Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow: My Life Read online

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  Contents

  Prologue

  1 Toothpick

  2 The Fairy-Tale Factory

  3 The Ideal Man

  4 Who’s That Piccerella?

  Interlude

  5 Mambo

  6 Cary’s Roses

  7 A Mother Well Worth an Oscar

  8 La Dolce Vita

  9 Marriages

  Interlude

  10 Stars

  11 Comings and Goings

  12 Seventeen Days

  13 The Mona Lisa Smile

  14 Going Home

  15 Voices

  Epilogue

  My Treasure Trove of Memories

  The Films of Sophia Loren

  About Sophia Loren

  Index

  Illustration and Photography Credits

  To my four grandchildren, the great miracle of my life

  Prologue

  The doorbell to my apartment keeps ringing while I finish kneading the last of the struffoli, our traditional Neapolitan Christmas pastry. I leave the dough to rest and hurry to open the door, my hands covered in flour, wiping them as best I can on my apron.

  The florist, behind a huge poinsettia, hints at a smile.

  “For you, Signora Loren. Can I get your autograph, please?”

  The label on the ribbon takes me back to Italy for an instant. I put the plant down on the piece of furniture and open the card. It conveys an affectionate, cheerful thought.

  The voices of my grandchildren, who have just arrived from the United States for the holidays, fill the house with excitement and chaos. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and we’ll finally all be together. The truth is, though, that I’m not ready. How will I manage to feed so many people? How can I possibly fry all those struffoli?

  The world whirls around me dizzily and I feel as if everything is slipping out of my control. I go back to the kitchen, in search of certainties that I can’t find. I head into the dining room, hoping that things will go better there. The table! Yes, the dinner table for tomorrow. I want it colorful and beautiful. In a frenzy, I take out the glasses and arrange the plates and cutlery. I fold the napkins carefully. I have fun deciding who will sit where.

  I’m a Virgo and, most days, I even manage to bore myself with my compulsive perfectionism, but not today. Today it looks like the messiness is getting the upper hand. I start over again on the table, trying to keep my emotions at bay. Let’s see, two, four, eight, plus five, thirteen, and four makes seventeen guests for dinner tomorrow . . . No, not seventeen, that’s an unlucky number! Let me count over again.

  From the photograph of him on the chiffonier, Carlo is smiling that special smile of his on our wedding day. I’ll never forget the first time I felt his eyes on me, many years before, in a restaurant with a view of the Colosseum. I was not much more than a young girl, and he was already a successful man. The waiter came over to me with a note from him saying that the producer had noticed me. Then the stroll in the garden, the roses, the scent of acacia, summer as it was coming to a close. That was the start of my adventure.

  I stroke the green armchair where Carlo would doze off while reading the newspaper. I feel cold; I must remember to light the fire tomorrow. Luckily, Beatrice, the youngest of my grandchildren, comes along to take my mind off my recollections. “Nonna Sophia, Nonna Sophia!” She’s very blond . . . and very determined. Behind her, the others peer in, like a delegation of little rascals. It’s time to get ready to go to bed, but they have no intention of doing so. I look at them, they smile at me, we make a deal.

  “Why don’t we see a movie?”

  Amid shouts of joy, a battle breaks out as they choose which cartoon movie to watch. In the end Cars 2 wins, their favorite of the moment. We all sit down together in front of the TV.

  “Nonna, can you imitate Mamma Topolino for us?”

  “Now, mangia. Eat!” I recite my line from Cars 2, making funny faces as I do so.

  “Again, again, Nonna, please. Do it again!”

  Hearing my voice, the same that comes from the mouth of a little car, drives them wild. Who would have thought they would enjoy it so much when I accepted, rather reluctantly, the proposal to do that peculiar dubbing job?

  Little by little, Vittorio and Lucia, Leo, and Beatrice are mesmerized by the movie and, before it’s over, they’re fast asleep. I cover them with a blanket, look at my watch, and think about tomorrow. Outside it’s started to snow, but with all the hustle and bustle inside I hadn’t even noticed.

  Comings and goings are always very special moments. They set the merry-go-round of recollections in motion, opening doors to yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

  When I think back on my life, sometimes I’m surprised that it’s actually all true. I say to myself, One morning, I’ll wake up and find out that it’s all just a dream. Not that it was always easy. There were hard times. But it was definitely wonderful and worthwhile. Success, too, bears its burden that you have to learn how to cope with. No one can teach you. The answer is inside you, where all answers are.

  I tiptoe back to my bedroom. It’s comforting to spend some time alone. I know that if I stop for a moment of quiet, I can find the peaceful beating of my heart, and calm.

  As soon as I’m in the bedroom I realize I’m still wearing my apron. I untie it, take off my shoes, and slump onto the bed; the magazine I’d been reading in the morning is still open to the same page. The excitement of embracing my family again has made it hard for me to sleep these past few nights, and I feel lost if I don’t sleep. It’s the engine that helps me to travel through my days.

  “Buon riposo!” (Good night!), Ninni shouts out from the other room. “Cerchi di dormire!” (Try to get some rest!)

  Ninni, Ninni . . . she’s been with us for nearly fifty years. She was Carlo Jr. and Edoardo’s Nanny, and when they grew up she stayed on to take care of me. Now, whenever my sons come to the city with their children, she takes care of those little rascals with the same enthusiasm as ever. Sometimes I wonder where she finds the patience to put up with us.

  “Sto già dormendo” (I’m already half asleep), I tell her to reassure her. But instead of sleeping I just lie there, my eyes wide open as I stare at the ceiling.

  As I try to calm down, thoughts race through my mind. Will my grandchildren like my struffoli? The ones that my Zia Rachelina would make for us in Pozzuoli, the small town where I grew up, were much better than mine. You know, the flavors of our childhood are always better than others.

  I feel restless, the way you do when you slowly slip from reality to a different world, one of dreams or memories. I can’t keep still, so I put on my bathrobe and go into the study at the end of the hall. To do what, I don’t know. I look at the shelf, I move aside some books, bric-a-brac, pictures, paperweights. I fret, as if I’m looking for something. Then I see a dark wooden box at the back of the shelf. My heart skips a beat. It takes me by surprise, but I recognize it right away. In an instant, I pull it down and open it. Before my eyes are letters, telegrams, notes, photographs. That’s what was pulling me here; this is the thread that guided my footsteps on this cold winter night.

  The wooden box holds my treasure trove of memories. I’m tempted to leave it as it is. Too much time has passed, too many emotions. But then I muster the courage to pick it up, and I slowly carry it back to the bedroom.

 
Maybe this is my Christmas gift, and it’s up to me to open it.

  I

  TOOTHPICK

  A MOTHER FOR A GRANDMOTHER AND A MAMMINA FOR A MOTHER

  I open an envelope with the word “Nonna” on it, written in my childhood handwriting, and I see myself again as thin as a rail, my mouth too big under my yellowish eyes, and my expression one of surprise. I can’t help smiling when I see my own handwriting, and in an instant I’m in Pozzuoli again, remembering the uphill struggle of my childhood. There are some things that, however hard you try, you just can’t forget.

  In that letter I thanked Nonna Sofia for the 300 lire her son, Riccardo Scicolone, my father, had sent to me on her behalf. My father did not live with my mother, my sister, and me. He even managed to be absent by mail. Nonna Sofia was a cold, distant woman, whom I had only seen once in my life. And yet, in my letter I told her how my first Holy Communion and Confirmation had been the most beautiful day of my life, and that my comare (my godmother), had given me a gold bracelet. I also told her that I’d been promoted “to fifth grade, with the highest marks.” In other words, I told her things that any grandmother would like to hear, as if she were interested, as if she loved me. I even asked her to thank my father for his thoughtfulness.

  I wonder now who had encouraged me to write to her. Perhaps it was Mamma Luisa, my mother’s mother, who even in the hardest of times insisted on good manners. She had welcomed me into her home when I was just a few months old, and really did love me. Her love was simple, warmhearted, and unselfish. Or perhaps my mother had encouraged me, as she would find any excuse to make some contact with my father in the hope of getting him back. She resorted to every possible ploy. After all, she was just a young girl whose youth had been stolen when she got pregnant with me. If I think back, it was no accident that I called grandmother and grandfather Mamma and Papà, while my mother was simply Mammina, Little Mother.

  As a young girl my mother, Romilda Villani, oozed allure. Fascinating and very talented, she didn’t care too much for school, but she played the piano very well and, thanks to a scholarship, she had been able to enroll at the Conservatorio di Musica San Pietro a Majella, in Naples. For her final exam she had prepared Liszt’s The Bells, graduating with praise and distinction. Despite their limited economic means, my grandparents had bought her a baby grand, which sat proudly in the small parlor at home. But my mother was a restless beauty and had even greater dreams.

  A contest held by the American film studio MGM fueled those dreams—and also ended them. MGM was looking all over Italy for someone who resembled Greta Garbo, the absolute queen of all female movie stars at the time. Even though Romilda was just seventeen, she wasted no time. Without telling her parents, she went before the jury, certain she would win. She was right, and just like in some fairy tale she did win, and was awarded a ticket to Hollywood for a screen test. But her parents, Papà Domenico and Mamma Luisa, wouldn’t hear of her leaving. She was simply not going to go and that was that. After all, America was on the other side of the world.

  Our family legend has it that the people from MGM traveled all the way to my grandparents’ home to try to convince them to let Romilda go, but left shaking their heads, incredulous and disappointed that they would not give their permission. So the prize went to the runner-up.

  Romilda never forgave her parents, and as soon as she could she left them to pursue her dream: Rome and Cinecittà—Cinema City, the large studio complex that was the center of Italian filmmaking. She was going to get what was coming to her, at whatever cost.

  But the young Garbo of Pozzuoli hadn’t taken into account the unpredictability of love. Her fateful encounter with Riccardo Scicolone Murillo, who would become my father, happened in the street, in Via Cola di Rienzo, one evening in the fall of 1933. He was tall, handsome, elegant, and had a way with women. Immediately struck by that gorgeous girl in search of glory, he had to win over her heart, and what better way than to invent a story that he worked in the movies, which he really didn’t, of course. By that time, Romilda had learned that there were long lines in Cinecittà for aspiring actresses looking to land the same bit parts she was trying for, so she could hardly believe she had found her prince and champion.

  Riccardo was twenty, had some money, and came from a family of noble origins. Having had no success as an engineer, he had found a temporary job at the Ferrovie dello Stato, the state-run railroad, on the Rome-Viterbo line. Soon afterward, Romilda and Riccardo met again in a small hotel in the center of the city, where they would make love all night long. But then I came along to ruin everything. When Riccardo found out that Romilda was pregnant, he grew confused about what he wanted, and gradually turned cold toward her. I was just not a part of the plans he had made for his life, nor was my mother.

  To defend her daughter, Mamma Luisa arrived unexpectedly in Rome, demanding that they get married. Riccardo was almost convinced to do the right thing, but he stopped short, manufacturing a weak excuse: he had never received Confirmation, and he claimed that making amends for that was more complicated than he had expected. So the marriage never took place. But whether or not he wanted to, my father did give me his last name as well as a drop of blue blood. It’s amazing to think that even though I never had a real father, I can still call myself Viscountess of Pozzuoli, Lady of Caserta, a title given by the House of Hohenstaufen, Marchioness of Licata Scicolone Murillo.

  A SUITCASE STUFFED WITH WISDOM AND POVERTY

  I was born on September 20, 1934, frail and not particularly pretty, in the ward for unwed mothers at the Clinica Santa Margherita in Rome. As I always say, my layette was a suitcase stuffed with wisdom and poverty. Mammina insisted that they put a bracelet on my wrist, because she was terrified that I’d be switched with another baby. For a while, Riccardo, whose own future was uncertain and who was conflicted and wracked with doubts, hoped that his mother, Sofia, would take us in. Romilda had tried to ingratiate herself with Sofia by giving me her name. But once again Riccardo failed to deliver on his promises to my mother. Sofia would not open her house to us, so he rented a room for us in a boardinghouse, where for a few weeks we lived together as a family. Or almost as a family.

  Unfortunately, there was no money, the room was not right, and everything else was wrong, too. Papà was too arrogant to accept just any old job, and he didn’t have the credentials to be able to get the jobs to which he aspired. When my mother’s milk ran out, she began worrying about my health. Her fears became real the day she left me in the hands of the landlady while she went in search of a job. When she came back, I was on the verge of dying: the woman, perhaps well meaning, had given me a teaspoonful of lentils, which had made me seriously ill. And Riccardo? He had disappeared, again.

  Romilda did the only thing she possibly could. Somehow she managed to buy a train ticket for Pozzuoli and took me back home with her. Penniless and husbandless, with a dying infant in her arms and the “guilt” of having ruined her family’s reputation, she was desperate. She had no idea how her family, the Villanis, would react when they saw us, and was afraid that they, too, would turn us away. But when Mamma Luisa came to the door, all it took was one glance at her daughter with a baby in her arms for her to throw open the door and embrace us as if she’d been expecting us. She took out the brandy, the fancy glasses, and, after an emotional toast, immediately got down to work taking care of me.

  “A woman’s milk is what’s needed here,” she declared. Wasting no more time, she summoned the wet-nurse Zaranella, famous throughout the region of Campania, to our home. To help me survive, all the Villanis made a vow to San Gennaro and gave up meat for months. Actually, they gave it all to Zaranella, who in turn gave it back in the form of rich, nourishing milk. No one ever complained about this sacrifice, neither Papà Domenico, affectionately called Mimì, nor Zio Guido, nor Zio Mario, nor Zia Dora. United we stand, divided we fall, is what the family always believed.

  But Zaranella’s mik wasn’t enough to restore my health. I was torment
ed by a barking cough. “This child is sick,” declared the doctor, holding a stethoscope to my chest. “Some fresh mountain air would do her good . . .”

  And so Mamma Luisa made plans for the whole family to leave the small apartment on the Lungomare and move to a higher altitude, on Via Solfatara. It was the right choice. After they carried me out for one walk in the cool evening air, a grin appeared on my pale face. “She’s saved!” said Mamma Luisa and, calm at last, went back to her other everyday concerns.

  Papà Mimì, a small, stocky man, was department head of a munitions factory in Ansaldo, which in a few years, after World War II started, would make Pozzuoli the target of fierce air raids by the Allied forces. Papà Mimì worked very hard, too much so for his age, and in the evening he’d come home exhausted. All he wanted to do was read his newspaper and get some peace and quiet, but instead he would find a huge family that was always in turmoil. Mamma Luisa tried to manage us all as best she could, with her willpower and lots of imagination. Their two sons, my uncles, worked in a factory, but only occasionally, and Zia Dora was a typist. However, all their earnings together weren’t enough to put bread on the table every day.

  Perhaps more than bread and even more than love, the main ingredient in Mamma Luisa’s cooking was imagination. I remember her pasta e fagioli (pasta and beans), simmering cheerfully in our small kitchen, releasing into the air the aroma of the sautéed vegetables with lard, when there was any to be had. That smell of home and family protected us before the war, and it also kept us safe during the war and its bombs, death, and violence. Even today, when I remember that homely, comforting aroma, I start to cry and that time all comes back.

  Mamma Luisa also made farinella, similar to polenta, pasta with squash, panzanella, a salad made with stale bread and vegetables, and boiled dried chestnuts. It was very humble cooking, based on hardly anything at all. And yet, compared with the hunger that we would suffer during the war, we ate like royalty, especially at the end of the month, when half of Papà Mimì’s salary would end up in Mamma Luisa’s meat sauce. Impossible to forget, it was so delicious.