When in Rome (17 page)

SIXTEEN

I’m finally back at work. Being near Franz’s calming presence gives me relief. Iriza doesn’t seem to be bothered by our friendship. If she doesn’t have a problem with it, then I don’t see why I should hold back.

The set is really starting to come to life as rehearsals proceed. I often find myself helping out with the rehearsals, and despite the updates, the work still enchants me. Laura’s character makes me feel nothing but tenderness. Every time I watch the scene where Jim, after seducing Laura, reveals that he’s actually engaged, I am caught by surprise.

Time passes, but not quickly. Every morning I cross another day off the calendar, hoping that it’s the day I will finally be freed from memories of Luca. I’ll get there, whatever it takes. It doesn’t matter that seeing the type of car he drives or a guy who looks like him paralyzes me. Just like it doesn’t matter that
Star Wars
movie nights are painful for me because I have to hear the name Luke Skywalker. I can’t let such trivial things demolish my willpower. I have to focus on what’s important. Namely, that opening night is approaching, and I still haven’t found the last Barbie doll, one that is as sought-after as someone on the FBI’s most-wanted list.

As I sit down in the back row of the theater one day, Franz comes over to me.

“I may have some good news,” he whispers in my ear.

“Has Rocky come down with laryngitis?”

“Even better. I found someone who might have the last Barbie we need.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I did some thorough Internet research. You’ve been so sad, so I thought I’d try to at least solve this problem.”

“How?”

“I found a forum for collectors of rare items. They were talking about an old man who lives in Pesaro who might have this legendary doll.”

“He might? But is he selling it?”

“I don’t know. He might not even exist. But we’ve got nothing to lose. What do you say, should we go?”

“Go where?”

“We’re going to Pesaro! I’ll take you. Are you free Sunday?”

I wonder if this is him asking me out, just like Iriza thought. But I don’t think so. At least I hope not. So I nod. “I’m free on Sunday. Let’s go.”

I know I have to stop comparing everything and everyone to Luca, but I can’t help but think that traveling with Franz is very different from traveling with Luca. Franz drives a really nice car that has air-conditioning, a fancy stereo, and comfortable seats.

He’s polite and considerate. Every so often he asks me how I’m doing or if I need anything. The trip takes just over three hours, and we talk, listen to music, or sit in comfortable silence. Shortly after we pull off for lunch at a roadside travel stop, we come across a vendor selling strawberries. They’re not the usual strawberries grown in greenhouses; they’re wild, small, and extra juicy. Franz buys a basket for each of us, and we eat them next to a fountain overlooking the sea.

Finally, we reach the mysterious doll owner’s home. It’s a charming stone house in a suburb near the hills, situated in the middle of a garden of sunflowers. But the house seems uninhabited. Everything is closed up and the shutters are drawn despite the afternoon sun. We knock, but no one answers, so we sit down on a bench next to the door.

“It doesn’t seem like anyone lives here. Maybe he moved,” Franz says regretfully.

“Maybe he doesn’t even exist. Maybe he’s just folklore, like the Loch Ness monster or UFOs.”

“It’s a real shame. That Barbie is so much rarer than I thought.”

“‘Rare’ doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s the very first Barbie doll ever released. Those dolls cast a spell on girls everywhere that’s lasted over half a century.”

We’re silent for a moment. “In any case, it was a fun trip,” Franz adds.

“It was a great trip. I haven’t been that relaxed in . . . Well, I don’t think I’ve ever been that relaxed!”

“Not even on vacation?”

“On family vacations when I was younger, we’d only ever spend time with hordes of relatives who would constantly talk over one another. And my mother would yell at me every five seconds.”

“Was your mother really strict?”

“
Strict
isn’t the right word. She was never obsessed with etiquette or manners; she thinks very differently from most mothers. She wanted me to be so much more . . . Hollywood . . . than I am. But she got her second chance with my sister.”

“Hollywood?”

“Yeah, you know,” I say, “she wanted me to compete in beauty pageants and always dress in the latest fashion so the other girls my age and their mothers would be jealous. She hoped I’d either land a job that was simple enough to explain to her friends or snag a wealthy husband instead and not have to work at all. I’m sure she never planned for me to be here at twenty-nine. Once you’re past twenty-nine, you’re automatically lumped into the ‘hopeless’ category.”

“How very old-fashioned.”

“Yeah, in some ways. Luckily, I had my dad to fill in the gaps. It just goes to show that you don’t have to be a woman to be maternal. But that’s enough about me. What were you like as a child? A blue-eyed prince waiting for his crown?”

Franz laughs and shakes his head. “No, I was a real terror as a child. I didn’t become a prince until I grew up.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. It’s a beautiful day. The wind in the sunflowers is hypnotic. A bee buzzes around my face . . . and flies right into my hair. My curls trap it tight, and I hear it buzz desperately. Of course—classic Carlotta! This beautiful moment was too good to be true. I’m allergic to bees. If I get stung, I’ll turn into an elephant woman and die right here. Franz will have to bury me among the sunflowers. (Although I suppose that wouldn’t be too terrible.)

But Franz comes to my rescue. “Stay still,” he tells me, and I trust him. I close my eyes and feel his fingers in my hair. The bee buzzes off. But Franz’s hand doesn’t leave my face; instead, he slides it down onto my cheek. I open my eyes; his face is right in front of mine. With those turquoise eyes, he really does resemble some kind of Germanic god. He clearly wants to kiss me.
Okay, let’s do it
, I think. I don’t care about Iriza, and I don’t care about Luca. Plus, this guy’s not half-bad. He smells good, and he looks like a good kisser. Do it, Carlotta! What are you waiting for?

Right as our lips are about to touch, the door of the house swings open. Franz and I jump apart. An elderly gentleman frowns at us.

“Come inside,” he says.

For a moment, I feel like I’m in a horror movie. I can only hope Leatherface isn’t hiding in here. But we soon discover that the man who stopped our kiss is precisely the man we were looking for. His skin is sunburnt, and his eyes are gray like slate. The interior of the house must have been beautiful once, but now it looks abandoned and so dusty that you could write out an entire Homer poem on the furniture with your finger. The man doesn’t say anything, but he beckons us to follow him into another room.

Franz and I look at each other, puzzled. He doesn’t look dangerous. I don’t think he’s concealing any weapons, and I’m sure Franz could take him out in a heartbeat if he ends up being a psychopath. When he opens the door, my heart stops. It’s a little girl’s room. It’s neat, clean, and a little bit old-fashioned. It looks like something out of a TV show from the ’80s. The entire room is pink, from the bedspread to the chandelier to the cabinet doors. And it’s a shrine to Barbie’s world. Barbie accessories are everywhere—on the shelves, the bedside table, the floor, the desk . . . Barbie’s house, Barbie’s horse, Barbie’s dog, dozens of Barbie’s dresses hanging on a tiny rack. There’s even a Barbie tea parlor and a Barbie bathtub with soap bubbles. The Barbie dolls lying around don’t seem to be particularly rare, and they’ve obviously been played with quite a bit.

Then, there, on the bed, I see the one I’m looking for. That mythical chimera. The first Barbie doll, in perfect condition, as if just removed from her box. She’s sitting on a cushion, looking at us with eyes that I’m sure are the gateway to many secrets. This whole thing is just too much. I am afraid to touch her, for fear of breaking her.

“She loved that doll,” the old man whispers to me. “She played with it like it was made of glass. She treated it with respect.”

He ends up telling us the story behind all of this. Thirty years ago, his granddaughter was thirteen. She was developmentally delayed. While her body aged, her desires and faculties remained anchored at that age of innocence. Desperate and unprepared, her parents wanted to send her to a facility, but her grandfather insisted that she live with him. He cared for her here and made sure she was comfortable and happy. Her life was filled with pure air, unconditional love, and a magical world of castles, stables, fancy cars, princess dresses, and dreams.

Years later, the girl became very ill, and the doctors said there was no hope. Her grandfather wanted to fulfill her greatest wish: to own the original Barbie doll. He bought a computer, hooked it up to the Internet, and finally tracked down a French collector who had this special doll. He sold all of the land he owned, except for the plot where he currently lives, to buy that doll. His granddaughter died a year later. It’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard. I realize I’ve been crying silently while he talks. He reminds me of my father, which makes me cry even harder.

“Excuse me,” I say, wiping away my tears.

“It’s fine,” he replies. “I heard what you said outside. You said something that struck me: ‘You don’t have to be a woman to be maternal.’ I agree with that. And I know that Laura would have, too.”

I can’t believe what I just heard. His granddaughter’s name was Laura, just like the protagonist in our production! I tell him this, as well as why we’re really here.

“You can take it,” he murmurs. “It’s a gift. Provided that you take good care of her. I get the feeling that you understand, that your father must have been there when your mother wasn’t.”

Do I understand? Do I ever. I want to ask him to come back with us so he doesn’t have to stay here alone while the dust gathers in all the rooms except this one. But I don’t say anything, because I also know that you can’t change the past. So we leave him there, in front of his house surrounded by sunflowers, waving good-bye.

It’s now evening, and we’ve returned from our trip. I cradled the Barbie doll in my arms the entire ride back, alternately crying and napping. Franz must not think I’m a ray of sunshine after this. But there are more clouds inside my mind than I let on.

“I decided something,” he tells me as he pulls up in front of my apartment. “I want to dedicate the show to that man’s granddaughter. I’ll write it on the playbill. What do you think?”

“That’s a wonderful idea.”

“I’ll even reserve a front-row seat for him. I’ll send him an invitation to come to Rome at our expense. But I don’t think he’ll come.”

“I don’t think so, either,” I say. “But he’ll hold onto it, and he’ll tell Laura everything when they finally meet again.”

Franz smiles gently. “Before, when he opened the door, we—”

“Yeah,” I interrupt—we both know what we’re talking about. The almost-kiss. “Maybe it just wasn’t the right time yet,” I whisper. “That’s okay.”

“So there will be a right time?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” I smile sincerely.

“Do you want me to come in with you and make sure there’s no bad guys hiding in your apartment?”

“Thanks, but no need. The bad guys know there’s nothing to steal at my place.”

“As you wish. Get some sleep. I’ll see you at the theater.”

He leans toward me and kisses me on the cheek. He waits for me to open the door before he drives off. A perfect gentleman. I climb the stairs tiredly. My eyes are puffy, and my heart is heavy from all the emotions of this strange day. I open the door and go inside. And then terror paralyzes me. I should have listened to Franz.

The hall light is on, and I know for sure it was off when I left this morning. Noises come from Luca’s room. And then Luca himself appears in the doorway with his laptop under his arm. He’s wearing jeans, a leather jacket, and Doc Martens with no laces. His hair is a little longer, and he’s grown some facial hair. His expression is, simply put, hostile. I suddenly feel like a drug addict who’s fallen off the wagon. How do you kill love? If there’s a way, would someone just tell me what it is? Seeing him again is enough to make me feel like I’m finally able to breathe after holding my breath for so long.

“Beautiful fresco,” he says venomously, alluding to my painting on the wall of what used to be his room. “It speaks volumes about what you think of me and of us. Better than a thousand words.”

Anger bubbles up out of me. “What are you doing here?” I ask him, completely ignoring his words about the painting. It’s my home, and I can paint whatever the hell I like.

“I came to get my laptop. I forgot it here. I buzzed the intercom, but you weren’t here. Were you out for a walk?”

“I can go wherever I damn well please. Give me the keys.”

Luca giggles and takes a few steps toward me. His boots squeak on the ceramic tile. I step back without knowing why.

“I saw you with the blond guy. Are you fucking him?”

I hate it when he’s this crass, so I decide to fire back. “Do you have everything? I hope so, because I’m having the locks changed. If you try to come back, I’ll call the cops.”

In response, he takes a few more steps toward me. I’m basically trapped between him and the wall. Only Barbie is between us, still cradled in my arms.

“Are you sleeping with him?” Luca asks again. I feel strange, kind of like hot liquid wax. We are so close to each other that anyone observing us would think we were full of love, not hatred and resentment. I shove him back and walk away with force.

“Go away,” I order him, shocked at how firm I sound. He shakes his head and scoffs, then runs a hand through his hair and pulls his keys from his pocket. He drops them on the counter dismissively and leaves, slamming the door so hard the walls shake.

I lock the door and pull the latch. I realize that I’m trembling. I slide to the ground and curl up in the fetal position. I hope I never have to see Luca again. I don’t ask for much, so I’m asking for just this one little thing: that our paths divide so I can get back to my old self. I need to be the old Carlotta again. I don’t know how much longer I can stand to be this weepy mess.