are long and need trimming. Shh, he says. You're imagining things.

It's late, she says. My back hurts. Do you have pills? I need pills.

Shh, he says, turning off the lights and leaving her as quickly as possible. He sleeps in her bed and wakes slowly and contentedly in the linen sheets.

In the morning, Mario makes what he considers to be decent eggs and perfectly crisped bacon and takes the food to Romaine.

Why am I in the guest bedroom? she asks, narrowing her eyes.

We're having work done in your room, he says. You recall the damp spot on the ceiling?

Have you found a replacement chef? she asks, frowning at the tray, the yolks running across the china. Someone competent? These are vile eggs. I once knew a blind peasant who could cook better than this.

I'm looking. I want the best for you, Mario says. Then he says her name: Romaine.

Signora.

Yes. Signora.

You can take the tray downstairs. I don't want breakfast.

That afternoon she wraps her old fingers around his arm with surprising strength as they are sitting in the parlor. I want to end my life, she says plainly. Surely we can pay someone? A doctor who has a gambling debt? There must be a black market for these things? I can't be the only one tired of living?

I'll look into it, Mario says, though he has no intention of helping her end her life. If she were to die, he'd lose the beautiful house, the opera cape, the fine wine, the respite from his mother.

The next morning a nice woman with short hair and round cheeks named Berthe shows up at the house. Mario answers the door.

I'm just off the train from Paris, she says, smiling.

Signora does not take visitors, he says gravely.

I have news from a gallery, she says. Since Romaine won't answer the letters, Natalie sent me in person.

Begrudgingly, Mario heads upstairs to inform Romaine of her visitor.

Tell her she is not to come unannounced, Romaine says, voice as loud as he's ever heard it. Tell her I don't read letters from Natalie's spies!

She says your work will be displayed at a prominent exhibition in Paris, Mario says.

Tell her I don't care. Tell her I'm dead.

When Mario tells Berthe that Romaine will not see her, Berthe looks down at her feet, then bites her lip, speechless.

Two hours later, when Mario takes out the trash, Berthe is still sitting on the old stone wall in front of the villa.

She thinks we're all out to hurt her, she says. Won't you tell her she can trust me? That I mean her no harm? All we want to do is secure the legacy she deserves.

Mario shrugs his shoulders. I'll tell her, he says.

I served her lunch nearly every day for twenty years, Berthe says, dumbfounded, on the brink of tears, hands gripping her knees.

Mario nods curtly at her. She is a threat, someone who might genuinely care for Romaine and threaten his job, his newfound freedom. When he peers out of Romaine's blinds before supper, Berthe is gone.

Another letter comes from Natalie, which he doesn't share with Romaine but reads alone, reclining on the couch downstairs:
My Angel is, as ever, first in my thoughts and deepest in my heart.

It's hard for Mario to imagine Romaine deep in anyone's heart.
He stares at the lavender card stock with disbelief and jealousy. He wants words this intense, this loving, coming in a letter with his name on it. But he's never been in love. Only once, perhaps, with a man who was twice his age, a teacher who kissed him behind the changing rooms at the swimming pool one summer, sticking his tongue in his mouth, amidst the blooming flowers and buzzing insects. Mario was fourteen and wrote the man at least fifteen letters and he responded only once, telling him to go to hell and leave him alone.

Mario falls asleep with Natalie's letter on his chest. When he wakes up he notices the dust floating through the house, settling on the expensive, unused furniture slipcovered in white muslin. He hasn't checked on Romaine in some time. Regretfully, he goes to her with a tray of tea and a stale croissant.

Please draw for me again, he tells her.

Absolutely not. You're late. I've been sitting here, waiting. I shouldn't have to wait in my own house.

If you want pills, you'll draw, Mario says calmly, leaning on the table, feeling as though he can afford to be casual.

I won't stand for this! she crows. I'll tell—

Who will you tell? Your mind is slipping. You're confused, darling. You want pills?

Mario has no idea what pills Romaine wants, or how to find a doctor on the black market, but he knows she wants both badly. He spreads his palm across Romaine's shoulder.

Do I have your word about the pills? she asks, her voice defeated.

You have my word, he says, handing her the pen.

He watches as the lines turn into a Pegasus-like figure, with the
same bald demons she'd drawn earlier gripping its tail, holding on to the winged horse as if it were a balloon they could ride into the sky. Looking at the simplicity of her drawing, he tries his own hand at the figures.

Stop, Romaine says impatiently, looking over at his work. You have no talent.

But if I practice . . .

Romaine doesn't hesitate: Not even then. You have no sense of depth or feeling, there is nothing jarring in your line.

A line is a line, isn't it?

It is
not
, she says, laughing meanly at his ignorance. There is so much behind a line. You see simplicity where there is much more at work. People like you—

Would you teach me?

He can feel the new film of self-confidence he has acquired peeling back, revealing the well of self-doubt, the sense he has carried with him his entire life that he has been wronged, that he is owed more. He needs her to see who he really is, who he can become. He hates her and he needs her love, and she is never going to give it.

You aren't sufficiently traumatized, Romaine explains, one hand in the air. Teaching you would be a waste of time. I can look at you and tell. Accept it now and save yourself the trouble.

He leaves abruptly, taking the tray with him. He can hear her laughing. His ears sting.