A Not So Lonely Planet

by Karina Kennedy

  I look over and realize that Mario now has an erection. Wow. That is a huge penis . . . right next to my knee. Almost touching it. His friends cheer and laugh. It seems like this should really bother me, but for some reason, I’m just staring at it. I don’t think I’ve seen a fully erect penis in the light of day like this. Is it moving? I close my eyes. Too weird. It reminds me of one of those giant worms from the film Tremors.

  Frantonio tweaks one or two other people and returns to the camera as a cloud passes in front of the sun. “Merde.” He pulls out his light meter, takes some quick readings. “One moment. Tenete duro. Almost ready.” I can feel my body sagging again. I resist. “Siete perfetti. I’m only waiting on the sun.” Fucking sun. Come on. I’m feeling sleepy. The faint call of my bladder has become a shouting, throbbing pulse. Shit. Why did I drink those two glasses of wine? I cross my legs tightly, hoping Frantonio won’t notice. He snaps a few photos. “Why did you move, Miss Taylor? Per favore, uncross your legs, my dear.”

  “Do I have to?” The cold water tickling my shins is not helping my bladder.

  “Sì, as you were,” he says, now with urgency as the sun emerges from the clouds. He looks through his lens. “Quickly.”

  “I can’t right now. Just trust me on this one.”

  “My dear, we have only moments of perfect light left!”

  “I have to pee!” I blurt out, desperately. “Maybe I’ll just run to the bathroom?”

  “Are you joking?” he says.

  “I’ll go behind that tree,” I say.

  “No time!” Frantonio barks, losing his cool.

  “You think you’re the only one who has to pee?” yells Yang. “Clench up that snatch and uncross your fucking legs, mate!” People shout in agreement. I have no choice. I uncross my legs. My knees wobble. My bladder is now screaming.

  “Thank you!” Frantonio begins to shoot madly. “Paolo, testa indietro. Beautiful Regina. Chin just a touch to the left, madam. Exquisite.” My butt is clinched. My eyes are clinched. Everything is clinched. Why didn’t I do more Kegles? Kegels are good for sex too. I did see this YouTube channel once with this girl, she was like a pelvic floor trainer. Like those guys in the gym that yell at you, only she talked to your vagina in a soothing, encouraging voice as you struggled to keep a jade egg on a string from falling out of it. My thighs are now shaking badly but I don’t notice. I’m too busy staring at the small arcs of water shooting up from the base of the fountain, into the air, and then falling gracefully back down. What if water fell up instead of down? What if rain . . . as my mind wanders, the screaming of my bladder morphs into a triumphant opera aria and my body relaxes. Suddenly I feel fantastic. Oh God, no. No, no, no . . . I open my eyes to see: a golden arc of urine hitting Mario’s leg.

  “Ma che cazzo!” Mario yells. People around us react.

  “Fuck it,” I hear Yang say. “If she’s pissing, so am I.”

  “Anch’io,” shouts someone from above us. “Me too.” Yells of protest in multiple languages. People peel off.

  “No, go back. Non ho finito!” Frantonio’s desperate voice is lost in a chorus of pandemonium as the human fountain collapses. People pee, shove, slip, squeal, shout, laugh, scramble in all directions. I bite my lip and look up at Frantonio. “Fuck!” he yells, throwing up his arms in defeat. He glares at me. “You are a catastrophe.” He throws his light meter into the bushes and stalks off, swearing in French. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

  “Well done, DLT!” Yang grins, giving me the thumbs up.

  Chapter 23

  How Not to Win An Argument

  AT THIS POINT, IF: you have managed to sabotage a group artistic endeavor.

  YOU SHOULD: keep your head down, stick close to your friends, and say little.

  DO NOT: wait until the artist is drunk and follow him alone into the library.

  Library, Casa di Pavone: Friday, 11:12 p.m.

  I slip stealthily into the silent oasis, away from the noise of the after-dinner party. Frantonio has a half-finished bottle of Brunello in his hand, and he’s perusing titles.

  “That fountain mess was not my fault,” I say with quiet indignation. At the sound of my voice, Frantonio turns and gives me a tired, bemused look.

  “You? No. Go away. Out.” He points to the door and turns back to the shelf.

  “Excuse me? I am not a dog.”

  “No. Dogs piss on trees, not people,” he says coolly, without looking at me. Wow. He’d avoided me throughout dinner and afterward. Was he really that mad? “You completely ruined my photo shoot.” Yes. He was.

  “You’re being melodramatic.” He doesn’t say anything, just ignores me and continues to search the shelf. “I read about Virginia Oldoini. She was considered influential because she directed these weird, fantastic photos. She was in charge. Not bullied into it because she was put on the spot.”

  “She had a disciplined respect for detail and patience for perfection. You could learn from her.”

  “You took a bunch of photos before it all fell apart. Why are you so bent out of shape? Because somebody’s left butt cheek or kneecap was slightly in shadow?” He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes, but still says nothing. “People had fun,” I say. “Everyone left laughing and screaming. You got your pretentious porno photo, but you’re still pouting.” At this, he suddenly turns on me, his face flushed—from the wine or temper, or both.

  “Pretentious?”

  “Yeah. Pretenzioso. Pompous, overblown.” His eyes narrow, but I’m on a roll.

  “I’m an artist. I won’t be judged by a naïve American girl whose idea of art is using digital stickers on her iPhone.”

  “You don’t even know me! I’m an artist too. I’m a writer.”

  “Really? What have you published? My work has shown all over Europe.”

  “Yeah, Regina showed me the book from your Paris exhibition. It was lazy and uninspired.”

  “That’s not what the critics said in the culture section of Le Monde.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t. You’re so used to people blowing sunshine up your ass all the time, you couldn’t see that your Spencer Tunick bird bath was about as profound as my mother’s Noah’s Ark quilt.”

  “You didn’t seem so unimpressed with me last night on your knees,” he snaps.

  “I didn’t know your head was harder than your cock!” I snap back. We’re nose to nose, nostrils flaring. He stares. I stare. I can feel my heart beating, blood pumping. There is anger, but there is also incredible sexual tension in the fury. I know he feels it too. For a millisecond, I actually think he’s going to grab me and kiss me. But this time, he does not. He simply shakes his head, gives a defeated chuckle, and retreats.

  “I cannot win an argument with a writer. I give up. I just want to find my book, go to my room with my bottle of wine, and be pompously, pretentiously alone. May I do that?” I feel a pang of regret. The dogfight instinct in me was hard to leash—something I’d inherited from my father.

  “I didn’t ask to be in your photo,” I say quietly.

  “Yes, I know,” he says. “But I needed you.” This surprises and disarms me even further. His eyes aren’t angry. They’re disappointed. “Deep down, I knew you were going to somehow screw it up. But stupidly, still I wanted you.” It’s insulting and flattering at the same time.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know!” He throws his arms up. “I photograph supermodels all the time, you’re nothing like them.”

  “Yeah, no shit. Thanks.”

  “But you have this thing. It makes me fucking crazy,” he says. This is the first time I’ve heard his voice waver. “Good crazy?” I ask.

  “Merde, no.” He’s not smiling. “You’re like an exasperating, irritating mess.” Now I’m not smiling either. “But you’ve got this heat, this light, you are . . . comment dit-on translucide... translucent. It’s like I can see straight into your heart with my lens. And I see this raw, unbridled energy. You reflect this on everyth
ing around you.” Wow. My head swims.

  “Like a sunset?”

  “No, like an atom bomb. But for a photographer, this is irresistible. One can search for this always, but find it rarely. It is hard to capture. But when you can, the photo comes alive. It is pure magic. This is what I wanted. This is why I needed you. But I guess that makes me pretentious.”

  I stare at him. My mouth is dry, silent. My heart races. My stomach is in a knot. No one has ever said anything quite so poetic to me. About me. This means much more than song lyrics. I can’t believe I’ve insulted Frantonio so badly and this is what he actually thinks of me. I want to throw my arms around him and bury my face in his neck, cry mascara tears onto his expensive dress shirt and ask him to forgive me. I want him to kiss my forehead and tell me we’ll laugh about it tomorrow, then take me back to his room. Instead he just puts his glasses back on. “The writer is out of words.” He picks up his bottle of Brunello, with one last glance at the bookshelf. “And the reader is out of luck.” He strides toward the door. I want to stop him, but my feet won’t move.

  “Wait . . .” I say. He turns around, but I don’t know what to say. “What book were you looking for?” I ask, stalling. I just don’t want him to leave.

  “The Alchemist,” he replies. “She doesn’t have it.” He continues to the door. This is the same book Will sent with me on my trip. My heart does a little leap.

  “I do,” I say eagerly. “I have it.” Frantonio stops by the door and turns to look at me, surprised. “It’s the only book I brought with me from home.”

  “Did you?” he smiles. The serendipity is not lost on him. I fail to mention it was my ex-boyfriend who gave it to me.

  “It’s in my room. If you want . . . to . . .” the words hang in the air between us as I hold my breath. He stares at me. I wait.

  “You like this book?” he asks. Shit. Why did he have to ask that? I don’t want to answer, but I have to.

  “I haven’t read it yet,” I admit.

  “Oh,” he says. “You should,” he smiles. “Bonne nuit ma chèrie.” And with that, he’s gone.

  My Room, Casa di Pavone: Saturday, 12:03 a.m.

  I’m calling home because I feel guilty for not “checking in often” as I promised Rosalie I would. Not because I currently feel completely deflated and miss the sound of my mother’s voice.

  Video Call - ROSALIE TAYLOR - 12:04 a.m.

  “Hi Sweetie!” Rosalie chirps loudly over background music as she finally managers to answer. “Can you hear me? I’m at the Seven Seas Karaoke fundraiser,” she says.

  I recognize the setting of the local elementary school as a bad cover of “Beyond the Sea” is belted out by our mailman dressed as King Triton. My mother is wearing a crown of sea shells she’s made herself. “I can hear you but I can’t see you.”

  “That’s because it’s dark in my room.”

  “Oh, of course, it’s very late over there! Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I just—wanted to check in,” I say weakly.

  “Oh, good! We’re good. I can’t dance because I twisted my ankle in a hole on the dock, but I’m helping with the bake sale. I’m selling those cookies shaped like sea horses that you love. Nora’s here too. She’s got peppermint porpoises. Do you want to say hi?”

  “No, Mom, I’m good. Call me tomorrow or something.”

  “Okay honey! Chow!”

  End Call - ROSALIE TAYLOR - 12:09 a.m.

  I switch off the phone, roll over, and try to go back to sleep.

  Casa di Pavone: Saturday, 12:43 a.m.

  “Marina?” Yin’s voice floats softly up the stairs after me. I’m standing in the hallway, in the robe she loaned me, with my copy of The Alchemist in my hand.

  “Hey,” I smile. With her white slip dress, alabaster skin, and long blonde hair freed of its ponytail, she looks like a lovely specter.

  “I thought that was you, mon ami. We’re just reading some of Carlo’s poems in the kitchen and sipping scotch. Would you like to join us?”

  “I’m tired. Maybe tomorrow?” Carlo’s poetry stinks, but I don’t mention that.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just to . . . loan this book,” I say. It’s the truth. What else am I going to say? She knows my room is the other direction. Yin looks sideways at the book in my hand.

  “That’s a very good one. Maybe keep it for yourself. Some people don’t appreciate unique things they’re offered,” Yin says quietly. She knows where I’m going. “We are all going hiking tomorrow afternoon. You too!” she smiles. “Rest up, chèrie.” She blows me a kiss and walks back to the kitchen. Hiking? I look at the book in my hands, the note. Maybe she’s right. But then I remember Frantonio’s words in the library. The light thingy. He said he needed me. I keep walking up the steps.

  Frantonio’s room was on the second floor. I’d seen him on his balcony yesterday and counted windows until I figured out which was his. (No, that’s not stalkery, it’s Sherlocky.) Feet from his door, I pause, open the book, and read the note I’ve written for the hundredth time.

  Dear friend,

  Without ego there can be no sense of self. Without self, there can be no individual expression. Please excuse the hot-tempered, ill-considered words of an inexperienced fellow artist. You make me crazy too.

  Marina

  I slip the note into the book and bend down to lean it against his door, stopping in surprise. There is music playing inside. A strange Italian jazz. A man of eclectic tastes. Clearly he’s still awake. I knock softly. No answer. I knock a bit louder. The door opens.

  “Da?” Standing in front of me is the Russian redhead—wearing nothing.

  “I’m sorry, I have the wrong—” I sputter. I must have miscounted windows.

  “Is that Ms. Taylor?” Frantonio’s words are slurred. I stiffen. She sees the book.

  “Eto bibliotekar,” laughs the redhead. I flush with embarrassment and jealousy.

  “Tell her to join us,” he calls. At this I bristle, shocked. What? Fat chance! Averting my eyes from the perfectly erect, rose-colored nipples on her size C breasts, I thrust the book out. Red takes it, surprised.

  “I don’t need it back.” I make a hasty retreat, whispering angrily as I go. I’m so stupid, stupid!

  Casa di Pavone: Saturday, 1:06 a.m.

  I surprise myself when I seek out Bob in my state of distress. Have I actually made my first geriatric friend? Exactly as she was the other night, she is singing and sculpting. When I sit next to her, I’m grateful she can’t see my eyes, red and puffy from crying. But the truth is, she knows without seeing. I’ve said less than three words to her since I entered the room, but I’m sure she can hear it in my voice. She says nothing, just sings along with Joni Mitchell as she whacks a large mound of clay onto the table in front of me, smashes my hands into it, pats my head, and returns to her work. I don’t know Joni’s “A Case of You,” but her sad words seem to melt through me and settle into my soul. I just give myself over to it, crying again, smashing the clay through my fingers. Why did I care so much about a man I hardly knew? Was it because I thought he knew me? He saw something in me I wanted to see. He made me feel special and then not.

  When Bob returns to check my progress at the end of the album, I’ve managed to create a clay bust of Frantonio (although it doesn’t look much like him—especially now that it’s been stabbed multiple times with the end of a paintbrush). “È buono” she says. Bob scoops it up. Her warm, wrinkled palms and strong, knobby fingers fold Frantonio back into a ball. She smacks the clay onto the table again. “Riprova.” Taking my hand, she puts it on my heart and then back onto the clay. “Più profondo.” Deeper. She’s right. We are strong women artists working side by side, listening to another strong artistic woman sing from her heart. I should dig deep into my artist’s soul and sculpt something meaningful. I’ll sculpt a donkey and name it Frantonio.

  Chapter 24

  How Not to See the Italian Countryside

  My Room, Cas
a di Pavone: Saturday, 11:36 a.m.

  I don’t want to see anyone. Sociable is the last thing I’m feeling. Instead, I work on my book and eat an entire bag of Abbracci cookies. I read on my tablet about Catherine of Siena, one of the two patron saints of Italy. Making notes in my journal, I find myself distracted by the adventures in Rome I’d read to Yin and Yang. I begin to write up my embarrassing fountain episode. By the time I’m done, I’m laughing at my own expense. Maybe the girls are right. But this material is more like a blog. Suddenly, an idea. I can do both!

  I click over and discover that my dear friend Michael (Mike’s boyfriend) is currently online. I’ll just do a quick video chat. As the tablet is ringing, I suddenly realize it’s 3:15 a.m. in Florida. Shit! I try to disconnect, but then—

  “Florida Woman Mugs Senior Citizen Over Last Airplane Seat!” Michael announces in his musical accent from the video chat window on my tablet. This is a running gag. Apparently most of the nation’s ridiculous news headlines originate in my state:

  Florida Man Shoots at Hurricane.

  Florida Man, High on Meth, Tries to Rob Liquor Store With Dead Stingray.

  Florida Woman Steals Gambling Fees Because Husband Spends Too Much at Lowes.

  Florida Man Points Slingshot at Parents in School Parking Lot, Throws Armadillo at Car.

  Michael, eating a taco, is still wearing his very loud turquoise and yellow silk shirt from whatever club they’ve been dancing at all night. Originally from Barbados, he’s always been the most colorful dresser I know. With his good looks, confidence, and charm, he pulls it off.