Warden had almost forgotten the photo session the day before.
“No one is to disturb us,” Calvino said imperiously in the direction of Maura’s office.
They went inside and closed the door. Calvino went to the desk and picked up a large envelope.
“This is wonderful,” he was saying. “We have an excellent selection to start your book with. I have already prepared your card for the printer.”
He spread out a handful of photographs on the desk.
“I told you I would lay all of Europe at your feet,” Calvino said excitedly.
Warden inspected the photographs. He recognized the imprint of someone like him, who must have been posing in a body like his, having the same thoughts as his at the time the shutter clicked. But it was someone so nearly perfect, someone who didn’t—couldn’t—exist. It was someone other. Yet it was himself.
“I can’t believe they look so good,” he said.
“Darling, they are not just good,” Calvino intoned. “They are wonderful! You are a natural. The camera loves you.”
Warden took the photographs into his hands, examining the brilliant colours—the silver skies, the caramel and purple cloths of the shirts. The rusted bars behind him blurred into an ethereal reality, suggesting not a tenement fire escape but something finer, eloquent and out-of-the-ordinary.
Best of all were the shots of his rain-sprinkled face glowing with concern for a simple piece of fabric, caressing, embracing, entwining himself in it like a new skin, while his hair hung in brash, petulant strands belying the softness of his face and the expression in his eyes. It was the magic he’d been looking for, breathed into it, bursting up like a bird given flight and condensing like the rain on his hair and skin.
6
Warden’s first job came unexpectedly, on the same afternoon he learned he’d been requested to work in the Ferré show. Calvino was ecstatic over his young protégé for a few minutes, then promptly got over his excitement and went on with other things.
When Warden arrived at the casting that would give him his first taste of success he was confronted by the usual waiting room scene: a dozen cream-of-the-crop blonde American surfer types, most of whom turned out to be Scandinavian or German. Cleft chins and broad shoulders were the order of the day. He was sure he’d never be singled out among all those muscular, easy-going dudes greeting one another as they came and went.
The clients wore long white smocks and huddled together in a corner as the models paraded up and down the room. They looked each one over, making notes on clipboards as though observing some curious, inoffensive disease. Warden waited, thinking it would all be done soon and he could get on to his next appointment. They left him standing while they conferred in Italian. Finally, one man turned to him.
“What is your agency, please, Warden?”
“I’m with Maura’s Models.”
“Very good. I will tell them we would like to use you and they will tell you where and when.”
The man smiled as though to conclude the agreement. They had found their choice—their cure. And it was him.
“Thank you—grazie,” Warden mumbled, unsure what else to say.
The line-up moved and the search continued. He left feeling lighter than when he arrived. The video tests, go-sees and wardrobe fittings had up till then satisfied with their novelty and excitement. Now he had an actual accomplishment to flaunt. Outside, he jumped in the air and let out a spontaneous Whoop! before realizing he was being watched by curious passersby. He chuckled to himself and went off to his next appointment feeling exultant.
The clients who chose him told Calvino he was the most natural looking of all the models they’d seen. Many of the others had pumped up their muscles until the clothing designers complained they looked more like body-builders than real people. But it was not only his physique that made him their choice—there was a naturalness to his presence that appealed to them as well.
The session happened the very next afternoon. It was a simple shot on a crowded sidewalk: a carefree young man wearing a casual suit, trench coat slung over one arm, walks along as passersby turn to stare at the impelling strength of his image. Warden enjoyed it, keeping in mind what he’d learned working with the photographer who took his first shots. Afterwards, he was thanked for his co-operative manner and told to expect more work. The results would be in print within the month.
Jimmy and Warden’s suppertime appearance at the trattoria became a regular occurrence. They were frequently joined by others seeking company as much as nourishment. The mistress of the casa had begun keeping a table for them. It was her express pleasure to be feeding what she considered an exceptional gathering of youngsters.
She kept the tables piled high with warm rolls and generous helpings of home-cooked meals while her husband seated anyone who came in. The woman’s father, cranky and hard of hearing, stood nightly behind the tiny bar dressed in a wrinkled white shirt and suspenders, sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows as he oversaw the dispensing of beverages.
It wasn’t uncommon for his son-in-law to give him a quick remonstrance if he felt the service was too slow. The old man would shout something back in a thick dialect, a small cloud of fury rising and settling just as quickly. Then the son-in-law would wink over at the table of young men as if it were a joke for their pleasure.
On any given day the group consisted of Warden and Jimmy, as well as Joe, Mike, Derek, Jörn, and one or two others. At some point they were nicknamed the International Table because of their unique collection of accents and nationalities and their ready acceptance of all who came by.
Politics, Warden discovered, was a topic of almost comic vehemence in any gathering with Americans present. They espoused a patriotic viewpoint at all times, placing their land of birth somewhere between Heaven and earth in magnitude of importance, their president somewhere between their mothers and God. Even Jimmy fell victim to this knee-jerk patriotism from time to time. Unlike the Americans, the other nationalities who shared their table seemed capable of offering a more-or-less objective outlook on world events. Others may have known, but Americans felt, and feelings went a long way toward their understanding of the world. Mike Blum alone of the Americans seemed to have an objective understanding of the world.
More than politics, however, conversation in the trattoria carried an overriding regard for the fashion trade. Who was in and who out of this season’s trade shows. Who was working for or sleeping with which famous designer. Who was making it big and who was heading for a burnout, a fiery flash on the spiralling ladder to success and its constant other, oblivion. The rumours swelled and rippled.
Of the fashion business itself, reports had it that any day the entire industry would dissolve in a cloud of mist, taking its exotic wraps and accoutrements with it, no longer able to sustain the illusion of originality in a world where everything had been seen and done already.
According to Jimmy, who looked on Warden with the concern of an older brother, a model could choose between two lifestyles. The first succeeded because they worked hard. They took themselves and their work seriously. They were there to last. The second type wasted their earnings, squandering their time and looks on drugs and all-night parties at an all-consuming pace. These invariably burned out in a year or two at most. No one on that kind of collision course could stand the pace.
The Americans, Warden noticed, showed little interest in speaking Italian. Whatever fragments or phrases they attempted came out sounding American, with a sublime inflective indifference. They learned as little as possible, apart from what was necessary to obtain such essentials as food, alcohol and proper directions. Greetings, however, were an exception to this steadfast rule of refusal and “ciao” was the one word taken up by the Americans with gusto. It was their token attempt to break through language and cultural barriers and was quickly added to a list of stock expressions that included “Howdy” and “What’s happenin’, dude?”
One evening on arrivin
g at the trattoria, one of the models saluted the group in a mistaken mixture of Italian and American, and thus was born the accidental Americanization of “ciao” into “chowdy.” Upon hearing it, Mike rolled his eyes at Warden while the others at the table broke into laughter.
“Maybe if we make everything half-Italian and half-American it’ll be easier to get them to speak the language,” Mike said.
The table adopted it as their password. “Chowdy” caught on and soon sprang up unannounced through the halls of the alberghi and the agencies. Eventually, it found its way into casting offices and from there went out into the streets, causing more than a few uninitiated Italians to turn their heads at the sound of it.
At night after eating, the group would disband, each going his own way to enjoy the remaining hours before returning to the albergo to sleep. Proper rest was becoming a must, for work was coming in consistently.
As summer drew closer it became increasingly clear Milan was about to become one of those hot, dirty industrial towns that, but for its fashion trade and a world-famous opera house, would be almost unknown. Occasionally on his daytime rounds, Warden ran into Eric Nevada, the big, big star, looking as if he’d been spending one too many late nights carousing rather than plying his trade.
“No one can tell a success what to do,” Jimmy sermonized. “Just be glad you and I have better sense.”
Although he was working frequently, the payment Warden received for his labours—or his leisures, as he thought of the lounging act he did on the merits of his cheekbones and other superficial aspects of his person—had been far from the overflowing coffers Calvino promised. For every paycheque earned, his director came up with new expenses to cut it by half—hair-styling, photography fees, management costs. By the time he received it, the resulting pay resembled something closer to a form of indentured servitude rather than anything like freelance work.
As well, he had yet to see the results of his work in print. The Ferré show was still to come and Warden’s image hadn’t seen the light of publication. The only tangible evidence thus far was the composite card bearing his name, agency and four photographs of himself, which he promptly sent home when he got it. The clients who hired him were unsure how to use him. They liked his look, recognizing his natural appeal, but a definitive statement was still to be made by someone prophetic or imaginative enough to define the plastic material of his presence.
One evening as he arrived at the trattoria, a magazine was being passed around the table. “Hey, Ward!” Jimmy shouted. “Get over here!”
The magazine was Per Lui, a young men’s fashion bible and trade staple. Jimmy turned a page and held it under Warden’s nose. He saw himself in muted tones of blue and grey, a trench coat trailing from one arm, striding casually along the streets of Milan as passersby looked on with admiration.
“Hey! That’s me!”
“Say, that’s pretty good,” Jimmy said. “You figured it out all by yourself! You sound more like a real model every day. Bend down and let me see if I can look through your ears yet.”
“Let’s see,” Warden said excitedly, picking up the magazine. “Wow! I can’t believe it!”
He turned the page. There was Derek emerging from a Bentley in a tweed jacket. A few pages over, Cody leaned against the hood of a car, his chest covered in grease and sweat, a tire iron in one hand. A woman in an evening gown offered him a drink. “A Franconi Woman Needs Her Man” was written across the top of the page.
“Sexist crap,” Mike carped.
Warden flipped quickly through and saw a young man in boxer shorts with eyes made up to look as though they’d been blacked out.
“Hey, Joe—is this you?”
“Sure thing, Ward. Funk and punk. Pretty awesome, huh?”
“What page are you on, Jimmy?”
“All of them,” someone shouted. “He’s in there at least six times.”
“Try page 34,” Jimmy replied, grinning.
The full-page photograph showed Jimmy in a turquoise shirt and rust-coloured sports jacket against a background of brick, freckles muted but still visible, while his hair whorled above like a flame. Underneath it read simply, “Lubiam—Italia.”
“Very nice,” Warden said.
The mistress of the trattoria came over to the table. Jimmy showed her Warden’s picture.
“Very good, Warden,” she said. It was the first English he’d heard her speak.
One at a time, they dutifully turned over the pages to reveal themselves, recounting vignettes of the images printed there. These were things they would remember, tales to relate on their return home. Look here ... I was famous...we had fun...see this...photograph.
It was late when Warden got back to the albergo. The light was off under the door. He crept in so as not to wake Jimmy. Then he smelled smoke and saw the arc of a cigarette flash in the dark.
“Chowdy,” Warden greeted.
He began peeling his clothes off wearily, kicking his sneakers into a corner.
“Chowdy, pal,” Jimmy said. His voice carried a well-worn edge of sadness.
“Have a good evening?” Warden asked, feeling out whether Jimmy wanted to talk.
“It was all right.” There was a pause. After a moment Jimmy spoke again. “How ’bout you? Did you have a good time this evening?”
“Pretty good. Joe and I went to Magenta and then to a video arcade for an hour. I’ve only got one casting tomorrow. I’m worn out, though. Really looking forward to the weekend.”
The radio was playing faintly. Warden could just make it out. “I’m a stranger far from home…” a lonesome voice crooned as though it saw them lying there.
He left his clothes in a pile on the floor. Normally Jimmy would chastise him for it and Warden would reply that he already had a mother, thanks. Now, he said nothing. Warden slid in under the cool covers, the sheets caressing his aching muscles, making him groan with pleasure and pain. The cigarette glowed and swung back again. Smoke rose like a nimbus in the darkness.
“Can’t sleep?”
“No,” said Jimmy. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Ooh—that could be dangerous for all of us. What about?”
“Home. Family and shit.”
“Homesick?”
“Yeah. And lonely, I guess. I keep telling myself it’ll all be over soon and I can go home. I try to convince myself one day Corrine and I can get married and settle down. But right now I’m sick to death of foreign cities and travelling around the world. And every time Derek arranges a date with some girls he’s just met, I go out and have a boring time or else I sit and think they’re just another couple of whores. But they’re not, I know. They’re just lonely, like me and everyone else.”
Warden looked over, but couldn’t make out Jimmy’s face in the darkness.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said.
“Ah—don’t listen to me. I’m just griping. It’s the price you pay. I know it.”
Warden didn’t try to console him any further. He’d now been in Italy two-and-a-half months. He knew what Jimmy was talking about. They lay there, letting occasional remark funnel out into the darkness till they both fell asleep.
7
It was the usual Friday night crowd, sipping beer and complaining about the heat. The Americans had taken over Bar Magenta, a watering hole for ex-pat models and anyone who wanted to sleep with models. Jimmy and Derek were soon arguing and Joe had wandered off. Warden got up to stretch. Out on the sidewalk the bar was mired in a squabble of tables and chairs and parked motorbikes. The smell of cologne and cigarettes hung in the air like meandering moonbeams. Warden stood in the doorway absently looking out.
Across the street, a figure stood framed in a pool of light. Dark curls blew across his oval face. He had a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. A white T-shirt and jeans with rolled up cuffs completed the uniform. He seemed to have stepped onto the corner from some far-off world and stood waiting as though anchored at the feet of the stars.
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A group staggered out of the bar. Warden felt someone brush against him. He turned to see a boy he’d worked with earlier in the week, now off in search of unknown pleasure.
“Sincerely sorry,” the boy said. Then he recognized Warden. “Hey, Ward—how’s it goin’, dude?”
“Great, Kent—looks like you’re off for some fun.”
“Gotta make the most of the weekend, man! Hafta face that old sidewalk come Monday morning.”
He gestured vaguely toward his companions who had stopped drunkenly to watch the exchange, like prisoners out on leave for the weekend, uncertain how far to take their newfound liberty.
“Catch you later then.”
“Awesome, man—keep well!”
The group staggered into the street, oblivious to passing cars and other mortal dangers. When Warden looked up again, the boy with the leather jacket stood next to him. His lips were wrapped around a cigarette. He removed it from his mouth and let it fall to the ground.
“My name is Valentino,” he said.
Warden stared into eyes framed by a grove of dark lashes.
“You don’t know yours?” the other boy said with mild sarcasm.
Warden laughed and extended a hand. “I’m sorry—it’s Ward.”
“Piacere. Pleased to meet you.” Valentino pointed across the street. “And that is Paolo.”
Warden looked over but saw no one.
“Where?”
“There,” he said. “My motorcycle is called Paolo.” He looked slyly at Warden. “If you are free, Paolo and I will take you for a ride later.”
Warden liked his presumptuous humour. He felt drawn to the boy’s dusky presence. “All right,” he said. “But first come and meet my friends.”
In the bar, Warden introduced Valentino to the others who took him for a model.
“I am a student,” he corrected. “I am studying architecture.”
Valentino told them tales about life in Italy. He and Joe exchanged formidable-sounding anecdotes about Mafia activity in Sicily and Brooklyn. Around them the bar was crowded to capacity, the air filled with affable talk and easy laughter.
A Cage of Bones Page 6