An Astrological Guide for Broken Hearts

by Silvia Zucca

  “A . . . Alice!” He scratches his head while his smile reduces to a grimace. “Look, I . . . I wanted to talk to you.”

  Of course. The last thing I need is a firsthand account of Carlo’s happiness about his impending fatherhood.

  I shoot a look at Tio, wishing that he would throw me a rope to get me out of the quicksand I’m sinking into.

  Miraculously, Tio behaves like a perfect fairy godmother. “Excuse us, but we were just going to lunch . . . to discuss work,” he says with such a professional look that I almost believe him. He’s not a bad actor.

  • • •

  “You must be deceptively thin.” Unless he’s been locked in a cage with no food for three days. The speed at which Tio manages to gulp down everything on the tray must be a Guinness World Record. Meanwhile, I’m still fiddling with my overcooked macaroni.

  “I have a good metabolism, and like many Gemini, I have a mercurial structure. I’m nervous and agile.”

  “More astrology? OK, so tell me how you guessed I was a Libra.”

  “Well, at the moment the sky doesn’t look good for Libras. Saturn is retrograde for the whole month. The Sun went into Aries a couple of days ago. And complicated situations and stress are accumulating in the Libra constellation, both from an emotional point of view, with Venus negatively squared with Jupiter, and from a professional point of view, with the Opposition of Pluto and the Negative Transit of Uranus.”

  I blink because, although on the one hand I didn’t understand a word of what he said, on the other hand my ears filtered all the words, coming to an immediate conclusion: I have interplanetary bad luck syndrome. “So, basically, there is nothing I can do: it’s not me . . . it’s not like I could do something about it. There’s no escape.”

  “No, come on. It’s just one period and the Transits will soon change . . . And actually: knowing what is happening to you on an astrological level can help you to prevent certain issues. Like if you know that it’s going to rain, what do you do? You bring an umbrella.”

  I snort. A flawless argument.

  Tio sighs. “Libras haven’t had an easy time. It’s due to the Transit of Saturn in their sign. It’s been there for almost two years. What can you do? It’s the planet associated with tough times, discipline, and the trials of life. But the good news is that now it’s moved on to Scorpio, and since it’s one of the slower planets, it will not come back into Libra’s orbit for another thirty years.”

  “Alice . . .”

  When I lift my gaze and look over Tio’s shoulder, I see Carlo. Great. “What do you want? Can’t you see that I’m talking?”

  “Alice, please, I know that—”

  “If you know, then why are you disturbing me? Can’t you see that I’m busy? Would I interrupt you if you were in a meeting?”

  Tio also turns around for a second, then looks back at me and rolls his eyes.

  I watch Carlo walk away.

  “It’s a real shame that he’s not a Scorpio.” Saturn’s bad luck won’t touch him for another twelve years. Too late to rely on that.

  “You must have negative Mars in Midheaven; it makes a person very aggressive and not particularly diplomatic,” comments Tio.

  “Oh, it’s just that he’s my ex . . . that is my very-ex . . .” Actually, counting all the unfortunate relationships that came my way after him, I should say that he is my ex-ex-ex-ex-ex . . . assuming I haven’t forgotten anyone. “We have a very . . . complicated relationship . . .”

  “What sign is he?”

  “Aquarius.”

  Tio distractedly checks his watch. “Aquarius is the sign of freedom and experimentation. It’ s difficult to make them put down roots . . . They love risk and unpredictability.”

  Ah, two birds with one stone . . . Carlo evidently did take a risk and now a positive pregnancy test will force him to put down roots, whether he likes it or not. In spite of everything, I feel a little guilty for how I treated him. I glance around for him in the café, but he must have already left. Can I really blame Mars for having spoken to him like that?

  “Between Aquarius and Libra there is, in fact, a certain harmony,” continues Tio, “but if the understanding is not reinforced on an erotic level, Aquarius has the tendency to wander. The good news is that they can have a loyal and sincere friendship.”

  He’s not telling me anything new, really. Living together just proved that it wasn’t going to work: even though we were in love, we drove one another crazy. One example: I am completely disorganized, while he has always been practically obsessive-compulsive, trying to put everything in alphabetical order, from DVDs to the contents of the kitchen cabinets, which meant I had to remember to look for biscuits near baking soda and not where you kept the tea or sugar . . .

  “See? Now you know that potentially things won’t work out well with an Aquarius. Libras usually suffer with signs that don’t know how to take care of them. For you, a strong Leo would be great; an alpha male, dominant, but able to pay real attention to his partner. Or an adventurous Sagittarius. Or with Scorpio . . . Let me think . . .”

  “I don’t want a Scorpio,” I say, getting up. “I’ve already had enough trouble. He can deal with Saturn on his own.”

  2

  * * *

  I’m Starting from Aries

  I leave Tio in Wardrobe. We exchange numbers and he promises that he’ll call me soon. When we say goodbye, he plants two kisses on my cheeks and says it was the lucky Trine of Venus that brought us together.

  As skeptical as I am about Tio’s astrological theories, I can’t help but find them fascinating. And deep down, I love this stuff. The thought that there is some kind of predestination, a Grand Plan, makes me feel less in jeopardy. A while ago, for example, I toyed with the idea of devoting myself to feng shui, but not just casually dropping a pink pillow here and a green curtain there. I made up my mind to completely reorganize the entire house.

  This was right after my best friend, Paola, got married.

  I haven’t always lived alone. I am a very sociable person, and Paola was my third and last roommate. Just like the two before her, Sara and Marta, she fell in love and packed her bags after less than four months.

  After she left, I began to think that my apartment was a catalyst for supernatural forces that stimulated marriage. Some sort of holistic dating agency: come and live with me and you’ll be settled down in no time.

  Now, I really love my friends, but it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if the magic also worked for yours truly. And, given that the first, Sara, left me to live with her boyfriend; the second, Marta, got married; and Paola, the third, has even had a baby, it seems that the miraculous power is only increasing with time.

  Hence, feng shui. I tried to reorganize the layout of the furniture to channel the energies toward me. I even changed bedrooms, occupying what had once been theirs. Nothing. I even managed to make things worse. Seeing me so fully committed, the man I was dating at the time suddenly had second thoughts about our relationship and decided to break things off.

  In a fury, I put everything back the way it was, and I used the feng shui manual to wash the windows. At least I can say that it helped me to gain some clarity.

  Don’t get me wrong, I am truly happy for my friends, especially Paola. The fact that she found a man like Giacomo and that they are madly in love gives me some kind of comfort. In short, it makes me think that there is still a little hope left for true love in this world.

  Today, I am extra happy to see her. Ever since the new baby arrived, our opportunities to see each other have dwindled. In fifteen years of friendship, Paola and I have become well versed in the analysis of each other’s emotions. If universities had such a thing as a Department of Emotional Anatomical Pathology, we would be awarded an honorary doctorate and invited to teach the course.

  The first spritz is dedicated entirely to childbirth, and to the monumental change for a woman when going from being an individual to a mother. Philosophy doesn’t last thr
ough the second round of alcohol, where we glide through more mundane topics, such as men and sex (which neither of us has had recently for various and very different reasons), and finally the signs of the zodiac (astrology applied to sex and to the search for Mr. Right).

  “According to Tio, the important thing is not a sign’s propensity to love, but how compatible it is with yours. If you think about it, it’s true. It’s like saying that it’s personality that counts,” I explain, lifting my half-empty glass. “Take Carlo. He’s an Aquarius. With Libras like me, there is compatibility but only to a certain point. Plus, they’re fickle. And Carlo is the fickle type.”

  “What do you mean? I thought you were always complaining that he was so persnickety.”

  “Well, yes, but he’s fickle in relationships. How many women did he have after me? He loses interest right away. He even lost interest in me. He’s not the marrying type.”

  Paola clears her throat. “But Cristina is pregnant . . . And they are getting married.”

  I empty my glass in one long gulp. “Yes, but he’s still fickle,” I say resolutely. Because I cannot bring myself to believe that he was fickle only with me. That I was the one he didn’t want to marry; that there was something wrong with me.

  Paola doesn’t rub it in and lightens our conversation with a shrug. “Well, he was a bit fickle with his semen.”

  We both burst into laughter.

  “Hey, on a more serious note, how are you going to deal with this new problem at work?”

  The new problem at work has a first and last name: Davide Nardi.

  I sigh and raise my hand to call the waitress. I need a third spritz to address this question.

  “I don’t know. My idea is to lie low. You know those tiny animals with terrified eyes that escape predators by camouflaging themselves as a leaf or a stone? I hope that he will forget I exist.”

  “Why not treat this as your big break? Your problem is self-esteem!” Paola gives me her analyst’s stare. “If you don’t believe in yourself first, how can you expect someone else to? Let’s take the issue of men, for example: What kind of partner are you going to find if you only offer your need to be loved? You don’t want a man; you want a crutch.”

  The problem with Paola is that she’s always dead-on. “Back to Nardi, then. What do you think I should do?”

  “Well, you shouldn’t hide, that’s for sure. Instead, be proactive and efficient. Show him what you’re made of. You’re more intelligent than most of the people working there.”

  Proactive and intelligent.

  I can almost hear the beginning of the theme from Working Girl: “Let the river run / let all the dreamers wake the nation . . .” I feel like Melanie Griffith. I’m ready to fight for my job and earn myself an office with a view. And in the meantime, perhaps, wed my Harrison Ford. But who would he be . . . Nardi?

  Oh. My. God.

  “Excuse me for a second . . . I have to pee.” I get up and head toward the bathroom.

  I run cold water over my wrists and my mind cools down, too. How absurd to think of Nardi (even for a second, just one tiny second!) as a possible candidate for the role of Prince Charming. Perhaps I have Stockholm syndrome?

  When I return to Paola, for a second I think I must have double vision. Then I realize that there is someone else at the table with her.

  “Hi, I’m Luca.”

  Scan: Male, white. Age: Thirty-five to forty. Hair: Light brown. Eyes: Brown. Shoulders: Not bad . . . And most important: No ring on his left hand.

  “Nice to meet you. Alice.” I shoot a glance at Paola that says: How is it that I leave you for just one second and a man approaches you?

  “Luca is a colleague from the newspaper,” she explains.

  “Yes. A colleague who is amazed to see a mom out on the town.”

  I grin and take my place between them. “Oh, I am the bad influence.”

  “Excellent!” This time, he is scanning me with his gaze. The result is a smile of appreciation. “Don’t ever lose your social contacts. Don’t do what I did. I did everything for my girlfriend: romantic outings, trips, candlelit dinners . . .”

  Girlfriend? Stop. Not single! Danger. Red flag!

  My eyebrow rises the extra millimeter that changes my expression from bewitching to the sympathetic look of Grandma Duck.

  “And in the end . . . BANG! Anna left me because she needed her space.”

  “Oh . . .” Paola and I say in unison.

  “I didn’t know, I’m sorry,” says Paola, who sneaks a glance at me.

  “Now I’m recovering my friendships. Trying to enjoy life.”

  Poor, poor guy! Imagine how much he suffered, thinks Nurse Alice.

  “But it’s fine. I was actually just waiting for some people to go dancing.” Luca gets up. “I hope to see you again, Alice. We can arrange it with Paola if you like.” And we watch him walk away to meet three or four guys standing at the bar.

  “Poor thing, I’m really sorry,” says Paola. “He’s a really nice guy. And a hard worker.”

  I nonchalantly sip at what remains of my spritz.

  “And . . . do you know what sign he is?”

  Paola squints thoughtfully and then flashes a smile. “Aries, I think.”

  3

  * * *

  Dog Day Libra

  A woman at the wheel is a woman in control of her life. Although you wouldn’t think so from looking at the dents on my jalopy. But as I always explain to those who reproach me for not getting it fixed, my car is something of a metaphor for the soul: there are some scratches that cannot be erased.

  After last week’s little incident, this morning the two of us are finally reunited, and I am on cloud nine as we head to work.

  I’m almost there, but I think I have time for a tune. If only I could find the radio. I reach down, stretching my hand under the seat, and my car swerves across the road.

  Someone behind me honks their horn.

  “Oh, calm down!” I raise my hand at the motorcycle that passes me only to brake a little farther ahead at the red light. “There, you see? All that rush and now you have to stop, too,” I say as I reach him.

  In the meantime, I’ve finally found the front panel of the radio, which, as soon as I attach it, starts blasting out ABBA. It’s “Dancing Queen,” which is perfect, because that’s exactly what I want to be.

  When I turn around, the motorcyclist is looking at me.

  I have the window down, so I imagine he’s listening to me wailing along to ABBA. Oops . . .

  But today I’m not going to let anyone burst my bubble. What did Paola say? Confidence! I have to be sure of myself and not let the little things rattle me. I look at him nonchalantly, keep singing for him, and then, as soon as the light turns green, I wink and hit the gas.

  I start laughing hysterically. For the last few miles, the motorcycle and I are in a race between one red light and the next.

  At the last traffic light, I hear my phone announcing the arrival of a message on WhatsApp. As I’m parking, the motorcycle finally passes me and I wave goodbye before grabbing my smartphone to see who it is.

  I ignore the missed calls from Carlo, sticking my tongue out in disgust as I swipe them away.

  Just above Carlo’s, however, there is another message. This time I smile. It’s from Tio.

  Good morning, dear Libra!

  The day will seem to be two-sided. You are energetic and spirited, thanks to the Trine of Venus in Positive Transit with Jupiter, but your desire to do and to prove will be tested by Saturn and Mercury. This could lead to unexpected revelations, which may slightly dampen your enthusiasm, or to unexpected workloads that will require all of your patience. Possible clashes with people who hold opposing views are also on the cards. In matters of the heart, the Square of Venus in Negative Transit with Pluto calls for caution and hints at the possibility of a powerful and stormy love.

  With a smiley face, he concludes:

  Tio is arriving at one for hair and makeu
p. He loves tuna sandwiches.

  Still smiling, I lock the car. And it’s only when I look over to the entrance gate that I realize that the motorcycle I had been racing is parked right beside it and that the driver is just getting off his bike.

  I toy with the idea of burying myself in the café next door until he’s gone, but I don’t want to hide just yet. I brazenly cross the street while he removes his helmet.

  Where is a Wizard of Oz–style tornado when you need one?

  Davide Nardi finishes removing his motorcycle gloves and fixes me with a serious glare. “It’s dangerous to take your eyes off the road to look for the radio.”

  It is also dangerous to sing and pull faces at a man who could get you fired, I think. I stammer, “Umm . . . morning.”

  With his disheveled helmet hair and bright red face, he looks even more like Richard Gere—in one of the steamy scenes from American Gigolo—and despite my recent Oscar nomination for most embarrassing performance, my circulation seems to be going haywire, like when you hit the maximum score in pinball. Hot. Cold. Cold. Hot.

  “But you have a nice voice,” Davide Nardi says to my back.

  I blink, and when I turn around, he cracks a smile. I sigh and decide I should punch in.

  I don’t have much time to dissect the effect that Nardi (Nardi, the Hatchet Man; Nardi, Public Enemy Number One) had on me with his leather jacket and his unkempt bad boy look.

  As soon as I set foot in the editing room, I feel like I am in the middle of a screen test that Enrico, my boss and the head of production, is doing for a movie about hunting grizzly bears. All signs point to Enrico in the role of the bear.

  “What do you mean the studio is not ready yet?” Enrico shouts before unleashing a diatribe laden with profanities that would make the perfect opening for another Exorcist movie. “You didn’t get the memo? Where the hell is Alice?”

  “I’m here!” I squeak.

  Before him, the head of photography and the director of several of our programs are reduced to Lilliputian dimensions by the roar of Grizzly-Enrico.