‘You know, that is what I would like to do, with this film. When the English think of Italy, I suspect some still think of words like Monte Cassino, Mussolini. No?’ Without waiting for Hal to speak, she continues. ‘Or perhaps they think of poverty and defeat. I want them to think again of this beauty, this land of fable and romance. Somewhere in which love flourishes. How could it not, in a place like this?’
Monte Cassino. They are rebuilding the monastery there, Hal read, exactly as before, the one that was bombed almost out of existence. ‘Where it was, and as it was,’ the Abbott had said. If only the same could be done with a person.
They stop in Vernazza for lunch at a restaurant. When the waiter comes to take their orders, Hal sees Truss lean across Stella. ‘La bistecca,’ he says, in a rather elegant accent, perusing the menu carefully. He indicates his wife. ‘E le cozze per mia moglie.’
Hal looks away.
He is seated next to Giulietta again. She has covered half her face with huge round sunglasses, but these have the effect of drawing attention to her, rather than the opposite. He is determined, this time, to draw her out.
‘Miss Castiglione.’
She turns to him.
‘I wonder if I might interview you, about the film.’
She frowns. ‘Now?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
Suddenly, capriciously, she grins: showing a slight gap in her white front teeth. The effect of the smile that of a lamp being turned on. ‘All right. Why not?’
‘Would you prefer Italian?’
‘No, English is fine.’
‘So, tell me. What is it like being called “Italy’s finest export”?’
She shrugs. ‘It makes me sound like a tomato.’ A toss of her head.
‘Still, what an incredible thing, to become so famous so quickly. Has it all been a great surprise?’
‘No. I knew it would happen.’
‘You did? Well that’s … you must have a remarkable drive, to have made sure that it did.’
‘I don’t know what that means. Drive. Come una macchina?’
‘Well, no … ambizione, istinto sfrenato.’
She shrugs again. ‘Perhaps.’
It is already quite possibly the most tiresome interview Hal has yet attempted. Even the Roman politicians, with all their slipperiness, have proved easier subjects than this.
‘All right. Next question. What was it like working with Earl Morgan? You two make a wonderful onscreen couple.’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘He is a – oh, how you say. It begin with an “i”?’
‘Say it in Italian, perhaps.’
She shakes her head, stubbornly. ‘I will think. It will come to me.’ She drums a manicured hand on the table.
‘Icon?’
At the same time she shouts, in triumph, ‘Imbecile!’
The conversation about the table stutters to a halt. Hal feels the eyes of the party upon them. With the exception, thankfully, of Earl Morgan, who has drunk a bottle of vino rosato and slipped into unconsciousness.
‘Ah.’ Hal says, quietly, reasonably, ‘I’m not sure that will look so good. Perhaps something about how talented he is …’
‘So.’ She narrows her eyes at him. ‘So. I think I understand it. You want me simply to say exactly what you tell me?’
‘Well, no, but …’
‘Write exactly as you like,’ she says, suddenly. Like a sudden shift in the wind her mood has changed. The smile is gone. ‘That’s what you want, I think.’ She puts down her fork and stands. ‘I’m tired of this now.’
‘Please,’ Hal says, ‘Miss Castiglione, that’s not at all—’
But his words have fallen on deaf ears, because she has already stalked away to pose for the photographers loitering inevitably just beyond the entrance, arranging herself with feline haughtiness. Hal looks down at his pad. Nothing there that will make an interesting sentence, let alone a paragraph. She is a child, he thinks, a spoiled child. Yet on screen, she had had so much complexity and maturity. He rips out the page in disgust.
*
After Vernazza, they sail along the coast until they reach the bay of Levanto. If one is to continue with the metaphor, she is the mother: serious and stately, her beauty faded, but arguably the more charming for it. Along the distant quay fishermen are waiting for an evening catch.
After dinner, Hal sits with Gaspari at the bow. The little dog is asleep at the director’s feet. Every so often she will let out a small, subconscious whine, and her paws will twitch with some movement carried over from her dream.
‘I’ve been meaning to thank you,’ Hal says.
‘For what?’
‘Leaving the journal in my room.’
‘Ah. Yes.’
‘It makes for interesting reading.’
‘I thought you might think so.’
‘I’m intrigued by her – the woman.’
Gaspari nods. ‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘She was the reason I took it on. I felt, reading his words, that she had the ability to arouse feelings of great passion and devotion in men, but also hatred and fear. This is something that happens in cinema, I think – in the way we see our female stars.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Take an actress like Grace Kelly. People like to think of her as some Diana, a virgin goddess: golden and pure. Then, when she is reported as having a love affair, as beautiful young people are wont to do, people feel that she has deceived them in some way.’