“Certainly I’ve watched it.”
“Do the players miss the ball often?”
“The better players don’t miss so much, but every point ends with someone missing, or hitting it into the net or over the line. There’s no way to avoid it.”
On the train, Pasquale was still thinking about tennis. Every point ended with someone missing; it seemed both cruel and, in some way, true to life. It was curious what trying to speak English had done lately to his mind; it reminded him of studying poetry in college, words gaining and losing their meaning, overlapping with images, the curious echo of ideas behind the words people used. For instance, when he had asked Dee Moray if the man she loved felt the same way, she had answered quickly that yes, the man loved himself as well. It was such a delightful joke and his pride in understanding it in English had felt so strangely significant. He just wanted to keep repeating the little exchange in his head. And talking about the paintings in the pillbox . . . it was thrilling to see what she imagined—the lonesome young soldier with the photograph of the girl.
In his train car, two young women were sitting next to each other, reading two copies of the same movie magazine, leaning into each other, and chattering about the stories they read. Every few minutes one of them would glance up at him and smile. The rest of the time they read their magazines together; one would point to a picture of a movie star in the magazine and the other would comment on her. Brigitte Bardot? She is beautiful now but she will be fat. They spoke loudly, perhaps to be heard over the sound of the train.
Pasquale looked up from his cigarette and surprised himself by asking the women, “Is there anything in there about an actress named Dee Moray?”
The women had been trying to get his attention for an hour. Now they looked at each other and then the taller one answered, “Is she British?”
“American. She is in Italy making the film Cleopatra. I don’t think she is a big star, but I wondered if there was anything in the magazines about her.”
“She is in Cleopatra?” the shorter woman asked, and then flipped through her magazine until she found a picture of a stunningly beautiful dark-haired woman—certainly more attractive than Dee Moray—which she held up for Pasquale to see. “With Elizabeth Taylor?” The headline beneath Elizabeth Taylor’s photo promised details of the “Shocking American Scandal!”
“She broke up the marriage between Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds,” confided the taller woman.
“So sad. Debbie Reynolds,” said the other girl. “She has two babies.”
“Yes, and now Elizabeth Taylor is leaving Eddie Fisher, too. She and the British actor Richard Burton are having an affair.”
“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.