She had read, in one of the books on falconry, how there is a moment when the falconer’s bloodlust vanishes, along with his connection with the hawk, and the hunter suddenly returns to being human. It was precisely at that instant, Diana realized, that the hunter’s rage must turn to mercy—to help the prey die fast.
When Diana opened her eyes again she saw Ivo crouching between his hawks, reaching down between the flailing feathers, giving the gull its coup de grâce. A contraction in her chest, and she sighed with release: his job was done at last, and so was hers.
Then nothing moved and there was silence.
THE CALLBACK
Julian hadn’t been back in Rome for more than twenty-five years, not since he was a boy. Nobody in his family had ever wished to return. Given what had happened there, the city had become an enemy.
At first, coming in from the airport, Julian was shocked to find himself on the same streets that once had been so familiar but that he now hardly recognized. Potholes, rabid drivers, graffiti everywhere, trash piled on the sidewalks, a general sense of doom. The city had radically changed, as if throughout the years whoever had been in charge had stopped caring, like an heirless aristocrat who no longer has the money or inclination to maintain his family palazzo and is waiting only for the roof to collapse once and for all.
Romans had changed as well, and for good reasons. The whole country was entangled in a financial crisis that had started ten years earlier, and its glorious capital was in rags. Angry and hostile, the people of Rome had come to despise the tourists who occupied the sidewalks en masse, marching in a stupefied trance behind their guides’ tiny flags; they resented the never-ending rattle of the suitcases being wheeled over the cobblestones and the defrosted packaged meals the invaders were made to eat in cheap trattorias designed to poison them.
The producers of his movie had made sure to protect Julian from any kind of potential discomfort by putting him in one of the best hotels near Piazza del Popolo. A driver in uniform would be on hand 24/7 to take him wherever he wished to go, safely sealed behind tinted windows. They made sure the car was stocked with plenty of Evian bottles, light snacks, a fresh copy of The New York Times and classical music queued up on Spotify.
* * *
Valeria was asked to wait in the lounge area across from reception.
The production office looked like a boutique hotel: the lights were strategically dimmed, walls had been painted a dark, rich red. Between a couple of striped armchairs, issues of Variety and The Hollywood Reporter were spread fanlike on the low table. A sad song of an indie band she liked was coming through the speakers on low volume. She was offered a glass of water with a slice of lemon and a mint leaf.
She’d gotten a callback. The casting director had told her it was a good sign, as so far nobody had been asked to come back for that role. He told Valeria that over the weekend Julian Johnson had been watching all the auditions on his iPad, and he had asked to meet her. It was going to be only a short interview, more like a conversation. Mr. Johnson had also requested to see her with blond hair. Would that be possible? They had already scheduled an appointment with a colorist on Tuesday. The production would pay, of course.
This was the part of being an actress she resented most, how it allowed total strangers to make decisions that involved her body, as if it had become their property overnight. Lose weight, gain weight, cut hair, whiten your teeth, stop shaving under armpits, change eye color with contact lenses, fill that line with Botox. She was in her early forties and had been sent for Botox injections more than once already.
The previous day, in the hair salon, once they had given her a last touch after the blow-dry and massaged in a drop of oily product for shine, the hairdresser and his two assistants clustered behind her and cooed through the mirror.
“You look amazing.”
“This color totally suits you.”
“You look ten years younger.”
She hated herself as a blonde. She thought she looked fake—and ridiculous.
The role was small and not interesting. The character she auditioned for was somebody’s wife—mostly silent, since in all of her scenes the men did most of the talking—but, besides the fact that she needed to work, she was in awe of Julian Johnson. He was such an interesting director, and although his movies had modest budgets and were independent, he often worked with great actors who didn’t care about the money because they loved his work. This was the first time he was shooting a movie in Italy, and the buzz in Rome had been hysterical. Every single actor she knew had been dying to get an audition.
An assistant appeared and in a quiet whisper asked her to follow him.
* * *
“Valeria, so nice to meet you.”
Valeria’s heart thumped as Julian Johnson shook her hand. He stared at her intently—or maybe he was just assessing her new hair color; it was difficult to tell. He gestured at an armchair.
“Thanks for coming. Please, have a seat.”
Thanks for coming? Valeria thought. As if it had been a favor on her part to show up, as if she didn’t desperately want the role and didn’t need the prestige, let alone the money. Americans were so used to their scripted greetings, they didn’t realize how artificial they could sound. But at least they made the effort, unlike Italians, who were curt and unfriendly whenever they had the upper hand and hardly ever attempted to make you feel welcome.
Johnson looked more mature than in the photos. Though he probably was only a few years younger than Valeria, he already had a significant streak of gray around his temples. But he was skinny and taut and wore a sweatshirt over his jeans like a street kid.
“I really liked your audition. Your English is very good,” he said. “You have almost no accent.”
“Thank you.”
She reminded herself to speak slowly, to keep breathing, take a relaxed posture while sitting, and not to smirk or giggle.
“In fact, maybe you’ll need to fake a bit of an inflection for the part. I want the character to sound more Italian.”
“Okay. No problem with that.”
Did that mean he’d already made up his mind? Was she in?
“Where did you learn your English?” he asked.
“Oh…in my twenties I lived in Los Angeles for a couple of years.” Then she shrugged, as if to justify herself. “Acting school and waitressing, like everyone else.”
“But you came back to live here.”
“Yes. I thought I’d have a better chance to act in my own language. Even though my accent is light I still sound like a foreigner. In Los Angeles I could audition only for Latinas, Italians or Greeks. Plus I didn’t have a work permit.”