by Silvia Zucca
They seem relieved to see me, but I’m under no illusions: I am not the network’s Mother Teresa, I’m just fresh meat.
“Where the hell were you? Do you or do you not have a work schedule?”
It’s useless to remind him that it is nine o’clock and that’s the time we always start on a Tuesday. “What happened?” I ask him instead. Great. Active. Proactive.
“Luciano says that the boys don’t have the studios prepped because no one received memos beforehand, or that this week we would be taping two shows, since Marlin will be in Rome next week.”
I blink. I’m the one who sends the memos, but they are based on the information that is sent to me. And no one told me anything about taping an additional episode today. “Enrico, you didn’t send me an e-mail about this.”
Enrico turns blue, and for a second I fear he is about to sprout Dracula fangs.
I reach my desk, grab the folder with all the sheets for the production of Buongiorno, Milano—the show we’re supposed to be filming—and run straight to the studio.
Halfway down the corridor, I hear the ambulance-like Doppler effect of Enrico yelling above the production team, all of them drowned out by Marlin’s voice booming from the makeup room. Marlin fidgets under the makeup artist’s brush and huffs, “Two episodes and you’re not ready yet! Bloody incompetence!”
Without even stopping to greet her, I run directly to the studio, where I find the director of photography dangling from a ladder as he adjusts the lighting. “Flood her with lots of light,” I shout. Marlin likes to be lit like Our Lady of Lourdes, since she thinks it makes it harder to see her wrinkles.
Next, I make a mad dash to our director, Luciano, to go over the lineup, as the first guests are already being corralled into the lounge next door. “We’ll do both shows calmly, without any strokes of genius, Lu.”
Luciano nods and looks into my eyes. “Today of all days, Alice!” he chides me gently, looking over my shoulder.
I turn around for a second and see Mr. President at the end of the corridor, leaning against the makeup room door and flirting with Marlin. Davide Nardi is just behind him, feeding coins into the soft drink machine.
“I know, Luciano . . . I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t know anything about the extra episode.”
“The guys are really nervous with all the talk of a network restructuring and possible cuts. Upstairs they’re saying that they want new ideas, new shows, new people, and we get caught unprepared from the start!” And with that, he walks away, shaking his head.
New ideas! I shudder to think of what that might imply.
Someone from the waiting room yells, “Could we get some coffee?” and once again off I trot.
I flash my best Colgate smile as I ask the guests, “Coffee, tea . . .”
Davide Nardi turns toward me and I can’t help but think of the line from Working Girl: “Coffee, tea, me?” I add the third word silently as I meet his glance.
He stares at me for a second and then smiles. “No coffee, thanks, but I would love a bottle of still water. The machine outside ate my money.”
Action and reaction, Alice. It’s pretty simple.
Instead I stand there, dazed, while the guests shower me with their orders.
After a few seconds too long, I turn like a robot toward the machine and say, “Of course.” This is not the first time that the damn thing has jammed, but we have developed an almost infallible fix.
I stop a colleague who is passing by. “Sergio, I need the shake, please.”
Sergio nods while Nardi comes over to join us. “Can I give you a hand?”
“Grab the other side of the machine,” says Sergio before I can interject.
They tilt it back, and I stand motionless, staring at Nardi playing X-Man with the soft drinks machine.
“Alice!” Sergio brings me back to reality, because now it’s my turn. I gave the order for the shake, I can’t back out now.
I sigh, and under the scrutiny of the Hatchet Man, I give a wiggle, and swing my backside hard into the side of the machine.
Immediately it dispenses two bottles, which I remove and deliver to Nardi. “Here you are.” I feel my neck burn with embarrassment and walk away immediately, using the coffee run as my excuse.
“Thank you for the . . . shake . . . Alice,” I hear him say.
Oh god.
In the meantime, Enrico has reached the production room and is screaming, “Well? Not ready yet?”
Luckily, I again manage to transform myself into the bionic woman and I have the opening theme music playing within three minutes.
“Today, we are joined in the studio by Mr. Claretti, who has one of the largest record collections in the world. The old LPs, remember them? They played at thirty-three revolutions per minute. Now, on the other hand, we have CDs that play at forty-five revolutions—”
“CUUUUT!” Enrico claps his hand on the wall with such force that the partition shakes.
In the studio, some of the guests giggle while Marlin looks around, lost, and asks, “Why have we stopped?”
“Because you’re an idiot!” Enrico barks. “That’s why we stopped, damn it. We’re already short on time and Your Chestiness doesn’t even know that CDs don’t play at revolutions per minute. Now, I’m going to come in there and . . .”
I rush toward Enrico. The engineers dubbed Marlin “Your Chestiness” right after her mammoplasty last year, but Enrico is generally careful not to use that nickname, and he should be especially guarded when Mr. President, who seems to be Marlin’s benefactor, is around.
“I’ll handle it,” I say, without broaching the subject. “But please don’t get yourself in trouble.”
I head to the studio where I tell Marlin that we have to start again from the introduction of Mr. Claretti, and explain in broad terms the difference between an LP and a CD.
When I leave the studio, I lean for a moment on the iron door, close my eyes, and sigh. I can’t believe the day’s not even halfway over yet.
When I open my eyes again, there are two people staring at me: Davide Nardi, from the door, and Carlo, from the end of the hallway. Carlo raises a finger, as if to call my attention, but I shake my head and dash back to the production room, almost colliding with Nardi in the rush.
4
* * *
A Gemini for All Seasons
I can hardly believe that we managed to record both episodes.
I want to strut over to Enrico, proud as a peacock, but when I turn around, I see him behind the glass door of the production room, arguing animatedly on his cell phone.
Instead I call out “It’s a wrap!” and after a trip to the café, I stop at the Mal d’Amore makeup room with two large tuna sandwiches. The smile plastered across my face falters a little when I see Tio with a ton of fake tan on his face and a pair of round glasses.
“And who the hell are you supposed to be?” I ask Tio as he takes his first bite of the sandwich, trying not to ruin the greasepaint.
“I . . . am Marshush . . . Alvars . . .” he splutters, in between mouthfuls. “Marcus Alvarez de la Rosa, cousin of Ferdinando Prandi, and an old flame of Ferdinando’s current girlfriend. We had a fling when we were kids, when she was on vacation in Tenerife.”
I shake my head. I can’t get over how they’ve tanned him! He looks like a cross between George Hamilton and Eduardo Palomo. They’ve even put extensions in his hair.
“So, did you get my message?” asks Tio as they finish giving him curls that would be the envy of Shirley Temple.
“Yes . . .” I say, a little distracted.
“And?”
“And I read it . . . But today has been chaotic and . . .” I turn toward him and stare.
I rummage in my pocket for my cell phone, to reread his message from this morning.
The day had started well, and after my evening out with Paola, I was so keen to prove what I was capable of. Tio had written that I would be energetic and spirited, but that then Saturn
and Mercury . . . The message mentions “unexpected workloads.”
“How did you do it?” I ask him, staring at the screen.
“I told you, it’s your horoscope. The position of the planets in your sign is clear.”
“What about the powerful and stormy love?” I bat my eyes and stop in front of him, blocking his path. “Because I want it now! ‘Powerful and stormy,’ like it says here in black and white! Passionate, etcetera, etcetera.” If it turns out he has only guessed the negative aspects of my horoscope correctly, there’s a high chance I may scream.
“I don’t know, be patient. I’m not a matchmaker. That’s what the Transit of the planets says.”
We are walking down the hallway when I see Carlo, and I give thanks for the character designer who came up with Marcus Alvarez, especially Tio’s lion’s mane, which easily serves as a bush that I can hide behind.
“You won’t be able to avoid him forever, you know.”
I snort and slip the phone into my pocket, only to jump immediately as I feel it vibrating furiously against my thigh.
Above Tio’s message there is another, from a number that’s not in my phone book.
Hello, this is Luca, Paola’s colleague. We met last night. I was wondering if you’d like to go for a drink sometime.
I look up at Tio as incredulous as Luke Skywalker when Yoda makes objects levitate in front of him using the power of the Force. When he pats me on the shoulder, I half expect him to say: “May the Force be with you.” Instead, he jumps up and down and whoops like a cheerleader.
“Don’t tell me it’s a MAN?!” When I nod, he starts improvising a dance in the hallway. “Am I or am I not good?”
“You are . . . phenomenal,” I say unconsciously.
Fireworks are exploding in my head. Luca is cute. And in his favor, he has:
• A thumbs-up from Paola, who describes him as brilliant and kind;
• His message is written with impeccable grammar. These days, with all the U’s and R’s and dangling prepositions floating around, this is not something to be underestimated.
• He asked for my phone number and asked me out on a date! Isn’t that a sign that he has good taste?
Tio is still shaking his hips in front of me, when I tell him: “I think he is an Aries.”
He stops abruptly.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s just that Aries is such a strong-willed sign . . . They can even be selfish at times. I would say restless, even, and you, as a Libra, have already had so much upheaval recently . . .”
“But that’s it, isn’t it? Powerful and stormy.” It’s meant to be.
Tio nods. “Indeed . . .” He sighs and takes my face in his hands.
“I feel like an old aunt, giving you advice, and then when it’s time to let you stand on your own two feet, I’m afraid you’re going to get hurt. But I’ll be right there with you, every step of the way, OK?”
I am on the verge of tears. This man, whom I’ve known for such a short time, is worried about me! I hug him tightly.
“You know, you really are incredible. Every girl should have a Tio to guide her and give her advice.”
He laughs heartily. “Some kind of guru, eh? Hmm . . . I wouldn’t look so bad in a turban . . .”
“More than a guru, a guide . . . An astrological guide . . . for broken hearts.”
5
* * *
Libra on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown
It’s official: I have nothing to wear.
Half of the contents of my closet are stacked on my bed and the rest scattered around the room, divided into piles. And I have absolutely no idea what I should wear tonight.
Following Tio’s advice, it has been ten days since Luca’s first message.
“You don’t want to give in right away, Alice. Aries is a hunter. If he doesn’t smell the scent of a challenge he won’t have fun and I will lose interest. And you don’t want me to lose interest now, do you?”
No, I don’t want him to lose interest. So even though my “dance card” has been empty for several nights, I’ve invented four drink dates, two birthdays, a movie, and a dinner at my parents’ house (the only true excuse, how pathetic).
Of course, Paola caught on a few days ago.
“Hello, Alice? What’s this I hear about you being at my sister’s birthday tonight? What are you up to? I thought that you wanted to go out with Luca . . . He says you’re always busy. Since when are you so popular?”
I had to explain to her about Aries men and that I didn’t want him to think that I was dying to go out with him.
“Yes, but enough is enough,” she said at a certain point of my astrological spiel. “Besides, I’m sorry, but with all due respect to your clairvoyant friend, I know Luca and he’s not like that. He’s a sweet guy, strong but gentle. I mean, why don’t you try being more spontaneous?”
I explained to her that Tio is an astrologer not Miss Cleo, and that so far my attempts at spontaneity, as she calls them, have always misfired.
In the end, I gave in. After all, a day or two couldn’t make much difference.
The waiting period did not go to waste. In those ten days, I had subjected myself to a lifestyle change that made Demi Moore in G.I. Jane look like she was on vacation in the Bahamas.
My alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. every day so I could bend and flex along with an old videotape: Firm and Burn with Jane Fonda. Along with the kicks to give me buns of steel like Barbarella, I subjected myself to the purifying diet of Tibetan monks, which meant that I’d been feeding myself rabbit food for ten days. Now, my hips are a little bit trimmer and I feel more at peace with myself.
In short: I’m toned, I’m hot, and I’m ready.
But now I’m having a fashion crisis.
Should I be provocative and elegant, or casual and chic? Sophisticated woman or girl next door?
I sit on the bed and send an SOS text to Tio. Not even a minute later, my phone rings and I cling to it as if it were the last life preserver from the Titanic. “Hello?”
“Hi, gorgeous, how are the preparations going?” At the other end of the line is Paola, who must have felt the vibrations of my despair.
“It couldn’t be going any worse. What should I wear?”
“Come on, what are you worried about? Wear something nice, without being over-the-top. You have to feel comfortable.”
Right. With the phone pressed to my ear, I rummage through the scattered clothes and fish out my tight jeans. They look pretty good with one of those tight T-shirts. It’s nothing earth shattering, but I could always dress up the outfit with some jewelry.
The trill of an incoming message makes me jump and my smartphone slips out of my hands. It’s Tio.
Wow him with your sex appeal: high heels and a miniskirt. Aries is a carnivore. You have to dangle the goods in front of him while making him think you couldn’t care less whether he samples them.
I admit showing up bundled up in jeans and a collared blouse wouldn’t be the best option for enhancing my powers of seduction. I toss the clothes back into their respective piles and continue my search.
“Listen, Paola, what if I wore that sexy bodice instead, the one that looks very Moulin Rouge–esque?”
I immediately send a photo of it to Tio, who responds a nanosecond later with a thumbs-up emoji and many exclamation points.
“Are you crazy? That might work for a nightclub . . . and maybe not even there! To tell you the truth, that top has always seemed kind of vulgar to me. Come on! Plus you risk being glued to your chair by the fear that with the slightest movement one of your tits will pop out.”
I write Tio a brief message:
No, won’t work. Too restrictive . . .
“Listen, Alice, Luca is very easygoing. Wear a miniskirt if you want, but don’t you think that he should focus his attention on you as a person rather than on your tits and legs? After all, when he met you, you were dressed normally and he was still interested.”
Remember, you must make him sigh. Aries is the sign of primordial instincts. He might give the impression of being a simple man, but in reality, he’s a dormant volcano. His ideal woman is one who is falsely naïve. He likes to fight for the bone, like a dog, but he lacks imagination and you have to give him an idea of what that bone is made of.
I get up and start tearing through my things like a crazy woman trying to take into account the suggestions of both my friends. When I check my reflection in the mirror, I am wearing a knee-length skirt with side slits, a high-necked but very close-fitting blouse, and shoes that are not too high. It doesn’t work. I look like the modern version of Mary Poppins. I undress and start over again. High boots, miniskirt, top—and I’m all set for a shift in the red-light district. Next! Tank top, pants, and flat shoes: great. If I ever decide to go to a lesbian bar, I have my outfit picked out.
I collapse on the bed, and the only remotely positive thought that comes to mind is that all of this hustle and bustle is burning more calories than my Jane Fonda regime does in the mornings.
Yet another message from Tio arrives in a coup de grâce.
I forgot: being the primordial animal that he is, Aries loves bold colors, like red or yellow. And being a fire sign, they truly are his colors. I hope this was helpful.
I place the telephone on the bed and resume my search, determined not to be distracted anymore, but three seconds later it starts ringing again.
It’s my mother.
I answer because, in her mind, I’m still a teenager and she worries when I miss her calls.
“Mom . . . hi.”
“Hi, sweetie . . . What’s up?”
Here we go, the typical insanity of when she calls simply because she is bored.
“Sorry, Mom, but I’m just on my way out.”
“You never have time when I call.”
“No, I’m sorry . . . It’s just that I have a date and I still have to get dressed.”