Omerta - Mario Puzo [35]
Then the screen dissolves to a supermarket and a whole shelf of soup cans labeled “Calcutta.” A voice-over proclaims,“Calcutta Soup, a life giver to rich and poor alike. Everyone can afford the twenty varieties of delicious soup. Original recipes by Mother Teresa.”
“I think that’s done in pretty good taste,” Harrison said.
Marcantonio raised his eyebrows.
Harrison inserted another video. A brilliant shot of Princess Diana in her wedding dress filled the screen, followed by shots of her in Buckingham Palace. Then dancing with Prince Charles, surrounded by her royal entourage, all in frenetic motion.
A voice-over intones, “Every princess deserves a prince. But this princess had a secret.” A young model holds up an elegant crystal bottle of perfume, the product label clear. The voice-over continues, “With one small spray of Princess perfume, you too can capture your prince—and never have to worry about vaginal odor.”
Marcantonio pressed a button on his desk and the screen went black.
Harrison said, “Wait, I have more.”
Marcantonio shook his head. “Richard, you are amazingly inventive—and insensitive. Those commercials will never play on my network.”
Harrison protested, “But some of the proceeds go to charity—and they are in good taste. I hoped you would lead the way. We’re good friends, after all.”
“So we are,” Marcantonio said. “But still, the answer is no.”
Harrison shook his head and slowly put his videos back in the box.
Marcantonio, smiling, asked, “By the way, how did the Gorbachev spot do?”
Harrison shrugged. “Lousy. The poor son of a bitch couldn’t even sell pizza.”
Marcantonio cleared up other work and prepared for his evening duties. Tonight he had to attend the Emmys. His network had three big tables for its executives and stars and several nominations. His date was Matilda Johnson, an established newscaster.
His office had a bedroom suite with a bathroom and shower attached and a closet full of clothes. He often stayed there overnight when he had to work late.
At the ceremony he was mentioned by some of his winners as being important to their success. This was always pleasant. But while he was clapping and kissing cheeks, he thought of all the awards celebrations and dinners he had to attend during the year: the Oscars, the People’s Choice Awards, the AFI tributes, and other special awards to aging stars, producers, and directors. He felt like a teacher awarding homework stars to elementary schoolchildren who would run home to show their mothers. And then he felt a momentary shame for his malice—these people deserved their honors, needed the approval as much as they needed the money.
After the ceremony he amused himself by watching actors with slight credentials trying to impress their personalities on people like himself who had clout, and an editor of a successful magazine being courted by some freelance writers—he noted the wariness on her face, the careful and cold cordiality, as if she were Penelope waiting for a more famous suitor.
Then there were the anchors, the heavyweights, men and women of intelligence, charisma, and talent who had the exquisite dilemma of wooing stars they wanted for interviews while discouraging those not yet quite important enough.
The star actors were sparkling with hope and desire. They were already successful enough to make the jump from TV to the movie screens, never to return—or so they thought.
Finally Marcantonio was exhausted; the continual grinning with enthusiasm, the cheery voice he must use to losers, the note of exuberance with his winners all wore him out. Matilda whispered to him, “Are you coming to my place tonight, a little later?”
“I’m tired,” Marcantonio said. “Tough day, tough night.”
“That’s OK,” she said with sympathy. They both had tight schedules. “I’ll be in town for a week.”
They were good friends because they didn’t have to take advantage of each other. Matilda was secure. She didn’t need a mentor or a patron. And Marcantonio never