Niv put his arms around Loretta. “My dear girl, I will keep your secret, if you will do something for me.”
Loretta looked at him.
“You mustn’t tell anyone I slept with your cook Ruby. It was one of those things. She was lonely. And yes, I was lonely. We could hear the pool filter. It stirred us up. It gurgled, she gurgled, and I gurgled.”
“Oh, David.” Loretta laughed.
“I have to go, you see. Merle’s temper is one thing, but Ruby is worse. She makes a terrible spurned lover. She wants to kill me with saturated fat.”
“Well, then, you have no choice.”
“Precisely.”
The Ile de France sailed out of New York Harbor, skimming the surface of the Hudson River like a delicate leaf. The art deco ocean liner was the chic cigarette case of transatlantic travel, sleek, simple, and gleaming with accents of gold brass. Painted white, trimmed in navy blue, with vivid red smokestacks, it was not only a celebration of the colors of France but the essence of its style.
Loretta stood on her balcony on the top deck as Alda unpacked inside the suite. Loretta looked back at Manhattan, its skyscrapers glistening in shades of silver against a purple sky. Loretta had dreamed of New York City, and now it was already behind her. Gladys brought Loretta a cup of tea on the balcony.
“Mama, where are we going?”
“We’re going to land in Le Havre, and then I’ll cross the channel to England and you’ll go on to Italy.”
Gladys put her arm around Loretta’s waist. “You didn’t mean the boat, did you?”
Loretta shook her head.
“You take it one day at a time and do your best.”
“That’s what you told me about acting.”
“You took that small piece of advice and turned it into an industry. That’s all well and good. Your career is important because you built it. But now you’re building something new. This baby will be the greatest love you’ve ever known.”
“But I’m not giving him a father.”
“Don’t start his life by listing all the things he won’t have.”
“I can’t help it. Why did this happen to me, Mama? There must be a reason. Please don’t say it’s God’s plan.”
“But it must be.”
“I prayed to fall in love with a good man who would marry me, and we’d have a family.”
“A woman is either lucky in love or work.”
“But not both. I fell in love with a man just like Daddy.”
“Most women do. Why don’t you write to Clark? He’s made a nuisance of himself trying to see you and talk to you. He told me he was happy when you were together. Were you happy on Mount Baker?”
“Mama, I forgot about everything when I was up there. I couldn’t remember home, I didn’t want to. I don’t know how to describe it. And I was so cold.”
Gladys put her arms around her daughter. “That’s why there are so many babies in the world. It’s called winter.”
The night before the ship was to land in Le Havre, Loretta couldn’t sleep. She left her mother and Alda in the suite and went out onto her balcony. She looked out over the breadth of the black ocean. The lights from the ship threw silver beams of light out on to the water that looked like oars. A full moon, icy white, hung low in the sky. It was as if the ship was heading for it, and would break through it like a stage curtain. The ship could not move fast enough for her as it crossed the Atlantic. Loretta wanted to get there, to someplace new, to see her life from a different perspective. Maybe she would find some wisdom there.
Loretta knew she should answer Clark’s letters but she couldn’t. It wasn’t about whether she loved him or not, as her mother insisted, but whether their lives could ever amount to anything outside the few weeks they spent on Mount Baker. Last winter, she had all of his attention, and he had hers. But as soon as the train pulled into Los Angeles at the end of The Call of the Wild, it was clear to her that she had lost him.
A place has as much to do with the choices people make as the people themselves.
Gable behaved a certain way in Los Angeles; he was a movie star, entitled to all the perks that life provides, including willing women. Loretta knew she didn’t stand a chance against that mighty system. She had seen great actresses who came before her try and fail.
Loretta believed Clark was persistent because she had rejected him. The moment she pulled him in, held him close, and needed him, he would be gone with the likes of Joan or Jean or Connie. He was a man who loved women, and she knew that always meant more than one.
The night air was cold and salty and clean. Loretta breathed deeply, something Spence had taught her to calm her nerves before a scene. But it worked in life, as it did on the sound stage. It was difficult to leave her work life behind, even for a few months. Loretta longed for it already. It had been her purpose since she was four years old; it wasn’t a habit or a way to make a living or even her identity, her work was part of her.
As she filled her lungs with breath, it soothed her anxiety. If she was to be alone on this path, she planned to cleave to her baby, give him a life so rich and full, he wouldn’t miss his father. After all, she had done all right without one. Her son would too. Something told her she would have a son. She just knew it.
When Loretta saw Italy for the first time, the rolling hills of the Veneto were a soft moss green, tinged gold on the horizon in the late-afternoon light. The Italian sun flickered behind the trees as the sky turned apricot. The train chuffed along over low hills, passing a long, shallow stream that looked like a blue velvet ribbon.
“A few more minutes, and we’ll be there,” Alda said quietly, looking out the window.
“You’re nervous.” Loretta reached for Alda’s hand. Despite the heat, her hand was cold and clammy.
“I haven’t been home in eight years. I was a girl when I left Padua.”
“They’ll remember you,” Loretta teased.
“I hope so.”
“Come on. Don’t you want to see your father and your mother and your brothers?”
Alda nodded.
“So why aren’t you happy?”
Alda searched for her handkerchief.
“Are they tears of joy? Maybe they’re tears of joy,” Loretta reasoned. “I can’t wait to see all the places you told me about. I can’t wait to watch your father make grappa. I thought you’d be thrilled to finally get home.”
The train pulled into the station in Padua. Alda dropped the window glass and peered out. She found her family on the platform.
“Alda bella!” her mother called to her. Alda’s three brothers crossed the platform. They were younger than their sister, but slender and small, like her. Alda’s father had a head of thick red hair with touches of gray. He was about five-nine, muscular and trim. He lifted Alda off the steps to the platform, then helped Loretta off the train.
Alda’s mother was a birdlike brunette with black eyes. She wept as she held her daughter after so many years. The connection between the two of them made Loretta cry, and think of her own mother.
Soon Alda and her mother were talking over one another, rattling off news in Italian so rapid, it reminded Loretta of Bill Wellman, and how he’d shout “double time” when the actors delivered their lines to make them speak faster.
Loretta heard Luca’s name. “He’s an outstanding man,” Loretta told them. Alda happily translated.
Loretta understood Alda’s apprehension now that she observed the reunion of her family. All families are broken to some extent, by grief and time; her own by divorce and abandonment; Alda’s by a calling that was wholly spiritual, but had caused hurt to her mother and father. Loretta wondered if anyone got it right. Would she?
Alda gave her brothers a box of Hershey chocolate bars. They hugged their sister, gathered the luggage, and loaded it into a pushcart.
“Do you mind if we walk from here?” Alda asked. “Our house is not very far.”
Loretta followed the Ducci family through Padua
into the old town. The winding cobblestone streets were lined with stucco houses painted in bright, hard candy colors, topped with clay roofs the color of cinnamon. Signore Ducci led his family under the porticoes festooned with hanging baskets of poppies.
Alda stopped and pointed to the complex of ancient sandstone buildings that housed the University of Padua, where Galileo taught.
As they passed the Basilica of Saint Anthony, Loretta stopped. “May we go in?”
Alda pushed the thick wooden door open. As they entered the church, light streamed into the nave through the stained-glass windows above them. The late-afternoon light danced off the Byzantine mosaics, intricate stonework composed of tiny squares of gold, ruby red, and green that Loretta had only seen in books.
The scent of beeswax and incense had soothed Loretta since she was a small child; she’d always found serenity in church. She genuflected before the altar. No matter the country, the interior of her church was a constant: the tabernacle and altar, the shrines and statuary, were just where they should be. Loretta had a sense of belonging inside a church: it could be incredibly ornate and filled with art, or a chapel with a simple bench and cross, it didn’t matter; she was in a place so familiar it was home.
The Duccis lived in an apartment over a leather shop on Via Agostina. The stairs to the second floor were obscured by the waxy green leaves of a lemon tree. Mrs. Ducci had placed a series of terra-cotta pots up the stairs, which spilled over with bright red geraniums and a plant with lacy green leaves. Loretta felt welcome, and the small signs of beauty that she saw everywhere reminded her that she was there to rest and reflect, to seek deeper meaning in her travails.
Loretta was given Alda’s bedroom, while Alda moved into her brothers’. The boys were to stay in the apartment behind the leather store. No amount of arguing would convince Mrs. Ducci to change her mind. Loretta would have been fine at a hotel or pensione, but the Duccis would have none of it. Loretta made a final fuss about being a bother, but Mrs. Ducci stood with her hands on her hips and wouldn’t budge until Loretta agreed to stay with them. Mrs. Ducci reminded her of DeMille—an implacable leader incapable of executing an alternate plan—so Loretta did what any obedient actress would do: she acquiesced.
The Ducci family wanted to repay her for the kindnesses she had shown their daughter. Loretta soon learned this was the Italian way, to offer the gift of themselves and their home, and in fact, there was no higher honor. Loretta followed Signora Ducci into the room that would be hers for the summer.
A simple bed, nightstand, and chair were the furnishings, so plain they reminded Loretta of a convent cell. Perhaps familiarity was one of the reasons Alda had become a nun. There was a window that, when unlatched, swung out to reveal a side street lined in cobblestone. From Alda’s window, Loretta had a spectacular view of the town. She could see the rooftops of Padua, the soft orange tiles softened by the fringes of green of rooftop gardens, smattered with shocks of color from the lemons and blood oranges growing on trees, and grapes nestled in their vines on mottled gray trellises. In the distance Loretta could see the hills of the Veneto rolling out in waves of pale green.
If this window was the only the view Loretta had of Italy, she would be satisfied. It was the change of her view that mattered: she hoped to find a new perspective, one that would help her cope and help her look at the world differently. She wanted to be happy again and to look at the world as she always had, with a sense of wonder. Under the circumstances, this was her most difficult challenge, and it was exhausting. Loretta lay down on the bed and went to sleep. She did not wake until the following morning.
The outdoor market in Padua’s grand piazza was a carnival of delicious scents and local delicacies, the harvest of the Italian countryside gathered under sunny yellow awnings by local vendors. Baskets filled with sunflowers tied in massive bouquets were sold next to silver bins of fresh white mozzarella in icy clear water. A white canopy threw shade over a display of freshly caught silver fish with blue eyes, the catch that brought the most haggling from customers, while salami hung from the overhead beam of the portico like stalactites, marked with their prices. There were braids of fresh bread, bright green bouquets of chicory, basil, and parsley, and a slab of torrone taffy that looked like a giant square of Italian marble. The purveyor cut off pieces and wrapped them in paper as the children of Padua stood in line. The vegetables were works of art: white mushrooms on nests of green, baskets of tomatoes, white onions that looked like pearls, and fruit, blood oranges and pale green pears, sweet and fragrant. Craving sweets, Loretta bought a bag of blood oranges, and as she walked, she peeled an orange and ate it.
Loretta had avoided the open market in Padua when she first arrived, but a month into their stay in Italy, with her pregnancy over the halfway mark, she was no longer sensitive to the pungent scents of the spices, fruits, vegetables, and flowers as she strolled through with Alda.
Soldiers dressed head to toe in black moved through the crowd. The locals turned away, and kept to their business. Loretta had begun to pick up a few words of Italian, and attempted to read the newspapers. She read about the Blackshirts, volunteer soldiers in the Italian army who backed Mussolini and his Fascists.
Loretta overheard conversations about Il Duce, but typical of Italians, the Duccis cared less for politics than those things that affected la tavola, their own kitchen table. Mussolini was a character. The Italians Loretta met through the Ducci family looked upon him as a cartoon, extreme in appearance, dramatic in presentation, and more performer than statesman. Whenever Loretta saw him in the papers, he posed like he was standing for a portrait. Big, big ego like a studio mogul, Loretta thought.
Loretta helped Signora Ducci set the table for dinner. Alda stirred the sauce on the stove. Sweet garlic simmered in butter as Alda squeezed the juice of a lemon into the pan. The lemon danced on the butter. Loretta was always hungry, but the scent of the fresh sauce made her stomach growl.
“I saw the Blackshirts in town today.”
“They’re everywhere,” Alda said as she stirred fresh peas into the sauce.
“What does your family think about Mussolini?”
The mention of Il Duce’s name stopped Signora Ducci cold. She looked at Alda, who explained Loretta’s question.
“My mother doesn’t like him because she thinks he’s a braggart and will send her sons to war. No one takes him too seriously.”
“They should.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Alda insisted.
“One time I was at a dinner party in Beverly Hills. I was seated next to Edna Ferber, the novelist.”
“I’ve read her books. What did she look like?”
“You know the ladies that work security at the studios? Like that. She was slim, with gray hair, brushed back simply. She wore a wool suit with a high collar. It was belted. Walking shoes. Everything she wore was expensive, but plain.”
“That’s exactly how I pictured her.”
“She told me something that has stayed with me. Ferber said, ‘Beware the clowns.’ The leaders who start out as jokes—people make fun of them, they’re caricatures, cartoons in newspapers, and people decide they are harmless. Those men are the most dangerous. The day comes when they use their power against their own people.”
Alda could sense the changes in Italy. Some were subtle, small freedoms taken away, silly laws enforced, banking hours shortened—the kind of government that affects working people. She did not think much of it that summer, as her thoughts were elsewhere. The mood of Italy, however, one of distrust, made her long for America. Alda was surprised how much she missed it—or maybe it was her longing for Luca.
Loretta Young the Movie Star went unrecognized in Padua. She didn’t bother to wear lipstick or the new dresses she had packed; instead she blended in as she wore the fashions of the locals, long cotton madras skirts with elastic waists to accommodate the growing baby, flowing blouses, and flat sandals for comfort.
As long as she st
ayed hidden in Padua, Loretta could protect her image in America while living her life in full in Europe. If she were honest, Loretta would admit that she enjoyed her anonymity in Italy that summer, and didn’t. She was an actress who lived for the audience. When she chose roles, she considered them; when she turned a part down, she’d say, “Not for my audience.”
Gladys called Loretta to tell her she was hounded everywhere she went in London by press seeking information about Loretta’s illness. Gladys spun a tale that Loretta was in an undisclosed location in a hospital, recuperating. If anyone outside of the family and their circle suspected Loretta was hiding in Italy, they didn’t let on. The summer of 1935 would be the template for how information about Loretta and Clark’s baby would be handled going forward. The Young family would throw off the press by fabricating stories.
Alda stood at the swinging silver scale in the last booth of the open market as the vendor shoveled blackberries into the scoop to weigh them. Loretta sat on a nearby bench with her eyes closed and her face to the sun. Loretta enjoyed the daily ritual of going to market; when their time in Padua was done, she might miss this the most.
Alda looked over at her boss and thought she was at her most alluring. Loretta’s skin was tawny from the Italian sun, her full cheeks pink and robust, and her figure had filled out into a soft womanly form. While Loretta’s present figure was lovely in life, it wouldn’t work on camera, nor would it stand up to the scrutiny, standards, and measurements of Hollywood costumers.
Alda provided the vendor with a starched muslin cloth for the fruit, and the vendor filled it with the berries, twisted it with a top knot, and handed it to her. Alda placed the berries in the basket, and was turning to Loretta to motion to her to move on when she saw a man walking under the portico behind the market, where the sun made shards of gold light through arches striped with dark shadows.
Alda dropped her basket.