A Not So Lonely Planet

by Karina Kennedy

  “Are you alright?” she asks.

  “Yes? Why? Oh, this. Sì, grazie. I’m fine it’s not blood, it’s nail polish. Goes with my costume, right?” I smile and unsheathe my sword. “Badass warrior princess.”

  “The party is in the grand ballroom.” She’s still looking at me funny as I walk inside, down the red carpet. Several paparazzi turn, realize I’m not a celebrity, but then, laughing, decide to take my photo anyway. I pose with my sword.

  “Fanculo le regole, eh?” they laugh and give me a thumbs up. I smile and nod, unsure. Doesn’t fanculo mean fuck? I get a funny feeling in my stomach as I keep walking. A Hare Krishna passes me, wide eyed. (How did he get in here?) At the door to the grand ballroom I meet (appropriately) St. Peter, wearing a white robe and a big golden key on his belt.

  “Ce n’è sempre uno,” (there’s always one) he says. He shakes his head. What does he mean? The feeling in my stomach gets stronger. He leans down and opens the door. “Try not to start any wars, Americana.” As I step inside the stunning ballroom with frescoed ceilings and magnificent chandeliers, my stomach drops, and my mouth hangs open like a surprised skeleton. A silk banner overhead reads:

  Italian Cultural Center Celebrates the World Peace Initiative Welcome Creatures of Peace

  There are angels, monks of every sort, two Martin Luther Kings, a cupid, a handful of Mother Teresas, more butterflies, a Benazir Bhutto, heaps of hippies, several Gandhis, Nelson Mandela, at least six Jesuses, and lots of unicorns. Fucking unicorns! In the vast ballroom, swimming with a hundred fantastically costumed creatures of peace, there is only ONE heavily armored, bloody, Amazon warrior princess. Merda. A wave of heads turns my direction, and my feet freeze to the ground. It’s the spectacular entrance I’ve fantasized about—for all the wrong reasons. As the last head turns, there, by giant gilt cages of doves decorated with white poppies, “Bono” pulls down his sunglasses. It’s Frantonio, and he is horrified.

  Chapter 33

  How Not to Spew the Hooch

  Library, Ca’ Rezzonico, Venice: Friday, 8:13 p.m.

  “Tu te fous de ma gueule, là! You cannot be content with ruining my photo shoot and embarrassing me in front of my friends? No? You must come to Venice and humiliate me in front of my patrons and colleagues? Pourquoi? Why would you sabotage me like this? Where the hell is Regina?”

  “She sent me in her place. She thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Pleased!? I’m so fucking pleased, I could toss you in the canal.”

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you!” I force back tears.

  “You’re dressed as an Amazon warrior! You have blood on your face. I guess you couldn’t find a Hitler costume?”

  “I looked up the event online and I saw gods and warriors!”

  “That was last year!” he barks. I reel as the realization hits. Of course. They wouldn’t have had photos from this year on the site yet. Shit.

  “I’m an idiot.” The tears fall.

  “Yes,” he says sharply. This stings. “The theme is peace.”

  “Yeah, which is just weird! I thought Venetians were known for wild parties. Who wants to get drunk with Jesus, or grind on Gandhi?” I fire back, through my tears. Really I’m just mad at his reaction, and hurt that he’s yelling at me.

  “With the violence that’s been happening in Europe the last few years, the committee decided it was appropriate for this year’s charity ball to benefit the World Peace Initiative. But maybe that’s hard to grasp for an American.”

  “Hey! We’ve all had our Mussolinis and Napoleons, pal,” I retort. Then, under my breath, “I’m glad I didn’t go with Isis.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That . . . it’s not a crisis. That’s what I said.” I wipe my nose on my cape.

  “For you it’s just another embarrassing episode at which you’re quite well practiced.”

  “Thank you—”

  “But I helped organize this event!”

  “I know. Good job. Really. The doves were a nice touch.” We both fall silent. He takes a deep breath. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a familiar handkerchief. This time he hands it to me. My heart lifts a little. He picks up his guitar from the chair behind him.

  “Allora. I’m going to go back out to my guests, and you’re going to wipe the mascara off your face, come back in when you’re ready, and stay as far from me as possible.” He puts his sunglasses back on and walks out. I stare at the door. How can I go back in there? How do I always fuck everything up so badly? I nervously play with the golden tassels on the ends of my lasso. I start to cry again. “Scrollatelo di dosso, bella,” says a soft, warm voice. I look up. “Shake it off.” One of the Gandhis is standing in the doorway. This version looks twice as old and twice as heavy as the real Gandhi. He walks slowly over to me as I dry my face. The brown eyes behind the round wire-rimmed glasses are kind and gentle. “A true Amazon’s strength comes from within, this is how she wins.”

  “Win?” I sniff. “I think this is a lose/lose situation, Mahatma.”

  “You win by going back in there and enjoying yourself.”

  “My date doesn’t want me here. I should go.”

  “My nephew’s temper is driven by his ego. Please forgive him.”

  “You’re his uncle?”

  “And talent manager. True talent is often not easy to manage.”

  “I think it’s he who won’t forgive me.”

  “‘Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong,’” he says with his best Indian accent.

  “Is that a Gandhi quote?”

  “I memorized ten of them, I want to use them all tonight.” His eyes sparkle. “Go on. Don’t pass up your chance to attend a true Venetian masquerade ball with all of these fascinating people.”

  “I’m dressed like a trained killer,” I say.

  “So you’ll have no trouble starting a conversation.” All of his wrinkles smile at me simultaneously as he extends a hand.

  Grand Ballroom, Ca’ Rezzonico, Venice: Friday, 9:41 p.m.

  Standing by the chocolate fountain, I am nursing my second glass of wine with a very tall, handsome Leo Tolstoy, whose costume consists of a blousy, white peasant shirt, a Russian hat, a long gray beard, and a copy of War and Peace. True to his costume, he’s got a sharp writer’s wit. As Leo cracks jokes about everyone in the room, I laugh so hard I almost start crying again. His Maori accent is magical. He’s sexy, yes, but there’s something goofy about him that makes me comfortable.

  “Tolstoy was a pacifist?” I ask, ignorantly. He looks surprised at the question. “Well your book is called WAR and Peace,” I point out.

  “Have you read it?”

  “What? Like three times,” I lie transparently. “Hasn’t everyone?”

  “Then you know heaps of it is philosophical discussion.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Tolstoy’s writings had a big influence on Gandhi and Martin Luther King. He took the teachings of Christ literally. He’s like the father of nonviolent resistance movements.”

  “Golly. Now I’m not sure you should be seen even talking to me, Leo. After all, I am a supernaturally gifted fighter.”

  “Everyone deserves a shot at redemption, Wonda Woman,” he laughs. “Even that Susan B. Anthony over there who looks more like Ebenezer Scrooge in drag.” This cracks me up. “It’s true,” he continues. “Specs hanging off her nose and a lace curtain ’round her neck.” He does a stern librarian voice, “Give us the vote, or we’ll smack your knuckles and suspend your library card! Equality! In the eyes of God all of us are equally wretched rats—oh, could you pass me another antipasto skewer, per favore? The bocconcini are lovely, and the sticks are useful for keeping this dead possum of a wig on my head.”

  “Stop, please!” I beg. “I nearly snorted wine up my nose.”

  “I’m a pretty funny guy, huh?” he asks, proudly. “I also do magic. I’m here in Venice studying art history, but my real passion is magic-comedy.”

  “M
agic-comedy? Is that a thing?”

  “It’s difinitely a thing.” His squeaky sweet accent is a charming contrast to his large, masculine build. “Maybe you just haven’t got it in America yet. Want to see a trick?” he asks.

  “Perchè no?” I smile and shrug. He picks up a napkin, turns around, and writes something on it I cannot see.

  “Do you know what I wrote?” he asks.

  “Uhhh . . . no,” I say, puzzled. He smiles, turns the napkin around. On it is the word “NO.” I look at him. “That’s not a magic trick,” I groan.

  “Tough customer. Here’s one of my favorites. He pulls a box out of his pocket, turns away and takes something out, replaces the box. “Hold out your hands.” I do. He drops a dead fly into my hand. I’m so startled I nearly drop it.

  “What? Gross!”

  “No, wait. I’m going to bring it back to life.” He closes my hand gently and then breathes warm air into my hand. “Abra-cadaver!” He winks. “Just look now!” I open my hand, but the fly is dead. I drain my wine glass and drop the bug inside.

  “I think your whole routine needs some work, Leo. Just like your costume—that beard makes me want to tell you if I’ve been naughty or nice.”

  “You? Naughty. No question. It’s my mate Alfonso’s costume, he works at the embassy. He was invited but got pissed at a different party last night and spewed the hootch, so I got his invitation! Lucky break. Hey?”

  “Spewed the hootch? Is that a Kiwi thing?”

  “It’s from my magic-comedy show. You know, like screwed the pooch, but funnier.” Leo examines the fly in the glass. “Maybe I said the wrong word.” The song ends and I see Frantonio take the stage and the microphone. He looks ruffled and handsome in his Bono costume. Why did he have to be such a dick to me? Why did I come all the way to Venice? For a book?

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for our This or That Auction. I’ll ask my co-chair, Paolo Renaldi, to join me.” An older Italian man with a gray beard walks up with a large fishbowl. Inside are pieces of paper. “Each of you put your name into the fishbowl when you checked in. When we call you, you have the opportunity to buy one of our donated items: This.” He gestures to the right. “Or that.” He gestures to the left. On one side of the stage, a scantily clad model carries a large, wrapped basket. Frantonio reads from his notes. “Gorgeous Giulia is carrying a basket of age-defying Rinnovo products from Milan.” The second scantily clad model holds a handbag. “Sexy Silva is modeling a Dolce & Gabbana, Sicily leather top handle satchel in peacock blue.” Paolo reaches into the fishbowl and fishes out a name.

  “Cariddi Giuseppina,” he announces. A woman in the back raises her hand excitedly and moves to the stage. She looks at the bag and the basket.

  “I forgot to mention the handbag is used,” Frantonio says. People laugh. “By Bianca Balti!” he says with a charismatic smile. The woman’s eyes widen.

  “I’ll take the bag for four thousand euro,” the woman says eagerly.

  “Four thousand euro for the World Peace Initiative!” announces Frantonio. Holy shit! Four thousand for a used bag? I realize now the woman checking me in must have been too distracted by my costume to take my name for the fishbowl. Thank God. A round of applause as a third scantily clad model on stage lights up part of a giant screen, showing the fundraising goal. The top of the screen says two hundred thousand euro. Frantonio continues with more items as the woman follows the model off stage to the green room to purchase her four-thousand-euro used handbag.

  As the fundraising continues, I can’t take my eyes off Frantonio. I’ve seen him working a photo shoot, but his relaxed confidence speaking to a crowd is impressive. He cracks jokes, warming up the guests, getting people into the game of outbidding each other. Usually when I find myself the center of attention, it’s some small catastrophe I’ve created. Every second I watch him, I’m less angry with him and more determined to make things right between us. Imagine the stress he must have already been under, planning this event, and then I show up looking like a Comic-Con reject. But it’s too late now. This last fight was the nail in the coffin. Our brief, romantic love affair is deader than Leo’s fly in my empty wine—I look at my empty wine glass. To my utter amazement, the fly is crawling around inside!

  “I don’t believe it!” I interrupt Leo, who is talking about a junior magician competition he won in Melbourne when he was twelve.

  “It’s true,” he says. “The rabbit died of a tooth infection from eating a rotten mango so I had to use a lizard instead.”

  “No, Leo! Your fly is alive!” I say excitedly.

  “Why’d it take so long? I paid heaps for those frozen flies,” he mutters. I choose to ignore this last, focusing on the obvious metaphor in front of me. My love affair with Frantonio is not dead! It’s alive, and . . . drinking wine? The fly is definitely drinking the last drop of red wine in the glass. I take this as inspiration.

  “I’m going to get another glass.” I leave Leo with his zombie fly and walk over to the bar. There is a stressed exchange going on between the young bartender and a cocktail waitress behind the bar. The bartender breaks off and flashes me a forced smile. “Red wine please,” I say. There’s a flash of something on his face, but it’s so fleeting I cannot decipher it. He takes the bottle the waitress is holding and pours me a glass. This one tastes much better than the last. “Grazie!”

  “When I suggested you use my invitation, I didn’t think you’d get me banned from the event for life.” I turn to find myself face to face with a radiant Pax, the Roman goddess of Peace. “But now I’m realizing it was a stroke of genius.” Regina looks amazing wrapped in flowing white organza and silks, embroidered with golden olive branches, holding a golden scepter. Her hair is perfectly coiffed around a golden cornucopia that adds another eight inches to her already imposing height.

  “Regina! I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “Couldn’t handle the guilt. And I’m hoping to grab a photo of Minister D’Angelo with his mistress, so I can blackmail him to reexamine his political position on large game hunting trophies. Besides, I still had this get-up from when I was crowned goddess of peace at the Pax Romana festival eight years ago in Rome.” Of course she does. “And there I was thinking I’d never wear it again,” she winks.

  “I’m sorry to embarrass you. I looked at last year’s invitation.”

  “Clearly,” she laughs. “But never apologize for looking fiercely beautiful,” she smiles. I blush, relieved and flattered. “How are things going with our host?” She watches Frantonio on stage, as he waits for a man to choose between one of Frantonio’s framed photographs and a donated Gucci watch.

  “Not well,” I admit. “I’ve humiliated him and stressed him out even more.” The man on stage picks the watch. Frantonio visibly bristles but masks his bruised ego with a charismatic smile. “He doesn’t want me here.”

  “He’s an idiot, with a fragile male ego,” Regina says as I watch him put his hand on the naked back of one of the models. She sees me selfconsciously adjust my bustier. “Why are you wasting your time and energy on him?”

  “I don’t know . . . . It’s like I keep hearing part of a song, the same stanzas over and over. I can’t get them out of my head, and I just need to hear the end of it,” I try to explain. She smiles and nods. She gets it.

  “They mostly end the same way, my dear. But, I understand. Allora, if you want him, you must retake the sexual gaze.” This sounds familiar. I watch her take another sip of wine, elegantly tilting her neck back ever so slightly like a swan. A man at the table behind us is staring. Not at me.

  “I’m not as good at that as you are, Regina. And I think he’s better at it too.” I glance back up at the stage, but this time Frantonio is looking at us. He’s relieved to see Regina. Maybe her unexpected appearance is helping my cause.

  “Perhaps. But he wants you, my dear,” she says. “That’s easy to see. Let’s have a glass of wine.” I follow her to the bar where the bartender’s hand visibl
y shakes as he pours her another glass of red. “I cannot believe they’re serving a Sandrone Barolo at a fundraiser. Italians.” She shakes her head, laughing. I take a sip of mine. Wow, this wine is incredible. Regina watches Frantonio on stage. Strutting, putting on a show.

  “I think your Mr. Darcy is too proud. And you my dear, are smitten, but too prejudiced. If you want the man, you must forgive the ego. In order to command the gaze, you must first submit to it.” She gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze and then spots someone across the room. “And now, please excuse me for a bit, I have political blackmail to engineer.” Regina glides elegantly across the ballroom until a Mother Teresa stops her for a photo and autograph. Submit to the gaze. Humility is not my strong suit. But, my strong suit clearly wasn’t working and it’s leather panties were getting itchy. I take out my phone, do a quick search online for songs about apologizing, and impulsively I send him a message. It’s a link to the video for a Bryan Adams song, one of his cheesiest, but a favorite: “Please Forgive Me.” Maybe he’ll come around.

  “There you are, mate. You try the Bickies yet?” Leo walks up with a plate of cookies. I realize I’ve had a lot to drink and little to eat. I take one. Then another.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” announces Frantonio, “we are over halfway to our goal and it is time to bid on our prized donations: the vintner’s choice from the top vineyards in Toscana, Veneto, Piemonte, Bordeaux, Champagne, and Provence,” he smiles. People applaud and whistle. “As if you weren’t already drunk enough.” People laugh.

  Frantonio looks to the right, but the girl standing there is empty-handed. Over by the green room, Paolo argues with another man. Something is clearly wrong. I see hints of distress wash over Frantonio, but no one else does. His smile is firmly fixed. “First, an intermission.” He looks to the DJ stand but it’s empty.

  “The DJ’s in the handicapped bathroom with one of the cocktail waitresses,” Leo volunteers loudly. People laugh. Fumbling frantically with equipment he doesn’t understand at the DJ stand, Frantonio finally gets a song going and dashes off.