The Pigeon Project (32 page)

The contessa was beside him. “Not too long, Timothy.”

“Faster than a speeding bullet,” said Jordan grimly, starting off.

* * *

Fortunately, Jordan realized, the Quadri orchestra had just concluded its last number in this set and was preparing to take a time out as the orchestra next door at the Lavena café began its turn at playing.

Jordan waited in the aisle alongside the raised bandstand and saw Oreste Memo put aside his violin and mop his face with his handkerchief.

“Oreste,” Jordan called out, “can I see you for a moment?”

The violinist removed his white jacket, laid it neatly on a chair, and then came down from the bandstand.

“I was just going to cool off with a bottle of Fiuggi,” said Memo. “It’s better to talk sitting. Will you join me?”

Jordan felt oppressed by time pressure, but he knew that the amenities had to be observed, especially when he would be making such an unusual request of Memo.

“Sure thing,” said Jordan. I’m thirsty too.”

They settled down at an oval table just below the front of the bandstand.

“It was good seeing you at the contessa’s last night,” said Oreste Memo. “That was quite an evening.”

“You mean the contessa’s tried-and-true conversation-starters?”

Oreste Memo grinned. “I mean getting a chance to know Teresa Fantoni and to spend the evening looking down inside her low neckline. She’s quite a package.”

“She’s magnificent,” Jordan agreed.

A waiter went past them, and Memo ordered a bottle of Fiuggi water. “Well,” he said, scanning the crowded café, “still a long day to go.”

“Exactly what are your hours?” Jordan asked.

“Start at eleven. Finish at midnight, with a break every fifteen minutes, like now, of from ten to fifteen minutes. Actually, today is a shorter day for me. I requested the evening off and got it.”

“You must do well here, Oreste.”

“Well enough. I make 700,000 lire a month. That’s over $850 a month. It takes care of me during the winter off and gives me freedom to do my serious work.”

“Serious work? Oh, you mean your composing.”

“I don’t want to get stuck in this orchestra for life, fiddling away from
The Barber of Seville
every night. Not for me. I’m a member of the Società Italiana Autori ed Editori, and I get my compositions performed enough to be encouraged. Right now I’m working on a musical play called
Eleonora
. It’s about Eleonora Duse, her affair with D’Annunzio, and her later years. It is really quite good. I have much hope. And you, Tim—have you been equally busy?”

The bottle of Fiuggi came. Oreste Memo poured. Jordan ignored his glass. “Busy enough. Actually, I’m on my way to an appointment, but I wanted to speak to you about something first.”

“But of course. You need some money?” He laughed.

“I’ll never turn that down,” said Jordan, forcing a smile. He became serious. “It’s something else. I remember you were kind enough, about a year ago, to have me at a cocktail party at your apartment.”

Memo nodded. “It is a large apartment because I need room for all my Oriental rugs. I’m a fanatic about Oriental rugs.”

“Do you still live there?”

“Still there.”

“It’s not far from here, is it?”

“Just a short way. In the Fondamenta del Traghetto di San Maurizio, right here in the
sestiere
of San Marco.”

“Do you have canal access?”

“Nearby.”

“I’ll tell you why I’m bothering you with all these questions, Oreste. I need a favor from you. I’m rather shy about requesting it. Of course, you can say no and I’ll understand.”

“Tim, whatever you want, if I can help.”

“Well, there’s a certain person—I can’t take the person to my hotel room, because I’m sharing it—I need a place to be alone with this person until tomorrow morning. I was hoping you could put us up for the night in a corner of your apartment.”

Oreste Memo was expansive. “That is all you want? Such a need I completely understand. As the Spanish say, my house is your house. In fact, you are in luck. I have a date tonight. Guess with whom? Teresa Fantoni.” He winked broadly. “I expect to be away all night.”

“No kidding?”

He dug into his trouser pocket. “Here is a spare key. Do you have a piece of paper?”

Jordan took a scrap from his jacket pocket. Oreste Memo uncapped his pen and wrote on it. “And here is my address. You can move in right now.”

“You haven’t asked me why I need your apartment.”

“I don’t have to. Why would any man want to borrow a friend’s apartment? Am I right, Tim?”

Jordan did not want to tell him he was wrong, but he felt hugely relieved. He pushed away from the table. “I don’t know how I can repay you.”

“Just wish me luck tonight, and have as good a time as I expect to have.”

* * *

It was a balmy evening, soft and caressing, an evening for happy lovers. But Oreste Memo, as he walked slowly from Santa Maria del Giglio to his apartment, was not one of them. His usually serene, Apollo-like countenance was clothed with frustration. The events of the past hour had filled him with disappointment and brought on his dejection.

Now, entering the Piazza San Marco on his way home, he masochistically relived his so-called intimate evening with Teresa Fantoni.

Actually, the meeting had been promoted by his patroness, the Contessa De Marchi, who appreciated his creativity and saw a great future for him. Last night, at her dinner party, the contessa had taken Teresa aside and spoken to her of his musical play, no details except that it had a memorable role for an actress. The contessa had suggested to Teresa that she meet with Oreste and hear more about it. Teresa had agreed to do so. After dinner, Oreste had deliberately sat himself beside the famous actress, intent on outlining his play for her. But her sensuous beauty, especially her pouting lips, her straining abundant breasts, her slim legs, had distracted him. He had wanted to see her privately to interest her in his play, but then, of equal importance, perhaps of more compelling importance, was his mad desire to take her to bed.

Last night he had been filled with confidence that once with her alone, he could seduce her. True, he was a nobody, and she was an international celebrity with the world at her beck and call. Still, Oreste knew that he had a way with women, a way of talking to them that was irresistible, and that more women were seduced by ear, by words, than by any other means. If she would agree to see him alone, he was certain he would have a success. Before the evening at the contessa’s had ended, Oreste had his commitment. Teresa Fantoni had agreed to have a drink with him on the outdoor terrace of the Gritti Palace hotel at eight o’clock the next evening. Oreste had been overjoyed. Once she heard the role he had written for her in his play, once she heard his frank passion for her, his ardor, it would be a short distance from the terrace of the Gritti to the bedroom of her suite upstairs.

This evening, finishing his violin stint at seven o’clock and turning his chair over to his substitute, he had not bothered to go back to his apartment. Instead, he had gone into Quadri’s indoor restaurant, made his way upstairs to groom himself, come down and fortified himself with a double Scotch, and then started to the Gritti Palace.

As he entered the lobby, he saw her emerging from the elevator. For a moment, he held back to revel in what would soon be his. She was wearing a thin white silk cocktail dress that adhered to every contour of her figure. As she turned away from the elevator, her buttocks were clearly defined and he thought he could make out the line of her panties. He hurried to intercept her, taking her hand, bending to kiss the back of it.

“I have a table on the terrace,” she said regally. “It is the most pleasant part of Venice, having a drink on the Grand Canal.”

This was promising, this and the way she had dressed for him, and his confidence soared.

He followed her through the bar and outdoors, enjoying every step of the way as the maitre d’ and the waiters bowed and scraped before her, before this woman who was receiving him alone. They had a table on the rail overlooking the water, and except for another couple some distance away, they had this dream spot to themselves.

She ordered a martini and he a Scotch. Then she placed a cigarette in her long gold holder and he rumbled to light her cigarette. He searched for some conversational opener, something winning, a good note, but he could think of nothing because his attention was entirely absorbed by her breasts. She was either braless or wearing a half bra, because he could make out her nipples faintly, very large, very brown.

He tore his gaze away from her breasts and looked out at the canal. “You’re right,” he said, “it is soothing here.”

“One of the few soothing sights left in Venice,” she said, patting the barrette that held her sleek reddish hair. “Frankly, by now, I’ve had Venice up to my ears. I’m utterly bored by it. I came up here for two or three days on the Lido beach, to see some friends, but I never expected to be forced to stay here this long, to be a prisoner, held against my wishes. I should be back in Rome. I have a film starting soon, and so much to do before.”

He was disappointed, because he adored Venice and he fervently wanted his adored one to love it too. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Perhaps, if you have the time, I could show you some parts of Venice you’ve never seen.”

“You are kind, but I am not the least bit interested.”

“How did you like the contessa’s party last night? I thought—”

“It was tiresome. I couldn’t wait to get away. I like the contessa well enough. I’ve known her forever, and respect her. But she is a terrible hostess. Her parties are always a strain. She tries too hard. There is no ease, no comfort, no naturalness. Last night was a perfect case—the way she tried to liven up the party after dinner with that ridiculous story about the longevity scientist.”

“Didn’t you believe her? I was sure it was true.”

“An absurd fairy tale. If someone found a way to keep people young, the whole world would know about it in an instant. I’ve read a good deal about these things. There have been breakthroughs in genetics, it’s true. But science is still far, far away from giving us the gift of prolonged youth.” She sipped her martini. “Too bad.”

It was time, he saw, to start Operation Bedroom. “You are fortunate,” he said, “to already possess the gift of eternal youth.”

She looked at him with disgust. “Mr. Memo,” she said, “save that for your plays.”

“I mean it,” he persisted. “You are young and you will always be young.”

“Biologically untrue,” she said. “But have it your way. I think I’ll have another martini.”

She ordered for herself and for him, then said a trifle testily, “About that play you are writing. The contessa told me you were doing a play that has a perfect role for me. Is that true?”

“I believe it is true. I had an image of you before me as I wrote it.”

“Tell me about it.” Then she hastened to add, “Not the whole thing. Just give me an idea of what it is about.”

Oreste Memo cleared his throat. “It is about Eleonora Duse.”

“Really?”

“I think it befits Italy’s greatest actress of the past to be played by Italy’s greatest actress of the present.”

“You are most flattering.”

“I’m sincere.”

“All right. What about Eleonora Duse?”

“It begins in the last weeks of her love affair with Gabriele D’Annunzio. That is the beginning. Then it dramatizes the remainder of her story, a woman alone, brave, defiant, independent, against the world. Her American tour, when she would appear only in D’Annunzio’s works. Her illness, which forced her retirement. Then, after twelve years in retirement, her financial difficulties that forced her into a comeback effort. Her return, overcoming the competition of Sarah Bernhardt, freeing herself from the ghost of D’Annunzio, winning the public again, a triumphal return, culminating with her death in the American city of Pittsburgh. There are moving scenes. There’s—”

Teresa Fantoni held up her hand. Oreste Memo stopped in mid sentence, puzzled.

“Mr. Memo,” she said, “I’m sure you know something about playwriting, but you know nothing whatsoever about women.”

His confusion deepened. “I don’t understand.”

“You will. Hear me. When was Eleonora Duse born? She was born in 1859. You would begin her story when she breaks with D’Annunzio. That was 1899. So your play begins with Duse at the age of forty. Is that right?”

“Why, yes.”

“Very well. So then her American tour. In 1902, when she was forty-three. Her retirement in 1909, at fifty. Her emerging from retirement at sixty-two. Her death in 1924, at sixty-five.” She paused and stared at him. “Mr. Memo, are you asking Teresa Fantoni to play an actress from the age of forty to the age of sixty-five?”

“But you can do it.”

“Of course, I can do it. The point is I don’t want to do it. No actress in my years would play a role portraying a woman growing old from forty to sixty-five. Do you think that’s what I want at this time in my life? To be up there on the stage, wrinkling and doddering, with no youth whatsoever? Impossible. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“The public knows you are young and will only be acting.”

“The public knows only that I am growing older, and it makes no sense to play a role that will assure them it is true.”

“But you are young.”

“Am I? How young?”

Dangerous territory. “I’d say thirty-five.”

She made a face. “Thank you, but that has not been for some time. No, Mr. Memo, your play is not for me. It could hasten my ruin. I appreciate your thinking of me, but we had best forget it. Let’s talk of happier things.”

One of the happier things she was prepared to talk about was her new film now in preparation in Rome. In it she would enact the role of a twenty-eight-year-old nun who leaves her convent and has a love affair with an ex-priest. She went on and on, for twenty minutes, discussing her problems with the screenplay writer, the director, the producer.

Oreste Memo sat dismayed.

Her total rejection of the Duse part, her fixation with age, had shaken him. His design, Grand Design, for the evening had been nearly obliterated. There still must be something of it to save. He must be the Oreste Memo of old—fearless, bold, overwhelming.