Page 43 of Two Chances With You

“What, you don’t know? The Teatro delle Vittorie, RAI’s Theater of Victories, the great and historic temple of old-time Italian television.”

“Well, if it’s agreat and historic temple, by all means, let’s go.”

We cross the street. A used-book market occupies the space in the gardens. Young men and women looking more or less intellectual leaf through low-cost books. Then we approach the entrance to the theater.

Marcantonio rapidly lights a Chesterfield and smokes hungrily. “Buongiorno, Tony,” he says to the man at the front door.

“Hello, Count. How’s it going?”

“Not well since the fall of the Italian monarchy.”

Tony bursts out laughing. He’s an unassuming doorman and security guard at the Teatro delle Vittorie, and he appears happy to be working there. I suppose that, in his small way, he’s found power. He manages the door. He lets in important people, directors, extras, and actors, and he stops others from coming in just because they lack a pass. In other words, a bouncer of the media arts.

“Right you are, Count. At least you could have sent me a team of plebeians to open this emergency door. I called the technicians a week ago. But no one’s shown their face.”

I think to myself,The guy is a stickler. Then he leans forward and confides further details in a low voice. “It’s not a minor detail, I use this door to go take a pee in the downstairs restroom. Instead, the other way, I have to go the long way round…a real pain in the ass.” And he bursts out laughing.

“Tony, we finally have someone who’s going to solve this problem of yours, a matter of top priority.”

“And who would that be?”

“Him, Step!”

“And who is he, a member of your court?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. In any case, Tony, are you interested in peeing without waiting—or aren’t you?”

“I hope so. Hey, Step, if you can do it, I’ll owe you a favor.”

“Well, you might want to show me where this door is.”

“Right you are.” Tony serves as our guide. “Come right this way.”

Inside the theater, work is proceeding loudly, metal clanging, electric saws, welding sparks. “It’s almost finished. They’re just installing the lights,” Tony explains almost apologetically. “Here, this is the door. I’ve tried everything I could think of. Nothing, no good. Not a fucking thing to be done.”

I look at it carefully. It’s one of those panic-bar doors, and someone must have switched on the internal safety lock. Maybe it was Tony himself, and he no longer remembers or wants to admit that he’s pulled this boneheaded move. We need the key. Or else…“Do you have a metal bar that’s not too thick?”

“Like this one?” And he pulls one out of a crate sitting there on the floor. “Obviously, I tried everything I could think of, okay?”

“Pretty close.” I insert the bar in the lock and give it a single hard bang. Not even that hard, actually. “Open, sesame.” And the door swings open as if by enchantment. “Et voilà, presto fixed-o.”

Tony is overjoyed. He seems like a little boy. “Hey, Step, I don’t know how to thank you. You’re a magician.”

I hand back the metal bar. “Well, let’s not exaggerate.”

Marcantonio takes the situation in hand. “That’s right, let’s not exaggerate. Just remember that you owe us one favor apiece, understood?”

“We can do that, we can certainly do that.” Tony smiles, and he inaugurates the emergency door by using it to head downstairs for a piss.

Marcantonio gives me a wink and walks ahead of me. “Come on, let me show you the theater.”

We walk down to the stage, beyond the seats of the orchestra section and beneath the grand arch of the gallery. And there they are. To the sound of an enveloping wall of music, the dancers. Colorful bodysuits, legwarmers pushed low, hair long or short or else partly razored and designed. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, or hair dyed with unnatural color. Physiques sculpted, taut, skinny, well-defined abs. With muscular legs and rounded buttocks and tight bellies. Ready to explode into the splits at the sound of a high note. Perfect, mistresses of agile and catlike movements, fatigued and exhausted but unfailingly smiling.

The music at high volume fills the whole stage. And they allow themselves to be carried. They intersect, locking limbs, moving in unison to the beat, falling backward, sliding sideways, slaves to the rhythm.

Huge spotlights elevate them, bathing them in shafts of light. The lights caress their bare legs, their small bosoms, their skimpy outfits.

“Stop! Okay, okay, that’s enough!” The music comes to a halt. The choreographer, a little man who appears to be in his forties, smiles, satisfied. “Fine, let’s take a break. We can start rehearsing again later.”

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