He headed to the third floor. He’d resolved to learn Italian as well as he could, memorizing the numbers up to a hundred from Jimmy’s phrase book before going to sleep. A neatly lettered sign announced the photographer’s studio where a tired-looking face ushered him in.
Warden followed the figure along the hall to a studio set up with tripods and flashes amid an intricate architecture of metal and wire.
“Please,” the man said, indicating he was to sit. “Sr. Calvino say you need to make a portfolio. You have nothing?” the man asked, shaking his head as though it were scarcely to be believed.
“I didn’t know I needed to bring anything.”
“Don’t worry. We fix it.”
The man tinkered for a while, talking as he worked.
“Sr. Calvino is very big model himself many, many years ago. He coming from Trinidad, very poor. Now very…” He stopped to let his hands describe something round and large in the air. “Now very big man, I think.”
The photographer reached out and took Warden’s chin deftly with his fingers, turning his head from side to side.
“Mmmm,” he pronounced mysteriously.
“It’s a bit stiff,” Warden said, remembering the cut.
“Don’t worry. We fix it.”
He went to a wardrobe crammed with clothes. A couple of suits hung shyly in the back.
“We make simple for today,” he said, pulling out two shirts, one caramel-coloured, the other purple with blue shell-like patterns. “Right now one, maybe two shirts is good.”
“Sounds great. What do I do?”
“Please, this way,” he said, indicating a set of French doors.
They stepped onto a tiny balcony flanked by a row of dirty windows and a rusting metal fire escape. Warden hadn’t known what to expect—perhaps not runways with dozens of blazing lights, but certainly not this four-by-six cement balcony. It was far from the magic world of fashion he’d expected. There was nothing splendid or glamorous about it. It was another expectation shot down.
The man gestured for Warden to sit in front of the fire escape. “Now, just relax.”
He followed the man’s instructions, given largely with his hands. Chin up. Head left. Eyes right. Lean against the wall. “Very good,” he would say. “This is nice.” Encouraging him with each shot. Nothing of import seemed to be happening. It was too easy, Warden thought. What could come of such small movements on the balcony of a suburban apartment?
The camera clicked. Warden followed instructions. The man stopped and offered him the caramel-coloured shirt. Warden stood to unbutton the one he had on.
“No,” said the man. “Not to wear. I want you to make love to her.”
“What?” Warden looked at him quizzically.
“This shirt is a beautiful woman. Be nice to her. Talk to her.”
He crouched and held the shirt up to his cheek, feeling the softness of the material. He smelled the warmth and fleeciness of fresh cotton.
“Yes, this is good. Just relax now.”
Warden found himself changing his pose and expression with each shutter snap, forcing himself to relate to the soft cotton shirt. The material fell back to reveal a Ferré label. He smiled, thinking of the bearded man he met yesterday and Calvino’s horrified look when he’d all but admitted he didn’t know the name.
“Wonderful!” the man said.
Rain began to fall, lightly at first then with force. He thought they would stop, but the shutter kept clicking. Warden responded by changing position with each frame. His hair fell tangled and limp across his forehead. He wondered why the man didn’t stop, why he didn’t notice what a mess he must look.
“Now is even more wonderful!” the man exclaimed.
The picture taking went on for another ten minutes, long enough for Warden to be thoroughly drenched and chilled. The photographer called the session to a halt when he noticed Warden’s teeth chattering.
“I think is enough now, yes?” the man said with a laugh.
He sent Warden inside to change.
“When will they be ready?” Warden asked, returning in his dry clothes.
“I think, uh … maybe tomorrow,” the man answered, as though unsure. “You coming to Sr. Calvino and you see then.”
“Great. Thank you very much. Grazie.”
“Prego.”
It was not yet 4 o’clock when he left the photographer’s studio. Outside, a false dusk had come on with the rain dripping through the leafless trees. Warden pulled his jacket close as he stood by the streetcar tracks watching the silver rails flash down the avenue. He felt the tiredness settle in his bones and wondered briefly, once again, what he was doing in Italy. It was a long slow ride back. All the warmth of the afternoon had been washed away in the rain.
He got off at Corso Buenos Aires and walked to the agency. The office buzzed with spent activity as the afternoon wound down. Even the telephones rang only sporadically. The few models there were lounging, taking a break between the hectic rush of go-sees and the nightly videos and eventual sleep that claimed even the most resilient at day’s end.
Calvino’s office was closed. As he walked past, the door lurched open. Calvino came out, not floating like the balloons of yesterday as though his life were still lived somewhere out on the catwalks, but surging forward, arms held ahead as though to ward off contact with any stray bodies that might be drawn into his orbit while his feet carried him quickly across the room.
“Hi, Sr. Calvino. I just finished my shoot with the photographer…”
“Not now, darling,” Calvino said, his line of flight carrying him past Warden toward Maura’s office. “A big, big star has just arrived. Come back later.”
Calvino went in and the door sailed to a close behind him. Warden chuckled. Already, after one day, he was just one of the others. Oh well, he thought, what else could I expect?
The office door flew open again and a receptionist emerged carrying a file folder. She smiled at Warden, leaving the door ajar. In the office, three large suitcases took up most of the floor space while a figure sprawled across Maura’s desk, laughing and talking loudly. Warden recognized the distinctive features. He’d seen that face a hundred times before on magazine covers, billboards, even on TV.
Calvino, Maura and the others fawned and fussed over their star, making a great occasion of his presence. Everyone seemed especially light on their toes, as though animated by his arrival. The receptionist with the folder returned with three more like it, still smiling.
“It is a very big star, yes?” she asked Warden excitedly, going back into the office and shutting the door behind her.
“I guess,” Warden said, looking up at the faces in the hall of fame surrounding him.
5
At the trattoria that evening, Warden and Jimmy met up with Joe and another model named Mike Blum. Mike was with an agency called Ugly People. That was the best name yet, Warden thought. He and Mike had already crossed paths on an afternoon go-see. Mike was friendly and asked questions other than the ubiquitous “What’s happenin’, dude?” that neither expected nor required a response.
After supper they went to Bar Magenta, a local establishment that transformed itself nightly into a fashion industry watering hole. The tables were filled with a casual vagabond crowd whose looks were as diverse as their languages. It was not unlike the crowded campus pubs back home, Warden thought, but the faces gulping beer, laughing and gossiping like other mere mortals had sprung from the glossy pages of magazines.
They glowed with the particular and the abstract all at once, as they assumed lives apart from the cool distance of photographs. It was a select group crowded into hotel rooms in a handful of cities, responsible for creating standards of looks around the world. And he’d become a part of it.
Jimmy hailed a tall dark-haired man coming toward them. The newcomer already knew Joe and Mike, who nodded their acknowledgment. Warden shook hands with him as they were introduced.
Jimmy and Derek had
been roommates two summers ago, Jimmy explained. “Where are you coming from, Derek?”
“Just got in from Paris. We finished the new Gaultier show last night. Absolute rubbish, it was.”
He spoke with a faint English accent, as though its borders had been broken down by international travelling, His tone was contemptuous.
“Ward’s from Canada.”
He felt himself regarded with critical intent.
“Ah, a Commonwealth member—that’s admirable. We’ve got to keep up an even distribution between the Yanks and the natives.”
An attractive blonde with shoulder-length hair passed by and smiled at Jimmy. Derek nudged him.
“I wouldn’t mind a piece of that,” he said. “What do you say we hit on a few while we’re in town? I’m ripe for some action.”
“Sorry, Derek, I’m a married man now.”
“You’re still with that little chickee of yours then?”
“Her name’s Corrine.”
Derek smiled scornfully, but said nothing more.
A door swung open at the front of the bar and an ebullient threesome entered. They regarded the surroundings with curiosity, as if their erratic wanderings had brought them there by chance and might take them elsewhere at a moment’s notice.
Warden recognized one of the three from a casting line-up. He’d mistaken him for an American when the boy greeted him with the usual “What’s happenin’, dude?”, extending the greeting into a butchery of syllables.
“Only a Yankee can turn ‘dude’ into a three-syllable word,” Warden joked, but the Yankee turned out to be an Australian who took exception to the slight against his identity.
“I’m from Australia, mate,” he said coolly, in an accent totally different from the one Warden thought he’d heard.
Warden hadn’t seen the second boy before. The third was the loudest of the three, his face an unrehearsed portrait of darting eyes and dancing hair. It was Calvino’s “big, big star” from that afternoon. His presence seemed to cleave the air as they barged into the room.
“Oh-oh, it’s the Immorality Squad,” Joe quipped.
Derek turned to look. “I should’ve known they’d be in town. I guess Milan isn’t safe tonight.”
“You were asking about the American Hotel,” Joe said to Warden. “Those guys run it. They breeze into town every couple of months and turn the place upside down. That’s Eric Nevada in the middle. He was on ten magazine covers last year.”
“I saw him at the agency,” Warden said. “They were making a lot of fuss over him.”
“Yeah—I saw it, too,” Joe said. “Iron filings cling to a magnet with more sincerity.”
The unholy trinity surged forward in its rampage, greeting everyone they knew or seemed to think they should know. The group stopped before their table.
“Dudes! What’s happenin’?”
“What’s up, Eric? I heard you got back today,” Jimmy said.
“Hey! News travels fast. Actually, we’re with the narcotics squad—we’re collecting drugs for underprivileged children. Can you help us out?”
“He’s a total asshole,” Joe hissed into Warden’s ear.
Eric’s hand held an unlit cigarette, taken out before a series of greetings had temporarily caused it to be forgotten. He raised it to his lips.
“Hey, Joey—got a light?”
“No, Eric. I still don’t smoke.”
“Well, hey! Don’t you think you should carry a lighter for guys like me who do?”
“Right. And vegetarians should carry pork chops to feed hungry carnivores.”
Warden watched, incredulous, as Eric pulled a small handgun from his pocket. He aimed it at Joe and pulled the trigger. A flame shot out the barrel.
“Bang! Bang!” Eric said, raising the lighter to his cigarette. His group of supporters sniggered.
“That was funny,” Joe said. “Especially when you did it last year.”
Unable to muster any real excitement, the group moved on, enlarging the circumference of their circle as they went.
“Those jerks are everywhere,” Derek griped.
“They’re all right,” said Mike. “They’re just a bit loud.”
“Don’t you wanna be like them, Derek?” Joe asked. “They get all the good-looking girls and the best work in town.”
“Ah, you know what they say,” Derek said. “Today’s face is tomorrow’s fish-wrap.”
“I wouldn’t mind a chance to stink of fish a little more often,” Joe retorted.
“Speaking of which, I can’t figure out how your ugly mug manages to turn up so often in my morning reading,” Derek said with a sneer.
“Only my booker knows for sure,” Joe said. “And she don’t speak your kind of English, dude.”
“Go on—we all know you’re Calvino’s boy,” Derek said, pushing Joe’s face away with his hand where it leered at him over Warden’s shoulder. “You’re too ugly to get all that work without selling something.”
“I may be Calvino’s boy, but I’m not his bum boy.”
“I don’t mind kissing Calvino’s ass once in a while,” Jimmy broke in. “The only problem is he expects you to wipe it for him afterwards.”
They all laughed, the tension broken. The conversation turned to other topics.
It was late by the time they returned to the albergo. The lights were off in the hallway as they crept in. The TV was on in the lounge, flickering silently in the dark. The faces that usually gathered around it had gone to bed, each one silent behind his door, dreaming in the listless darkness.
The next day Warden had half a dozen appointments and spent the morning travelling all over the city. Mid-afternoon found him in the centre of a well-lit studio. At the door, a woman handed him a slip of paper with an Italian phrase on it. “Che buon sapore di latte,” she pronounced with a flourish of hands. “You must say this to the camera.” She made him repeat it till she was satisfied, then sent him to the waiting room.
Joe was sitting on a bench. “How’s it goin’?” he whispered.
“Great,” Warden replied. “What’s going on?”
“Video casting—we’re just waiting our turns.”
A group had formed, lining up against the wall. Every few minutes someone else came down the stairs, paper in hand. Warden recognized another face from Maura’s. He was introduced to Cody, a moody Stanley Kowalski in contrast to all the swell-guy-Americana around them. Cody’s face was strikingly masculine, with short black hair and stubble that miraculously reappeared on his cheeks an hour after he shaved.
Cody grunted his acknowledgment when introduced. Warden was to recall him two years later when he was arrested in Paris for the murder of his girlfriend, a celebrated prêt-à-porter runway model, casualty of a fast-paced, unstable lifestyle, achieving a macabre sort of fame in the end.
“What’s this shit for?” Cody growled, waving the paper in his hand. “I ain’t sayin’ this.”
“You gotta say it, Code—it’s for a commercial,” Joe said.
“What’s it mean?”
“It means ‘The great taste of milk’ in Italian.”
Warden laughed. “North Americans selling milk to Italians—now that’s funny.”
Each had his turn before the camera, pronouncing the rippling phrase for its analytical eye. Warden stumbled and had to repeat his. Cody’s came out sounding more like garbled American than Italian. The client showed no further interest and they all left together.
Outside, the trees were beginning to take on a fat, budding appearance. Cody had another appointment to meet and caught a streetcar. The sun was warm as Joe and Warden walked back to the agency together.
“You know, this is something I would never do in New York,” Joe said.
“What’s that?”
“Walk.”
Warden laughed.
Joe asked him how he came to be in Italy. Warden related the tale of his one TV commercial and Calvino’s beckoning call. Joe told Warden he’d been spotted
by Madonna dancing in a New York nightclub. She’d hired him for a video. From there he’d made other contacts.
“I think she’s a genius for changing personalities. No one really knows who she is,” Joe said, as though it were an accomplishment. He held up a ring with a miniature handgun engraved on it. “She gave me this ring. I traded her a set of Bernini vases for it. Who likes glass anyway, right? I mean, it’s too ornamental. It just breaks. Violence is more symbolic of life, don’t you think?”
They passed a fortified stone fortress erected to house the emperor Napoleon on his conquering tour of Europe. The intricate stonework attested to years of arduous labour, a monumental achievement in its time. They walked through the entrance and across the earth-covered courtyard at its heart. On the other side, Joe looked back for a moment’s reflection.
“This is like a really major thing, isn’t it?”
Warden laughed at his summary of the centuries-old monument. He was amused by the way Joe’s mind reduced all to essentials—a historic monument was a “major thing” and a famed singer was a sleight-of-hand artist who manipulated her identity to the point of having none.
“Pretty major, I would think.”
At the agency they ran straight into Calvino.
“Hiya, Mr. C,” Joe said.
“Joseph—you’re late. Why weren’t you back half an hour ago?”
“You told me I had no more appointments till 3:30, Mr. C,” he answered cheerily.
“Never mind what I told you. You should always check. Now you have to go straight to Via Spiga to see Versace. They have requested to see you.”
Joe rolled his eyes at Warden as their director talked.
“It’s for a big campaign they are doing. They will tell you what you have to do there.”
“Yes, boss. Ciao, Ward—I’ll catch you later. Thanks for the walk.”
It was the first time Warden had seen Calvino since the hurried episode the previous afternoon. He expected the same casual brusqueness he’d received then. Instead, his director was courteous and attentive.
“Darling, come into my office,” he said, opening the door. “Your photographs have arrived.”
A Cage of Bones Page 5