Director's Cut (32 page)

During my life, for instance, the computer has developed from an enormous machine with rotating parts that filled entire floors, lumbering objects that couldn't do very much. The memory took up many rooms. You could walk into a computer, wander around inside it. Now they are small and can do almost anything. They have become so minuscule that the day is not far off when they will be injected into your blood and wander around inside
you
.

Man now stores all his accumulated knowledge, far more now than
could ever be gathered in libraries, on chips. For this, he reduces all the words he has ever spoken or written, all the sounds he has sung, played, and heard, every thought, every dream, all the images he has ever drawn or seen, everything he has felt and remembers to the numbers 1 and 0. The compression of energy sparks a new universe, just as this implosion of knowledge creates a new reality in which all this information will be accessible to everyone. His essence recorded on a bar code, his possessions on a cash card, man can withdraw behind the black hole of his monitor, where the last thing that still differentiates him, his unique facial characteristics, is reduced to grids and pixels on a screen on which everyone looks the same. Hidden behind it, reduced to no more than a name or, better still, its abbreviation, his possibilities for extending his range are unbounded. Thus limited, every person is linked to all others without ever needing to step outside, where it often can be a bit chilly.

Ultimately, I expect, man will order the last remnants of chaos by filing himself on a chip. Then he will be master over all humanity, with nothing more to fear than my aunt Vitella, who fiddled with the electric light switch to impress her guests in Verona. That last image will be the same as my earliest memory: I have something between my thumb and index finger, but I can't really hold it. I feel that it is everything and nothing at the same time.

As this whole show is being performed, God sits on His throne watching men, patient as Father Time in the cartoon, until Little Nemo rolls out of bed and wakes up with a start, because however big man grows by narrowing his perspective, he'll never manage to cut his dreams down to size.

“You know what?” Gala says. “Let's go swimming!”

She is standing close to me in a cave. Behind her, the light is shining through a curtain of rain. I think she's got to be kidding, but then she actually starts stripping down! She snatches my hat off my head and throws it in a corner. I try to make out the expression on her face, but all I can see is a silhouette in front of a wall of pearls.

“It's raining. No one will see us. Let's go swimming!”

In a flash, I recognize the abandon of long ago. The thunderbolt strikes in Tivoli. I called her with a bit part in mind shortly after I got back to Rome. There was no glory in it and I could have asked anyone, but she had simply taken shape in my thoughts.

In Japan, she had appeared in my dreams again, more recognizable this time: wearing the same leopard-skin jacket but now carrying two buckets of milk on a yoke. “Gala!” I called. “Wait for me!” She turned. Fresh milk splashed out of the buckets and ran down her legs. It was
steaming. And she said something. Probably in Dutch. I couldn't make it out. Then she walked on.

I'm well aware that people put their lives on hold for the privilege of filling out my pictures, yet for the first time in years I felt like I had to persuade someone to act in one of my films. Don't ask me why. I felt I had to convince Gala to do me a favor, instead of the other way round.

I had arranged a meeting in the
osteria
next to the Temple of the Sibyl at Tivoli. I told her about the project's progress, and her role. After lunch, we wandered into the valley to see the waterfalls. A spring shower took us by surprise, and we took shelter under the cliff. I thought she wanted to stay dry, forgetting that the Dutch are born in the rain.

“Yes,” Gala decides, “I have an irresistible urge to swim. And right now.” She kicks off her shoes and beckons.

And at that moment, nothing seems more sensible: come on, it's cold and wet, let's take our clothes off! No magic spell could have so utterly robbed me of my will. Suddenly they appear, all at once. As Gala walks through the veil of cold water, they leap out from the cavernous depths, the countless delicious fruits I have plucked throughout my impetuous life: Gelsomina on the frozen pond in Véviers, Gelsomina among the poppies on Testaccio and wading through the warm stream of Saturnia, Gelsomina on the train to Cannes, making love and not even stopping to show the conductor the ticket. And Gelsomina at yet another pond, frozen again, not far from Borgo Pace—together so much stronger than the rest of the world because we have no rational thinking to hold us back. We had the nerve to act without thinking about it. Of course every sentient being is anxiously sheltering from the storm, so let's run into the water buck naked: but of course! How could I forget that recklessness is one of our basic necessities?

She doesn't wait for me. Gala does her own thing. She's already forgotten me. While I stumble out of my shoes like an old fool and tug, cursing, at my garters, she's already frolicking around at the bottom of the waterfall. When I come running out barefoot, she waves to me as she kicks her feet. The movement sets off ripples and lifts her out of the water, slim and proud as a figurehead, her hair wet and clinging to her shoulders.

The years have made me suspicious. Actresses have thought up stranger ploys. But I know this is different. Those same years have taught me to see through their tricks. Gala is different from all those others, I can see: she's doing it for herself.

I remember this! Heedlessly, immediately plunging into everything that comes my way, just because. Meanwhile, she's not giving me a second thought, doing exactly what I want by thinking only of herself, not putting on a show for my benefit. Her only desire is to see herself swimming in the rain.

“Gala, wait, wait for me, Galeone!” I call, suddenly anxious that the naval review is over and she's about to sail. “Wait, Galeone, wait for me!”

And I don't fall in love with her, but I feel once again the possibility of falling in love with my own life.

At this stage, I wasn't officially aware of the poor state of Gelsomina's health. But I'm not blind. My poor clown! She keeps it to herself, of course. She never mentions her condition, not even now—she doesn't want to worry me. But her silence makes it obvious. Young filmmakers sometimes think they should announce the last act with trumpets and drums, but an end that approaches in silence is far more menacing.

I'm convinced it was the raw fish. You can call it coincidence, but I noticed a sudden deterioration after ten days in Osaka. If God wanted us to wrap everything in seaweed, surely He wouldn't have gone to the trouble of inventing olive oil?

During our trip, Gelsomina wore out faster than she did at home. I noticed because she kept jumping around, trying to look sprightly. Now and then, she would bend over suddenly, pretending to be looking for something she'd dropped, but I saw through her. She was trying to hide a stab of pain that might distract me from my discussions with the financiers.

When I asked her about it, she denied everything, but with eyes that big there was no point in lying. One morning, to prove that there was nothing wrong with her, she suggested climbing Mount Hotaka to see a monastery. I pretended I wasn't feeling well, but she ignored me. Once Gelsomina has set her mind to something, not even dengue fever or beriberi can dissuade her.

We drove to Matsumoto, but we had to walk at least an hour and a half from there. She became ill several times. I was afraid it was going to be too much for her, but I knew she would suffer more if I confronted her. She knew that I knew, but neither of us spoke about it.

“We shouldn't do too much,” I said.

“A mountain is
not
too much,” she replied.

Finally, we saw a monk working on the beehives by the roadside. He helped her for the last hundred meters and showed us into the vestibule to rest, opening the shutters of the dark room so we could see the courtyard where several old cherry trees were in full blossom. We sat there for a time to regain our strength, impressed by the breathtaking spectacle of the bright colors framed by the dark shutters and the walnut window frame.

Finally, she stood up. She had gotten a second wind and opened the courtyard doors to walk over to one of the trees. She stood like a child beneath the ancient giant with her head back, soaking up the miracle.

Suddenly, we felt God breathing.

A sigh of wind passed through the room. A draft entered the shutters and exited through the open doors to swirl around the tree. It tugged at the branches, just for a moment, rustling through the blossoms and making all the flowers let go at once. They were so light that they flew up for a second before fluttering down around Gelsomina. She spread her arms to pluck as many as she could from the air, standing astonished as a sea of color gathered around her ankles.

She stayed beneath the bare branches. In that instant we knew the truth. And she looked at me with a smile that was both radiant and lost; I hadn't seen anything like it since the death of our daughter.

“A mountain can never be too much,” she said, “but a breath of wind …”

And less than a week later, I take to the water with another woman. At least, my big toe does. I stand at the edge. I was born to watch. The water is too cold for me. The moss on the stones feels funny under my feet. I am afraid I'll catch pneumonia. Big drops soak my shirt and singlet and water trickles down my chest, but I'm too happy to move. Grateful as a fern when a drought breaks, I bathe in my own folly.

•  •  •

“Good Lord, what's he done to you?” exclaims Maxim. Gala is standing in the doorway, trembling like a dog that's been thrown out of a moving car. My hat, which I put on her, has slid onto the back of her head. For a moment, Maxim is afraid that the event she avoided in Sicily has taken place in Tivoli after all, and he curses the carelessness with which he failed to see it coming. But then he sees how cheerful she is behind her running mascara.

“Snaporaz wants to use me.”

“This is Italy. Every man wants to use you.”

She rubs her hair dry.

“You're a man and you're in Italy,” he hears from under the towel.

He fills the bath and washes her face.

“He can use me in two scenes. It's not much, but I'll be in them with Gelsomina and Marcello.”

When she comes out of the bathroom, Maxim is ready to go. It's only the sight of his brand-new skis that reminds her that they're supposed to travel to Cortina d'Ampezzo this weekend. She's used the money she earned with her last Sicilian business trip to buy Maxim skiing lessons to prepare him for his American debut.

“I can't go,” she sputters. “Snaporaz might call.”

“Give him the number of the hotel.”

“I can't bother him with something like that. He'll think I'm stalking him.”

“He's used to people stalking him. I'll call him for you.”

“Are you crazy! I don't want him to …”

“Think we're a couple?”

“I don't want to put him off.”

“Why should I put him off?” asks Maxim, annoyed. “Does he want to cast you or fuck you?”

“He wants to cast me, but you know what men are like.”

Maxim knows.

“Then tell him you're going by yourself,” he grumbles.

“But what if he wants me today or tomorrow?”

“Then you're not here.”

“That's what I mean. I have to be here in case he calls.”

Maxim understands. Maxim always understands everything.

“It's the last snow,” Gala says, “and you have to learn to ski.” She
takes him to the door, kisses him, and tries to make him smile by popping Snaporaz's hat on his head. It's much too small for him and sits on that Viking head like a miniature bowler atop a clown's wig.

That weekend, I get a call myself. It's the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in Los Angeles. They've decided to give me another Oscar, not for a film—they're afraid no one will ever dare to invest in my undependability again—but for my entire oeuvre. They want me to collect it in person. I have no intention of doing so, but they think up all kinds of enticements to lure Gelsomina and me over the ocean. We can bring anyone we like. The first person I think of is Gala, but I immediately realize that's impossible. The press will be swarming. All kinds of festivities are planned. Some lunatic has even cooked up a plan for a theme park based on my films somewhere in the foothills of Santa Monica. Americans! I can't be bothered.

That night, I dream that they run a spit through a buffalo in my honor. The next morning, singing cowgirls serve me a plate piled high with its meat for breakfast. When I turn it down, explaining that I'm only used to eating a
dolce
in the morning, they pull out their lassos and chase me across an endless prairie. I don't look back, but I hear the swish of the ropes as they drive me on. In the barren, overgrazed landscape I can only find one place to take cover. It's a tall structure made of pipes. I climb it. At the top, I discover that I am standing atop a gigantic letter. It's a Y. In the distance I now see other letters, all just as big. Together they spell HOLLYWOOD. Around them there's a fence, the gate of which the cowgirls now slam shut.