—•✦—✦—✦•—
Colourful curse words in Italian flew about the hall. My eyes kept going back to the wall; the red wallpapers had given these rooms the moniker of red rooms. There was art hung about the walls, and I stared at the pictures depicting figures of naked men and women in various poses.
"You! Stop looking over here. This is amateur work — do it again and I'll throw you out!"
"Vaffanculo…"
"Out! Out!"
My face stayed perfectly calm. I'd endured this tirade for days. Boredom had got to me again, so my eyes had drifted. Another naked figure on canvas, a woman trying to cover the dignity of the painted subject — though nobody here called her a woman. To them, she was a goddess. And again, I found myself staring at a haunting, beautiful painting where everyone was fully clothed.
"Do you not understand basic instruction?" he barked. "You look and act like waiters. American waiters wanting tips! Be more aggressive! Be mean!"
"Move that leg!"
"Isn't it wonderful?" Judi murmured beside me.
"Indeed," I replied with a small nod.
"Aren't you cool as a cucumber?"
"I'm used to worse. You're theatre-born — you must know your Shakespearean directors." I gave her a grin.
"True. But the time pressure on locations? It rattles people. You don't get that in theatre." She sighed, shaking her head.
"MOTORE! MOTORE! MOTORE!" someone shouted down the hall.
Judi and I snapped into our scene faces — first thing theatre taught was to make that second nature.
I busied myself, eyes flicking to the nude figure before dipping my head as though concentrating deeply. When I looked up again, I wore the faintest mask of focus. Three cameras on three separate tracks found me; one swung around to focus on Judi, who had walked up beside me and was staring at the drawing I was working on.
"That's very good, Luca! For only seven, that's excellent — better than most amateurs."
One of the cameras took a panning shot of the three graces being copied by an amateur artist, while another took over the shoulder view of my hand drawing. It was not drawn by me.
"Where did you learn to do that?" Arabella asked.
"There wasn't much to do at the orphanage," I said with a soft smile.
"Oh, you poor thing," she gasped, wrapping an arm around me in a quick side hug.
I flashed my lady-killer smile again. Arabella leaned in and kissed my forehead — she never could resist that look. Or at least that's what we tried to portray.
"Go to the Look in the Paper!" Pippo shouted.
Right on cue, the Scorpioni's minor characters shuffled in — a parade of old women filling the gallery. Judi was ready in her new position for the continuation of the scene. I turned and stroked the dog at my side; she barely moved, a gentle creature who could sit for hours without complaint.
The camera swept around us as the women gathered on the round gallery sofa. Dolly lunged up, trying to lick my face; I pulled back with an exaggerated "eww," laughing. Did Franco name her Dolly after the camera technique or Dolly Parton? Both seemed likely.
"Look in the Paper!"
"What is it?" "What is this?"
"Good heavens! It's Lady Hester — and Il Duce himself. They've done it!"
I sprang up on cue, craning to see the newspaper, fighting over shoulders of the old women with a bit of exaggeration. Our eyes were a lot better than the camera. You had to do some dramatics to show you really wanted to read whatever was on it. Old ladies, which unfortunately included Dame Judi Dench, also made their delight of the news known.
"They had tea with Mussolini!"
"Blackshirts incoming!" Pippo called out.
The moment they stormed in, we snapped into our fear and shock faces. After fifty or more takes, none of us were truly startled — and bless the elderly actresses, but one of them was practically senile and always half a beat out of sync. It'd been a source of everyone's frustration for the day, but you couldn't just get an English old woman who could act on short notice. Old actors were cast months or years ahead; I was cast half a year ahead. Many things could happen during that time. Maggie had lost her husband after she was cast. That poor woman had lost her mind.
"No food or drink allowed in the Uffizi anymore!"
"We always make tea here!"
"There is a change in policy. Go drink your tea in one of your colonies!"
I threw on my confused, startled expression again — honestly, not much acting required. After a whole day of sitting, waiting, and repeating the same scene, bewilderment came naturally to my face.
"This is a free and civilised country!"
"Come on!"
Chaos erupted again. For the fiftieth time, I prayed no one would slip and force us back to square one. The Blackshirt bloke, to his credit, actually channelled his temper into the scene — or maybe he wasn't acting at all. He shoved two background actors aside and snatched a tea tin with such force that Dolly, the dog, let out a frightened whimper. That confirmed it: he was genuinely pissed off.
I forgot my own direction entirely. Instinct kicked in. Dolly scrambled backwards along the sofa, trying to make herself impossibly small. For a Jack Russell, she showed none of the usual fire and tireless energy — only trembling fear. I stepped in front of her, shielding her with my own tiny frame.
Around us, the elderly women cried out as they were pushed aside, their makeshift artwork, hand-stitching implements, and — worst of all — their beloved tea sets seized without the slightest care in the world. The Blackshirt who'd taken the tin returned, eyes wild, and this time he reached for Dolly.
Without thinking, I blocked his path again.
Dolly was Franco's most beloved pet and joy of his life — the one personal indulgence he insisted on including in the film. Seeing her distressed pulled something fierce and foolish out of me, something absolutely not in my script. The Blackshirt actor had clearly hit the limit; he'd spent all day being talked down to and wasn't about to let a child ruin the take. His expression said it all — he'd take the blame again, just like he had the dozen times the senile old lady had missed her cue and ruined takes.
He shoved me aside. Not viciously, but not gently either. I slid a good distance before landing in a soft heap on the other end of the sofa. Shock rippled through me; whatever face I made, only the camera would know. I wasn't acting anymore, I was in the scene. Only Dolly, me and the Blackshirt were in that scene, one not written and never read by me.
I steeled myself, sprang up and chased after him as he carried Dolly off in his arms like a baby. She kept whimpering.
"Cut!" Franco called.
Everything froze. I came down from the scene — always the most difficult thing, especially when I lost myself in it. We all waited for the inevitable rejection. Fifty takes, fifty times he'd said no. I braced myself. Dolly had been so convincing she'd pulled me clean out of character. She wasn't even acting, though, was she? The Blackshirt actor would probably hate me for ruining it — I didn't even know the man's name. I'd probably learn it before the end of the day.
"Print!" Franco shouted.
A ripple of nervous laughter spread through cast and crew. After three days, we'd finally finished the damned scene. Two scenes in three days. Brilliant.
"Set up next scene," Franco barked, already hurrying to his dog. He scooped her up, cooing and kissing her until she melted into him.
The crew sprang into motion at his command.
I sagged, relief washing over me. One scene down. Several more to shoot in the Uffizi. How many attempts would the next one take? Huh, did they call it a take because of that?
It was only the action scene…
Surely it couldn't be worse… could it?
—✦—
We had dinner after eight, as usual. Baird and I had been invited to Franco's table along with our family and the Three Lionesses. Today was no different — though seeing Maggie and Judi chatting beside me felt both familiar and oddly strange.
"Where are you off to next?" Maggie asked.
"I've got a few scenes to film for a Bond film," Judi replied.
"Why do you even bother with that? It's been downhill for years, maybe even decades," Maggie complained.
"Are you prickly because you didn't get the role?" Judi shot back.
"Oh, come off it," Maggie huffed.
"I thought she was lovely as Moneypenny," Granddad mused.
Everyone at the table froze, trying to gauge if he was joking. I knew he wasn't, so I tried to send a message to him. I tried to engage my mind powers; unfortunately, that particular one was beyond me. He was on his own.
"What?" he asked, wide-eyed like a startled deer.
"That wasn't Maggie, dear," Judi said, grinning.
"It's an honest mistake." Michael nodded.
"Well, I'm glad to be mistaken for a woman almost thirty years younger than I am," she said.
"You should say twenty years, love. Fool these youngsters about your age — a real woman would," Judi teased.
"I know your games, dear. Make me look younger, and by extension, you look younger too. But let me remind you — you're still older than me, old woman." Maggie chortled.
"By only three weeks, that's hardly anything. You know how things were back then too. Might even be a clerical error. Franco knows all about that," Judi added.
"Oh yes — my last name isn't even the one I was given—"
"Don't change the subject, it's rude," Maggie interrupted, with a look towards Judi.
Granddad looked relieved to be forgotten. I tried to forget those around me.
I let myself relax. The last few days had been hectic, often frustrating. Uffizi scenes were mind-numbingly dull, and I'd missed out on practice time. Late nights, late mornings, early starts, sitting around doing nothing for twelve hours — not exactly fun. I'd also made three different bookings with the ballet teacher here and hadn't once been able to make up the time to go. Sally had never come either. She was still in London.
"Where are you going, dear?" Maggie asked me.
"Oh! I'm doing a Dickens adaptation. Flying back to London, few days' rest there, and driving to Kent with my grandparents."
"Look how busy kids are!" Maggie said, sparking another conversation and bringing in Baird.
Unlike me, he had nothing lined up. He'd been picked up by our director outside his school. He knew nothing about acting, yet here he was next to the best three English actresses. I'd worked a year to get a mere featured role. He'd exited his school one day and landed a lead role. Conversation rolled back to centre on me.
"I've done a Dickens adaptation myself, just this last year." Maggie informed me,
"Oliver Twist or David Copperfield?" I asked.
"David Copperfield. How'd you know? Have you auditioned for these two?"
"Yes. Who got the young role? Do you know?" I asked, knowing the answer.
"Dan Radcliffe — you two look very alike. He's a bit chubbier than you," she said, chuckling.
"Thanks," I said, smiling. It was nice to have a confirmation about the casting.
I wondered if Daniel was working on something else at the moment. He's scored a lead role before I ever did too.
"When will yours be shown, do you know?"
"Erm… I've had to go to costume fitting earlier than usual because of this." I gestured vaguely around us to indicate Italy. "The director said around Christmas time. Seemed made up about winning the slot."
Maggie sipped her tea and leaned back.
"Looks like we'll be competing, then. Christmas slot, too. David Copperfield and…?"
"Great Expectations," I added.
"I'll enjoy watching you in it even if I won't watch Dan. Dickens always wrote such detailed things."
"You won't watch David Copperfield?"
"No, I try not to. It's frustrating to see my own performance and not be able to do so something about it."
I let that sink in for a few seconds. She was a theatre kid just as I was.
"Because you can't do another take?" I guessed.
"Precisely. Theatre allows retakes — every show a chance to get better, to improve oneself. Film doesn't offer that. More than that, I can't bear hearing my voice or seeing myself on screen," Maggie explained, with a gag.
I never would've guessed. I always assumed great actors were egotistical enough to enjoy their own work. Or maybe I was just making myself feel better with that thinking. I had a bootleg copy of Doctor Dolittle that I enjoyed watching.
"I felt like that watching myself for the first time," I admitted.
"You've been in other things, Will?" Baird cut in.
"Yes! Don't sound so surprised," I shot back, smiling. "It was a tiny show, filmed in less than two weeks and I was in half the episodes. We had four retakes once, and the director made a girl cry for it. I'd only done school plays before that. I booked a musical afterwards and learned a lot. Nine months later, I almost cried watching myself. I was so dreadful!"
"You've no idea how bad Judi and I were," Maggie said,
Judi piped up, prying herself from a conversation with Joan and Franco.
"Speak for yourself — I've always been great!" Judi said.
"She thinks she's better because she debuted later than me with a bigger role," Maggie stage-whispered.
"And it's true, always has been," Judi grinned.
Maggie let her lips make a line. She whispered again, this time for real: "She always says that before bringing up her knighthood. Let's ignore her and talk about something else."
I caught Judi smiling at Joan with the expression that said "See?".
"I think she's counting on you to back down," I muttered.
"Nothing to be done about it," Maggie whispered, coughing lightly.
"They say, best defence is a good offence," I hinted.
"That vile woman!" Maggie shot a cold stare toward Judi. "She's been training me to do this! I've always lost an argument when she talked about it. Now she doesn't even have to work to defeat me. I just concede…"
"You're still whispering," I pointed out.
"No need to go shouting about it," Maggie said, grasping to stop me but then laughed it off.
"Oww," I said, shaking my head at her antics.
These two were thick as thieves, their banter so refined and familiar. They were rivals, weren't they? They'd started in the same old company when theatre was a more closed-off group than it is today — two young women in their twenties who competed and fought until both became among the best actresses in Britain. Evolution needed threat as an ingredient. Diamond was made by pressure. Talent is sharpened by rivalry. Mozart had Salieri. Judi and Maggie had each other.
I needed a rival to push me forward. Could Daniel Radcliffe be mine? Revelations didn't say he was the best actor — not even close — but Daniel also had drinking problems, the fate of being hassled by fans, a childhood he couldn't enjoy. Could he be better without these things blocking his way? Or would I live out the same fate under the pressure of all the rabid fans of a franchise so huge? Perhaps I was going for the wrong role. No — I shook my head. It would all be worth it. To be excellent, I needed scrutiny.
Wouldn't Jamie Bell be a better rival, seeing his career hadn't been stained by Harry Potter? Yet he'd done Fantastic Four — one of the worst films ever made. How about Henry Harrison as a rival? I'd yet to see a boy my age be so effortlessly better than me. He was talented beyond many kids I'd seen in musicals, plays or films. Except Jamie Bell maybe, he'd gone on to win awards for Billy Elliot. That had to count for something.
Perhaps the best rival is someone I've not yet met. I wondered if Revelations held the name of an actor I'd never heard of who might serve as that rival — push me forward the way Judi and Maggie had for each other. Two boys, two men to lead films. To change cinema forever.
"Hello, ah Managgia. He is gone, I tell you."
"What?" I said, finally going out of thinking about the future. I did that a lot, didn't I?
"Franco has a gift for you," Nain whispered.
"A gift?" I said, excitement blossoming within me from nowhere.
"Yes, a gift. Gift from Magi," Franco said, laughing, Dolly was on his lap as usual.
Lazy dog slept soundly from all the food he'd stolen away.
"Gift from the Wise Men. Traditionally there are three gifts, but I'm only one man. So here's one from me."
"Well, don't let me keep you waiting," I said.
"He's a cheeky one, that," Judi said.
"He's a bit of a brat." Nain shook her head.
"I'm not a man to hold over a surprise. So, here!" Franco reached into his leather suitcase.
He seemed to dig through the thin suitcase for a few moments, not finding his gift. The moment turned into a minute, and a long one at that. I kept watching his hands in expectation, then looked up at the silence around me. All the adults around the table laughed like they'd pulled the funniest joke. Once they'd calmed down, Franco finally let out his gift.
It was a script. Was it a new film?
"Here's the script that I promised you."
Oh! Right.
"Thank you," I said, reaching for it.
Right as my hand neared it, he pulled it away, making me grasp for air. Everyone laughed again. Was I so easy to fool? Also, why is it always me, who's the butt of a joke?
It was a folder, and inside was a screenplay in much the same way I'd become used to. Only when I opened it and my eyes actually registered the words did I realise the oddness. I'm used to the standard format — a 12-point Courier font with the margins slightly wider on the left for some reason. This script stuck to the same standards, only every word was written in Italian.
Tea with Mussolini di Franco Zeffirelli
Mortimer's name was missing, so I looked up to study Franco's face. He said nothing. Franco had written it himself. When with how busy we were, I couldn't tell.
It was a thin folder, maybe only ten pages or so. But that was a huge number; each page of screenplay roughly translated to a minute of filmed scenes. This could amount to ten minutes of screen time for me, give or take. I could easily double my screen time depending on how much or how little was in these pages. I skipped over the title page, trying to dive into the juicy details.
First page set the environment.
INT. OSPEDALE DEGLI INNOCENTI — GIORNO
The orphanage I'd visited. During daytime. Inside.
The first few pages mentioned all the things I had to do or experience — chores, schooling and even some bullying from other kids. It portrayed a sad boy, being picked on by everyone. Boys around my age kept mocking Luca about his dead mother. Luca coped with it by denying it all, saying that his mother was only gone to another city. The script went on and on; the last few pages depicted a Sunday service scene. I, Wilfred Price, would have to play a choir boy and sing a hymn along with the boy choir, then escape afterwards. There were even attached musical notations that fell out from the folder. The script contained cues for the music.
"Are you sure this is a gift?" I asked.
"What is it, Wilf?" Granddad and Nain chimed together.
I glanced at Granddad — the more devout of the two — wondering how on earth to break it to him.
"Wilf-eh!" He said, in imitation of my grandparents, "He has new scenes, I've written it fresh." Franco announced proudly. "I wanted to explore my time in church and how religion shaped me. He'll even sing in the choir!"
"He'll sing in the choir…" Granddad murmured, then repeated it with growing dread, "He'll sing in the choir."
"Oh…" Nain turned away, trying to hide a laugh.
"What's the matter?" Maggie asked.
"We're English. Remember?" Judi nudged her, elbow sharp.
"Right," Maggie sighed, rolling her eyes.
Granddad stared off into the distance as if consulting heaven, then fixed Franco with a look.
"You know, I've lived in London a year. I've been to many churches. This boy —" he jabbed a thumb at me "— has only come once. Because he was bored, I think. And now he'll be singing hymns in a Catholic church. This is not right."
"You know, I've lived in London a year. I've been to many churches. This boy —" he jabbed a thumb at me "— has only come once. Because he was bored, I think. And now he'll be singing hymns in a Catholic church. This is not right. Not right, I say."
"Catholic, Protestant — we are all Christians," Franco tried, attempting diplomacy.
Granddad eyed him like he'd just insulted the entire Welsh lineage. He shook his head. I swallowed a tight breath I hadn't realised I was holding. Protestants didn't have anything against Catholics… but they did have problems with the papacy. And we were in Tuscany, with the Pope practically next door. Granddad was devout enough not to even say the word "Pope" because that alone felt blasphemous to him. No head of churches except God himself.
"We'll have to fix this," Granddad said, giving me a glare of pure disappointment.
"I'll go to your church twice for every time I go to film these scenes," I offered quickly.
"You'll go to church twice for every time you go to a Catholic church?" he repeated, horrified.
Brilliant. I'd stepped in it, haven't I?
"It's fine, Granddad. I'm not following any religion — not in this life. But I'll accompany my grandfather, and you can't stop me," I said firmly.
"He'll accompany me…" Granddad muttered, shaking his head. "God forgive me."
"Oh, stop being dramatic," Nain said, giving him a gentle slap on the arm.
"I think it's because of what I said earlier," Michael put in with a smile.
Judi's husband — soft-spoken, reserved, a gentleman, likely out of survival for being married to someone as brash as Judi — lifted his tea calmly. Nain gave him a questioning look.
"I'm a devout Catholic," he explained. "I told him I run a guild for Catholic actors. Bit rude of me — I asked him and your Wilfred to join."
"Don't feel bad," Judi said brightly. "I married the fool and never converted. I'm Protestant through and through."
"Quaker, you mean," Michael said, rolling his eyes.
Their bickering went on for a few moments; it warmed the whole table. Maggie jumped in when she could.
"These two have lived together nearly thirty years with two completely different beliefs."
Granddad seemed genuinely struck by the support. He cleared his throat and straightened up.
"I was merely planning what to do," he said. "Today's Friday, we fly tomorrow… I was wondering if I can get Wilf into the Sunday choir at my church." He chuckled at the adults' reactions.
"Michael," he added, pointing, "the only thing you said that disappointed me is that you support Everton."
"And what do you support, mate?" Michael asked, Scouse thick enough to slice.
"I support Cardiff F.C."
"Oh, here we go. Fourth tier, third division. You're proper minnow, you."
"We're about to be promoted. Six points clear of fourth place," Granddad retorted. "Mark my words, Michael — we'll be in the Premier League soon enough."
I tuned out the conversation and went back to the script. My eyes kept widening as I read it. Franco always looked at me as if he wanted to tell me off for not being good enough. But these scenes ran directly against that thinking. The script gave a detailed account of a boy in an orphanage and their daily routine. The final scene revolved around a Sunday service where I would cry while singing the beautiful song extolling the virtue of God while suffering punishment from his servants. I felt it resonated with the me who had gone into the House of Innocents and read those stories.
I reread the last page a few times, picturing the scene and the emotions I'd need to bring to life. I had assumed the movie held only one truly challenging moment for me — the scene I'd nailed during auditions. This, however, promised to make the role far more demanding. I caught Franco's eye and gave him a thankful nod.
"You asked me if this is a gift?" he said. "It is a gift. You like a challenge — I've learned that. I'm changing the opening scene. It'll show Luca's life in the orphanage-cum-church, ending with you escaping and Joan here portraying Miss O'Neil — or rather Ms. Wallace — finding you. Sorry, I confuse them in my head sometimes. Anyway, this changes the film quite a bit, and I believe it makes it stronger. More personal."
I couldn't believe it. My first scene in the entire script began with me being led away by Mary Wallace, Joan's character. Later, she would explain that I had run off from the orphanage. This new sequence started days earlier and ended where the original beginning of the film would have been. It meant Franco trusted me — trusted me to carry the first act, to start the story in truth.
A mist formed in my eyes. I opened my mouth to thank him — but the words never made it out.
"You're cutting us out of the opening scene?" Judi demanded.
"You promised us the leading roles!" Maggie added, eyes flashing.
"We've waited years for this, had to clear out our schedules. And you repay us like this?" Joan shot.
Franco's shoulders slumped. He looked utterly defeated. I could have thanked him, let the banter roll past, moved the conversation on. But that wouldn't have been fair. He'd pulled my leg. He'd made his bed — now he had to lie in it. I smiled.