When in Rome (14 page)

“Okay, well, I’m off then. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

I feel broken, already lonely. He hasn’t even moved a foot and the apartment feels like a tomb. I’m worried about him.

“Luca!” I say, just as he’s closing the door. I yank it open. “Can I come with you?”

What a stupid question! Where did I come up with that? Did the marijuana fumes in the garage turn my neurons to mush? I want to take it all back when I see the stunned look on Luca’s face.

“Okay.”

“What? Did you just say okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” he repeats. “But hurry up and grab your things. I want to get going.”

I quickly gather some clean underwear, a toothbrush, and a pair of jeans and shove them all into a plastic bag. We head downstairs. It takes three tries to start Luca’s old car.

I realize that I don’t know where we’re going or anything about his family. He answers my questions reluctantly; he’s from Forte dei Marmi. It’s a bit of a trek, a couple hours away, but it doesn’t matter. I’d trek barefoot all the way to Peru just to be with him.

As we get closer to Forte dei Marmi, Luca grows increasingly nervous. The sun starts to set, and we can hear the crashing of the waves. I try to lighten the mood by telling him the story of Fuck & Fuck, and I’m thrilled when he bursts out laughing. We stop for gas, and after grabbing some sandwiches, we’re back on our way. He laughs again when I turn around to find something in the backseat and his arm accidentally brushes against my ass. I’m feeling happy. After weeks of awkwardness, we are finally relaxed around each other. Everything is perfect inside this ancient, uncomfortable car.

It’s nighttime when we arrive in Forte dei Marmi. During the last stretch, the car sputters and coughs like an asthmatic grandmother, and the radiator light comes on. There’s a salty smell in the air here, and the temperature is mild. Country manors, hotels, and villas line the beach. A long jetty extends out into the sea. The moon is a wafer in the sky. Suddenly, I see a gate, and a man peers inside our car. He’s in uniform—a cop? After checking us out for a second, he apologizes and lets us go. We drive along a boulevard. Luca nervously drums the wheel. Finally, we pull up in front of a castle. Well, it’s not really a castle, as there are no turrets and no moat full of crocodiles. But it’s a giant stone villa with dozens of windows, endless foliage, and a fountain (that features neither Aphrodite nor a naked cherub).

“You . . . live . . . here?” I ask, very slowly.

“Not really. Last time I checked, I live with you in Rome.”

“Yeah, I know, but I mean . . . This is your home?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he replies mysteriously.

We get out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath our feet. A street lamp, topiaries, and the house that seems to never end greet us. Luca grabs his bag; now I’m mortified that my things are in a plastic grocery bag.

A figure appears on the doorstep. It’s a woman, but I don’t think it’s his mother. I need to calm down. It’s not like I’m his girlfriend here to meet the family. I need to stop feeling so uncomfortable. After all, what can happen? They’re not going to ask me to recite multiplication tables or to name all the kings of Rome or to calculate the area of a triangle! But I can sense that something is going to happen. For example, the woman on the doorstep could end up being Paola.

It’s Paola.

I recognize her delicate attractiveness, her short hair, and her graceful manners. I shiver, about to fall over. Luca stops, kisses her on the cheek, and turns to me.

“Paola, this is Carlotta.”

Paola stares at me. She has dark eyes. Her lips stretch into a smile.

“Carlotta, this is my sister, Paola.”

What?

Sister?

Sister?

I repeat the same word in my head a dozen times. How is that possible? I’ve been tormented day and night over his . . . sister? I don’t even understand. With a blank expression I extend my hand. Luca starts asking her about their mother. She’s still in the hospital, but she’s recovering. He asks about their father, but strangely, he calls him “your father.” Paola tells him he’s out of the country on business, but he’ll be back tomorrow. Paola asks me if I’m tired and if I’d like to freshen up before dinner. Then she leads me to the top floor and tells the stern-looking housekeeper to make sure I have everything I need. Giving my plastic bag a disgusted look, the housekeeper escorts me to a huge room. It’s so grand that even the toilet paper in the adjacent bathroom is luxurious. In my work suit I don’t fit in. But I wash up and fix up my pale face in a mirror rimmed with crystal roses. Maybe this is why Luca never really talks about himself. I always thought he was a penniless writer-bartender in search of fortune and a place to live. Now I discover that he’s heir to a throne he doesn’t seem to want!

It’s just the three of us for dinner. We eat right in the kitchen, around a marble island that’s as big as my apartment. I don’t know why, but I feel embarrassed. Despite my usual tendency to say stupid things, I am silent. I listen to them talk and absorb the affection between them, the kind that binds two people who grew up together. It’s what’s missing between me and Erika. But I’m not jealous. Instead I feel a combination of joy and nostalgia. Suddenly, Paola leaves the room and returns with a photo album. An inscription on the blue silk cover reads
My brother
.

“Put those horrors away! I command you!” Luca exclaims as he slices some bread. But he’s smiling.

“No, Carlotta has to see how hideous you were as a child.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “If it’s too shocking, I can reciprocate with photos of my Aunt Ermellina after a perm.”

I’m actually not shocked at all. Luca was beautiful even as a child. I flip through the album as though it were a treasure chest. It shows his entire history: Luca as a child in his mother’s arms, Luca at age six or so on a piebald pony, his arms around the pony’s neck. He looks innocent and ecstatic; even the pony seems to be smiling. Luca as a teenager, already so tall that he towers over all his classmates in the class picture. He must have attended a private school, as they’re all wearing uniforms and posed on a grand staircase. He’s not laughing in this picture. His eyes betray some deep disappointment. Then I find pictures that seem to be from a photo shoot. He must be about twenty. Wearing designer jeans and an open shirt, he’s striking a classic model pose with one hand in his pocket and the other in his hair. No smile, but a pout that conjures suggestive thoughts.

“You were a model?” I ask, surprised and kind of irritated because it’s something he has in common with Erika. Luca rolls his eyes.

“I just did the one job, I swear. I tried it when I was nineteen. I was about to sign a contract with Elite. But after three months in that environment, I decided to go to Abruzzo to detox.”

I want to hug him, but I refrain since Paola is staring at us. Actually, she’s staring at me. I’ve caught her watching me with a smile on her face from time to time. Perhaps she finds me funny? That’s my cross to bear. I’m the funny one. No one ever takes me seriously. But finding out about Luca’s past makes my heart melt. I’ve discovered for sure that there’s so much more to him than I already knew. I just don’t know how I’m going to get over him. We spend the rest of the evening sharing stories and memories.

When we say good night in the doorway of my room, however, Luca brushes his lips against my forehead. He hugs me for a moment. I feel a minefield where my heart should be. He quickly steps back and looks at me with the eyes from his school picture, that same hard expression.

“Get some rest,” he urges, and disappears along with his shadow.

THIRTEEN

Luca and Paola stay at the hospital until late afternoon. I eat lunch by myself while the housekeeper judges my table manners. Afterward, I take a walk through the garden. I can hear the sound of the ocean, but all I see is perfectly trimmed lawns, endless roses, and stone benches.

I hope Luca’s mom is okay. I’m feeling protective of him, and it surprises me. I don’t know what it means, but it adds another dimension to my feelings for him. I don’t feel just passion for him. There’s tenderness, something I wasn’t prepared for. Love is such a mess! You think you’re over it, but it’s just a bottomless pit. I head back inside as the sun starts to set.

Paola tells me that their mother is back from the hospital. “Would you like to meet her before dinner? She can’t come downstairs because she’s still weak, but we talked about you, and she wants to meet you.”

For some reason I feel embarrassed. I’m just a friend. And meeting Luca’s mom shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s not like I’m meeting my future mother-in-law, right?

“Of course. I’d love to.”

“My father will be at dinner,” she adds, her voice turning shrill. “He and Luca don’t exactly have the best relationship. So if it feels like an atomic bomb is about to explode, just pretend not to notice.”

I think of my mother and Erika and their innate ability to make me feel like shit. “Don’t worry, I know what that’s like.”

“Some of our family friends will be here, too,” she goes on. “They don’t see Luca very much, so when they found out he was here, they insisted on coming over.”

“Oh . . .” I whisper. “I hope I’m not putting you out. You know, this was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I was still wearing my work clothes when I left! Back home, inviting family friends over means that sixty people will show up, half dressed in feathers and sequins, and when they get drunk, they try to involve the sober half in some absurd contest, like who can gargle longer.”

I wonder what’s wrong with me as all of that comes out. It’s true, but did I really need to tell her?

“It’s not a problem. But if it would make you feel better, I’d be happy to let you borrow one of my dresses.”

“That’d be great, but your housekeeper will have to shorten it a bit.”

Paola smiles and I feel foolish. We choose a simple turquoise sheath dress, and she helps me turn the empress’s gown into a Smurf’s frock by taking it in and shortening it. The fact that she indulges my nonsense is a sign of her kindness.

I don’t see Luca until evening, and I can’t deny that I’m nervous. I have a nagging feeling that his father won’t like me. His mother, however, loves me. My heart pounds as I enter her room like a child who has been called to the principal’s office. It’s just the two of us. Her room is upholstered in delicate lilac silk. There is no evidence that a man sleeps here; she and her husband must occupy separate bedrooms. She is lying on a bench at the foot of the bed, wrapped in a green kimono that perfectly complements her pale complexion and long, graying hair. As soon as she sees me, she stands up and comes over.

“Oh, no, sit down. I’ll come over there,” I say gently. She looks like a classical dancer. Her steps are soft, her wrists are thin, and she’s wearing no makeup. I ask her how she’s feeling.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing serious. I am often subject to these kinds of ailments, but my children are both so apprehensive . . .”

“Luca loves you very much, Mrs.—”

“Oh, call me Lorenza, dear.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“You must love Luca very much, too.”

“Well, sure—”

“This is the first time he’s brought a girl home.”

“But we . . . I mean . . . We’re just friends.”

She ignores my explanation as if it doesn’t matter, and I’m starting to think that she’s right—it doesn’t. Friendship is even more rare than true romantic love, and it makes my presence in this house special. Lorenza gives me an exhausted smile before continuing.

“No, come to think of it, he did bring a rather odd young woman home once, but it was just to spite his father. He was eighteen. He couldn’t even remember her name when she was here. He’ll never forget your name, though, that’s for sure. He couldn’t stop talking about you at the hospital.”

“Really?” I ask, turning red in spite of myself. Damn it.

“Yes, my dear. You just need to be patient and understanding with him. He has the potential to turn into Prince Charming, but he needs to see for himself that love exists. He didn’t have a good example of that growing up, so that’s why he might seem unfeeling.”

I consider telling her again that we’re just friends, that her speculations are all a misunderstanding, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “I will be. I’ll be patient and understanding. I’ll love him forever.”

Lorenza grasps my hand and gives me a look that’s maternal and affectionate. Just then, Luca enters the room. I hope with all my heart that she doesn’t say something like, “Your girlfriend is a wonderful girl, and she told me that she’ll love you forever,” which would smash me as flat as a rug. I jump to my feet as if thorns are pushing up through the bench.

“I have to finish getting ready,” I say to her. “I’ll see you at dinner?”

“No, I’ll be eating in here. I’m not yet strong enough to make it up and down the stairs.”

“Oh. Good night, then.”

I lean in to kiss her cheek and leave her with her son. In an antique mirror in the hallway, I see the love written on my face. I wonder why on earth Luca can’t see it when everyone else clearly can. I’m not just an open book: I’m a book with large-print text. I should have stayed home. I shouldn’t have come here. This trip has been the final straw.

Luca’s voice rings out suddenly. “Is everything okay?”

I gasp and realize that he’s standing next to me. He hasn’t shaved, and he’s wearing a white shirt and faded jeans. I’m as sure that he deliberately chose his informal outfit as I’m sure his father is not going to like me.

“Everything’s great. Your mom is really something.”

“Did you tell her something funny?” Luca asks. “She kept laughing to herself, and she wouldn’t tell me why.”

Thank you, Lorenza, for keeping our little secret! “You know how it is,” I say. “People laugh just looking at me because they can see how fun I am.”

“Yes, that you are.”

“And how are things with you?” I ask him.

“A fairy tale.”

“You’re not too thrilled about dinner, are you?”

“It’s that obvious?”

“Kind of. But it’s just one dinner, Luca. You’ll feel better once it’s over. Besides . . .”

“Besides what?”

“Besides . . . I’m here for you, right now and whenever you need me to be. Give me your hand. Just think of me as your mother for the night.”

Luca smiles and looks at me through hair that droops over his eyes. The corner of his mouth raises in a strange smile.

“I could never think of you as my mother. Not tonight, not ever.”

Family dinners at the Morli house are very different from those at the Lieti house. People don’t swarm like an army of locusts. The aunts mind their own business. The young men don’t wear lobster-colored jackets and cartoon character ties. Everything is understated and chic.

Yet my sense of inadequacy is the same. Luca’s father is an austere and beautiful man. I imagine Luca will look just like him in thirty years. But he barely greets me and stares at me suspiciously. The family friends turn out to be three people. There’s a tall and stern-looking middle-aged woman with a single string of black pearls around her neck. Her husband, who must be a military veteran, has tortoiseshell glasses, a goatee, and a chronic cough. Their daughter looks to be about my age. She is exotic-looking and busty, with dark hair, very little makeup, and almond-shaped eyes that make alarm bells ring in my head. Her name is Iolanda, and it’s clear that she wants to eat Luca up. Even more alarming, it seems that everyone has given her their blessing to do so. Her mother keeps alluding to various things that her dear child can do, implying that she’s superior to every other woman on the planet. I get the impression that Luca’s father wouldn’t mind such a union, either.

But Luca doesn’t say a word. I’ve never seen him so silent and aloof. He doesn’t speak for the entire dinner, even when his father reprimands him for his outfit. Meanwhile, Iolanda sizes me up from underneath her eyelashes, trying to decide whether she should consider me a threat.

“I don’t understand what you do,” she says suddenly. “Prop master? Is that a kind of ragman?”

Her mother jumps in, and her tone is not much friendlier. “I knew a Bulgarian woman who did something like that. She collected used things and resold them to street vendors.”

This makes me blush. It’s not that there’s anything unseemly about handling junk or selling used things at flea markets. It’s just that she so obviously said it to offend me. I want to come up with a witty retort to shoot her down, but this isn’t my house, and I don’t want to be rude here. Mr. Morli seems furious, too, but for an entirely different reason—he clearly views me as beneath both his table and his son. Paola opens her mouth to say something, but Luca cuts her off. He addresses Iolanda with a charming smile.

“What about you? Are you still screwing every eligible bachelor in sight?” He takes a sip of wine and basks in the silence that drops over the dining room. “Now, remind me again, why did that last nice young man leave you? Did he find out he was just one of hundreds?”

Iolanda stutters, flushed. Her mother’s eyes widen, and she sways as if drunk. Her father smiles uncertainly, still coughing, but the real threat is Luca’s father.

“Apologize to our guests immediately!” he orders.

“I don’t think so,” Luca replies, starting to lose his cool. “These people shouldn’t even be here. Your wife was just released from the hospital, yet you host a dinner party like nothing has happened. You couldn’t even be bothered to go up and check on her. You know what? I’m leaving. I’m over this shit.”

He gets up, grabs my hand, and pulls me up and away from the table with him. Everyone stares at us, looking a bit green. I hear them start to buzz with shock as Paola follows us to the front door.

“Please, Luca . . . ,” she says.

“I can’t, Paola. Apologize to Mom for me . . . But I really have to leave.” She doesn’t say anything, but two big tears catch in her eyelashes. As we drive off, I realize I’m still wearing Paola’s dress.

Luca stares straight ahead, as if he were alone. From the look in his eyes, I sense that he’s thinking about his past. He’s running away, despite the limitations imposed by the precarious state of his car. Luca rolls down the window, letting in the salty night air as if that alone were enough to blow away the last hour. I lose track of the time and the number of curves we careen around—and the number of times nausea floods my stomach.

Suddenly, Luca looks over at me. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “It’s just that—”

“I know what it’s like,” I interrupt. “I’ve dealt with it for thirty years. I know exactly how much it hurts to realize that someone you share blood with doesn’t accept you for who you are. And I know that your hatred for your father is just the rusty side of the coin . . . You love him in spite of everything and just want him to respect you. But that doesn’t always happen, Luca. Families are only perfect in ads or ’50s TV shows. In real life, they’re just a bunch of messed up people, and we have to accept that we can’t ask of others what they can’t give us, whether it’s because of who they are or what they’ve decided. They love us in their own way, I think, but it’s no use damning them for it.”

Luca turns to me, and although it’s dark, I can see that he’s giving me a smile that is more powerful than the sun. “You’re very wise, little butterfly. But my father couldn’t handle that both Paola and I left home as soon as we were adults, or that I’m still single, or that I’ve had a million jobs that he considers shameful, or that I’m chasing my dream of becoming a writer. He just thinks it’s all bullshit. I feel sorry for my sister. She’s always trying to make all the pieces fit, and she won’t admit that some of them will never match up. I know that I should try my best not to provoke him, but sometimes I can’t resist.”

“Is that why you dressed like that tonight? Or why you brought home a weird girl when you were eighteen?”

“How do you know about that?” he asks. Calmer now, he’s no longer taking every hairpin turn like a racecar driver.

“Your mother mentioned it to me.” I summon the courage to ask him what’s really on my mind. “Is that why you agreed to let me come with you? Did you know that your father wouldn’t like me?”

He frowns. “Don’t even joke about that. You’re special. You’re my best friend. Please forgive me for what happened tonight—and forgive my father’s friends. They act like they’re above everyone.”

The phrase
you’re my best friend
makes me feel like a tree trunk being chainsawed by a lumberjack. But still, it’s something. “Don’t worry,” I say in a cheerful voice. “They kind of had a point. My job isn’t exactly glamorous. Like, one time, for an ad for mozzarella cheese, I had to commission a craftsman to make a huge foam cow udder. Or another time, I had to carry a life-size cardboard replica of the statue of David to the theater on the subway. Do you think Iolanda would have appreciated that? By the way, is it true, what you said to her?”

He laughs. “I toned it down. I didn’t want to upset her mother.”

We talk about ourselves and our childhoods for a while. He tells me about the photo of him on the pony at the circus. I have a similar circus photo, but I’m posing—forced by my mother—next to a contortionist who’s tied up like a sailor’s knot, and sobbing. I’ve hated the circus ever since.

After a long time, we finally fall silent. He takes my hand and squeezes it, only releasing me when he needs to shift gears. I wish time would stop.

After two hours of driving, I can tell he’s getting tired, so I suggest that we pull off the road. We find a hotel off the highway and take two adjacent rooms. It’s getting late, so he says good night with a gentle kiss on my cheek.

The room is pretty bleak and cold; it makes me want to get out of here as soon as possible tomorrow. I wrap myself in a blanket. I know I won’t be able to fall asleep anytime soon—the last twenty-four hours’ most exciting highlights are replaying in my head, and headlights from cars outside stripe the room yellow. Then I hear a knock at the door. It’s Luca, with a bottle of wine in his hand.