The Italian Actress by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 3407299
Publisher: State University of New York Press
Published: 2010-06-03T00:00:00+00:00

A clear, cold morning in Volterra, late November, with snow visible at the higher elevations. We sit outside, by the heated pool, watching the steam rise. Claudia's inside, reading a new script by Roberto Benigni—thinking of making a return—foolishly, she says—to the big screen. Bundled up against the weather, Big Fred Ozaki looks to go about a thousand pounds. He speaks: “Like most Americans, Jack, we're a little retarded.” It's the second week of his stay at the villa. He says, “You think I'm funny? A little retarded; you more than me.” I say, “I thought Thanksgiving break was only two days attached to a weekend?” He says, “They bend over for me at the college. After the first of the year, I send you back to take over the Program, while I stay here to take over Claudia.” I say, “Fred, I'm happy for you.” He says, “Remember that Norwegian narcissist with the body nothing at all like she thinks it is?” I say, “I'm not defending her, because who could? But how many of us sport a body actually like we think it is?” He says, “I have no illusions about myself—it's the source of my power over women. Do you recall this Norwegian?” I say, “The English department head with thirty-four essays on the nature of the literary image? Yeah.”

Our lounge chairs face each other. I glance left to take in the stones of Volterra—they seem closer and more comforting than ever—or glance right to see, through the glass wall, as I did at that moment, Claudia twisted about in her chair with her legs pulled up under her, script scattered on the floor, gazing back over the chair at the wall behind; chin resting on the harsh top edge of the chair back; lamp turned off; in shadow. Portrait of a Melancholy Woman. Go in and ask. Are you sad, Claudia?

Fred says, “She's brooding in there. As we grow older, we brood more—discipline for dying.” I say, “How would you know?” He says, “Jack, what don't I know? Your plan of adding a narrative voice-over to the video will kill the impact of your visual art. This Norwegian genius says to me in the sack, in that whiny voice: ‘The central responsibility of the writer, in our time, is to make you see.’ I say to her, Elka, do you mind if I come now? Later, I tell her she quoted Conrad without attribution, par for the academic course. I say, Conrad was like you, Elka, jealous of the visual arts. (Elka never comes.) Close your eyes, Jack, Claudia won't evaporate. Okay. RED! What do you see? Don't answer. GREEN! What do you see? Don't answer. Open your eyes. Look at this—points to his jacket. What color is this? Don't answer because who gives a shit what word you might be thinking? Your eyes know what they see; they don't need words: they see. When I said close your eyes and said red, your mind was remembering, but your eyes weren't remembering when they took in my jacket.

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