Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow: My Life

by Sophia Loren

  But that’s not how it went, and the following days turned out to be among the saddest and darkest of my life. Although I kept on working, I could tell something was not right with me, not up to par. In Rome I went to see another gynecologist, who reassured me: “Get a few days’ rest and travel by train, rather than by car. But don’t worry, everything’s normal.”

  We were headed to Milan to shoot the last episode of the movie based on a short story by Moravia. Too bad, though, that “Anna,” the title of the episode, almost entirely took place in a stage car that had been mounted on a hydraulic arm to simulate the bumps. It was much worse than any real car.

  The first night in Milan I felt a terrible pain. The physician summoned by the hotel tried to reassure me, but a few hours later, the pain was so bad that I had to go to the emergency room. In order to avoid attracting attention we didn’t call an ambulance, but as I was inside the elevator, going down I almost fainted. The doctors took good care of me, but the urgency and nervousness with which they moved around left me with little hope. I was afraid, and terrified at the thought of the tragedy that was about to hit me, shattering the beautiful dream I’d just started to believe in. I felt helpless, I asked questions, but no one knew what to answer me.

  “Keep calm, Signora, we’re looking into it, we’re trying to understand. Don’t be nervous, you’ll see, everything will turn out for the best.” The ocean of meaningless words left me desperate and isolated. I can still see myself lying on that hospital bed, surrounded by white walls, the neon lighting, the smell of disinfectant penetrating my every cell and piercing my heart.

  The most painful recollection about that night was the scornful look on the nuns’ faces, who seemed to want to blame me. They were insensitive, inhumane, devoid of feeling, their useless, gratuitous humiliation of me spurred by prejudice and ignorance. They thought they knew the truth, the real story, but they didn’t know anything about me, my desires, my fears.

  I lost the baby. After the D&C that was necessary, I went right back to work. I didn’t want to keep the crew waiting—and it was really the only thing I could do.

  I had to make a real effort. But I felt gutted. It was as if the world had been turned off forever. I tried, but I could see nothing ahead of me, nothing that could console me. Carlo was by my side and my sister had rushed from Rome to keep me company, but it was all useless. I felt desperately alone, as I had never in my life felt before. My life as a star was nothing compared to the happiness of the new mothers I’d glimpsed at the clinic, getting ready to breast-feed their newborn babies.

  The morning I went back to the set I was sitting in the car, curled up in a corner, absently staring out the window at the gray cityscape of Milan that I couldn’t make sense of. Marcello came up to me, shy and gentle.

  “Has anything happened? Are you expecting?”

  “I was.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He left without another word, with the same gentleness as he’d approached me. We never talked about it again, but I was relieved that he knew. And I knew that he was close to me, and that he loved me. At that moment I knew that I would always be able to count on his friendship.

  TOMORROW

  I would soon discover that the bumping of the car on the set had nothing to do with my miscarriage. It was all a matter of hormones. Before I discovered that, though, my life had a great deal more suffering in store for me.

  Four years later, I lost a second child. I was making More Than a Miracle, a beautiful fairy tale directed by Francesco Rosi, also starring Omar Sharif. Although nothing can alleviate the pain of this type of mourning, I was more prepared this time. I knew my body better now, and knew how to interpret its signals.

  At the first signs of pregnancy, although there were still three days before the shooting was to end, I called Carlo, happy and concerned at the same time: “Carlo, I’m pregnant . . . But this time I’m going to be careful, I don’t want to take any risks.”

  He seemed to be even more nervous than I was, he couldn’t stand the thought of seeing me suffer again like the first time. I was used to having total control over a situation, but here we were venturing into unknown territory, without rules and without certainties. To keep me calm he feigned confidence: “Of course, Sophia. I’ll take care of everything. We’ll finish the movie later.”

  I left the set and forced myself to stay in bed. I did nothing. I didn’t read, didn’t watch TV, I even spoke as little as possible so that I wouldn’t disturb the baby. I wouldn’t even touch my stomach for fear it might bother him. But a little voice inside was telling me the same thing was happening all over again.

  My gynecologist, who was considered to be the best one around, was of little help. Actually, he was of no help at all. At the first signs of the pain I remembered too well, I was at home—we had moved to a beautiful villa in Marino, in the Roman hills—Carlo was in London for work, and my dear friend Basilio was there to keep me company. Since we’d met on the set of Woman of the River, we rarely left each other’s side. His fraternal friendship made me feel safe even when I felt that tragedy loomed ahead. Ines, my assistant, was there, too, to hold my hand. Her sixth sense had already guessed, and maybe mine had as well, but we didn’t utter a word.

  Basilio called the doctor.

  “Come quickly, please . . . As I told you before, she’s having contractions, she’s as white as a ghost, and she feels faint.”

  But the great and mighty doctor wouldn’t be moved to pity, and, from the height of his arrogant self-confidence, declared: “It’s nothing to worry about, have her drink some chamomile, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.” He thought he was a god, never had any self-doubt, and his passion was elsewhere. He was crazy about racing cars, and he went around wearing a car racing hat, like some ridiculous latter-day Tazio Nuvolari, the legendary racecar driver.

  We rushed to the hospital, despite the doctor’s indifference, and ran into him on his way out to a cocktail party. “It’s just a passing crisis,” he announced as he tried to shut the door behind him, his whitecoat fluttering about over his cashmere sweater. “Now, try to get some sleep. I gave you a nice strong sedative; we’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

  The contractions were getting worse, as if I were in labor, and my face was as yellow as a lemon. My mother, who had joined us, pounced on him with all her strength: “Can’t you see her face? She’s having a miscarriage!” But nothing doing. His cocktail party could not wait.

  When my pain ceased suddenly at four in the morning I knew it was over. It was Ines who telephoned the doctor, with all the details. He took his time coming, arriving at around six, and said: “Signora, you no doubt have excellent hips, and you’re a beautiful woman, but you will never have a child.”

  His scathing words made me feel powerless, barren, deeply inadequate. They dashed any hopes I might have had. This was no fairy tale. My life was taking a sad turn and I saw no future. The press made everything even more difficult, and wasted no time parading the news of our pain to the whole world.

  “Now I can go back to the set and finish the movie,” I said to Carlo as soon as he stepped into my room, having come directly from the airport. I was trying to lighten the blow, to show him how strong I was. His smile turned into a grimace, it was obvious that he felt totally helpless. Only at that moment did I let myself go, crying my heart out.

  In the desperate months that followed, a sense of failure spread to every corner of my soul, like a flood that washes over everything, houses, streets, cities. Even Carlo, a solid, concrete businessman, lost his step. He became depressed, could hardly work, talk, or smile.

  Luckily, fate led us to an unexpected discovery. The wife of Goffredo Lombardo, who had invented my stage name, had gone through an odyssey similar to mine, but she’d chanced upon the right person, an internationally renowned expert who had helped her carry to term. His name was Hubert de Watteville, and he directed the gynecology clinic at Geneva Hospital.

  Tall, very thi
n, de Watteville was about sixty years old, with a beaklike nose and a somewhat aristocratic, detached air. At the beginning I had been disappointed, having hoped to find a sympathetic, loving father more than an ascetic professional. But I was mistaken in my first impression. As I got to know him I found he was one of the most affectionate, sensitive men I’d ever meet in my life. He himself hadn’t had any children, and he’d poured his desire for fatherhood into his work, so that the children he helped come into the world were in some ways his, too.

  After studying my case at length, he had drawn conclusions that were more optimistic than even I had hoped for. “There’s nothing wrong, you’re a very normal woman. The next time you get pregnant we’ll monitor you from up close to see if we can understand exactly how to step in. You’ll see, things will go smoothly next time.”

  In early 1968, when I got pregnant for the third time, I moved to Geneva. I chose a hotel close to the doctor’s office, took to bed, and waited patiently, under his authoritative watch, for him to perform a miracle. He examined me right, left, and center, and did every test imaginable. Afterward, he smiled at me and said: “The problem is you don’t have enough estrogen, and this keeps the egg from attaching to the uterus. We can give you estrogens, with some good strong injections, and this child will be born in December. Just like the Baby Jesus!”

  In the following months, I was anxious and calm at the same time. I stayed on the eighteenth floor of the Hotel Intercontinental for months of forced idleness. To distract myself. I started cooking with Ines. The kitchen spoke to me of my childhood, family, and whole life. We recreated recipes from my past, and used ideas I’d gathered while traveling around the world, as well as advice given to me by chefs, both great and unknown, I’d happened to meet. I diligently wrote everything in a notebook so I wouldn’t forget anything about this extraordinary experience. It was actually Basilio who one day, years later, while leafing though it by chance, exclaimed, “This is a great cookbook! Why don’t we publish it?” And that’s how my first cookbok, In the Kitchen with Love, came to be published. Love and cooking carried me along until the day—the one I had both greatly feared and desired—I was to give birth.

  When the day came—a C-section had been planned so as to avoid any other complications—de Watteville came to pick me up secretly at five in the morning, actually driving into the lobby in his car. He wanted to spare me from the crowd of journalists thronging the front of the clinic.

  The night before, lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t slept a wink. The truth is, I didn’t want my pregnancy to end. But as soon as I entered the clinic I heard the other babies crying, and I realized that I would soon be hearing my own child crying just like them. I wanted to stop time, dilate it to infinity. I was scared. I didn’t want to share this child that was all mine with anyone else. I now know that this is a feeling that characterizes the first instant of motherhood. Separating from him meant delivering my son to his own life.

  A few hours later Carlo Hubert Leone Jr. was born—Carlo after his father, Hubert after Dr. de Watteville, Leone after his paternal grandfather—offering me the greatest, sweetest joy I had ever experienced, equal only to what I was to get from Edoardo four years later.

  Now my greatest dreams had at last become reality.

  • • •

  As I savor this indescribable joy once more, my treasure trove of memories again takes me by the hand and leads me back a few seasons.

  IX

  MARRIAGES

  MARRIAGE ITALIAN STYLE

  “Dummi’, o’ bello de’ ’e figlie l’avimmo perduto . . . Figlie so’ chille che se teneno ’mbraccia quanno so’ piccirille, ca te danno preoccupazione quanno stanno malate e nun te sanno dicere che se sènteno . . . ca te corrono incontro cu’ ’e braccelle aperte dicenno: ‘Papà.’ ” (Dummì, we’ve missed the beauty of having children . . . it means holding them in your arms when they’re little, it means worrying about them when they’re sick and don’t know how to describe how they feel, it’s when they run toward you with their arms wide open and call you “Papà.”)

  Filumena Marturano’s words from Marriage Italian Style reverberate in my ears like sweet music filled with truth while I use my fingers to try to smooth out a creased page of the magazine Oggi, an issue dated April 23, 1964, which announced that shooting of the movie was about to begin. Carlo and De Sica had decided to make a movie out of the comedy Eduardo De Filippo had written for his sister, Titina, a renowned actress who had immortalized the role on stage. Here I was again on the set with Marcello.

  Carlo had been thinking about it for a long time, until one day he’d made up his mind, and just tossed the question at me, with carefully studied nonchalance:

  “Sophia, could you see yourself as Filumena?”

  I shut my eyes; before me was the parted curtain, the lights dimming, the red velvet of an immense seating area . . .

  “Filumena? Filumena Marturano?”

  Carlo had guessed I might be reluctant, and he looked at me with a smile.

  Smiling back at him, I replied: “Do you think I could? I’d really like to . . .”

  This simple exchange of words was enough for us to begin one of our happiest adventures.

  Marriage Italian Style—the title chosen for Filumena’s story, and a nod to Divorce Italian Style, directed by Pietro Germi in 1961—was one of my most important movies. It offered me a great role, an all-around one, which encompassed twenty-five years of Neapolitan life lived, and suffered, one year after another, by an intelligent, passionate woman, who was determined to use everything in her power to fight for her dignity and for that of her children. In other words, it was a role with which any Italian actress would have wanted to test her skills.

  In the comedy, Filumena is middle-aged and worn down by life—but not defeated. Born in Vico San Liborio, in one of the city’s poorest quarters, she ends up like many other young women her age, working in a brothel, where she is found by Don Dummì, a confirmed well-to-do bachelor who belongs to a completely different social class. The two of them love each other, and she fools herself into thinking that something might come of it. But Dummì has absolutely no intention of marrying her. Filumena becomes his kept woman. He hands over the management of his pastry shop to her, a job she does with all the air of being its efficient owner. Don Dummì takes her to his home, but he relegates her to the maid’s room, and he cheats on her his whole life.

  Over the years, Filumena gives birth to three children, whose father’s identity perhaps only she knows. She keeps her sons hidden, raising them secretly, and making sure they get the right schooling, which she pays for with Don Dummì’s money. But she’s tired now, her children have grown up, and she’s determined to give them a father, a name, to guarantee their future. How could anyone not agree with her? My sister, Maria, and I knew all about such things.

  The performance starts right at this point in the story, with a splendid ruse. Filumena pretends she’s on her last breath to get Don Dummì to marry her. She does not give up, even when he discovers her plan. There’s no stopping her anymore. She’s decided to show her cards, to play the game to the bitter end. “Dummi’, uno di chisti figli è tuo” (one of these children is yours), but I won’t tell you which one. Either all of them, or none of them.”

  The play on which the movie is based had been written by Eduardo in 1946 and had become a huge success. The character of Filumena had become so dear to the public in the late 1940s, that it had taken on a life of its own. One evening, Luigi De Filippo, the playwright’s nephew, recalls, a group of women entered the dressing room of the Roman Elisio theater to say hello to Titina De Filippo and pressed her to tell them who the fathers of the three Marturano boys were.

  “Brava, brava, Titina, you are truly a charming actress. But tell us, which of the three boys is Don Dummì’s son? We’re dying to know . . .”

  Titina, being the actress that she was, played along with them, and replied: “My dear, dear ladies, I know which one i
t is, but I can’t tell you because my brother Eduardo would be furious if I did!”

  Usually, I can understand a person in a single glance, and the same thing happens when it comes to my characters: either I like them, or I don’t, either I feel them, or I don’t. Filumena belonged to me as much as my Pozzuoli accent. Maybe I liked her because she had always abided by her own personal motto: “Don’t be someone who makes people cry (chiagnere), make them laugh instead.”

  After I’d agreed to play the part, Carlo hadn’t wasted an instant. He’d sounded out Mastroianni’s willingness to be in the movie, and assigned the screenplay to Renato Castellani, Tonino Guerra, Leonardo Benvenuti, and Piero De Bernardi. But it was De Sica, as usual, who cleared up any last doubts I might have had by finding just the right angle for my part.

  The play had already been adapted for cinema in 1951 by the De Filippo siblings. Just saying the name Filumena conjured up the image of Titina, as well as of the other great actresses who had played the same part, such as Regina Bianchi, the crème de la crème (meglio del meglio) of Italian theater.

  De Filippo, on his part, was happy to pass on the baton to De Sica; he trusted his deeply Neapolitan spirit, his sensitivity. He also seemed curious to see how I would play the character he’d written to fit. “Saccio ca ’a trattarraje bbuon’” (I know you’ll treat her well), he had said to me smiling one day. “Ca nun ’a farraje manca’ niente, ca ’a darraje quaccosa d’ ’o ttuoje, e a farraje gira’ ’o munno.” (I know you’ll make sure she has everything she needs, that you’ll give her something of your own, that you’ll introduce her to the world).

  Sometimes life likes to play nasty tricks on us. On December 26, 1963, after we’d already begun working on the movie, the phone rang at our home in Marino. We were all sitting around the table enjoying the Christmas leftovers—Basilio, Mammina, Maria, and little Ale, as we called Maria’s daughter—wrapped in that snug atmosphere of the day after Christmas, when everything is so much calmer, the tension is gone, and you can finally enjoy the holiday spirit. On the other end of the line we heard De Sica’s desperate voice: “Sofì, Titina’s passed away.” Her ailing heart had given up, taking away with it a sweet yet very strong woman, and a great actress.