Once Is Not Enough Read Free

the streets of sidewalk cafés. An occasional timid horn squeaked off in the distance, a horn that would join a pack that would blend into a screaming crescendo when traffic reached its peak.
    Mike pulled the car to a stop in front of a little restaurant. The proprietor ran out and embraced him and insisted on personally making them eggs and sausage, with the hot rolls his wife had just baked.
    The city was bursting with noise when they finally reached the block of the Via Veneto that housed the Excelsior Hotel. January stared at the small expanse—the sidewalk cafés lining both sides of the street, tourists reading The New York Times and Paris edition of the Tribune as they tried to drink the heavy espresso.
    “This is the Via Veneto?” January asked.
    Mike grinned. “Yep, this is it. Sorry I couldn’t arrange to have Sophia Loren passing by. The truth is, if you sat here for a year you might never see Sophia Loren on the Via Veneto. But in one hour, you will see every American who’s in town.”
    She was overwhelmed with the enormous suite at the Excelsior. The ornate marble fireplaces, the dining room, the two large bedrooms—it was almost palatial.
    “I left the room facing the American Embassy for you,” Mike said. “I figured the street noises might not be as loud there.” Then he pointed to her bags which had been delivered. “Unpack, take a bath and go to sleep. I’ll send a car to pick you up around four. You can come to the studio and we’ll drive home together.”
    “Can’t I go to the studio with you now?” she asked.
    He smiled. “Listen, I don’t want you to be tired for your first night in Rome. Incidentally, we don’t dine here until nine or ten.”
    He started for the door and stopped. He stared at her forseveral seconds and shook his head. “Know something? You really are goddamned beautiful!”
    They were still shooting when she arrived at the studio. She stood in the back and watched in the darkness. She recognized Mitch Nelson, the American actor whom the press releases billed as the new Gary Cooper. Through a granite jaw and seemingly immovable lips, he was playing a love scene with Melba Delitto. January had seen Melba only in foreign films. She was very beautiful, but her accent was heavy, and several times she fluffed her lines. Each time, Mike would smile, walk over to her, reassure her, and then start the scene again. After the fifteenth take, Mike yelled, “Print it,” and the lights came up. When he saw January he broke into that special smile that belonged only to her, and he crossed the sound stage. He linked her arm through his. “How long you been standing there?”
    “For about twelve takes. I didn’t know you were also a director.”
    “Well, it’s Melba’s first English-speaking part, and the first few days were pistols. She would fluff . . . the director would scream at her in Italian . . . she’d scream back . . . he’d scream louder . . . she’d walk off the set in tears. That meant an hour for new makeup plus another half hour for her to accept the director’s apologies. So I learned that if I just walk over and soothe the lady and tell her how well she’s doing, we save a lot of time and money and finally get a decent take.”
    A young man came toward them eagerly. “Mr. Mike, I was through work two hours ago but I wait, because I so much wanted to meet your daughter.”
    “January, this is Franco Mellini,” Mike said.
    The young man was in his early twenties. His accent was heavy, but he was tall and undeniably handsome. “Okay, Franco, you’ve been presented. Now scram.” Mike’s voice was gruff, but he smiled as the boy bowed and backed away. “That kid has only a small part, but he may walk off with the whole ballgame,” he said. “I found him in Milan when I was scouting locations. He was doubling as a singer and a bartender in a dive. He’s a natural. It’s wild to see the way he’s charmed every broad on the set. Even Melba.” Mike