When in Rome (8 page)

“It was written in your paperwork. They must have taken it from your initial questionnaire.”

“The initial questionnaire. Right! What extremely pertinent questions. I didn’t lie, though. I do live with a man . . . And if that offends the decency of our dear director or his holy grandmother . . . tell them that the man I live with helps pay the rent, since my wages are miserable wages.”

“No! It intrigued me. It was as good a way as any to find out if you’re engaged.” He’s silent, shifting gears. He has a nice profile. His lips are slightly protruding now, like he’s sulking. I stammer something. I point out where he needs to turn, feeling dumb. I’m not so arrogant as to believe that he likes me, but if he does, I’ll have to tell him that my love life is a total mess, I dream of having sex with my tenant, a young painter named Tony Boni called me back
again
this morning, and my mother will probably set me up with some creep at my cousin’s wedding if I don’t bring Luca. Of course, I don’t say any of this. I’m crazy, but not entirely stupid.

We arrive at my place. I thank him and leap out of the car unathletically. We say good-bye awkwardly, the way people do when one person saw the other with her ass in the air for a solid minute.

I hear Luca’s voice from the landing before I’ve even opened the apartment door. Wouldn’t it be just glorious if he were chatting with my mother? I’m tempted to take refuge on the terrace until the nuisance has left. But I can make out only his voice. It’s strangely high-pitched, and I wonder if he’s discovered some drug-induced paradise for frustrated writers. He’s talking nonsense about bees and rabbits—an obscure addict language? Finally, I hear another voice. I swear, if I find him whispering obscenities in some woman’s ear, I will evict him on the spot.

I open the door abruptly, and there he is, sitting on the couch next to little Emma, who is listening intently as he reads her a story from a picture book that’s bigger than she is. They both startle, and Emma looks bewildered. She was absorbed in a world of bees and bunnies, and I practically kicked in the door like a member of a vice squad. Luca gives me a dirty look.

“Aunt Carlotta! Come in but be quiet!” Emma exclaims.

“Yeah, come in but be quiet!” Luca echoes. “There’s a chubby bumblebee that’s afraid to fly, so he always ends up falling to the ground, and a mischievous bunny that keeps the whole forest awake by tapping his foot . . .”

How absurd! They explain the story so that I know what’s going on. But maybe he really is drugged, under the strange influence of children that even a thirty-two-year-old writer of erotica can’t escape. I listen, sitting on a chair, until it’s clear to me that the bee has learned to fly and the bunny has learned a little discipline. When the story ends, Emma jumps off the couch and rushes to hug me. I don’t have the faintest idea what she’s doing here with her big colorful book, but her vanilla scent intoxicates me.

“What happened to you, Aunt Carlotta?” she asks me, looking at my tights and skirt and a cobweb dangling from my shoulder. Even Luca finally notices my sorry state. He asks me the same question more colorfully.

“What happened to you, little butterfly? Do I have to go smash someone’s face in?”

“Nothing serious. I just fell on the job,” I say, continuing to hug Emma. “But what are you doing here, cutie?”

“Lara brought her over an hour ago,” Luca informs me. “She had an appointment with someone. I don’t know what or where, but she needed someone to look after Emma. Apparently the babysitter from the other night was incompetent.”

Seeing him so paternal, so patient, so strangely comfortable with a little girl he’s seen maybe three times is having a crazy effect on me. He’s too good. Dangerously good. It’s so much easier to hate him (or at least try to) when he’s playing the virile male in the next room. But this complicates things. It wouldn’t be enough for me to make love to him and wake up in the same bed the next morning. I want him to be the father of my children. I need to grow old with him. I want us to be buried next to each other. Completely unaware of my burial plans, Luca nudges me.

“After Emma leaves, tell me what happened,” he whispers. “Can you take care of her for now? I read her two stories, I told her about a fairy that lives in the fridge, and I made her a glass of warm milk, but now I want to write.”

“I’m on it,” I say. Emma steals my attention. I give her a cookie, we draw together, I comb her hair. It’s fun to be a mom for a while. I think I could learn to be good with kids. I’m not much taller than they are, I know how to make animal noises, and I can still see things that many other women my age haven’t been able to see for years: monsters under the bed when the storm rages outside and ghosts behind the billowing curtains. I think I’d be a good mother. But it’ll never happen. I just know it. I want to have children to give and receive love—not just to satisfy my biological clock or feel included in a society where motherhood is trendy again. I’m easily satisfied when it comes to many things, but not this. With this, it’s all or nothing. And it seems that nothing is the most likely option for me.

Enough! I hate self-pity. I’m actually not doing too bad. I’m working in the entertainment world, I live with a ridiculously hot guy, I have a suitor who calls, and next Saturday, I’m going to be somebody’s maid of honor. Sure, I just made a complete spectacle of myself, and Facebook and Twitter will probably have pictures soon, but I’m used to that kind of thing by now. Like Franz says, at least the people in my life will never be bored. I brush Emma’s hair while I console myself with these painful lies.

“Is Luca your boyfriend?” she suddenly asks me as I’m braiding her hair.

“No, he’s a friend of mine, just like your mom,” I say. Although her mother has never sucked on my bottom lip like a popsicle.

“Then can he be my boyfriend?”

Four years is pretty young to start trusting these bastards. Luckily, her mother will set her straight soon. We go to my room, and she takes the liberty of poking around my things while I change.

We’re rolling around on the carpet pretending we’re underwater when the phone rings. It’s my mother. She’s been calling me nonstop lately. Maybe I should change my number. Meanwhile, I’ll let the machine get it.

“Erika is just dying to meet Luca! You should bring him to the wedding; otherwise, you’ll be going with Catello.”

I wonder if she intends to keep him fresh in a freezer bag so she can pull him out if necessary. But I have another reason to go alone: to prevent Erika from hooking up with Luca. Mom must have described him well, because my loving sister is clearly already scheming to snatch him from under my nose. This will mean that I’ll have to put up with Catello. It would help if I could remember anything about him. Mom says I’ve met him before, but I don’t remember ever meeting anyone with such a ridiculous name.

Lara comes to get Emma that evening. Luca showers and dresses. He’s got a date somewhere with someone I don’t know. While he ties his shoes, he asks me about my workday. I tell him about my latest adventure, and he looks at me for a moment, eyes wide with shock. Then he bursts into laughter, first laughing at me, then laughing with me, throwing himself down on the bed with all his weight.

“You are a wonderful catastrophe,” he exclaims, running a hand through his hair and offering me a view of his magnificent neck and five o’clock shadow. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I had a hellish morning, but you always make me smile.”

“Why, what happened to you?”

He shrugs and smiles again, but I can tell that he doesn’t seem his happy self. I don’t understand why, and I suddenly feel worried about him. I love him—I can’t stand to see him sad.

“If something’s going on, you know you can talk to me, right?” I say.

“I know, butterfly. I’m sure you would give me advice worthy of a Dear Abby column.”

“I would, I learned from the best.”

He stares at me for a moment. “Do you think a person who has closed off his heart and doesn’t want to let people in would be able to handle sudden, strong emotion?”

My mouth gapes for a minute. My heart somersaults like a trapeze artist at the circus. I preferred his questions about breasts and high heels.

“You mean . . . Is this a personal thing? Or . . . is it for your book?”

“For my book, of course,” he says. “The sex and revenge scenes are fine, but now that’s she’s fallen in love in spite of herself, I’m in trouble. I have to make this woman’s love realistic, without it sounding ridiculous.”

Despite my boasts about my worth as a counselor, my tongue is tied up in knots. For some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not talking about his book at all. He’s turned my heart into pulp. He doesn’t notice my silence, though, because his own overshadows it. Tense, distracted, and impatient, he seems lost in a thousand thoughts.

When he leaves, he’s wearing a simple blazer with a white shirt, jeans, and a padded trench coat. This is different from his usual detached air; he’s acting like this is a tryst. The pain this causes me makes the torment I suffer over his moans in the other room seem inconsequential. A monster thrashes in my stomach. My hands shake. It’s like the earth has opened up and sucked me down into its darkest depths.

I can’t resist peeking out the window. Luca is standing on the sidewalk, whipped by the cold wind. A car stops. I see a woman’s slender hand on the steering wheel. He gets in, they drive off, and the sleet swallows them.

I spend the evening drawing and eating Mini Ritz crackers. I have an album full of images like the one I’m drawing tonight: always the same subject, drawn in pencil, charcoal, chalk, pastels . . . The images are my stolen glimpses. Luca looking thoughtful as he stares at the computer screen, rereading the last lines he’s written, chin propped on his hand. Luca sleeping alone, with the sheets clinging to him like a woman’s legs. Luca in the shower, the frosted glass revealing only the shadow of his muscles and the wave of his hair. I know I’m halfway to stalker status, because he doesn’t know about these drawings. But I need them, not just so I can marvel at the beauty of his features, but so I can see the beauty that his emotions reveal. Tonight, I draw him with the same sad eyes I saw before he left.

Around midnight, I hear the sound of a car on the road, and I cautiously look outside again. It’s the same car from earlier, and Luca and the woman get out. The snow has stopped, and the light of a streetlamp illuminates them. She’s young, and from what I can see from up here, she’s beautiful. Elegant and graceful, she doesn’t look like the women that usually traipse through here. A green silk scarf is wrapped around her short hair, which I think is the same color as honey. They talk, and even from above I sense excitement between them. He takes her hand and squeezes it as if to warm her. Then they embrace. For a moment, my heart stops. I’m seriously ready to throw myself out the window and splatter on the sidewalk like a spilled scoop of ice cream. But first, I’d like to have some bionic ears so I can hear what they’re saying. There’s something sweet in the way they’re standing, something infinitely worse than the wild encounters I’m used to seeing.

I scramble away from the window just as Luca opens the front door of the apartment complex. The woman doesn’t follow him up; instead, she gets in her car and drives away. I hide my drawings and rush to the couch, then stretch out as if I’ve been asleep. When he opens the door, I pretend that the noise wakes me up. He looks dreamy, as if his mind is somewhere else, perhaps still with the beautiful girl with the scarf and the slender hands.

“How’d it go?” I ask him with hypocritical nonchalance.

“It was nothing special.”

“Did you make a new friend?”

He doesn’t answer me or even say good night—he just tells me that he’s going to bed. I’m left alone with the sound of the TV. Suddenly I realize this is what it’s going to be like when he leaves. There’s no doubt in my mind that he will. He’ll fall in love, and he’ll leave me, forgetting all his theories about the illusion of love. The weight of this thought is heavy, and I arch my back under it. Who is this mysterious woman who is bringing out his tender side? Yesterday Luca was his usual self, a ruthless womanizer. What happened, and when? This morning, while I was gone? Was it love at first sight? While I gave an audience of complete strangers a show, did Luca feel butterflies in his stomach and fall in love?

I seem to have lost him.

Except he was never mine in the first place.

I listen for the sound of his feet on the floor before I get up. As I walk barefoot down the hall, I’m tempted to barge into his room and tell him that I love him.

But wisdom sends me to my room.

SEVEN

Luca has been acting increasingly strange lately. He doesn’t talk much, he writes for hours without a break, and he disappears every night, even when he’s not bartending. One night he didn’t even come back home until eight in the morning, as I was drinking a five-shot espresso with trembling hands. He looked tired and pale. He smiled, gave me a peck on the cheek, and went to shower.

Fortunately, work has kept me busy. After the first week on the job, Iriza invited me to go to a cafe that serves the most delicious hot chocolate in the world. While sipping our heavenly drinks, she handed me a booklet with the stage design marked out, down to the smallest details, even those only hinted at in the script. Getting the few pieces of furniture won’t be difficult, as they are fairly ordinary and so minimalist that I think the staged house will look like the family is in the process of moving out. But I’m worried that Laura’s Barbie doll collection is going to drive me crazy—the sadistic Rocky has demanded the original versions. Finding the first Barbie—from the 1960s, with a black-and-white striped dress, jaunty ponytail, and seductive gaze—will be like finding an endangered monk seal.

Iriza is so nice. All of a sudden, we find ourselves talking about our private lives. I discover that she was married and that her husband passed away from cancer. It doesn’t seem possible that her fresh face and friendly personality hide a painful past. Now my worries about trivial things like a broken heart and a few over-the-top relatives seem juvenile and whiny.

“Don’t make that face,” she says kindly. “It’s been so long, and time has been good to me. My work is exciting, and I have room for more things in my life. By the way, I’m sorry to tell you that your job isn’t going to be as easy as it might have sounded.”

“It hasn’t seemed easy at all. I want to talk to Rocky, but he makes me want to pull that scarf tighter around his neck and I forget what I was going to say. Oops—are you friends with him?”

She smiles, shrugging. “Rocky doesn’t have friends. He lives in his own delusional world and dislikes everyone for random reasons. In your case, he hates you because a long time ago a girlfriend from Calabria dumped him out of the blue. Ever since then, he’s had a visceral hatred for everyone who reminds him of that area. It’s nothing personal.”

“So he doesn’t like me because I’m from Calabria, just like his ex-girlfriend?”

“Yeah, but it would have been the same thing if you were from Umbria—like the plumber who screwed up the irrigation system in his garden—or if you were from the Philippines—like the maid that left him to return to her home without even giving him notice. He’s moody and neurotic, and he’s convinced he’s a misunderstood genius. But his ideas do work. I’ve worked with him before, and his shows aren’t bad. One time he reworked
The Story of an Abandoned Doll
, but instead of two little girls fighting over a doll in a chalk circle, he made them two women vying for a man. The one that let him go was the winner. Men are like that. They don’t want to feel trapped. It’s better to be seen as a friend or companion rather than possessive. Then there’s hope they’ll notice you.”

My sixth sense picks up that she’s talking about Franz. But she’s also talking about me, even though she doesn’t know it. I smile. “Then there are the men who need to feel the heel on their necks to be happy. But really, men are on the same level as earthworms to me.”

“Are you with anyone?”

“I’m currently out of the chalk circle, waiting for the man I love to realize that I’m the right woman for him.”

Iriza explodes in crystalline laughter. “Then you’re like the winner in Rocky’s adaptation. Or Penelope from
The Odyssey
, the woman who waits confidently. Hopefully that will pay off.”

“I’ve always wondered if Penelope really does win in the end,” I say. “Ulysses basically just leaves her again after a while. It’s typical—men hardly stop for long. They make us believe they’re here for good, but then the sea calls to them. Who knows, maybe Ulysses went back to have another go with Circe.”

Iriza winces playfully. “I hope not.”

“Don’t worry,” I say in a guru-like tone. “Perhaps there is a solution—Penelope is seriously detrimental to his mental health by herself. Even Circe, after she’s used up all her seduction techniques, will become boring. I think it’s all about balance. A little bit domestic and a little bit slutty, you know?”

“Does that work for you?”

“Oh, I haven’t tested my theory yet. I guess I’ll try it out and let you know!”

Iriza nods to the waiter to bring us our bill, and she insists on paying.

My social life has blossomed. Tony called me again. Given the terrible way I acted, I’m beginning to think that he either really likes me, or that vomit turns him on. I haven’t called him back, just like I haven’t called back Giovanna or my mother, who have both left me a handful of delusional messages. Giovanna called to tell me that she’s met a great guy, and my mother to say that my bridesmaid’s dress is on its way—and that she’s sending a message from Catello with it.

Strangely, Erika calls one evening. Unfortunately, Luca picks up as I’m locked in the bathroom with a wax-strip Groucho Marx mustache under my nose. Through the door, I hear his voice turning overly polite, and then he says her name and alarm bells blare in my mind. I burst out of the bathroom screaming “Noooo!” in a manner worthy of Renata Tebaldi. I dive onto the couch and snatch the phone from his hands like a soccer goalie blocking a penalty kick with a textbook dive.

Luca looks at me, stunned, his last words—“Yes, we live together”—hanging in the air. The look I give him is a cross between Freddy Krueger and a fawn: ruthless and pleading. As I talk to Erika, however, I lose the fawn part.

“What do you want,” I say, not even bothering to phrase it like a question.

“For how educated you are, you have the manners of a truck driver. Were you singing just now, or do you not want me to meet Luca?”

A growl rises up inside of me—either my stomach rumbling, or my soul churning with anger. “Why are you calling me? It’s not my birthday. It’s not even my funeral.”

“I hear you’ve been chosen as maid of honor,” she says, making no effort to disguise the mockery in her voice. “Congratulations!”

“Do you want to take my place?”

“I would never deprive you of such a glorious moment.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Carlotta, you’re so tense. Relax, okay?”

“I’m relaxed! I am very relaxed!” I say, sounding as relaxed as someone about to be subjected to lethal injection.

“Luca’s such a nice guy, and he has a beautiful voice. Mom said he was very interesting.”

“Mom thinks a lot of things are interesting—Aunt Porzia’s broccoli cake, for example.”

“I’ll just see him at the wedding, then. You’re bringing him, right?”

“I have to go,” I say, without answering her question.

“You don’t always have to be so uptight, little sister. Irritability gives you wrinkles.”

“And hypocrisy gives you hemorrhoids.”

With that, I end the conversation by throwing the phone on the couch. I’m breathing hard when Luca comes to check on me before he goes out.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, giving me a pat on the cheek. I’d like to bare my soul to him about my senseless struggle with my sister and our stupid competition to see who can crush the other (which I’ve never won, of course). I’d like to wrest the promise from him that if she calls again, he will treat her like a butler would, completely detached, and not give her a second glance if he meets her. But such promises—if he would be so magnanimous as to make them—would be meaningless. We’re not together. He’s not my boyfriend, and I have no right to extort such oaths from him.

Moreover, he’s not the problem. I am. As long as things are so fragile that just the idea of Erika makes me seriously fear losing him, I will never be happy, and our relationship will never be more than this exhausting game of war. I don’t know much, but I do know this: the battle will turn once I get my hands on something she can’t touch. A job that I’m proud of, true love, and above all else, deep self-love. Until then, my feelings will never change. So I just tell Luca that sometimes my family makes me hysterical. Then I run to the bathroom, as the wax has turned into wallpaper glue.

On Friday morning, the package containing my bridesmaid dress arrives. Entirely taffeta, the color dung-brown, it’s worse than even my most horrifying speculations. Along with the dress is the nice message from Catello that my mother promised she would pass along. It’s written in kindergartenesque handwriting on the back of the invitation.

“I can’t weit to see you again.”

Weit?

After a lot of thinking, I’ve decided he must be one of two guys that my mother tried to set me up with a few years ago, during an end-of-the-year party at her aunt Ermellina’s house. One of the two was pretty cool; he was tall and dark, had great hair and a tiny nose ring, and smoked enough for four Turks. He wasn’t that bad, except that he kept trying to reach out and touch me. The other guy, however, had a spittle problem, a receding hairline, and glasses that made his pupils look like watermelon seeds. I spent the whole evening trying to escape the nightmare that was both of these guys. I hope I don’t have to do the same thing this time around.

The whole wedding is making me nervous. The thought of seeing all my relatives (especially Erika) increases my despair as well as my desire to invent an excuse and stay home. But I want to see my dad—who will surely be there, as he has kept a civil relationship with my mother’s side of the family—and that’s stronger than everything else.

Saturday afternoon, I do my makeup under the watchful eyes of three Barbie dolls that I just bought on the Internet. They’re the only ones I’ve managed to find quickly online. While I almost pinch my eyelids with my eyelash curler, the three plastic women peek out from the dressing table, still in their pink boxes. Peach Blossom Barbie probably feels sorry for me, but the other two are laughing at me behind my back. Killer Barbie, with her knife and little black dress, looks at me with contempt. Tattoo Barbie, with her beautiful bob, an anthology of tattoos on her arms, and leopard-print leggings, would probably tell me to throw out the bridesmaid dress—to hell with Beatrice and all seven generations of my family! If only I had the courage . . .

Suddenly, Luca interrupts my silent conversation with the dolls. Stopping out in the hall, he leans against the doorjamb and stares at me.

“You’re prettier without makeup,” he says with a smile, and it’s not even sarcastic. As always, he’s half-naked. Damn him. He’s wearing blue cutoffs that used to be suit pants. They’re already sitting low on his waist, but he thrusts his hands in his pockets with so much energy that it’s a miracle the pants don’t fall to the floor. He’d probably laugh and show off his goods with pride.

“Am I?” I fake disinterest while flames lick the inside of my stomach.

“Yeah. It hides your freckles,” he says, coming in and sitting down on my bed. Peeking at him in the mirror, I feel like an ice cube on a sunny windowsill.

“The idea was to make me look less like a strawberry.”

“I like your strawberry face. Your freckles and your hair are fun.”

“Fun like a roller coaster ride.” But I’m happy he’s talking to me. He seems more peaceful. I wonder what it would be like to lick his face, like licking the frosting of a donut . . .

“You’re beautiful, Carlotta, and that’s coming from an expert.”

I gasp and accidentally smear mascara all over my cheek. A wave of heat ripples through me, and I unconsciously clench my crossed legs.

I try to joke. “Yeah, beautiful for a freak of nature.” He watches me with attention that I don’t understand. My heart pounds against my poor ribs. If he doesn’t stop, I might faint.

“Don’t make jokes, butterfly. I’m just being brotherly. No ulterior motives.”

He gets up, comes over to the dressing table, and starts to play with one of my curls while I dab at the mascara stain on my cheek. As I watch his abdomen in the mirror, I wish we were on the cover of a romance novel, me half-naked as well, with his powerful arms wrapped around me, his nostrils flaring with desire. Instead, I point to the dress that’s laid out on the chair.

“Will I be able to look elegant in my diarrhea-colored bridesmaid dress?”

“Mmm,” he mumbles. He’s probably not saying anything so he won’t offend me.

He keeps fiddling with my hair, and my stomach quivers as if I’ve swallowed a full-size python. He bends down, pecks me on the cheek, smiles, shakes his head, and goes into the kitchen. In a little while, he’ll probably go out for one of his usual nights at the bar. I put on the dress and immediately cover it with my coat, which is long enough to conceal every reproachful inch. Then I go to the kitchen, too.

“I just hope Catello has stopped his inappropriate touching or spitting habits,” I sigh, slipping on my shoes.

Luca gulps black coffee. “Who’s Catello?”

“The guy that my mother wants me to sleep with,” I say with a shrug. Luca winces. If I were a bit more confident, I’d think that the idea of me and Catello has upset him.

I laugh. “Just know that I’m undergoing this torture all to save you.” He doesn’t laugh at all. He swallows the last sip of coffee and leans on the table with his arms crossed. “Catello is the toll that I must pay for your freedom from Aunt Porzia, Aunt Palma, and Aunt Ermelline.” And Erika, whose attacks I fear the most. Still silent, he gives me a strange look. I move to the doorway. “Okay, I’m going. I probably won’t come back tonight. I’m afraid I’ll be sleeping at my mom’s place.” I have an overnight bag with me that contains everything I’ll need to spend the night in the loony bin with my dear mother for a warden.

“With Catello?” he asks. He smiles a bit, then waves good-bye.

The very thought of the night ending with Catello makes me break out into a cold sweat. If Catello even thinks about coming near me, I’ll crush him. I should have let Lara give me pepper spray. For lack of a better option, I take the armed Barbie doll out of her box. Perhaps I’ll defend myself with her, or maybe having her in my purse will give me what I need not to succumb to such destruction. I swear, I’m the only bridesmaid on earth with such an item in my bag.