shouts a frantic Geppi. “In my house! He’s inside, but he could walk outside any minute now.” She’s wearing a moth-eaten party dress that clings to her like a sausage skin. Copper mirror in one hand, rouge brush and kohl pencil in the other, the concierge patters through the basement searching for the best light. She elbows the raggedy Maxim and Gala, who have just returned from a long weekend among the tombs near Pitigliano, out of her way. “One of your lovers visiting again?” Maxim teases. Geppi lowers her mirror and looks at him solemnly. “Not just my lover, but the lover of all Italian women.” Her makeup gleams in a ray of sunshine. Her skills as a cosmetician date from her days supplementing her income with part-time employment in Testaccio funeral parlors. “Marcello’s visited our bedrooms more often than our husbands, if only in our dreams.” “Marcello … the Marcello?” “More often than our husbands, I tell you, and with more passion! Good Lord, just the thought makes me sweat like a whore in church.”
