An Astrological Guide for Broken Hearts

by Silvia Zucca

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  To my father, on his special birthday.

  And to my mother, who taught me to read.

  Thank you to Simon & The Stars for the astrological advice

  Facebook.com/simonandthestars

  PROLOGUE:

  The Heavens Can Wait

  Some days, you just feel it in your bones. You wake up, and you’re sure that nothing is going to go your way: it would be better to turn around, pull the covers over your head, and go back to sleep.

  In a movie, this would be a voice-over explaining why I would much rather grab the box from under my bed labeled “Survival Kit” than go to work.

  In my survival kit, along with a photo of Hugh Jackman’s abs, gummy worms, and a bag of kernels primed for popping, there are films—strictly on VHS—that would not normally appear in the library of the l" film aficionado I make myself out to be . . . As if to spite the ABCs of cinema (that does not stand for the American Broadcasting Company, but for Allen, Burton, and Coppola), whose posters are proudly displayed on the IKEA bookcase in my living room, under my bed I hide pop culture hits like Notting Hill, Dirty Dancing, Pretty Woman, and Ghost.

  It’s true. When everything goes wrong, I overdose on sugar in celluloid form. But why these films in particular, and romantic comedies of the ’80s and ’90s in general? Because I am an eternal child, and those films are my version of Proust’s madeleine. From their very first scenes, they take me back to the safe, protected world of my childhood. They make me believe that there is an order to my life; that even when everything seems to be going wrong, there is a happy ending right around the corner—at 120 minutes, just in time for the closing credits.

  Today is one of those days. I know it as soon as I open my eyes to the whining of the alarm. I’m tempted. Very tempted. But, of course, survival kit days do have a tendency to occur on Mondays, when you have a meeting on par with a United Nations summit.

  And yes, last night I had an inkling that an intravenous dose of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind was not a good idea. Especially from the moment I decided to wash down both the film and my sorrows with a bottle of champagne. To be precise, the bottle of Louis Roederer champagne that was supposed to be drunk on a first anniversary that never happened.

  In life, there are some moments when you deliberately set out to mess yourself up.

  So, as I push aside the covers, I can’t help but regret the big night that ended in grand style with me hugging the toilet and squeezing out stupid tears in between retches.

  On my pilgrimage to the kitchen, I hope that a double dose of caffeine will work the magic of our Lady of Lourdes and rouse me from my catatonic state. Still on autopilot, I turn on the radio to listen to the news, and take great delight in the fact that there is someone who is worse off than I am.

  Finally, I gather the courage to inch toward the bathroom. Oh my god. Looking back at me in the mirror is a female version of the picture of Dorian Gray—in pajamas. The dark circles under my eyes make me look like a panda in a wig.

  Carlo, I hate you, I think as I try to gather together what’s left of myself and the orgy of junk food scattered around the house.

  Carlo is my very-ex-boyfriend. Five years together. Seven months, twelve days, and four hours (give or take a minute) of cohabitation that ended almost two years ago. Of course, in two years, a life should be completely rebuilt, and I’ve done that. Or at least I’ve tried to, given the sequence of wrong men I’ve fallen for after him—the last of them, Giorgio, left me the legacy of that damn champagne. The problem is that while the others came and went, Carlo has always remained, even though we’re not together anymore. I always thought that in the end our bond went beyond the normal definition of love, that it was something more complex, something that transcended physical attraction. Like in When Harry Met Sally.

  But now, Carlo is getting married.

  In seven months.

  And I had to find out from Facebook. And not even from him, but from that idiot Cristina who announced it for the whole world to read: “I’m pregnant and Carlo and I are getting married in September, on my birthday!”

  Fantastic. Congratulations. Best wishes. And a nice fuck-you the size of Milan Cathedral, OK? And to think that, at first, I thought she was my friend.

  It’s not that I wish I were in Cristina’s place. But between Carlo and me, I should have been the one to get married first. They always say “ladies first,” right?

  And here we come to my other pressing problem: age. I’m already way past thirty. I’m no spring chicken, as they say. I so badly want to meet someone, to really fall in love (and he with me, preferably) and start a family. But instead, I’m so unlucky in love that I seem to be competing for the Nobel Prize for Spinsterhood.

  I am on the toilet with my head resting on my knees when the sound of the radio filters through:

  “Unions have confirmed the general public transport strike planned for today. Remember that strike action is scheduled from 8:45 this morning until 3:00 p.m. and then from 6:00 p.m. until the end of service . . .”

  “Oh shit!”

  The news hits my system like a shot of adrenaline. The meeting starts at 9:30 and my car will be at the mechanic until Wednesday.

  Alice, wake up! It’s already 8:04, assuming that the clock in the bathroom is correct. And since it takes about ten minutes to get from here to the tram stop, I barely have twenty minutes to transform myself from Carrie to a low-budget version of Alice Bassi.

  So long, shower. So long, hair straightener. And so long, nail polish. Actually, no, I’ll throw that in my bag; I may have time for a quick retouch once I get to the office. Clocking a time that would make Carl Lewis weep, in ten minutes flat I’m out of the house and cursing the chronic disorganization syndrome that made me give up before even trying to look for an umbrella.

  I run to the tram stop through the torrential downpour.

  It’s 8:16 and someone comments that we won’t make the last train. In my head, I start doing calculations again. It’s a fifteen-minute walk from here to the train that I need to take, and I’m already crossing the road at a steady pace, trying not to give a damn about the rain that is drenching my hair and my jacket.

  “What a shitty day . . . What a shitty day . . .” I growl like a mantra through clenched teeth.

  As my brightly striped stockings become drenched up to my knees, I miss my survival kit, especially Ghost. Because at least Patrick Swayze is a ghost, and you can be sure there’s no possibility that after the end of the movie he might change his mind, leave Demi Moore, and get another woman pregnant.

  “I’m sorry, the last one just went by,” says the little man closing the gate to the commuter train.

  It’s not possible. This is a nightmare.

  I cling to my last hope: the phone numbers for taxis saved in my smartphone. And after another quarter of an hour under water, my saving angel arrives: Wapiti 28–47.

  The guy, with a gaunt face and a tan like Crocodile Dundee’s, stares at me for a moment and then shows me the newspaper resting on the backseat. “Couldn’t you sit on that, ma’am? Otherwise you’re going to soak my whole seat . . .”

  Of course. Perfect. I
hate when people call me ma’am. And now I have to wrap my ass in newspaper, as if I were a sea bass being taken home from the market.

  “You look like you need to get your energy back, if you don’t mind me saying so,” he says, starting up again. “You know, the wapiti is a Canadian elk. In shamanic medicine, it’s considered a sacred animal, a good help for people . . . At your age, you should start taking care of yourself. Have you ever tried crystal therapy?”

  At my age? At my age? Good Lord! How old does he think I am? Sure, I have no makeup on, I still have panda eyes; and right now my hair must look worse than Johnny Depp’s in Edward Scissorhands . . . but, heck, I do not have one foot in the grave!

  One foot in the ditch is what I get instead a few minutes later when Wapiti pulls into the driveway of Mi-A-Mi Network, the small TV station for which I have been sweating blood every day for the past ten years. Opening the door and putting your foot in a crater full of water all in one motion? Priceless.

  “How much do I owe you?” I ask, holding back a grimace of anger and disgust.

  “It’s twenty-two euros and sixty-five cents. Call it twenty-two fifty.”

  I open my wallet and realize that I have only ten euros in cash. Shit. Now what am I going to say to Wapiti-Crocodile Dundee? “Just give me a second . . .”

  When I raise my head, I spot my colleague Raffaella, wrapped in an impeccable Gucci raincoat, her umbrella and boots in a matching dusky mauve color. Not a single hair out of place. The raindrops dodge her obediently.

  “Taxi? Very nice,” she says with a wink. “Somebody’s treating herself.”

  “Raffa, wait!” I call out. “Could you lend me thirteen euros? I’ll pay you back at lunch, I need to go to the ATM.”

  “Of course, sweetie. Are you sure that will be enough?” she says, giving me a twenty. “Keep it so you can get yourself a hot tea at the machine. You look exhausted.” Pointing to my behind, Raffa adds, “Alice, what have you done to your skirt?”

  Lifting up my jacket a little, I understand why: I have a newspaper article printed across my butt cheeks, and it’s all thanks to Wapiti-Dundee and his brilliant idea to make me sit, sopping wet, on a newspaper.

  I quickly say goodbye and race down the stairs that lead to the recording studios. There are bathrooms there, but more important there are dressing rooms where they keep a few stage costumes. I hope I can find something in my size.

  “Good morning.”

  There is a man in front of the coffee machine next to the production room. He turns around and looks me up and down. “Are you new? Are you lost?”

  New, me? He’s the one who must be new. Judging from his height, jeans, magnetic glance, and salt-and-pepper hair, he must be an aspiring actor from Mal d’Amore, the soap we shoot in the Alpha studio. Maybe they’re holding auditions today. And this guy, who looks like Richard Gere but taller, has a good chance, if you ask me.

  “Really it’s been a while since I was new—” I tell Tall Richard Gere.

  I shoot straight into the dressing room, where I find a skirt. It is a dark, pleated kilt, which would be fine if it weren’t stitched with sequins.

  “Nice, it looks good on you. Which show do you host?” Tall Richard Gere asks me as he finishes sipping his coffee and hits the basket with his paper cup.

  “Oh, I . . . No, I don’t do any broadcasts,” I reply, my face softening into a smile. If he thinks I could go on camera like this, perhaps I don’t look such a fright.

  “Ah, yes,” he says. “That’s what I thought, but since you’re wearing that skirt from Wardrobe . . .”

  Meanwhile, I’m already waving goodbye as I start walking away. I still have another Everest to climb: the meeting is starting in less than ten minutes.

  • • •

  When I get to the meeting room, everyone is a little late. I have time to organize the notepaper, pens, and water pitchers, and check that the whiteboard markers are working. Then, since I’m still alone, I tell myself that I have maybe a minute to fix that nail where the polish came off. It won’t take long.

  I’m just doing the last touches when Carlo comes in and casts me a knowing smile. God, I wouldn’t even be able to steal candy without him catching me. I pretend not to notice. The code of conduct of the true strong and independent woman calls for the flaunting of a certain level of indifference. I continue to apply polish to my other nails, concentrating on my hands, as if I were Leonardo da Vinci painting the Mona Lisa.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carlo take a seat far away from me. I blow on my nails and wiggle my freshly polished fingers to show him that I’m the important one here; the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

  Then I hear someone clearing their throat.

  Everyone has arrived. Raffa shakes her head and walks over to Enrico to whisper something in his ear. Cristina rests her hand on Carlo’s arm—he has a furrowed brow and looks almost sad. To top it off, standing in front of the whiteboard are Our Lord the President of the Network and Tall Richard Gere. The latter clears his throat again. “Well, if the young lady has finished doing her nails, I would say we can begin, Mr. President.”

  I close my eyes and think of the Dirty Dancing video under my bed, and that moment when Baby confidently stands up and shows everyone what she’s made of. But there is no Patrick Swayze here to hold out his hand for me. In his place is that guy I thought was a handsome actor—the type who if he gets to say more than three lines already feels like he’s De Niro in Taxi Driver—and he’s no longer sporting the friendly smile that he greeted me with at the coffee machine.

  “Good,” says Mr. President, calling everyone to attention. “As you know, we are a small network. One big, little family with a great desire to grow. This will mean all hands on deck. It will not be easy, since we’re in the midst of a crisis . . . but we must change if we’re not to surrender. So, in order to give the network a makeover, Mr. Davide Nardi has come to help us. In the coming months, he will observe and evaluate the work being done in our company, and then tell us how and when to intervene. Where to change, expand . . . or cut . . .”

  And I, with my skirt and my nails, just gave him the worst possible impression.

  At the end of the meeting, I have one foot out the door, when I hear Nardi say: “Of course, your ideas for the development of the network will be most welcome. If anyone has an idea for a program, a new format, anything interesting, please let me know and we will consider it.”

  Maybe a program on how to search for a new job, I think. Hired or Fired?

  • • •

  “There are germs on that.”

  I lift my head out of my hands. I am sitting on the floor in a bathroom stall with my elbow resting on the closed toilet lid. It seemed like the best place to reflect on my future.

  In front of me stands a tall guy with blond hair and a very flashy earring in his left ear.

  “Sorry?”

  He smiles, crouches down next to me, and shakes his head. “Honey, excuse me for saying this, but you do not look well at all.”

  “Let’s say that it’s really not my day.” I sigh.

  He puts his hand on mine. On his middle finger, he’s wearing a ring with strange symbols. “I know,” he says, nodding.

  I look him in the eye, and it is as if he really does know. I have the feeling that he has all the answers. Like Cinderella’s fairy godmother, except that he’s a man with bleached hair, thick eyeliner, and an earring. He stares at me in turn, kindly, and then says, “You’re a Libra, aren’t you?”

  1

  * * *

  Swept Away [by a Libra]

  And that’s how it all started. When you talk about the important moments in your life, you expect them to happen when you’re at the top of your game. That is, with smooth legs and perfumed underarms. But I like to be different, so my defining moment had to happen in the stall of a company bathroom, with my hair still wet and mascara streaming down my cheeks.

  “A . . . Libra?” I repeat.
<
br />   “It’s a zodiac sign,” he explains to me.

  “I know what a Libra is,” I reply. But I’m genuinely stunned, because I actually am a Libra. “Anyway, I . . . sorry, I don’t believe in that. Astrology is for idiots. We’re not in the Middle Ages anymore.”

  He shrugs and holds out his right hand again. “I’m Tio.”

  “What kind of name is Tio?” I ask, taking his hand. “Um, Alice.”

  “It’s a stage name. An abbreviation for Tiziano. I’m an actor. And don’t worry, most people don’t believe in horoscopes . . . but they all read them anyway.”

  As I move toward the sink, I acknowledge that he’s right. After all, even I have found myself looking at my stars on occasion.

  “Do you know what really pisses me off?” I tell him, trying to flash at least the semblance of a smile. “When I read in my horoscope that this is a great period, that I have at least three stars for love, business, and health, but instead I feel like a wreck. I’ve just been dumped and I’m in danger of losing my job. So I feel like picking up the phone and calling the guy who wrote the horoscope, hurling insults at him, and telling him that I’ll see him in court. When I read a great horoscope and my life is going to hell, I feel like an outcast. I imagine that everyone else with my sign has happily boarded the good luck bus and I got the door slammed in my face.”

  Tio looks at me puzzled, then smiles and says, “Well, now you’re on the bus, honey. Or rather, a business class flight.” He winks and takes me by the arm.

  We walk toward the door.

  “And you know what your first stroke of luck is? I’ll buy you lunch. I have to celebrate; I just got offered a part in Mal d’Amore.”

  I smile at him. “That way you can explain to me what you were doing in the ladies’ room . . .”

  “Um . . . actually, this is the men’s room.”

  And as I open the door, we find ourselves face-to-face with Carlo, who gives a start when he sees me.