When in Rome (12 page)

“Hey, I didn’t say I’m in love. There’s something unusual and strong between us, but I don’t know if I can go that far. I just feel weird, like there’s a hole in my stomach. It could just be indigestion, or maybe an allergy. Let’s not get too carried away here.”

Her expression turns sulky. If I were her, I’d kick him. A young, unhappy billionaire trying to get her tyrannical father to accept Luca as a son, when he’s not even sure he really loves her? It makes me feel terribly cynical.

They’re still talking, but I hear someone coming. I don’t want to be seen lurking around like a creep so I get down and try to blend in with the bush like a chameleon for what seems like a century. Meanwhile, Luca and the woman leave. I’m just about to get up and leave myself when I hear a voice from above. It’s not God admonishing me for my sin of curiosity, but the telephone-pole waiter staring at me as if I were insane.

“I knew you were crazy!” he says. “What a freak!”

I grab Bear’s leash; he gets up feebly, and we race off along the path that leads out of the park. Once we hit the street, I finally let myself relax and burst out laughing.

“We’re quite a sight, aren’t we, Bear?”

He demonstrates his agreement by peeing on a tree trunk and then licking it.

It all comes rushing back to me soon after. Luca’s face. His voice, troubled from feelings he can’t understand. Paola. I can’t compete with a woman like her. She didn’t seem like another one of his conquests. She seems like someone nice, someone who picks daisies (probably gold-plated ones) in her spare time.

She seems like someone who’s bound to win.

TEN

Should I talk to him or keep ignoring him?

Through his bedroom door, I hear Luca typing on his laptop. Keeping up the silent treatment would probably be best. He doesn’t deserve my trust or even a shadow of forgiveness.

Yet here I am. I reach out to touch the door handle, then pull my hand back. I do the same thing several times. I’m just about to retreat when the door suddenly opens. Luca winces and frowns when he sees me. Damn it. It would be so much easier if he could just look gross once in a while. But he never does. He’s wearing the same ripped jeans he wore when we first met, a cotton V-neck sweater, and no shoes or socks. He runs one hand through his hair, holding a cigar stub in the other. After a moment of surprise, he steps back into his room.

“I thought you were out,” he murmurs. Everything and anything could be written in those eyes, but I can’t decipher a single word.

“Can I use your computer for a second?” I say bluntly. “My laptop’s been dead for a while, as you know . . . I was going to go to an Internet cafe, but it’s raining.”

He nods and invites me to come in. Our bodies brush momentarily as I pass by, and for a split second I feel like he touched me with his shoulder on purpose. Obviously I’m imagining things.

Luca’s room smells like cigars and grapefruit-scented aftershave and looks like a typical guy’s room. There are no added frills, just a bed, a dresser, and a desk. Nothing is on the floor except a stack of papers, an empty beer bottle, and a dune of cigar ashes in a glass. Now that I think about it, there haven’t even been any women in here the past few days. After his erotic encounter with Erika, he stopped having houseguests. He comes home late every night like always, but he’s alone. Once upon a time, I would have been thrilled. But now, with what I know about Paola and the conversation I overheard in the park, his metamorphosis isn’t comforting. He isn’t bringing home girls anymore because he’s falling in love with her. Other girls have become invisible.

I swallow a spasm of pain as I approach the computer. Just then, Luca squawks and rushes over to close an open file that he obviously does not want me to read.

“Don’t worry. I won’t look at your masterpiece,” I say curtly. But I did see that it was a letter. Perhaps to Paola. I hope it wasn’t to Erika. I clench my fists. Luca’s still hovering. Does he not trust me? I’m the one who doesn’t trust
him
, until he’s proven me wrong!

“You can relax,” I say. “I’m not going to go through your stuff.”

“I know that,” he says, but less rudely than before. He puts out the cigar in the glass of ashes and waves away the smoke as if to keep it away from me. I try to ignore his kind gesture and pull up Google Maps. I have to figure out how to get to the collectors that the toy store owner gave me. It’s not easy to do with Luca hovering over me like an angel. Or like a devil.

Silence reigns for several minutes. I write down the collectors’ phone numbers, copy and paste some images, and pretend to surf the Web a little longer even though I’m very much done. Then Luca’s voice rings out. It’s so unexpected that his voice is momentarily unrecognizable.

“I shouldn’t have done it.”

I gasp, my mouth falling open as the computer screen blurs before me. I don’t say anything. I don’t turn around. I don’t ask him to explain. I know exactly what he’s talking about.

“With your sister. I shouldn’t have done it,” he continues softly, as if he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. Sighing deeply, I get up. I’m grateful for this admission—knowing him, it’s equivalent to kneeling on a carpet of broken glass. But it’s not enough of an antidote to eradicate the poison. It doesn’t erase the memory of their two bodies intertwined, his cruel eyes when he saw me in the doorway, or the words he said afterward. I head for the door, still silent. I can feel his eyes following me, step by step. Just before I leave, he comes out with it.

“Have you been sleeping with Tony?”

I stifle a wince. “That is still none of your business,” I say coldly.

As I expected, taking the Metro would have required about a million changes, so I take a taxi. I’m very nervous by the time I arrive at my destination. I blame Rocky and his damn adaptation. I blame Luca and his chutzpah. Did he really think it would be enough to just admit he made a mistake and that everything would go back to the way it was before? The former didn’t work, and the latter remains to be seen, but the outcome does not look good.

Damn it, I have to focus on my job today. I can’t afford to be distracted. As the taxi drives away, I feel a chill. The collector’s cottage is cute and sweet—almost too sweet, just like all the houses in this neighborhood. Judging by the immaculate streets and the homes’ pastel facades, you’d think Disney princesses lived here. The cottage is pink, with lace curtains in the windows and a disturbing number of gnomes in the garden. Some are hanging from tree branches, some are attached to tree trunks, and several seem to be emerging from the ground through fake manholes. While they’re supposed to cheer the place up, to me they just look scary, like they’ll turn nasty once the clock strikes midnight or the sprinklers come on.

For a moment, I’m transported back to a childhood memory. It was the morning of my sixth birthday. My mother thought it would be a good idea to put Chucky’s twin sister on the pillow next to me before I woke up. I opened my eyes and there she was, staring at me with turquoise glass eyes and an evil grin. I screamed and threw her into my closet—a throw deserving of an Olympic bronze in shot put at the very least. I distinctly remember the thud she made as she fell to the floor. I swear that as she landed, her hair momentarily transformed into a tangle of snakes.

As I walk up to the house, I stifle a scream just like that one. I’m almost tempted to leave. After all, my phone call yesterday with the collector was not reassuring at all. A shrill, yet seemingly friendly woman picked up the phone. As soon as I explained who I was and who had given me her name, she fell silent. I thought the line had gone dead. Then I heard a string of quiet mutterings, of which I only caught the phrases
find a girlfriend
and
get your ass out of the chair
. She started to yell. “It’s just the census lady! She might drop by tomorrow! I’ll be home!” So the owner of the props I need might be a dangerous schizophrenic, but I can’t run away or Rocky will fire me for sure.

I ring the bell and a bird chirps for about thirty seconds. I plug my ears and grit my teeth. The door, which has a terrifying knocker in the shape of a child, opens to reveal a woman who fits right in with the house and the gnomes. She’s tiny, dark, and dressed in cream and fuchsia. She flashes me a smile out of a ’60s ad.

“Please, please, come in! You’re here for those dolls, right?”

I nod and follow her inside. She makes me sit in a living room overflowing with crocheted doilies and antique porcelain. She insists on serving me a cup of tea that looks like sewer water. Then she starts to talk about censuses—very loudly—and doesn’t let me get a word in edgewise. Occasionally she leaves the room to peer warily up a staircase with a railing that’s bedecked in fringed trimmings. A glimmer of uneasiness starts to bother me. Maybe I should slip out. I don’t want her to suddenly turn into Norman Bates. I glance at the door, contemplating my escape. This woman clearly does not collect Barbie dolls: just gnomes, porcelain plates, and lace doilies. And probably also human heads, which she must keep in the freezer. Suddenly, she comes back over to me and lowers her voice.

“It’s so Massimo doesn’t find out, you know?”

“No, I don’t know. Who is Massimo?”

“My son. If he knew that I was attempting to give away his little women, he would make quite a fuss.”

Finally, a light of understanding pierces the darkness. This woman isn’t crazy, at least not clinically. She’s just a busybody mother. A slightly nuts busybody mother, I must admit.

“When he started the collection, I didn’t see anything wrong with it,” she continues. “I love collections, too.”

“I noticed.”

“But then it got out of hand. It’s one thing to collect teacups, stamps, coins, garden gnomes . . . Did you see them outside?”

“Yes. They’re lovely.”

“Aren’t they? Anyway, it’s quite another thing to keep buying these half-naked dolls. So I decided to get rid of them.”

“And your son’s okay with that?”

“He doesn’t know. He must not suspect anything because, like I said, he’d never agree to it! He’s always in his room on the computer or sleeping or reading magazines with naked ladies in them,” she confesses, looking shocked. “He’s seventeen. He’s a real sweetheart. I’d love for him to start dating. I’ve even got someone lined up for him. She’s a good girl. Her name’s Rossana. She’s my cousin’s daughter. But Massimo doesn’t even want to meet her.”

I’d like to remind her that relations between relatives usually result in children with seven fingers on each hand, but I’m here on a mission. I show her the pictures I printed out.

“Yes, I think we have three or four of these. Just look at their short skirts! Why do you want these dolls, by the way?” she asks, suddenly attentive.

“I need them for an exhibit that will showcase the failures of contemporary society.”

“Ah, well, if that’s the case, then you might as well take them. I was worried you were a collector, too. Come with me.”

“Can you first tell me how much they cost?”

“Cost? Oh, I’m not looking to sell them to you! I’ll give them to you for free.”

“You’ll give them to me?” But my happiness is short-lived. I can’t take any of these dolls without her knowing how expensive they are. I’d feel like a thief, or at least like I was preying on elderly, anxious mothers. And if she sold them, she could buy tons of crocheted doilies. But I underestimated her.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “Who do you think paid for the dolls? After his father’s death, I tried to do everything I could to make Massimo happy. But I never thought it would come to this. It’s just not normal for a young man to collect Barbie dolls! At first, I wanted to sell them, but I’ve since made a vow. If I give them away and receive nothing in return, then perhaps Massimo will end up engaged to Rossana, and in a few years I’ll have a beautiful grandson with golden curls.”

What can I say? It’s a flawless plan.

The woman rises and invites me to follow her into another room. As soon as I enter, I feel like I’ve contracted claustrophobia and gotten trapped in an elevator. This room is the apotheosis of pathological collecting. There are flamingos everywhere—flamingo porcelain dishes, flamingo paintings, flamingo pillows, and flamingo-patterned curtains. Some gnomes have infiltrated from outside.

Massimo’s collection stands out from all of this. I spot Malibu Barbie among the clutter, as well as Playboy Bunny Barbie with rabbit ears and Drag Queen Barbie with a glittery, sparkling miniskirt. I’m ready to thank this woman and get out of this little shop of horrors—resisting the temptation to suggest that she sign up to be on the TV show
Hoarders
. Suddenly, a male voice makes me tremble.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

Massimo appears in the doorway. He’s a disheveled, pimply boy, and he looks like he spends an awful lot of time alone. He does not seem at all pleased to see us here.

“Those are mine!” he says, practically growling.

His mother stands her ground like a saint preparing for martyrdom. “You’re wrong. They’re actually mine, seeing as I paid for them.” She turns to me. “Get out of here. I’ll handle him.”

The next few moments pass in a blur. I dash off in my heels. Massimo chases after me, yelling out words that must be insults in some alien language, and his mother attempts to stop him. With the dolls in a bag and my heart in my throat, I stride down the street with Massimo after me and the mother after him. I keep running even when the chase ends, thanks to the mother’s ankle grab that fells Massimo. Completely out of breath and drenched in sweat, I can’t help but laugh. I laugh myself silly all the way to the taxi stand. I keep laughing even once I’m in the taxi, gasping for air as something stabs near my spleen.

What a strange feeling. I feel alive. It’s as if the escape, the race, and the convulsions of laughter have washed everything else away. All the pain from the last few weeks transforms into a pink flamingo and flies away, light and lithe, over the taxi and into the sky.

ELEVEN

My mother has started to torment me with phone calls asking me what I want for my birthday. On June first, I’ll be thirty years old. The more I try to forget about it, the harder she works to remind me.

“I know it’s still far off, but organizing a good party takes time. Tell me what you want! Jewelry? Shoes? Face creams? Maybe a spa gift certificate?”

“Please don’t try to fool me into thinking you’re going to buy me a Tiffany necklace, and then surprise me with a loofah. And no parties, I beg you. I’m sick of pretending to be surprised every time.”

“I’ll make the coconut cake, okay?”

“No, please don’t. Coconut is gross.”

“Since when?”

“Since I was born. Erika’s the one who loves coconut cake.”

“That’s so weird. I’m sure you’re wrong.”

“I think I know what I like,” I say. “Anyway, I don’t want a cake.”

“Would you rather have cupcakes?”

“I don’t want any damn sweets!”

“Try to be more refined, dear.”

“Refined? Aren’t you the one who wants me to sleep around more because sex helps keep the neck wrinkle-free?”

As always, when I say something she doesn’t understand, she pretends like she doesn’t hear it. “Wait until you see the treat that Oreste got you.”

“Oreste? Who’s that? Don’t tell me it’s another Catello!”

“Oreste is my new friend.” She says the word
friend
with clear satisfaction, as if she means something else entirely. I’m appalled. Does my mom have a new boyfriend? “He’s such a sweet boy,” she continues, cackling like a hen.

“Boy?”

“He’s twenty years younger than I am,” she says, sounding victorious. “He sells women’s lingerie.”

“He sells underwear?”

“He sells intimates. He has a chain of stores. He gave me some lace corsets that—”

“I don’t want to know!” I shout, instinctively moving the phone away from my ear. “And I don’t want any gifts from Oreste! I don’t want any gifts at all. I don’t want a party, and I don’t want any relatives giving me the third degree about how much money I make or what I’m doing with my life. Please just forget that I was ever born.”

“How could I, darling? I have stretch marks on my stomach because of you. Every time I look at them, I think of you.”

I hang up. What wonderful news. My mother has a new boyfriend who is young enough to be her son. She only remembers me because I marred her skin. And I’ll have to deal with a damn coconut cake on my birthday.

When I accepted Tony’s invitation to come to his art show, I had no intention of taking our relationship any further. I actually declined his invitation three separate times, accompanied by imaginative excuses, before I accepted, in case he expected sentimental developments. Then I took advantage of his good mood to unequivocally inform him that he mustn’t break my heart. But I’m not planning on giving it to him in this life. Or the next.

The invitation-only gallery event is full. Everyone seems very snooty, as is customary at these kinds of events. Spotlights cleverly focused on the large canvases illuminate the gallery. Waitresses mill about carrying trays overflowing with flutes of champagne and tiny canapés.

Giovanna and her new beau come over to greet me. His name is Tommaso. He’s not the jealous type at all. In fact, he encourages her to sleep around. I don’t know how Giovanna feels about this. She may find it exciting now, but that can’t last long.

As I’m about to move on, Luca greets me vaguely and gives me another one of those looks that I don’t understand. Since the day of his confession, things between us have improved. We can talk without forcing it or sounding hateful. My anger has subdued. But things still aren’t perfect, even on his end. He doesn’t ask me for advice on his female characters anymore. He’s still seeing Paola. They must meet at her place, because he doesn’t bring any women over to our place. Not a single one—neither naked nor clothed, dyed nor natural, hairy nor bald. I doubt that Luca has taken a vow of chastity, so he must be getting busy elsewhere. Sometimes, I get the feeling he’s just about to tell me that he’s fallen for someone. He’ll stare at me, then close his open mouth as if one syllable away from divulging a deep secret. I certainly don’t help him along, because I don’t want to know anything yet. He can tell me later, when I’m stronger.

However, tonight, I’m out with Tony. I’m pretending to enjoy myself. I think I look nice enough. I’m wearing a new blue silk dress, an old pink cardigan knotted at my waist, and caramel-colored heels. I tried to tame my hair with a bevy of glittery bobby pins, but it just made me look even more ridiculous than usual.

I stand in front of Tony’s portrait of me, completely puzzled. I’ve never liked abstract art—maybe it’s just beyond me. I don’t get the portrait, with its neurotic, sparse brushstrokes in four intersecting rows flanked by a cut in the canvas. When I think of how many hours I was forced to stand still and listen to him blather! He might as well have painted a Barbie doll instead. But here I am, a confused lump of colors, with a circular gash where my mouth should be. I don’t see anything that resembles me in this painting, assuming that really is supposed to be me. It’s called
Carlotta on the Bed
. Well, now everyone will think we slept together. Although, to be honest, everyone who knows me already thinks we did. Luca thinks so, Giovanna thinks so, Tommaso probably even thinks so. While I’m admiring the piece, Tony comes up to me and hugs me from behind.

“You wonderful woman!” he whispers. “You are magnificent. I’m glad you came. So, what do you think?” I string together a few words about the brushstrokes and the deeply tormented emotions reflected in the piece. He’s pleased that I’ve captured the essence of his creation. He looks elegant. I think he’s even dyed his hair, as it reflects shades of plum that I’ve never noticed. He kisses me on the cheek and goes off to cajole his guests into buying his strange paintings. I walk the halls with a glass of champagne, then stop at a huge canvas. It boasts a set of sketches that, with a little imagination, form an erect male organ. The work’s enigmatic title is
Anchored Fisherman
. And then I run into Erika.

She looks perfect, smooth, and insolent as usual, but strangely, she’s alone. Erika? Alone at a social event? This is not only strange; it’s downright catastrophic. She looks down at me from atop her six-inch heels.

“Carlotta, you’re here, too,” she murmurs. “I’ve been running into you so much lately. What a pleasure.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” I say. “Did you buy this piece? It’s right up your alley.”

“You’re funny,” she says dryly. “I heard that you’re a friend of the painter. His painting of you looks just like you. Of course, I’m sure the allusion to the bed is only allegorical.”

“You’re wrong,” I say in a high-pitched voice. “There’s nothing allegorical about it.”

“Okay, don’t get mad. I’m glad you’re having fun. There’s actually something I need to talk to you about. It’s been bothering me for weeks.”

“It must really be haunting you,” I say. “If we hadn’t run into each other, you’d never have thought to tell me . . .”

“No, I wanted to call you. I just . . . I was really busy. But I’m hoping with all my heart that you and Luca aren’t together anymore.”

“And why are you hoping that?” I ask, trying not to boil over at the thought of her buttocks on Luca’s hips.

“He made a pass at me. One night, I came to see you. And he . . . he sat me down and almost pounced on me. Believe me, it was atrocious.”

“How awful! You must have slapped him.”

“What do you want from me?” Erika says. “I’m no saint. I tried to resist, but Luca knows just what to do, you know. And ever since we met, he’d been badgering me wherever I went! Of course I turned him down. How could I do that to you? I thought that confessing was the right thing to do, so that you know you can’t trust him.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I whisper with a gentleness that throws her off a little. “Thank you for the nice words, but you don’t need to worry. Luca is not the one for me. I never really cared about him. As you said yourself, he knows just what to do, but . . . he’s not my type.”

“Ah, well . . .” She has nothing else to say.

I walk away with a smile. She must be disappointed. I don’t know what sisters are supposed to be like, but mine’s a real piece of work.

I feel her eyes following me as I take Tony’s arm, flaunting him about as if to show that he’s only for my use and consumption. One thing is certain: Erika came on to Luca. The fact that it would upset me was just the cherry on top. As I come to this conclusion, Giovanna approaches me, and Tony wanders away. It seems that Tommaso has taken a liking to a painting entitled
Orgy in the Parlor
. It’s a canvas covered in yellow brushstrokes, all converging on a central hole that represents many possible symbolic meanings. He’ll probably buy it. It would make a nice addition to his bedroom.

“Is that your sister?” she suddenly exclaims.

“Yeah,” I say wearily, without following Giovanna’s stare. “We’ve talked.”

“I’d be careful if I were you. I know you keep telling me that there’s nothing going on between you and Tony, but I still think you should know that she’s all over him right now.”

I spin around, and she’s right. Erika is rubbing herself all over him. She needs to win again. She thinks that there’s something between us, she’s irritated that a painting with my name on it is featured in an exhibition, and she’s pissed that I reacted calmly to her hypocritical admission of guilt. I don’t give a shit about Tony. He could do the entire national women’s soccer team and it wouldn’t bother me. But seeing Erika trying to deliver yet another low blow infuriates me. If she knew how I felt about Franz, she’d march right over to the theater and offer herself to him wrapped up naked in the stage curtain. She’d probably even try to nail my postman if she thought I had a crush on him. I quiver with anger at this person who somehow shares my genes.

I head over toward them, and soon Erika and I find ourselves battling for a guy we don’t even like, just to spite each other. We shower him with compliments and touch his hands and arms and back, like two hungry animals. This isn’t me; this is me pretending to be my sister. I hate her. I shouldn’t say it, but it’s true.

As the evening progresses, Tony is very intrigued by what’s happening. He doesn’t understand it, but I’m sure it excites him. And I know that Erika will eventually win because she’s willing to play dirty. The humiliation stings, and I’m sure the anger she sees in me makes all her efforts worth it.

Toward the end of the night, after Giovanna and Tommaso have left, I get ready to leave—Tony has offered to give me a ride. But Erika has secured a spot in Tony’s car, as well. That’s it; she’s won. He’s moved on to her.

Erika pretends to greet me warmly when I get in. I’ll go home alone, and she will add Tony to her list of late-night snacks. As we drive through the city, Tony and the fourth passenger, his agent, talk about how successful the evening was, completely unaware of the warlike atmosphere in the car. Something dangerous worms its way into my mind. All the hatred that I’ve managed to suppress in the past few weeks since I saw Luca and Erika together takes possession of my soul. If I were stronger, I wouldn’t do this. But I’m weak. My heart is broken. I want a man who I will never have. When Tony gets out at my place to say good night to me, I allow my suffering to speak in my place. It’s not my voice, but the voice of a secret pain hidden in the depths of my soul: I ask him to come upstairs. Tony grins and accepts my offer. Looking like he’s preparing to devour me, he tells his agent to take Erika home.

This is the only enjoyable moment of the whole evening. Erika looks stunned, ready to burst into flame. Her eyes shoot sparks. But we head upstairs, and Tony, with great distinction, firmly grasps my butt, whispering about what awaits. We go inside, and I hope Luca is home so that he’ll finally have to hear me have sex. Or rescue me. But he’s not here.

Tony starts to kiss me. I can’t afford to be squeamish, so I let it happen. As I fiddle with the buttons on my cardigan, I think to myself how shitty my life is. I’m almost thirty years old. I should have realized before now that romance is just a fantasy. Isn’t that what Luca says? He sleeps with women for exercise, for the thrill of pleasure, and that’s it. Tony asks me where my room is, and I point to it with my eyes. As we move, Tony slowly drops his jacket, his shirt, and his shoes, like a toy falling to pieces, as his tongue swirls in my mouth.

We enter my room, and he climbs on the bed. In spite of myself, I close the door. I stand motionless at the threshold. My dress is slightly crumpled, and I’m only wearing one shoe, so I’m tilted to one side like a leaning tower. He snaps his fingers and jerks his neck, a signal to approach that should appear erotic to me . . . but he really just looks like an old sea turtle. Nevertheless, I sit down on the edge of the bed. He gets naked in three seconds. Seriously, there must be some kind of automated mechanism in his pants. Or perhaps they’re Velcro, like the kind that strippers use.
Voilà, madames et messieurs
, here are my crown jewels, ready for use!

He tries to tear my clothes off, but I don’t want to ruin my new dress, so I do it myself. I let him fight with the hooks of my bra and tear my silk panties to the ground. Now his soldier is staring at me with one attentive eye. He fiddles with the condom, which I’m glad for—I would not have had the courage to try my hand at that. He says something I can’t hear as I fight back tears.

Suddenly, Tony begins to chant. It sounds like he’s praying in Turkish. He prepares himself in record time, continuing to make this repetitive whining noise. Then, with the delicacy of a crowbar, he opens my legs with his knee. Sleeping with a guy who doesn’t love you is awful. It is painful. I feel like a whore, worse than Erika, because this gives me no pleasure. The whine drones in my ears, the bed creaks, Tony makes orgasmic faces, and I just want to get it over with. I stay still, occasionally crying out in the spirit of hospitality. In between noises, he announces that he’s about to finish. As he explodes, I hear a noise outside my room. Luca must have just gotten home. What a welcome. He slams the door and traipses through the apartment as if his shoes were made of stone. Tony collapses into the mattress. The sheets swallow me up. He smiles and asks me how I’m feeling.