A Not So Lonely Planet

by Karina Kennedy

  Sheela prods me over to a short pedestal in front of some mirrors. “Okay. Up you go. Let’s have a look atcha.” I obey and stand still as she puts the unlit cigarette back into her mouth with her green hand and studies me. “You’re skinny as a post.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No tits. No hips. Yer arse is half the size of Regina’s.”

  “Sorry.”

  “We’ve got eighty years of costumes here. What’s the theme?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “That’s heaps of help. Maybe we’ll just throw you in Marie’s unicorn suit and be done with it.” She jabs her unlit cigarette up at the unicorn hunting trophy. “One size fits all. The rest of it zips on, with real hoofs.”

  “That guy looks extinct.” I stare at the hollow unicorn head with haunting eye patches and a twisted plastic horn.

  “Marie mounted the head after a party where Luciano ran around sticking the horn into women’s bums, loads of craic,” she laughs.

  “Wait, Regina told me the name of the event. I’ll check online for the theme.” I do a quick search. If Frantonio sees me in that unicorn costume I’ll just die. Sheela crams the unlit cigarette into her mouth and whips out her tape measure. She wraps it around various parts of my body, making notes on her forearm, which is a light pink color. When she sees me staring at it, she explains.

  “Fucking eejits in the dying room don’t know carmine from crottle. I have to babysit them every day.”

  I shake my head in sympathy (as if I have a clue what crottle is). Then I find something on my phone. “Oh, this may be it. The Italian Cultural Institute’s Gods and Warriors Battle Hunger in Italy. So, I guess the theme is gods and warriors? This chick’s got a sexy Greek dress and a sword. And this guy is a samurai warrior.”

  “Gods and warriors? Boring but easy. Sexy Aphrodite?” she asks, rolling the unlit cigarette back and forth in her lips. I consider.

  “Maybe something a little more kick-ass?”

  “Like Kali?” She pulls a large book off a shelf, flipping through. “Hindu goddess and destroyer of demons. Dark mother goddess of creation and rebirth.”

  “Fantastic and original,” I say, getting excited. “The last thing you want at a costume party is other people wearing your same costume.” But then, Sheela shows me a picture. “Wow! That’s . . . a lot of arms, and she’s blue, and topless.”

  “But look at that headdress and all that bling! Fucking brilliant.”

  “How about a Celtic goddess?” I ask. Sheela smiles.

  “I’m named after one. Sheela na gig,” she turns pages in her book.

  “That’s awesome! Tell me more.”

  “Gig is from the Norse for deified female or giantess. Sheela just means girl. You can find her carved in stone on old churches. Sheela na gig is like a version of the ancient Earth Mother and associated renewal and afterlife.”

  “Is she sexy?” I ask. Sheela shows me a goddess with big gold earrings and long, flowing red hair cascading around her naked body. Her legs are spread wide open, and her hands are pulling open her vagina. I stare in shock. Speechless.

  “Sexy enough for you?” Sheela snorts.

  “Your mother named you after her?” I ask, surprised. Sheela holds up a pendant from the pile of pirate’s treasure heaped around her neck and shoulders. What looked like a Celtic heart with a hole in the middle I can now see is clearly the image of legs spread, feet together, and hands in the shape of a vulva.

  “I am the entire universe within the void,” says Sheela. “Mam was sick almost her whole life. I was an accident. She knew she was dying during the birth when she chose the name. For mam, “tomb” and “womb” were linked. She wanted me to know she’d always be with me, even after death.”

  “Oh, that is really, sweet and sad . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Forget it. My mam also had a terrible sense of humor. The bitch. How about the Egyptian goddess of power and protection?”

  “Isis? Maybe not. Let’s go back to Greek. Could you just make me an Amazon warrior princess . . . like Wonder Woman?” I ask. Sheela grins widely, revealing a gold canine tooth.

  “Does the pope shit in the Vatican?” she asks with a wink. This is not a woman who drives ten miles under the speed limit, or listens to Garrison Keillor with her friends while knitting cat toys. Florida doesn’t have oldies like Sheela, unless they’re working as palm readers or fading off the biceps of Vietnam vets. She is fantastic.

  Teatro alla Scala, Milan: Thursday, 3:14 p.m.

  I’m waiting for my final wardrobe fitting. No messages from Frantonio in days. I desperately want to message him but hold myself back, not wanting to tell him yet that I’m coming. I hope he’ll be glad. I flip through my journal, going over the notes I made during my days in Milan. Sheela was kind enough to let me stay in her large studio flat in centro storico near the theater, but kicked me out every morning when she left for work. “Too many things to see here to lie around all day like a dosser.”

  If by “things to see” she meant every pizzeria and gelato shop within a mile radius of her flat, I came, I saw, I conquered. There was a lot of walking, to make sure the ass she measured for my costume on Tuesday was going to match the ass I had to squeeze into my costume on Friday.

  I saw the Duomo, Last Supper, a castle, and two palaces, but my favorite place was the Museo Nazionale delle Scienza E della Tecnologia Leonardo Da Vinci. In addition to a massive collection of Da Vinci’s sketches and models of his inventions, the museum has examples of every form of transportation you can imagine. My favorite exhibit was about the mathematician Maria Gaetana Agnesi. Sadly, she was the only woman featured in the entire museum. Did I happen to miss the room filled with all the female Italian scientists? Or has the math and science patriarchy in Italy always been just as exclusive as it is in other parts of the world? I wonder.

  NOTES ON ITALIAN WOMAN OF INFLUENCE: Maria Agnesi

  1. Born in Milan in 1718, the daughter of a silk merchant, a child prodigy surrounded by tutors, modest and deeply pious.

  2. Driven by family ambition, her father pushed her to learn French, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew and displayed her talents publicly in his evening salons.

  3. She published a book on philosophy and physics at age twenty.

  4. At thirty, Maria published a two-volume work on new differential and integral calculus, bringing it into general use.

  5. The pope arranged for a faculty appointment at the University of Bologna that she never took. Instead she taught math in her home.

  6. Maria wrote the first surviving mathematical handbook written by a woman, Analytical Institutions for the Use of Italian Youth. BUT, she is remembered for a mistranslation an English man made.

  7. Maria studied a special curve, and her Latin word aversiera, “versed sine curve” or “that which turns,” was confused with the Italian word avversiera for “witch or she devil,” and this curve became known as the “Witch of Agnesi.”

  8. When she was thirty-four her father died and she turned to charity work, selling her possessions to create a retirement home for the destitute. She worked and died in this same house.

  9. She is one of the leading pioneers of women in math and science.

  I scribble down some of the math, even though I have no clue what it means. I’m mesmerized by an animation of the math concept. It shows a gentle, gracefully curved line rolling over the circle like a ball under a blanket. I watch it for five minutes.

  Chapter 32

  How Not to Wonder, Woman

  Car to Venice, A4 Motorway: Friday, 9:36 a.m.

  I wonder, in this traffic, if the drive to Venice will actually take only three hours as the driver promised. I’d offered to take the train, but Regina didn’t want me having to haul the costume and my bags. Now that I’m carrying an Amazon princess shield, sword, and helmet, I wonder if they’d even have let me onto the train. As excited as I am about my first masquerade ball, I wonder, even now, if it’s a good idea
that Regina has still not told Frantonio I’m coming. She wants me to surprise him in full Amazon glory. Should I message him, just to warn him? He’s one of the organizers of the event, so he’s probably very busy, but hearing nothing from him makes me uneasy. Did I say something wrong? Had he tried to call when Will was on the phone? I wonder.

  Car to Venice, A4 Motorway: Friday, 11:04 a.m.

  I have just drifted off to sleep in the back of the car when a buzz on my phone wakes me. A text message! From Frantonio? No. It’s Mike.

  MIKE: Florida woman simultaneously seduces Sicilian mafia brothers

  ME: yesterday’s news

  MIKE: Where are you now? I’m in Rome in tomorrow!

  ME: In a private car, heading to Venice for a masquerade ball

  The phone rings immediately. I pick up. “What time is it where you are?”

  “I have no idea,” Mike admits. “All Marriotts look the same and I’m so exhausted I can’t remember what country I’m in. The towels are super tiny so it’s probably Japan. Who cares, it’s not like I get to see anything but this hotel room, a bus, and the airport. But hello, masquerade ball in Venice? Why are you not posting this already?”

  “I’m not sure how it’s going to go. I’m Frantonio’s date to some charity thing, only he doesn’t know it yet.”

  “Surprise fancy dress date with French-Italian sexy photographer? This just keeps getting better. What’s your costume?”

  “The theme is gods and warriors, so I’m dressing as Wonder Woman.”

  “Linda Carter or Gal Gadot?”

  “More like Xena, warrior princess goes American.”

  “Sexy badass.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Holy shit. A Venetian ball. You get to be glamorous and slutty, like Veronica Franco, the famous Venetian courtesan.”

  “Did you just compare me to a prostitute and call me slutty?”

  “She was educated and classy-slutty. Every man wanted her. Like Helen of Troy but for real. She’s a woman of influence for your book.”

  “Mike, I’m writing about mathematicians and poets.”

  “Veronica wrote poetry. She also started a charity for courtesans, their kids, and other orphans, so don’t get judgy.”

  “A hooker with a heart of gold?” I laugh.

  “Yes! Maybe that’s where the saying came from!” Mike suggests.

  Aman Venice Hotel: Friday, 12:47 p.m.

  I can’t believe I’m staying at the same modern and chic hotel where Amal married George Clooney. Having friends like Regina really has perks. I have arrived too early to check into the room that Piero booked me, the receptionist tells me, but she’s happy to check my belongings if I’d like to walk around and enjoy the square. This sounds like a great idea to me, so I hand the bellhop my suitcase, backpack, and half a suit of Amazon armor including a thirty-inch sword. He looks appalled. Suddenly there is a room available. Do Amazon warriors always get perks like early check-in? What else do they get? Free coffee refills?

  My room is by far the most elegant hotel room I’ve every stayed in. The queen-sized bed has a feather mattress pad that sinks a full three inches when I sit on it. I bounce on the bed a bit. Will I be alone in this bed tonight? I wonder. There is gold brocade fringe along the bottom edge of the bed skirt that matches the throw pillows, curtain pulls, and decorative hand towels. I take my shoes off and wiggle my toes under it for a full two minutes. I notice how dirty my feet are. There is something exquisitely beautiful about the crumbling, dirty decay of Venice, a web of ancient buildings clinging to each other with grasping bridges as it sinks slowly into the sea. But, flip-flops are not recommended and there’s also a soggy, dank smell I can’t quite figure out. It’s not bad . . . but not good either.

  In the shower I carefully shave all the appropriate bits of my body in anticipation of the night of passion I’ve been imagining for weeks. Thankfully my sunburned face has fully healed and my figa no longer looks like the cat from Austin Powers. Since my toes will be visible in my sexy warrior sandals, I decide nail polish is non-negotiable. I pop down to the hotel gift shop and return with a twenty-euro bottle of bright red nail polish so small I wonder if it’s going to be enough for all twenty of my digits and decide to strategically paint the tiny toes last. I’ve never been good at painting my nails, and by the time I’m done I’ve got crimson smears on my wrist, neck, knee, and elbow—don’t ask. I have no idea. Of course, they were out of remover so I make a mental note to stop at a pharmacy on the way to the event so I can clean myself up a bit in the bathroom before my grand entrance. While I’m waiting on my fingernails, toenails, wrist, neck, and elbow to dry, I power up my tablet and read about Veronica Franco. Mike has piqued my interest.

  NOTES ON ITALIAN WOMAN OF INFLUENCE: Veronica Franco

  1. Born 1546 in Venice to Paola Fracassa, a courtesan.

  2. Educated alongside her brothers by private tutors.

  3. From her mother she also learned the profession of cortigiana onesta. These were the educated, honored courtesans to rich and noble men.

  4. Married off to a doctor, but separated from him soon after, requesting her dowry returned.

  5. Worked as a courtesan, gaining fame and eventually consorting with famous nobility, including the king of France.

  6. Tintoretto, the famous painter, did a portrait of her.

  7. Wrote two poetry books, Terze Rime in 1575 and Lettere familiari a diversi in 1580, in which she asserted opinions on male behavior and upheld the educated courtesan virtues of fairness, wisdom, and reason.

  8. Forced to flee during the plague, she lost much of her wealth.

  9. Defended herself against witchcraft charges brought by the Inquisition (common against courtesans), and was acquitted due to her connections to Venetian nobility.

  10. Took in orphans as she grew older and founded a charity for courtesans and their children. But sadly, she died in poverty.

  Wow. I guess she didn’t get the Pretty Woman ending she deserved. But what a life. Clearly she had figured out very early how to command the sexual gaze and harness that power, much like Regina had. Perhaps it’s playing with fire?

  At last it’s time to get dressed. Sheela’s wardrobe fairies helped me during the fittings—this time I’m on my own. After forty-five minutes I’ve managed to lace up the leather bustier, fasten all the buckles on the leather bicep and shoulder guards, tie the straps of the sandals, position the fur cape around my collar bone and under my arm, and yank the rayon skirt back out of my sturdy leather panties so my golden lasso isn’t knocking against my bare ass. Did Amazons really wear uncomfortable leather panties? I wonder. Just as I squeeze out the special “glue” that Sheela gave me onto the back of the metal tiara and press it firmly to my forehead, my video rings. Frantonio? I can’t let him see me in costume, he’ll know! With one hand I fish out my tablet and am relieved that it’s Mike again. I click the camera icon to answer his video call.

  VIDEO CALL

  Call- Mike Ford—6:32p.m.

  “Sweet baby Jesus! You look amazing! Wonder Woman, Amazon warrior princess, ready to conquer mankind—or at least one man.”

  “Grazie! That’s the plan,” I grin.

  “Why are you holding your head?” he asks. “Is your tiara giving you a headache? It looks uncomfortable.”

  “I’m gluing it on.”

  “Gluing it? Like with theater makeup spirit gum?” Mike looks skeptical. “You know you need special spirit gum remover to get it off, right?”

  “Seriously?” The sudden panic on my face causes Mike to break down in hysterics. I look in the bag from Sheela—nothing. Marie’s had her revenge.

  “Trust me, I learned that lesson the hard way too, the Halloween I went as Wolverine. I managed to pry a few of the claws off but Michael made me sleep on the couch so I didn’t slash his Brooks Brothers pajamas.”

  “What am I going to do?” I can already feel that it’s stuck fast.

  “Lean into it! Keep the sword on too an
d tie his arms with your lasso. He’ll think it’s a dominatrix game.” Somehow this seems like a good idea.

  “You’re a genius, I love you!”

  “I know!” he smiles.

  IF YOU: ever find yourself heading for a charity event in Venice dressed like a super hero, DEFINITELY DO NOT:

  1. Stop to take photos with tourists. Even if they start to play the Wonder Woman song on their phones and offer you money.

  2. Encourage a small crowd to form by imitating moves you saw Robin Wright do in the movie.

  3. Assume the carabinieri also want selfies with you.

  4. Lasso one of the carabinieri as the crowd applauds.

  5. Take your fake sword out and pretend to fight the carabinieri when they write you a ticket for unlicensed street performing.

  6. Drop your ticket into the canal as you’re trying to unbend your aluminum prop sword, which the officer bent into a pretzel.

  7. Get onto the ground, leaning over to fish your ticket out of the filthy canal, knocking your shield over the edge with your knee.

  8. Lunge to catch your shield, nearly going into the canal yourself.

  9. Scream and flail as a large German tourist grabs you by your left sandal and sturdy leather panties (is this why they wear them?) to keep you from falling into the disgusting black water.

  Ca’ Rezzonico, Grand Canal: Friday, 7:58 p.m.

  I am late, but I’m finally here. I’m wearing my shield, now slimy and stinky, but miraculously saved by an amused gondolier. I also sport my re-straightened aluminum prop sword and red nail polish that I’ve not been able to remove from my wrist, neck, and elbow. I’ve decided it looks like blood, so part of the costume.

  At the entrance to the gorgeous, eighteenth-century Venetian palace, complete with three columned stories of arched windows, a woman dressed as a butterfly searches for my name on a list at the reception desk, and gives me an odd smile as she checks me off. Regina has called ahead.