“Hey, there!” Max shouted from the open window of the passenger seat. “I’ve been looking all over for you!” He unlatched the back door from inside without getting out of the van.
Iris stood and stared at him.
“What are you waiting for? Get in!” he said. “It’s pouring!” Not wanting to get into a discussion while standing in the rain, she obeyed, and slid into the back seat. The least he could do was give her a lift.
“I said in front of the church, not inside the church, salame!” Max chided her, grinning as he turned to face her.
“I was getting soaked,” Iris said. “And I was also getting ready to leave.”
“Leave? What are you talking about? You just got here!”
“It’s been an hour,” she said. “That’s enough.”
“Hey, it wasn’t my fault. I tried calling you, but you didn’t answer. Then my battery died. I must have gotten fifty phone calls this afternoon. Cazzo.”
“You could have borrowed a phone,” Iris suggested, though it didn’t really matter, did it? Not at this point.
“But I didn’t have your number. It was on my phone. Who memorizes phone numbers anymore?”
“I do. Yours is 3256643...”
“I’m impressed, Capo,” Max cut her off. His playful grin turned into a smile: warm, engaging, provocative. Then he settled back down in his seat, facing forward, and crooked his thumb at the guy behind the wheel. “By the way, that there is Peppe.” The stocky mustachioed man with a shaved head smiled in the rearview mirror and reached his left hand over his right shoulder.
“Piacere,” Iris said, as Peppe’s thumb and fingers locked around hers in a soul shake. “Would you mind dropping me off at the bus stop, Peppe?”
“What bus stop?” Max said, half-turning to face her again.
“I’m going back to Rome. I can take the bus to the train station.”
“That’s ridiculous, you just got here,” Max said, his tight laugh attesting to her silliness.
“Like I said, I didn’t just get here.” There was no irony in Iris’s voice; she was merely stating a fact.
“Look, we got tied up,” Max said. It wasn’t exactly an apology, but Iris was not fishing for one. She just hoped he wouldn’t turn all the way around and smile at her point-blank again. She had fantasized about those full lips too many times to not be affected by the sight of them, just inches from her face.
“That’s OK, really. It gave me time to think. And what I think, is that coming here might not have been such a great idea. But if it’s too much trouble for you guys to drop me off, I’ll get out and walk.”
Peppe’s grin told Iris he was amused at seeing Max put on the spot. Max’s snort told her he wasn’t taking her seriously. He nodded at Peppe, who shrugged his thick shoulders and pulled away from the curb.
“Look, Capo,” Max said. “Right now, we’re all going for a drink. You can dry off, relax a little. If you still want to leave after that, you can hitch a ride with the limo we have going back to Rome later. You don’t really want to take the train, do you?”
Iris looked out the window fogged up by her quickened breath and damp clothes. She could already feel the grimy vinyl of the second-class train seat sticking to the clammy backs of her thighs; she could already see the longing in the falsely virtuous eyes staring back at her as she watched the rain streaming down the windows, wondering what might have been. Going back by limo would certainly be more comfortable, and definitely less depressing.
“You’re acting real uptight, Capo,” Max said, when she didn’t reply. “A drink will do you good. Or isn’t this place fancy enough for the hot-shot American boss lady of a posh resort?”
“Of course that’s not it,” Iris said, shaking her head. As if she ever expected royal treatment from anyone; as if she had grown up in the lap of luxury. What did he know about her, anyway, besides the fact that she could really use that drink?
Max turned around to face her again, finger-combing his thick, dark hair away from his tanned face. She had thought of running her own fingers through that hair countless times; it looked so wild and tangled, yet so silky. She remembered how it had smelled on the hotel terrace, how it brushed against her when he leaned close.
“I’ll introduce you around to my crew. We’ll have a few laughs, relax a little,” Max said.
The last time Iris had come across a film crew, which certainly didn’t happen often, they had been the enemy, wreaking havoc in her hotel. But when the end of the day rolled around, they always looked like they were having a good time together. It might be fun getting a glimpse at what happened behind the scenes while she dried off a bit. Images of herself as part of a lively crowd, sharing a laugh and a drink or two with TV people in the convivial atmosphere of a local bar elbowed their way into her mixed-up mind.
“And while we’re at it, maybe we can put a little sparkle back into those sad eyes,” Max said.
There he went again with the story about the eyes. He was the only one who had ever told her that; every other person she knew always commented on her bright smile and sunny disposition. Maybe this was the time to show him that Iris Capotosti knew how to have fun, when she wanted to.
Peppe double-parked in front of a bar, nowhere near the bus stop. Max got out of the van, opened the door for her, and said, “Let’s go!” Iris found herself obeying, relieved that any decisions about returning to Rome were deferred, at least for the time being.
Half an Americano later, Iris was beginning to mellow out; by the time her glass was empty, her second thoughts about being there were giving way to speculation as to what surprises the evening might hold in store. As she sipped the strong red concoction in her tumbler, she caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar, and was reassured to see her smile in place, and her eyes twinkling with amusement at the lively banter between Max and Peppe and the owner of the bar. Bubbling with enthusiasm at the prospect of having his business featured in the segment of “Buona Mattina Italia” that Max and his crew were taping, the man had invited them all over for drinks on the house. Soon after arriving, they had been joined by Marcello Mezzamanica himself, the host of the morning talk show, together with three other men with Roman accents who did not bother with introductions. Cinzia and Isabella were great fans of Mezzamanica and his program; wouldn’t they be in for a shock if they could see her now, having drinks with him in person? The thought made her chuckle. Seeing Max smile back at her, Iris recalled everything that had both attracted and frightened her when they had first met: the sexy allure, the childlike playfulness, the cocky self-assurance. He placed a thumb under her chin, lifted her face to his.
“I’m glad you came, Capo,” he said, bending to kiss her. His lips were warm and fleshy and unexpected. The kiss made her feel giddy and giggly and girlish. “That’s it,” Max said. “You deserve to laugh like that more often.”
Yes, actually, she did. Even if this wasn’t the romantic encounter she had envisioned, she actually preferred the way things were working out. Having a few drinks with a fun group of people had relieved her tension, and knowing she could not possibly run into anyone she knew here had further relaxed her. As did knowing that she had the option of speeding back to Rome in the comfort of a limo.
“Peppe and the guys are nice,” she said.
Max made a yes-and-no movement with his head. “As crews go, I could have done better, but this time I had to take what they gave me. Some asshole at RAI has a brother who has a friend who has a son, and before you know it, you’re on the road teaching a bunch of rookies the ropes again.”
“Those people must figure you’re a good teacher, then. But I imagine it must be frustrating. I’d be curious to hear more about how things work in your business.”
“Basically, the bottom line is, you have to learn not to give a shit. You get the job done, and have as much fun as you can while you’re doing it.” Max tossed a handful of peanuts into his mouth, and drained his drink. “But what I’m doing
now is just a filler, really.”
Iris titled her head. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t really think I plan to spend my career filming travelogues for couch potatoes, do you?”
“I don’t know, the segment you shot in Portofino was really nice,” Iris said.
Max snorted and rolled his eyes. “‘Nice’ is not exactly a filmmaker’s idea of a rave review.”
Iris blushed, hoping she hadn’t insulted him. She thought the segment was great, and she really did think he had talent.
“I’ve actually got a couple of projects of my own I’m working on,” he said. “There’s this screenplay ready to go, as soon as I nail down the right backing.”
“You mean, like a real movie?”
“Yeah, it’s a feature film. I already have a few shorts to my credit.”
Iris didn’t really know much about films, and wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by “shorts,” but what she did know was how to dig for details without looking dumb. It was always a matter of asking and listening.
“Really? I’d like to hear about that,” she said.
“It was some experimental stuff I was shooting a few years back. I took a film to the Torino festival, and there was talk about a screening in Venice, too.”
“Venice? Really?” She wasn’t really up on film festivals, apart from what she picked up from some of the celebrities she had come across at the hotel. She didn’t know anything about Turin except for the fact that they made Fiats there, but she figured anything going on in Venice must be pretty prestigious. “How did it go?”
“My work got noticed all right, but by all the wrong people. Those things are totally rigged, and I’ve never been into kissing ass. Or bribing,” Max said. “I figured I’d give it a rest, do some cushy freelance work while I travel around. That leaves my brain free to work on more important stuff.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” Iris said. It was certainly commendable to aim high, and refuse to play into the hands of a few corrupt people. Sometimes it seemed like Italy was crawling with them.
“But that’s enough about me for now,” Max said. “Are you hungry?”
“I wasn’t really thinking about food,” Iris said. “But apart from these peanuts and potato chips, I haven’t eaten anything since dinner yesterday.” An image of the leathery steak sitting on her plate flashed through her mind, made her stomach do a flip.
“What? Don’t tell me a wholesome American girl like you skips breakfast?”
“Not usually,” she said. “But I have to confess, I was too nervous to have anything except coffee this morning.”
“Nervous about what?”
“About this. About coming here, seeing you.” She hated to admit it to him, but she might as well be honest. The alcohol was definitely starting to affect her, loosening her tongue, infusing her cheeks with color.
“That’s a new one. I haven’t met a woman who could get nervous over a date in a long time. I thought the function had been genetically deactivated.”
“You must be meeting the wrong kind of women, then,” Iris said. His comment made her feel slightly antiquated, but on the other hand, his use of the word “date” to define what they were doing had an old-fashioned ring to it, too. She knew he must be a bit of a romantic, between the things he had written to her, and the work that he did. Anyone sensitive and talented enough to bring out such beauty in the images he captured on film could not be otherwise.
Her considerations were interrupted by Marcello Mezzamanica, who was making the rounds, shaking hands, slapping backs, surprising Iris by stopping to kiss her on her cheeks, as he prepared to leave. “His driver’s here,” Max said. “Now’s your chance if you still want to go, and I’m sure Marcello would love to have you along, especially now that you’re all bright-eyed. You don’t get to ride in a limo with a TV star every day, do you?”
Iris felt a twinge of disappointment. Max knew she hadn’t eaten, but instead of trying to convince her to stay, now it almost sounded as if he wanted to send her away, like some little kid who was out past her bedtime. She would actually be quite happy to hang around for a while longer, now that she had loosened up; Peppe had a gift for telling stories that really made her laugh, and she was learning a lot of interesting things about Max. Plus, there was something about the way Max looked at her, his eyes slanted, his mouth twisted in wry half-smile, that made her heart race and her palms sweat, and her lips crave another kiss. Finding herself at the center of his attention made her feel special. Better than special. Max made her feel attractive, desired.
“I was probably wrong about you, anyway,” he said.
“Wrong? About what?”
“That you would have the guts to come.”
“But as you can see, I am here.”
“Yeah, well, earlier you said you didn’t think it was such a great idea after all. I can’t blame you for wishing you were back in your cozy villa where you belong, making dinner for that nice husband of yours.”
Why did he have to bring Gregorio into this, just when she was starting to warm up to him? Did he think she lacked the nerve to stay? She was tempted to tell him this was not the first time she had strayed from her sweet little home, but what business was that of his? And why should she feel like she had to prove anything to him? She looked out the door at the limo glistening in the rain, its engine running. She would have to decide quickly, which shouldn’t be all that difficult, considering she had already made up her mind back in the church. Maybe if God wanted her to leave, He could find a way to push her out the door.
“Then again, as long as you’re here, maybe you should have something to eat,” Max said. “I’d hate for you to go away on an empty stomach.”
“Maybe,” she said, wishing the car would speed away, taking her option of leaving with it.
“Dinner is at Donna Amalia’s, down by the seafront,” Max said. “It’s the best restaurant in town, owned by the same family since it opened for business, three generations ago. The upcoming generation is a pair of fifteen-year-old Chinese twin sisters, adopted when they were two. I thought it might give an interesting angle to our story. The owners invited us to talk over dinner. I figured, why refuse a free dinner, you know? Unless you prefer to go somewhere else, just the two of us.” He kissed her on the mouth again, parting her lips with his tongue, finding hers, barely touching it with his, retreating. “If you still want to leave after dinner, I’ll get Peppe to drive you back, how’s that?”
Iris readjusted her imagined scenario of the evening once more to adapt to the constantly evolving reality. Max ran his fingers through his hair, leaning back against the bar as he waited for her answer. His thick hair was so black as to appear blue in the harsh fluorescent light, like the hair of a comic book Superman. She thought of Gregorio’s receding hairline, wispy and greying, with the same mixture of sadness and affection she had felt while riding on the train across from her father and noticed for the first time that he was growing old.
“Promise?” she said.
“Promise,” he said.
She relaxed; he did want her to stay, but was still giving her a way out. An uninvited thought of Gregorio eating tripe with his mother, and in turn thinking of Iris twirling bucatini around a fork with the seminarians skipped across her mind, making her feel slightly guilty, but mostly it made her giggle again. She would worry about the guilt later, it had a habit of hanging around.
During the brief drive to the restaurant, Iris listened to Max and the crew rehash the day’s events and swap derogatory remarks about Mezzamanica. Craning her neck over the other passengers to observe the landscape, she was surprised to see that there were more appealing aspects of Sabaudia to be found in nature, with sand dunes and the open sea on one side, and a small lake on the other; the restaurant was located in between. There was still enough light to admire the luxuriant swath of vegetation growing along the shore as far as the promontory of Monte Circeo, whose massive silhouette could be seen to the
south.
Over dinner, everyone had something to share with Iris, who was eager to learn more about this strange little city. She learned that Sabaudia had become quite popular with writers and intellectuals back in the Sixties, and one could still encounter celebrities on weekends and during the summer, when they buzzed down for a break from the heat and hustle of Rome. Many lived in impressive villas tucked away from view by lush gardens.
Soon after they had eaten their first course of spaghetti with clams in the shell, followed by an immense grilled seafood platter, all of it washed down with several bottles of chilled Cori Bianco DOC, the rain finally stopped, and Iris asked if anyone minded her opening a window. There were seven of them at the table, Iris being the only woman; most of the men had been smoking throughout dinner, and the combined smells of fish and tobacco prevented her from desiring either. Meanwhile, the men kept topping off her wine, joking and flirting and prying, but by responding to their quizzes with questions of her own, she got away with revealing little about herself. Max seemed to get a kick out of watching Iris interact with the other men as they teased her about her accent, and made her blush by attributing double meanings to everything she said. After coffee and a few rounds of digestive liqueurs were consumed, and not a drop of any substance in liquid form remained on the table, the men pulled themselves to their feet.
“Let’s go, Capo,” Max said, hiking up his jeans as he stood. She had never noted the pudginess around his midsection before, probably because he was so tall; but then again, maybe he was just full. Iris had hardly been able to touch her food, and he had done a good job packing away her share as well. It was a pleasure to eat with someone who had a hearty appetite for once, and didn’t count how many sips of wine she drank.
“But don’t you have to talk to the owners?” Iris said, standing.
“About what?” Max said.
“About the shoot tomorrow? Isn’t that why they invited you guys here?”
Max laughed. “Don’t worry about it. No one gives a shit. We get our dinner, and they get to go on TV. We’ll wing it like we always do.”
[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series Page 104