An Astrological Guide for Broken Hearts

by Silvia Zucca

  “Good morning,” I greet him, aware that my tone is questioning. “Did you need something, Mr. Magni? Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Oh, I was passing by and I wanted to say hello and thank you again for your kindness.”

  “Would you like a coffee?” Tio asks him.

  “Well, by Jove, how can I refuse?”

  “Come this way, Mr. Magni,” I say, starting for the door.

  “Oh, you can call me Andrea. Alice, isn’t it? Please.” He holds the door open to let me pass. “Ladies first.”

  There’s no denying it. He’s a real gentleman, an old-fashioned guy.

  He’s even friendly with Tio, despite their diametrically opposed opinions. He insists on paying for the coffee and asks us some questions about the program.

  “I was able to review the recording,” says Andrea. “Our discussion was heated but never descended into banal vulgarity. Even your point of view, Tiziano, was well argued, in spite of everything.”

  Yikes! I don’t like that “in spite of everything” at all. I look at Tio, expecting one of his digs, but he simply says: “Thank you, you are very kind.” He leans against the coffee machine and smiles. “You are very telegenic; has anyone ever told you that?” Then he gives a little cough and looks at me. “Isn’t that right, Alice? Weren’t we just saying that this morning? That Andrea looked very good on tape . . . and the ratings were out of this world. We should have him back, don’t you think?”

  Oh god, we said nothing of the kind, but it doesn’t cost me anything to humor him. “Of course.”

  “Your offer is very flattering, Tiziano. As is your compliment.”

  “Well, we could think of some interesting little entr’acte like changing roles, um . . . an analysis of your zodiac sign and astrological chart. You’re a Taurus, aren’t you?” He keeps looking at me. “The Taurus has a rather peaceful way of life. He is selfless, calm, and generally very . . . faithful.”

  “Oh!” I shift my gaze from Tio to Magni and then from Magni to Tio. And I understand. Tio is suggesting that I consider someone like Andrea, a quiet type, a creature of habit, someone who is not impulsive. I sigh and look at him. Well, he is a handsome man. Why not try to get to know him?

  “That sounds great. It would be worth discussing.” I look at the clock. “Unfortunately, I have to get back to work on some other things right now.” I take a deep breath. It’s not like me, I know, but I say: “Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner?”

  Tio’s head spins abruptly toward me. “At . . . dinner?”

  I don’t pay any attention to him and look at Andrea.

  “Oh, well, of course. I’d be delighted. Will you be joining us, Tiziano?”

  I snap my fingers. “Tio unfortunately has a commitment tonight, but given that this concerns Wednesday’s broadcast, it’s rather urgent that the two of us meet to discuss it,” I say biting my lip soon after.

  “Well, in that case . . . it seems appropriate to . . .”

  “Alice, you should really think about this,” whispers Tio, looking at me with wide eyes.

  Now what does he want? He’s the one that suggested I consider people who I wouldn’t normally go for. I can try, right?

  • • •

  “Alice, listen, don’t you think that I should come with you?” This will be the seventh call that I’ve received from Tio in less than two hours. “I could say that I skipped my appointment; it doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t see why you have to do that. I know you’re worried that I’ll be disappointed again, but I assure you, no irreversible damage will be done. It will just be an evening for us to get to know each other better. After all, you’re the one who suggested it. You said that I always choose men who are too dark and complicated. Andrea seems the total opposite. He’s definitely not the type of man I would be interested in.”

  “Exactly! Let it be!” he yells, directly into my eardrum.

  “But did you see his astrological chart? Of course you saw it; you did it this afternoon.” And I’ve practically memorized it. “Do I have to remind you about . . . what was it? The Moon-Uranus Tropic?”

  “The Trine.”

  “The Moon-Uranus Trine that says that we possibly have a strong compatibility on the physical front. But that’s not all. How about the Mars-Jupiter Sextile? I took note of it. Although we don’t have the same interests, we complement each other and understand each other very well.”

  “Alice, listen to me, really. There are other factors to consider, apart from astrology.”

  “Help me understand,” I say, growing angry. “You’ve been complaining for months that I should trust astrology and now, when in black and white there’s a man who is potentially perfect for me, you say that’s not the only thing to consider?” I growl into the receiver, then spot Andrea next to the front door, stiff as a rake. I arm myself with a reassuring smile as I end the conversation with Tio, saying, “We will keep you updated on any developments. Don’t worry. Have a nice evening.”

  On the elevator ride up to the bar, I risk a neck strain to look at him. He’s not bad at all.

  Once again, he compliments the show, saying that he had fun and how nice Tio is. He asks me if I’ve known him for a long time. I tell him that our relationship only began a couple of months ago.

  “Oh, um . . . relationship. You’re dating,” he says.

  “Oh, no, no, no, no! I mean our relationship as friends. There is no relationship in that sense.”

  Rather direct, Mr. Astro-playboy. There is certainly the Tropic of Taurus at play here, that Moon-Uranus Trine that attracts us.

  The bar is quite full, but thanks to his periscopic height, Andrea spots a free table on the terrace. Romantic!

  “The temperature is around seventy degrees tonight, so you should not therefore undergo any thermal variation that would lead you to experience the symptoms of a cold,” he says, pulling out my chair gallantly.

  “It’s too bad that there is so much light in the city that you can’t see the stars.” I sigh, sitting down. I stare into his eyes and force myself to imagine what a life together might be like, with him and me.

  “Technically, the reason why we can’t see the stars is not the presence of light sources, but Earth’s atmosphere.”

  I say goodbye to my fantasy and nod repeatedly until Stephen Hawking here concludes his romantic explanation of the heavens. Then I sigh and bury my head in the menu.

  “The buffet is excellent here, you know. There’s practically everything, from appetizers to desserts.”

  We order; me, the usual spritz and him, a citron juice.

  He has Chiron in Taurus, and this makes him respectful of his physique and very attentive to his diet, and you can tell, but really, a man of almost forty drinking citrus juice with a straw? Perhaps a drop of booze might encourage the conversation a bit, I am tempted to say after a quarter of an hour spent trying to follow his speeches, but perhaps because I lack the necessary scientific foundations, or because the only foundation I have now is alcohol, my eyes start to close and I’m on the verge of yawning.

  “Can you excuse me for a second?” I get up and reach the bathroom. “Hello? Tio, damn it!” I scream.

  “Calm down, what’s happening?” he answers lazily from the other end of the phone.

  “Tell me it’s a joke! I can’t be destined for a man who has the sense of humor of a computer. I want heat, passion, and loving glances.”

  “Calm down. I’ve got your back.”

  “But how?”

  “Leave it to me. And—”

  It’s no good, I can’t stand it. “Please, don’t say, ‘I told you so.’ I hate it when you do that.”

  “And I hate that I told you so, honey.”

  “Mmm . . . I love you.”

  “Me, too.”

  I end the conversation and rinse my neck and wrists with a little cold water to wake myself up. OK, enough alcohol for tonight; I need all my energy to prevent my head from falling
onto my plate.

  I return to the dining room and head for the terrace, but when I reach the French doors, I stop, unable to believe my eyes. Andrea is still there at the table, laughing and chatting animatedly with someone. Then Tio turns to me and waves.

  19

  * * *

  Libra in Pink

  There are days when you think you’re kaput, finished, nothing more than an old wreck to be thrown away. You wish that a potato sack would become the height of fashion, and you nostalgically yearn for a time when families arranged marriages and that was the end of it. Even with the worst luck, you would be taken in by a convent.

  Then there are days like today.

  This is my favorite day of the month, which Paola and I have named our Sacred Day.

  Today is the day we go to have our nails done by Karin.

  The Sacred Day is a day for women, by women, with women. It is dedicated to beauty, relaxation, shopping, chatting. It’s a break, without men, that allows us to speak freely about our problems and about things that really do matter to us.

  “So?” Karin asks me, putting the last touches to my pinky.

  “So, he was so boring that I could hardly keep my eyes open,” I say, putting my hand under the heat lamp. “Good thing Tio came and sacrificed himself for the cause. He spoke to Andrea about the show for the rest of the evening. He’s a darling.”

  “Enough already, Alice, OK?” my manicurist friend reproaches me. “You find all the weirdos out there! I remember when you told me about that idiot . . .”

  “Alejandro?”

  “No, the other one.”

  “Luca?”

  “Luca? That’s new. Who is he?”

  “Not relevant . . . let’s move on. Do you mean Carlo?”

  “Come on, that’s ancient history! I mean the one you were dating last year.”

  “Oh, you mean Giorgio!”

  “For the love of God,” exclaims Paola from the sofa.

  She never approved of Giorgio. She found him too melodramatic, too over-the-top to be truthful, which, in fact, turned out to be the case.

  “May I remind you that he had major memory problems, especially when he should have remembered that he was dating you and couldn’t just take his pants off and hop into bed with anyone he wanted.” Paola puts down the newspaper and sighs. “Alice, enough with the problematic, the indecisive, the forty-year-old children, the bloodsuckers, and the manipulators.”

  I pull a face. “OK, OK! The post-Carlo phase has been a bit stormy, but hell, I’m getting over a difficult relationship.”

  “Alice, it’s been more than two years of ‘getting over it.’ Not even a magnitude eight earthquake takes that long to get over.”

  “And this Tio?” asks Karin. “He must really like you.” Paola shakes her head and stifles a laugh.

  I huff and return to fixing my nails, hoping that the pink color and, most of all, the glitter will help improve my mood for the days ahead.

  “It’s easy for you to talk, Paola, now that you’ve found Giacomo. But it’s not that simple. Take Andrea. Perfect astrological chart, zodiac sign, ascendant, planetary arrangement, and compatibility, and . . . ? Nothing. We didn’t click. Not even the slightest interest.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me!” she says.

  “You don’t think I’m smart enough for an astrogeologist?”

  “I think you’re the one who would never be interested in a guy like him,” she explains, turning yet another page to discover that bangs will be in again in the fall. “Sparks don’t always fly just because everything is perfect.”

  “Do you want me to set you up with one of my boyfriend Federico’s friends?” Karin interrupts my sad musings. “He just told me about an interesting guy that goes to his bar. If I’m not mistaken, he’s some kind of artist, very cool guy. If you want . . .”

  “What sign is he?” I ask, and she takes out her phone.

  “Alice, stop!” Paola scolds. “This is not how you’ll find the man of your dreams.”

  “So how will I find the man of my dreams, Paola? Where will I find him, in a cereal box?”

  She closes the newspaper and looks at me. “And Davide? What happened to him?”

  “I think that we can add him to the long, long list of: ‘Men who have rejected Alice.’ ”

  “Why don’t you start a list of ‘Men rejected by Alice’? I think that sounds a little better. And now would be a good time to start it.”

  I know she’s right, but I can’t shake the feeling of rejection that I get every time something goes wrong with a guy.

  “Davide?” says Karin, ending her telephone call. “I want to know everything. Who is he? What does he do? What sign is he?”

  Paola sets down the newspaper. “Yes . . . What sign is he?”

  I admit defeat, shaking my head. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Age?”

  “No clue.”

  Paola chuckles. “Damn . . . We can’t play with Chinese horoscopes as well!”

  20

  * * *

  Love in the Time of Aquarius

  I’m really proud of myself.

  Today, instead of succumbing to a tedious solitary Sunday, surviving on leftovers and falling asleep in front of the TV, I made a decision and did something I’ve never done before.

  I went to the movies. Alone.

  Why should the movie theater be exclusively for couples and families? I am passionate about movies; I should feel free to go whenever I want and not miss movies that appeal to me just because I have no one to go with me.

  Of course, I called Tio first, but he was already busy.

  And Paola, but she was at lunch with her mother-in-law, and in a certain sense I didn’t envy her.

  Then my parents surprised me by not even being in Milan.

  Happy to have gotten away with it this time, I decide to reward myself with shopping. Just as I’m skipping from window to window, I find myself in front of a scene that would almost be too absurd for a movie.

  I stop dead in my tracks in front of a café, undecided whether to go in or not, because I have no idea what I’ll do with myself if I do venture inside. Sitting there, alone at a table, is Carlo, and he is clearly crying.

  I don’t know what to do. As close as we’d been all these years, recently there has definitely been a barrier between us. I would like to put an end to it now, but unfortunately, I’ve never had a knack for these things. Instead, what really is part of my DNA, is the Red Cross syndrome, which is an epidemic among women of my generation.

  Carlo is a few inches away from me, playing with his cup, staring at it intensely, as if it could predict his future. His tears have dried, but his eyes are still red. It’s as if he’s in a bubble, a world of his own; I’m scared to burst it.

  Suddenly, he raises his head, as if he senses something, but he doesn’t turn toward me. His gaze shoots toward the bathroom door, which was just opened by a girl in light colors: her T-shirt, pants, and eyes all have the faded blue color of forget-me-nots.

  I’m about to step forward, but she precedes me, sitting opposite Carlo and taking his hand. Then the girl stands up and Carlo follows. She tries to pass him but he catches his arm around her waist. If there were fog, it could be the end of Casablanca. They look into each other’s eyes, and nothing else exists before Carlo closes the distance between them with a soft and desperate kiss that makes my knees melt.

  Just a minute!

  That can’t be Carlo, also known as Carlo my ex-boyfriend-who-in-the-blink-of-an-eye-has-impregnated-someone-else-and-announced-their-wedding-on-Facebook? No, in this precise moment he by no means seems like a father-to-be, and above all, the woman he is kissing is not pregnant.

  The lovers release their embrace, and the girl looks intensely at Carlo before turning her back and leaving, brushing right past me.

  Why, oh why have I gotten myself into this mess?

  But Carlo doesn’t say anything and turns his back to me, retur
ning to sit behind the now empty coffee cup.

  “Um . . . Hi . . .”

  He doesn’t even look up as I move in front of him, but I notice an almost imperceptible shake in his shoulder. I sit down.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks me in such a low voice that it takes me a few seconds to understand the question.

  “I . . . I saw you . . . I mean, I was outside . . . You were alone and I came in to say hello.”

  “Well, hi,” he says drily, without even looking up.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Why should I? You will never stop meddling in my business, will you? And anyhow, don’t you have eyes? Tell me what it looked like to you!” He looks up to gaze fiercely at me.

  “I assure you that it wasn’t my intention to spy on you. It was just a coincidence that I was passing by here; I was at the movies . . .”

  Carlo narrows his eyes even more, squinting at a point behind me. “So, there’s someone else, too? Paola?”

  And I’m the one who meddles in other people’s business!

  “Don’t worry. I went by myself,” I say, not without a good dose of bravado.

  “No way! That’s not your style. Please. You would never.”

  “You think I’m incapable of going to the movies alone? It’s not rocket science.”

  “In our five years of dating, you never moved a muscle unless I did . . . or you were with Paola or another one of your friends. Please.”

  “What do you know? It’s been two years since we were together. I could have changed. I have changed.”

  “Ha. People don’t change. You don’t change. That’s the terrible truth.”

  Of course, when he wants to, Carlo has a sense of tragedy that makes Hamlet seem like a stand-up comedian.

  “You don’t know; we’re not dating anymore.”

  “I know what I see. A girl trying to be a ‘career woman,’ wearing push-up bras and high heels.”

  “Does it bother you that I look feminine?”

  “You didn’t give a damn about that before.”