When in Rome (15 page)

“Want to drink?” he asks. “I took it from the bar. I think it’s pretty shitty, probably made with poisonous additives. It might kill us.”

“Or it might just give us the shits. I’m in,” I say. “How glamorous.”

He comes in, sits down on the bed, and volunteers to take the first sip. “If I drop dead, don’t drink this.”

“If you drop dead, that’s all the more reason to drink.”

Two drops of bright purple liquid drip down his chin and onto his dirty shirt. He hands the bottle to me and wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

“In the words of a true sommelier . . . that’s some shitty wine!” He laughs. We finish the entire bottle together, all the while giggling goofily. We’re not that drunk, just happy, but we can tell what’s about to happen. Suddenly, Luca turns on his side, his elbow propped on a pillow, and smiles at me. He’s just been joking about how the mattress is as soft as a rock and the duvet as comfortable as sandpaper. And now he slowly strokes my arm with two fingers as if writing something. He starts at my wrist and trails his fingers up to my shoulder. A shiver runs down my spine. Maybe I should tell him to stop. But instead, I lock my mouth shut and throw away the key.

And then it happens. It starts out with an affectionate kiss that lingers, his lips glued to mine. Then his tongue searches inside my mouth. I open my eyes to make sure this is really happening. It really is Luca who is embracing me, who is on top of me. It isn’t a joke anymore. My mother isn’t eavesdropping down the hall. It’s just us, the intermittent glow of headlights, and a hotel manager who won’t even remember our faces. It’s really happening.

His hands touch me, squeeze me, take me. He kisses me as I take my clothes off. He undresses, too, and I take in his gorgeous body incredulously. Is this how it is with every woman? Do his eyes always glow stormy green when he makes love? Is his mouth always this hot and impatient? And is this woman really me? Yes, it is. And I love him. I love everything about him. This miracle of muscle, lips, tongue, and fingertips crowds everything out of my mind but total happiness—I’ve never made love before now. But despite all of this, I feel chaste. He holds me close, stifling a scream in my hair. As we ride the wave together, I know that even if I were to die right this second, I will live forever. The sweat on our skin sticks us together. Luca smiles and says my name.

“Carlotta.”

But happiness is so fleeting.

As soon as it’s over, something breaks. He stares at the ceiling and swallows. We’re silent. The moment is passing, the next one beginning, as I join the ranks of women prohibited from falling asleep on his shoulder. The polar frost chilling between us hurts my heart.

Then Luca jumps out of bed and does what I wish I could have done first. He throws his clothes back on without looking at me. Feeling more than naked—wounded, bleeding, dying—I cover myself with the blanket. I can’t let myself cry. I knew this would happen. He finally turns to me with a guilty look.

“Damn it, Carlotta, I was so stupid!”

Not exactly what I was hoping for. Of course, I didn’t expect a proposal right then and there, but still. A little harsh.

“We did it without a condom. Do you get that?” He paces around the room, rubbing his hands together as if cold. “Do you understand what I’m saying? You don’t need to worry about diseases, because I get checked regularly, and I’ve always been careful. And I’m sure that’s not something I have to worry about with you.”

I nod, head spinning. However reasonable his concerns are, they make me nauseous.

“And what about . . . Well, is this one of those times of the month where you’re . . .”

“No, no, don’t worry.”

“I swear, Carlotta. I’m mortified.”

“Luca, come on. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, I know. But . . . Fuck! That shouldn’t have happened! It was a mistake. We were drinking, I felt sad, and sadness and alcohol don’t mix well.”

Please, Luca, just leave
, I beg him silently. Don’t say another word or I will shatter into a million pieces.

“Carlotta, I just . . . I’d better get back to my room, okay?” He watches me like a hawk. Perhaps he’s concerned about me.

“Yeah, go ahead. It’s fine. No diseases and no babies!” I smile and make a funny face, trying to act like myself so he can leave guilt-free. He stops in the middle of the room and bites his lip. We’re so far apart, after being so close, and now I don’t know where we stand. I hate him and love him at the same time.

“Luca, don’t take this so seriously. Nothing will change! It was just sex! Good sex, but nothing more.” Still wrapped in the blanket on the bed, I force myself to smile.

“I . . . Yeah, you’re right. You know, I thought that—”

“I wanted something more? Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re you. Because I care about you. Because we’re friends, and—”

“It’s fine. Go back to your room. I wouldn’t get any sleep anyway, if you were here—I’m used to sleeping alone.”

Nodding, he leaves without another word. The headlights wash over me. I grab my pillow and bury my head in it as the sobs let loose. Before long, my sobs synchronize with the road noise. I wish someone would honor my pain by drawing the curtain. But it’s just me and this scratchy blanket. So I have to do it myself.

FOURTEEN

On the trip home, I feel like a beat-up old car that’s just been shit on by a whole flock of birds. Luca and I don’t look at each other, and we don’t talk. Instead, we contemplate the billboards and road signs we pass. I imagine that the Arctic Circle is warmer than the inside of this car.

I can’t deny that I feel sick about it. Luca obviously can’t handle being next to someone he slept with for this long. He doesn’t even stop for bathroom breaks. He is pensive, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and every once in a while he takes a deep breath. As soon as we get home, Luca runs off to the bar—three hours before his shift starts. We’re back in the Cold War. We’ve constructed an invisible Berlin Wall.

Our avoidance behavior lasts for a few days; then, one afternoon, he comes home with the results of his HIV test. He triumphantly exclaims that it’s negative. I can’t even look at him, but as he waves it around like a flag, I realize that it doesn’t make any sense to keep going like this. I have to deal with it. I know what he thinks about sleeping with me from what he said that night. It was a mistake, an oversight, a blunder. All because of alcohol.

“So that’s why you haven’t spoken to me in days,” I whisper.

“Well, you weren’t exactly talkative.”

“You’re right. The silence helped me reflect. I was really confused,” I say. “But now I feel sure that it was a mistake. It won’t happen again. And I can tell that you feel bad, or that you’re worried you disappointed me, or something, but don’t worry. I have no hard feelings or delusions. We’re adults. So let’s move on and not talk about this anymore, okay?”

He seems to try to read my mind with an intense look. Then he runs his fingers through his hair and clears his throat.

“All right. Let’s move on. I was stupid. But you learn from your mistakes, and it won’t happen again. You can be sure of that.”

I force myself to smile even though it hurts my jaw. I’m going to fix this grin on my face and keep it there as he goes back to his life. I try to save my pride and dignity by pretending that I don’t care and that I’m okay with just being friends.

Yet I feel even sadder than before. I can’t tell Lara or Giovanna anything, because I already know what they’d say. They’d blame everything on Luca. How could I argue with that? I can’t tell them that I wasn’t being reckless, that I was in love, or that I’d do it a thousand times over—even knowing how it’d turn out. They’d book me for the next available appointment with the local shrink. Or maybe they’d cry with me. I don’t know. But I don’t want anger or compassion from them. I just want silence.

Fortunately, work gets me out of the apartment—searching for furniture for the set and trying desperately to track down the last doll in the collection, only to realize that it can’t be found.

One day, I help Iriza paint the backdrop at the theater. We work like crazy, and before long we’re covered in paint splatters. I don’t feel much like talking. Physical effort, concentration, and the cacophony of Rocky’s voice all do me good. Iriza tries to ask me if everything’s okay, and I flash her a smile to let her know that it is. But while I’m painting the portrait of Laura’s father—who abandoned his wife and children with no warning, only a terse note reading
good-bye
—my strength vanishes. Men are like that, in fiction and in real life. They take you, use you, deceive you just long enough for you to bear their children, and then they vanish. Your children turn out strange, and people look down on you because you couldn’t keep your marriage going. And yet you still keep their picture hanging over the fireplace.

I never cry in public if I can help it, especially if said public includes a pain in the ass like Rocky, and I struggle to stop myself. The tears well up, but I refuse to let them win. I’ve cried enough.

“I’m going to smoke a cigarette,” I say to Iriza.

“You smoke?” she says.

“No, but I can always start.”

I head outside; it’s cold and windy. Why is the weather always like this when I’m sad? Is this nature’s way of expressing solidarity with me? Is nature depressed by the state of my heart? If the sun were shining, the birds chirping, and the flowers blooming, would I be able to see the world in anything else but black and white? I lean on a wall. Someone walks by, and I ask him for a cigarette. He offers me one mechanically and gives me a light, as if used to the question. As he walks away, I take a drag and, as expected, choke and sputter.

A hand gently beats me on the back. It’s Iriza.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Remember my theory about Penelope and Circe?” I say.

She smiles and nods.

“I tried to be a little bit like Circe, and I guess it didn’t work.”

“Romantic troubles?”

I sigh. “All I can do is think about him, but at best, he just thinks of me as a big mistake.”

Before Iriza can say anything, someone cuts her off. It’s Rose. She grabs the cigarette from my hand and smokes gleefully.

“What’s going on, girls? What’s the scoop? Are we talking about boys?”

The question comes out of my mouth before I know why I’m asking it. “Have you ever fallen in love?”

For a moment, Rose looks exactly like what she is: an old woman with heavy baggage that includes memories and the fear of death. She takes a long drag on the cigarette, which wrinkles her face like an accordion, and then speaks as the smoke filters through her nose and mouth.

“Yes, once. I was the costume designer for a big theater in Bari, and there was this beautiful actor who was Iago in
Othello
. He played the part of the traitor so perfectly. By the time I realized he wasn’t performing at all, it was too late.”

“Did he betray you?”

“He said all the things he had to say to get me into bed. Do yourselves a favor, ladies. Don’t trust guys like Iago. Don’t fall in love with them.”

“Don’t you have any good memories of him left?”

“Oh, sure. Rocky, my grandson.”

She throws the cigarette on the ground and crushes it with the tip of an orthopedic shoe before heading back inside. Iriza and I don’t say anything for a while. Maybe love is good to some people, but how many? And how long does that happiness last? Apparently for me, just long enough to have the best sex of my life. Love is destined to leave wounds and scars.

“Franz is going to ask you out,” Iriza suddenly says, interrupting my thoughts.

“What?”

“He’s not an Iago, trust me.”

“Ask me out? What do you mean?”

“I told you that he likes you, didn’t I?”

“But . . . but . . .”

I’m speechless. Iriza’s smile seems totally natural, and I wonder if I was mistaken about her feelings for Franz. In any case, I don’t want to be with him. Not just for me, and not just for Iriza, but also for Franz. Because my heart belongs to another.

“I’m absolutely sure that you’re wrong,” I say. “But if you’re right, I hope he doesn’t. I can’t deal with it right now. I hope he asks out some other girl who is more deserving of him than I am.”

“I hope he does, and I hope you say yes.”

“Are you serious? I’m not the right woman for him!”

Iriza smiles slightly and shakes her head, her long red hair swaying. The freckles on her cheeks look like poppy seeds. “I know that, but he needs to figure it out for himself.”

“So you want him to find out the hard way?”

“Yeah, something like that. You guys would have fun, but he’d understand that you’re not a good match. There’s nothing worse than fighting for a love that never has the chance to blossom. We tend to idealize the people who never get the opportunity to disappoint us. So if he asks you out, I hope you say yes. You have my blessing.”

If I could close my eyes and press a reset button on my heart, banishing Luca to make room for Franz, I would be the happiest person in the world. But I just can’t do it. There’s another reason, apart from my feelings. While my period is usually very punctual, I seem to have missed it this month. When Luca asked me after we slept together if I was ovulating, I said no, but I lied. I lied on purpose. I wasn’t ready to face the facts.

The pregnancy test I bought is still in my purse. I don’t know why I haven’t used it yet. Maybe it’s because I’m not ready to find out. I know I should hope that this test comes out negative and thank my lucky stars if it does. Any normal woman in my position would—I’m almost thirty, my job pays me peanuts, I’m single, I slept with someone who took off exactly six minutes after he finished and has barely said one word to me since. But there must be something crazy in my DNA. The thought that new life might be growing inside me intoxicates me in a weird way. I wonder if it’s maternal instinct or fear that this is my last batch of eggs before I hit menopause. Or just that I might be carrying Luca’s child. Ah, yes. Luca hates me, and I’m secretly hoping to have his baby. I’m insane.

Emma’s birthday party is today. Giovanna said she couldn’t come because of work, but I suspect she invented an excuse. Some people are afraid of spiders, snakes, or vacuum cleaners, but Giovanna—a very brave and determined woman—is terrified of little brats, especially in large numbers.

When I get to Lara’s house, I’m greeted by a band of tiny screaming humans running amok; I instantly have chocolate stains all over my skirt. Emma hugs me, forcing me to stoop down to her height (which, to be honest, isn’t that much lower than mine). She’s thrilled with my present, a new book of fables and a makeup bag with raspberry lip gloss inside. I help Lara mind the little guests and keep them from launching cake into the walls with paper towel slings. Amid the chaos, I listen to Lara complain about how cruel her former husband is.

“He didn’t even call to wish her a happy birthday!” she says in front of the other mothers, who listen enthusiastically. “He’s probably in bed with some new perky-boobed whore. What a bastard.”

“All men are. No exceptions,” says one mother. She’s a wiry woman with a stern face and hair the color of egg yolks. “After eight years of marriage, my ex decided that he prefers Brazilian asses! So why did he marry me? I’ve never had a Brazilian ass!”

“It’s not about your ass,” another mother says. She’s petite and looks like a gnome. “It’s the opposites theory. If you’re tall, your husband will screw someone short. If you’re a D cup, he’ll find someone flat-chested. If you’re a housewife, he’ll worship a career woman. Men always want the exact opposite of what they have—so they can always say you weren’t fulfilling their expectations.”

“If you think that’s the worst, then you’ve gotta listen to me,” another woman says, sounding like she’s dying to spill her juicy secret. “After we were engaged for three years, lived together for two, and married for four, my husband suddenly discovered that he prefers men!”

I wonder if Lara only invited grumbling ex-wives who have been abandoned by scoundrels. I listen as they share horror stories of loneliness, one-night stands, and children who still wet the bed, imagining myself as a single mother of twin boys—with the hair on my legs starting to curl because I haven’t had time to shave. Shit, I’m screwed. I’ll have to quit my job, or worse, entrust my mother with my children. If it’s a girl, my mother will make sure she’s a tramp; if it’s a boy, she’ll turn him into a womanizer. My stomach will be forever soft, and I’ll no longer be able to bend over to tie my shoes.

It’s hopeless.

I get up, head spinning. It’s time to end this torture. I grab my purse from its child-safe place on top of the fridge. Then I lock myself in the bathroom and pull out the device. This plastic blue-and-white wand will tell me if I’ll be able to shave my legs or not for the next few years. I follow the directions. There isn’t anything about how to tear your hair out if you don’t get the response you want. Three minutes pass—I read the clear writing that has materialized like invisible ink.
Not pregnant
.

No tiny human in my belly. I don’t know what to feel. Relief? Pain? I sit down on the toilet. Lara knocks on the door.

“Are you okay, Carlotta? You’ve been in there a long time! Did you fall in?”

I shove the test in my purse and go out, no longer in the mood to listen to the complaints of the mothers in the living room. I can understand the discomfort of living without a partner, but not the woes of raising children. I must look even weirder than usual, because Lara looks at me apprehensively. I smile. Life is good. I’m not pregnant. My stomach will stay flat. I won’t have to anoint my stretch marks with oil, I won’t have to buy underwear specially made for hippos, and I won’t have to pee seven times a minute. It’s all good. I feel free.

I stay a little longer. As Emma chases after a teasing boy, I’m almost tempted to pull her aside and tell her that men shouldn’t be pursued. At least not so openly. You can suffer at the thought of losing them; you can wish for a one-night stand to get you pregnant; you can wear a groove into the floor as you pace, waiting for them to return; you can smell sweaters left behind on chairs; but you shouldn’t chase them . . . You must be humble and disciplined. Take me, for example. I pretend to be strong, even though I’ve been thrown away like a used condom. I’m a real woman. I don’t chase men.

I say good-bye to everyone and leave. It’s a long journey home without a car, but the evening is mild. I’m wearing a cotton beret, a lightweight coat, a dress, and ankle boots . . . and I’m not pregnant. I must celebrate.

I enter the first bar I see—since I don’t have any children to take care of at home, I can drink as much as I want. It’s small and smoky inside, and most of the patrons have six piercings each and tank tops that emphasize their bodybuilder biceps. The few women here, gathered around the pool tables, are wearing shorts and studded vests. But I don’t really care.

I order a drink from the bartender, who has very bushy eyebrows that I worry will fall off. A guy comes up to me while I’m nursing my drink. He has the leathery appearance of an old oak tree, and the inscription on his T-shirt is the antithesis of style:
I’m not a dick, but I can put one in you.
Impressive wordplay. He gives me a compliment, and then asks me what a girl like me is doing in a place like this. So I tell him the truth. I tell him that I’m celebrating the fact that I’m not pregnant. I tell him that the man I love slept with me a few nights ago, but now he hates me. I tell him that I don’t really care what happens to me after I leave this bar. And I cry as I pour my heart out to him, a total stranger. When I’m finished, he looks at me right in the eye and gives me one piece of advice.