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Papà sat on the recliner clad in chocolate leather, holding The Guardian’s Guide open on “the Borgias”, his finger pointed at his photograph. No, Rudy wouldn’t look at it. He knew it was over the review of the series where Bino Sammarco, the flashy, glitzy actor who’d unfortunately fathered him, starred as the King of Naples.
Papà smiled cheerfully. “Look at it.”
Rudy forced himself to smile back. “Seen it already.” And he’d read the review as well. The first favourable words over the past five years. But he hadn’t come here to talk about that. Marion...he wanted to talk to him about her. “Congratulations—it’s very good,” he said at last.
“D’you mean it?”
“I certainly do.”
“Are you going to see next week’s episode?”
“I am indeed.”
“By the way, what d’you think about the scene with the equerry, the one I smacked on the jaw? Afraid I overdid it. Not the smack: my aside.”
Rudy wondered if he’d be able to break the news that Marion had filed for divorce, and looked Papà up and down. How come women found this sixty-nine-year old man with a prominent belly still attractive?
“Papà, Marion...d’you know what she’s done? She’s filed for—”
“I overdid it. It wasn’t my fault, though. Too short...the aside was too short. I’d told the producer: Be good, give me a line here, but the idiot wouldn’t listen.”
“I didn’t notice it.”
“What?”
“That it was too short. It seemed perfect to me.”
“The idiot wouldn’t listen. He’s a zombie—destroyed my scene.”
“No, the scene was good, believe me...Papà, Marion now wants a divorce.”
“They also made me look older. Of course, with that fucking beard.”
“You didn’t look older.”
“I did, I did. I’m not a young man. A man my age with a white beard. Idiots.”
“Papà, Marion wants a—”
“Don’t lie to me. I looked older...much older.”
“I wasn’t lying to you. I was speaking about Marion.”
“Marion? What about her? Has she ditched that guy?”
“She wants a divorce.”
“And so? What did you expect, that she was ready for a ménage à trois?”
“Don’t be so cynical.”
Papà gulped his glass of red wine, and lit a cigarette. “OK, as you like. Let’s talk about something else. D’you know I’m going to voice-over a new BBC commentary in Italian for advanced learners? Start on Monday.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” replied Rudy. A cigarette...he fancied one. Just one would do him no harm. Should he reach for Papà’s packet? Better not. He must try to quit smoking—if he had one now he’d end up smoking thirty cigarettes a day again.
“Hardly what I want, anyway. A long part in another series is what I want—that would suit me fine. But I’m getting old, haven’t got many years ahead. Nowadays older actors are brutally discriminated against. They prefer to sign up a thirty-five-year-old ham even for the part of a cardinal.”
“Like they did with you.”
“Sorry, say it again.”
“Nothing has changed. They’ve always preferred younger actors.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
Had he forgotten, or was he just pretending? Rudy couldn’t say. He had a vision of Papà at thirty-six. He had just passed the eleven-plus. Mamma was slender and foxy, as Somali women usually were. Unlike a Somali she didn’t look thirty-four, though—Nana was Somali, but Grandpa was Italian. No, Mamma wasn’t the type a husband in his senses would dump. Yet Papà did dump her, for a very young English girl who was playing the part of an Irish nun while he was playing the part of a Roman Catholic bishop. Papà had said he would be back for supper, but never showed up again.
Rudy sighed. How different he was from both his parents: unlike Mamma, he wanted to win back his ex, and unlike Papà, didn’t know how to. Papà could always win all of his exes, whether saints or whores, Mamma had never tried to win back her volatile husband. Not even Uncle Ugo, if they were in love...Oh God, don’t start that again.
“I’m prepared to forgive Marion.”
“Well, forgive her.”
“Papà, please!”
“Your prick is too sentimental.”
“Has it ever entered your mind I’m fond of her?”
“Well, she isn’t of you.”
“What would you do if you were me?”
“Rape her.”
“Have you ever been fond of anybody but yourself?”
“Yes, of you, son. And of your mother. I still cherish her memory.”
“What would you have done if you weren’t fond of us?”
“Fled to Hollywood before you were born.”
“Why don’t you do that now? They’d welcome a great actor like you with open arms.”
“Piss off. I’m fed up with your constant moaning about your bad luck.”
Rudy turned round, and strode towards the door.
“Rudy!”
“Ciao,” he shouted, storming out of the room.
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