An Astrological Guide for Broken Hearts

by Silvia Zucca

  “Daniele,” he says, offering me his free hand.

  I stammer something like: “GnaaaaAliceuaaa . . .” while trying to regain the use of my jaw and roll the kilometer of tongue back into my mouth. He is gorgeous.

  Just gorgeous? Neptune screams indignantly. You should run to the nearest church and light a candle.

  He accompanies me to the entrance. Then he helps me take off my coat and, without any hesitation, entrusts it to the cloakroom clerk together with the umbrella.

  While he performs all these maneuvers, I have the opportunity to study him. He’s tall and has long, coppery brown hair that he keeps tied in a bun. His glasses give him an intellectual air, enhanced by his faded jeans and his untucked shirt.

  Would a guy like this really want to date you? Mercury questions, pragmatic but also decidedly sour.

  Why not? Why can’t you, yes you, be the protagonist of a wonderful story? replies Neptune, batting his lashes and pursing his lips.

  Daniele accompanies me to the corridor leading to the exhibition and thanks me for having accepted such a last-minute invitation.

  He is a very affable, hands-on type. While we speak, looking casually at the photos on display on the gallery walls, he makes me feel lighter, as if we have known each other forever and this was not our first date.

  “Hey, Daniele!”

  He turns, smiling, and introduces me to someone called Franco, accompanied by a brunette with a cocked beret.

  “This is wonderful, you know? And, I wanted to thank you.”

  “What for, Franco? There’s no need.”

  While Franco takes him aside, the girl in the beret explains, “Daniele is one of the few who stayed close to Franco at a very difficult time. He’s incredibly sensitive, as you can see from his photos.”

  I look around, as if the walls were suddenly illuminated, revealing the photos for the first time. He took these?

  But of course. This is not just an exhibition. This is his exhibition.

  When he returns and Franco and the girl say goodbye, Daniele apologizes for leaving me alone.

  “You never told me that I was going out with the artist himself. They are beautiful. Congratulations.”

  “Oh.” He shrugs. “The photographs are just a testimony, a way to bring attention to the stories behind them.”

  He seems slightly embarrassed.

  Neptune: Maybe the Prince Charming factory has reopened its doors.

  Mercury: Well, it’s clear that it’s simply a clever tactic to impress and maybe . . . take you to bed tonight. Bimbo.

  “I would like to know what you think,” he says while I cast the nagging voices out of my head.

  We are in front of one of his photographs. The image shows a group of people crowding into a square. They are dancing, and on their faces is a joy that makes even the oldest appear young.

  “It seems . . .” I hesitate. “It’s as if you waited to shoot until everything was perfect—not only the framing, but also the emotion—until the moment when you were feeling what they were feeling. You can feel people. You love people . . .” I clear my throat; this time I’m the one who’s a bit embarrassed.

  “I’m very impressed, Alice. This is the first time someone has told me my pictures make them feel like that.” He looks deep into my eyes. “And you are a Libra with Sagittarius Ascendant,” he adds. “Spirit and matter. A nice combination.”

  Wait a second. I can’t have heard right. “Are you talking about my . . .”

  “About your astrological chart . . . I know that in our culture it’s considered nonsense, but in others it’s held in high esteem. In India, for example, the parents would never give consent to the marriage of their children if the couple’s astrological charts were not in harmony.”

  “You’ve been to India?”

  “I like to discover the world. And, more than anything else, try to understand the people I come into contact with. Each of us is a treasure trove of loneliness, desires, fears, and hope. But you know this. You are a person of rare sensitivity.”

  I swallow. “Well . . . I do have the Moon in Pisces . . .”

  He nods mysteriously, as if this revelation had thrown a new and wonderful light on me, as if I had just said that I was the last descendant of Mahatma Gandhi, or Buddha, or Elvis Presley.

  We move away, and I feel and see myself differently; as if beside Daniele, I’m not Alice, but a better, more beautiful, and confident woman.

  Then, while sipping a glass of something nonalcoholic (all proceeds from the exhibition will be donated to a charity fighting alcoholism), I feel a sudden chill that brings me back to reality and back to Alice, with all her bad moods and frustrations. I guess you really can’t escape yourself.

  A few steps away from me stands the woman whose last name is shorter only than the amount of zeros in her bank account: Barbara Buchneim-Wessler Ricci Pastori. The very same woman who, unfortunately, also happens to be dating the man who I cannot get out of my head or my life.

  Daniele, attentive, immediately asks me if there is something wrong. “Is it the mocktail? Is it too cold?”

  I stick to the topic of the sad photograph that is near us.

  “You are a very empathetic woman.”

  And I, in all my empathy, look at Barbara Buchneim etcetera, etcetera out of the corner of my eye and wonder if Davide will make an appearance, too. Meanwhile, Mercury reminds me that I am a very, very terrible person.

  “Good evening, Daniele.”

  I activate my sweet, affable yet detached smile, but she doesn’t seem to notice me.

  “As always, compliments from the Wessler Foundation. You have such an exotic vision. Are you considering the possibility of publishing a catalog?”

  “For fund-raising, sure. But don’t ask me to write the text. I don’t see myself in a writer’s shoes . . .” Then he turns toward me. “But maybe Alice could help me. I haven’t even introduced you, I’m sorry. Alice Bassi, Barbara Buchneim-Wessler Ricci Pastori. Barbara is the patron of the foundation I am collaborating with.”

  I notice that her eyes narrow for an instant and then widen in surprise. “I believe we’ve already met,” she says without offering me her hand. “I think you work with my boyfriend. Am I right?”

  Am I wrong, or did she pause for a second on the word my?

  I don’t move a muscle, for fear of stepping on the bed of nails suddenly in front of me. “Um, yes, he is the supervisor of our programs,” I explain, more for the benefit of Daniele than for Barbara, who surely is aware of her boyfriend’s job.

  “Not for much longer,” she says with a feline grin. “In two weeks, he’s going to be working on the start-up for my estate in Brittany, which I am planning to transform into a wellness center. It will take time, at least a year or a year and a half, but that place holds a lot of memories for us, and it won’t bother us in the least if we need to hide away there for a while. All alone.”

  Great. Where were we again? Ah, right. I was looking for a rope to attach to the ceiling.

  I make an attempt to smile, hoping that my teeth don’t shatter with all the ice in the air, but luckily the splendid man beside me intervenes.

  “We’ll need to schedule the portrait session you asked me for soon, then. Tomorrow perhaps?”

  “Unfortunately, Davide won’t be here tomorrow. He’s leaving for Paris on business,” replies Barbara.

  Daniele briefly shifts his glance toward me, then smiles and shrugs. “Over the weekend, then.”

  Fortunately, the torture doesn’t last long. When Barbara finally walks away, Daniele tells me that he is a little tired of being stuck indoors and asks if I would like to take a walk with him.

  Outside, the still-wet sidewalk sparkles under the streetlights, and our reflections chase each other in the shadows.

  “Are you OK?” he asks, taking off his jacket to put it on my shoulders, just like in the movies.

  “Yes . . .” I take a generous mouthful of air and realize that it is true
. I really am OK. The mere presence of Daniele gives me a certain heartwarming tranquility.

  “I got the impression,” he begins, sitting down on a bench, “that there was something wrong. Alice, I know that someone like me can’t enter your life like this—impertinently, shall we say—and not expect that you might still have other things going on.”

  I don’t know what to say. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to expect me to say anything, because he continues.

  “I really like you. And I would like to go out with you, if you’ll let me.” This perfect and beautiful man takes my hand and brings it to his lips. “So, know that, when you get back from your trip with Davide, I will be here.”

  33

  * * *

  A Leo Named Desire

  It’s embarrassing that my subconscious is at such an elementary level that it can’t even produce a respectable nightmare. I was chasing a man with a lion’s head, but when I turned the corner where I thought I had seen him hide, I am met instead by a man with a fish tail trying to grab me. How terribly didactic. It doesn’t take Freud to explain it. My love life and my dreams are second-rate.

  Lack of imagination aside, it’s quite obvious that my sleep was restless, dominated by Daniele-I-Am-the-Man-for-You versus Davide-Anyone-Who-Understands-Me-Is-Brilliant.

  As if the dream weren’t enough, now that I’ve finally managed to fall asleep again, the bed is a problem; it has never felt so uncomfortable. I must have contorted myself into such impossible positions that now I seem to have a pole in my kidneys, and I am probably sleeping with my mouth wide open. I end up waking myself by snoring too loudly only to plunge from one unimaginative nightmare into the next, very much in line with my karma. It’s only then I realize that I am not in my own bed. I’m not even in Daniele’s, which could have been interesting.

  As the memories of the last few hours of my life come back to me, I despairingly realize that I have fallen asleep on the train, and am consequently sprawled out all over the seat like a contortionist. Not only that, but my head is resting on Davide’s shoulder.

  I want to die. Right here. Right now. Thank you.

  “Sleep well?”

  I sit up immediately, feigning a dignity that I don’t have. “How much farther?”

  “No more than an hour,” he responds. “I was flipping through a biography of Klauzen.”

  “Klauzen . . .” I repeat, catching my reflection in the glass and paying more attention to my squashed hair than anything else. “We were lucky. He doesn’t grant many interviews.”

  I look at the photo of the professor in the press kit and glance over a biography filled with accolades. Obviously, I’ve already ascertained that he is a Capricorn with Scorpio Ascendant and the Moon in Aquarius. Everything in this man’s natal chart suggests he has the determination of a tank. How else could he have come by a private jet, or a villa in Brittany?

  In Brittany.

  “He’s a friend of Barbara’s, right?” I ask him, discouraged.

  Davide stares at the papers in front of him. “He was a good friend of her husband’s. They used to hunt together.”

  I don’t know why, but for a moment I imagine the two of them at a colonial estate, with his boot planted on the head of some poor animal while she floats ethereally behind, preparing cups of tea at 110 degrees in the shade.

  “Well! Someone certainly has a finger in every pie,” I comment.

  “I’m not her puppet, if that’s what you mean.” Davide looks at me grimly, but his cell phone starts ringing cheerfully, causing him to snap to attention. He stumbles into the table in front of us as he tries to climb over me.

  “Hey, wait!” I get up, too, causing Davide and me to remain wedged between the seats and the table, our bodies stuck together, our hearts beating together, and our eyes . . . Those eyes . . . damn him and his magnetic stare! And damn the attraction generated by the Venus-Pluto Conjunctions!

  “Hi, Barbara . . . Yes, I’m still on the train.”

  At the mention of her name, bile starts to rise in my throat.

  I repeat like a mantra that Daniele could be the man of my dreams, that continuing to chase someone like Davide makes no sense, unless I’m hell-bent on skipping merrily to my own funeral.

  I watch him move a couple of seats away from me.

  God, I’m out of breath just looking at him. Is there not an ounce of justice in this world?

  “Excuse me. Do you do it often?”

  I turn around, startled after hearing such an inappropriate question. I widen my eyes even more when I find myself in front of a little woman with gray hair.

  “Excuse me?”

  The woman snorts. “I asked if you do that often, miss,” she replies, pointing at my shoes. “Do you always take your shoes off on the train? Because I can assure you, it’s not very hygienic . . .”

  Ah. I must have taken them off during my contortionist’s nap. And that is obviously why I misunderstood her question.

  I let her pass by and I sit back down, checking my cell phone. I have a message from Daniele. How sweet!

  “Tea, coffee, sex, or snacks?”

  Next to me is the guy with the catering cart, and he just offered me sex. I feel the roots of my hair burning with embarrassment.

  “What?” I stammer.

  “Tea, coffee, espresso, snacks?” he repeats innocently.

  I know what I heard, loud and clear. He said the word sex! I can’t be wrong this time!

  Davide is back and he’s looking at me with concern.

  “Sex,” someone else whispers.

  I look around, but everyone has their eyes transfixed on a cell phone, iPad, newspaper, or book, minding their own business. I get up and race to the other side of the car where I ask myself what kind of Trine, Quadrature, or god-knows-what Astral Conjunction is creating this unidentified hormonal storm in me.

  I look back at Davide again.

  Breathe, Alice. Send oxygen to your neurons.

  This is exactly what I wanted to avoid, what I feared about having to spend three days alone with him on a trip.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  (SEX). Shut up, possessed neuron!

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I say, trying to pass by him to return to my seat, where perhaps I can find another yoga pose to try. (SEX!) To sleep. SLEEP.

  “Maybe it wasn’t so wise to go out last night,” he comments harshly.

  I spin around.

  “Since you had a train at six and a long journey ahead.”

  So, Lady B told him that she ran into me at the exhibit . . . with Daniele. Great!

  “I think I’m capable of deciding what is best for me and my life. In fact, I’ve recently fine-tuned my intuition . . . It’s much better.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  I can’t believe that he is being so arrogant.

  Then his Sun-Moon Trine comes out, causing his attitude to completely change. He takes my hand and I read deep melancholy in his eyes.

  “Alice . . .”

  Damn him.

  “I’m very worried about you.” He bites his lip and looks around, then lowers his voice. “I don’t understand what you’re up to. Last night you were at that exhibit . . . and you’re living with that other man . . . I mean, if you’re doing all this to make me jealous, you should know that you’re only hurting yourself.”

  “What?!” OK, no more nonviolent protests. “You really have some nerve talking to me like this. Typical self-centered Leo with Mercury in Leo!”

  “Are you talking about my horoscope?”

  “I’m taking about your birth chart. After twelve episodes, you haven’t even learned the difference?”

  “Eleven . . . I think we still need to discuss the last one.”

  Oh, right. We haven’t even written the last episode yet.”

  “Anyway, that man is no good for you.”

  “When I need your help to decide who I s
leep with, I’ll call you, OK?”

  “So you’re sleeping with him?”

  I bite my lip and call on all the powers of my Pluto and Mercury conjunction, which among other things says that I should keep my personal life private.

  “What’s it to you? You’re sleeping with Barbara, and I can’t say anything about it.”

  He then says, “Technically . . .”

  Here comes the moment in which I play Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction and try to press the panic button on his heart. What kind of an answer is “technically”? And it wasn’t even a question. What do I care if he does or doesn’t have sex with Barbara? The important thing is that he doesn’t want to have it with me.

  But what the hell does he mean by “technically”? Technically yes? Technically no? Technically this man is driving me crazy.

  34

  * * *

  No Sex Please, We’re Libras

  Knowing that Paris is a magical, romantic city makes my torment all the more intense. Our taxi crosses town like a bat out of hell, but it’s as if the two of us aren’t really there, sitting on opposite sides of the backseat, shielding ourselves from each other with the press pack. I would have liked to go to the hotel first and freshen up, but Klauzen, in line with his tenth house in Virgo, has a very strict schedule and will unquestionably be waiting for us for lunch.

  However, we are the ones left waiting, providing ample time for my gaze to shift from Davide to the baguettes elaborately arranged as a centerpiece. I don’t know which of the two I would eat first.

  Alice, repeat after me: “Out with the Leo and on to the Pisces.” Unfortunately, ousting a person from your heart is not as simple as opening a door and telling him to wait outside.

  Three-quarters of an hour pass before Klauzen arrives with his entourage, pointing a pair of glacial gray eyes at us.

  “Without further ado. Point one: We will do the interview tomorrow morning at ten in the living room of my loft. The lighting is perfect there. Point two: I will grant you an hour. Given that the whole thing will last three minutes, this is a more than suitable amount of time for television. Point three: You will be allowed four questions. You will find them enclosed in the file that my assistant will give you.”