by Silvia Zucca
“Enough, Tiziano! This is overkill,” and I recognize the other voice as Andrea’s.
“Wait, just one more thing: between your two birth charts, there is a Midheaven moon opposition!” Tio nearly chokes on his last words.
“Tiziano, good Lord, I’ve never heard such a load of nonsense!”
“You don’t understand, Andrea. This union is not only impossible . . . the Moon-Pluto Opposition predicts violence and aggression!”
“For pity’s sake, say goodbye to Alice and hang up. Alice, please, have a good evening.”
“Oh Lord . . .”
“Is something wrong?” Davide asks, worried, and when he leans forward to take my hand, I snap back like a spring.
This is a nightmare. I knew I shouldn’t have sent him the birth date. Dammit, Alice!
“Are you all right?” Davide doesn’t wait for my answer and nods to the waiter, asking him for fresh water. “You look pale.” When he puts his hand on my cheek, I feel all his warmth, like a current that runs through me and goes straight to my heart.
Tio must have made a mistake this time.
I want this man; I want him with every fiber of my body, and I read the same thing in his eyes. Even now, as he raises my hand and brings it to his lips.
To hell with Tio and his astrology!
“I wanted to say . . .” resumes Davide. “In reality, I wanted to say that I’m sorry for how this evening is going. I wanted to talk to you. To tell you . . . To tell you something important. But it’s very difficult for me because . . . because I’m selfish and I’m afraid of ruining everything. Forgive . . .”
I place my finger on his lips. “There is nothing to forgive.”
He looks around. “What do you say we get out of here? I’m suffocating.”
Outside, a light drizzle forces us to take shelter in a doorway.
“When I told you before that this evening seemed like it wasn’t real, I wasn’t lying, Alice. I feel good with you. And that’s trouble, real trouble.”
I smile at him defiantly, raising my face toward him, my lashes getting wet from the rain. “Can’t we set aside logic, just this once?”
He closes his eyes and sighs, lifting his face toward the sky.
His hand rests on the back of my neck, pulling me forward against his chest.
I feel his heart beating, thudding against my forehead. He lays a kiss on top of my head.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he murmurs.
I try to lift my face toward him, making my way between the buttons of his shirt, the fabric of his collar, the soft leather of his jacket. I find his chin first, and my lips barely touch it, too afraid to give him a true kiss.
His fingers plunge into my hair, moving my head away. Then, all of a sudden, his lips are on mine, his mouth seeking me with sweet ferocity, eager to open me, taste me, as our breaths mingle with the patter of the rain.
I love him.
Oh, yes, I love him.
Tio can say whatever he wants. Let him present me with Davide’s natal chart signed in wax by the pope himself. I love him. Davide’s lips detach from mine for the space of a breath. “Alice, this is all wrong. You can’t want this . . .”
My head is spinning like crazy; my legs are weak. “This is the only thing I want.”
“No . . . no . . . no . . .” Yet he keeps kissing me, his lips seeking mine, his tongue desperately caressing mine. “But you don’t know . . .” He pants against my skin, his hand pushing aside the fabric of my blouse, the heat of his words warming my neck. “You don’t know because you’ve never asked me one question.”
I detach myself from him, but only those few centimeters that allow us to talk, maintaining the contact between our foreheads, his eyes closed, because it seems like our skin might rip if we were suddenly to part. “Davide, Houdini has nothing on you and your ability to evade questions. I’ve always asked you questions. I’ve always wanted to know everything about you.”
His lips part close to mine. “You never asked me if I was free.”
His words are a shot too close to my heart. I’m confused. I must have misunderstood.
“Wha . . .” My voice is hoarse, as if I were clambering over rocks to try and escape. “You aren’t?”
And now he tears his face from mine, and I feel the cold as he moves away, leaning back against the wall of the building.
“No, I’m not,” he admits and rubs his face, keeping his hand over his mouth as he watches me, perhaps in embarrassment for what he just said, perhaps to hold back kisses that he would have kept giving me.
I know exactly what I should do now. I know that I should turn around and cross the street. I know that I should leave.
“I really like you, Alice.” He reaches out a hand, without leaving the safety of the wall, and caresses my face.
My head is screaming at me to move away, telling me that Tio was right after all, and that this is a punishment. It is too much to have arrived at such happiness to then discover that there were—that there are—so many lies between us.
But instead of escaping, I bend my face toward him, rubbing my cheek on his palm.
“What do you suggest I do?” he asks me, pleading.
I raise my head and look into his eyes, those eyes that I thought I knew so well, that I thought must be hiding a man wounded by life, by a woman and a betrayal, for him to keep such a distance from me. Now I seem to read them more clearly, and the big question he once asked me takes on a whole new meaning: Have you ever cheated on someone? He didn’t ask me to see if I was faithful or if I could have hurt him the way someone else had, but to know if I would have ever consented to be the “other.”
“Leave her; be with me.” I am direct, sharp, and perhaps even unjust toward this other woman, who is guiltless as I am.
His eyes slowly lower. “It’s not possible. Not now . . . Even though things aren’t good between us. Barbara is vulnerable, especially since her husband died.”
“Barbara?”
“You met her at the castle,” he confirms. “When I asked her to let us film on her property, I thought it would be simple to present it to you as a fait accompli. I would avoid speaking to you about it and just introduce her to you as my partner. But then . . . when I saw you come in, I knew that I would hurt you and you didn’t deserve that; that I was a selfish egomaniac who wasn’t taking responsibility.”
That’s why he wanted to take me away. That’s why, when that plan failed because I had to work, he ended up taking her away and asking to see me tonight.
Barbara Buchneim-Wessler Ricci Pastori. How can I compete with perfection?
“I’m an asshole, Alice.”
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe. “Yes. You are.”
“I’ll take you home.”
I raise my arm, making him stop. “I’d rather take a taxi.”
25
* * *
Don’t Bother to Knock for the Libra
By now, I’ve gotten the hang of being rejected; I know how to deal with the situation. It’s entirely a matter of drawers. Mentally putting things in drawers, that is. I take the things that I don’t want to see, the situations that I can’t face, and I seal them all in a watertight compartment, a drawer that is not to be opened for quite some time . . . if at all.
Tonight, for example, I am lost amid the crush of bodies crammed into a nightclub, having an evening with friends that makes me feel young and full of energy. And full of alcohol. I really enjoyed myself. I danced, I sang . . .
This damn taxi seems to be taking forever, and the old jazz tune playing on the radio is ripping through my defenses.
I am tired: tired of believing, tired of being disappointed, and tired of suffering. I’m tired of putting myself back together, every time. I’m tired of being “strong” and being told that I am strong as if it were an excuse to treat me badly. I can’t take it anymore; I don’t believe in it anymore.
I pay the taxi driver quickly, my house key
s already in my hand.
The staircase light is still on the fritz and the neon light keeps flickering in and out without ever lighting up completely. This sucks.
I try the elevator, but some inconsiderate neighbor must have left the doors open because when I push the button, it fails to move. I start going up on foot, and climb over the yellow rose that someone has dropped. Distractedly, I stroke the handrail. I categorically refuse to cry. Then it hits me.
Why are there rose petals on my stairs?
I frantically search for my cell phone in my purse, but I am too nervous. I stop, flattening myself against the wall, trying not to breathe so I can listen for any noises. Then I hear something: footsteps. One more flight and I’ll have made it.
I see my front door illuminated intermittently by neon, but there are roses, the same yellow roses that someone keeps sending me. So I run. I fly up the stairs, gripping the key, ready to stick it into the lock at full speed. I can see a shadow peel away from the other flight of stairs, a second before the light goes out again.
“Here you are, finally!”
I turn around, ready to unleash my best Tarzan impression, but a hand strikes my mouth before I can yell.
“SHHH! Do you want to wake up the whole building?”
I try to wriggle free but the man isn’t letting go.
“Calm down, Alice. Muffin, calm down.”
I flatten myself against the door as my eyes bring him into focus, in spite of the terror and the flickering light.
“I’m back,” he gloats, almost singing. “Honey, aren’t you happy to see me? Didn’t you get my flowers?”
I can hardly believe my eyes. I blink a few times, because after an evening like this, perhaps I have more than one screw loose.
Then, I take a deep breath and I ask him: “What are you doing here, Giorgio?”
26
* * *
Full Metal Gemini
So, finally the mystery is revealed. Behind every yellow rose, behind every petal, and especially behind every thorn, was always Giorgio, the man who broke my heart. OK, one of the men who have broken my heart, but he was the one who started the ball rolling on the all-too-long string of men. At the time, however, Paola had qualified Giorgio’s departure by saying, “You should thank your lucky stars he’s gone . . . and change your locks.”
“What are you doing here, Giorgio?”
The irony of it is that, out of all the people who have ever come in and out of my life, Giorgio is not only the one person I never expected to see again, but also the one person I never wanted to see again.
“I’ve come to see you, Honey Bunch.”
“At two in the morning? What time zone are you on, Shanghai?” I’m not being the least bit nice, I know, and for a minute I even believe I’m being unfairly bitchy to him. It only lasts a minute, because if I think back on just some of the things that he did, tripping him and knocking him down the stairs would be an act of mercy.
“Ha-ha, you and your sense of humor . . .” he replies, scratching his head. “I just had to talk to you.”
“You couldn’t call?”
“I tried, but I think you changed your number.”
I clap my hand to my forehead. “Oh, that’s right. I blocked your number.”
“You’ve always been hotheaded,” he replies cockily. “My beautiful, fiery Muffin.”
Um, no. “I’m really tired, Giorgio. Can we do this another time?” Better yet, another lifetime—or two? “Give me your address; I’ll get in touch.”
“Well . . . that’s the thing. I don’t actually have an address at the moment. Ambra kicked me out. That freeloading, ungrateful bitch wants a divorce . . . and she wants my children. My children. Do you get the picture?”
“I guess.” Even when we first met, it was the same story.
Giorgio shakes his head. “This time she really means it. She wants all of my money. The damn woman has frozen all our accounts and . . .”
In the meantime, I open the door. I’m definitely not in the mood to spend the rest of the night on the landing being a Kleenex for my ex as he cries about being dumped by the woman he dumped me for.
“. . . and so I have no place to go.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on, Alice. I know that in your heart you’ve forgiven me. It’s your nature. I’m just asking for a few nights.”
“No.”
“Just one night! Just to give me a break. Last night I slept in the park . . .”
I sigh. “Giorgio, listen, this is not a science-fiction novel. I can’t take a person back into my home who treated me like dirt, who cheated on me, who used me to make his wife jealous . . .” Ex-wife, he had told me! “Who do you think I am, the Virgin Mary?”
He squints and stares intently at my forehead for a couple of seconds.
God, give me the strength.
“I . . . I really don’t know what to do . . .” he mumbles softly, his voice cracking. I enter the apartment and immediately close the door behind me. My heart is drumming a thousand beats per minute with guilt.
I decide to fix myself some herbal tea because this encounter has rattled me so much that I am sure it will take forever to fall asleep.
Meanwhile, Giorgio is still on the stairs. He’s leaned his head against the wall and thrown his jacket over his shoulders as a sort of blanket. I know, because I check through the peephole on my way between the kitchen and the hallway.
If he stays there, the superintendent will have a heart attack tomorrow morning.
How can I send him away?
I still don’t know, but this is a question that will torment me more and more over the next few weeks.
27
* * *
Libra Fever
I have a pounding headache, one of the symptoms of the cold that is destroying me. I am like the Titanic upon sighting the iceberg: a shipwreck waiting to happen.
It would have been the perfect excuse to curl up in bed and watch all the movies in my survival kit, but instead I went to work as usual.
“Alice? Alice, are you in there? Answer me, please! Alice!”
Cristina’s voice makes me jump, and my phone narrowly escapes falling in the toilet.
Yes, “we are friends” now. Or so she has decreed. However, her concept of friendship, at the moment, is based on her need, brilliantly expressed, to find an ally for support and reassurance.
“Yes, I aB here.”
“Um, am I disturbing you? Are you sick?”
“I just haB a bad cold. I caBe for toilet paper.” I sigh. “I ’ad to get a cold in Bay . . .” I comment, repeatedly blowing my nose.
“Yes. May . . .” Cristina repeats, and I look at her through the bathroom mirror. She has her eyes lowered and her fists clenched at her sides.
“You ready?” I ask her, trying to shake off my lethargy. We have a meeting soon, and I have to try to get a grip on myself.
“What do you mean, am I ready? Have you seen me? The wedding is coming up. I have the dress fitting on Saturday, and I am horribly fat. I look like a puffer fish, a sea lion, a whale, a hot air balloon . . . a blimp . . .”
“CristiDa: you’re pregDaDt.”
“I am incredibly ugly and disgusting. Even my face has expanded. It’s no wonder that Carlo doesn’t look at me anymore. And I have to put on that thing . . . that ridiculous white thing covered in sequins. I will look like an enormous snowball . . .”
I try to console her, and I want to say that the fact that Carlo no longer looks at her has nothing to do with her pounds.
Great friend I am. Yes, but sometimes saying nothing is better than using words as a bulldozer. For instance, I cannot be eaten up by guilt for not returning the six calls I’ve missed from Paola in the last two weeks.
I finally rest my head on the desk; all I want is to melt into the chipboard, to disappear like a hot air balloon on the horizon.
• • •
“Hello? Earth to Alice. Commence landing maneu
vers. Houston . . .”
Tio looks at me, shaking his head.
“I’ve thought about it over and over again. Just tell me: old or new? Old or new?”
“What, Tio? Who?”
“The Mystery Leo. Come on.”
“AgaiD? EDOUGH.” I have absolutely no desire to talk about the Leo. “How Bany days have you beeD torBenting Be about Dis?”
“Exactly fifteen days, seven hours, and twenty-three minutes.”
“I already said it’s Dot iBportant. Dot iBportant because it fiDished before it begaD. And you should be happy.”
“Yes, but I’m curious.”
“You are a gossip.”
“I am a gossip. I am a curious gossip, and I’m worried about you. I think this guy is the reason you’re on edge.”
“What guy? There is DO guy!”
Tio rolls his eyes. “Hello, I was looking for Alice. . . . Ah, she’s still in Wonderland? Right. I’m talking about the Leo!”
“EDough!” I wave my hand to dismiss the conversation, although I know I’m on dangerous ground. “You are getting worse thaD Paola. How BaDy tiBes Bust I tell you that there is Do woD. I aB aloDe. I live aloDe,” I caw.
But I am lying.
I mean, it’s not actually a lie, because legally I am the only occupant of my apartment, but I do have a guest. And it’s been more than the customary three days—Giorgio has pitched his tent at my house for the past two weeks. To be honest, he is even making himself useful around the house. It’s nice to have a sort of servant/friend that brings you breakfast in bed and to come home to a clean house and dinner on the stove.
Being a quintessential, unpredictable Gemini, as luck would have it, Giorgio’s multiple personalities even include the perfect “geisho,” and I was in need of some helpful company.
In front of me, Tio puts a hand on my forehead and shakes his head. “Be careful, Alice. Your horoscope has nothing good to say right now. You are in a critical phase, like the caterpillar when he closes himself into his chrysalis to become a butterfly. I wish you would open up to me like you used to. If not, then how can I open up to you? To tell you the truth, I’m very worried. Andrea and I are going to lunch at his mother’s this weekend. I have no idea what to wear.”