The Other Language(47)

“What are you watching?”

Mina looked surprised, as though Lara had asked a silly question.

“One of Ben’s films is showing on Channel Two!”

“I see. And … you are having a party afterward?”

Mina lowered her voice, pointing her chin toward the other room. “They want to watch it with me. You know, these people are very provincial, they keep asking me all kinds of questions about Ben, they want to know this and that, what does he really look like, is he a nice person or not … they won’t leave me alone. What can I do? They are my neighbors, I cannot simply shut them out the door, can I?”

“No, of course not. Well … have fun. I’ll see you in a few weeks, I think. I’ll come back soon, I don’t really want to go back to Rome but I have to. I’m going to miss this place a lot—”

Mina didn’t pay attention to this last comment. She was busy rummaging through the clutter on the table, lifting fabrics and packages till she fished out a gossip magazine and opened it. She hit a page with the back of her hand and showed Lara a spread of blurry photos. Reclined on a chaise longue on the edge of an infinity pool was a topless blonde with oversize dark glasses and earphones. Sitting on the edge of the same chaise, almost hovering over the girl’s taut, tanned body, was Ben—the same faded sarong that he had worn at Lara’s wrapped around his belly. There were palm trees and a stone and glass building in the background. Someone’s legs entered the side of the shot. They clearly belonged to Leo, Lara knew instantly; she recognized a portion of his swimming trunks. Yet another fragment of her little brother.

“These people have no shame,” Mina was saying. “To intrude like this on Ben’s privacy. I told him: when you buy the house here, you’ll see, nobody is going to bother you. You’ll be able to go as you please, live as you want, in broad daylight. There are no paparazzi where we live.”

“I’m afraid they’d follow him no matter where he—”

But Mina wasn’t listening. She clasped Lara’s wrist and again lowered her voice to a whisper, checking behind her shoulder that none of the neighbors was in earshot.

“He wants a divorce. He’s very unhappy with his wife.”

“Really?” Lara glimpsed at the photo spread again. The girl had perfectly erect, Champagne cup–shaped breasts. She must be twenty-five at the most.

Mina nodded vigorously. “Oh yes. Apparently she’s very cold, very selfish. He pays for everything: house, clothes, servants. Everything. He says his wife has a heart of stone …”

“Did he actually talk to you about that?”

“… and now they publish these photos. This woman here, she’s just a friend, she has nothing to do with him but …”

“That’s his lover.”

“… with these pictures the wife will take him to the cleaners. It’s going to be a big problem with the divorce case. She can take all of his money, you know?”

“It’s his lover. I know that for a fact,” Lara reiterated, louder this time.

Mina slapped the magazine shut and put it back on the table. She looked insulted. “Oh, no. She’s just a friend. He told me he doesn’t want to get involved with anybody for a while. He wants to think, to be left in peace.”

“Wait. How do you … Do you speak to him on the phone?” This was crazy.

Mina issued her shrill laugh.

“Yes, he calls me almost every day! That man needs to rest. Yes, he has to have his peace. He works so hard, he deserves it.”

“What language does he speak to you? He speaks to you in Italian?” Lara was bewildered. When did Ben decide to pick Mina as his confidante? Didn’t he have more suitable friends in Hollywood?

Mina nodded distractedly.

“These pictures are going to cause a very big problem with the wife …”

Lara sighed. Why was she engaging in this anyway? It was hopeless.

“I have to go now.”

“Yes, yes, go,” Mina said and glanced into the TV room.

Ben had just made his entrance on the screen—a few years younger, a few pounds lighter, in a police uniform.



Lara’s apartment in Rome was the same one in Via Plinio where she’d lived with her husband. After nearly three months of absence it looked foreign, abandoned and dreary. For a few days Lara moved around the rooms with circumspection, unsure as to what to do with her body, where to park it. She tried the couch, the green armchair, the desk, but couldn’t find a spot where it felt natural to be. She asked Anita over for dinner and realized she no longer knew how to cook in that kitchen. All the dexterity she’d had all summer long with food, her ability to throw together extravagant recipes in just a few minutes, was gone.

“They say having two houses is like having two wives. Neither one has the whole of you,” she said gloomily when Anita arrived. She’d shown up in a slinky Sue Wong dress and with a bottle of Prosecco, ready for a bubbly night of gossip and laughs. She pulled a minuscule puppy out of a tote bag and proudly announced, “And this is Carmen. A hairless Chinese crested.”

The tiny dog was as ugly as it was hairless—except for the long, soft tufts of white hair that flowed from the top of its head. From this very ugliness came its adorableness, Lara supposed.