Just South of Rome
| Just South of Rome |
| Judy Nunn |
| Australia |
| (2013) |
Australian actress Jane Prescott is offered a job in England, she sees
it as a chance to ignite her career. Little does she know that it's her
stopover in Italy en route that will change her life. For just south of Rome, she discovers...
The Hotel Visconti, a grand eighteenth-century villa...
A colourfully flamboyant host...
A lively party of American tourists...
Glamorous locals who gather nightly in the cocktail bar...
An Italian lover who looks uncannily like Ryan Gosling...
What could go wrong?
An enchanting novella by Australia’s master storyteller, Judy Nunn. Also features an extract from Judy’s new bestseller
Elianne
.
When Australian actress Jane Prescott is offered a job in England, she sees it as a chance to ignite her career. Little does she know that it’s her stopover in Italy en route that will change her life.
For just south of Rome, she discovers …
The Hotel Visconti, a grand eighteenth-century villa …
A colourfully flamboyant host …
A lively party of American tourists …
Glamorous locals who gather nightly in the cocktail bar …
An Italian lover who looks uncannily like Ryan Gosling …
What could go wrong?
‘You must go to my friend Wendy’s restaurant. It’s just south of Rome. By the lake. Near the Pope’s summer palace. You’ll love it.’
That’s what Roland had told me. ‘Truly, Janie,’ he’d said in that rich, fruity BBC voice of his (despite being fourth generation Australian, Roland is a thorough Anglophile) ‘it’s heaven.’ Then he stretched out his legs and leaned back in the sofa, his hands clasped behind his head of impressive silver-grey hair. ‘Oh how I envy you the magic of your first European encounter – the enchantment of Tuscany seen for the very first time through youthful eyes!’ Roland is so theatrical I’ve always thought that it was he who should have been the actor, not me.
Ours is a bizarre friendship. Not only is Roland twice my age, he is a romantic. He is flamboyant in every sense of the word, and a confirmed monarchist. I am efficient. I am practical to a fault, and an ardent republican. On occasions we find ourselves in fiery debate, but there’s never any real harm done; we always end up laughing. And that, of course, is the true basis of our friendship. We find each other hugely amusing.
‘Ah, Janie,’ he’ll sigh, ‘where’s your sense of romance; you’re far too pragmatic for an actress.’ (He deliberately uses the old-fashioned term ‘actress’ when he knows I prefer ‘actor’ – I mean, this is 2013 for God’s sake!) ‘You would have made a very good pharmacist.’ Bitchy as such remarks sound, I know he actually respects my work. In fact, it was through a feature article he wrote eight years ago about ‘the rising new breed of classic actors in the Australian theatre’ (flatteringly including me in my first major role after leaving drama school) that we met. Since then we’ve agreed to disagree on many aspects of my work, however, most particularly my performance of Hedda Gabler two years ago.
‘A thoughtful interpretation, Janie,’ he said, ‘intelligent and perceptive as always, but too young, my darling, altogether too young.’
‘Too young?’ I was a little mystified. ‘In what way was my Hedda too young?’
‘Not your Hedda, darling,
you
.
You
were too young. The great classic roles are the preserve of actresses in their thirties. Hedda needs more
weight,
more
depth,
more
maturity …’
The superior way he hammered his nouns home irritated me, and that infuriating reference to actresses! Does he do it simply because he’s old-fashioned or because he knows it drives me mad? I have often suspected the latter, although Roland’s views on casting are so distinctly old-fashioned I do begin to wonder. Twenty-seven is hardly too young for Hedda – perhaps in his time, but certainly not these days. In fact, twenty-seven is the perfect age for Hedda. I didn’t retaliate, of course, knowing I’d only be offering him further ammunition and that he’d smile condescendingly and accuse me of being ‘a tad on the defensive’.
Maddening though Roland can be, he has continued to have a profound effect on my life, probably because in the face of my occasional negativity, he can be so damned positive – as he was just two months ago.
‘It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, Janie,’ he urged. ‘It’s a gateway to the career you’ve always dreamed of, treading the boards of the finest theatres in the world.’
‘It’s a pantomime, Roland,’ I said drily. ‘It’s
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
at the Pavilion in Bournemouth.’
‘And Bournemouth is a train ride from London and the West End,’ he replied, exasperated, ‘and you now have an English agent!’
‘I somehow doubt that an agent who books Australian soap actors for British pantos is likely to land very many West End contracts,’ I said, this time with a distinctly cynical
edge.
Roland took a deep breath. I could be as maddening to him as he could be to me. ‘Now you listen to me, Janie. You’ll be thirty next year,’ (he simply had to remind me, didn’t he?) ‘and the British theatre is not as obsessed with extreme youth as is the Australian theatre. This is the decade when you’re destined to come into your full strength as an actress,’ (no comment) ‘and you owe it to yourself to seize such an opportunity with both hands.’
The panto offer had been the direct result of a six-month stint I’d done in a highly successful soap opera (which the network always referred to as a ‘drama series’, but which was a soap opera nonetheless) that was even more popular in Britain than it was in Australia, and don’t ask me how, but after a further ten minutes’ haranguing, Roland’s enthusiasm started to make inroads. I actually found myself excited by the prospect of what might lie ahead if I chose to go to London after the panto closed. I’d been well-established in the Australian theatre for the past five years, but thirty was looming and perhaps Roland was right. Perhaps now was the time to make my bid for a career on the London stage, the Mecca of theatre for any serious actor.
Over the ensuing weeks, Roland had further advice. Indeed, reliving his youth, he never let up. ‘Travel,’ he urged. ‘Devour the riches of the world, Janie! Drink your fill of life while you’re young!’ On and on he went, fanning the flames of my own longings Why not? I asked myself. Why not leave Sydney six weeks earlier than planned, hire a car and drive around Italy? The whole boot – from the Alps to Naples.
Then finally … ‘You will promise me, won’t you?’ His parting words at the airport. ‘Castel Gandalfo, just south of Rome. Wendy’s restaurant is near the palace, by the lake, you can’t miss it …’
For two weeks now I had travelled the Italian countryside in my little Hertz Honda. I had braved the terrors of high-speed alpine motorways where everyone drives on the wrong side of the road. I had plunged without warning into black tunnels carved through the hearts of mountains. I had negotiated the narrow laneways of medieval villages and dodged the bee-like swarms of Lambrettas in the messy, lane-less streets of cities. And for the whole two weeks I had stopped dutifully to visit every duomo, every castle, every Roman ruin.
I would finally take Roland’s advice, I decided. I would visit his friend Wendy’s restaurant. I had earned it. Wendy was English. She had married an Italian and they had run the restaurant for seven years now. Wendy would know the area thoroughly, I told myself. Wendy would direct me to a nearby hotel, a comfortable one where I could rest up and gather my forces before the assault on Rome. Merely circling Rome from the north had been confusing enough. To plunge deep into the very core of the city was a terrifying prospect. But I would do it. Alone. Armed with nothing but my dozen or so Italian words and my, by now, well-refined talent for mime, I was determined.
But, in the meantime, I would find Wendy and her restaurant. I would finally talk English and exchange stories of mutual friends, and regardless of budget I would spend two nights in a highly recommended hotel where I would soak in my own ensuite bathtub and have my breakfast delivered by room service at eleven o’clock. No pensione with the bathroom up a flight of stairs and three doors to the right. No gathering at the communal table for seven o’clock breakfast and enquiries as to the whereabouts of the nearest architectural wonder.
‘
No parla Inglese.
’
It was a bit of a surprise but, undeterred, I soldiered on. ‘Your
moglie,
Wendy,
si?
’ I
knew the word for wife.
‘
Si, mio moglie Wendy. No parla Inglese.
’
Damn. I knew I should have rung first. I knew I shouldn’t have just landed at the restaurant. But I’d become so proud of my prowess at finding my way around that I hadn’t been able to resist the challenge. I hadn’t even known the address – Roland had given me Wendy’s name and phone number only. So I’d headed for the Pope’s summer palace, parked the car, walked for half an hour or so and bingo, there it was, ‘
Ristorante del Lago
’
,
a cosy little trattoria with a vine-covered balcony that overlooked the lake. Everything had gone beautifully to plan. I’d eaten bruschetta, sipped a glass of wine and waited comfortably among the vines, savouring the smell of fresh garlic and admiring the view, until Wendy’s husband, Bruno, had arrived. Wendy wasn’t coming to the restaurant today, the waiter, who spoke a little English, had informed me. But Bruno would be here soon.
Now here was Bruno. ‘
No parla Inglese,
’ he insisted a third time.
‘Oh. Well …
Mio amico
– Wendy
amico,’
I said, miming ‘old pals’.
‘Ah.’ He nodded but didn’t look remotely interested and, before I could dredge up another word or two of my abominable Italian, to my utter horror he walked away.
I was starting to feel distinctly embarrassed. Also a little confused. Wendy had been married to her Italian for over thirty years, Roland had told me, how come Bruno didn’t speak English?
‘I’ve never met the husband,’ Roland had said. ‘Can’t remember his name, but I’m sure he’s very nice. Wendy’s adorable – you’ll love her.’
Roland and Wendy had been pals in London in their early twenties when he’d made the mandatory trip that all Australians of artistic persuasion did in those days. They either headed to Paris to paint or to London to break into the theatre (which was exactly what I was doing, so I suppose some things don’t change) or to Italy to write. Roland was a writer.
At least he is now. Those early days in London I think he was a jack of all trades. Wendy was an English actress – well, an aspiring one anyway – who was waiting tables in a Soho restaurant, and I suspect that’s how they met. I have a distinct feeling that Roland was waiting tables too, although he prefers to paint that period of his life with a little more bohemian colour.
‘Oh how Wendy and I knew London,’ he went on with a wistful sigh. ‘The London of the seventies, the hub of the world, ours for the asking …’
I didn’t enquire too deeply into what they asked for or what was returned upon request. It sounded a little overly idyllic to me. Roland is a product of the fifties with a baby-boomer mentality, and I’ve always found baby-boomers’ romanticism of the seventies a touch suspect.
‘Now don’t give me that cynical look of yours, Janie. Wendy and I may be twenty or so years older than you,’ (thirty, actually – Roland will be sixty next year) ‘but we “did our thing” just as you’re about to do yours. And we certainly didn’t have the luxury of cruising around Europe in cars.’ (Luxury? Cruising?) ‘We couldn’t afford to hire cars. We backpacked and hitchhiked and hopped trains when we had the money.’
As usual, just when he started sounding like my father, Roland stopped. ‘Honestly, sweetheart, you’ll love Wendy. She may be approaching sixty but underneath, like me, she’s really twenty-nine. And you may be twenty-nine but underneath you’re really approaching sixty, so the two of you are bound to get on.’
He studied me for a second. ‘You even look a bit alike. I suppose it’s the fair hair and the good legs.’ Then he added, ‘Mind you, Wendy was a true beauty when she was young.’
I barked a laugh by way of reply, but he continued unperturbed. ‘Oh, “interesting” is a much better look, believe me, and you’re far more talented than Wendy ever was. You’ll
adore her, I promise. Do look her up.’
Well, I’d done my best, I thought, as I watched Bruno at the front desk chatting animatedly to a departing guest. At least I’d met the husband. Or had I? A horrifying thought occurred to me. Was it possible there were two restaurateurs in Castel Gandolfo, each with a wife named Wendy? ‘
Il conto per favore.
’ (One of the only Italian phrases I could muster in full). The waiter nodded towards Bruno and I approached the front desk with money in hand.
When Bruno shook his head, my minor embarrassment turned to utter humiliation. ‘No, no, please,’ I insisted. Had he thought I was seeking special favours? Had he pinned on me the worst possible label for an Australian? That of ‘bludger’.
‘Mio amico
Roland from Australia – he tell me Wendy and he …’ I was getting desperate, gesticulating hand to heart, pointing somewhere in the direction of Australia and generally carrying on like a demented clown. ‘
Si.
Wendy.’ Bruno nodded. ‘Wendy
domani.
’ And he turned to greet the arrival of a fresh group of noisy guests.
My face crimson, I pocketed my money, fled the restaurant and, while I walked the kilometre or so to the car, cursed Roland every step of the way. Why, oh why, had I decided to stop off at his friend Wendy’s restaurant just south of Rome! Why, oh why, hadn’t I kept on driving! I knew it was my own fault for having arrived unannounced, but there was no way I was coming back ‘
domani
’ to address the problem. What if they thought I wanted to freeload again? What if she really wasn’t the right Wendy?
So much for my ‘highly recommended’ local hotel – I must find my own.
Castelvecchio, a kilometre down the road. Four star, very grand-looking. Yes, I’d drown my humiliation in a hot bath and a stiff gin and tonic there. No rooms. ‘
Hotel
complete
,’ I was told.
Miralago Hotel further down the road. Not so grand but I told myself ‘picturesque’ was good enough. No rooms. ‘
Hotel complete.
’
Out of Castel Gandalfo. The next town. Albano. Two more hotels. No rooms. ‘
Hotel complete.’
It’s late afternoon. A touch of desperation. The next town. Genzano di Roma.
And that’s when I find it, the Hotel Visconti, a once-proud villa on a hill less than a kilometre from the town’s central piazza. Upon the discovery of the Hotel Visconti, the Wendy-Bruno mystery paled into insignificance.
