William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice (75 page)

“I couldn’t guess, Mason.”

“Van Rensselaer. They call him Rense. Jesus sake.” He twitched his shoulder up jerkily, as if he were trying to throw it out of joint. In the center of the square we made our way through a jabbering crowd of movie extras, from which two handsome Italian girls in skimpy black sunsuits detached themselves, slithering across our path with a great deal of pelvic animation. Mason took my arm. “Now just look at that,” he said. “Petesy, there’s more twat up on this mountaintop than a wise man could possibly handle. Just
look
at that stuff. I’d get a double-indemnity clause in my insurance policy before I’d play humpty-dump with something like that all night. Godalmighty,” he sighed, moving in lean long strides beside me, “it sure is good to see you again, Petesy. How
is
this Italian stuff? You must be a veteran.”

“Well—” I began, but “So long, Seymour!” he was shouting, flapping his arm at a young man who, perched in the cockpit of a Jaguar at the piazza’s sheer edge, seemed prepared for flight into space. “See you in the moom pitchers!” Then, “There goes the last writer,” he said to me. “Nice guy. Used to write novels.

“Oh, God only knows how long they’re going to be here,” he went on, “a couple of days, a week—you never can tell, the way they’re making this picture. They only got here just a few days ago, right after I wrote you, as a matter of fact. I don’t know what the exact pitch is, financially, except there’s something about blocked-up lire, around a million dollars’ worth, that the company had to play with, and so they dug up this horrible old costume novel about Beatrice Cenci and then assembled this half-American, half-Italian cast, and then found that the wardrobe and properties strained the budget all out of whack and so they decided to do it as a farce, in modern dress. I don’t know. Anyway, they’ve been all over Italy messing around with the story and hiring writers and firing them, or they quit, because the whole story has gotten so grotesque, and the whole thing finally became such a colossal mess that Kirschorn, the producer—he’s sitting on his fat ass up in Rome, at the Hassler—told Alonzo to get the outfit out of his sight and just
finish
the goddam thing. So Alonzo—say, you might have seen him at Merryoaks when we were kids; he was a great pal of the old man’s—anyway, Alonzo had been to Sambuco before and decided it would be a fine place to booze it up and look at the view while they were getting the abortion over with. Alonzo and I ran into each other the morning they got here. Say, there’s Rosemarie now! Hey, baby!” he cried, grabbing my arm and pointing at me. “Look, Peter’s here!”

From an archway near the café we were heading for, the loftiest girl I had ever laid eyes on came ambling along in saffron-colored slacks and halted, tall as a watchtower, shielding her eyes from the sunlight. Then with a sudden pucker of boredom on her lips she minced onward in a giraffe-like promenade of blond and towering beauty, a vast handbag spinning from her elbow. I drew up short, transfixed both by her splendor and her height.

“Is that
yours?”
I said.

“That’s her,” he said, almost majestically. “Why?”

“She’s gorgeous. But—but she must be ten feet high!”

“Calm yourself, Petesy,” he said with an indulgent laugh, “she’s only a little over six-feet-one. She’s shorter than I am.” Proceeding toward her, we were silent for a brief moment, then he added: “The first time I got her in the sack I thought I was climbing Kang-chenjunga—” which made me writhe a little, but I murmured something appreciative in reply.

“Her last name’s de Laframboise,” he explained with a chuckle. “And don’t laugh. It’s her real name. She comes from a very good, loaded-with-dough Long Island family, and she’s only twenty-two. French Huguenot. She’s had all the best advantages—Miss Hewitt’s Classes, Finch, everything.” I was unable to tell now, from his matter-of-fact voice, whether he was kidding or not. “She was modeling when I first met her, making enough dough to thumb her nose at her family and hit the road with your old daddy here. Anyway,” he added, with what sounded like a gratuitous hint of apology, “she’s really a good gal. Absolutely no inhibitions at all, and a heart of gold. She’s no dum-dum, either.”

Now in the shadows of an umbrella-darkened table Rosemarie bloomed like an immense daffodil, her golden head bent down upon a copy of
The New Yorker.
As we drew near she looked up and regarded me with an equanimity so blank that it might have been plastered on, along with the cosmetic gloss that overlaid the big, elegant contours of her face.

“Hello, Peter Leverett,” she said in a throaty voice, “I’ve
hehd
so much about you from Muffin.”

“Muffin?”

A single bright sound of laughter escaped her lips. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s my nickname for Mason. Mason, darling, did that embarrass you? It’s the
fehst
time I ever betrayed you.” Then, turning to me: “But you are such an old friend, aren’t you, Peter Leverett? I just feel I’ve known you for years.” Her face was still no more than a beautiful mask, but her voice—in spite of that clamp-jawed North Shore accent, which not alone by geography has always seemed to me at such close remove from Brooklyn—was warm and amiable, and I sank down in a chair beside her, feeling considerably shortened as I ordered a beer.

“Alonzo said they had to shoot one more scene up the hill, darling,” she said, turning to Mason. “Burnsey and Alice said they’d see us tonight.”

“What about Gloria?”

“She’s got the trots, but she said she’d be up tonight, too. You know what she told me? She said, ’Dahlings, these Italian foods geeve me intestinal wrongings.’ Isn’t that superb?”

Mason heaved a great roar of laughter. “That’s marvelous! It’s almost poetry. Shakespeare, isn’t it? Cleopatra? That girl’s a dream. Wait’ll you meet Mangiamele, Peter. Her English has to be heard to be believed. Look, waiter, the beer’s for the gentleman over there. I ordered a double bourbon and soda.”

“Come, signore?”
The waiter, a woebegone, slope-shouldered little man, stood above us stranded in bafflement.

“A double
bourbon
and soda.”

“Non capisco.”

“Oh Jesus sake, Peter, tell him—”

“C’è del bourbon whiskey?”
I asked.

“Whiskey?”
the waiter said.
“Si, ma solo Il Vaht Sessantanove. Skosh. È molto caro.”

“Oh Jesus sake,” Mason was saying, “some of them are so
opaque.
Why did he take my order in the first place if he didn’t have the faintest, wispiest comprehension—”

“Will Vat 69 do, Mason? He says it’s very expensive.
Va bene,”
I said to the waiter,
“un doppio whiskey.”

“They’re so dim, some of them,” Mason said, after the man had padded off. “Now don’t look at me like that, please, with that glazed look of disapproval. I know I sound like a horrible American interloper passing out all sorts of passe nineteenth-century sentiments, but honest to God, some of the people up here are really beyond belief, and I don’t mean—”

From Rosemarie, face invisible behind her
New Yorker,
came a sudden crash of mirth, amplified deafeningly by the spacious sounding-board of her bosom. “Honestly,” she cried, “sometimes I think Wolcott Gibbs is the drollest—”

“Oh stop, Rosemarie,” he commanded, cutting her short, “can’t you put that down for half a second? Peter’s been here precisely three minutes and you’re slobbering over that magazine like a basset hound—”

I saw an abashed “Sorry” form soundlessly on her lips, and the magazine slid to the earth with a flutter; then as Mason continued, she was all big blue eyes, all attention, her chin propped up on her hands amid a bouquet of scarlet fingernails.

“—and I’m not simply talking about what they call the language barrier,” he was saying. “I’m really not so simple-minded or naive or arrogant, or whatever you want to call it, to expect them all to speak the language. And I’m not talking about that waiter, who looks like a nice guy with nothing wrong with him that a couple of gallons of penicillin wouldn’t cure. I’m only speaking of the stupidity, really, the
economic
stupidity of a cafe owner in a resort town where at least half the clientele must be English-speaking, who can’t or won’t employ a waiter who speaks the language. After all, we have to face it, don’t we, that English is the pre-eminent language of the world? Well, don’t we?”

“Yes indeed, Mason,” I said. “By all means.” Three gulps of beer, which had rocked me like dynamite, brought new lunatic dimensions to my exhaustion: gazing straight at him through gritty, aching eyes I tried to tell whether it was he, or merely the struggles of the day, that had brought me now to such a numb, anticlimactic despondency. On the outside he had changed hardly at all. Much of his gangling look had gone; the weight he had taken on since I had last seen him was attractive, it hadn’t sleekly plumped up his jowls but gave solid lines of maturity to that slim smart pretty-boyishness I knew he had always secretly abhorred. Clothes-horse, too, he remained: the silk brocade sport shirt he wore was bright with glints of threaded gold, made for a princely waist; it must have cost as much as an entire suit of clothes, and no one I knew, except Mason, could wear it with such ease or let it flap out, beach-fashion, as he did, without looking like a clown. Mason was an immensely attractive young man, and the years since I had last seen him had added a suave luster to his beauty.

And with all of this I felt burdened under the blackest sort of gloom. Mason’s voice buzzed back into focus.

“I notice you speak the language pretty well, Petesy boy.” His voice was abruptly so arch that it was hard to tell whether he spoke with admiration or remonstrance.

“I think Italy’s gotten you all upset, Mason,” I said wearily. “I had to learn it. I’ve been here for three years, after all.”

“Well, Peter Leverett—” Rosemarie began.

“Call him Peter or Petesy, Rosemarie, or Goo-Goo or Lover Man, for Jesus sake. But not Peter Leverett. Where did this double-name business come from? Is that all the rage now?”

“I’m sorry, darling. Well, Peter—do you mind?—I think I know what Mason’s trying to convey. Do you mind, darling?” She turned to him briefly, but whether she ignored the glance of reproach he shot her, or merely didn’t detect it, I couldn’t tell. “What I think Mason’s trying to convey is the sort of—well, trauma that affects one when one comes to a foreign country. Even when you’ve been abroad before. I don’t know, getting off the boat in Naples, the terrible heat and the strange dark little people and all the horrible noise and confusion. Then last May, when we first got here, Mason came down with this dreadful psychosomatic cold—”

“Now, sweetie,” Mason protested wryly, “please come off that psychosomatic dodge. It was a cold. Period.”

“Well, darling, I’m not blaming you, even if it was psychosomatic. It just fits in with what I’m saying, that coming to a place like Italy can so upset the mind-body relationship that something like a cold is easy to get. That’s all. I remember on the way up here from Naples when you took those antihistamine tablets—remember that first day?—you said, ’I’m dizzy and it must be because I can’t understand one word these wops are saying—’”

“Sweetie,” he said in an exasperated tone, “I suppose by now I’ve exposed myself
irremediably
to you and to Peter as the most grotesque sort of Rotarian, simply because of my vicious, xenophobic remark about the guy who runs this coffee house, but I want to assure you, baby, that I have never yet used the word wop, and that you are lying through your teeth—”

“I’m sorry, darling,” she put in. Her hand flew to the back of his, in a hurried show of appeasement. “I’m sorry, really. I didn’t mean to imply—”

“You just said it,” he said sourly.

“Well, darling, I didn’t mean to imply what you said. All I’m trying to tell Peter is that what I think you were trying to convey was that one can get off on the wrong foot in a strange land simply because the customs and the language—”

“Anyway, they weren’t antihistamine pills. They were aspirin. I may be a chucklehead straight out of the Lions Club but I’m not a hypochondriac, for Jesus sake.”

“All right, aspirin then. Anyway, the thing I think you were trying to tell Peter—”

Except for that day I can remember no time in my life when, sitting bolt upright, I was able to slip without sensation into unconsciousness, but once again I must have drowsed, for as Rosemarie spoke her voice lost both sound and meaning; past the rim of the sleeping square the vast panorama of sky and sea as if filmed over by sheets of yellow-hued dust lost all dimension, and nodding there and dreaming—what was it?—I felt myself in another land, a boy again upon some lowland estuary or riverside where marshlands echoed the incessant fever of a million humming insects and sails like brilliant kites made upon the oceanic sky patterns as swift and ecstatic as the flight of gulls. But the moment shattered in bits like glass and I must have jumped awake as hurriedly as I slept, for I sensed something moist and warming tumbling from my hand, my eyes snapped open, and the beer bottle exploded in a shower of foam around my feet.

“Peter!” Rosemarie cried. “Poor boy! You look perfectly
extinguished!
Why don’t you go lie down for a little while?”

“Well, I would like to go on up to your place and sleep some of this off,” I said groggily. “I’m just absolutely beat. If you’ll just tell me how to get there …”

At this moment Rosemarie’s expression reminded me of nothing so much as that chic, touching vacuity seen on the mortuary images of ancient Egyptian queens. What she said now, though, seemed to rise to soothe me through some instinctive, sweet, almost clairvoyant understanding. It was only later that night, looking into a mirror at my wrecked and blasted reflection, at my red-rimmed eyes and grease-smeared cheeks and bum’s growth of whiskers, that I realized that, possibly in atonement for her earlier rudeness, she was simply trying to be nice. “Oh, I think you must be absolutely exhausted,” she said. “Did you have any trouble getting here?”

“Oh God, it was awful,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Near Pompei, this guy came barreling out of a side road on a Lam-bretta—”