The Alfa Romeo still had a quarter tank. Luckily, most of the journey was downhill. I was able to cruise in neutral for several kilometres at a decent speed by using the breaks as little as possible. Things only got critical when I reached the coast. The landscape levelled out, I lost speed and the fuel gauge started to flash non-stop. When the inevitable happened, the inertia of my vehicle was sufficient to allow me to pull up safely onto the curb before she died and exhaled her last breath. Abandoning the car, I walked the last two miles to the coast.
“El Conquistador” Dad had called him. “Conqueror of the seven seas”. What a joke! That summer evening back in Montelupo , we had drained an entire bottle of whisky, listening in awe to the mans’ tales of smuggling and adventure. Bruno gave the impression he was a character not to be messed with. That was then. Now months later, my esteem for the captain had somewhat dwindled.His interests in conquering the Ocean could not compete with his interests in conquering women’s hearts. In short, Bruno was a playboy.
Throughout summer, Porto Ercole was a melting pot of tourists, flooding the beaches by day and the discos by
night. Now, at the end of October, the place was a windswept ghost town.
I was grateful for the free bed but since the leak, my whole purpose on board had become pointless. It was Saturday morning and I expected Bruno to arrive any minute. He was going to be in for a shock. I woke early. Sleeping late meant water would reach the mattress. After three weeks on the boat, the novelty was beginning to wear off. I was fed up wading across the galley each morning through cold saltwater. I lit the gas and put a pot on for coffee. At least that worked. Then, rolling up my sleeves, I reached down through the murky water, grabbed hold of the lever and started to pump.
When Bruno originally learned of his inheritance, he pictured a small sailing boat, perhaps with a cabin. He had been genuinely touched by his late uncles’ gesture of goodwill but failed to understand how a small boat could incur such vast expenses? In order to find out, he drove 150 kilometres North of Rome to where she lay. On arrival at the marina, all he could see of his inheritance was the tip of a mast piercing the water like Excalibur. Local rumours suggested the shipyard, angered by outstanding debt, had returned his vessel to the water accidentally-on-purpose leaving the stopcocks open. Whatever the reason, Bruno decided to take action. After three days of pumping, the water was gone and finally, a magnificent three-mast ketch rose to the surface exceeding by far Bruno’s wildest dreams. This was no sailing dinghy. On the contrary, it was the most magnificent Ocean-going vessel imaginable. At first glance, it appeared the damage was not too bad after all. Delighted with his new toy, Bruno paid off the shipyard and out of respect, placed a bunch of flowers at his uncle’s grave.
“Sperm Breeze” was an odd name for a boat but he imagined his uncle must have been interested in Wales.Bruno’s interests, however, were more suited to the title. The vessel had huge potential and was just what he needed to boost his waning image amongst his lady friends. With mind racing ahead, he revelled at the thought of accommodating the girls on hot summer nights. Champagne on deck, followed by the “guided tour”, which naturally would lead directly to the captain’s quarters. Then, with his precision compass, he would plunge forth into un-chartered waters, whilst rocking to and fro to the rhythm of the waves, which would slap gently upon her bows. Slap, slap, Slap! Bruno could just hear the ladies squeal with delight.
By the time he saw the bird, it was too late. “Bastardo!” he shouted at the sky as the seagull flew off and forced him to wake brutally from his daydream. Then, with a hanky, he wiped the droppings from his bald head and for the first time, took a good long look at his uncles present. After serious contemplation, three things crossed his mind. A; The boat needed a hell of a lot of work doing to her. B; he had no intention of getting his hands dirty. And C; There was only one man he could think of for the job.
On arrival, two days later, he treated me like a long-lost friend. Bruno could hardly conceal his delight. With my help, he knew that his dream was within reach. The arrangement suited us both. I needed a bed before heading off to Rome and above all I needed a job. It was also good to have a distraction after the events and traumatic rescue operation my family had gone through three weeks earlier.
The arrangement was simple. During the week Bruno lived in Rome, where he worked as a clerk at the government tax office and on weekends he spent time on the boat. During his absence, I varnished the decks, painted the galley and polished the brass winches until everything shone like gold. The main problem was the diesel engine, which I tinkered with it for two weeks. Methodically, unscrewing the manifold and sorting out the nuts from the bolts. After days of grease and grime, the moment had come to test my handiwork. It was Saturday morning and Bruno was already into his first drink at the bar on the far side of the marina. I observed his ridiculous silhouette; short legs and pot belly as he downed his habitual Bloody Mary.
I wanted to surprise my him, so I pushed the starter button. The engine coughed once, twice and then miraculously spluttered into motion in a thick cloud of black carbon monoxide. As I opened throttle, the boat trembled with new life. It was a thrilling achievement.
Bruno looked up from across the marina, abandoned his drink and ran over to the pontoon as fast as his short fat legs could carry him. “Porca La Miseria Nik…You did it!” He shouted in amazement. I beamed with pride and offered him a greasy handshake. Ignoring my gesture, he embraced me instead and kissed me twice on both cheeks. It was a touching moment.
That night we celebrated. Bruno cooked a splendid Spaghetti Carbonara, which we washed down with a bottle of Montepulciano. The rest of the evening we romanticized about the future. Conquering the Mediterranean, the Atlantic Ocean and especially, the heart of a lady Bruno had his eye on, a new secretary who had joined the team at the tax office where he worked!
Up until that moment, Bruno’s argument for not setting sail sounded reasonable. There was no point in taking risks unless things were ship-shape. But now that they were, I could see no reason we shouldn’t pull up anchor and turn the dream into reality. A week passed and Bruno’s promises of leaving port “next” week, turned into promises of “next month” and then finally “next year”. Reluctantly, it took me a while to understand that in spite of his “old sea dog” appearance, there was nothing nautical about him other than his navy-blue blazer and peaked cap. Secretly Bruno was terrified of the sea and anything to do with salt water was limited to spaghetti in a saucepan.
Next morning, Bruno gave me a ten thousand lira note and promptly left for Rome, leaving me the whole week on my own to tinker with his toy. Everything seemed to be in order and I was beginning to enjoy my new life. I even bought myself a pizza and beer at the marina bar. By Friday morning, however, my mood plummeted. The leak had returned. I was a fool to believe those days were over. I rolled up my sleeves and reached down for the pump. Bruno would not be pleased. It was clear Sperm Breeze would have to go into dry-dock. It was going to cost him a small fortune. It also meant his dream of frolicking with the ladies would have to be put on ice. That night, common sense told me to sleep outside on the pontoon.
Saturday morning, a voice like chalk on slate penetrated my slumber. I looked up from my sleeping bag. First, I saw a pair of high heels in net stockings and at the top of those an apparition in a sailor suit with bright red painted lips and blond hair. I quickly understood this was Bruno’s new flame, Jasmina. “Is this what you brought me all the way from Rome to see Bruno? A prick in the water?” she asked. How dare you be so rude! I thought. Then, I understood she didn’t mean me.Out of the ten boats moored to our pontoon, there were now only nine. One of them had sunk in the night. My recent home in fact. Only the tip of Sperm Breeze could now be seen piercing the water. Bruno stood there beside his girlfriend deflated. “I’m really sorry…Jas, “he said. But Jasmina was impartial to his sorrow and showed not the slightest bit of sympathy. “I knew it all along Bruno… You can’t keep it up, can you? “He had no answer to that particular question and watched powerless as his heartthrob in a sailor suit marched off down the pontoon in search of a taxi.
Three Bloody Mary’s later, Bruno spoke. “Women are all the same Nicola. Trust me, I know. But what goes down must come up, eh what?” he said jokingly.I tried to laugh. Certainly, it was the only way to deal with the tragedy. "No point hanging around here Nik.” He said. “You can stay at my brothers’ place in Rome, till Sperm Breeze has had her stomach pumped again”. Get your things, we’ll leave in an hour”. My things? What things? Since everything I possessed was now underwater. My only possession was a sleeping bag.
24
We arrived in the suburbs of Rome, conveniently in time for lunch. Brother Umberto greeted us at the gate to his villa. Unlike Bruno, he was a tall impressive man, extremely fit, showing no signs of a belly. “So, Brother Bruno, still squandering your life away with the ladies, are you?” he asked. Bruno shrugged off the remark with contempt. It was clear Umberto disapproved of his brothers’ life style and may even have been jealous. His wife, Maria, on the other hand was a warm-hearted lady and did everything in her pòwer to please her guests. "Any friend of Bruno’s is a friend of mine” she said kindly. “Oh, and this is my daughter Julietta. She’s dying to speak English with you” “How do you do” I said. The young girl’s embarrassment made her cheeks turn bright red. She shook my hand briefly and ran off down the garden path as fast as she could. My eyes followed her and settled on a shady olive tree, beneath which, stood a table sumptuously laden with food.After all the tin cans I’d been devouring the past week, the new menu looked very inviting. Once seated, our gastronomic journey began and lasted no less than three hours. Typically, the conversation rotated entirely around food. How to cook wild boar with mushrooms or what wine to drink with what meat, was a topic that the brothers liked to argue about.My knowledge of gastronomy was limited but I contributed to the discussion the best I could. Certainly, my dad’s recipe for “corned beef hash” made heads turn in disbelief and thinking I was joking, brought roars of laughter to the table.
All this time, Julietta listened intensely to my quirky Italian. She was a pretty girl of sixteen whose shyness was almost as bad as mine. “What’s it like living on a boat?” she asked unexpectedly. “Rather damp” I answered. “In fact, the boat sank this morn…” Bruno cut me short. He was not about to be shamed in front of his brother. “Nothing worth mentioning”. Bruno said in a loud voice. “A little water got in. that’s all”. The message was clear. I should shut my hatch. “The boat sank?” asked Umberto irritatingly. Bruno refused to elaborate and conveniently burst into a fit of coughing. Maria was on her feet instantly, slapping him on the back and bringing him water. It was a good performance and after five minutes of drama, our sunken boat was forgotten and the subject matter changed.
After three hours at table, I desperately needed to stretch my legs. Julietta too, felt the same and came up with a brilliant idea. Would I accompany her to the local fairground, she asked. “Sounds great! I said enthusiastically. There was silence while her dad scrutinized me warily. “Alright, but be back by ten”, he said gravely.
We left the oldies to their grappa and headed for the bus stop. A fifteen-minute drive took us through dusty suburbs where we finally pulled up at the edge of a wasteland. A gigantic poster, taped to a corrugated fence with “Luna Park” printed on it, told us we had arrived. On entering, I had no reason to doubt we would not have a great time. In fact, the first few hours were great! Like kids, we stuffed ourselves with candyfloss, played endless games and rode on countless “gravity defying machines”, making ourselves sick in the process. It was not until nine p.m. that things started to go pear shaped. Remembering Umberto’s last words, I suggested to his daughter, we should perhaps head home.But Julietta was not ready to hear such nonsense and pleaded with me. “Just one more ride Nicola… she begged “Pleeease? “Like a fool, I said yes and as fate would have it, the big wheel we chose to ride on, decided to stop abruptly! For an exasperating ninety minutes we hovered above ground at a height of fifty feet. While below us, mechanics did their best to fix the power cut. We could do nothing but watch as the crowd below raced around mindlessly like ants. Nothing, it seemed, would make the repair job go quicker. Our initial frustration was then replaced with a sense of peace. We were caught in a time warp and felt safe from the real world. On the horizon, an aura of golden light settled over Rome. Stunning and beautiful. When the rays of sunlight faded, the temperature dropped. Julietta clung to my arm unexpectedly and rested her head on my shoulder. I let her be. In the gondolas’ below, we watched other young couples flirting. It seemed like the right thing to do but then, with a sudden jolt, the magic moment elapsed. Our wheel gathered speed and with it, so did the organ music. By the time we were back on terra firma, it was midnight and the last bus had gone.
We walked in silent gloom, illuminated by orange street lamps. Twenty minutes later, Bruno’s car came into view. He flashed twice and pulled over. He was in a filthy mood. “Get in” he grunted. I guessed we were in deep trouble. Turning into the driveway, we were met by Julietta’s father, Umberto. His tall frame cast a menacing shadow on the house behind, like in a horror film. Julietta got out sheepishly but failed to escape the slap on her face and was then ushered into the house by her scared mother. It was now my turn to face her dad. I began to explain but the man refused to believe my “absurd story” and was convinced my intentions with his daughter, were of a perverted nature. The accusations, of course were ridiculous. Not in my wildest dreams would I have taken advantage of the poor girl. I was English, I argued.
“Bastardo, Assasino, Figlio della mignotta”…! The abuse was impressive. I had seldom been characterized with such venomous vocabulary. “Little prick” was about the worst I’d ever been called by my dad. But this display of aggression, I decided, was unjustified. I stood there watching Umberto’s face turn from red to beetroot, as if he was about to have a heart attack. It was time to go. Raising a trembling arm, he pointed towards Rome. “Persona non grata” he roared theatrically. “Never tarnish my doorstep again!” And so it was, that at 1.30 in the morning, I was banned from the house. Bruno signalled for me to get into the car. As we left the driveway, I caught a glimpse of Julietta at her bedroom window. She waved at me through a veil of tears.
At 3am we pulled up in front of the Spanish steps.
I stepped out of the car and accepted the ten thousand-lira note Bruno gave me. “Sorry about what ‘appened Nik” he said, “My brother can be difficult. Call me next week. OK?” I nodded in reply and watched as “El Conquistador” drove off, instinctively thinking I would probably never see him again.
I walked on aimlessly to clear my head. The money was enough for a cheap hotel but as the night was almost through, it was hardly worth the bother. At least I had reached the city. It was time to forge new plans, invent some sensible strategy to promote my cause, which was basically that of getting a job in movies. But my mind failed me. Too exhausted to think straight and my legs felt like lead. A wooden bench came into view. My body locked into auto pilot and within seconds, the lights went out.
25
When the lights came back on again, Romans were bustling about their business. The brilliant sunshine made me blink. The bench I had slept on was parked right at the very entrance to Pasquino’s cinema. A good omen I thought.
“Excuse me, would you be so kind? my back’s playing up? “I looked up to see an elderly gentleman with a stick in one hand poking about in between the cobbles, trying to extract a piece of pink plastic. Out of goodwill, I bent down and excavated the object for him. Together, we studied a dolls arm, which he then put into his waistcoat pocket. “I’m going to use that in my work” he said excitedly. “Hungry?” he then asked unexpectedly. “Well Yes, I am actually” I answered. “Me too. I’m ravenous. Let’s go and have some breakfast, shall we?”
Without realizing it at the time, this extraordinary man, who went by the name of Zev, (which I later learned meant wolf in Hungarian) was about to change my life. I was not alone. His entourage was composed of three members; Ilio, Antonio and myself. All of us, stray cats, he had rescued off the streets and like Hansel & Gretel, had lured into his fabulous marzipan home in the old part of Rome, Trastevere. Happily, none of us ended up in the oven. In fact, what came out of his oven was probably what kept us there in the first place, amid many of his remarkable talents, Zev was not just a great cook but an extraordinary artist.
On entering my new home, the first thing which caught one’s eye, was the letterbox. In bold letters on top was written “ZEV”. At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary. The box was made of tin and as expected, had a slot for envelopes. But the door was oddly different, because built into it, were no less than twenty key holes. Zev detected my amusement. “…To fool the thieves, “he explained with a twinkle in his eye. Continuing up the narrow staircase, it became exceptionally dark and I relied totally on the banister for guidance. A good place to have one’s throat cut I thought. What had I let myself in for? Was this kindly gentleman perhaps a Psycho? Hopefully not. We reached the top floor. The stairwell filled with light and I was relieved to note my throat was still intact. But then, an iron gate with a giant padlock, suggested I might be in for something worse. Zev turned the key three times and we entered a hall lined with mirrors. At the far end an old door studded with nails. Crowning the frame, a massive bronze scallop shell, inside of which, sat a beautiful bronze mermaid combing her hair.There was barely enough time to absorb the splendour when Zev pushed open the door and vanished into the apartment. As I followed, I felt like Alice stepping into wonderland.
The smell of honey and polished terracotta tiles was overwhelming. In the background, faint but distinct, the sound of classical music. I had entered a sanctuary of peace and tranquillity of such intensity, that I could hear my own heartbeat. Then, two brilliant green eyes looked up at me, squinting from the floor. It was not a Cheshire cat but an unfortunate creature with no tail. As my pupils adapted to the dark, it took off unexpectedly with a thundering of paws as it tried to grasp the slippery floor. Then racing down the hallway, it scrambled up a wall defying gravity itself and with paws outstretched, leapt across the room and ricocheted off a beam on the ceiling. Then, with a resounding thud, it landed on the dining room table. The inertia, caused the creature to skid the full length, knocking over a vase in the process and at the end of the runway, make a somersault in mid-air, before finally landing on a pink cushion on the floor!
“Butterball, stop showing off” said Zev sternly. Butterball, as she was called, remained seated on her cushion watching me with her tongue hanging out. With the performance over, I was able to focus on other things. Wondrous things. Things of such beauty that I was not sure if I was in the real world. Zev noticed my fascination. “I call them icons…for want of a better word.” He said. He was referring to a wooden object hanging on the wall in front of me. A serpent, two meters in length, with graceful coils winding the full length of her body.The scales were intricately painted in soothing tones of green and turquoise. The teasing smile that graced the serpents magnificent head suggested she was hiding something. In fact, the trompe l’oueil was so skilfully painted that I would never have found the secret door by myself. Zev pulled it open slowly to reveal Lileths’ golden apple.
At this point, all fears regarding the sanity of my host were gone. I soon discovered that the only dark side to his character was reserved at the back row of Pasquino’s cinema, where he absorbed large quantities of horror movies on a regular basis. By 8pm, having been fed copious cups of tea and cakes, Zev announced that there was a “horrific movie“showing that night and we were all invited.
Our trio accompanied Zev to the Pasquino Theatre where he bought us tickets for Stephen Kings’ “Carrie”. The theatre was stiflingly hot and as tension rose, an electric roof slid open, allowing cool air to circulate. Towards the end, we had just recovered from the aftermath of the “burning school”, when a cat, sleeping on the partition of the roof, fell twenty feet, claws outstretched, onto the lap of some poor chap in front of us.The timing could not have been better. Both cat and victim let out blood curdling screams, just as Sissy Spaceks’ blood-stained hand reached out from the grave. The effect was sensational. Panic stricken viewers, fled towards the exits while Zev and I remained glued to our seats contemplating the hysteria. We all agreed we’d got good value for our money.
As the only non-gay member of the family, I felt slightly wary of my new position. I was delighted to have found a new bed but it was not yet clear how I should pay for it. I need not have worried because within a week of moving in, my role in Zev’s life became clear. During his frequent absence, I became secretary and guardian of his home.
Zev’s artistic skills were in great demand and each year, he travelled to Spain for three months to work on a villa, being built by an American millionaire. It was a highly profitable assignment and important turning point in his career.The property was being constructed in the middle of a desert, where no trees had grown before and a river had been diverted for the sole purpose of watering them. Zev’s task? To build sixty fountains for the garden. An undertaking, which required a team of skilled, Spanish masons. Ilio accompanied him as private cook, which was a great shame, because it meant I was going to be eating out of tin cans again.
The departure was short and sweet. “Eat anything you find in the kitchen “Zev offered. Being a gourmet chef, his kitchen was full of exotic foods. “Thanks, I will” I replied. But it wasn’t easy. My culinary talent was limited and I had no idea how to cook seaweed or what to do with truffels. During his absence, my attempts at cooking such delicacies would prove disastrous.
With Zev out of town, my only companion, was Butterball, who at last accepted me as her friend. During this time, I was assigned a number of tasks to keep the household running. Checking the post was one of them. Out of the twenty key holes, I now knew which was the real one; second across, third down.Easy. I turned the key, opened the door and as expected, a postcard fell out. It was addressed to Butterball. 32, Via Della Scala, Rome. On closer inspection, it depicted a Spanish pussycat dancing Flamenco. Written on the back were the words “Miaou, Miaou…Ole! “. And of course, it was signed with a paw print. I dutifully pinned the card to the wall next to Butterballs’ bed. She opened her eyes for a brief moment, took one look, yawned and went straight back to sleep. I could hardly blame her. She was surrounded by twenty-five similar cards from all parts of the world.
Most of my tasks were mundane. Watering the flowers, emptying the letter box or polishing the floor. But I didn’t complain. After living on a sinking boat, it was a small price to pay for a palace.
26
Having lost most of my possessions with the sinking of Sperm Breeze, it was a miracle I discovered the two visiting cards at the bottom of my pocket. The first one had Marco Vicario’s name on it, which I promptly threw out. The second very crumpled card looked more promising and had Isabella Rosselini’s name on it. I had completely forgotten about it until that moment. Rosetta pushed it into my hand, shortly before leaving Tuscany and insisted I give her a call. Isabella’s dad, Roberto, was founder of “The school of Experimental cinema” at the Cinecitta film studios. An opportunity not to be wasted she insisted.
But now, faced with the task of actually having to do so, made me nervous. “Leave no stone unturned”, were my dad’s last words before our parting.
The telephone looked at me menacingly from across the kitchen.After a can of beer, I summoned up enough courage to dial the number. It rang for a long time, so I concluded Miss Rosselini was not at home. I replaced the receiver and drank a second beer, which served to counteract both my relief and frustration. I would try again later. By the end of the day, I was quite tipsy but not about to give up so easily. I dialled again and this time, luck was on my side. “Rosselini?” a voice answered. My heart raced like a rabbit. “Hello, I’m Nik…I’m the son of my Father” I said idiotically. There was a pause. “Who?” she asked. I pulled myself together and a torrent of verbal nonsense poured out.“I’m the friendly chap of Rosetta’s whose film studying possibilities you agreed to meet from Montelupo, about the Cinecitta” There was a long pause before she answered. “Do you mean, Rosetta from Montelupo?” “Yes, that’s’ right” I said. “What is it you want?” she asked coldly. It was a good question. What did I want? I probably wanted the impossible. I wanted Isabella to take me to her father and say, “Hey Dad, this is Nik. He’s a brilliant guy. You must make him your assistant on your next movie…Please Daddy. do it for me? And then Roberto would answer “Sure Honey pie, why not. I could even make him the Star if you like! A voice interrupted my day dream. “What do you want?” Isabella repeated. “Er, I was hoping we could m,m, meetsomewhere?” I said. “Yes, alright…” she said.
“Looking forwards to it” I replied and hung up. The relief was huge. I then congratulated myself on my bravery and was about to drink another beer, when a sickening thought occurred to me. The woman must have thought I was a complete nutter. I’d forgotten to ask her when and where to meet. How embarrassing. I had no choice but to call back. I dialled again. She picked up at once. “Terribly sorry…got cut off….” I said with a nervous laugh. Our conversation lasted ten seconds but it was enough time to scribble down the address and time of our rendezvous.Ristorante Sabatini, piazza Santa Maria, Wednesday at ten! The six-pack looked up at me and smiled.
On the day, my wardrobe consisted of two pairs of worn-out jeans. I chose the least worn-out pair, ironed them neatly and combined them with a not-too-old old polo neck sweater with a hole in it. I repaired the hole with needle and thread. Then, checked my appearance in Zev’s “mermaid” mirror, brushed my teeth and combed my hair. I was careful, also, to tuck in my frayed shirt cuffs, which had the tendency to slip down beyond the sleeves of my sweater. Last but not least, I polished my shoes. Fifteen minutes later, I was crossing Piazza Santa Maria and walked casually into Sabatini’s restaurant. I chose a discreet table near a hedge at the perimeter. I called the waiter who irritatingly, ignored me. Arrogant prick, I thought to myself. Wait till you see who my date is. Ten minutes passed before he finally took my order and fifteen minutes after that, he arrived with a luke warm beer. I looked at my watch, it was exactly ten o’clock. I knew that a lady of Isabella’s calibre would not be late. In Italian society (unlike the British) it was considered bad form to be too punctual.She would probably arrive ten minutes after the deadline and apologize for her delay. “Terribly sorry” she would say. “Got caught in traffic “. I shrugged off any fears, sipped my beer and looked around. I was sitting in the most prestigious watering hole in Rome. The sons and daughters of the very rich paraded here, showing off their tanned skins, their diamonds, their Rolex’s and…and nothing much else it seemed. Paul Getty junior was a frequent visitor too, or at least had been until recently.But since his kidnapping and chopped off ear, nothing more had been heard of him! Could an ear really be worth a million dollars? His Dad obviously didn’t think so. Worst of all, he would never be able to enjoy stereo music again. How sad is that?
There was still no sign of Isabella. I looked again at my watch. It was now midday and for the first time I felt irritated. I tried to find an excuse for her behaviour but failed miserably. My mind went blank. I summoned the waiter. This time, he arrived within thirty seconds, greedy to take my cash. “Ten Thousand lira Sir” He announced. It was an astronomical price for a beer. I gave him the money without a tip and walked off. Back home, I opened my own supply of Budweiser’s and poured them down my throat, one by one.
27
During my time in Rome, I accumulated a number of friends and everybody I met seemed to be after the same thing. Namely to get into movies, be it as an actor, a director, a cameraman, or basically any menial task available. We were a good network and looked after each other, keeping eyes and ears constantly open for opportunities. Antonio discovered it first and handed me the Messagiero Newspaper. Extras wanted! The ad read. Casting, Cinecitta, Monday from 10am till 4pm.
Acting had never crossed my mind but I needed cash and the idea struck a chord with my ego. The last time I experienced such a thing, was as a boy when Mother took me to Elstree film studios to do a Cornflakes commercial. It wasn’t the happiest memory. The Cornflakes got stuck to my face and after 16 takes, the director gave up on me. I was fired and replaced by another boy with a less sticky face. My mother was furious at losing the fifteen-pound commission and especially of being shamed in front of all the other Mum’s. Inevitably my day was terminated with a clout round the ear.I was determined this time things would go better.
I thrust the newspaper under my belt and raced towards the station. If I hurried, I would just make the number twenty-three tram at Largo Argentina. A good connection, which stopped bang in front of the Cinecitta film studios.
On arrival, my mood was very different. I should have known I would not be alone. In fact, the queue of would-be actors was so long, it stretched two hundred yards outside the main gate. I had no choice but to join the end of it. Some of the people in front of me had been waiting since five o’clock in the morning. Now most of them were sitting on the pavement. It was terribly hot and I’d forgotten to bring water.” Who’s casting?” I asked my neighbour. “Dario Argento” he answered. Wow, a horror movie I thought. The queue advanced at snail’s pace. By midday we were still twenty yards from the entrance.And by one o’clock I could almost touch the gate. Here there was shade at least. It had been a tiresome ordeal but an end was in sight. By three in the afternoon the last 10 extras, including myself, were shown into Studio 5. We lined up while the director ruthlessly inspected our ranks. “No, No, No. Yes!No, No, No... Yes!” The “stars” rocketed and plummeted from the skies. The lucky ones were taken straight to wardrobe to be measured up and the rejects were shown the nearest exit. As the master of horror approached with his assistant, I began to sweat. Surely, he would pick me. I didn’t have Cornflakes stuck to my face, did I? I was an interesting sort of chap., wasn’t I? Then Dario’s eyes were on mine. “Definitely Not!” He said. The directors’ verdict fell like a guillotine. Ok, Thanks, got the message. “No” would have been sufficient. Why rub it in?
I walked towards the exit gloomily. “Better luck next time” a voice from behind said.It was Gianni. An out of work actor. He hadn’t been picked either. “Don’t take it personally. This is the twentieth casting I’ve been to and I only got picked once…and even then, the scene was cut”. Outside the studios, the tram was crammed with losers returning home with their faded dreams. “You can ride with me if you like…there’s my car” I accepted the offer and climbed into his Fiat 500. Like all Romans, Gianni was a madman. There existed no rules of the road and if they did, then no one obeyed them. We raced around the Coliseum and overtook cars on the pavement, crossed red lights, regardless of pedestrians or anything else that had the misfortune of being in our path. Clinging on to my seat, Gianni told me his life story. One hand on the steering wheel while gesticulating wildly with the other.
It was worth risking my life. Gianni was full of valuable information and I was fascinated to learn he knew all about Rosselini’s film school. I bombarded him with questions. In the end discovering that the course had little to do with making movies and more to do with partying. “Forget any talent you think you might have”, he said. “It’s all about ambition. Strategic planning. Connections” he said. “All I want is to pull the trigger of a camera”, I replied. “You will in the end, trust me,” Said Gianni. “But right now, all that matters is who you know”. In fact, there’s a party on tonight, Nik. Lots of celebrities” he said. “You should come” The idea sounded terrifying. “Yes, sounds great” I answered.Gianni crammed the car into first gear and bulldozed his way through a fish market. Shoppers shouting in our wake. I pretended to be cool and was glad when he dropped me off at Via Della Scala in one piece.“Meet me at Piazza Navona at 9!” were Giannis’ last words.
After the party, I vowed it would be my first and last. Gianni, on the other hand turned out to be a master at his trade: Eaves dropping his way through the guests. Analysing who was sleeping with who, what was being shot, where, when and by whom and in general, chatting up producers’ wives in an attempt to get “discovered” or if that didn’t work, at least get into bed with them. With the best will in the world, Gianni tried hard to initiate me into the game. “Here Nik, this is your chance. Give it to Ugo”. He said.It seemed an odd way to get into the movie business but I did as he suggested and handed a large slice of Black Forest Gateaux to Ugo Tognazzi. Other than the man’s jaws, the encounter didn’t open any other doors. Under pressure from Gianni, I gave him a second slice. “Thanks” said the famous actor and handed back the plate. I looked at the crumbs and tried to read my future in them. The only message they gave me, was that the plate needed to be washed. It reminded me of the queen’s tea cup with her lipstick on it. Perhaps I should preserve the plate as a souvenir? or sell it?But then who would believe they were Ugo’s Tognazzi’s crumbs? Then a voice from behind distracted me. “Hi, I’m Rebecca”. I turned round. Took one look at the girl and fell in love.
28
Any attempts at cultivating light hearted conversation with the Italian elite was ill fated from the start. Lacking the necessary “flamboyance” I was clearly not made of the right stuff.By contrast, Meeting Rebecca, had been the highlight of the day.At 10pm, bored with the party, we slipped out together un-noticed.
Rebecca’s whole purpose for coming to Rome, was to learn Italian.In view of this fact, I decided it would be appropriate to further her education. In the back streets of Trastevere, I knew of a great restaurant called “La Parrolaccia” A place which innocent tourists often fail to appreciate.The Roman sense of humour was an acquired taste; “Good evening, Sir, what would your bitch like to drink? or “Yes Sir, one Canneloni coming up the arse! “The waiter’s show of vulgarity might have
been daunting for some. Rebecca, however, laughed at their scandalous behaviour and above all, enjoyed the food. (Or so I thought). Because as the evening progressed and we got to know each other better, I understood, that buried beneath her sweet personality, was a complex being. Half way through the meal, she vanished into the “Ladies room” and returned ten minutes later looking very pale. She had vomited the entire menu. I felt terribly guilty. Maybe seafood didn’t agree with her? I should have taken her somewhere else. But no, it was not my fault she said. She simply had an eating disorder called anorexia. “Anna what?” I asked ignorantly. It was the first I’d ever heard of it. My immediate reaction was that I wanted to help her, take her to see a doctor, make her well again, but unfortunately, it was not that simple. She then told me about her hips. As long as she could see her bones sticking out, like a holocaust prisoner, she was happy. But the moment her pelvis vanished beneath a layer of fat; she was under the impression she was overweight. An absurd idea to anyone ignorant of the phenomena, but to Rebecca, it was a daily battle. The only way she could deal with it, was to be sick and thus control her weight.On the verge of starvation, she would hallucinate and the first time this happened, I was caught off guard. No, I couldn’t see the iguanas crawling up the wall, no, I couldn’t hear the voices. It was a very disturbing situation, which I did my best to come to terms with. Rebecca did her best too. Self-therapy had turned her into a passionate photographer. A hobby we both shared but the subject matter of which, were worlds apart. I had never contemplated photographing my own pelvis, but she did. It was a survival technique. And so, with a tripod and self-timer, she got the results she wanted. Large black & white prints materialized in the dark room by the dozen. Palaeontology studies systematically analysed and logged. Abstract shapes that would have appeared more at home in the archives of the British natural history museum. Could this be a cross section of a dinosaur’s vertebrae, or an Ariel view of sand dunes? Hard to tell. Most young men would have steered clear of such a complicated young woman. But as love is generally considered a state of blindness, then it was precisely those symptoms which kept me from doing so.
29
The number 23 Tram to the Cinecitta film studios became a regular ride and Gianni’s prophecy of “better luck next time“a reality. Every week, the studios offered a succession of minor jobs. For the flat rate of ten thousand lira a shot, there was a choice of “dubbing” or “extra” work. The demand for Italian movies dubbed into English was on the rise and as long as one could keep lip sync with the projected image, then opportunities were in abundance. As luck would have it, there appeared to be little or no demand for my services.It was the dubbing director who explained: “Sorry Nik. Spaghetti Westerns with Public School accents would be box office disasters”. He said apologetically. “Just imagine Clint Eastwood;” By Golly boys…looks like those Indians are in rather a bad mood old bean. Eh what?”He laughed hysterically at his own joke and in response, I gave him a half smile, forced to accept the fact he was probably right.
In spite of my vocal failure, all hope was not lost. Private television stations, were a booming business. In 1975, Rome boasted no less than 20 TV stations, all funded through advertising. In the suburbs of the city, it was not uncommon to see gigantic antennae protruding obscenely through the roofs of private villas. Garages were turned into improvised studios, which on Sundays, beamed out illegal porno-movies to the citizens. Laced every 30 seconds with advertising, meant that reaching an orgasm could take up to three hours. Very frustrating!
When Gianni’s “better luck next time” prophecy did come my way, it was my photographic talent that got me the job. I happened to be a master at filming smooth, tremor free shots, using my body like a contortionist, whereas other cameramen needed expensive hydraulic operated dollies to achieve the same thing.My talent was in demand and above all, I was a cheap.
I started on a weekly salary of sixty thousand lira, at La Uomo Television advertising company in the Via Teulada. As one of three cameramen, we were tasked to shoot a 30-part serial promoting knitting machines. Had we been shooting a comedy; things might have been easier. The stitches I got did not come from laughter. With each episode lasting 40 minutes, my body would ache excruciatingly and I was glad when, thirty knitted sweaters later, the series ended.
New assignment today. Nothing very exciting. Some extra footage needed for an educational documentary. I called Gianni, offered him half my fee and he agreed to come along and help.We drove out of town in his dad’s fiat 500 and rattled along the cobbled streets. I tried to tell him he was going too fast but he wouldn’t listen. Then it happened. The passenger door dropped off. It just bounced off down the road like a frisbee and landed in a ditch.Gianni wasn’t bothered, so we carried on without it. I held on to the door frame so as not to fall out.
We got to the shooting location on time. A girl’s school of all places.I just hoped Gianni would behave himself and concentrate on the job. I noticed, girls tended to distract him, so it was best to keep him busy. I made him unload the equipment from the car while I set up camera in the classroom. As expected, the girls went dotty for him. But he was more interested in their teacher. To be fair, she was really pretty. But when their eyes met, sparks flew across the room like in a cartoon. The poor young woman couldn’t concentrate any more on her teaching and kept dropping the chalk and bending down to pick it up. In the end she sent the kids off home early.By now, I had lost Gianni completely and things really started to get out of control. What has he got that I haven’t?I wondered. To be honest, I didn’t really want to know or even imagine! Forced to continue the shoot without him, my aim was to get the shots in the can as fast as possible and get back to the city. Whereas Gianni’s plan was to get the teacher into bed as fast as possible. In the end, he won the race.We went to her place and drank a bottle of wine. But it didn’t end there. I was suddenly abandoned in the kitchen. Gianni promised to be quick. The muffled sounds of love making coming through a wall can be psychological torture for a young man. After 90 minutes of presumably testing every position in the Kama Sutra, they were done. Gianni came out of the bedroom with a smile stretching from ear to ear. He was extremely pleased with himself. “What are you waiting for Nik? we can go whenever you like” . During the drive back I found it hard to hide my anger.“Nice teacher that”, said Gianni. She taught me lots of things…you wouldn’t believe…she even…”I interrupted.“Thanks Gianni but I don’t really want to know.”
30
Cinecitta, three days later. This time without Gianni. La Uomo TV had given me a third assignment. This time to mix the sound track of a TV commercial we had shot, promoting wine for the town of Montepulciano.
“Studio 5”, the receptionist said. “Pietro will show you the way” We passed by several editing suites en route. Some doors were left ajar, from which horror music echoed out into the corridor. Screams and police sirens indicated we must be near my destination. Suddenly King Kong blocked my path. There he lay, all 50 feet of him. His fearsome, gaping mouth wide open but thankfully unconscious. I stepped over his hand. The very same hand which Jessica Lang had spent a lot of time sitting in whilst screaming her head off. My guide, Pietro, was only too pleased to inform me that in order to make the monster, no less than 300 goats had been slaughtered for their skins. Poor goats I thought. He then showed me how it worked. Pulling on one of five steel tendons, by means of a wooden lever, he succeeded in raising King Kong’s middle finger. From where I was standing, an American would have replied “Fuck you too!” But for an Englishman, the offensive gesture was lost. We moved on. This time reaching Fellini’s set for Amarcord. A giant cut-out of Mussolini’s, face studded with red and white carnations. The props of crumbling plaster were now windswept and abandoned, having served their purpose and were destined to be burned. A sad sentence which Fellini insisted upon said Pietro. “What a waste…All that work” I said. But I could understand Fellini. The idea of seeing his own props re-purposed as deco in some low budget sitcom, must have appalled him.
We reached studio five and Pietro opened the thick soundproof door with a green light on top. Technicians Alberto and Michele waited for me outside. After a brief introduction, Pietro left and I handed over my film and three rolls of magnetic tape. Judging by the technician’s expressions, my meagre offering was a disappointment. My studio had booked the place for an hour for a whopping fifty thousand lira but was confident I had enough time to do the job. Ignoring their grumpiness, I gave the signal to start. With stereo headphones on my head, I viewed the images on screen of farmers picking grapes, projected together with Neapolitan folk music. It had the makings of a good commercial but progress was slow.The clock ticked by and then into my second hour, I prayed to God, head office wouldn’t charge extra. In the end, crippled with a bursting bladder, I was forced to take a break.
Outside in the corridor, a man paced up and down. I ignored him and raced to the Gents. As I waited for nature to take its course, the same gentleman stepped into the urinal next to me. As is often the case in such situations, my valve shut off. I knew there would be no hope of reversing the process until my neighbour had gone. I had two choices; Zip up and pretend I was the quickest artist in the West, or else start to whistle like my dad did when I was a boy. Incapable of either, I remained frozen, hoping the intruder would leave.
Needless to say, he didn’t. And oblivious to my problem, he decided to chat instead; “It’s unbelievable.” He said” That guy must think he owns the place…I’m trying to finish my movie for God’s sake and he takes over the entire studio.” Gesticulating with his one and only free hand, the man aired his frustration. I nodded in sympathy. “He’s been in there for hours. God knows what he’s up to? ““Having a wank probably”.I suggested. “Yes, you’re right”, he laughed. “The selfish dick head should be thrown to the lions! ““In England he would be hung drawn and quartered” I replied. At this point the man laughed again and walked out.
The second he was gone; my relief was instantaneous and for two glorious minutes I stood there examining a cracked tile in front of me. But something about the man rang a bell. I racked my brain, zipped up and left the gents.I’d seen him before but where? Then I remembered the props from Amarcord and Mussolini. In a flash I knew it was “The magician”, better known to the rest of the world as Federico Fellini. The great master himself! What an honour. The chance encounter filled me with awe. To think we had been chatting together. And not just any old chat. I had actually shared his suffering. But my thrill did not last long. Because it dawned on me that “The selfish Dick head” he mentioned, was none other than my humble self! It was I who was occupying his favourite studio number 5. It was I who was wiling away his precious hours with my trivial TV commercial and it was I who had kept the maestro from completing his latest masterpiece. God strike me down, for I have sinned! The awe I felt seconds earlier, was immediately replaced with guilt and like a right honourable selfish Dickhead, yours truly crept back down the corridor into the mixing studio to finish his menial task as quickly as possible!
31
Zev had been gone two months. I wasn’t expecting him back for another three weeks. So, when a postcard arrived from Spain announcing his return within three days, I was under shock!As trusted caretaker, things had got out a bit out of hand. The geraniums were wilting, there was a month of laundry piled up on the bathroom floor and in the oven a pot of spaghetti bolognese was beginning to smell odd. It was time to act. Cleaning up the place would take at least 48 hours. I decided the oven was priority. I opened the door and what met my eyes would have fascinated any biology student. The lid of the pot had risen several centimetres of its own accord, indicating the contents were alive. The smell was repugnant. With a handkerchief over my mouth and a pair of pussycat oven gloves, I withdrew the pot and carried it at arm’s length towards the bathroom. Miaou! Fear and curiosity overwhelmed me as I removed the lid because inside a mass of worms looked up at me. It was hard to differentiate between what was spaghetti and what was real vermin. On the brink of regurgitating, I emptied the unsavoury contents into the lavatory bowl. The first flush saw the water level rise to an alarming height. Would the brew spill over the edge and squeal their way across the bathroom floor?(Which is what Dario Argento would have liked), or would they behave and obey the laws of gravity?Two flushes later, (Praise the Lord) the tide began to retreat. I watched it gather speed and recede into the bowels of Rome’s watery underworld with a grotesque cavernous groan. The sound reminded me very much of my Father during one of his asthma attacks. With the monster now gone, monster number two was still at bay. This time my nose told me it was hiding within the folds of my laundry in the middle of the bathroom floor. On closer inspection, I discovered Butterball had left me a present. Rather than trying to extract the object, I made a radical decision and with some regret, threw away my favourite Festival of the midnight sun T-shirt.
Three hours later, the washing machine was into its’ third spin. I rushed around the apartment blessing Zev’s sculptures with a feather duster and took extra care not to forget the icons and priceless antiques. When the dust finally settled, I washed the floors and, on my knees, applied an extra thick coating of beeswax.
The geraniums however were my biggest worry. Zev loved his plants and his now very thirsty botanical friends looked up at me for help (or tried to). As a professional wino, I knew of a possible cure. Alka-Seltzer!(Over the years, a close companion of mine.)I emptied an entire tube into a watering can and watched the fizz rise to the brim. For best results, I knew that the potion should beconsumed shortly before the bubbles expired. So, at the right moment, I poured equal doses onto the cracked earth of each potted plant. The soil absorbed the medicine reluctantly. There was little else I could do but wait and pray.
When the floor wax was dry, I switched on the polisher. The sound made Butterball shoot up the wall in terror. Regardless, I guided the humming beast up and down the apartment four times and when the tiles finally glowed a satisfying glossy red, I pulled the switch and put the kettle on for tea.
Two hours had passed since the Geraniums had received their medicine. To my relief, the results appeared successful. The flowers had indeed raised their heads dramatically and looked ecstatically happy.
At four pm, I drank my first cup of Lapsang Sou Chong, a tradition, which after seven years exile, was still very much alive. I sat out on the balcony, enjoying the splendid view of the city. A magnificent Roman horizon glowed in the afternoon sun, while below; a bustle of noisy traffic rumbled its way through the gates of Porta Settimiana.This magnificent portal, less than a hundred yards from where I sat, was part of the city’s original Roman wall and like everything else, it was a great feat of architecture. The giant hinges embedded in the masonry, must once have carried a massive wooden door. It was easy to imagine sentries on top guarding the city against Barbarians even if the bows and arrows had since been replaced by deckchairs and parasols. I did not consider myself a voyeur but in recent weeks my gaze was drawn to this particular view more than once.Our balcony was higher than the gate, which meant that I occasionally saw attractive young women sunbathing topless. Anointing themselves, or better still, each other, with suntan lotion. Bernado Bertolucci, to whom the terrace belonged, obviously kept his own harem. I was envious. The company around me were all men and sometimes, I had to fight them off! To think that these Goddesses were parading about naked in the middle of the city drinking Martini’s on the rocks made my eyes water. I continued to watch like a peeping tom from behind the geraniums and became aware that my own potted plant was starting to bloom. I took a sip of tea thinking it would douse the chemical reaction. But it didn’t. Like a love sick Barbarian, I imagined myself scaling the wall. One brick at a time. Then, just short of reaching the ramparts, a Roman arrow ripped into my flesh. I lost grip and fell thirty feet back down to the ground. As I lay there dying on the cobbles, a tiny pair of red patent leather shoes came into view. Growing out of them a slender pair of legs. My pulse raced back to life. I recognized the locks of blond hair too. It was Rebecca.
32
The garden was a discreet place in the back streets of Trastevere. At first sight, the barricaded entrance with rusty chain suggested it was locked. Most people in fact would have walked past. But there was no padlock and by pushing gently, the door swung open invitingly. Inside an ancient overgrown sanctuary led to a gurgling fountain at the end. It was the perfect place for lovers. My initial plan had been to take our friendship a step further.Hold hands perhaps, or (God permitting) perhaps even kiss?But God was obviously not going to let this happen. Not yet anyway. Divine intervention had a way of twisting my daft ideas into the absurd. This time, the absurd came in the form of a wheelchair hidden under a bush. What it was doing there or what had happened to its occupant, was anyone’s guess. There were no bodies lying around and before I had an answer to the riddle, Rebecca was already sitting in the contraption. “Go on Nik, push me” she said. I did as asked, although somewhat hesitant. I pushed her round and round the garden as fast as I could and we both ended up crashing and laughing hysterically. Had we remained within the walls of the garden, things might have been ok but instead, curiosity led us out into the real world, where our little farce took on an uncontrollable life of its own.
I liked Rebecca because of her odd sense of humour. But what the hell was I doing, pushing her in a wheelchair up the steps of the Vatican? This time I decided, she had gone too far. To begin with, the wheels got jammed and then, to make matters worse, a kindly priest offered to help. Between us we picked up the contraption and stumbled our way up two flights of stairs and put her down at the top. “The Vatican is not very wheelchair friendly”. I said. “The path to righteousness is an arduous one, “the Padre said gravely. His words were not comforting. Instead, a sense of impending doom hung over me. I had a great desire to turn back. On the other, hand Rebecca was enjoying every second, so we rolled on.
The wheelchair appeared to have a mind of its’ own. We were drawn towards St. Peters by a magnetic force and Rebecca fell oddly quiet, as if the magnitude of our risky venture had just dawned on her too. Leaving the brilliant sunshine behind us, we crossed the threshold to the Cathedral and were plunged into darkness. Inside, a pungent smell of incense hung in the air. Chanting echoed off the vaulted ceilings. I had never felt comfortable in churches and the pompousness of this Catholic sanctuary magnified my feelings tenfold. And yet, having got thus far without incident, we had little choice but to continue our escapade. To suddenly abandon the wheelchair and walk back home, would undoubtedly have caused a commotion, leading to repercussions we were not willing to face. A few extra steps added to our blasphemous pilgrimage could cause no harm. Could it?
An aide drew back a curtain and beckoned us invitingly towards a second chamber. Inside, my gaze was drawn towards the magnificent vaulted ceilings, decorated by the unmistakable hand of Michelangelo. My neck began to ache and my eyes then fell to the lower part of the cathedral. This time a state of alarm set in.Twenty yards ahead, a priest was administering Holy Communion. I quickly understood that the beneficiaries of his offering were lined up in a queue.Hungry gentlemen in wheel chairs! Worse. The same queue which regrettably we seemed to be a part of.
The convenient thing about wheelchairs, is that they can turn on their own axis. Relieved by this knowledge, I took immediate action and turned about on a sixpence. The Aide who had let us in seconds earlier, seemed irritated by our premature departure but never-the-less obliged us by opening the curtain for us. We passed the frontier only to be faced with a new predicament of unfathomable proportions. This time I took a very, very deep breath. An armada of wheel chairs of no less than fifty 1st World War veterans blocked our path. Limbless, handicapped souls strapped to rolling contraptions of every description. Manual, electric and clockwork driven. At my wits end, I searched for a gap through which we might be able to exit. It seemed as impossible as attempting to cross the river Styx without a ferryman. But then a voice from within came to the rescue and took command with surprising authority.
“Make way, make way gentleman! We must retreat Colonel, a matter of urgency” I yelled. The reaction was instantaneous. The battalion of chrome wheeled infantry opened up before us like the sea of Galilee. Wining, squeaking and groaning as I pushed, bumped and forced my course through the sea of tubular steel. My orders were obeyed with the respect for a true Commander. Rebecca remained silent all through, glued to her seat like the invalid she was pretending to be, her head folded into her lap, face screwed up, trying to supress her laughter. As we forced our path, a rectangular beacon of light on the horizon grew brighter by the second.It was the exit to the cathedral from whence we had come. Spurred on by this friendly glow, I did not dare look back but swore I could hear the ticking of land mines about to explode.
Back outside, in the brilliant sunshine, we were free as birds again and continued to advance at breakneck speed. Not even the Pope could have stopped us. Driven by the Devil himself, we rumbled our blasphemous course across the cobbles almost defying gravity itself. Rebecca, clung to her seat for dear life as we bumped our arduous path back down the steps, past the self-righteous priest, past the Nuns and the disabled tourist bus. All eyes upon us now as we disappeared into the shadows of the old city.
Even then, we did not dare stop until we reached the sanctuary of our secret garden.On entering, it took us a while to regain our breath and come to our senses. I was then seized by a fit of uncontrollable laughter. The relief just poured out and I thought my lungs would burst. But Rebecca was not ready to share the hilarity of the moment. Instead, her non-compliance made me feel guilty. And rightly so. In the eyes of God, we had made a fool of his institution.It was time to get rid of the wheel chair. I checked to make sure no one was around and stripped the blanket from Rebecca’s lap.I offered her my hand but she hesitated.Beads of sweat formed on her brow. I knew what she was thinking. Her own fear crept up my spine. What if she would never walk again?Would we be damned by God himself? Reading the anxiety in my face, she could hold out no longer and leapt suddenly from the chair with the agility of a young doe. She laughed and pulled me to the ground. We rolled in the long grass and kissed for the first time. I felt ecstatically happy.
33
With Zev’s homecoming, gay normality returned. But the first couple of days were not gay at all. Unsurprisingly, my housework skills were not appreciated. At least not by Ilio. I was forced to watch as he waxed the floors a second time and brought out the dreaded polishing machine. The bathroom also was apparently not clean enough to his liking and stupidly I’d forgotten to empty the trash. Zev said little and retreated into his studio where he spent several hours modeling a ball of wax. I sensed he was not too happy either. The embarrassing incident occurred shortly after their arrival. The last of the luggage had been brought up and a gust of wind slammed the front door shut with a resounding bang, to the detriment of the entire Geranium population.
The look of astonishment on Zevs’ face was something I shall not forget in a hurry. My trick with the Alka-Seltzer proved to be short lived. The flowers shed their petals instantaneously and by the thousands. Autumn was upon us. Zev went over and poked his fingers into the soil. It was dry as a bone. He gave me a piercing look from beneath his Breznev eyebrows, which might have killed me. I wanted to vanish into the walls like a ghost but I couldn’t.
I might not have been the best housekeeper in the world but to my credit at least, Butterball was in splendid health. The acrobatic sketch she performed in celebration of her master’s return was solid proof that I had not neglected her. Thankfully Zev was not one to harbour ill will for long and by day three, the incident of the flowers was forgotten.
“Do you know what this is Nik?” Zev asked. He held up an object for me to examine. It was a ring made in beeswax containing a very large blue stone. “I don’t know but it’s beautiful” I said. “It’s a Saphire” Zev explained. “I want you to take it round to my technician” he said. “Tell him I want it cast in 24 karat gold and finished by Saturday” I was happy to be given an errand at last. It was a good sign and after letting him down with the flowers, it was a chance to put the record straight. “Who’s the lucky lady? “I asked. “Laura Antonelli. It’s a present to her from J P,” said Zev. Wow, I thought, the famous actress and the “J P”, he was referring to, was of course Jean-Paul Belmondo.
The celebrity dinner was planned the following weekend, for the presentation of the ring. Zev was very excited. Jean Paul and Laura were important clients and it was his aim to make sure it would be an evening to remember. Nothing it seemed was too much or too expensive to be spared. Extravagance was the rule not the exception. Ilio and I spent four days shopping at the local markets, collecting exotic fruit, vegetables and delicacies that I didn’t even know existed. Every item on Zev’s list was a unique ingredient, like a rare pigment, which would go into creating his culinary masterpiece. With cooking underway, the kitchen resembled the galley of the Titanic. Steaming cauldrons bubbled and hissed and emitted delicious, aromatic perfumes, which evoked dreams of distant lands. Sauces were stirred, onions chopped and roasts roasted. It was countdown and with only two hours left to go, it was time to make a final check. The cutlery, the plates, the candlesticks, the wines, everything seemed to be in place. Or was it? One place setting was missing. Maybe a guest had dropped out I thought. There were fifteen of us after all. I decided not to worry. I knew Ilio had everything under control.
I realized this was going to be another brush with the Celebrity world, so I was determined to be more courageous this time. Make it known I was a dedicated film student in search of a job, however menial. One thing was certain. It was going to be an evening to remember. A story that one day, I would recount to my grandchildren by the fire on a cold winter’s night. Unfortunately, what I didn’t realize, was that, “celebrity brush” meant exactly that. I had been allowed to help Ilio scrub the potatoes and no doubt I would be allowed to scrub the dirty plates afterwards. But (and this is the miserable part of the story) I was not invited to the party!“Would you be so kind Dear Nik as to make yourself scarce for the evening? “Zev asked. Was I being punished because of the geraniums? My stunned expression obviously escaped his notice but I was hardly in a position to complain and so, with great sorrow I did as requested. At seven o’clock, I took myself off into the night streets of Trastevere and ended up at “Ivo’s” Pizzeria. As I munched away alone, I imagined which course the guests were now ploughing through. Beluga caviar for starters. Then the filetto Rossini and then… Oh God, how terribly sorry I felt for myself.
I returned home at midnight after everybody had gone. On entering the kitchen, I helped Ilio tackle the monster pile of dirty celebrity dishes. I started with Jean Paul Belmondo.
Scraping his remains into the bin and then submerging him beneath the suds like a murderer. Scrubbing away all evidence that he had eaten off it, or that there had been any party at all.Satisfied that it was all a figment of my imagination, I handed the plate back to Ilio to dry. I was about to do the same to Laura Antonelli but the soapsuds around her looked so heavenly. I felt sorry for her. I didn’t really want to drown her at all. It was not her fault she’d been invited.Besides, she appeared to have licked the plate clean, which was most considerate. Any hint of Sauce Hollandaise was gone. Not like Jean Paul who had left a filthy muck behind. Out of compassion, I wiped her gently with a soft sponge and put her in the rack to drip dry in a dignified manner.
“Feeling hungry Nik?” The words drifted up through the floorboards. I propped myself up on my elbow and looked at my watch. It was three a.m.
“…Zev? “I asked. “I was feeling a bit peckish” came his reply. “… I thought you might like some cake” Impossible to resist his charismatic voice and especially the delicious aroma, I climbed out of bed and went down to the kitchen. “Lemon Love Cake” he announced proudly. “Almost done”. With eyes half shut, I watched as he tested it with a long needle. Then, removing the cake from the oven, he set it down gently on the table. It turned out to be truly delicious. We ate in silence and by 4.30am we had devoured the entire thing. Then, with bloated stomachs, we went back to bed. It was only when I saw the crumbs on the kitchen table next morning that I realized I had not been dreaming.
34
It was Sunday morning. Zev’s appetite had not subsided. Did he want more Cake I wondered? No, he didn’t. But I could tell by the twinkle in his eye that he was in the mood for something else. His Demon expression spoke volumes and without me having to ask. I offered to drive.
We climbed into the black Fiat 500 and collected Ilio and Antonio en route. A light rain had fallen during the night and the sun caused the roads to steam.Lungotevere was quiet. Where the whores had done business the night before, now embers of small fires smouldered in their place.We crossed Ponte Garibaldi and headed up towards Largo Argentina. There we turned right towards Mussolini’s wedding cake.
Under Zev’s directions, we circled the vast roundabout. At its centre, a handsome young police officer, stood proudly in his crash-proof pulpit, orchestrating the traffic with the vigour of a Philharmonic conductor. We circled him twice and then a third time. My passengers had taken it upon themselves to admire the muscular physique of this handsome God dressed in white, shining in the morning sun like the statue of David.
I would have gone round several times again if David had not blown his whistle, sharp and angry, telling me to get the hell out. We left the magic circle like rejected sperms. In response, my passengers sighed with disappointment, their faces glued to the back window for a last glimpse of their dream boy. We then buzzed off up via Veneto in search of fresh meat.
I have never known how to wolf whistle. But I know it has something to do with how you position the teeth and the tongue. A knack, which either you have or you haven’t. Ilio obviously had the knack because the ear-piercing shriek that blasted directly into my eardrum, was proof and nearly caused us to crash. The beneficiary of this mating call was an innocent young man on the sidewalk going about his daily business. “Slow down Nik, slow down,” said Antonio. “Wow, look at that neat ass” Ilio called out. “Ciao bello” said Zev as we drove passed. But “Bello” was obviously horrified, and understandably so. A nasty little black car full of horny men, (excluding myself, I might add), was definitely scary. The man reacted by quickening his pace. I couldn’t really blame the poor chap. I would have done the same. He then broke into a run, whilst my companions scanned every part of his anatomy with their x-ray eyes. A set of traffic lights came to the young man’s rescue. Forced to stop at the red light, we watched as the distressed young man fled across the pedestrian crossing and into the arms of a girlfriend. His precious assets still intact. The verdict in the back seat was a unanimous “Not Gay”. Their disappointment was hard to conceal. “Why are all the beautiful ones always straight?” asked Ilio.
Determined not to give up, our joy ride then continued. There was another circuit to be checked out. This time, Circo Massimo. The original Roman racetrack where Charleton Heston had played Ben Hur. These days, however, the chariots were replaced with cars. At the centre of the track were a lot of trees and foliage. A notorious place for picking up young gladiators (or slaves), depending on one’s gay preference.A vibrating bush could mean a number of things and from my experience, it was not always a good idea to find out what. At the back of my mind, I prayed to God my dad would never find out. If he knew his son was cruising up and down looking at men, he would have a heart attack! But to be fair I was only the driver. I repeated the words to myself like a mantra, (I am only the driver, I am only the driver,) as if by doing so it would prevent me from turning queer. But then my prayer was interrupted. Candidate number three came into view. This time, it was going to be a sure hit. The nice young man held out a piece of cardboard for us all to see. Written on it with a black marker pen was the word OSTIA. His outstretched thumb said, “Please give me a lift”.
Zev could not believe his luck and so we stopped. The young man beamed us a toothless grin. “Grathie” he said with a lisp. At which point, Zev’s heart must have melted. It was love at first sight. I stepped out of the car, pushed my seat forwards and allowed the sun-tanned gladiator to climb into the back, conveniently wedging himself between Zev and Antonio.
The love affair was the beginning of a new era. Leandro turned out to be a mason and spent most of his week mixing cement. They were the perfect match. Zev had loose tiles in the bathroom to be fixed and Leandro was just the man for the job.His skills were reimbursed generously and thus their love was cemented. According to Antonio, (who I realized was jealous) Leandro’s toothless mouth was a potential gold mine.A wasted asset, which could have earned him a great deal more money than a mason, had it been put to better use.I was about to ask him what kind of job he had in mind, but then thought better of it.
Zev’s view on Leandro’s gaping, four car “garage” was different. The missing tiles in his mouth definitely needed replacing. He was convinced that such an improvement would turn him into a very handsome young man indeed and make him the envy of Trastevere. The following week, like a fairy
Godmother, Zev escorted Leandro to the first of seven appointments at the dentist. For three weeks Leandro refused to open his mouth but when he finally did, we all gaped at the amazing transformation. New brilliant white choppers flashed in the sunlight and reminded me very much of Desperate Dan. That night, as a special treat, (and a chance to test out the new teeth) Zev invited us all out for a pizza.
35
I left the studio at four. We had spent the whole day recording a promotion video, aimed at selling stainless steel pots to housewives. At the end of the shoot, the host and Master chef gave us a plate of spaghetti. But it was meagre compensation. What I really wanted was not a free meal (or a set of cooking pots) but my wages. Six weeks without pay, was pushing the limits of my patience. “Domani.” Promised my boss.It was a promise I heard all too often and which never came to fruition. I began to think with irritation, that my maths teacher, Mr. Boxall, was right. Perhaps I should have pursued a job as a lathe operator?
Truth was, unlike my workmate, Roberto, I had run out of patience. The Italians never seemed to rebel. As long as their mothers put food on the table, they were happy. Perhaps they were right? But I was not from the South and after two years, it was time to face facts. The charm of Rome began to wear off. I looked at my watch. Even the bus was late again. Rather than hang around, I decided to walk home and vent my frustrations en route.
As I walked, a succession of police cars raced by with sirens blaring. I took no notice, until half way down Via Teulada, a police barricade barred my way. I stopped in my tracks and felt a strong urge to turn back. Not that I had anything to hide. But by then it was too late. “Alt” a Carabinieri shouted. After that, things went quickly. Within seconds, I was being frisked up against a wall, just like in the movies. My pockets were emptied and a lot of questions fired at me. It was all very unpleasant and I was worried where it might all lead. In the end, my English accent saved me.They probably thought I was a lost tourist and so let me go. But the chap behind me was not so lucky. He protested angrily and was finally handcuffed and pushed into a van. The police locked the doors behind him and drove off at high speed.
An hour later back home, I found Ilio glued to the telly and it was then that I understood what had happened. Italy’s President, Aldo Moro, had been kidnapped by a terrorist group called the Red Brigade. The Police suspected he was being held somewhere near Piazza Mazzini. Just a few blocks away from where I worked. The following weeks were extremely upsetting. Images of the President, pleading for his life, were broadcast on television. The Italian State was in turmoil and as a result, demonstrations took place all over the country.
For two months, the city was gripped with apprehension. It was an appalling affair. Pitiful letters written in desperation by Aldo Moro, begged the government to bow to the terrorists demands. Even pleas from the Pope and other heads of state were futile. Hundreds of police raids were carried out up and down the country but not one of them shed light or the slightest indication of his whereabouts. On the fifty fourth day, in the early hours of the morning, a car was found in a back street between the Italian communist party headquarters and that of the Christian Democrat’s. Inside it contained the body of Aldo Moro. He had been shot through with ten rounds of ammunition.
Two days later, from our balcony, I saw a thick column of smoke rise into the night sky. Beneath it, a sinister orange glow. Probably a burning car I imagined. By my calculations, the riot was taking place somewhere near Piazza del Popolo. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind when the phone rang. It was Gianni. “Hi Nik, there’s a demonstration on…Why not come along… It’ll be fun” he said excitedly. I hesitated before answering. The thought of being blasted by a water cannon, or rubber bullets or having tear gas thrown at me, was not my idea of fun at all. “I’ll give it a pass if you don’t mind…A bit busy this evening Gianni. Sorry” I hung up. What was the point, when I could watch it all on telly, live, from the comfort of an armchair while drinking a glass of wine.
36
The idea of leaving Italy was not new. This beautiful country, built on emotions and chaos, was beginning to weigh on me.The studio where I worked as cameraman had gone bankrupt and finally, my girlfriend, Rebecca, having completed her language course, had returned to Switzerland. I was getting nowhere. It was the middle of November, drizzling and for the first time in years, I felt something which I had not felt since boarding school. Homesick. The question was…where was home?Was I homesick for the green and pleasant pastures of England? Was I homesick for the dusty and arid deserts of Malta? Or was I homesick for the Tuscan hills with their Etruscan tombs waiting to be plundered? I was homesick I decided for the places I had never been to before. An overwhelming desire to find out what lay ahead.
Zev was the mother of all mothers. The mother I had never had. He had fed me, showered me with gifts and treated me like a son. I had shared a slice of his mind boggling and colourful world, which knew no bounds. For two years, I had watched this extraordinary man, sculpt, paint and cook. Listened to his wild tales, lapping them up with an insatiable thirst. Every scrap of his wisdom was now stored under lock and key at the back of my mind. Little knowing that one day this knowledge would inspire my own art. For now, I was restless. Where was the real world I asked myself? And how much longer could I go on eating cake?
Zev was dressed up as a nun again. It was something he liked to do. At first, I found it a little odd, but with time, I got used to it. He kept the habit up in his bedroom, neatly pressed in the closet, together with a giant crucifix. To the amusement of his guests, he would descend the spiral staircase from his bedroom, hands clasped in prayer, eyes raised towards heaven from beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows, looking anything but Holy. After lunch, he would return to take a siesta, hand in hand with Leandro, “If anyone calls, tell ‘em I’m busy”. I always took his wishes seriously and even a phone call from a New York gallery was not reason enough to interrupt his activities. To the soundtrack of moans and groans, I would inform the caller that Zev was occupied and they should try again later. Afterwards, I put the kettle on to boil and prayed Zev and Leandro would percolate in time for tea.
Today was one of those special occasions and “Mother superior” looked exceptionally divine. I wondered what was going on? “I’ve invited Eugene for Tea and to stand in as witness,” said Zev. “Who’s getting married? I asked. “As you will be leaving Rome Nik, I decided it was time for your initiation” Now my curiosity was aroused. What did he mean by initiation?
“You are about to become a member of the secret order Nik. It is a great honour.”The doorbell rang and Eugene Walters entered. An American poet and old friend of Zev’s with a wide grin, wearing a caftan and bearing a gift: A vulgar cake with a large hole in the middle. Hugs, kisses and laughter all round. It was clear, everything had been planned behind my back. Even Ilio was part of it. I felt honoured but when my initiation began, I followed the proceedings with both fascination and anxiety.
Ilio handed Zev a wrought iron poker. It measured a good three and a half feet in length and was needle sharp at one end. A leather thong tied at the thick end suggested it served some dubious purpose. Whatever that might be, I was about to find out. Apart from the iron rod, a second ceremonial instrument was selected from the kitchen drawer. A simple wooden pestle which Zev used for grinding herbs. Its purpose in the ceremony, remained a mystery. On his instruction, I stood on a chair in the hallway, blind folded and prayed the instrument of torture was not going to be poked into any of my orifices. (Which, considering my entourage, might well have been a tempting prospect) Relieved, that this was not be the case, the instrument was hung around my head instead by means of the leather thong. Following further instructions, I blocked my ears as ordered and waited.
What happened next, was totally unexpected. A deep cavernous sound resounded through my head like the bells of Saint Peter’s. A second bell chimed, then a third and then a fourth. A concert of heavenly vibrations thundered through the caverns of my brain, bouncing back and forth through every molecule of my body. The experience seemed to last an eternity. Had I opened my eyes, I would have witnessed the master of ceremonies himself at work. Zev dressed up as a nun with pestle in hand, conducting the ritual like a Samurai wielding a sword. Striking the iron rod rhythmically at different angles with carefully applied pressure. As the last chord died, I was left reeling from the experience as if I had been on a long journey. The bells fell silent. I removed the blindfold and blinked.
“Welcome Nik,” said Zev. You are now a fully-fledged member of the secret society. I jumped down off the chair and he and Eugene hugged me. It would be the last hug for a very long time. It would also be the last slice of cake.
37
The thrust of engines pushed me back into my seat. Outside the tarmac fell away fast as we rose into the sky. The city where all roads lead was now behind me, or to be more precise, below me. As Flight AK 291 circled Rome, I saw Trastevere for a second. A maze of cobbled streets and terraces. Somewhere down there, Zev was having coffee at the bar with Leandro, while up here, I was drinking my first glass of wine. I loved flying and felt deliciously happy. It was a brilliant day and sunshine poured in. A bell chimed and relieved smokers got out their cigarettes. We were flying at 10,000 feet. The sky above was indigo, almost black. Nothing beyond except stars. We flew a course north, parallel to the coast and reached the peninsula of Monte Argentario. What normally took two hours by car, we had done in ten minutes. I recognized the familiar rugged mountain lying there in a puddle of turquoise water. To the west, the marina of Porto Ercole with its little toy boats. One of them I knew was Bruno’s. He was probably there right now drinking a Bloody Mary or else bailing out water. “Cheers Bruno, nice knowing you”. I raised my glass as we passed over.On the horizon to my right, I saw the Amiata mountains dusted with a coating of powder snow. Before them, a lush green carpet of gentle hills dotted with olive groves. One of those hills was Montelupo, where I had lived with my family for two years. I wondered what Rocco was up to now? Probably chasing a new lady tenant? Who was living in our old house? Was Donald the duck still alive or had Pietro the farmer turned him into pate? Nothing mattered really, it was all history now. Directly beneath me I could see the Aurelia highway, along which I had travelled so many times, cutting a path past the medieval town of Montalto di Castro.Home to the robbers.Ferrucio and his sons were most certainly knee deep in mud, digging up treasure. “Cheers Guerino, I said. “Good luck and Amen”. I raised my glass again, emptied the contents and unexpectedly, moisture filled my eyes. It was impossible to fight. All the chaos of my recent life just fell away, effortlessly, like in a dream. An hour later, I was into my fourth glass of Frascati and the end of lunch. I ate everything on the plastic tray, right down to the last crumb. It would probably be the last taste of Italian cuisine for a long time. The bell chimed once more and this time the captain made an announcement.
“We will shortly be flying over Paris. Turbulence is expected. Please fasten your seat belts”. I looked out. Indeed, menacing cumulous clouds were approaching. Awe inspiring and majestic. A sign telling me that my life was about to change. Soon I would be reunited with my family and we would have lots to talk about. There would be decisions to make and plans to be made. Until that moment however, I would take things easy and allow my thoughts to wander.
Paris went by almost unnoticed. Its gaiety buried beneath a blanket of cloud. I caught a glimpse of the Eiffel tower, poking through like the mast of a sunken boat. I took another sip of wine and with it came a sudden jolt. The air pocket made me choke and the wings of the plane bounced angrily up and down. A clatter of nervous laughter all round and then there was calm. We had reached the channel. The engines reduced speed and we started our descent towards England.
Below ships steamed across a bleak, grey choppy sea. The bumps got worse and then it became strangely dark. Heavy droplets of rain streamed horizontally across the portholes. A sensation of disembodiment. Like a bacteria drifting in space. Then for a second, a crack opened up in the clouds. I saw green fields, God’s pleasant land of hope but without much sign of glory.The crack closed again and dragged down by gravity; we entered a thick green pea soup.Another jolt and a screech of tyres told me we had landed.
For the first time in four years, I would have to speak my mother tongue. English.On doing so, it felt odd. No, I didn’t have anything to declare. I passed through customs and collected my suitcase. (I would not have been seen dead wearing a rucksack). Outside the airport, I was met with sleet rain and a bitter cold wind. The damp went straight through to the bone. I’d forgotten how miserable British weather could be. Why had I left Italy, I asked myself? A hundred yards up the pavement I saw a familiar red phone box. The telephone wires above swayed back and forth dangerously. I prayed it still worked. I pushed my cumbersome suitcase inside and closed the door. The dreadful smell of urine inside urged me to make the call as quickly as possible. I hoped I would remember how the British system worked. Fumbling with coins, I finally remembered. Push button A, dial the number and then when you hear the voice push button B. I did exactly that and within seconds, my dad answered.
