This set was replete with solid mahogany furniture. Lush velvet draperies, deep Persian carpets, ancient, hand-sewn Roman tapestries portraying scenes of the most intimate—and often quite unrealistic—nature were everywhere. There was a bar lined with champagne bottles and wine glasses. Large armchairs and small, cozy couches upholstered in silk dotted the set.
“Places everyone!” The voice sounded out like a drill sergeant as Francali Smutti entered. “The Maestro is here! Places everyone!” There was a flurry of activity as a horde of actors and extras arranged themselves about the set.
The man who had spoken put down his megaphone and came up to greet Smutti. “Welcome, Maestro. All is in readiness for the orgy sequence. We are ready to proceed whenever you are.” He bowed and looked curiously at Penny.
“This is our new star,” Smutti explained. “Arrange for a contract for her.”
“Shall we delay shooting, then?”
“Imbecile! Of course not. We shall proceed with the shooting with her while the papers are being prepared. She can sign them later.”
“Then I suppose you will wish to shift around the staging of the orgy sequence,” the assistant sighed.
“Naturally. But I shall do it. I always have to do everything myself, anyway. Come with me, my dear,” he said to Penny, “while I see what macaroni these clods have made of my beautiful orgy.” He led her onto the set.
“No-no-no!” Enraged, he loomed over two couples at the edge of the set. Each of the men was passionately kissing one of the women. Each of the women was passionately returning the kiss. “Fools!” Francali shouted frankly. “Can’t you remember anything. You have gotten your partners mixed up!” He prodded them with the cane he carried and then stood back to survey the results. Now the two men were embracing passionately. “That is as it should be,” he muttered to Penny. “These fools don’t know the meaning of an orgy!”
Now he stopped beside a half-naked man wielding a whip. Stretched out over a chair in front of him was a half-naked girl with her plump buttocks sticking out prominently from under the short skirt which was the only garment she wore. Francali Smutti stooped over her and gingerly swiped at her derriere with one fastidious finger. It came away dripping red, and Smutti delicately raised it to his lips and touched it with the tip of his tongue. “Aha!” he roared. “Just as I thought! Tomato sauce! Franco-American, if my palate doesn’t deceive me! You call this realism? Imbeciles! I want real blood. You—” He turned to the whip wielder. “You start whipping her now so that we have real blood by the time we’re ready for a take.”
He spun on his heel and walked away, Penny following. Behind them, the screams of the girl being whipped sounded satisfyingly realistic. Now Smutti paused to study a young stallion mounting an old woman. “Fools!” he howled. “Idiots! They have sent me a gelding! How can I stage an orgy with a gelding? Get rid of him! Immediately! And go out and get me a horse fit for sex!”
“But,” the old woman under the horse protested, “Maestro, an unaltered horse will tear me apart.”
“If you want to be an actress, you must suffer for your art,” Smutti told her contemptuously. The offending animal was led away.
“Ahh,” Smutti took Penny by the arm and led her over to a tall, handsome, olive-skinned, scowling young Italian man. “Here is your co-star. Allow me to introduce Marcello Pastrami.”
“I’m glad to make your acquaintance,” Penny said.
“Really? Why?” Pastrami answered sullenly. “For myself, I feel nothing.”
“Pastrami is a method actor,” Smutti explained to Penny. “He feels whatever part he does. He lives it. How do you feel, Pastrami?”
“Dead. I feel nothing. Life is nothing. I am sick of it. I feel dead.”
“Good. Good boy. That’s exactly what I want.” Smutti turned to Penny. “Now, here is the way this scene will go, Signorina. We will open with a panoramic view of the orgy. The camera will sweep over the scene, pausing for a close-up here, a close-up there to build the realistic eroticism necessary. Finally, it will zoom in to focus on you. You will be lying on a white ermine rug and doing a horizontal striptease dance which will slowly relieve you of the mink coat. When you are naked, the camera will focus for an extremely long, extremely slow, extremely close shot of your naked body. It will linger over your legs, your belly, your breasts, your tomato-sauce-pot, your twisting hips and flashing derriere, and will finally come to rest on your face. Your eyes must reflect the sexual turmoil which has seized your body. Remember that. They must shine with lust. For as we close in on them, we see Pastrami approaching dressed in nothing but a jockstrap. In his hand he has a slice of pizza. Savagely, his strong white teeth tear at it. With true earthiness, cheese and sauce dribble down his chin. A long string of mozarella escapes his sensitive lips and dangles down to where you are lying. It entangles your panting breasts. He reaches to retrieve it, grazes your erect nipples and notices you at last. He looks at you for a long moment, torn between two appetites. You look back with hot lust shining from your eyes. At last, you prevail. He tosses the pizza crust over his shoulder. The red tomato sauce splatters over the milk-white flesh of a young girl’s corpse left over from the last orgy. Pastrami picks up a pillow. His eyes never leave you as he tears at it fiercely with his teeth. Oh, by the way,” Smutti sidetracked himself, “are you sure your dentures are in firmly enough, Pastrami?”
“The dentist cemented them in place this morning. It took three hours.”
“Oh, that must have been painful!” Penny exclaimed.
“I feel nothing.”
“Si. Well,” Smutti continued, “when he’s torn the pillow open with his teeth, Pastrami will reach inside it and take a handful of feathers. These he will sprinkle over your naked, eager body. You will writhe even more, you will vibrate electrically, when he does this. You know how to vibrate electrically?”
“I’ve seen it done.” Penny thought sadly of Bix Bittervetch. “But tell me, what’s the symbolism of the feathers?” she asked Smutti.
“It’s an ancient Roman fertility rite. And besides, Von Stroheim used it in all his arty orgies. If it was good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.”
“I see,” Penny said. “What happens after that?”
“Pastrami selects one long feather, kneels down beside you and begins to tickle your espresso urn.”
“Why does he do that?” .
“To arouse you, of course.”
“But I thought I’m already pretty aroused by then.”
“Maybe you are, but the audience isn’t,” Smutti explained. “It’s what’s known as dramatic license. In any case, he tickles your spaghettini strand for a long time, until you are beside yourself with passion. Then you rip the feather from his hands and embrace him, pulling him over on top of you.”
“And that’s where you cut,” Penny guessed.
“Never! This is a Smutti picture! Realism! He makes love to you—inexorably, completely, to the bitter end.”
“It doesn’t sound so bitter to me,” Penny sighed. “As a matter of fact, it sounds very pleasant.”
“No-no-no!” Smutti erupted. “You must not enjoy it! It leaves you both empty. It is meaningless. That is the whole point. The orgy is like life. Just passing sensation, but empty, meaningless. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Penny was chastened. “I’ll do my best.”
“Please do. Well, I think we are ready to start. Places everyone.” He raised his voice. “Places!” he roared.
“Just a minute, Maestro,” Pastrami said. “First I must visit the men’s room.”
“I thought you were empty!” Smutti was indignant. “And you call yourself a dedicated actor!”
“Sorry. I will be back in just a moment.”
“Just remember, don’t you dare enjoy yourself!”