Beautiful Ruins (38)

“Poor Eddie Fisher.”

“Poor Richard Burton, I think. She is a monster.”

“Eddie Fisher flew to Rome to try to win her back.”

“His wife has two babies! It’s shameful.”

Pasquale was amazed at how much these women knew about the movie people. It was as if they were talking about their own family, not some American and British movie actors they’d never met. The women were bouncing back and forth, chattering about Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton now. Pasquale wished he’d gone on ignoring them. Had he honestly expected them to know Dee Moray? She’d told Pasquale that Cleopatra was her first film; how would these women have heard of her?

“That Richard Burton is a hound. I would not even give him a second look.”

“Yes, you would.”

She smiled at Pasquale. “Yes, I would.”

The women cackled.

“Elizabeth Taylor has been married four times already!” the taller woman said to Pasquale, who would’ve jumped off the train to get out of this conversation. They went back and forth like a tennis match in which neither player missed.

“Richard Burton’s been married, too,” the other woman said.

“She is a snake.”

“A beautiful snake.”

“Her actions make her common. Men see through such things.”

“Men see only her eyes.”

“Men see tits. She is common!”

“She can’t be common with those eyes . . .”

“It is scandalous! They act like children, these Americans.”

Pasquale pretended to have a coughing fit. “Excuse me,” he said. He stood and left the chattering car, coughing, pausing to glance out the window. They were nearing the station at Lucca and he caught a glimpse of the brick-and-marble Duomo. Pasquale wondered if, when the train got to Florence, he would have enough time before his transfer to take a walk.

In Florence, Pasquale lit a cigarette and leaned on the wrought-iron fence in the piazza Massimo d’Azeglio, down the street and across from Amedea’s house. They would have just finished dinner. This was when Amedea’s father liked the whole family to go for a walk—Bruno, his wife, and his six beautiful daughters (unless he’d married one off in the ten months that Pasquale had been away from Florence) moving in a cluster down the street, once around the piazza and then back to their house. Bruno took great pride in parading his girls, like horses at auction, Pasquale always thought, the old man’s big bald head tilted back, that deep, serious frown on his face.

The sun had broken through at dusk, after a day of clouds, and the whole city seemed to be out strolling. Pasquale smoked, watching the couples and families until, sure enough, after a few minutes, the Montelupo girls rounded the corner—Amedea and the two youngest of her sisters. There were three other girls between the young ones and the oldest, Amedea, but they must have been married off. Pasquale held his breath when he saw Amedea: she was so lovely. Bruno came around the corner next, with Mrs. Montelupo, who pushed the baby stroller. When he saw the stroller, Pasquale let out the breath he’d taken in a deep sigh. So there it was.

He was leaning on the same post he had to lean against when he and Amedea had started seeing one another; he would stand there to signal her. He felt his chest flutter as it used to back then, and that’s when she looked up, saw him, stopped suddenly, and reached out for the wall. Pasquale wondered if she looked at their post every day, even now. Unaware of his presence, Amedea’s sisters moved on without her; then Amedea resumed walking, too. Pasquale removed his hat—the second part of their old signal. Across the street he saw Amedea shake her head no. Pasquale put his hat back on.

The three girls walked in front, Amedea with little Donata and Francesca. Behind them strolled Bruno and his wife and the baby in the carriage. A young couple stopped to gaze in at the baby. Their voices carried across the piazza to Pasquale.

“He is so big, Maria,” said the woman.

“He should be. He eats as much as his father.”

Bruno laughed proudly. “Our hungry little miracle,” he said.

The woman reached into the carriage to pinch the baby’s cheek. “You leave some food for your sisters, little Bruno.”

Amedea’s sisters had turned to watch the couple praise the baby, but Amedea kept her gaze forward, staring across the street as if Pasquale would disappear unless she kept him in her vision.

Pasquale had to look away from Amedea’s stare.

The woman admiring little Bruno turned to Amedea’s youngest sister, who was twelve. “And do you like having a baby brother, Donata?”

She said she did.

They settled into a more intimate conversation. After that, Pasquale could hear only bits from across the street—about the rains, how warm weather seemed to be lurking around a corner.

Then the couple moved on and the Montelupos finished their lap around the piazza and were devoured, one by one, by the tall wooden door of their narrow house, which Bruno ceremoniously pulled shut behind them. Pasquale stood there smoking. He checked his watch; plenty of time before the last train to Rome.

Ten minutes later, Amedea came striding across the street, her arms crossed as if she were cold. He had never been able to read her lovely brown eyes, beneath their black brows. They were so fluid, so naturally teary that even when she was angry—which was often—her eyes always seemed ready to forgive.