When in Rome (5 page)

FOUR

It’s Saturday night, and to celebrate my new job, Lara and Giovanna have arranged a blind triple date for me. Meeting a guy named Tony Boni is not exactly my idea of a perfect weekend. I’d rather watch a documentary on the mating rituals of hooved animals than worry about what to wear to please a stranger who doesn’t even have the decency to change his name.

Luca left hours ago. He works late on the weekends and never gets back before dawn. I look in the mirror and grumble. Nothing new here. The same old Carlotta—the line “You’ve got a lot going for you” will never apply to me. I’m wearing a camel-colored wool skirt, black boots, an angora sweater that will certainly have me spitting out fluff all through dinner, and a coat. I’ve wrapped a striped scarf around my neck, Gryffindor-style. Anything but sexy. Not that I’m trying to be sexy, mind you, but I wonder if I could be. I search the corners of my mind for just one moment when someone has looked at me with approval. I remember the emerald-green dress with a sailor collar and a tulle skirt I wore to my third birthday party that was tolerable. Other than that, I come up short.

When Giovanna buzzes at the downstairs door, I quickly head out. She’s in the seventh heaven phase of a new relationship. Not that she’s new to such emotions, though. From a practical standpoint, her lifestyle isn’t all that different from my sister’s. The big difference is that Giovanna is always hoping to find Mr. Right. Her infatuations run like clockwork: on average, they last about twenty days and go from rags to riches at a dizzying speed. She suddenly and inevitably discovers that she has given herself to a total asshole, so she spends a week crying before she moves on to kiss the next frog. At the moment, she’s head over heels for a young interior designer who’s into minimalist homes and has forced her to replace her grandmother’s furniture with more fashionable stuff. Her bed is currently a mattress thrown on the floor. Her clothes are hung up in the open, her windows have no curtains, and the only things on the walls are abstract prints with polka dots, like a connect-the-dots puzzle. He even tried to get her to upgrade her dog to a Chihuahua or a whippet, which he thought would be better than her fat, cumbersome sheepdog, Bear. Fortunately, Giovanna wouldn’t budge on that. When this is over, I predict she’ll miss her grandmother’s things, including the huge lacquered armoire that hid her messiness and those nice, thick curtains that blocked the view of the Peeping Tom across the street.

Curtains or no curtains, Giovanna is happy right now, and she greets me with a hug. She’s alone; we’re meeting the others at the restaurant. She’s wearing tight pants, a white blouse, a fuchsia leather coat without buttons, and heels that are so high she’s practically walking on her tiptoes. She’s very beautiful, so beautiful that she can’t go anywhere without attracting looks. Her magnificent hair is long, black, and smooth as water. She’s got blue eyes, she’s tall even without heels, and she’s never lacking in suitors or amazing clothes. As we walk, she tells me about Tony.

“He’s an interesting guy. He’s a painter, so you have a lot in common.”

A shiver of panic runs up my spine. “That doesn’t make me feel good. When you call someone interesting, that’s because you’re trying not to mention that they look like a Porta-Potty.”

“I would never set you up with a Porta-Potty.”

I look at her, perplexed, and half laugh. “You’re forgetting about Eusebio. Remember him? The guy who wore flip-flops in December? He was pretty interesting, too . . .”

We look at each other and can’t help but burst into laughter.

“He really was interesting!” she says “Remember how many jokes he knew?”

“Yeah, and they were all obscene. And he’d pound beers straight from the can, calling everyone who walked by a weirdo, without realizing he was the biggest weirdo of them all! And his laugh sounded like he was blowing raspberries.”

“But you’ve gotta admit, you had fun that night.”

“Yeah, right. Once I saw his checkered cardigan, I wanted to escape out the bathroom window. Too bad it was barred. If Tony is anything like that, I’m going to strangle you.”

We reach Il Buco, a quiet, almost monastic restaurant. This place would be a good choice if I were going to have dinner with the man I love, but right now it just makes me feel uncomfortable. What if I don’t know what to say or do in front of him? I’ll embarrass myself with either silence or mindless babble. Whatever happens, the quiet atmosphere can’t be good.

We go inside. The small room is full but silent. I get the feeling that everyone is staring at us. A cemetery in the wilds of Alaska would be livelier than this place. I see Lara at a table in the back with three men. One is her temporary flame, one is Giovanna’s temporary flame, and I think the third one is my
very
temporary blind date.

As I get closer, I realize that Tony Boni, at least at first glance, is less disgusting than I pictured. I introduce myself, and we sit down. He’s actually quite good-looking. He’s tall and wearing glasses and a dark suit. He doesn’t seem to have any weird tics, and he doesn’t ask me if I’ve heard the one about the ice queen whose husband slept with a thermos. He’s actually rather polite.

Lara won’t take her eyes off of her phone, which she keeps on the table, lest she miss a call from Emma’s babysitter. Now that her stormy marriage is over, Lara is disillusioned by men. She only goes out to make Giovanna happy and to give her vagina the occasional workout—although she worries the whole time that something could be happening to her little girl. While she’s a lovely woman, with caramel-colored skin and a shiny bob right out of the roaring ’20s, her negative experience with her ex-husband has left her in a permanent bad mood. To compensate, she eats like there’s no tomorrow. Now she weighs almost 180 pounds and is more pissed off than ever, which makes her want to eat even more.

She met Filippo a few days ago. He’s pretty buff, which makes her look slimmer, but he’s got a really long face. The relationship won’t last. Filippo will say, do, or think something wrong, and she’ll say the same thing she always does: “I knew it. All men are assholes. I’m going to Google how to become a lesbian.”

Armando scans the almost-bare walls and the few tables in the restaurant. “We were just noticing that this place is a bit too heavily decorated,” he says. His words reverberate in the sepulchral silence.

“Oh . . . you’re so right!” Giovanna says. “What would you do to make it more cutting-edge?”

“I’d get rid of some of the light, reduce the number of tables, and tone down all this shouting we’re doing.”

I have to wonder if he’s just messing with us. I’d like to argue that a quartet of corpses would be more exuberant than we are, but Armando’s kind of touchy, and I don’t want to risk offending him. So I keep my mouth shut while he babbles on pompously. Lara fumbles with her phone, seeming to think she may have missed a call, but in here, the ringing would be as loud as a jet engine.

I get to talking to Tony Boni, and I discover that his real name is actually Antonio.

“I heard you paint,” he says enthusiastically.

“Yeah, but I only do it for myself. I’m no Caravaggio.”

“But who is? I’m not even sure I know how to paint seriously. I’ve never studied it, I’ve never had training,” he explains. “My work isn’t for everyone. I love still life and portraits, and I like to portray genuine, spontaneous, everyday things. How about you? Giovanna said you work in theater?”

I explain in detail what I do, and he listens with interest. Over dinner, I realize that Tony is actually much nicer than I expected. While Filippo and Lara silently stuff their faces and Armando harasses everyone with his theories, Tony pours me a drink and gives me an unexpected compliment about my hair.

“It’s so lively and sinuous. I’d love to paint your face. You’re very beautiful.”

Beautiful?
I laugh. “It’d end up looking like a caricature of a rabbit.”

“I’ve never seen a face as extraordinary as yours,” he says. “It amazes me that you aren’t aware of that. As an artist, you should be able to recognize the details. Your upper lip is sublime. It’s got a particular curve, like a small wave.”

For a moment, I look at him as if he were wearing a straitjacket. And I feel stupidly excited.

I wonder why, when I do receive a compliment, I’m convinced it’s a shameless lie told for the sole purpose of getting between my legs. Perhaps it’s because no one has really admired me for, like, a century. Maybe it’s because my mother called me this morning to remind me
again
of Beatrice’s wedding. Or maybe it’s because I’m thinking about Luca pouring alcohol into the glass of some woman who’s willing to give it to him right there, right then, on the bar.

But sometimes it’s nice to pretend I’m not the ugly version of my little sister. Also the red wine, which is full-bodied and fruity, is making me feel euphoric. I’m happy to be out, and the way Tony is staring at me certainly doesn’t bother me.

When the waiters bring out our stuffed pigeon, he abandons his fork to separate it with his hands. He dismembers the bird’s chest with four pairs of fingers, his pinkies politely arched downward. It seems strange to see him struggling with such a rugged task when he’s dressed so nicely. Suddenly, he pulls out a chunk of shiny, juicy white meat covered in sauce; unexpectedly, he offers it to me. He holds out the piece of flesh with the thumb, index, and middle fingers of his left hand, his eyes inviting and suggestive. I do not accept. I say I’m a vegetarian. I’m probably blushing, but I feel like taking that bite would be an acceptance of an indecent proposal. It would be like admitting that, yes, I would very much like for his . . . paintbrush . . . to make some artistic sketch on my practically untouched canvas. I’m not that reckless. Sure, I’m flattered that he finds me desirable, but I suspect he’d treat any female the same way tonight.

When we leave the restaurant, rain has started to fall. Lara runs off to get a taxi with Filippo. Armando suggests after-dinner drinks at a local bar called Tabula Rasa. That name, combined with my knowledge of his bizarre tastes, makes me think it’s a popular spot for small groups of chic radicals—aka pretentious assholes—to drink and languish. Luckily, Tony nixes Armando’s idea.

“I know a great place on Cassia, it’s called Chiodo,” he counteroffers. “They just opened a few months ago. They make great drinks and there’s good music.”

A tremor rocks my chest. That’s where Luca works. I’ve never been there because it’s out of the way—and, to be honest, no one’s ever invited me. Giovanna accepts with unseemly enthusiasm, which Armando doesn’t approve of. But when Tony and I decide to go, he’s forced to go with the flow.

When Tony and I are alone in his car, he seizes the opportunity to ask if he can draw me.

“I swear, you have a terrific face,” he insists.

“The idea of staying still while someone stares at me, focusing on my flaws, embarrasses me a little bit.”

“You’re wrong, you know,” he says. “In a face like yours, when it’s scrutinized, the flaws disappear. You have the exact opposite problem. At first glance, your face seems imperfect, strange, inundated with freckles, but a keen eye will capture the treasure hidden behind the curtain. The big eyes that are the color of chestnut honey, the eyelashes that are so long they cast shadows on your cheeks, and your chin . . . I could try to copy the curve, but I’d never do it justice. And you know, Carlotta, you’ve got a neck that a swan would be jealous of.”

I should probably ask him to stop, but I’m enjoying this. I confess, I’m a little bit excited. Not sexually, I mean. Emotionally. I feel like an awkward preteen who’s been ensnared by a bunch of bullshit.

A beam of flashing lights crossing the sky leads us to Chiodo. Armando is so out of his element, he seems almost on the verge of hysterics. I won’t let him get to me, though. We park the car near Luca’s, and the ulcer in my stomach sears as we hit the red carpet. A bouncer who resembles a giant redwood checks us out, then we go inside. The place is huge. Stone arches separate it into several rooms, some with tables and some with sofas, and one dedicated to dancing. We check our coats and search for the bar. My nerves pound in my ears as loudly as the music. I must be losing it. I see Luca every day—I just saw him a few hours ago—but I’m acting as if I haven’t seen him in a century.

As we approach the bar, Tony politely takes my elbow in his hand, and we walk over with Giovanna and a very distraught Armando. At the polished wooden counter, where drinkers crowd around like ants, we sit down on four leather stools. My eyes wander in search of Luca. All the bartenders are dressed like him, though: white shirt, dark pants, a hint of a beard, and an impish air. They pour out liquor with acrobatic skill, sliding the tumblers across the counter, smiling, winking, and waiting for the next customer who wants an extra dose of alcoholic pampering.

Finally, I see him. He’s farther down the bar, laughing with a group of escort-free hens. All of a sudden, I feel hot. Tony asks everyone what we’d like to drink; I go for a cosmopolitan. The wine I drank with dinner should last me for seven lifetimes, but with a cosmo in hand, I’ll look like Carrie in
Sex and the City
. Tony chooses a dry gin and gives the order to a bartender—not Luca. Then Luca switches spots with that bartender. Perhaps he’s sick of pretending to flirt with those fifty-year-old cougars, who were clearly attempting to undress him with their eyes. He leans over to help a gorgeous blonde who’s wearing something that resembles a towel. Perched on the stool, she strategically crosses her legs so that she offers him a quick glimpse of the equipment concealed between her thighs. He fills a glass for her, perhaps wondering what else of hers he can fill after his shift. Giovanna and Armando head off to the sofas. Tony whispers into my ear, asking me if I want to dance. I say yes at the exact moment that Luca sees us.

I can be satisfied. At least he recognizes me, and if only for a moment, I diverted his attention from the Scarlett Johansson look-alike. His expression is dazed, as if I were the last person he expected to see, but he nods and smiles at me, and the smile I give him back is happy. Then he frowns, suddenly serious, and his tiredness shows on his face.