Once Is Not Enough (3 page)

January was relieved when Mike signaled for the check. He left a pile of bills on the table and they all stood up. Then he turned to January with a smile. “Well, I guess I’ve hogged you enough, babe. Besides, a beautiful young girl should spend her first night in Rome with a handsome young Italian. At least that’s what it says in all the movie scripts I’ve ever done.” He winked at Franco. Then he put his arm around Melba as they walked out of the restaurant.

For a moment they all stood together on the narrow cobbled street. Then Mike said, “Okay, Franco. I’m gonna let you show my daughter some of the night life in this town. But take it easy. After all, we’re all gonna be here two months.” Then he took Melba’s arm and headed for his car. January watched them drive off. It all happened so fast she couldn’t believe it. Her father was gone and she was standing on a strange street in Rome with a handsome young Italian, courtesy of Mike Wayne.

Franco took her arm and led her down the street to a tiny car. They squeezed into it, and with skillful maneuvering he managed to dart in and out of the crowded traffic. She was silent during the drive. Her first inclination had been to ask him to take her back to the hotel. But then what? Sit there and wait . . . and wonder what they were doing?
No!
Let
him
sit and wait and wonder what
she
was doing. He had walked out on her . . . left her with this boy. Okay. She’d show him how it felt.

“Small car only thing to use in Roma,” he said. They went through winding streets and stopped at an outdoor ice cream parlor. “We go downstairs,” Franco said. They climbed out of the car, and he led her down a dark narrow staircase. “You’ll like . . . best discotheque in Roma.”

The entire building looked as if it were ready for the demolition ball, but they entered a cavernous expanse that was packed with couples gyrating to blasting music and psychedelic lighting. Franco seemed to know everyone in the place, including the waiter, who led them to a choice table in an alcove. He ordered some wine and then pulled her onto the floor against her will. She was embarrassed because she didn’t know the new dances. She looked around. All the girls seemed to be undulating, oblivious of their partners. The entire floor looked like a mass of worms . . . wriggling . . . squirming . . . twisting. She had never tried it. Her last term at Miss Haddon’s had been dateless by choice, because Mike had been in New York and she had spent every weekend with him.

But Franco laughed away her doubts. The beat of the music was strong, and under his guidance she began to move slowly . . . tentatively. Franco nodded encouragement and swayed to the tempo. His smile radiated confidence and approval. She found herself falling into a modified imitation of the other girls on the floor. Franco nodded . . . his arms waved in the air . . . his hips slithered . . . she followed his pace . . . the beat of the music grew louder . . . soon she was dancing with complete abandon. They fell into each other’s arms from exhaustion when the music stopped. He led her back to the table and she drank an entire glass of wine in one long swallow. Franco ordered a bottle and refilled her glass. Several of his friends came to the table, and soon a large group of young people had gathered. Very few spoke English, but they all danced with her, smiled easily, and even the girls seemed warm and friendly. She would actually have enjoyed herself except for the nagging thought of Melba and her father. She had seen the way Mike had looked at Melba . . . the way their eyes had held. She drank another glass of wine. Melba meant nothing to her father. She was just the star of the picture. He wanted
to keep her happy. Hadn’t he explained that was why he went over and whispered to her between each take? But what had he whispered? She took another long swallow of wine and nodded in agreement when another handsome young man asked her to dance. The music was blasting. She was moving with the exact precision of the other dancers. (Were Melba and her father sitting somewhere listening to good music—music for lovers—sitting alone in some quiet place with violins?) She suddenly stopped dancing and walked off the floor. The boy hurried after her, jabbering in Italian, waving his arms questioningly.

“Tell him I’m tired, that’s all,” January told Franco. She sat down and listened to the exchange of Italian. The boy stopped frowning, smiled, shrugged, and asked another girl to dance. At one o’clock the group began to disband. She wondered if Mike was home. Was he worried that she was out this late? Maybe he wasn’t home yet. She finished her glass of wine and reached for the bottle. It was empty, and Franco immediately ordered another bottle, but the waiter shook his head. A heated argument began. Finally Franco stood up and tossed some money on the table. “They are closing. Come, we go somewhere else.”

She followed him up the steps. “Where does everyone go now?” she asked. “I mean, people who want to stay up late? Is there a place . . . well, like in New York we have P.J.’s . . .”

“Oh, you mean meeting place? No, only Americans meet late here. Italians don’t stay up or go to late clubs. They have home-type social life.”

“But—” She stopped as they reached the street. That would mean Mike was coming home just about now.

“I tell you what,” Franco said. “We go to my place. I have the same wine.” He turned to another couple who were standing with them on the street. “You come too, Vincente and Maria.”

Vincente shook his head with a wink and walked off with his arm around the girl. Franco led January to his car. Suddenly she said, “I think I’d better go home, too. I’ve enjoyed it very much, Franco . . . honestly. It’s been really neat.”

“No. We have nightcap. Your papa think I am very bad escort if I bring you home so early.”

She laughed. “Is that what you are? An escort? Courtesy of my father?”

His face went dark. He stepped on the gas of the small car and it careened through the streets, swerving, taking corners at an unnerving speed.

“Franco, we’ll get killed. Please. Have I insulted you?”

“Yes. You call me a gigolo.”

“No . . . really . . . I was just kidding. . . .”

He pulled to a stop on a small side street. “Look, one thing we get straight. Your papa important man. But I am good actor. I am superb in film. I see rushes. I know. Zeffirelli wants me to read for part in his new film. I will get it. You see. Most of my part is finished in your papa’s picture so I am not playing the politic. I take you out tonight because you are beautiful. Because I want to see you. Your papa talk much about you, but I did not believe. But when I see you this afternoon . . . ah . . . then I believe.”

“Okay, Franco.” She laughed. “But one thing . . . there’s no such thing as gigolos anymore. And you’ve got to learn not to be so touchy.”

“What you call a man who is bought?” he asked.

She shrugged. “No
man
is ever bought . . . or kept. The ones that are . . . I suppose you’d call them escorts, or fags, or muscle-beach types . . . male whores.”

“I am not male whore.”

“No one said you were.”

He started the car but he drove slowly. “In Naples where I was born, we learn we have to fight for what we want. Women, money—even to stay alive. But we cannot be bought by women. We are maschio.” Then he smiled. “Okay . . . I forgive you . . . if you come back for some wine.”

“But—”

“Or maybe I feel you are only with me to please your papa unless we have one glass of wine.”

“All right. One glass of wine.”

He drove through winding streets . . . over cobblestones
. . . past massive dark buildings with courtyards. Finally he pulled up in front of an imposing old house. “Way back this was private palazzo of rich old lady. Mussolini once stayed here with his mistress. Now it is run down and made into apartments.”

She followed him through a dark courtyard with cracked marble benches and a broken unworkable marble fountain. He fitted his key into a massive oak door. “Come in. This is my place. Not neat . . . but nice . . . yes?”

The living room was a wild contrast of modern disorder against old-world antiquity. High ceilings . . . worn marble floors . . . sofa strewn with newspapers . . . littered tin ashtrays . . . tiny kitchen stacked with dirty dishes . . . bedroom door ajar, with unmade bed. Here he lived in typical bachelor chaos.

He seemed unabashed by the appearance of the apartment. He flicked on the hi-fi and suddenly music seemed to be coming from everywhere. What he lacked in furniture he made up for in speakers. She studied the moldings and fine marble while he worked on the cork of the bottle of wine.

“This is same like we had,” he said as he came to her with the glasses. Then he led her to the couch, swept the newspapers to the floor and motioned for her to sit. The stuffing and some springs were leaking through the bottom, but there was pride in his voice when he said, “All my furniture donated by friends.”

“This is a marvelous couch,” she said. “If you had it redone and-”

He shrugged. “When I become big star I furnish place good. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Well, if I’m big star enough, they send for me to come to America. That is where the real money is, no?”

“Melba Delitto is a big star and she stays here.”

He laughed. “Melba is already very rich. Besides, she is thirty-one . . . too old to go.”

“But she made all that money here.”

“No. From lovers. She has had many lovers . . . many
diamonds. She make good money in films but more from lovers. See, is different for a woman. Your papa already give her big pin with diamonds.”

She stood up. “I think I’d better get home.”

“You just arrive. You didn’t drink the wine. I opened whole bottle.”

“Franco, it’s getting late, and—”

He pulled her back on the couch. “First drink your wine.” He handed her the glass. She sipped it slowly. His hand dropped from the back of the sofa onto her shoulders. She pretended not to notice, but it felt heavy, as if it had a life of its own. The fingers began to play with the back of her neck.

She made an effort and swallowed some of the wine. Then she stood up. “Franco, I think I’d like to go.”

He stood up but held out his arms. “Come. We dance. Old-fashioned style.”

“I really don’t want . . .”

But his arms went around her and he held her close as he led her into a slow dance. She felt the hardness of his body . . . the bulge in his pants . . . he was pressing against her . . . moving his body to the rhythm of the music. Her thin Pucci dress felt like paper. Suddenly he kissed her. His tongue pressed her lips apart. She tried to pull away, but he held her head with one hand and with the other he began caressing her breasts. She kept trying to get away from him, but he laughed at her efforts. Then, with one quick move, he lifted her up and carried her into the bedroom and tossed her lightly on the unmade bed. Before she could move, he had her dress up and was pulling at her pants. She screamed when she felt his hands on her bare buttocks.

He stared at her. “What is it? What is wrong?”

She jumped off the bed, pulling down her dress. She was too angry for tears. “How dare you! How
dare
you!” She ran into the living room, grabbed her purse and ran toward the door. He leaped in front of her and blocked her way. “January—is something wrong?”

“Is something wrong!” she said hoarsely. “You ask me here for a drink and then try to rape me.”

“Rape?” He stared at her. “I try to make love to you.”

“To you, it’s obviously the same thing.”

“What same thing? Rape is crime. Making love is two people whose bodies long for one another. You agreed to come here no?”

“For a drink . . . and to . . . Well, I thought your feelings were hurt.”

“Maybe I have big temper,” he said. “But you are acting like spoiled American girl.”

“Well, I am an American girl.”

“Ah yes. But you are maschio’s daughter. That is the big difference. See, they say American girls . . . have rules. First date . . . maybe goodnight kiss. Second date, maybe a little feel. Third date more touching and feeling. But never no love-making until after fourth or fifth date. And American men follow these rules. But Mike Wayne makes his own rules. I thought his daughter would be like him.”

“You mean . . . just like that . . . you thought I’d go to bed with you!”

He laughed. “Well . . . just like that . . . you went for drinks with me. You danced with me. It’s all very natural and very good. Making love follows.” He leaned over and stroked her breasts. “See. Nipples are hard. Right through your dress. Your lovely little breasts want Franco . . . even if you don’t. Why not let me just make love to them?”

She pushed his hands away. “Franco, take me home.”

He leaned over and kissed her, pinning her against the door. She fought violently . . . kicking . . . pulling at his hair, but he only laughed as if it were part of a game. With one hand he took her arms and pinned them behind her. With the other hand he tried to pull down the zipper in the back of her dress. In the midst of her panic she remembered to be grateful that it was only a six-inch zipper. He tugged and tugged. Then, quickly, he reached down and pulled the dress up around her head. It trapped her arms against her head and muffled her screams. She wasn’t wearing a bra and suddenly she felt his lips against her breasts and in spite of her fury she felt a strange sensation in her groin. He slid one hand under her pants and groped between her legs. “See, my little January. You are moist with love . . . waiting for me.”

With one frantic burst of strength she broke away and blindly groped at her dress. As she pulled it down she gasped between sobs, “Please . . . please let me go.”

“Why are you crying?” His amazement was real. He tried to put his arms around her again and she screamed.

“January, what is wrong? I will be a good lover. Please. Take off your clothes and come to bed with me.” He was fidgeting with the buckle of his belt. He stepped out of his pants. His grin was boyish, as if he were cajoling a stubborn child. “Come. Look how very much I want you. Please look.” He was standing before her in brief shorts.

She tried not to stare . . . but she was hypnotized. He smiled modestly. “Franco is like a stallion. You will be pleased. Come . . .” He held out his arms. “We make love. Your body is calling out to me. Why you try to deny this happiness to us both?”