An Astrological Guide for Broken Hearts

by Silvia Zucca

  With the steel of a bionic woman, I speed away, ignoring the pain from the blisters that are forming on my foot.

  I bound up the stairs and have almost reached Enrico’s office when I catch him at my three o’clock, red-handed, standing in front of the vending machine, stuffing his pockets with snacks.

  When I call out to him, he jumps, dropping his contraband: four juices, three chocolate snacks, two cracker breads, and a packet of cookies with diet marmalade. Then he grinds his teeth: “YOU! What are you doing here? You should be in the studios . . . Don’t you get that after ten years here?”

  No, Mr. Miyagi would not be happy with me at all as I draw myself up to my maximum height and yell that perhaps he is the one who needs to check his job description. I’ve had enough of being told that everything is my fault. “Wax on, wax off,” my ass.

  Enrico throws his haul onto the windowsill and points at me with his chubby finger, covered with a makeshift bandage fashioned from Kleenex and masking tape.

  “You’re the one who dragged us all into this mess with your program, so that we have to work day and night. I don’t even know what my house looks like anymore. All you care about is making a good impression on the management, while you leave me to organize everything. As if I hadn’t already spent enough nights here, sweating blood for this company!”

  Enrico is almost as blue as Papa Smurf and I am terrified that I will have to take a shot at CPR or, God forbid, mouth-to-mouth.

  “Enrico, calm down. Everything will work itself out, but I need you to give me a hand. I’m sorry, we’re all tired. I understand—”

  “No, you don’t understand. You really don’t understand the damage you have done.” He walks away toward his office. “I’ll be right down. You go ahead,” he says, taking out the key from his pocket and putting it in the lock.

  I run behind him. “Wait! I have to print the schedules. I’ll do it in your office.”

  “No!” he cuts me off. “I’m out of ink!”

  Five minutes later, I’m back in the production room, throwing schedules at people like Frisbees. I (and my feet) pray to god that Tio is in makeup, but the room is just teeming with shouting zodiac signs.

  The makeup artist gives me a desperate look, then narrows her eyes and makes a face. “Raffaella tells me this program is your doing . . .”

  Yes, yes. Okay. It’s me. You’ve found me out. I’m as vindictive as Keyser Söze, and I plotted all of this at your expense purely because I hate you.

  Before scurrying off again, I spy Enrico approaching the production room and run over to tell him about the missing lens. When he turns around, I realize that he has a half-closed, swollen, bloodshot eye. He yells, “Why hadn’t you told me sooner?” then runs into Ferruccio’s office.

  At this point, I am operating on autopilot. My only objective is to find Tio, but I know exactly where he might be: Mal d’Amore.

  As much as I’ve begged him to give up his agreement with the soap, Tio has whined that he is and always will be an actor, and he wants to act.

  When I enter the Alpha studio, dim lights illuminate the scene of a room where Tio, in bed, is tossing and turning, as if he’s having a nightmare.

  Like the true professional that I am, I calmly wait for them to finish, then I approach the director and tell him: “Excuse me, I am the creator of Astrological Guide.” With certain people, it is always better to state one’s title, plus I really like saying it.

  “We’re done,” he says curtly.

  Happy to have asserted my authority, I go help Tio pick up the clothes that his character has scattered on the ground.

  “No es bueno para mí, Salva.”

  I am holding a sock, retrieved from under the cot, when a warm and mellow voice slides over me like velvet on bare skin.

  The Latin timbre makes me look up sharply and slam my head against the corner of the wood, cursing Mr. IKEA and his family for seven generations. When I turn around, still in the elegant position of all fours, I find myself in front of a pair of legs wrapped in suede pants.

  An olive-skinned hand moves toward me, and instinctively I grab it, noticing the forearm that bulges, showing off the sexiest vein on the planet.

  Then my horizon extends beyond the waist of the unknown. Somebody up there likes me, I think, eyeing a flat and muscular stomach worthy of a stadium wave. The soft, dark hair rising toward his navel makes me drop my jaw like I am in a cartoon, and his abs . . . The abs! So, it is not just an insidious invention for Dolce & Gabbana publicity. The six-pack exists! God exists!

  Feeling miraculously restored, my rundown concludes on a face with a strong jaw, dark eyes, bushy eyebrows, and hair better than Daniel Day-Lewis’s in The Last of the Mohicans.

  I release a postcoital sigh that earns me a couple of coughs from Tio who says, “We need to go, otherwise you’ll hear it from Enrico.”

  I blink. “Enrico . . . who?”

  “Yes, Alejandro, let them go,” says the director.

  “You’re still here,” exclaims another voice behind me. “Alice, there you are! I’ve been looking for you for a half hour!”

  When I turn around, I see Raffaella who struts toward us. “Fifteen minutes before we go live! I’ve prepared the guests, told the zodiac signs what order to enter in, and checked the graphic and movie clips with the tape room. If only you could be of any help . . .”

  And the unthinkable happens. The beautiful Alejandro breaks away from me to look at her with a smile that would melt a glacier.

  “Hola . . .”

  Raffaella joins us and answers him in perfectly formulated Spanish.

  He laughs and runs a hand through his hair, then shoots me a dirty look. What in the world did she say to him?

  Tio pulls me by the sleeve.

  “Be right there,” I say, staying on the sidelines to stare at Alejandro and Raffaella like the Little Match Girl.

  At that moment, Raffaella must realize that there is an annoying third wheel between her and the Antonio Banderas of the network, and she turns, wrinkling her nose at me.

  “Excuse me, Alice,” she whispers. “I know it’s not nice, but as a friend, I have to tell you . . . You don’t smell too good. You should go wash up.”

  I should . . . I immediately take a step back, as if fifty centimeters were sufficient to ensure my quarantine.

  At the door, I cast one more look at Alejandro’s back and sigh. His muscles are resplendent under the spotlight. It seems unfair that an overheated man is able to be, and in fact frequently is, sexy and virile while a woman should be genetically devoid of sweat glands.

  But I may have a solution to my problem. In my desk drawer, there is a bottle of unopened perfume my colleagues gave me for my last birthday. Perhaps there is a light at the end of the tunnel!

  10

  * * *

  The Curse of the Jade Scorpio

  After I snap back to reality, I schlep back upstairs and Enrico yells: “Alice, what are you still doing here!”

  “I . . . I forgot something.”

  He closes the door and flattens himself against it just as I am crawling along the wall on the other side. His eye is still red and swollen, and there is an ink stain on his cheek. We hear a crash coming from inside his office and Enrico jumps. “Oh damn, I must have left the window open. You go ahead, but be quick!!”

  I sprint away, hoping not to leave behind a chemical trail.

  I open my desk drawer and squeal as if I’ve found the Holy Grail. I quickly rip off the plastic and subject myself to a decontamination shower. And now I am coughing.

  It’s like Pine Sol combined with Trident gum—topped off with my sweat, the smell could easily be patented as a weapon of mass destruction.

  Out of desperation, I sprint back to the production room, hoping that the effect will cause the smell to wear off, but instead I just feel more uncomfortable, especially when Tio approaches only to take a step back, motioning that we will speak later.

  “One minute unti
l the theme song,” croaks the voice over the intercom.

  Tio starts off the show like a pro, orating about horoscopes with such unrelenting confidence that not even Margherita Hack would dare contradict him. The only slip-up during the first segment was made by Marlin, who after briefly glancing at her printed material, introduced the “Skeptic Guest,” a member of CICAP, the Italian Committee for the Investigation of Claims on Pseudo-Science by calling him “Doctor” and asking if using his “checkups” he has discovered any signs of the zodiac that are particularly prone to diseases.

  In a clumsy attempt to save her, Tio changes the segment order, and instead of introducing Aries, he follows his train of thought and begins with Scorpio, who he claims would be most in need of a good physical at the moment.

  “This year, Saturn is dominating the heavens, and it came into Scorpio a few months ago. This planet reveals the weakness of the sign and its bad behaviors. In particular, it could exacerbate an already distinctive trait of the native Scorpio: pessimism. It could also spur them on to new choices, new paths, and new challenges. For those in relationships already having problems, there could even be a breakup. This zodiac sign must learn to communicate more and ask for help when it needs it.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief and stretch my arms above my head, but I immediately pull them down, for fear that my new recipe for nerve gas will cause instantaneous genocide in the production room. As I stealthily check that no one has fainted, at the other end of the hall I spy the Mal d’Amore macho man, Alejandro.

  His penetrating gaze meets mine, and he smiles, taking a few steps forward. I curse the fact that when I finally have half a chance with a smoking hot guy I reek of “Cheval No. 5,” so I am almost relieved when Raffaella stops him in his tracks. I take the opportunity to slip away to the nearest bathroom to decontaminate my armpits.

  When I leave the bathroom, I am quite pleased with myself and ready to dazzle the gorgeous Alejandro with the amazing properties of liquid soap.

  As I pass the lighting room, I hear a noise, imagining that it might be him setting up some equipment. Instead of Alejandro, I find my colleague Sergio standing up suddenly after zipping up a large bag.

  “Oh, hey, Alice. Do you need something?”

  I get back to the production room and find we are on a commercial break, and Tio is standing outside the studio getting some air. When he sees me, he pulls me aside and smiles at me. “Well?”

  “Bravo. You were fabulous.”

  “I was referring to how your friend, the Scorpio, is doing. Didn’t you get it?”

  “You completely changed the lineup to tell me about . . . Alejandro?”

  “No.” He raises an eyebrow. “Not Alejandro. Enrico.”

  “What?”

  He takes me by the arm and drags me away. “Look, I know I’m an expert on zodiac signs, but you have a knack for missing what’s right under your nose, which is so typical of a Libra. He’ s up to something. And I can tell you that he’s not doing so hot. With you, I just needed one look to know what sign you were; didn’t you think I would figure out that he’s a Scorpio after knowing him for a month? By nature he is rather grumpy because Mars is his dominant planet. He tends to hide his feelings because he doesn’t like to look weak and therefore prefers to be the first to attack. If you haven’t noticed, your boss has been out of his mind lately, all revved up and flying off the handle over the slightest setback. Ergo, he is a Scorpio, and Saturn is giving him a rough time. Now we just have to find out exactly what kind of ‘rough time’ we are dealing with.”

  Hearing the countdown for the return to the studio, I send Tio back to his place. I return to the production room and can’t help but look for Enrico, but he hasn’t come back yet. He was only supposed to be printing something in his office, but wasn’t he out of ink? That was supposedly why he wouldn’t let me in the room earlier. When I get up to go look for him, I feel a bit like Jessica Fletcher, albeit a few years younger and with ten times higher heels.

  “Alice . . .”

  Hearing that voice automatically makes me go weak at the knees. Davide’s office door is half open, and he is looking at me from his desk. It’s so late I never would have imagined anyone would still be up here.

  “Hey, um . . . ”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good, yeah . . . good. Tio is very well prepped. And Marlin is . . . well, Marlin is beautiful.”

  He snorts. “But how are you? You look tired.”

  Why do I feel hurt by this?

  “I was running around a lot today. You know how it is, launching a new show.”

  He grumbles and rubs his face with one hand. If I seem tired, he seems to have the weight of the world on his shoulders. “No, to tell you the truth, I don’t know how things go in television. This is the first time I’ve worked in this environment.”

  “What do you mean? You’ve never worked for a television network?”

  “I’m a reviewer. My job is to evaluate a company’s workforce and understand its functions and its flaws . . . with detachment.” He gets up, stretching his back. “At times, it seems like nothing ever changes except the place: Rome, Paris, Barcelona . . .” He shrugs his shoulders.

  “Kind of like being in a blender,” I comment, thinking of all the people that he must have met, all the Alice Bassis who have come before me and all those who will be part of his future. That thought worries me and makes me tighten my grip on the doorknob. I look him in his eyes and feel like I am going to disappear.

  He laughs. “A blender really captures the idea. I am practically homeless.”

  “What about the apartment you looked at with Raffaella?”

  “It didn’t work out. They don’t allow dogs.”

  “You have a dog?”

  “Somebody’s got to keep me company.”

  In that moment, his telephone rings and he looks at the display and closes his eyes just before he answers. “Hello?” He raises his index finger at me, as if asking me to wait, and leaves the office saying: “At work. Yes, still.”

  I sigh. What am I doing in here? What am I doing with him?

  From the hallway, I can still hear his voice: “I told you, it’s a long assignment. I don’t know. No. Not this weekend.”

  I smile because his desk is a mess of papers, coffee cups, pens, pencils, and various knickknacks, and the chaos of objects makes him seem a little more human and a little less Terminator.

  Then my attention is caught by something familiar: my name. Under a pen, and next to Sergio’s file, is mine, complete with a horrendous photo featuring helmet hair that makes me look like a cross between Doris Day and a Playmobil figure. God, how embarrassing that Davide saw it.

  I wonder if I am trying to prove that he isn’t actually evil. Although he has chosen a job that puts him in contention for “most hated man of the year,” I am able to catch a glimpse of him, beyond all of this: a single man who can never put down roots and keeps running away from himself.

  I shoot a glance into the hall, but he is far away so that I can’t even make out a word. I have to get back to work, find Enrico, and return to the production room. Loitering there between his office and the hallway makes no sense. It just doesn’t.

  • • •

  “Enrico?” I have my fist raised to knock, but I jump backward when I hear a Tarzan-like scream. Without thinking twice, I enter and stop dead in my tracks as I see what looks like a gruesome crime scene from a horror film, one featuring a graphomaniac serial killer intent on expressing his existential malaise on the walls using the blood of his victims. “My god, Enrico, what . . .”

  Then my eyes catch the movement of something else that quickly detaches from his leg and sneaks away.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “I told you to stay down in the production room,” he snaps.

  I look anxiously at the walls, terrorized by the idea of finding “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” repeated a million times.

&
nbsp; I frown and look again at Enrico as he raises his pant leg and massages his leg. His calf is purple and he has a bite mark on his shin. He snorts and turns his back to me saying, “Riccardino, please come out. Be a good boy, come to Daddy.”

  “Riccardino? Did you bring your kid to work? That’s against the rules!”

  Enrico turns to glare at me. “How dare you speak to me like that! If it weren’t for you and your damned show, I wouldn’t be in this mess,” he yells, almost foaming at the mouth. “You had to come up with all this crap. An Astrological Guide to my ass!”

  “Enrico!” I shout, looking around for the child, who should not be hearing this language.

  Enrico bites his lip and turns around. “Riccardino, don’t repeat that, OK? Do your dad a favor.”

  “I want Mom.”

  The little voice comes from behind the filing cabinet. “Hey, little one. There you are.” Riccardino raises a head of golden curls and looks at me with eyes even bluer than his father’s.

  “Oh, how cute!”

  Someone else knocks at the door and instinctively I push the child back behind the cabinet while Enrico runs to open it. “Davide . . . did you need me?” I hear him say.

  “Yes. Enrico, I’m sorry, I need you to go down to the studio with me. There’s something I need to talk to you about. Something serious.”

  The filing cabinet is pushed against me with force, hitting me in the knee. “Ouch!”

  Enrico glares at me while I hear Davide ask him: “Is there someone else here?”

  “Um . . . No, just Alice.”

  “Ah, well, she can come, too.”

  “No!” Enrico scowls at me. “Alice can’t come now. She has to stay here and deal with something.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but he doesn’t give me the time.

  “Because Alice owes me.”

  He is about to close the door on me when I ask him, “Enrico, what sign are you?”

  He turns around and stares at me with contempt. “Fuck off. I’m a Scorpio.”

  So Tio was right, yet again. Like a true Scorpio, Enrico is battling the Mephistophelian Saturn and bringing me down with him.