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"Say it like the last time you did, more aspiration on those letters." Sally commanded.
Rolling my eyes, I started to speak the stupid phrase as she had demanded. I was groggy from waking up — I hadn't even had my tea yet — and Sally's cheery attitude was testing my patience to the limits.
"And gentlemen in England now abed... shall think themselves accursed they were not here... and hold their manhoods cheap whilst any speak... that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's Day. Upon Saint Crispin's Day!" I said, my eyes closed, wishing I was in bed.
Each word I made sure to speak exactly as Sally wanted, even if it grated me to do so.
"That's good — boss, even. Mad how you're dead better when you're half asleep, like. Must be 'cause you've got less attitude, I'd say. We might make an actor outta you yet," Sally said in her Scouse accent.
"You'll get us some charcoal chicken, yeah?" I asked in my butchered Scouse accent making sure to sound as stereotypical as possible.
"It's proper rude to imitate people, y'know," Sally pointed out.
"That's literally my job — I'm an actor!" I reminded her.
"Imitate life, yeah, imitate people — but don't mock 'em. Do it in good faith, lad," Sally advised.
I reclined back in the sofa chair. Nain had seen it in this second hand shop and had fallen in love with it, price had stayed her hand as had our temporary home in London. Those factors hadn't stopped me from gifting it to her on her birthday. I made use of it in the mornings and Nain would join me afternoon on the other seat. She liked to read while she kept an eye on me. It was cozy enough that she didn't even mind having to listen to my music practice.
"How about a bit more of the Italian practice, then?" Sally asked.
Shaking my head, I had no choice but to agree. Sally opened up the script; word was that the director Franco Zeffirelli had been so happy with my audition that he was motivated to write new scenes specifically fitting my talents. My screen time had gone from a just under the third of the movie to just a smidgen over it. The biggest difference would be that I'd speak more lines. At least, that'd been the last I'd heard of it. I hadn't received any new scripts and the only copy from when I had accepted the contract was still being passed a round.
Let's do Babbino's speech, eh?" she said.
"Uhhh…" I groaned, palmin' me face.
"What? I thought you liked comedeh," Sally said in her accent.
"Yeah, comedeh. That's me life, that," I said, all annoyed.
"You're here to learn how to say your lines the Italian way — stop butcherin' the Scouse accent," she chided.
"I'll be proper seein' me arse," I muttered — that was Scouse for makin' a fool of meself.
"Nah, you'll do sound, lad," Sally said.
Standing up, I got myself ready to do the role a justice. Not liking the part had nothing to do with my ability to pull it off. A comedic scene needed a comedic gesture to go with the whole thing. It wasn't quite a role for a child, but it was a great practice in both the accent and my overall acting. Puffing up my chest, I took myself ten times more seriously, I walked like a peacock testing each step.
When I started my speech I walked with my hand kept behind my back, each time I trailed off, I did a gesture that I felt natural in the moment. First I had my hand up, grasping for something invisible as I searched for an appropriate word for a letter I was drafting to an important person.
"Caro Signor Keegan. Most respected and famoso mercante di Manchester. I am in grande gratitudine for the massive..." I made an expressive gesture of thinking, then, as if a lightbulb had gone off, I continued, "and importante bundle of silk... which will bring — which will bring... ehhh... lagrime allegre to the eyes of molte bellissime... Signore Florentine." I finished, my eyes fishing for a compliment that was never coming my way.
The script described Signore Florentine as being a dramatic, over-the-top man. He was a merchant who chased the latest trends and minded how people perceived him. So as I said those lines, my hands had come up in a fist, waved away words not good enough for such an important letter, and even chuckled at the parts where I came up with the flowery language. Signore Florentine thought himself a wordsmith, even if Joan was typing the letter on a typewriter while he was absorbed in his disillusionment.
Sally read her own part, speaking for Joan's character:
"Thank you for the consignment of fabric. It is up to your usual standard," Sally said, her Scouse accent had gone away completely. In it's place was the most typical British RP accent.
Sally Grace was a dialogue coach specialising in accents. She'd worked for about forty years with actors on their accents, speech and dialogue.
"Please accept, signore, my most humble compliments... and sincerissimi good wishes," I said, a bit annoyed at Sally's character for simplifying my language.
Signore Florentine was a wordsmith when drafting letters, but Ms Marry Wallace only translated it into milquetoast letters. I got myself worked up at this attitude as Signore Florentine would.
"Yours sincerely—" Sally continued, uncaring of my growing annoyance.
"Ah, Miss Wallace, that's all for today," I said, waving her off.
I was a dignified man, it would be unbecoming to show anger to a lady, I told myself.
"No, it isn't," Sally insisted.
"What?" I asked, finally looking at her eyes instead of just speaking in her direction.
"Your son," she reminded.
"My son? He is at the orphanage school. Why?" I asked, dismissive.
"Try to do it like this — it's more of a j rather than a g," Sally said, demonstrating the sound.
My eyes rolled again — I couldn't help it. This was Sally, an Englishwoman from Liverpool. Most people outside England wouldn't understand a word a Liverpudlian said. Yet here she was, teaching me to speak English — English, my goddamn native language. Next, she was trying to teach me Italian-accented English: specifically, Tuscan Italian attempting poor English. Need I remind you that Sally's own speech wouldn't even be recognisable as English to most native English speakers? And yet she expected me to follow her instructions — terrible instructions, in a way no Tuscan would ever actually speak. To add insult to injury, she didn't even speak Italian herself.
"My son? He is at the orphanage school. Why?" I repeated, fixing my pronouncation as she bid.
Sally nodded at my attempt. "No, he isn't. He ran away to find his mother."
"That's the orphanage's business," I said carefully, making sure I kept on how she had demanded I do.
She bobbed her head again, happy with the attempt.
"You brought him into the world. You are responsible for him." Sally said,
"Of course. I pay for his education. And I still pay you to turn him into a perfect British gentleman who'll speak better English than mine. What more can I do?" I said, acting mostly annoyed but I added the element of shame in there too, wide eyes and fearful eyes darting around to check if anyone had heard something they shouldn't.
"Give him a home." Sally said,
"—Home?" I asked.
"Okay, that's grand for now. Your accent work's coming along nicely — you'll be ready soon."
"I was ready weeks ago," I grumbled.
"Nah, you still keep droppin' it in long dialogues. We're in your own home and it's just me here. If you can't hold it here, you'll proper mess up on set — I need to know you can keep it goin' for as long as needed."
"This is all a load of bull, y'know that, right?" I asked. Before she could answer, I carried on, "I miss Mark's teachin', he's proper good at it," I added. That oughta sting a bit — she deserved it.
When she didn't respond, I continued on.
"Look, I've learned to speak Italian. From an actual Italian, born in Florence — that's in Tuscany, Italy, by the way!" I reminded her.
"That's got nowt to do with your accent work," Sally insisted.
"It's got everythin' to do with it!" I shot back. "I can speak proper Florence accent! That's the real deal!" Was I goin' mad? Why couldn't Sally see her version was fake Italian and mine was the real stuff?
"There's the true accent, and there's the expected accent," Sally said, flatly.
I flopped back on the five-hundred-pound sofa chair, meltin' into it until my legs were hanging loose on the floor.
"Come off it, Wilf. You throw this tantrum every single lesson. You know it won't change nowt."
She was right — I did tell this to her whenever she'd show up. She was as stubborn as a bat and I was almost as bad. She just wouldn't crack; she would never concede the point.
"How about we practice some American accents then? You can do the southern cowboy accent you liked so much," Sally tried bribing me to learn,
There it was! I sprang up, back straight, neck upright. Sally was infuriating when it came to Tuscan English — I just couldn't take it, because I actually spoke Italian, whereas she didn't. She had no business teaching me Italian, nor proper English! But she could teach me American — that hardly counted as English, right?
Thirty minutes later, my head was stuffed with phrases and slang from Sally's massive folder. She carried it everywhere — a compendium of every accent she'd mastered in her sixty years. It was a treasure trove, and I had spent at least ten minutes copying down some of her phrases and rules. Discounting her attempts at teaching me that terrible Italian accent that sounded too stereotypical, she was actually a great accent coach. Her belief was that there was no person who couldn't learn any accent from anywhere in the world. Even as a big skeptic of such blanket statements, I had come to completely agree with her in time.
Her method was simple and applied to every accent. There was no point learning specific slang or other quirks before mastering one very important thing. She'd even go a step further, but not everyone was like me. The key to accents was mouth shapes — the way we formed sounds, not words, just sounds. It didn't matter whether you were in Chester, where I was born and learned to say "Mama," or ten thousand kilometres away, where a Chinese kid said the same word. Where we were born and raised dictated how our mouths moved to form each and every sound. Our ways of simply calling for our mother would differ and so would every word we have in conversations.
Sally had spent years organising her findings about different accents and isolating each mouth shape associated with a regional accent. In essence, she had deconstructed accents down to their tiniest components. Bite sized pieces that I could learn quickly. Once I had mastered those shapes, I could speak any accent convincingly just on that basis. From there, it was a matter of adding flair — slang, idioms, and common phrases — to make it truly feel a native tongue.
When I was learning Italian from Pippo, Sally had actually come in to sit with us. She had in her compendium the Italian accent from south of Rome. Sally made Pippo speak numerous words and sentences she had prepared. She even spoke her own Southern Italian phrases so Pippo could point out where things differed. A few lessons like that added another regional accent to Sally's book of accents — and helped me learn the language with the proper mouth movements. It wasn't something Pippo had been aware of, so even he was happy to learn that. His future lessons would yield students with better sounding Italian.
For a while, I sounded like a South American speaking Italian, but having a speech expert helped me understand the distinctions. My mouth adjusted to different shapes for certain vowels and consonants, and suddenly I was indistinguishable from a fluent Italian speaker. Language itself was far easier to learn than Welsh. For all the ways I was frustrated with Sally teaching me Italian, my Nain felt the same way about me learning Welsh. There was no revelations to help me there and the language had nothing in common with Spanish. Thankfully, Italian and Spanish shared more than eighty percent of their vocabulary and had the same grammar. I only needed to learn the differences in words.
When we finished our American accent practice, my mood had lifted considerably. I was no longer annoyed at Sally.
"Thank you, Sally. You're great," I said wholeheartedly.
"You always say that if we learn any other accent than Tuscan," Sally said, chuckling.
"I like learning new things! Mrs Grace, I'll seek you out if I ever need any accent work from now on," I promised.
"You'd better. There's no one better than me in London," she said. There was no pride or bragging in her statement — only the cold, hard fact.
"Bye, Mrs. Grace," I said as she was leaving.
"Goodbye, Mr. Price. Wish you the best for tonight." she said, smiling.
"Thanks, I'll be just fine, I promise." I said,
Nain and Granddad both said their goodbyes to Mrs. Sally Grace and walked her out. I put the kettle on for some more tea — I needed the refreshment. My routine seemed to change often enough, but lately it had become a proper mess. I had tutors teaching me Italian, dialogue coaches teaching me English, and another one teaching me Italian. Then there were the lessons I was taking at my own expense. Money had been good, almost too good. I was earning more than my Mum and, on some weeks, almost as much as Dad. The clock in my studio rang hollowly — it was far too old. The time read 12:00 p.m. — noon had arrived. As usual, the knocker on our door rang just as the clock struck twelve.
"I got it!" I shouted, running down to answer the door.
I swung it open to find the oddest person I'd personally met.
"Pippo! Welcome, come in!" I said, smiling from ear to ear.
"Hello, Wilfred," Pippo replied politely.
"Please, please — come in, have a seat. Fancy some tea?" I asked.
"No, we're on the clock. We should start," Pippo said, all business.
"Of course, of course. But wouldn't you prefer to get a bit comfortable first? I could put on some music — classical, perhaps?" I suggested, testing the waters.
"I'd rather not. We should stay focused to make the most of our time," Pippo said.
"Great! I've heard of a new method for focusing the brain — would you mind if we tried it in today's lesson?" I asked.
"Yes… that's fine," Pippo agreed, his eyes were tiny bit narrowed, but that could just be my imagination.
My cheery attitude didn't falter — I couldn't let it. Pippo was the most fascinating person to me. He was professional to an almost unbelievable degree; he had no interest in making personal connections or showing any human emotion. I called him the Vampire of Florence — but only when he'd been gone for at least ten minutes. I couldn't risk it being true and him hearing me from miles away. The man had been a mystery for the longest time.
I only knew his name, occupation, and birthplace because those were the relevant info he'd revealed. Pippo, the name might sound odd but according to the man, it had derived from Giuseppe and Filippo. Kind of like how Robert became Bobby. He himself had been named after a plane that flew during World War II — and as if the war had drained all his joy, he was without any life to him. He came to teach and do nothing more or less. Pippo had been raised in Florence, and from what I suspected , he had lived in a rough neighbourhood. That was as far as he would indulge me. I'd tried for weeks to learn more — the mystery made me want to unravel this person before me even more. But it hadn't worked at all.
So here I was, trying to crack Pippo's façade for the final time! I needed to know if he wore a mask while working or if this was his true character. Regardless, getting him to break character or lose his cool would be a day to celebrate.
"Would you mind if I go to the bathroom?" I asked.
"Not at all. You may go," he said.
I flew up the stairs to my room and changed my outfit. No more sweaters and jeans — I put on shorts and my England football kit. It was hard to get them on the way I was doing, but I eventually managed. Making sure to grab the tennis balls I'd bought last year, I found myself in front of Pippo.
The dour man locked his eyes with mine, making no indication that he had seen my outfit or even cared for it.
"Should we start?" he asked.
"Of course," I said. "Would you like one?" I extended a hand holding the container for the tennis balls.
Pippo looked down to my extended hand and what I held — he was silent for a second as he processed what he was looking at.
Once he'd realised what it was, he replied "No, thank you," Pippo said, shaking his head.
Pippo took out a blue plastic case littered with scuff marks; inside were his grandma glasses with chains. His bald top and the glasses matched like old couples arguing an old topic. From his leather suitcase, he drew out a binder much like the one Sally had. Only, this was full of materials lifted straight from Italian language tests.
"We'll do more slangs and terms local to Tuscany. I suppose we'll spend the rest of the time conversing — it'll help you get used to the language."
"Sure," I agreed.
In the early days, we used to focus a lot on written material — taking notes, brushing up on grammar . But as I had grown more proficient by the day, it was all put away in favour of more practical lessons. Learning a language was easiest if you could immerse yourself within it. Pippo had taken that as his method; the problem was that he only had me two hours each day. So his solution was to saddle me with Italian books, movies, and media to consume.
I'd been watching AFC Fiorentina a lot for that purpose. Their purple kit had made me fall in love with them, and the fact that I was actually going there made them feel even more special.
The immersion method worked wonders because I already spoke Spanish — the similarities with Italian made understanding much easier. Without any help from Pippo, I could follow an Italian conversation. By now, I could even fool a local Tuscan into thinking I was a real Italian boy.
During the conversation part of our lesson, I tried to pry personal details from Pippo, but he kept inventing facts.
"What did your father do?" I'd ask.
He'd reply, "Wool merchant," the first time, then "Butcher," and "Bricklayer" the third time.
If I asked a question more than three times, he'd just rotate the same answers again and again.
Pippo was an excellent conversationalist — he could talk about any topic under the sun. My favourite subjects were his ramblings about Italian government, society, and the mafia. They felt so real, so charged with frustration and human experience, that I would almost forget he was just performing. And then, just as suddenly as the passion appeared, it would vanish, and the stony face would come up again.
Determined to get him to crack, I tried a few things. I'd been learning to juggle recently, so I grabbed my balls and started my routine. The basic three-ball cascade was exactly what one imagined when thinking of juggling — but, being me, I had to take it a step further. Box juggling involved throwing one ball straight up with one hand while the other threw a ball sideways to meet my waiting hand. It was trickier than it sounded, demanding perfect timing and the ability to move each hand in opposing directions.
Not a problem for me, I'd been playing the piano where I'd play bass and melody in each hand — that was all kinds of more complicated than the simple juggling.
As usual, Pippo didn't say a word while I juggled, box juggled, then threw a ball over my back and spun around to catch them one by one like how clowns did on telly. I even comically failed on purpose — according to the only witness testimony — and lobbed one of the tennis balls at the wall for good measure. Even fake threw one right at Pippo's face.
Pippo didn't so much as blink.
Our conversation continued smoothly until he asked, "So, are you excited about tonight?"
"Not really, but I'm glad it's almost over," I said with a faint smile.
I had so many memories tied to this production — I'd hated it at times, but now that it was ending, I was already starting to miss it.
"All birds must leave its nest," Pippo said.
"I'm ready to spread my wings — real question is if the sky is big enough for me," I replied, full of confidence.
"You say it like spread — correct term is spread wings. Try again," Pippo instructed,
And just like that, we were back to the lesson. Pippo hadn't made a single comment about all my antics. I had to accept that the man either had no soul or was a robot sent from my future self to teach me Italian. Either seemed a fair bet.
A knock sounded on the door to my studio.
"Enter!" I called, finally speaking the first English words since Pippo had arrived.
"Thought you two could use some tea," Nain said, carrying a saucer with two steaming cups.
Her eyes scanned me and then did a double take.
"What are you wearing, cariad?" she asked, mouth wide open.
I looked down at my England kit — only the number seven was visible as I glanced down; Beckham was written right below it. My plan to wear my clothes backwards today had been a complete waste — Pippo hadn't reacted at all, and now I'd have to endure Nain's teasing.
"I was just trying something," I mumbled, unconvincingly.
"Trying what? At being daft?" Nain asked, laughing,
"Har-har… No, it's Pippo's last day. Thought I'd get him to break his stony attitude," I explained.
"There's nothing to break with this one, I'm afraid," Nain said. "He's a professional through and through. Thank you so much for teaching my grandson everything you could. We can't thank you enough," she added, addressing Pippo, who was like this Duolingo my revelations had talked about, personified, an uncaring automaton.
"No need to thank me — I've only done what I was hired to," Pippo replied, neutral as ever.
It was so frustrating having this man right in front of me. Perhaps the best way to cope was to ignore his attitude — act like nothing was wrong. And as I thought that, I almost wondered if Pippo was doing the same but for me. Was I as frustrating to deal with as he was for me?
He began writing a report. After each lesson, he'd hand me a report detailing what he'd taught, complete with a letter grade. Despite my ridiculous outfit, I was a straight-A student. This would be the last report he'd ever give me. When he extended it towards me, my eyes locked on the A+ — the first and only one I had received so far.
"Well, I have finished my contracted hours. You can now speak Italian as a Florentine would. You have graduated my class. It was great to watch you make a fool of yourself every day. Couldn't have asked for a more entertaining student," Pippo said, chuckling.
The change was so sudden and apparent that I couldn't help but wonder what had just happened. For the first time, it felt, Pippo sat back on the sofa chair with his shoulders fully relaxed. His face even had an easy smile, cheeks flushed with colour. A foreign look on that familiar face.
"Who are you, and what have you done with Mr Pippo Rossi?" I asked, as a priest might during an exorcism.
"Pippo Rossi has been freed from his contract. This is just me off-duty," Pippo said, smiling. "You really gave it your all today — it's admirable. I almost cracked when I saw you stroll in with that." He nodded at my clothes.
"You were purposefully acting like nothing was wrong?" I asked, incredulous.
"Yes. I do that because it's exhausting to waste time speaking about nothing in particular. It's more effective to let them focus fully on the task at hand," Pippo explained.
I could only stare at the man before me — nothing came to mind, not even a word.
"It's time for me to leave. But I'll let you in on a little secret. Every question you've asked me, I've answered with two lies and one truth. You wanted to know more about me. Well, you've always had the answer. Construct the best image you can of me, you win if you are right on all counts." Pippo said, smiling.
"What?" I muttered dumbly.
"Good luck tonight — I won't see you once you're gone. Say hello to Mark for me, tell him he needs to improve on his Tuscan." Pippo added. "Here's a gift from me — read it when you've grown up, or read it and grow up. It matters not to me."
He handed me a book with an illustration of a severe man in a red cap and red robes, similar to how cardinals dressed. In golden lettering was the word LA DIVINA COMMEDIA. The book looked so at odds with the kinds of books my Nain read — the cover was vibrant and dark at the same time. I could almost imagine it as a vinyl album cover from a rock band. Religious image and cool font — it was a vibe. Dante's Inferno, in the original language.
Looking up, I tried to refuse the gift. "I don't want to read this religious stuff. I don't even go to church anymore."
"So your grandfather tells me, but that matters not. You needn't be religious to read this. This" — he tapped the book — "is similar to the Odyssey or the Iliad. It's an epic exploring themes of the afterlife, faith, and justice. But there are elements of government, politics, and some veiled points you may only recognise years from now. It is a cultural lodestone from which you can learn many things and inform your true calling, acting. I see how you study musical artists — this will teach you about literature and much more. Also, the author, Dante Alighieri, is from Florence — it seems only right for you to have it," he said, sliding the book closer to me.
"Thank you, Mr Rossi. I don't think I've got you a gift," I said, embarrassed.
"How about a ticket for tonight?" Pippo asked, his smile making me feel oddly unsettled.
"Sure. Don't complain if it's not a good seat — it's so last-minute," I grumbled.
"No problem. If I don't like the seat, I'll just move around. Heard there's been many empty chairs," Pippo joked — actually joked!
"I think it's time for you to leave, I don't recognise you anymore," I said.
"I agree," Pippo said, standing. He lifted his suitcase and studied me. "Wilfred, I wish you the best of luck on your last performance. It's been a pleasure to have you as a pupil." His professional attitude was fully back in place.
"You were the best teacher. Thank you," I replied, nodding as professionally as I could.
Pippo smiled gently and started to walk away. I made no effort to help him; the man had driven me nuts all this time — he'd hardly revealed anything. Yet today he'd shown me it had all been a mask; lies and truths in equal measure. Wool merchant's son or butcher's child — he had bamboozled me. But he'd taught me Italian to complete fluency. I looked forward to seeing Franco Zeffirelli's reaction to my mastery of the language.
I glanced at the grandfather clock — ten past two. Time to start walking toward Vauxhall for my dancing and acting lessons. If Pippo had been a troublesome teacher, this dance teacher was the real T.R.O.U.B.L.E. And yet, I was looking forward to the session.