When in Rome (2 page)

Just friends, unfortunately. He’s a nice and fun guy. Sure, he makes a huge effort to seem macho and manly, but underneath is a sensitive soul. As far as I can tell, he has only one major flaw: he uses women like Kleenex. Apart from this nasty habit (and the post-apocalyptic state of his room), he’s a great roommate.

Still, most nights I suffer while he’s having fun in the other room. Once, I told him, “You’re thirty-two years old! Don’t you think it’s time to act like an adult and try to settle down and fall in love? At least then I’d see the same thong around the apartment.” He had smiled and shrugged. “Love doesn’t exist, Carlotta,” he said. “It’s teenage bullshit, or at most, a treatable disease. I’m not a kid anymore, and I can assure you, I’ve met a lot of women, but my heart has never gone into overdrive. I’ve never wanted to see someone sleeping next to me on the other side of the bed. I just wanna get laid and then send them on home.”

He’s always crass like that. I’ve never once heard him use the term
make love
.

Suddenly I hear the signs of a discussion through the wall. I can tell it’s a pissed-off monologue from the girl, who’s just been told her services are no longer needed. I hear his footsteps on the floor, and her lisping about how men are thlimeballs. I hate to admit that she’s right, and I can’t blame her for feeling mortified. But I’m selfishly pleased at her expulsion. I’d love to slingshot her away with a rubber band, provided it disappeared into thin air immediately after, along with the piece of floss and anything else that’s touched her. Luca turns the shower on; soon there will be a wading pool in the bathroom and wet footprints around the whole apartment. But I don’t care. Now I can sleep, and so can the rest of the apartment complex.

As soon as I lie down and close my eyes, I hear a knock on my door. Luca comes in with a skimpy towel wrapped around his waist. Does he really think I’m as unfeeling as my nightstand? I’m blushing just thinking about his wrists and his elbows and his earlobes and—

“Are you asleep?” he asks. His voice is so beautiful that even if I had been asleep in the arms of the god of dreams, I would have kicked my way back down to earth. He doesn’t wait for me to respond but comes in, dripping water like Hansel and Gretel dropped bread crumbs.

“I wanted to wish you good luck tomorrow, because I may not see you in the morning. I’m going to get some sleep and then write.”

“Thanks,” I say, as he drenches the bed.

“Sorry for the noise, but you know how it is . . .”

“No, I don’t know how it is,” I say. After more than a year of involuntary abstinence, I may as well be a virgin again.

“You’re too uptight—you should go out with someone.” He looks at me with a strange light in his eyes, his dripping hair threatening to short-circuit my nightstand lamp.

“So I can be thrown out of someone’s house like Miss Perfect Ass? No thanks, I’d rather not.”

“You could invite someone to come back here, so you’d be the one doing the throwing.”

“Will anyone ever make you want to quit doing that?”

“No,” he exclaims. “Never.” The way that he talks about it, I think he’d rather swallow a live cockroach. “If you give a woman an inch, she’ll take a mile. She’ll start to want more than just sex—like attention.”

“I’m a woman, too, remember?” I say, irritated not because of what he’s saying about women, but because he’s talking to me like I’m one of his friends at the bar. We’re just about to start a pissing match or a burping contest.

“You’re not a woman. Not in that sense.”

“Thank you for that lovely compliment.”

“You fool!”

He approaches me and the towel moves, highlighting his infamous manhood. He covers himself, laughing, and hugs me. He doesn’t know how much it hurts and how much I want to show him that I am a woman, in every sense. My heart is beating a thousand times per minute, so I cough to hide the sound. I don’t want him to find out that I belong to the ranks of those sentimental creatures who aren’t satisfied with just sex and who would much rather clamor for his attention than get dressed in a hurry and run home cursing. I smell him from a distance like a dog sniffing for a buried bone. He smells damp, like seaweed, and soapy. God, I love him. Maybe I would be better off if I threw him out.

I hope that I get this job tomorrow and that they send me around the world or that I have to work the night shift so I won’t be home for the next few conquests. Maybe I could soundproof the room. No, I’d die anyway. My imagination would take over. I reject him for the umpteenth time, pretending to be annoyed while I’m actually consumed with love and regret. Luca gets up, stretches, and claims to need sleep. He disappears, humming softly. I sigh, turn off the light, and fall asleep with the taste of chocolate on my tongue.

TWO

The Art Production headquarters is located on the Appian Way, in an ice-colored five-floor office building. The architect who designed it tried to give it a futuristic look, but it just looks like a jumble of cement and steel pipes, like a giant stove.

As I walk, I repeat to myself: “I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.” I went to school at the Academy of Fine Arts, for God’s sake! Besides this prestigious background, for years I’ve worked on the sets of school plays, television ads, and local fashion shows. I’m usually the one who locates the props or finds the best spots for photographing and filming. So far I haven’t worked on anything major, but you really demonstrate your creativity and adaptability when you’re forced to make do with a little money and a lot of hope. When it comes to good faith, imagination, and problem solving, nobody beats me. And I need this job. I can’t afford to let it go. Although it’s not in my nature, I’m ready to fight tooth and nail for it.

However, when I enter the lobby, I realize that the competition is far from grim. In fact, there is none. I’m the only one here besides a secretary with a platinum-blonde Marilyn Monroe hairstyle, typing on her cell phone behind the front desk. I walk over and realize that she’s playing Candy Crush. I cough to get her attention. She looks up at me with blue eyes, clearly annoyed.

“I’m here for the set designer position.”

She continues to scrutinize me up and down and finally shakes her head. “You seem too frail,” she says.

“Is there heavy lifting involved?” I ask, remembering the time when, for an ecological antifur fashion show, I had to haul around a life-size papier-mâché walrus and the keel of a ship, practically by myself. Now that I think about it, I do still suffer from bouts of sciatica from that.

“No, nothing like that,” she says. She leans toward me a little and whispers conspiratorially, “It’s because of the director. He’s heavy.”

For a moment I imagine an obese boss in a wheelchair. “Look, I’m so sorry, but to be honest, I really don’t want to be a caregiver.”

“Oh, no, the bastard’s doing just fine. Too fine, I’d say. He’s heavy, meaning—how should I put it? He’s sort of . . . unpleasant.”

Coming from someone who doesn’t strike me as particularly pleasant herself, this news is alarming. “How so?”

But the girl clearly does not intend to indulge my questions any further. As if she’s already said too much, she pulls out a sheet of paper from a drawer. She fires off an array of questions, some of which are decidedly indiscreet. The company doesn’t just want to know about my previous work experience, but also if I’m married, if I have children, where my family is from, and other probing and personal details. I want to tell her to mind her own business, but I hold my tongue. I got maybe two hours of sleep last night, I woke up late, and I had ten minutes to get ready. I just want this woman to hurry up.

“Cell phone number?” she asks.

“I actually don’t have one.”

“You don’t have a cell phone?” She looks at me like I have six eyes and a donkey’s tail for a nose.

“You know how it is,” I say. “I went through three phones before I realized that enough is enough. I broke the first one by putting it in the oven instead of my frozen pizza, and I only realized it when I tried to call a friend with a slice of pepperoni. The second one got flushed, and the third one got lost or stolen—or maybe it ran away from me in fear. So now I do my part to stop the deaths of innocent cell phones.”

“So what do you do if you’re stuck on the side of the road?” she asks.

“Well, that doesn’t normally happen. But I guess I’d try to find a pay phone. Or I’d send a telepathic message. Or just stick to taking the train.”

“You’re going to have to get one. You’ll have to be available twenty-four hours a day for this job.”

“It’s not like he’s a heart surgeon.”

“Whatever, but without a cell phone, you won’t be seen as competitive or professional.”

“Why, because I can’t play Candy Crush?”

My sarcasm is clearly lost on her, and she motions for me to sit down and wait my turn. I turn around and look at the empty room, at the faux wood chairs against the wall and the fly buzzing in a tireless, figure-eight search for an escape. I’d like to complain, but the fly was here before me.

I sit and wait. The fly suddenly finds the window and tries to fly through the glass. It rams the glass in the same spot with a stubbornness that evokes my sympathy. It reminds me of myself when I can’t stop doing the wrong thing. Although I know I’ll suffer, I shift into fourth gear and launch forward anyway. I feel sorry for it, so I crack the window. Under the secretary’s puzzled gaze—she’s stopped lining up her candy—I try to steer the fly into the fresh air. After another half dozen attempts, it finally finds its way out. At that very moment, the secretary tells me that I can go in.

“Take this and have him look it over,” she tells me, handing me the questionnaire.

As I cross the threshold, I wonder, if the director really is an asshole, maybe the fly was smart to sneak out. But I need a job. Besides, I’m used to dealing with difficult people. My family is a disaster. I’ve withstood my Aunt Porzia’s assaults for almost thirty years. I’m not afraid of anybody. So I enter the room.

I expect to find myself in front of some kind of armed force, but instead I come across two men, one sitting on the edge of a desk, and the other standing in front of a window, facing away from me. The man sitting down is so attractive that, for a moment, my nerves vanish like the fly through the window. His blond hair makes me think he must be from northern Europe. His eyebrows look like swan feathers. His eyes are Tiffany blue, his nose sharp and elegant, his skin almost translucent. He’s wearing a gray suit over a T-shirt with a frog on it. He looks angelic, respectable, and efficient, all at the same time.

He invites me to come in with a smile and extends his hand. Friendly, but not too overzealous. He speaks with a faint accent—German, perhaps? His name is Franz Eisner, and he’s the executive producer. He reads my questionnaire with interest while the other man continues to stare out the window, offering me the view of his back and a backside that resembles a dried plum. He’s wearing black jeans, a sweater, and a white scarf that makes him look like Pavarotti.

The blond guy asks me some questions based on the questionnaire. I embellish my past work experience, turning white lies into big whoppers.

“What show is the job for?” I ask.

Franz hesitates a moment before replying. “It’s a remake of Tennessee Williams’s
The Glass Menagerie
. Are you familiar with the work?”

Of course I am. I’ve always loved it. I can already see myself hunting for props, especially timid Laura’s collection of glass animals. Maybe even some records from the ’40s and a record player. I definitely want this job. I want it with all my heart. But then Franz says something that alarms me.

“Obviously, it’s a reworking. There’s, uh, a few changes we’re making in order to adapt it to the new style that the, uh, director and adapter of the text want.”

All these uhs do not bode well. At that moment, as if summoned by God himself, the other man turns around. The results are unfortunate. He’s as thin as his back end hinted, all edges, as if chiseled straight out of a concrete block. His eyes are deep-set, and he’s painted on about three pounds of black eyeliner. Perhaps he wanted to achieve the coveted smoky-eye look, but to me, he just looks like a punk rocker or a panda bear. He walks toward me slowly. I don’t think he’s incapable of moving faster, but I suspect this lazy stride gives him an air of artistic exhaustion. I won’t be fooled. His eyes confirm the secretary’s comments—they’re dark but icy.

“The original version of the work has been abused,” he says coldly. “Mine is much more exciting and up to date. Art is about renewal, not slavish obedience to the past.”

I want to tell him that I don’t like remakes of famous works, but this is an interview, after all, and I can’t alienate myself.

“Very interesting,” I say. “Tell me more.”

He stiffens and sucks in his cheeks. He holds a piece of his scarf between two fingers, studying it. “Franz, are you sure she isn’t from the competition, trying to steal my idea?”

“I don’t think so, Rocky,” the blond man says, winking at me surreptitiously. “After all, we’re going onstage in April, and it won’t be easy to find the very . . . original . . . props that you’re requiring. Assuming that Ms. Carlotta’s references check out and that there aren’t any other candidates, I’m inclined to trust her.”

“I don’t know,” the director says, obviously disgusted. “I don’t like her.”

I’ve got half a mind to tell him that his aversion is reciprocated. He gives a last look at my questionnaire. An aristocratic frown darkens his face as he reads.

“Right, there we are,” he says, as if he has just confirmed his theory. “I need someone brilliant. Her previous experience is just not up to par. What is this? She’s clearly not up to the task. Plus, her family’s from Calabria, and Calabrians are lazy by nature. She’d be great if we were looking for some Calabrian salami, but otherwise I find her to be incompetent.”

As he speaks, I cannot quash the anger rising inside of me.

“Look here, Rocky Balboa,” I say, fists on my hips. Now I’m pissed. “Your real name is probably Rocco, so I’d guess you come from the same place I do. As for the rest of your speech, I suspect that your remake is total bullshit, but I would have done my job well anyway. Once, for a music video, I had to carry a padlock that was ten feet tall. I did my best, even though that music video was a piece of shit. And you don’t have to worry”—now I’m gesturing like an octopus—“I’m not Mata Hari, I don’t work for the CIA, and I’m not part of some industrial espionage team. Now I’m leaving, because if I have to stay here another minute, I
will
want to find a pound of Calabrian salami and cram it down your throat.”

I leave without saying good-bye. That’s another opportunity that slipped out of my hands like an eel. I’m already dreading having to call my father and ask him for another loan. I’ve been unemployed for too long. I flee the building, chased by the secretary’s dubious glance, and find myself in the street. It starts to rain, a thin but persistent drizzle that turns my coat into a sponge and seeps through my barbed-wire curls. I make my way back home while the city flows around me. Horns honk, the rain drizzles on the cobblestones, and a slight wind shushes. I pass hordes of Japanese tourists, boys whizzing by on mopeds, colorful train cars that resemble a gigantic accordion, and the muddy, lazy Tiber River flowing under the bridge.

I am chronically unable to get anywhere in life. I live my life the way the ancient people did: like the Italian proverb says, I take what’s sweet, then throw away the rest.

Somehow, in the midst of this painful reflection, I am reminded of my mother. I wonder again how I, petite and wiry as I am, can really be her daughter, when she looks like a cross between Venus, Juno, and Monica Bellucci. My father is the artisan behind my insignificant appearance. He’s a quiet, frail man, who, in a placid and submissive life, has only uttered one word of disappointment: a languid
wow
when he discovered four years ago that his wife was having an affair with a man named Gonzalo, who she met on a Mediterranean cruise. My mother had been hoping that her absence would go unnoticed, so she was quite surprised when my father filed for a divorce. It was almost as if she didn’t understand how he could have come up with such an idea. My mother is incapable of realizing how she hurts other people, especially her ex-husband and her older daughter. With her younger daughter, though, she’s very affectionate.

Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention Erika. Five years younger than me, she got everything from our mother. The beauty, the posture, the boobs, the long legs, the straight hair, and the tendency not to regard the opinions of others. Let’s put it this way: I hadn’t lost my virginity by the time I was twenty, so I reluctantly gave it up to a college friend. The only memory I have of the event is a flurry of grunts and excruciating pain. By this time, Erika had not only already given it up, but was quite skilled. She’s basically the female version of Luca, except that she despises me deeply—to her, bearer of the highly coveted professional title of fashion model, I’m socially useless.

She doesn’t parade around on haute couture catwalks or anything, and she’s not the new Claudia Schiffer, but she’s been in a lot of catalogs. She’s the girl who poses, with her stomach sucked in and chest puffed out, in a lace bustier that costs as much as what I’d make in a month. She’s the girl in the white dress no mortal woman could ever wear without looking like a layer cake, the girl with the latest shade of plumping lipstick, and the girl in the garden furniture catalogue who’s pretending to pick daisies or lying in a hammock outside a quaint cottage.

So it goes without saying that Erika likes to show herself off. She lives in a fancy house in a fancy neighborhood, Parioli, and her walls are covered with sepia images of her own body: a glimpse of her breast, her navel, her back adorned with a pearl necklace, her bare feet on top of a glass cube. She parades a new guy around every Christmas and a different one by New Year’s, causing confusion among our relatives. Although Erika swears she never went out with a Jess, Aunt Porzia remains fond of him to this day. I think my poor aunt (who is a bit deaf in her old age) is remembering a New Year’s Eve three years ago, when at the stroke of midnight my dear sister was locked in the bathroom with a purple-haired guy, screaming,
Yes! Yes!

In short, Erika’s a real bitch. We go months without seeing each other, and when we talk on the phone, she only talks about herself. She ends each conversation with a perfunctory “Nothing new with you, right?”—her polite way of saying that she knows I’ll never find a decent man, and even if I did, she’d snatch him up.

As I continue on my way, the rain stops, and the sun peeks out through the smog. I’m home, defeated and hungry, after an hour. I live in Trastevere, an old-world Roman neighborhood, on the top floor of a pink building with bright green window frames. Once I get inside my apartment, I fling my coat on the chair and push the button on my answering machine. There are a slew of messages, all within a few minutes of each other, from the girl from last night (whose name turns out to be Sandra, or rather, Thandra). The poor girl, clearly forgetting that she was thrown out, asks Luca to meet up again and repeats her number about a hundred times. Finally I get to the rest of the messages. When I hear my mother’s voice, I shudder and wait for the blows to come. However, my dear mother only says that she’ll call me later about something important. She closes by saying that she hopes I’m doing something constructive.