Carissima

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  “Ah, si! That is the beauty of Rome. I am glad to hear that you are getting some pleasure out of being here. I must admit, Pia, I have been worried about you.”

  “I suppose Lorenzo told you about me and Gregory.” I say it as a statement rather than a question.

  “Do not be upset with him. He was anxious for you, too. And even if he had not told me, I could see it with my own eyes. You have not looked the same since you have arrived.”

  I shrug my shoulders. I don’t know what to say. She’s right. I’m a mess both on the outside and inside.

  “Pia, this pain will pass. Trust me. First love is complicated and rarely works out.”

  “How do you know this was my first love?”

  “Because you are absolutely crushed.”

  “So when other loves break your heart, you’re not as hurt is what you’re saying?”

  “In a sense, yes. I am not saying that it does not hurt when another person you fall in love with after your first boyfriend breaks your heart. It is just that with first love you experience the feelings much more strongly because it is the first time you have felt this way. You think the world is over and no one can replace that love.”

  “Is this the way it was with Mario Scarpone?”

  Francesca purses her lips tightly before taking a sip of her espresso. She then turns her back toward me and scans the pedestrians walking by the café.

  “Where is Edgardo? That is strange he has been gone for so long.”

  Apparently, Francesca doesn’t wish to talk about Mario Scarpone or her past experience with first love. Whatever. I’m tired of her games. Just when she begins opening up to me and revealing more about herself, she then pulls back. This has happened repeatedly, first with the Profile interview and now in Rome with the questions I’ve asked her in order to write her autobiography. I’m here on her dime. If she wants to waste her money, that’s fine by me.

  Out of nowhere Edgardo suddenly looms over us with his towering frame. I’m relieved to see he isn’t wearing a suit. Even in New York City, it was ludicrous that he was wearing one since the summers get just as hot and humid there as they do in Rome. In olive-green khakis and a tan button-down shirt that he doesn’t wear tucked, he strikes a handsome and menacing presence. I can’t help but wonder if he and Francesca ever had a fling. She certainly seems to appreciate a good-looking man.

  “We need to get going,” Edgardo says, but he does not look at Francesca. He dares not relax his guard for even a moment.

  “Never free. This is the curse of being a legend, Pia. Be very grateful that you are not famous and have no desire to be.” Francesca downs the last of her espresso, leans over, and kisses me on both cheeks.

  “Am I hearing correctly that Francesca Donata regrets being a famous movie star?”

  “I do not have any regrets. After all, being an actress was my destiny, but sometimes it can be a burden is all I am saying.” Francesca turns to Edgardo, and just as he did moments ago, she talks to him, but looks off in the distance lest anyone notices. “Please give me a minute to talk to Pia in private.”

  “I’m timing you.” Edgardo points to his expensive Rolex watch—no doubt a gift from Francesca. Then again, I’m sure she pays him a handsome salary and he could afford it on his own. He walks over to Antico Caffè Greco’s entrance, resuming his scan of the crowd.

  “Pia, I think you should take some time off from work.”

  “I’m fine, Francesca. Really.”

  “Do not lie to me. You most definitely are not fine. All you do is work. That is commendable, but even when I was busy acting in film upon film, I took my vacations. You will burn. Is that how the Americans call it?”

  “Burn out.”

  “Si. You will burn out if you keep going this way. Just take a week off, even more if you need it.”

  “You must not want this autobiography to be written all that badly.”

  “There is time for that. I am not going anywhere.”

  “But I am, Francesca. I have a life back in the U.S.”

  “Va bene. Then take only a week. Lorenzo can show you more around Rome. He is an expert on her treasures. You will have your own personal tour guide for free. I can see that he has grown very fond of you and appreciates your friendship, especially during this difficult time he is going through.”

  I’m tempted. My mind has not been focused. Surely a week won’t hurt. Besides, if I feel refreshed after a few days, I can return to work. Maybe I’ll still interview Francesca in the evenings after I take in Rome’s sights by day. I could leave the actual writing to the following week.

  “I’ll compromise. I won’t write for a week, and I’ll relax by exploring the city during the day. But I would still like to continue our interviews in the evening. It’s not labor-intensive taking notes of our discussions. That would make me feel better. I don’t want to fall behind schedule. And Lorenzo doesn’t have to accompany me. I’m sure he has better things to do than babysit me.”

  “He loves teaching, and showing Rome to someone who has never been here will be an absolute delight for him.”

  I see there’s no point in arguing with Francesca. I’ll just let Lorenzo know he doesn’t have to be my guide every day.

  “Grazie, Francesca.”

  “For what?”

  “Your hospitality and for caring about me.”

  “È niente. It is nothing. I will see you back at my apartment.” She waves and walks by Edgardo, who soon follows along with the other bodyguard.

  I finish my espresso and join the teeming crowds on Via Condotti. I still have not been to the Trevi Fountain and decide to begin my week-long respite now. Pulling out my map, I locate Via del Corso and head over.

  As I approach Rome’s largest and most famous fountain, the hordes of tourists flipping their coins into the pool make it difficult for me to get a good view. But once I’m up close, I see the Trevi Fountain is more glorious than the first time I saw it as a child in the 1954 flick Three Coins in the Fountain. The sculptures that comprise the fountain are of Neptune and two Tritons, or mythological Greek gods of the sea. The site that the Trevi Fountain was built on was once an aqueduct built in 19 BC. I feel a rush of adrenaline course through me as I take in the masterpiece before me. Suddenly, the landmark’s enormous size makes me feel very small—and alone. I look around, but I appear to be the only person who isn’t with someone.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Pia. You’re in one of the greatest cities in the world, and you’re too busy moping around.

  My internal pep talk gives me some courage. Ever since I saw Three Coins in the Fountain, I’ve always dreamed about standing here someday and flipping my own coins into the magical waters. I feel a bit foolish doing it with no one to cheer me on. Then again, it’s not like any of the tourists are staring at me. They’re all too busy taking photos and enjoying themselves. With all the drama my life has had recently, it’s only sensible to throw a few coins into the Trevi Fountain, to not only ensure I return to Rome someday, but also to give me some much needed good luck.

  Searching the bottom of my large handbag, I finally find three euros and turn my back toward the fountain. I remember reading that the proper ritual is to toss the coins with your right hand over your left shoulder or left hand over your right shoulder. Since I’m right-handed, I opt for that hand. Instead of just one, I decide to toss all three coins, hoping to increase my luck.

  I’m about to toss my coins when I realize I haven’t thought of a wish. Naturally, I want to return to Rome. That’s a given. I need to make a wish that’s more concrete than just hoping my life takes a turn for the better. Searching my mind, I finally decide what I want most. My own fountain of tears threatens to spill any moment. Closing my eyes, I make my wish and toss my coins into the Trevi Fountain.

  26

  Francesca

  Last night, Giuliana visited me in my dreams. But it was not the old Giuliana. Instead, she was the young girl who braided my hair and sang t
o me . . . my confidante who always made me laugh as we ran along the beaches in Sicily, collecting pebbles and seashells but pretending they were fine gems . . . the beautiful woman who always saw to my needs first before her own . . . the older sister who told me about the secret ways of love between a man and a woman . . . the only best friend I ever had.

  “Francesca, svegliati.” Giuliana implored me to wake up in my dreams. I did, but she kept repeating, “Svegliati. Svegliati.”

  “I am awake, Giuli.”

  “No, you are not. You have not told the truth yet.”

  “Per favore, piu tempo. I need more time, Giuli.”

  “Three decades. You have had three decades.”

  “No, I have not had all those years. We made a pact. We were never going to tell.”

  “The truth, Francesca. You promised me to tell the truth.”

  Suddenly, the young Giuliana I remember from my youth is replaced by the old Giuliana who stared at me intently on her deathbed as I made my oath to honor her last wish. I reach out to stroke her cheek, but Giuliana disappears. I wake up. My heart is racing, and my pillow is wet. Getting out of bed, I walk over to the window and open it wider. The stifling humid heat Rome is known for in August greets me. At least the usually noisy streets are a bit quieter.

  Italians have already left for Ferragosto, a holiday that has been celebrated since ancient Roman times. It is also a holy day in the Catholic Church and is known as the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Most of the country takes off for their summer vacation in August, and though the Ferragosto holiday falls on the fifteenth of the month, many Italians begin their vacations the first week in August and do not return to work until the first week in September.

  I turn on the lamp that sits on my night table. The small wooden clock that has been passed down in my family for three generations tells me it is only midnight. I went to bed at eleven. Giuliana’s passing has fatigued me incredibly. Normally, I do not go to sleep until midnight or even one a.m. Sighing deeply, I slip my silk robe over my lace camisole and matching shorts. It is too hot to wear even a short nightgown. Though the apartment has air conditioning, I prefer not to use it, like most other Italians. I am convinced the air conditioning from Giuliana’s home in Astoria gave me aches in my bones I have never had.

  My apartment is on the top floor of a historic building in Rome. When I bought it, the neighboring apartment was also available so I purchased that one as well and knocked down the walls to connect the two residences. This allowed me to expand the kitchen to the size of one that would be found in a large house.

  Cooking and baking have always calmed my nerves. While it is late, I decide to make one of my favorite desserts, Riso Nero di Pasqua or Black Easter Rice. It is a chocolate rice pudding dessert from Messina, Sicily, where Giuliana and I grew up. Traditionally, the dessert is made for Easter in honor of the Black Madonna of Tindari. A cathedral in honor of this Black Madonna sits at the foot of a dramatic cliff in the town of Tindari. Once a year, I hike up the mountain to atone for my sins, much to the chagrin of Edgardo and the rest of my bodyguards, who grudgingly must keep up with me on the arduous ascent. I love making this dessert throughout the year and not just for Easter.

  As I wait for the Arborio rice to cook, I pour a shot of sambuca. I almost drop my glass when I hear the phone ring. Who is calling at this hour?

  I walk over to an old rotary-dial phone that hangs on the wall in my kitchen next to my refrigerator. My maid, Maria, always answers the phone lest it is a fan or a paparazzo, but she is a heavy sleeper and no doubt does not hear the phone ringing. What is the harm if I answer my own phone? No one will recognize my voice. But naturally, just as I say, “Pronto,” I hear Edgardo’s voice on another of my phones.

  “Pronto. Chi parla?”

  “Hello, Edgardo. It’s Gregory Hewson.”

  “Gregory, is everything okay?” I ask him.

  “Francesca, get off the phone,” Edgardo roars at me.

  “Stop being so paranoid, Edgardo! This is my house and phone!”

  “I need to make sure it really is Gregory.”

  “Trust me, it’s me. I’m sorry for calling so late. But I’ve been having a hard time reaching Pia on her cell. I think she might’ve canceled her international plan since my calls aren’t going through. May I please speak to her, Francesca?”

  “She is probably sleeping, Gregory. But I will check.”

  “Can you please wake her up if she is sleeping? I really need to talk to her.”

  “I will do my best. Hold on.”

  I place the phone down on the counter and make my way toward the guest room where Pia is staying. Knocking on Pia’s door, I push it slightly ajar when I do not hear her voice, expecting her to be sound asleep. But she is standing by her window looking out.

  “Pia? I knocked, but you must not have heard me.”

  “Is everything all right, Francesca? I heard the phone ring.”

  “It is Gregory. He insists on talking to you.”

  “Tell him I’m sleeping.”

  “He asked me to wake you up and said he had to talk to you.”

  “I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “He said he has tried to call you a few times, and now he thinks you canceled your international plan with your cell phone carrier.”

  “I did. How am I supposed to move forward with my life and forget about him if I continue talking to him?” Pia shakes her head and turns her back to me as she resumes gazing out the window.

  “You can do what you want, Pia, but maybe you should talk to him and make it clear that it is truly over or else he will keep calling.”

  Pia turns around. Her arms are crossed defensively across her chest. I wait. Finally, she says, “Okay. I’ll talk to him. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be placing you in the middle like this.”

  “You can use the phone on your nightstand. I will hang up once I go back into the kitchen. I am making chocolate rice pudding. It should be ready by the time you are off the phone. Join me afterward.”

  “You’re making dessert this late? Aren’t you worried about ruining your famous figure?” Pia smiles.

  “Life is meant for living and enjoying all of its pleasures.” I return her smile and walk out, closing the door behind me.

  More than half an hour passes before Pia joins me in the kitchen. I have just finished stirring the chocolate and milk into the ceramic dish that holds the cooked rice. After sprinkling the top generously with cinnamon, I scoop a few heaping spoons of the rice pudding into crystal dessert glasses.

  “Aren’t you supposed to chill the rice pudding before serving it?” Pia asks, but I see she cannot wait as she samples the dessert.

  “I like it both warm and cold, and since it is rather late, I am not going to wait for it to cool before I eat it.”

  “Hmmm! So good! I’ve never had rice pudding while it’s still warm, and I’ve never had chocolate rice pudding. I didn’t even know it existed. Wow, Francesca! Who would have known that a silver-screen star like you is also a diva in the kitchen?”

  Closing my eyes, I savor the deep, bitter taste of the chocolate in the rice pudding before swallowing it. After just a couple of teaspoons, I feel relaxed. We continue enjoying our dessert in silence. I wait for Pia to bring up her discussion with Gregory. Maybe she needs a little prodding.

  “How is Gregory?”

  “Fine. Busy, of course, finishing the paintings for his second show.”

  I see this is going to be more difficult than I anticipated. I have never been one for subtlety, and why should I begin now?

  “He is not ready to let you go, is he?”

  “It’s not his decision. He betrayed me. So there’s nothing he can say to convince me to take him back.” Pia shrugs her shoulders before continuing. “Even if he hadn’t betrayed me, I don’t think our relationship would have worked out. He’s changed ever since he was discovered.” Pia’s face looks pained.

  “I know it is har
d not to take it personally, Pia, but he is human. Becoming rich and famous changes you, whether you want it to or not.”

  “Of course you’re talking from personal experience?” Pia asks.

  “Si. Please, do not take this the wrong way, Pia, but to be quite frank with you, I never thought you and Gregory were right for each other.”

  “Really?”

  I can hear a slight annoyance in Pia’s tone. I have offended her.

  “You have to remember I am on the outside and can see things differently than the people involved in the relationship.”

  Pia nods her head. “So, why didn’t you think we were a good match?”

  “I have known Gregory since he was a boy. He has always had an impulsive nature. He becomes bored quite easily except for his art. He has never strayed from his passion for painting. I cannot see Gregory ever settling down with one woman. He just is not the type to commit to anyone.”

  “If that’s true, why did he just tell me then that he hasn’t given up on me?”

  “He does not know himself. That I can tell you with the utmost certainty. I hate to say this, Pia, and I pray to God I am wrong, but you will probably never hear from him again.”

  “I don’t know. He keeps calling me even though I’ve told him repeatedly not to.”

  “He is a man above all else. He has his pride. Gregory is not going to keep chasing you at the risk of looking pathetic each time you scorn him. Besides, I thought you said you will not forgive him and you need to move forward with your life. What I am telling you should not be troubling you.”

  “No, no. You are right. I just don’t see him as the womanizer type who moves on to the next one so soon. I don’t know. Then again, I never thought he would . . .”

  “He would what?”

  “Betray me. Look, Francesca, I appreciate your advice, but I’d like to stop talking about this now if you don’t mind.”

  “Va bene.”

  “So I know what’s been keeping me up. Why can’t you sleep?”

  “Ah. I had a dream about Giuliana.”

  “It will take time, Francesca. I lost Erica three years ago, and the pain still feels fresh.”