Director's Cut (16 page)

The break is over. The spotlights are back on. For the benefit of the restorers, as well as of the sponsor's cameras, recording the whole process, batteries of lights have been set up on all sides as if it's a TV game show. Workers nimble as acrobats on their way to the trapeze ascend the scaffolding.

“It's a stew of nudes!” says Sangallo, who has come up alongside Maxim.

The Japanese shoot up in a lift beside the scaffolding.

“Sinful, worldly, and grotesque, that's what Adrian the Sixth thought of them. He wanted them hacked off. What else could you expect from a northerner?”

Sangallo wants to keep moving, but Maxim, overwhelmed, can't tear himself away.

“Hurry up a little,” says Sangallo. “You desperately need taking care of. Pampering.”

“A little longer.”

“Why would someone want to see everything in one go, if he could see part of it later close-up?”

“Close-up?”

“From very, very close by. ‘I'm old,' I told Pietrangeli, ‘a chance like this only comes once every couple of centuries.' Carlo is a friend of mine, director-general of Papal Monuments. It just happens that a delegation from the
soprintendenza
is visiting today, otherwise we'd be up there already. Never mind, we'll go up some other time.”

Maxim imagines standing eye to eye with Michelangelo's brushstrokes and, as if one thing went with the other, thinks of Gala.

“She has to come with us,” he says out loud. “Gala. I'll introduce you.”

“Who?”

“Gala, my girlfriend! If we go up the scaffolding, she can come with us, can't she?”

“Pietrangeli hasn't promised anything. He'll call me.” Suddenly Sangallo sounds tired. He looks around as if the whole museum, and Maxim too, has suddenly begun to bore him. He pushes his way through a group of Zimbabwean novices toward the exit.

It's not the first time that Sangallo has cut off a conversation the moment Gala is mentioned. Up till now, it happened so unexpectedly that Maxim wondered whether he'd said something inappropriate. Only now does he realize that Gala's name is all it takes to make the viscount uncomfortable, as if the sound alone distracts him from their being together. This annoys Maxim, because it clashes with his image of Sangallo: a rich, free spirit on intimate terms with great artists should be above the envy that dominates petty lives. But though elegant, courteous, gifted with the ability to make life sparkle and charm, Sangallo, of all people, has drawn a line. As if he wanted to be Maxim's sole frame of reference for this city.

For Maxim, discovering Rome is only half his endeavor: the other half is Gala's. Sharing it is the essence of their Italian adventure. Upon returning from his previous two outings with Sangallo, Maxim had immediately gone out with Gala. Until past midnight, they wandered the city while he showed her as many of the secret alleyways and forgotten springs that Sangallo had revealed to him as his memory allowed,
trying to deliver the same anecdotes with the same flair, hoping to overwhelm Gala with impressions just as he had been overwhelmed. Even if they spent all their days wandering the city apart, at night Maxim still felt they'd spent all those hours together. He couldn't help it. Whenever he enjoyed something, he imagined her reaction—giggling in surprise with that turned-up nose of hers, pinching his arm when overwhelmed, searching together for words to describe something that could only be felt—and he naturally assumed she felt exactly the same way. That's how these things work. Even when alone, he is an indivisible part of the two of them.

When he finds the old gentleman in the museum shop next to the exit, he goes up to him.

“Listen, Filippo, as far as Gala is concerned …”

But Sangallo has already recovered his enthusiasm. Like a child that can't make up its mind in a toy store, he has grabbed all the most beautiful objects. Beaming, he showers them on Maxim.

“As far as Gala is concerned, I want to be clear to you that she and I …”

A study on Lysippus's
Apoxyomenos
athlete, a model of Bramante's Tempietto, a replica of a chubby Etruscan cherub sitting on another's lap, a catalog of the collection of ancient sculptures of animals, and a large, professional reproduction of Raphael's
Transfiguration
, before which Maxim had stood studying the epileptic whose cure it depicted. He clamps it under his chin while Sangallo buys another book about the Sistine Chapel before the restoration and one about what it will look like afterward.

“Listen,” says the young man, who almost has to crane his neck to look over the gifts in his arms, “… that Gala and I …”

“Gala and you, you and Gala, I know all that already.” Sangallo adds new acquisitions to the pile in Maxim's arms. “You must believe that I can hardly wait until I get a chance to see with my own eyes the delightful creature who has managed to enchant enchantment itself.”

He means it.

At least, he says it with the same enthusiasm he musters for an extraordinary brushstroke, but he doesn't stop perusing the tables, presumably searching for a book about the chapel
during
the restoration.

“That must really be something special, Maxim. Gala and you. You and Gala. It only happens once or twice in a lifetime. Cherish it.”

This still sounds gruff to Maxim, almost like an order to shut up about it, as if he were really saying, “Cherish it in silence!” If he hadn't been standing there awkwardly, loaded down with gifts, he would have reacted at once. But all he can do is follow the viscount to the car. The chauffeur relieves him of the gifts while listening to instructions to drive them to the Apelles restaurant in Ostia.

“Apelles was court painter to Alexander the Great,” mumbles Sangallo. “He painted a portrait of Alexander's concubine Campaspe and fell in love with her. The moment Alexander saw the painting, he realized how much love had gone into it and gave her to him in marriage. More people should accept that other people's passion can be greater than their own.”

Now, of course, I could keep pushing, thinks Maxim, and insist on picking Gala up on the way. He knows how generous Sangallo is with guests: “Try a little of this too, just taste this. Let's simply order a plate of everything. So that you will have a full impression of Ligurian cuisine. Come on, just a mouthful … If only in the interest of science.” Gala, just like him, could use a meal like that. They hadn't brought much money and for the last few weeks she and Maxim had been investing—some might say squandering—it all in their future. Photos, photos, and more photos, big and glossy and with the most expensive finish, for the best possible impression. They had to print business cards and CVs on cream-colored, handmade paper. They bought expensive, stylish folders to put it all in and stamps to mail it. And of course there were the gifts they kept having to buy for agents, cameramen, and directors, who arranged to meet at the most expensive outdoor cafés and always needed to rush off to another appointment, leaving the up-and-coming film stars to pay for the drinks.

After a few weeks, all they have left are the two modest checks from the Department of Social Security that arrive from the Netherlands at the end of the month. It's barely enough to get by. They've already stopped buying the tomatoes and grapes that are their staple diet at the Campo de' Fiori; now, they pick them up in the Via Rasella or at the stalls along the Via del Portico. They've also learned to rely on the farmers
who sell basil and onions from their cars near the Porta Portese on Sundays; with a bit of luck, they can find homemade salami and jars of honey for under a thousand lire.

Maxim is keenly aware that he hasn't eaten a thing since last night's salad. Stubbornly insisting on bringing Gala might ruin his chances of a free meal. That would be dumb, especially because he'd also be ruining his chances to go to the famous restaurant on the river in Ostia. One lunch is better than none: he's sure Gala would feel the same way. And before any feelings of remorse can well up, Sangallo orders his chauffeur to stop yet again. He shepherds his protégé into a small print shop on the Via dell'Orso and asks the owner to get out an etching by Bartholomeus Breenbergh. It shows Saint Peter's Basilica before Maderno hid it behind his facade.

With an exaggerated gesture, Sangallo brings the drawing up close to his face to study it.

“See,” he says, “this is the chapel we were just in. This is the passage we walked down.” He buys the print and, back out on the street, gives it to Maxim.

“So you don't forget the layers under the face of this city.”

“Out of the question. No, really, it's too much.”

“Breenbergh made these as souvenirs for his countrymen.”

“It's too expensive. Magnificent, absolutely … but no, I don't deserve it.”

“Back then, nobody took this one home. Do the artist a favor. Take it with you, just as the poor fellow always hoped.”

When the driver puts the print in the trunk with the other gifts, Maxim discovers the black coat. He looks at Sangallo, who blushes like a child caught red-handed. He shrugs and scratches his head like Stan Laurel when Hardy is about to bawl him out.

You just can't get angry with the man.

“Do you think we can eat outdoors in Ostia, Filippo?”

“They have a terrace,” replies Sangallo, “but it is December.”

“Exactly,” says Maxim. He takes the coat out and slams the trunk. “It could get chilly.”

Maxim gets back to the Via Michele Mercati late in the afternoon. Gala's not in their room. He tosses the day's spoils—besides the print and the
books, a chunk of ham and a jar of pomegranate jelly made from fruit gathered under the trees along the Via Appia—onto the bed. He looks for a note, but he knows there isn't one. Gala comes and goes without plans or explanations. He wouldn't have it any other way. How he loves how she does whatever she wants, self-centered enough to go out even when she knows he's coming home weighed down with stories. She follows her whims without a second thought. And this afternoon, when he has so much to share with her!

At least he can surprise her with the print. It fits into the collection of the pieces of Rome he and Gala have gathered from all over the city like magpies picking up aluminum. They've dragged all kinds of things back to their nest: marble from the forbidden passages in the Aventine, a lump of red-leaded stucco from Hadrian's Villa.

Maxim tries to hang the Breenbergh so that Gala will notice it the second she comes in, which isn't easy without damaging the aged paper. He slides one corner behind a loose piece of wallpaper, another under some cables, trying a few variations, but the draft keeps getting it, the Vatican curling up and fluttering to the floor. Maxim, who almost never loses his cool, swears out loud. His irritation with the uncooperative paper is mixed with his concern. When did she go out? The least she could have done was to leave a note with her time of departure, so he could know when to start worrying.

It would be easier to handle if concern and irritation didn't create the same nagging pain in the pit of his stomach.

Disappointment was a factor: she wasn't home, and he'd arrived hoping she would be.

He would say that he missed her, if he ever mentioned it, which he wouldn't, at least not to her, because she would laugh at him, and she's never once been concerned on his account.

When the print folds for the umpteenth time, it leaves an ugly crease. For an instant Maxim is annoyed with Gala, worried about the paper; but he immediately pulls himself together.

He opens her suitcase in search of a hairpin or something to attach the print. It goes without saying that there are no secrets between them. Why should you be able to run your fingers through a woman's hair but not her toiletries bag? He dumps it onto the bed, almost at the point of tacking the print to the ceiling with nail varnish. He tosses the items
back one at a time—boxes, jars, combs, curlers, powder puffs—no wonder they never arrive anywhere on time when Gala has to put on her makeup. The swirling powders and perfumes give off the scents he knows so well. They calm him down: he sniffs them and sees her before him.

At the same time, he's fidgeting with a small glass jar, shaking it. Pills, but not for epilepsy, and he's never seen them before: an Italian brand he's never heard of. She must have bought them here. Suddenly it occurs to him: clothespins!

In the garden, the concierge is hanging the washing up on the rotary clothesline.

“Signora Geppi, good afternoon, I was hoping to borrow two pegs.”

“You were, were you? As long as it's not for anything naughty,” she angles hopefully, but he doesn't get it. Brazenly eyeing him over a pair of drawers, she takes two pegs and rotates them around her breasts in ever-decreasing circles until they touch the nipples that stand out under her worn black dress like stems at the bottom of a bag of plums. Opening them a few times, she lets the steel springs click shut, like a Spanish dancer's castanets. Finally, she tosses them into the air and bursts out laughing, shrinking with embarrassment. On both sides of her mouth, she blows spit bubbles out through gaps in her teeth.

Maxim catches the pegs. “It's just to hang something up on the wall.”

Geppi is so red that she has to duck behind a row of sheets.

“Do you know when you're leaving?”

“We're planning on staying.”

“Of course. They all want to stay. As long as possible. That's why they go.”

“I don't quite understand. You mean the rent?”

“Don't worry. Signor Gianni has paid three weeks in advance. It's just … He thought you would be going away on a trip soon as well.”

“A trip?”

“He thought so.”

“Where to?”

“Who knows? It's none of my business. But I'd like to rent out the
room while you're away. We can share the takings, so it's good for you too. And it will be there for you when you get back, of course.”