Page 8 of Glamorous Notions

Chapter 7

Julia insisted on Elsie’s name change, and before the week was out, everyone called her Lena. Elsie was surprised at how the name inhabited her so easily, as if it had been meant for her, and even she stopped thinking of herself as Elsie—she was Lena now, and it was astonishing how much more self-assured Lena was, how much more sophisticated. The name influenced everything she did, in ways she would not have imagined. Her designs had always been so radical in Zanesville; Lena made them more so. While Elsie might add a bit of organza to soften a low neckline, Lena let it stand. Lena took chances Elsie didn’t take, she experimented with mixing fabrics that didn’t seem to go together, she juxtaposed patterns, she didn’t question her more flamboyant impulses. Would anyone in Zanesville know her now? Her parents would hardly recognize her.

She felt as if everything she’d done since leaving Ohio had led her slowly to Lena—getting into Walter’s car, the pool halls, making friends with Harvey and Charlie, applying for the scholarship. The parts of her that had nearly succumbed to that autocratic, tradition-bound future—staying so long in Zanesville, letting Walter determine what she would do, being a nobody ... those things were Elsie. She did not want to be Elsie anymore.

Rome made her feel the way she’d felt when she first stepped into a pool hall. Daring. Exciting. New.

Or maybe it wasn’t Rome so much as it was Julia.

Julia loved Lena’s designs the same way Harvey and Charlie had. She talked about Lena’s talent to anyone who would listen. “She’s going to be famous. You watch.” Echoes of Walter’s words, turned around, with Lena at their center instead. It was heady, it was alluring. Julia made Lena feel the shine inside in a way no one else ever had, and as the days went on, she found herself cherishing each moment with Julia, looking forward to the next—no, longing for the next.

Rome was the most wonderful city in the world. Julia made it so.

If Rome was the most beautiful city in the world, then La Grotta was its magical center. There were clubs all over Rome: those on the Via Veneto, where the fashionable played, and those on the Via del Babuino, including Il Baretto, an artists’ bar. There was the Piccolo Slam, a nightclub with a jukebox that played American songs and where patrons could gamble or get drugs, and all the piano bars and dance clubs where the bands played the Latin songs everyone wanted to twist and shake and cha-cha to. But La Grotta was for jazz, and only for jazz. It was Julia’s favorite spot, and it became Lena’s too. It was where the musicians went after hours when they were sick of playing “Luna rossa” a dozen times a night.

That was the best time to go—late, after the other bars had closed, and Tony had kicked out everyone but his friends. They sat around and ate spaghetti with eggs and drank wine and listened while the horns and bass and pianists and drummers jammed, lively tunes that set them all on their feet, or—Lena’s favorite—those mournful, deep-into-your-soul songs that made her feel she was turned inside out. La Grotta was where she first heard songs like “’Round Midnight,” and “On Green Dolphin Street,” and “Donna Lee.”

Lena swayed in her chair, half-drunk, eyes closed, as “C’est si bon” wound to a close. The small, cheap table shook as someone ground out their cigarette in the ashtray. Someone else laughed, and a voice she recognized as Marco’s called out, “Anyone want more bread?”

Marco was a sculptor with cropped brown hair and a studio down the block. Lena opened her eyes to see him standing near the stage holding half a ciabatta. There were no takers. Tony washed glasses behind the bar. Julia stood beside him, talking animatedly. Renato, a ruddy-headed painter with a matching beard, listened avidly, and Tony shook his head. No no no.

Beside Lena, Petra Schiano ran her finger idly around the rim of her wineglass. She was a photographer, who, according to Julia, was semifamous for her scenes of Roman dereliction juxtaposed with little signs of modern life—a solitary piazza with a cigarette butt, or a headless statue with a pigeon perched upon its shoulders—“ melancholy but pretty ,” Julia had said. Petra had soot-black hair she wore piled on her head, and eyes that looked equally black in the dim light of La Grotta. She and Lena had barely spoken more than ten words since they’d met, but now Petra turned to her and said, “Where do you come from again?” A heavy Italian accent, almost aggressive.

Lena had had enough to drink that she didn’t take offense. She opened her mouth to say Ohio , her usual answer, but then she remembered Julia saying “ You shine ,” and surely people who shone weren’t from Ohio. So she said “Los Angeles,” and felt gratified when Petra looked moderately impressed.

“Los Angeles, huh?” Petra took a sip of her wine. “Julia likes you. A lot.”

Lena smiled. “I like her too.”

“She thinks you could be one of us.”

That was puzzling. One of them how? Wasn’t she already one of them? Wasn’t she here in La Grotta with the favored crowd? Lena didn’t know what to say. She settled for, “I love Rome.”

Petra laughed shortly. “That’s because you don’t know it. Yet.”

“I’ve only been here a few weeks.”

“How long will you stay?”

“I don’t know yet. As long as I can. As long as I can afford to.”

“Hmmm.” Petra looked thoughtfully toward the bar.

Lena followed her gaze. The heated conversation between Julia and Tony had ended. Julia was watching him put glasses away, but she looked toward Lena and Petra and her expression was ... measuring, Lena thought, but she couldn’t be sure, and didn’t know why it should be measuring, or why she thought so.

The band started up again, a few notes, and Petra got to her feet, hurrying toward the small stage, her ample hips churning in her tight skirt. She seated herself on the edge of the stage, and when the song revealed itself as “Nature Boy,” she began to sing. She had a deep, plush voice that massaged those words and quivered over Lena’s skin. Petra sang the song as if it were nothing to sing it, as if she had been made to sing it, just this song, and from the way everyone went still to watch, it was clear that she’d sung it many times and that everyone was as mesmerized by it as Lena was. Petra’s voice was like a spell. The song was like a spell, winding her in its spool, binding her, keeping her from escaping even as she did not want it to let her go.

And then, she felt the pull, the pull of a gaze, a pull like a demand she could not refuse, and Lena tore her gaze away from Petra and turned in the direction of that pull.

Julia. Julia staring at her with a soft smile.

Just a smile, but the smile and the song wove together and landed with a breathless force, and Lena knew she would always remember this moment, and felt it as a weird inevitability—a meant-to-be moment, that this friend, this city, all of it, were both the present and the future, and one she would never escape, and she was blindsided by the feeling, strangely struck.

Then it was gone, and she was left with nothing but that soft smile.

Lena smiled back.

The city was in its afternoon shutdown and would not wake again until the evening, all the cafés closed, most of the shops except for those that catered to the bedraggled tourists determined to fill every moment of their vacations with proof that they’d been in the Eternal City. Shutters everywhere had been pulled.

Lena spent the morning at the Forum with the rest of the class. It was a brutally hot day, but the visit had inspired her, and when she got back to the Augusta, she hurried to her room to draw the idea she’d got from the Basilica Giulia, the heart of the Forum—a tight skirt cut at the side into a flowing panel of something filmy, maybe pleated, an asymmetrical bodice and short sleeves that had a bit of a gladiator look ...

The moment she opened her sketchbook, Julia appeared in the doorway.

“Leeeeeena,” she sang.

It had become a joke between them, that poor man’s moan in the Roman night. But Lena saw the question in Julia’s eyes. She groaned. “Whatever it is, it has to wait. I’ve got this great idea—”

“It will still be in your brilliant head later, my darling, and I need you to do me a favor. Please. You’re the only one I trust.” She sat on the bed, her shoulder brushing Lena’s, a feminine intimacy Lena had never known. “Please. I’ll buy your favorite sfogliatella when you get back.”

“When I get back from where?”

“The Forum.”

“But I just came from there, and it’s hot.”

“Make it supplì , wine, and sfogliatella . And I’ll take you out.”

Lena groaned again. “Why can’t you do whatever it is?”

“I have a class and it has to be done now. Please, Lena.” Julia leaned close and gave Lena a hopeful, pleading look. “I’ll love you forever, and I’ll owe you one.”

Lena let out a sigh. “Okay. Okay. You will owe me one, and I want two sfogliatella . And a bottle of wine.”

“Done.” Julia sat back with satisfaction.

“What do I have to do?”

“I need you to go to that shop by the Arch of Titus to get a pack of cigarettes and take them to Petra, that one with the sign out front that says Paolo’s Tabaccheria .”

“There are cigarettes at every tabaccheria in Rome. Why do I have to go clear to the Forum? And why can’t Petra do it?”

“Because I said I would. Tell the man you need the Muratti’s in the green box.”

“Do they come in a green box?”

Julia made a face. “It’s a kind of code. He makes a special mix there.”

“So they’re not really in a green box?”

Julia shook her head impatiently. “They’re just in a regular box, but if you don’t say the green box, he won’t know what you mean.”

“Why not just tell him they’re for Petra?”

“No, no. Don’t mention Petra’s name at all.”

“Okaay.” Lena frowned. “So ask for Muratti’s in a green box.”

“And take them to Petra at La Grotta.”

“Though they aren’t really for Petra. Or are they?”

“You’re asking too many questions,” Julia snapped. “None of that matters. Just do what I say.” Then, calming. “I’m sorry. Please.”

Lena considered her. “Is this something illegal, Julia?”

Julia sighed and then laughed lightly. “You’re really far too clever. No wonder your Walter wanted you.”

“Don’t call him ‘my’ Walter. What do you mean?”

“You know how you hustled pool with Walter? How you helped him? This is kind of like that. Just ... distraction. The cigarettes are not what they seem.”

“I see.”

“It’s a game. You’ll get your share of the money too. Didn’t you tell Petra you could stay in Rome as long as you could afford it? This would help, wouldn’t it?”

Lena laughed. “You’re smuggling ?”

“Nothing anyone can get in trouble for. Not really. You’ll help, won’t you? We could use you, and I know you like a challenge, don’t you? We all do it.”

Again, Lena had the feeling that Julia knew her better than she knew herself. “Like a game, huh?” She grinned. “Okay. I’ll play.”

Julia asked for more and more “favors.” Some of them were strange, like picking up street maps of Rome from one of the many kiosks selling souvenirs to tourists, or decks of playing cards with the great sights of the Eternal City. But the pickups always required that Lena ask questions precisely, like, “Can you tell me the way to Babelio’s Forum?” Such a place didn’t exist, but the man handed her the map and said, “B3.” Or, “Do these cards include the Santa Maria della Salute?” which of course was in Venice, not in Rome. The vendor shuffled to the back of his kiosk and retrieved a pack of cards with a gold border along the top, unlike the plainer ones in front. His gaze shifted furtively. “God be with you, signora.”

So serious. Lena wanted to laugh. The game was fun. She felt like a spy in a movie, though when she dropped off these items to Petra or Tony or Julia, they treated them like they were nothing that important. Julia slung the playing cards onto the bedside table without another look.

“What is that really?” Lena asked her.

Julia widened her eyes in mock warning. “If I told you I’d have to kill you.”

“Ha ha.”

“Microfilm of very important documents.”

Lena let out her breath in exasperation. “Really, Julia.”

Julia laughed. “Hashish, Lena. A small bit for one of Tony’s artist friends.”

“Hashish?” Lena felt a frisson of excitement.

“Not enough to get anyone arrested.” Julia shrugged. “Does that scare you? Do you want to stop?”

Lena threw herself into the striped armchair near Julia’s bedroom door. There it was, that sense of herself that she loved, that sense that she’d never felt in Zanesville except for those moments in the pool hall with Walter, being daring, being what no one expected. The feeling had driven her to Los Angeles, and, just as she had liked Walter’s admiration then, she liked the same admiration on Julia’s face, that bit of surprise, that look at you, you’re not what I thought you were . “I’m not going to get caught anyway,” she said.

“No, you’re not,” Julia assured her. “You’re not because you’re perfect at this. You’re a natural. I’m so glad I recruited you. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever seen. Have you always been so game?”

“Julia, until I came to LA, the most exciting thing that ever happened to me was the county fair. I feel like I’ve spent years waiting for something interesting to happen.”

Julia laughed lightly, and again Lena saw that curious expression, that searching look she couldn’t quite read. “You are something, Lena.”

“Oh, yes, I shine ,” Lena joked. “Where are we going tonight? I’m in the mood for Menghi’s.”

“You know what? I’ve got a better idea. I’ve been thinking: you’d be gorgeous as a blonde. Have you ever considered it?”

“A blonde?”

“Like Veronica Lake. You have such good bones. Blond hair would really accentuate them.” Julia surveyed her as if she were seeing her for the first time.

Lena laughed.

“I’m not joking. I know a place that can do it too. Not far from here. They did Petra’s hair.”

“Petra’s hair isn’t really black?”

“Sort of a mousy brown.”

Like her own. Lena put a tentative hand to her hair. The idea appealed, though surely Julia was exaggerating. Lena had taken on a new name, and blond signaled another adventure, like the couriering, something new. Something exciting. “I can’t afford it.”

“I can.” Julia smiled. “Don’t argue—it’s my gift to you for being so indispensable. You’re my right hand. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You deserve it. Please ... just try it. For me?”

It didn’t take much convincing.

“Put on your best dress,” Julia said. “The dark blue.”

Lena had designed and made the dress while at the academy, inspired by that first night at La Grotta. Fabric in Rome did not cost what it had in Los Angeles, and she’d found a silk in the same shimmering night blue of the courtyard sky, and made a dress like the one Julia had worn that night, with a pleated skirt, but instead of a banded bodice, Lena had shaped and cut it into triangles with an open V tied at the cleavage. It was too fancy for a beauty parlor, but Julia said they’d go to the Via Veneto after, and it wasn’t too fancy for that.

The salon, if that was what you could call it, was just down the Via Flaminia. It was hidden away, small, and smelled of some particularly noxious and acrid chemical that swept into Lena’s sinuses and set them afire. There was some consternation when the woman who obviously ran the place saw Julia in the doorway.

“Beatrice,” Julia said sternly to the woman without even a buongiorno , and the short, slight woman with elaborately bouffant black hair frowned and shook her head definitively at a question Julia had not asked.

Julia responded with a long burble of Italian that had the other three women in the place looking at her curiously.

Beatrice sighed. She gave Lena a once-over—very cursory and yet at the same time penetrating enough that Lena stiffened. Then she said, “ Sì, sì .”

Julia smiled and squeezed Lena’s arm. “She’ll take you. I’m going to leave you here. I’ll be back for you in a few hours.”

“Julia—” Lena started to protest.

“It will be fine. Remember, Veronica Lake. When it’s done we’ll see what kind of a reaction you get on the Veneto.”

Julia slipped out the door. Lena settled herself nervously on one of the worn seats and picked up a magazine covered with photos of Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini and their new baby. Americans considered it an adulterous scandal, but, as far as Lena could tell, the Italians viewed it as a beautiful love story.

She waited, feeling Beatrice’s annoyance at having to fit Lena into an obviously busy schedule with the woman’s every movement. Lena didn’t know what Julia had said to convince the beautician, but soon enough Lena was in the chair, her hair covered with that chemical that now, in intimate proximity, burned through her sinuses into her brain. But when it was all done ... when it was done, Lena could not believe the transformation.

Every trace of Elsie Gruner had truly been wiped away. She could no longer see a pig farmer’s daughter in the woman who looked back at her in the mirror. Beatrice had set and brushed out her hair, and it lay in a straight, shining golden mass over her shoulders. No more mousy brown. She couldn’t even pretend to be her old self with this hair. It was impossible to be anyone but Lena.

Lena didn’t expect Julia to recognize her, but when Julia returned, her eyes went straight to Lena, as if she’d already envisioned the transformation and knew in her soul of souls what it would do. Julia’s smile was as bright as Lena’s hair.

“Oh my God. It suits you just as I knew it would. Look at you! Just look at you! You’re beautiful, Lena.”

She felt beautiful then, as she never had. The closest she’d ever come was when Walter had put her at the end of that pool table and told her to smile and she’d distracted the other players and felt powerful and in control. But this was so much more. She felt ... invincible. And when they went to the Via Veneto, Lena didn’t feel as she always had before on the fashionable street, as if she should hide, an imposter. She felt as if she belonged there, as if the stares that came her way, and Julia’s, were owed to her, as if her life had not really begun before this moment, but now that it had ... she was ready for it.