The American Fiancee

by Eric Dupont

  “I need you to jump with St. Peter’s in the background. Okay? You see Scarpia’s men come up the staircase, you run to the archangel, and you leap into the big net we’ll have finished putting up in a few minutes.”

  “Will it hold?”

  “Of course it will!”

  D’Ambrosio pointed over at the net the men were busy stringing up in the last courtyard visitors have to cross on their way to the terrace. The nylon netting must have been ten meters by eight, every corner fixed to a ten-meter-high steel pole. A St. Andrew’s cross and no small number of screws held the whole thing together like scaffolding.

  “You’ll jump a few times now just to get used to it. Otherwise you might balk at the fatal moment. Unfortunately, there’s no margin for error.”

  Five times, then, before the sun came up, Anamaria had to climb up on the parapet and throw herself down onto the net. She ended up enjoying it and insisted on doing it a sixth time to vanquish her fears once and for all. Anamaria loved the feeling as she fell into the void, only to be caught by the net, then float five or six meters above the ground until someone came to help her clamber out. Each of Anamaria’s jumps was met with enthusiastic applause on set. Truth be told, all the makeup artists, costume makers, assistants to this and writers of that were applauding the end of a torturous journey that would soon be over. For three days, they’d feared the worst for Anamaria. Most of the technicians had put their money on suicide in the Tiber, some on her running back to Montreal. All had lost their wagers. The singer had explained she was suffering from burnout, and D’Ambrosio had insisted she apologize to the rest of the crew.

  “All the same, you made them lose three days of their precious time, Anamaria.”

  The diva hadn’t replied. She’d bitten her tongue, swallowing a barb about wasting other people’s time.

  Once Anamaria’s dive was to D’Ambrosio’s satisfaction, he had her go over the scenes Tosca shared with Cavaradossi up until his execution. The extras playing the firing squad still hadn’t turned up. They arrived around nine o’clock, at the same time as a delivery of electronic devices that were set up in a room in the castle, the last room visitors walked through before emerging into the fresh air of the terrace. They had to count every step, learn every rictus by heart, every twitch of the finger.

  “I want you all in costume in thirty minutes. Do I make myself clear?” D’Ambrosio shouted, accompanied by little Wotan’s barking.

  Inside the castle, a war room worthy of a sci-fi movie was taking shape. The film’s success depended on the singers’ live performance, the conductor leading them with the help of a complex system of monitors and cameras, an electronic link to the orchestra in real time. To test the screens that were being set up one by one, the technicians played scenes that had already been shot but not edited, three months’ worth of filming, of highs and lows, of problems and solutions, of temper tantrums and tears. One of the screens showed Golub as Scarpia, ordering his henchmen to torture Michel until he could take no more, since D’Ambrosio had insisted—and no one had managed to persuade him otherwise—that Michel suffer for real, that at least part of the blood shed be his own. Another screen showed Scarpia in the church of Sant’Andrea della Valle, while on a third Golub sang at Palazzo Farnese, beneath the wonderful sculpted wood ceiling in the Hercules Room, an enormous portrait of Adolf Hitler on the wall. All of Scarpia’s men wore swastikas. A fourth monitor, meanwhile, replayed Michel’s moving rendition of E lucevan le stelle, recorded on the morning of December 26.

  Anamaria and Michel looked on, not knowing whether to laugh or cry at the fate of the gaunt creature that had taken Michel’s place. Anamaria compared Michel’s features to Father Lecavalier’s. There was no doubt about it: one came from the other. No surprise either that Solange had never picked up on the resemblance: Lionel Lecavalier’s subtle good looks had never made it through all that adipose tissue and had instead remained hidden for thirty years. The inhuman diet Michel had been subjected to on top of the exercise program had made him a very different person.

  “You lost ten kilos too many.”

  “So did you. You’ll need to put some weight back on, Anamaria dear.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  But they had little time to dwell on the matter. Hounded by the wardrobe team and manhandled by makeup, the two singers quickly found their focus again. D’Ambrosio and Wotan snapped at everyone’s heels, ordering some to hurry up, others to slow down. The ten extras who were to play the firing squad emerged from the cloakroom at 9:45, each dressed in impeccable SS uniform. The whole production crew stood openmouthed. None of the men looked like they’d been born after 1920.

  Weapons slung over their shoulders, the ten hunched old men shuffled forward, one yawning while another rummaged around in his pocket for a pill to calm an imaginary heart condition. D’Ambrosio walked up to them with an interpreter. He was delighted to see them at last. Judging by what Michel and Anamaria were able to make out of the conversation, they were ten authentic SS officers that D’Ambrosio had tracked down and persuaded to play the role of executioner in his Tosca film, a twist in the production, a surprise casting decision that D’Ambrosio had kept to himself. The SS men were ordered to await the director’s instructions outside on the terrace, where the execution was to take place.

  D’Ambrosio had forbidden all communication with the firing squad. The poor men were confused enough as it was, he explained. Best not to distract them from the task at hand: executing Michel while Anamaria looked on. When she had seen the men arrive—men old enough to have walked alongside Moses himself—Anamaria had wondered what they were doing there. Now they were in uniform and she was still wondering the same thing. Unsure whether it was her meeting with Lecavalier that had given her a new sense of authority—authority she could taste with each passing second—or whether it was because the shoot was almost at an end, Anamaria nonetheless intended to tell D’Ambrosio exactly what she thought about the age of the men. She took the stone staircase that led out to the terrace, wearing her red dress and her makeup—why on earth did they have to wear makeup when it was just a rehearsal?—and walked up to the SS men, D’Ambrosio, and little Wotan.

  “Mr. D’Ambrosio, I’m only trying to understand. These men, you say, they were real SS?”

  “Yes, Anamaria! To tell the truth, only three of them were actually in the SS. The others were in the Wehrmacht and the Nazi party. That’s what you call a theatrical find! It’s how we’re going to sell the movie! And how many times? Please, call me Bruno!”

  “How can you call that a find, Mr. D’Ambrosio?”

  D’Ambrosio did not appreciate the shift in Anamaria’s tone of voice.

  “Miss di Napoli, need I remind you you’ve already exhausted my patience with your little Roman escapade? Just who do you think you are? Audrey Hepburn? Running off like that in the middle of the shoot! And then you have the nerve to question decisions that are not only out of your hands, but beyond your intellect? Here’s my only piece of advice for you: rest your voice until tomorrow morning if you ever intend on finding work again after this. My memory stretches every bit as far as my influence. Believe me, you don’t want to make an enemy of me.”

  Michel yanked on Anamaria’s arm to prevent her from strangling the fool.

  “Your find is nothing more than a pathetic gimmick! It should be music that sells the movie! Nothing else!” was all she had time to say before Michel clapped his hand over her mouth.

  Slowly and deliberately, D’Ambrosio scooped little Wotan up off the ground, tucked him under his arm, and marched solemnly toward Michel and Anamaria.

  “If ever you do find work after this, you’ll be singing backup for restaurant ads on TV. And I don’t mean fancy restaurants.”

  “You don’t scare me. Truth always wins out.”

  D’Ambrosio walked away, cackling to himself. Michel was in shock, appalled by his lover’s outburst. He feared D’Ambrosio’s wrath as much as Anamaria’s.
An irate Anamaria sat on the ledge of the terrace, dangling her feet over the void, looking down over the inner courtyard with the net and the statue of the Archangel Michael. She turned her back on the former SS men, on Michel, on D’Ambrosio, who had gone back down with Wotan to what he liked to call his “wolf’s lair.” She looked out at the sky over St. Peter’s, waiting for a sign, wondering if Father Lecavalier might be lurking nearby. A simple shove in the back would have sent her to her death. She knew it, and she didn’t care. Suddenly, just as she was about to send a prayer out in the direction of the Vatican, a very familiar voice rose up from the inner courtyard. A slightly nasal voice . . . no, two voices! A hoot of an owl paired with the quack of a duck.

  “Madeleine, look up there! It’s Anamaria!”

  From down below, Solange and Madeleine had only just got off the Suzuki motorcycle they’d rented at the airport and were beating a path between the technicians. Solange seemed overjoyed to see Anamaria.

  “That’s what you’re going to jump into?” she asked, eyeing the nylon net. Anamaria stood back up, her heartbeat accelerating, her hands trembling slightly. Lecavalier had been right. From that point on, she decided to be happy, and went off to find Michel to announce that an end to his torment was now in sight, that real happiness could now begin. She didn’t find him on the terrace. Feeling mischievous, she strode over to the old German extras as they sat looking out over Rome, waiting for instructions before they went through their scene. She stood in front of them, looked them square in the eye, and began to laugh. She pointed at each of them in turn, at the missing tooth, the club foot, the stooped back, laughing at how age had transformed their once virile, energetic bodies. Feeling cocksure and giddy, she stroked their bald heads, drummed her fingers on their hearing aids, and tickled their rolls of fat. They were most amused. Then, having decided to give D’Ambrosio his money’s worth, she too went down to the video room.

  There she fell into Madeleine’s arms. Madeleine was speechless when she saw how much weight she’d lost.

  “Wait till you see Michel! He’s just skin and bones!”

  But Michel was nowhere to be found. D’Ambrosio was flitting around, dishing out orders, lighting his cigarette as he went. And it was the smell of tobacco that led Madeleine to him amid the tangle of machines and the maze the wardrobe and makeup people had made with their folding screens. The director nearly swallowed his watch when he saw the president of Mado Group Inc. heading straight for him. For the first time in her life, Solange had to hold Madeleine back with both hands.

  “Where’s my son, you little worm?” she demanded, grabbing him by the throat.

  Solange forced her to let go. D’Ambrosio gasped for breath. Wotan barked furiously around the women’s heels.

  “Shut that filthy animal up!”

  Madeleine was beside herself.

  “Madame Lamontagne! What a surprise. To what do I owe the honor? Shall we go out to the terrace? You really must see the view. It’s your first time in Rome, is it not?”

  D’Ambrosio was doing his utmost to avoid making a scene in front of the production crew. The old German men, all half deaf, would make a much better audience for the scene that was taking shape. But what on earth was that madwoman doing here with the shoot almost over? Hadn’t she given him carte blanche? He found himself alone with Madeleine while Anamaria stayed inside to show Solange the footage of the horrors she’d been subjected to in the second act, never suspecting that D’Ambrosio’s fate was already sealed. Solange buried her face in her hands.

  “My God, Ana. It’s awful!”

  “That’s not the half of it, Suzuki! Wait till you see the firing squad! And listen to this!”

  Anamaria slipped a pair of headphones over Solange’s ears and played a scene from the first act. Their love duet.

  “Michel’s voice has really changed,” was all Solange said, oblivious to D’Ambrosio’s despicable scheme.

  Unhappy with how Michel sounded, he’d secretly dubbed another tenor’s voice over the film. The switch was virtually imperceptible to anyone unfamiliar with Michel Lamontagne’s voice. A French technician who’d become fond of Anamaria had let her know two weeks earlier. She’d said nothing to Michel, not wanting to obliterate what remained of his self-esteem. Clearly D’Ambrosio was only waiting for the final scene to complete the dubbing and finish off his diabolical handiwork.

  “Exactly! That’s not his voice! It’s dubbed. D’Ambrosio sends the images off to another studio, where a tenor—I don’t know who—adjusts his voice to match Michel’s movements. You’ve been had!”

  As soon as she discovered what was going on, Solange decided that, no matter what happened, she wouldn’t be the one to tell Madeleine. No. Someone else could do that. Speaking of Madeleine, she found her outside listening to D’Ambrosio go on about just how safe the nylon net was. He was sweating heavily as he pointed at the Vatican to show Madeleine the grandiose closing shot he’d chosen for the movie.

  Solange walked around the stone terrace that was decidedly cramped now that it held ten SS men as old as popes, a big-time director, the president of a leading food corporation, her assistant, and a soon-to-be-famous diva. The place had never hosted a more formidable collection of egos.

  Solange looked out over the Tiber from the end of the terrace. Too far to jump, she thought to herself. Along the Ponte Sant’Angelo, habitually teeming with tourists photographing the sublime statues on its parapets, two figures were advancing slowly. The first was a man, his silhouette not unfamiliar to her. He was followed by a very old, very fat woman, who moved slowly and stopped occasionally to point over at the terrace or St. Peter’s.

  “Gabriel!” Solange cried.

  Everyone on the terrace, even the Germans, gathered around D’Ambrosio, Anamaria, Madeleine, and Solange to look down toward the bridge. Gabriel and Magda hadn’t heard Solange’s shout. It wasn’t until Gabriel saw the Suzuki motorcycle that he realized there was a summit meeting in store.

  “Magda, you’re about to meet a very strange person.”

  “Stranger than you?”

  “Richer than me, anyway.”

  It took them fifteen minutes to climb the stairs to the terrace, with Magda stopping to lean on something, read a Latin inscription, and decipher some graffiti along the way. Since she’d arrived in Rome, she’d been as excited as a conservative minister at a strip club. She looked all around for traces of the Rome she’d read about, she gazed out over the Tiber with tears in her eyes, she recited Latin poetry to Gabriel with what she remembered from her time at Sophie-Charlotte-Schule, and she scolded the heavens: why so late? Why Rome today when my legs will no longer carry me? Why did you make me wait so long, Lord? The question those seeing the Eternal City for the first time ask themselves ten times a day.

  Magda, who claimed not to be a believer, addressed her question to God directly. With Gabriel holding her arm, they reached the inner courtyard without so much as a glance up at the nylon net. In the video room, Anamaria collapsed into Gabriel’s arms.

  “I knew you’d come! I knew it.”

  “Where’s Michel?”

  “We don’t know. You have to crush that scumbag, Gabriel. He’s up there with your mother and Suzuki. Please, be nice to Madeleine. Now’s not the time to be divided . . .”

  “I know. I saw the motorcycle.”

  “They came from the airport by motorcycle?”

  Anamaria couldn’t believe the effect her phone call had had. Everything seemed to be falling into place at last. Lecavalier was right up there with the Three Wise Men and the angels. Angels really do exist, she thought to herself.

  Strange scenes were unfolding on the terrace. Magda had gone up without Gabriel only to come face to face with the ten old fogeys in Nazi uniforms and was now showering them with German vitriol.

  “You think you’re funny or something? You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  The extras told her the truth.

  “And you agreed? Ethica
l considerations never were your forte, were they?”

  The old men stared at the ground in shame, suddenly realizing it had perhaps been a mistake to agree to a one-minute movie appearance in return for ten thousand marks apiece.

  “He said it was to warn people of the dangers of fascism and authoritarianism.”

  “Who did?”

  “Him, the Canadian.”

  As if he knew they were talking about him, D’Ambrosio suddenly appeared to join the conversation. Gabriel interpreted for Magda and the director.

  “She wants to know why there are swastikas everywhere in your movie, why you’re flying the Nazi flag over the castle.”

  “Tell her it’s part of my artistic vision. It’s to help simple people understand complex concepts.”

  “She wants to know if a kick in the ass is complex enough for you.”

  “Tell her there’s no need to be rude.”

  “She understands everything you’re saying, but would like to point out that setting Tosca in the middle of a Nazi nightmare is a monumentally stupid idea. She also says that Scarpia doesn’t need a swastika to be terrifying. What he sings is enough. If you need to resort to such simplistic methods to express the idea of good versus evil, you’re either stupid, performing for an audience that’s stupid, or both.”