The Knotty Bride (22 page)

“No!” Rupa shakes her head and pours herself another martini.

“YES!” I shout back at her completely crazed. “YES!” I nod my head incredulously. “And I tell you, by the thirteenth time she thrust those fat fingers of hers right in front of my eyes AND SNAPPED THEM, I was positively homicidal! HOW MUCH EXTRA SPECIAL ATTENTION CAN I POSSIBLY GIVE TO CLEANING A TOILET BOWL! A TOILET BOWL FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!”

“Shhh,” Rupa snorts, laughing so hard that little tears are forming around the corner of her eyes. “Shh!” she grabs at her sides, “the neighbors will hear you.”

“The heck with the neighbors!” I cackle so hard I fall over and begin rolling back and forth on the floor in a fit of hysterics.

“So then what happened?” Rupa asks abruptly.

The question is so sobering that I sit up slowly and continue my story, “Well, like I was saying, there was this whole incident over the toilet bowl. And which way to swish the brush in the bowl and how to add rose petals whenever a guest is in residence. Which doesn’t appear to be very often, ‘cause I have only seen one so far, and he only stayed for one day. He drove a nice yellow Ferrari though. Anyway, I think I just snapped and started screaming bloody murder because Alice grabbed my hand and tried to show me how to use the toilet brush in the correct way. I kept screaming and screaming and then Alice abruptly let go. She told me the lessons were over for the day, and all I had to do was iron a few sheets and I could go home.”

At this point of my story, I put my hands on my hips and say in my most mocking voice, trying to mimic my Aunt Alice to a T, “Yes, well, maybe you have learned enough for one morning, Lee-lee Bee-Brrr-Eee. I tell you what, Lee-lee, why don’t you follow me back downstairs. I’ll show you the laundry and you can iron a few sheets before you take your lunch break. Va bene?”

“Oh brother.” Rupa grimaces.

“Yeah,” I say in my own voice, “so I am thinking to myself at this point, well, that’s more like it. So I follow Alice to the laundry. It’s a pretty room too, Ruup, my friend. It looks exactly like a slightly larger version of the cloakroom I told you about—the cloakroom with the staff entrance; remember, I did tell you about the fuss Alice made because I used the front door on my first day of work?”

I wait for Rupa to nod before I continue, “Anyway, this room too has high, deep set windows. And it smells so nice. Like linen water.” I stop and pretend to be sniffing the Villa Buschi laundry room.

“So here I am in the laundry room and I think to myself, ‘this isn’t going to be so bad.’ I grab the floral sheets fresh off the drying rack and I attempt to iron every living crease out of the sheet… EVERY LIVING CREASE. After all, this is my new fabulous job! My ticket to independence! Except Rupa, my dear, the creases didn’t want to come out. That is the way God made them. Who am I to try to change nature? But I tried. I made yet another pass with the iron, concentrating so hard my tongue was sticking out like this.” (I mime this part for her.) “Both Alice and the laundress, Carla, stood over me watching with quite serious looks on their faces. They offered encouragement and took turns showing me how to hold the iron ‘proper-like’.”

“Freaks.” Rupa takes a big sip and polishes off her third martini.

“Exactly, freaks. Cleaning freaks! I flashed them both a murderous look and Alice said, ‘Yes, well, how about some lunch, Carla? We’ll just leave her to it then,’ and they both shuffled out.”

“Thank heavens for small favors,” Rupa points out.

“Yes, but get this Ruup. No sooner did the door close behind them, than I wadded those nasty sheets up in a bunch and threw them on the floor. Then I sat down and leaned against the washing machine… I was faint with hunger. And I began to think that maybe my job is not going to be so fabulous after all. I mean, who am I kidding? I’m not going to meet anybody important and be instantly promoted to a more interesting position; I am just going to clean toilets and iron sheets and wither away an old… well, an old maid actually.” I let out a small sniffle. The tears begin to form, and I do my best to hold back the tide.

“Oh dear,” Rupa says. “That’s the martini talking. In fact all this is the martini talking. I know you, Lily Bilbury. You are a good mother, and you are the eternal optimist. Come on now, it will get better. You’ve only been there two weeks. And think, pretty soon you are going to meet Mr. Logan, how incredible will that be?”

I am not so sure it will be ‘incredible.’ Right now I can’t even begin to think about meeting a famous Hollywood star. In fact, I can’t even sit up any longer. I feel bone weary. I lie back down on the floor and curl up. “It’s still hideous, even now,” I snuffle. “Alice orders me around all day. You know?”

Being the wise person she is, Rupa says nothing. “And do you know what Rupa? The house is clean! So all we do is clean the clean. Oh… now… maybe it needs a little dusting every week or so, but otherwise there is nobody there to get it messy. I don’t know when Mr. Logan is going to be home, they say he is very busy on set.”

“Wow… just think, Brandon Logan. He is so handsome, isn’t he?” Rupa gasps, clearly trying to stir the conversation in the direction of the villa’s new owner. By the excited look on her face I realize she has been waiting to talk about him all night. “What a dream he is. How excited you must be to meet him.”

At these words, I don’t move. I lie completely still as I contemplate meeting Brandon Logan.

“Well, he’s really not all that, do you think?”

“Oh come on.” Rupa throws me a look.

“I dunno. He’s not really my type.”

“But he’s so debonair and good-natured at the same time. And he’s always off saving children in the Congo and stuff—pretty darn sexy.”

“Yeah, I guess. Not like Johnny Depp sexy. But I guess he’s like 75 percent hot,” I say snobbishly.

“Ah well, there is only one Johnny Depp.” Rupa glances off into space. For a moment she is far, far away. I should respect her silence, her reverie, her alone moment with Mr. Depp. But I don’t. Instead I use every ounce of my strength to pull myself into a seated position and start talking about the villa again. “And you know, Rupa, I still don’t get the gardens. I mean I must have asked Alice one hundred times why they are such a mess, but all she does is ignore me. And she says there is a gardener, but I have yet to see him. It’s all a bit creepy if you ask me.”

Rupa pours herself her fourth martini as she mulls everything through. (Her fourth! Goodness me, she better take it easy. I hope she doesn’t end up standing up and face-planting right into my coffee table.)

“Heaven knows, I do the best I can to drive around that mess of a garden,” I ramble on. “I’ve learned to drive that poor excuse of a driveway like it’s the autostrada. I swerve out of the way of everything.”

“Like that anaconda vine you told me about briefly on the phone?” Rupa teases.

“Yes! Yes, like the anaconda thing. My goodness, that’s right, I never got around to telling you what happened to it…”

“Something 
happened
 to it?” Rupa raises an eyebrow.

“Alice went out there in the rain and hacked it up.”

“What?”

“Yes, yes it’s true! I kept complaining, saying my Panda could barely make it over that vine and could she please call in the gardener to get rid of it. The fifth time I asked her she got this wild look in her eyes.”

“What?” Rupa’s voice gets higher and higher each time with each repetition of the word “what.”

“Yes, she got this wild look in her eyes, and then I watched her from the window. She went out to the converted stable, you know where Brandon Logan keeps all his expensive cars, and she came out with this huge axe, and she traipsed off towards the driveway. She came back about a half an hour later soaking wet, with that ugly plastic headscarf she always wears plastered to her head from all the rain.”

“That’s crazy. Why didn’t she ask the gardener to do it?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. That’s the same question I have asked myself.”

Rupa takes another sip of her martini. I think at this point she must be totally blotto.

Come to think of it, I think I may be totally blotto.

“Ruup?”

“Yes.” She glances over at me.

“I don’t think I can feel my legs.”

“Oh?”

“Or any of my body parts, really.”

“Want me to help you get to bed?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. In a jiffy she comes round—stretching out a hand and pulling me to my feet. Gently, she helps me locate first my bedroom and then my bed, upon which I throw myself face first.

“Ruup?” I murmur into the pillow. It comes out muffled sounding like “woop.”

“Yes, sweetie?” she says.

“You won’t drive, will you?”

“Of course not, I never do after a drink. I’ll call Dario to come and get me. I’ll wait in your living room till he gets here.”

“Suss a goo man…” I murmur into the pillow. “Home savin da animals…”

“Yes, well there is not a lot for him to do. I fed and watered all the dogs and cats before I came over, you know.”

“Such a good man, your Dario, to help you run your rescue.” I turn my face from the pillow and look at her. Rupa smiles and turns out my light.

“Not like my Enrico,” I say, flipping over onto my back.

Rupa hesitates in the doorway. “Try not to think about that tonight? Okay?”

“Okay, but Ruup, I’m so sorry about you losing your job and all.” I glance over at her. Silhouetted by the light from the single 60-watt bulb in the hallway, she looks like an angel.

“Sweetie, I’m going to close the door now, and I want you to go to sleep, but I want you to get something straight. I lost my job because of that inexcusable wreck of a man known as your ex, not because of you, okay?”

“Okay,” I murmur sleepily. “Okay, but Rupa, one last thing. I mean losing the job was bad. But, I’m so sorry about the restraining order they slapped on you. I still feel horrible about all of that.”

“Heh. Yeah. The restraining order…” Rupa chortles softly as if she is recalling a most fond memory. “Oh well, Lily, what are friends for?” And with that she shuts my bedroom door and pads off silently down the hall.

chapter 7

R
EGRETTABLY THE NEXT morning, I am really feeling the effect of our little get together. I get up, look around in a bit of a haze, realize it is another terribly drizzly day and note that I am still wearing Rupa’s sari. I shut my curtains, trade my sari in for a proper nightie and go back to bed. After all, why should I get out of bed today? I can count two good reasons not to. No, three. First of all, my head hurts from my hangover and second, it is raining. And third, I am alone.

Alone. Like every Sunday. The boys are off with their father and, of course, I have no date. But in order to get a date, I need to get a proper divorce. I’ve asked Enrico a million times for one, and the prospect of asking yet again is all so depressing that I simply lie still, snug under my comforter.

Mid-morning, however, I have an epiphany. I decide that lying around in bed all day would be giving up. What I should do is rouse myself, go to the kitchen, and microwave an entrée for one. It is a sign of changing times here in Italy, but they do have entrees for the single person in the frozen section at the supermarket. I have to admit some of them taste quite decent.

Despite my little pep talk, I don’t get up. I’m not ready to get out of bed or to eat anything. Instead, I yawn and stretch and contemplate the question –how did I get here, in northern Italy, alone with two boys? Well, I calculate miserably, it all happened because of Three Huge Life Mistakes. The first life mistake came about long ago, when I was in the full flush of youth. That sounds a bit dramatic, but it’s true. You see, long ago when I was fifteen, I went on a vacation with my father to Rome. He was a high school art teacher and we went to the Sistine Chapel where he gave me a fine lecture about the restoration of the ceiling. Looking at the before and after photos of Michelangelo’s masterpiece, I decided, on a lark, that I wanted to learn to restore art when I grew up.

That set me on a mission to attend the best art restoration school in the world which is obviously in Italy, and the language of instruction is, of course, Italian. So the very moment I returned from vacation, I decided to sign up for a high school exchange program and go abroad in my junior year so I could learn Italian. That year abroad was Huge Life Mistake Number One.

I am just going to gloss over what happened during my time as a high school student in Piacenza, Suffice it to say, it mostly involved spending every minute possible with a beautiful boy with hair the color of midnight. Like I said, Enrico was not my first choice in Italian men; there was once another. But that is a story for another time. Actually, no, that isn’t even a story for another time. I returned home and that was the end of my first love, he soon met another person and completely forgot me. But the reason I refer to this period as Huge Life Mistake Number One is not so much because of that boy but because it put me on an irreversible path.

Fast forward three years. After finishing up my senior year back and doing two prerequisite years of junior college concentrating in art and chemistry, I finally became eligible to transfer to an Italian university. With so much enthusiasm that my hands were trembling, I filled out the application for my student visa to study in Italy, this time to attend what I will simply call the World’s Most Fantastic Art Restoration School in Perugia (or WMFARS for short).

After some intense negotiations with an unmotivated employee at the Italian consulate in Denver, I finally got the “permesso di soggiorno,” and I showed up in Perugia on one very hot day in late September with my MWFARS acceptance letter in hand. I had learned Italian, I had taken the two years of prerequisite courses, I had navigated the unfriendly and confusing Italian bureaucracy and here I was in Perugia—ready to look at paintings through a microscope. And guess what happened? WMFARS was shut down, that’s what. In typical Italian bureaucratic style, they never bothered to inform the students until we showed up. And what did we, the students, see when we arrived? The entire WMFARS building was shuttered up, with a sign on it in violent pink, nailed to the front door. It said that the closure was only temporary. Inscriptions would be honored as soon as the school received more funds from the Italian government.

Wonderful, I thought. Marvelous. So I’ll hang out some five thousand miles from home and wait for my university to reopen. This event NEVER happened because the Italian government never forked over any money. That was Huge Life Mistake Number Two –the whole sequence of events: the moving to Italy and waiting for a school to reopen.

The rest is cliché really. You can probably guess. I met a man. I married a man. The man cheated on me. And now I am stuck, which makes huge life mistake number three.

There it is. One long string of mistakes. I seem to be a master at them. I actually got chewed out by a woman at a shop the other day who told me that as mother I should make things work out with my ex no matter what the cost. I should be, as she put it, more grown up. I suppose she is right, to a certain extent. Suddenly, I feel a lump in my throat. I am miserable. I roll over and pull the sheet back over my head, vowing to stay in bed for the rest of the day. I lie there for exactly one minute before I throw off my covers and leap out of bed as if bitten by a snake. To hell with the microwaveable entrée for one, I am getting DRESSED UP. Then I am going to downtown Arona to eat lunch at the best restaurant in town.