Paolo and Francesca…

a novel about beautiful people in Italy.

Tag: La Scala

“the opera doesn’t last all night.”

The bell at her door rang shrilly; though she was expecting him Francesca was startled, and she dropped the lipstick she was applying.  Paolo rang the bell again.

“I’m coming!” she called out.

She opened the door.

“Come on!” he said, grabbing her shoulders to kiss her.  “I don’t want to be late.”

“Just a minute,” she said, turning back into the apartment.  She took her small satin Bottega Veneta minaudiere and a champagne-colored mink stole that had been her grandmother’s.  He closed the door behind her.

“You look incredible,” he said as they waited for the elevator.  “Is there a technical term for what you’re wearing?”

“It’s a jumpsuit,” she said, laughing.

“Ah, a jumpsuit,” he replied.  “It looks like it’s complicated to get into and out of.”

“Not horribly complicated,” Francesca said.

“Hopefully not too complicated for me to figure out,” he grinned.

“You do know we’re going to the opera,” she said as she climbed into the passenger seat of his Maserati.

He reached over the gearshift to stroke her leg.  “The opera doesn’t last all night.”  He turned the key in the ignition and they roared out of her drive.

[after this: trying to drive.]

Uncle Marco.

image via The Sartorialist

Marco turned his wrist to look at his gold Patek Philippe watch.  “It’s past my bedtime,” he said.  “You two feel free to stay as long as you’d like, but I’m afraid I’ve got to be heading home.”  He gestured to the waiter.

“We’ve got to go, too,” Francesca said, looking at Paolo.  “Will you drop us at La Scala so we can pick up the car?”

“Of course,” her uncle replied.  “I’ll drop you home if you’d like,” he offered.  They stood and began walking towards the door.

“I’d better get the car,” Paolo said.  “Thank you, though.  And thank you for a wonderful evening.”  Francesca smiled at Paolo’s manners.

“My pleasure, young man.  My sons are going to be quite impressed that I spent so much time with a professional footballer, even if you do play for the wrong team.  You’re a fine young man.  Keep up the good work.”  He turned to Francesca.  “And you, my darling.  Don’t worry about your brother–I’ll speak with him and do what I can.”  He kissed her forehead.  The driver and the Bentley were waiting for them outside the door.  They drove the few minutes to La Scala and pulled up in front of the valet.

The driver opened Paolo’s door and he got out to retrieve his car.  “Stay here,” Marco told Francesca.  “You shouldn’t have to wait in the cold.  And I want a word with you.”  She scooted to the middle of the backseat so her uncle could see her face.

“Yes?” she asked.

“I meant what I said to Romaldo; I do think he’s a fine young man.  He’s talented, he’s loyal, and he’s obviously in love with you.  Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he sincerely loves the opera.  But be careful, my dear.  You’re more than he is.”

“I don’t think–”

“You know you are.  You’re going to break him.  Be careful.”  Francesca saw the bright lights of Paolo’s Maserati in the Bentley’s rear view mirror and heard the car’s low growl behind them.  The driver opened her door and Marco’s.  “Buona notte, my darling,” her uncle said, kissing her cheeks.  “Give my regards to your mother,” he added, as an afterthought.

“‘Notte, zio,” she said.  “Thank you.”  She trotted to Paolo’s car, where he had propped open the passenger door for her.

pants, no pants.

She awoke to the phone ringing on her nightstand.  Paolo turned over and pulled a pillow over his head and she reached for the phone.

“‘Giorno,” she said groggily.

“You’re in the Corriere today,” her mother replied excitedly.

“Hmmm,” she said.

“You’re wearing pants.  Why are you wearing pants to the opera?”

“Mama–”

“Was anyone else wearing pants?  I don’t think so.”

“Mama, it’s Valentino.”

Her mother sighed.  “Valentino isn’t what it used to be.”

“You could say I looked pretty,” Francesca replied.

“You looked pretty, considering you were wearing pants.  And I have to say, that Paolo Romaldo is very handsome.”

Francesca looked at the sleeping man beside her and smiled.  “I know,” she said.  “We saw Marco last night,” she added.

“And how was he?” Anna asked.

“Very well.  The same.  He never changes.  He asked after you.”

“I’m sure he did,” her mother replied.

Paolo stirred again.  “I’ve got to go, mama.  Thanks for calling and letting me know about that.”

She hung up the phone.  Her mother woke early; luckily, the rest of her friends would be up much later.  She should be able to sleep a bit longer.

“What was that?” Paolo mumbled.

“My mama.  There’s a picture of us in the Corriere,” she answered.

“Mmmm,” he said into the pillow.  “I bet you look hot.”

“I bet you look hot,” she said, burrowing down under the covers.

She must have dozed off, because she woke up again more than an hour later to a phone ringing again.  But this time it wasn’t hers, it was Paolo’s.  She nudged him.  “Your phone,” she whispered.

“Ugh,” he said, rolling over to grab it off the opposite night table.

“Buongiorno,” he said.  “Si…si.  No,” he laughed.  “I know.  Yeah.  Ok, I’ll be back for dinner tomorrow night.  Ciao, To.”  He set down his phone and turned to her.  “We’re in the paper in Torino, too.  That was Verrino, calling to tell me he’d seen it.”

“Verrino…?”

“Defensive back.  Tomasi Verrino.  He’s a good guy.”

“As long as it’s not some other woman calling to give you a hard time,” she said.

“No other woman,” he said, kissing her bare shoulder lightly.  “Not for me.”

She moved closer to him, letting him envelop her in his arms.  “Thanks, baby.”  She reached down between them for his penis, wrapping her fingers around it lightly.  He kissed the back of her neck as he grew thick and stiff in her hand.

“Oh, Cesca,” he said as she moved under the covers towards the foot of the bed and took his cock in her mouth, first just circling the head with her tongue, then diving deep down his shaft.

inspiration #15 : Rigoletto.

I’m working on an opera scene (Paolo likes opera, remember?).  The first opera I ever saw, and my favorite to this day, is Verdi’s Rigoletto.  Like any self-respecting Italian opera, it has a healthy dose of scandal, womanizing, family drama, date rape, and royalty.  I was fortunate to see this opera at New York’s Metropolitan Opera House, probably the world’s second most famous opera house, and second only to La Scala in Milan, where (if I can finish this chapter) Paolo and Francesca go to see Rigoletto on opening night.  I guess I’m just sentimental like that.