All the Stars in the Heavens (35 page)

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 stayed 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.

“Alda!” Loretta went to help.

When the man under the portico heard the name, he turned to face Alda, who looked away as soon as their eyes met.

Loretta picked up the basket. “The berries are fine. Are you okay?” She handed Alda the basket. “Alda, are you all right?”

“We must go,” Alda said.

“Why?”

Alda didn't answer. Loretta looked around and saw the man from the portico—in his late twenties, tall and slim, with sandy curls, brown eyes, and Greco-Italianate features—walking toward them purposefully. A smile broke across his face as he came closer to them. Loretta looked at Alda and then at the young man, back and forth, trying to make sense of the situation.

“Alda?” The man put his arms around her. Alda blushed.

“Enrico.
Come stai
?”

Enrico stood back and took Alda in appreciatively.

Alda had blossomed into a lovely, sophisticated woman since going to work for Loretta. The days of cutting her own hair were over when Loretta pushed Alda into the beauty chair in her dressing
room on the studio lot. LaWanda had taught Alda simple makeup. Her thick eyebrows had been arched and shaped and filled in with a waxy charcoal stick. Her lips were lined in soft pink, and a dusting of powder on her cheeks made her brown eyes sparkle. Alda's wardrobe was no longer composed of hand-me-downs from the Young sisters' closets, but custom designed, her suits fitted at the studio. On this day, her trim figure was lovely in a pink gingham skirt and a flowing white blouse, and she wore gold hoop earrings her husband had given her. With the gold band on her hand, that was all she needed to be chic.