“Exactly.”
“You and me both, pal,” Bert said. “And if anybody gets in the way, slap ’em down.”
Nadine said crisply, “I thought little boys got over that mentality when they grew up. I would think that gentlemen of your age, and assumed intelligence, would have higher ambition than chasing skirts and working up hangovers.”
Little Bert Fix grinned wickedly, his Irish pixie grin. “I didn’t know there was any ambition higher than chasing skirts,” he said.
However, Max was nettled. He didn’t know this girl. And what right did she have to an opinion about how he led his life? His ambition, if you wanted to call it that, was to stay out of the rut. The nine-to-five treadmill simply wasn’t for him. It was bad enough having family members connected with Fielding Toys continually harping on his settling down, but why did he deserve this stranger, no matter how attractive, telling him off?
Max said easily, “We each of us make our own beds and sleep in them, Miss Barney. And what motivates the other man often mystifies me. For instance, beneath those horn-rimmed cheaters and under that less than bewitching hair-do is one of the prettiest faces in Rome, and I have a suspicion that beneath that stiff-as-starch business suit is a more than averagely cute figure, and that those low-heeled shoes support as trim a pair of stems as there is in this studio. The question becomes, why are you hiding yourself? Afraid some nasty man will get you?”
She flushed angrily. “That would seem to be my business.” Her voice was crisp.
“Ummm,” Max agreed. “And the way I waste my life is mine.”
She opened her mouth for rebuttal, but the overgrown watch she wore buzzed away like a rattler. She glanced down at it, snapped the alarm off. “Half-past,” she muttered. “See Mr. Shirey.” She turned and briskly moved away, her heels tapping tune to the march.
Bert Fix was grinning at his companion. He scratched his little goatee. “First time I ever saw anybody get under the messenger of doom’s skin,” he said admiringly. He looked over to where the director and his two stars were standing near the cameras. Minor changes were being made in camera positions and lighting.
Bert muttered something to the effect that they were setting up another scene. “Like to meet Marcy, Max?”
Actually, Max Fielding was no celebrity hunter. From time to time in his travels he would run into world figures in the entertainment field, especially in the art colonies, but it had never occurred to him to go out of his way to be able to say he’d met Rita Hayworth, Ava Gardner or whoever. However, the movie flack was obviously of the opinion that no American man but would give his left arm to meet that ultra sex symbol, Marcia McEvoy.
“Why, I suppose so,” Max said.
“Come on over.” Bert took his arm, and began hauling him along.
“She doesn’t want to be bothered …” Max began, holding back.
“Pal, it’s an occupational hazard in the business she’s in. Besides, they love it. Don’t ever get sucked in on that idea that actors hate publicity or hate being recognized. The day comes along they stop getting recognized and they’re out of the running.”
Manny King, the director, was talking softly to Clark Talmadge when Bert and Max approached. Marcia McEvoy was combing her hair again with an occasional snarled aside to the weary-looking hairdresser, who was laden down with brushes, combs and a fairly large mirror.
Bert said, “Hi, Marcy.”
She looked at him, without missing a stroke.
“Got a fan of yours here. Meet Max Fielding.”
She stopped combing long enough to extend a hand. Even as Max shook it, she ran her eyes up and down his body, evidently liking what she saw. Her eyes went slumberous.
At this close a distance, some of the McEvoy glamour faded out. She must have been at least well into her thirties. But there was no missing her basic nature. If Max had ever seen a nympho, and he had, this was one. There was naked sex in her face, a certain slackness about her mouth that meant raw lust unappeased.
Max cleared his throat and said something appropriate, for once not going into his routine when meeting a woman.
Her eyes went over him again, even as she resumed the care of her hair. “I suppose you’re a journalist Bert is working on for publicity.”
Before Max could deny that, Bert said hurriedly, “Different deal, Marcy. Max here represents one of the biggest toy outfits in the States.”
“Toy outfits?” she said.
“Sure, sure. They’re bringing out a series of dolls. Each one looks like some top star. Only the big names of all time. Gary, Gable, Bing, among actors. Greta, Ingrid, Loretta, among actresses. And you, of course.”
“What a charming idea,” she murmured, looking Max over still again.
Max thought so, too. It was the first he’d heard of the scheme. It occurred to him that Bert Fix was a quick man with an idea, and probably earned his pay. He’d have to talk the possibilities over with Uncle Fred.
“Hello, Bert,” a voice said gently. The three of them turned to Manny King, who was politely but questioningly looking at Max.
Bert said, “Max, I’d like you to meet Manny King, our director. Max Fielding.”
“A pleasure,” the elderly director said softly. He shook hands, obviously assuming Max was in some way connected with publicity for Horatius. “First time on a set, Mr. Fielding?”
“That’s right,” Max said. “Fascinating.”
Clark Talmadge stood at the director’s side. “I suppose you’ll be coming out to the conte’s party tonight, Max.”
Max, taken aback, began a negation, but Bert Fix said, “Why not, pal? Everybody’s going to be there. The whole movie crowd in town.”
Max said uncomfortably, “I don’t even know who you’re talking about, let alone have an invitation.”
Manny King smiled gently. “I never attend such affairs but I understand that Conte Piero Piviali is most hospitable to the cinema world and to Americans.”
Marcia McEvoy looked at Max from the side of her eyes, combing again. “I’ll be there,” she said softly, in unspoken invitation.
One of the cameramen spoke to the director, who nodded at Max and then turned away. “Come along, children,” he said to his two stars.
Clark Talmadge said to Max, “Do come tonight, dear boy. We can have a fine chat.”
Bert said, “We’ll be there. Come on, pal. Let’s get out of the way.” He led Max off to another small cleared spot to one side. “I forgot about the conte’s party. What do you say we go?”
“Does anybody who wants just drop in?”
“Yeah, kinda. The old conte’s quite a boy. Kinda senile, almost. He spends all day going to the movies, see? Then he throws parties and tries to get into some of the actresses he saw on the screen. Got a regular fetish for girls he’s seen on the screen.”
Max had to laugh. “Does he have much luck?”
“You’d be surprised.” Bert waved to someone Max couldn’t make out in the dimness. “Hi, pal. How’d you make out?”
A figure approached them. It was Clara Lucciola, the redhead of the night before. She made the American gesture of touching forefinger and thumb together to indicate satisfaction. “In like Errol Flynn,” she said.
Bert corrected her. “Not in like Errol Flynn,” he said. “Just, in like Flynn.”
She made with her characteristic smile that indicated she had inner and secret thoughts. “I can see you didn’t know Errol,” she murmured.
Both Bert and Max laughed.
She turned her eyes to Max, and the corners of her mouth went down. “Ah, the overgrown American ox.”
Max, grinning widely, held a hand to his heart as though suffering a cruel blow.
Bert said, “Hey, you got that one wrong, too. You know what an ox is?”
Her eyes went over Max languidly, then she said to Bert, “But, of course, I know. The word in Italian is bue. It is a bull that has no.… How would you say? A bull that is no longer a bull.”
/> “Foul!” Max protested. “I demand a rematch. Besides, I was tired last night.”
Chapter Five
THERE ARE TWO HIGHWAYS labeled Appian which run south from present-day Rome. One is the Via Appia Nuova which starts at the Saint Giovanni Gate in the old walls of the city, and leads toward Naples. The other is the Via Appia Antica which starts at the Saint Sebastiano Gate and is probably the oldest road in the world still in everyday use. Today it differs from its earliest form, built by Roman engineers long before Christ, only in its asphalted surface and even that cannot be relied upon. At some points original cobblestones, rutted with wagon and chariot wheels, show through.
To each side of the Appia Antica are Roman tombs two thousand years old and more. To widen the road would mean destroying these archaeological remains, so it remains so narrow that modern automobile traffic is all but impossible, and even cars in a hurry seek elsewhere for a road. The quiet, that forgotten luxury, is as pronounced as you can find within easy commuting distance of Rome.
Ideal for the artist. Ideal for the writer. Ideal for the musician at practice, or the temperamental cinema star at rest. And ideal for the knock-down, drag-out party to end all parties, which has become the trade-mark of Rome’s present-day hedonistic set. Possibly the modern Roman falls short of the orgies once made famous by the Caesars — but they try, they try.
Conte Piero Piviali, pushing sixty, had little regard for his Rome palazzo, even though it had originally been designed by Michaelangelo and was one of the outstanding examples of Renaissance architecture in Italy. The conte, last of a line of Italian nobility that stretched back into antiquity, was impatient of the past, unhappy with the things of yesteryear and with age in whatever manifestation. The conte loved the new, the young, the gaudy, the ultra-latest, the ultra-modern. His villa on the Via Appia Antica, about three miles out of town, was several years in advance of the most modern in architecture, interior decorating and furniture.
America was his second hobby. Italy, he would gladly explain, was old and grim with age. America was the new, the alive, the world of tomorrow. Unfortunately, he had never been there. Which didn’t keep him from Americanizing the gigantic villa in which he lived, in terms of his own understanding of the American luxury estate. It was a fright, but nobody got around to telling the conte. They were too busy enjoying his food, his wine, his entertainment. Conte Piero Piviali held open house for the American movie colony, reaching culmination two or three times a month in tremendous blowouts. Which blowouts, incidentally, were his first hobby.
Max Fielding had picked up Clara Lucciola at her small, bohemian-type apartment in the old section of town on the Via Lungaretta and within stone-throwing distance of that hoary church, St. Maria in Trastevere.
She directed his way back across the Tiber by the Sublicio Bridge and then down Via della Marmorata.
It had turned out, earlier in the day, that she had been successful in obtaining the second feminine lead in Horatius. The part called for her portraying Charmian, a Roman traitress in communication with Lars Porsena, the Etruscan king who was trying to re-establish the monarchy which the Romans had recently overthrown. It wasn’t a sympathetic part; she explained, which was probably the reason Marcy McEvoy had okayed her selection.
Max hadn’t got that at the time, but postponed asking until he had her alone in the Porsche. At the studio Bert had explained that he wouldn’t be able to make the party until late, and had suggested that Max take Clara, who had no car but knew the way very well indeed.
Now as they drove, Max asked her, curiously, what Marcy McEvoy had to do with her being cast as Charmian.
She laughed at him and laid a hand, disconcertingly, on his upper thigh. “You innocent,” she said. “Max, my darling, for an actress to get to the top with little more than a pair of, ah, mammary glands to recommend her is very difficult. As well I know, eh? You must be a real … what do you say for cagna?”
“Bitch,” Max supplied.
“Yes. But more difficult than getting to the top is staying there, because there are always younger girls with larger mammary glands coming up. So you must stamp upon them. When you are a famous star, much in demand, you must insist in your contract that your approval is necessary on other feminine parts. If you are really big, then you can insist that you, or your business managers, okay every scene before the film is released. In that manner, you are assured that no new bright young thing is allowed to display her mammary glands in such a way as to be more photogenic than yours.”
Max was laughing. The girl spoke very seriously, but the swell of humor was beneath the surface. However, he realized that she was basically reporting the truth. The movie world might have its glamour but it was obviously no Utopia.
They were humming along the old Appian Way now, past the long lines of tombs, over the occasional bumps of the original cobblestones.
Clara pointed. “Up there, to the right.” There was a gate and a uniformed guard who darted a quick look at them, obviously recognizing Clara. He opened up hurriedly and flicked them a salute.
Clara had removed her hand from his thigh during the period it might have been possible for the guard to notice, but now, as they swept up the long drive toward the villa, she returned it, even more disconcertingly intimate this time.
She looked appraisingly at him from the side of her eyes. “And talking about bitches who get to the top and then stamp upon ambitious climbers, just remember that you might meet various would-be stars this evening, but that you came with me. We have a date for later, remember?”
Max said, innocently, “Oh, yeah, I was going to prove I’m not an ox.”
She patted him appreciatively. “Already, I am beginning to feel you are not.” Her slight Italian accent gave her low-spoken words an even more sensual connotation.
Max wet his lips, which had suddenly gone dry. He wondered whether he should turn the car around and head back to the motel, or possibly to her apartment.
Later, he was glad he hadn’t, if only for the sake of pure education. In a life devoted since reaching maturity to having as good a time as possible in the wine, women and song tradition, Max had never seen anything like this. He’d partied in Las Vegas and New Orleans, in art colonies in Mexico, Spain, Morocco and France. He had thrown wing-dings in a dozen spots around the world known as sin cities in the yellow press: Marseille, Port Said, Panama City, Hong Kong, Beirut, Istanbul, Tangier and others. In his wanderings and samplings, he had probably gotten stoned on every national beverage on earth, and a hundred subsidiary ones. He had slept around with every type of beauty he’d been able to locate. He had even, subscribing to the I’ll do anything once, and twice if it’s fun bit, chewed peyote in Mexico, smoked kief in North Africa, and got deathly sick on a pipe of opium in Hong Kong.
Max, he assured himself, had been around.
But never had he seen anything like this. The pure opulence wasn’t it, nor was the far-out decor, although the conte’s efforts to achieve abstraction beyond mere abstraction in his furnishings and decoration was something to give a soul with simple tastes a rare case of ultra-indigestion. What was it then? Possibly the magnitude of the sheer waste. The quantities of food that could never be consumed and must finally wind up garbage, the swarms of servants, at least one per guest, the high-priced talent performing with few, if any, observing. But that wasn’t all of it either. There was something wrong in the whole atmosphere.
Somewhere along the line he ran into Lonny Balt, the heavy-set, pasty-faced photographer who was forever threatening to quit his job. Lonny gave him a rundown on the background. The conte was one of the world’s truly wealthy, the type who could smile about Greek shipping magnates or Texan oil barons. For two thousand years the Piviali family had been amassing its fortune. Far from seeking publicity, nouveau riche fashion, the Pivialis remained quietly in the background, though in their time they had overthrown governments with a few words to their banking houses, or had started minor wars to protect the
ir commercial interests.
Lonny grunted, an element akin to contempt in his voice. “Now it all ends with Piero, the last of the family. His only ambition — to bed movie starlets.”
Max said, “Well, there could be less worthy ambitions.”
“That there could,” Lonny nodded. “My own ambitions come in bottles. Know what I’ve got here?” He held up a beautiful crystal glass containing a golden liquid. “Stone age Greek Metaxa. I doubt if you could buy it for two hundred dollars a bottle in the States. Tonight, I’ll probably finish off the whole bottle. Piero spends real dough on his entertaining.” He added, sourly, “Which is the only reason I come.”
Max had been looking across the room where his host was speaking to a newcomer being introduced to him. She was possibly fifteen or sixteen and had in her eyes the frightened look of a doe at bay. She was dressed to emphasize her lush Italian figure, but though lush, it also had an adolescent quality as though in truth she was little more than a child.
Lonny grunted. “And still they come here. Did you read about that kid who was killed at one of these parties — not in this house, but the conte was there — last year?”
Max said vaguely, sipping his own brandy, the first he’d ever sampled laid down during the reign of the first Napoleon, “I think so. They never found out what really happened.”
The photographer laughed shortly. “The hell they didn’t. This kid was a virgin, understand? They all got high on H and decided to play around. So they filled her full of aphrodisiacs and went to work on her with two or three of these electric massage deals. It turned out the human body isn’t built to undergo an hour or more of continual orgasm.”
Max was staring at him.
Lonny Balt growled, “So afterward they dumped her into the sea, expecting her death to be reported from drowning. A couple of friends of mine on one of the Rome papers got hold of it and before they could be shut up some of it got out. But then the curtain was lowered.” Lonny yawned. “The two friends haven’t been able to get newspaper jobs since.”
Max was fascinated. He estimated that approximately a hundred persons were present, as guests, with an equal number of servants being utilized in one capacity or another. There were three different orchestras playing far enough from each other that their music didn’t overlap. There was seemingly every type of food known to man. Buffets were spotted in a dozen places through the house and gardens. French, Italian, Scandinavian, German, Turkish, Indian and Chinese cuisine were all represented.
This Time We Love Page 6