Who is Lou Sciortino? by Ottavio Cappellani Page B

huh?”
    Marco Ceccaroli owns a private TV station in Rome, buys and sells almost all the TV movies made by Erra Productions, and phones Frank every week with his latest gret ideeas for unlikely miniseries to export to America. Frank, who doesn’t give a fuck about miniseries, or maxi-series for that matter, listens to him because he buys his TV movies, but mainly because he can’t say to him, “Look, it’s got nothing to do with me, I’m just a name on the office door.”
    Until now, Ceccaroli has always talked to Frank in English, and Frank’s unexpected request to talk in Italian paralyzes him. How should I talk to him? What should I say? he’s thinking.
    â€œWhatever … whatever you like, Frank,” Ceccaroli stammers, trusting in Providence.
    â€œCeccarò,” Frank says, “you know that guy in Florence who picked up Italian rights in Leonard Trent’s Tenors? ”
    â€œI seen him a few times, Frank,” Ceccaroli says, though he doesn’t know him at all.
    â€œThe movie’s crap,” Frank continues. “It’s about a tenor who nobody knows but, according to that asshole Trent, he’s got ‘the highest singing voice’ that ever existed.”
    â€œAs a director, Trent’s a little eccentric,” Ceccaroli says. He’s a fan of Trent, and likes nothing better than talking about movies. Christ! Movies! The kind that, when you show them on TV, you know they’re real movies because they don’t fill the whole screen!
    â€œI say he’s an asshole,” Frank says. “But anyhow … you know that movie was made by Starship Pictures, right, Ceccarò?”
    â€œSure … sure, Frank.”
    â€œAnd you know I’m in charge of Starship Pictures now…”
    â€œSure, Frank! Everybody knows that!”
    â€œAnyhow, Ceccarò, we need to do something for the fucking movie in Italy!”
    â€œSure, sure, Frank, I understand,” Ceccaroli says, then adds timidly, “And what do the people in Florence say?”
    â€œCeccarò,” Frank says angrily, “they buy and then they don’t do shit!”
    â€œFrank,” Ceccaroli hastens to say, “send me the cans with the trailer and I can start putting out a couple TV spots a day!”
    â€œThat’s fine, but we need something … something…”
    â€œMore aggressive?” Ceccaroli suggests.
    â€œRight,” Frank says. “Anyway, Ceccarò, I want you to organize a nice premiere in Rome with journalists and critics!”
    â€œ You ken relex-a, Frank! ” Ceccaroli bursts out: it’s a Freudian slip, his hands are shaking with anxiety. “I’ll rent a multiplex, send out invitations, organize a nice dinner with you and Leonard—”
    â€œGood, good, Ceccarò,” Frank interrupts. “Let’s see, when’s the best time to do it…” He leafs loudly through his diary. “ Cazzarola, too many meetings, what a fucking life … Let’s see…”
    Ceccaroli’s hands are shaking even more.
    â€œSo … I could be in Italy … Let’s say … Tuesday of next week.”
    â€œTuesday? Of next week?”
    â€œIs that too soon?”
    â€œNo!” Ceccaroli says, but even the receiver has started shaking. “No problem! In fact, it’s a great idea! A sneak preview!… Journalists eat them up!”
    â€œGood for them,” Frank says. “I’ll have Miss Zimmermann call you. She’s a ballbreaker but she’s the only one here who knows what the fuck trailers are, shit like that! ’Bye, Ceccarò!”
    â€œâ€™Bye, Frank, and … thanks!” Ceccaroli says.
    Frank puts down the phone, picks up a sheet of paper, writes on it, and then calls Jasmine on the intercom.
    Jasmine—Jasmine Artiaco, a dyed blonde with a low-slung ass whom Frank puts up with only