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
“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
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