AFTERTHOUGHT

The Leonardo show

TONY PALMER

Of course, I knew it was a plot the moment the Alitalia DC 49f bounced four times on

the runway. I think we were coming in to land at Rome but ever since we had crossed the Alps, it had been unwise to assume any- thing. Once, for example, as the plane had

lurched heavily to its left spraying my neigh- bour with instant coffee Italian style, the

friendly capitano had announced that on a clear day we could see the city of Salzburg. This had seemed odd since Salzburg was several hundred miles east of where we should have been. Another lurch was follow- ed by a further jest from the capitano that he was frightfully sorry but he wasn't exactly sure where we were.

But once on the ground you could be sure that you were in Italy. The Italians, it seems, have devised a revolutionary scheme for transporting one's luggage from the aircraft to the thirsty passenger. This consists of two moving ramps going downhill when the lug- gage is trying to come uphill. The effective- ness of this scheme may not be immediately apparent to those in a hurry, but one was assured that it was designed by Leonardo da Vinci himself, who also built the airport, according to our taxi-driver.

The journey to the Hilton Hotel was similarly relaxed apart from one collision, five near-misses and the arrest of our driver. He seemed a cheery fellow, if a little deter- mined, but then, as he told us, we were the guests of Italian television and since Italian television was owned by the government, no harm would come to us. I pointed out that there hadn't been an effective government in Italy for nearly three months, to which he merely replied that Mussolini was not as dead as that war newsreel had shown.

The Hilton had never heard of us and there was certainly no message from Italian television telling us where to go or why. They did have, however, a room with a view at sixteen million lire an afternoon with all modern comforts. For some hours I then tried to contact the man who had begun this whole affair with a phone call which said, 'Hello, my name is Montaldi. I make prize- winning films and my father is dying of cancer. He is very noble.' He had gone on to explain that Italian Television was planning a vast two-hour programme, part-film and part discussion, called Music Today, which would be all about the sociological, political, psychological, metaphysical, linguistical, har- monica!, traditional, therapeutical and sacra- mental elements in pop music and would I like to take part in the discussion? Others involved would include Andre Previn, Frank Zappa (leader of the Mothers of Invention), Anthony Burgess, Colin MacInnes, Paul McCartney etc etc. So with the prospect of all expenses paid and the iced water of the Rome Hilton, I accepted.

I realise now that it was a foolishness to have rung Italian Tv on a very hot Sunday afternoon in Rome to inquire about a home telephone number for Montaidi. No, said the squeaky girl on the other end, Mr Monti- lardi no work here. I rang a friend in London who went to my house to look up his num-

ber. Upon dialling this, I discovered that the Montaldi home number didn't exist. The police asked me if I wished to arrest him— no, they didn't have his number either. Nor did the fire-brigade, the Ministry of the Interior, Alitalia or the State Tourist Board.

The Hilton switchboard really did try very . hard, but suggested eventually that I walked round Rome hoping to catch a glimpse of him in the street. After all, I could combine this with a little sightseeing.

Next day, early, the phone rang—next door. A nice American with a big belly knocked at my door and asked me if I was Mr Palmer as there was a call for me in his room. The phone purred music into my ear—This is the voice of Montalardio', it said. A car would pick me up at two pm. 'Please be prompt. My father died even- tually'. At three pm the phone went again.

'This is Montaldini's secretary. The car is on its way. Do not panic. You are very wel- come in Rome, all of you.' At three forty the car arrived and at four fifteen we arrived at the Tv studios just in time to begin the two o'clock rehearsal. 'They told me I was going to see the Italian Riviera,' said Herb Cohen, Frank Zappa's manager, somewhat hurt. Wilenzio', announced a six foot six inch, eighteen-stone Italian floor manager. It seemed that the camera crew were placing their bets for the afternoon's racing.

We were each given earpieces which we were told would give us instantaneous trans- lation of anything that the Italian speakers

might interpose in the discussion. These were excellent for picking up radio taxi bookings but inadequate for anything else.

In any case, it became clear that the whole operation was rigged against what was con- stantly referred to as the Anglo-Saxon community, since we had not been given a microphone into which we could say any- thing at all. The 'Anglo-Saxon community' comprised three Celts, two Russian Jews, one Italian American and one German émigré and someone from Clacton. We

were each asked to say something to make sure we were working. An Italian colleague

wanted reassurance that his prepared mani- festo on behalf of the workers would not in any way be cut by the sneaky Italian TV people and I suggested that we be given microphones. `Si/enzid. I was told. 'You've got to remember you're in Italy,' said Montaldi. 'Italian television has prepared, a fiesta for you. Please come with me. Fiesta consisted of chopped potato sand- wiches and weak campari soda—if you were quick off the mark. The technicians, all six foot six inches of them, swept us poor contributors aside in the rush for fiesta.

'They told me I was going to see the Italian Riviera,' said Herb Cohen as he staggered out of the Tv studios. Day Two was the real thing. The record- jug started only three hours late, which was regarded as something of a record. Nobody understood a word anybody else said be- cause the instantaneous translation was either inaudible or non-existent. But Italian Tv had got itself a prizewinning pro- gramme, feted the following day by the press as a breakthrough. Montaloony's secretary refused to get us cars back to the 'mart (her father had died recently, Montaldi told me) and informed us that e party was over. Zappe had said a total 4 five words throughout the show, thus vurately representing the inscrutable na- ture of music itself. And, just in case you're .still wondering what the whole affair was all /bou t , you have that in common with each and every Contributor as ‘we bounced our different ways off Leonardo da Vinci's runway back to the Home Counties. Good old Auntie—they don't make programmes like that any more.