Once Is Not Enough (2 page)

But on her eighth birthday there had been just the two of them. It was her first birthday since her mother’s death. It fell on a weekday and the car had picked her up at Miss Haddon’s and brought her to the Plaza. She had stood solemnly as he opened the bottle of champagne and poured her a quarter of a glass. “This is the best there is, babe.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to my lady . . . the only lady I’ll ever love.” That was how he introduced her to Dom Perignon and caviar.

And then he had taken her to the window and pointed toward the Goodyear Blimp that was passing by. But instead of “Goodyear,” the huge red letters blazed “Happy Birthday, January!” And from that time on, Dom Perignon and caviar became a ritual for all important occasions.

On her thirteenth birthday, he took her to Madison Square Garden. The marquee was dark when they arrived, so she assumed they were late. He took her hand and led her inside. Oddly enough there were no ushers to help them. No attendants . . . no people . . . no lights. He led her down a ramp, into the cavernous darkness of the empty Garden. It was eerie as they walked hand in hand . . . down . . . down . . . deep into the belly of the Garden. Then he stopped; and when he spoke his voice was quiet. “Make a wish, baby, a big one, because right now you are standing on the exact spot where some
of the biggest champions stood. Joe Louis, Sugar Ray, Marciano.” He raised her hand in the fighter’s victory pose and, mimicking the nasal tones of a referee, chanted, “And now Ladees and Gennelmen . . . introducing the greatest champion of them all . . . Miss January Wayne . . . who has now entered her teens!” Then he said, “That means you’re in the heavyweight division now, babe.”

She threw her arms around him and he leaned down to kiss her cheek, but in the darkness their lips met and held . . . and then the scoreboards all exploded with lights, sparkling, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JANUARY. A table was set with caviar and champagne; a waiter was standing at attention to serve them, and an orchestra played and sang “Happy Birthday.”

After the song, the musicians began a medley of her favorite show tunes. They sipped the champagne, and then Mike held out his arms and asked her to dance. At first she was nervous, but after the first few awkward steps she snuggled against him, and suddenly it felt as if she had been dancing with him all of her life. As they moved to the music, he whispered, “You’re on your way to becoming a lady. One day a boy will come along who’ll mean more than anything else in the world . . . and he’ll hold you in his arms like this and you’ll know what it means to be in love.” She hadn’t answered because she knew she was already in the arms of the only man she could ever love.

He was producing a picture in Rome when she was graduated from Miss Haddon’s. She didn’t mind his missing the graduation. She would have liked to skip it herself, but she had auditioned and been chosen to deliver the valedictory speech, and now there was no way out. But she was joining him in Rome for the summer.

And she had won the argument against college.

“Daddy, I’ve been away at school all my life.”

“But college is important, baby.”

“Why?”

“Well, to learn things, to meet the right kind of friends, to prepare you for—hell, I don’t know. I just know it’s the right thing. Why do other girls go to college?”

“Because they don’t have you for a father”.

“Well, what do you want to do?”

“Be an actress maybe.”

“Well, if you’re gonna be an actress, you have to study for that too!”

And so it had been arranged. Once he finished the picture in Rome, he was scheduled to do one in London. And he had managed to get her enrolled at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art for the fall term. She wasn’t dedicated to the idea of the Royal Academy. She wasn’t even sure she really wanted to be an actress. . . .

But she was going to Rome! There were just the graduation exercises to get through. Under her cap and gown was a blue linen dress. Her plane ticket and passport were in her bag. And her luggage was already in the trunk of the limousine waiting outside the school. All she had to do was deliver the speech, get that diploma, and run!

And then it was all over and she was making her way up the aisle; accepting congratulations from parents of classmates; pushing through a wall of tearful farewells; promising to write. Goodbye! Goodbye! Tearing off the gown. Tossing the cap to Miss Hicks of the drama department. Goodbye! Goodbye! Into the limousine and on the way to Kennedy Airport.

704 . . . first class half empty . . . too excited to concentrate on food or the movie. Hours and hours of magazines, daydreams and Cokes . . . then finally the descent . . . seven o’clock in the morning, Rome time. And there he was . . . standing with some important-looking officials . . . right on the airfield . . . with a private car. Out of the plane . . . into his arms . . . the arms of the most fabulous man in the world . . . and he belonged to her!

The long black car drove them to customs . . . her passport was stamped . . . they entered the busy terminal where two attractive young Italian boys in skinny dark suits stood waiting to attend to her luggage.

“They don’t speak English, but they’re great kids,” Mike said as he handed them some crinkly paper money. “They’ll get your baggage and take it to the hotel.” Then he led her outside to a long low-slung red Jaguar. The top was down and
Mike smiled at her obvious delight. “I thought it would be more fun if we drove ourselves. Get in, Cleopatra. You are about to make your entrance into Rome.”

And that was how she saw Rome on that sparkling June morning. The wind was soft and the early morning sun warmed her face. A few shop people slowly raised their blinds. Young boys in aprons began washing down the streets of sidewalk cafés. An occasional timid horn squeaked off in the distance, a horn that would join a pack that would blend into a screaming crescendo when traffic reached its peak.

Mike pulled the car to a stop in front of a little restaurant. The proprietor ran out and embraced him and insisted on personally making them eggs and sausage, with the hot rolls his wife had just baked.

The city was bursting with noise when they finally reached the block of the Via Veneto that housed the Excelsior Hotel. January stared at the small expanse—the sidewalk cafés lining both sides of the street, tourists reading
The New York Times
and Paris edition of the
Tribune
as they tried to drink the heavy espresso.

“This
is the Via Veneto?” January asked.

Mike grinned. “Yep, this is it. Sorry I couldn’t arrange to have Sophia Loren passing by. The truth is, if you sat here for a year you might never see Sophia Loren on the Via Veneto. But in one hour, you will see every American who’s in town.”

She was overwhelmed with the enormous suite at the Excelsior. The ornate marble fireplaces, the dining room, the two large bedrooms—it was almost palatial.

“I left the room facing the American Embassy for you,” Mike said. “I figured the street noises might not be as loud there.” Then he pointed to her bags which had been delivered. “Unpack, take a bath and go to sleep. I’ll send a car to pick you up around four. You can come to the studio and we’ll drive home together.”

“Can’t I go to the studio with you now?” she asked.

He smiled. “Listen, I don’t want you to be tired for your first night in Rome. Incidentally, we don’t dine here until nine or ten.”

He started for the door and stopped. He stared at her for
several seconds and shook his head. “Know something? You really are goddamned beautiful!”

They were still shooting when she arrived at the studio. She stood in the back and watched in the darkness. She recognized Mitch Nelson, the American actor whom the press releases billed as the new Gary Cooper. Through a granite jaw and seemingly immovable lips, he was playing a love scene with Melba Delitto. January had seen Melba only in foreign films. She was very beautiful, but her accent was heavy, and several times she fluffed her lines. Each time, Mike would smile, walk over to her, reassure her, and then start the scene again. After the fifteenth take, Mike yelled, “Print it,” and the lights came up. When he saw January he broke into that special smile that belonged only to her, and he crossed the sound stage. He linked her arm through his. “How long you been standing there?”

“For about twelve takes. I didn’t know you were also a director.”

“Well, it’s Melba’s first English-speaking part, and the first few days were pistols. She would fluff . . . the director would scream at her in Italian . . . she’d scream back . . . he’d scream louder . . . she’d walk off the set in tears. That meant an hour for new makeup plus another half hour for her to accept the director’s apologies. So I learned that if I just walk over and soothe the lady and tell her how well she’s doing, we save a lot of time and money and finally get a decent take.”

A young man came toward them eagerly. “Mr. Mike, I was through work two hours ago but I wait, because I so much wanted to meet your daughter.”

“January, this is Franco Mellini,” Mike said.

The young man was in his early twenties. His accent was heavy, but he was tall and undeniably handsome. “Okay, Franco, you’ve been presented. Now scram.” Mike’s voice was gruff, but he smiled as the boy bowed and backed away. “That kid has only a small part, but he may walk off with the whole ballgame,” he said. “I found him in Milan when I was scouting locations. He was doubling as a singer and a bartender in a dive. He’s a natural. It’s wild to see the way he’s charmed every broad on the set. Even Melba.” Mike shook his head. “When an Italian has charm, forget it.” They walked arm in arm. The
studio was empty and she felt as if all of her unspoken prayers had been answered. This was the moment she had longed for, the moment she had dreamed about. Walking beside him . . . being a part of his life . . . his work . . . sharing his problems.

Suddenly he said, “By the way, I’ve lined up a bit for you in the picture. Just a few lines—hey.” He tried to pull away from her embrace. “You’re strangling me!”

Later, as they inched through the unbelievable traffic, he told her about his troubles with the picture. Melba’s anxiety with her English . . . her antipathy toward Mitch Nelson . . . the language barrier he had with some of the crew. But most of all he groaned about the traffic. And she sat and listened and kept telling herself it wasn’t a dream . . . she was really here . . . this wasn’t just a Saturday . . . there would be no limousine to take her away from him tomorrow . . . she’d be with him like this every day . . . and she didn’t care if the traffic took forever . . . she was with him in Rome . . . just the two of them!

When they finally reached the hotel another slim attractive young man was waiting in the lobby with several large boxes. January wondered how all the men stayed so thin. Didn’t Italians eat their own food?

“This is Bruno,” Mike said, as the grinning young man followed them to their suite. “I figured you might not have enough clothes, so I sent him out a few days ago. He shops for a lot of the V.I.P.’s. Take whatever you want, any or all of it. I’m going to shower, make some calls to the States—that is, if I can break through the language barrier with the operators here. Sometimes we never get past
Pronto.”
He kissed her cheek. “See you at nine.”

He was waiting for her when she walked into the living room at nine o’clock. He let out a low whistle. “Babe, you’re built like a brick—” He stopped suddenly and smiled. “Well . . . let’s say you’re better than any top fashion model.”

“Meaning I really haven’t got enough on top.” She laughed. “That’s why I adore this Pucci. It clings and makes me look—”

“Fantastic,” he said.

“I took this and a skirt, some shirts and a pants suit.”

“That’s all?” Then he shrugged. “Maybe you’ll have more fun finding all those hidden little shops the dames all talk about. I’ll have Melba tell you where to look.”

“Daddy, I’m not here for a fashion collection. I want to watch you make the film.”

“Are you kidding? Jesus, babe . . . you’re seventeen. You’re in Rome! You don’t want to stick around on a hot movie set.”

“That’s exactly what I want to do. I also want that bit part you promised me.”

He laughed. “Maybe you will be an actress at that. At least you’re beginning to sound like one. Come on. Let’s get going. I’m starving.”

They went to a restaurant in the old ghetto section of Rome. January adored the old buildings . . . the quiet streets. They went to a place called Angelino’s. Dinner was served by candlelight in a Renaissance piazza. There were even strolling musicians. The entire evening took on a feeling of beautiful unreality. She sat back and watched Mike pour her some wine. She realized that another of her favorite fantasies was actually unfolding . . . she was alone with Mike in a storybook setting . . . he was pouring the wine . . . women were looking at him with admiration but he belonged to her. No phones could take him away, no long black limousines could take her away. She watched him light his cigarette. The waiter was just pouring their espresso when Franco and Melba came into the restaurant. Mike waved them over to the table and ordered another bottle of wine. Melba began talking about one of her scenes in the picture. When her English failed, which was often, she got her point across with gestures. Franco laughed and turned to January. “I speak the English language very poor. You will help me?”

“Well, I—”

“Your father, he all the time talk about you. He count the hours until you come.”

“He did?”

“Of course. Just like I count the hours until I meet you tonight.” He reached out and touched her hand. She pulled it away and turned toward her father, but he was whispering
something into Melba’s ear. The actress giggled and rubbed her cheek against his.

January looked away, but Franco smiled. “Maybe love needs no language, right?”

“I think your English is excellent,” she said stiffly. She tried not to stare at Melba’s hand, which was resting on her father’s thigh.

“Oh, I learned from G.I. uncles.” Franco laughed. “My mother was widowed from war. She was very young . . .
multa bella
. . . she speak no English then, but she learn and teach me. And G.I. uncles good to my mama. But she’s fat now and I send her money because now no G.I.’s to help out. Just Franco.”