An Astrological Guide for Broken Hearts

by Silvia Zucca

  “Thank you, my cicerone,” I tell him, clinking my glass against his.

  I look around and sigh. I don’t feel any knots in my stomach, and I don’t feel anxiety, tremors, or discomfort. “Thanks to you, I am seeing beautiful places, and for once in my life, just once, I really feel at peace with myself. You know, work aside, I want to enjoy these two days as if they are a vacation from myself, and I promise you that I will try not to think about all my problems.” I look at him and admit, “Even between us.”

  I really mean it. Peace and love, I think. And if there can’t be love . . . I sigh. Well, let there at least be peace.

  “Sorry, I interrupted you,” Alice said.

  Davide looks at me, the fine lines around his eyes slightly more pronounced. He is tired. After a second, he smiles.

  “I forgot.”

  “So it was a lie,” I reply chuckling.

  “I don’t tell lies . . .”

  I do my best to glower at him. “I said that I feel at peace with myself, not that I’ve suddenly become a complete idiot.”

  He laughs. “As you wish. Let’s say it was a lie.”

  We turn toward the rooftops of Paris, the tower, Montmartre, the lights, and I start to think that everything about this moment could be defined like that: a lie.

  Even our hands, our pinkies brushing against one another, intertwining for barely a second as we remain silent, staring at the city in front of us.

  It’s a beautiful, sparkling lie.

  37

  * * *

  A Night Full of Rain and Horoscopes

  Under a heavy downpour, we run, laughing like children, to the entrance of the hotel.

  “I hope there is a hairdresser near the hotel. Otherwise, in tomorrow morning’s interview, the cameraman will have a hard time shooting Klauzen from underneath my bushy hair.”

  “Always self-deprecating.”

  I shrug. “It’s because of Mercury in Scorpio.”

  The elevator doors open and we enter, in silence. Davide looks at me without saying anything, pushing the button for his floor.

  “Listen, Alice. The fact that we are here in Paris together . . . I wanted to apologize to you for having organized everything so last-minute. I know that you had other plans for the week, but it was very important that—”

  The elevator stops and the doors open onto the hallway.

  “I know,” I tell him, cutting him off. “It’s OK.”

  This is goodbye, and deep down I’ve always known. By now, the hours separating us from the rest of our lives can be counted on our fingers.

  “Today was a dream, Davide. Let’s keep it that way. Reality can wait until tomorrow. Good night.” I lean toward him and my lips touch his cheek.

  His hand rests on my arm, but just for an instant. “Good night, Alice.”

  When the elevator doors close again and I start to go up, I feel like I’m sinking into an abyss. The truth is I won’t be brought back to reality tomorrow; I can already perceive it in all its bitterness. In one of my films, a vacuum like this would be a mistake in the script. Unfortunately, life is not made up only of significant scenes, but also of moments like these; dead times in which the senselessness of everything hits you like a speeding bullet.

  The elevator stops gently and the number five lights up above the door. When the doors open, I stand there, frozen.

  Davide is leaning with his elbow against the doorpost, red-faced and bent slightly forward as he tries to catch his breath.

  I raise my head to check the floor number, in case the elevator hasn’t moved, but it is my floor.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “A . . . A . . . Alice . . .” Behind him, the door to the back stairs is still swinging.

  After a few seconds, the elevator starts to close again, but he extends his arm toward me and grabs me.

  “Forgive me. I’m sorry . . . but I can’t let you go like this,” he manages to say, still out of breath.

  Then he kisses me.

  I wish I could remain frozen and unresponsive, or push him away, but instead I return his kisses, immediately, completely surrendering to the feelings that overwhelm me, to the sweetness and the heat.

  He whispers something as he continues to kiss my face and neck, something unintelligible, but it’s as if I understood all the same. There is no need for words.

  When the elevator doors hint at closing again, he pulls me out of the car and keeps kissing me in the hallway, pressing me against the wall.

  “Davide . . .”

  “Forgive me,” he murmurs against my lips. “I couldn’t let you go. I should be in my room . . . But as soon as the elevator doors closed, I felt like an idiot. I couldn’t just go to my room and pretend like nothing had happened. So I ran up the stairs. Actually, I’m still out of breath. But I couldn’t let you go. You said that today was a dream, that it’s not real, but you’re wrong. It is real, Alice, and more than ever. Right now, it seems to me that there is nothing more real than this: you and me. Now.”

  Then, I kiss him. I can hardly believe it, having the freedom to do this, to touch him. To kiss him. God, every fiber of my body wants to break into song.

  My hands shake, and the room key card almost drops to the ground. We’re on the bed in an instant, and he’s unbuttoning my blouse.

  I don’t even know how long I’ve waited, how long I’ve dreamed about this moment. Davide presses his body against mine and kisses me as if his whole life depended on it. He tries to pull his shirt over his head, awkwardly, and it gets caught while I lunge at him to at least undo the top buttons.

  I laugh, but he shuts me up with another kiss. “You won’t get away from me anymore,” he whispers, leaning on my chest and traveling down my abdomen with his tongue.

  “You won’t get away from me anymore . . .” More than anything else in the world, I long for his embrace, to feel his weight and his scent on me.

  What I feel making love to him is a volcano; hot lava running through my system. It’s not just a physical sensation; my mind is as involved as my body. I can’t stop staring at him. I want to keep on kissing him, even though it takes my breath away. It’s the end of the world, here in this bed, where nothing exists but Paris, the two of us, and the rain.

  In life, there are moments that forever remain imprinted on your brain, and I know that this will be one of them. I will never be able to forget Davide’s face resting on my shoulder, the sensation of his forehead against my lips, and his strong, open hands around my waist.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. “You know, how we ran into each other today in the middle of the street. Some couples are never able to do that their whole lives.”

  I stay silent for a little while. “And . . . are we a couple?”

  “Alice.”

  I snort. “And now? What are you thinking about?”

  I feel him move under the comforter. “Alice, look, this thing . . . This idea of telling each other every little thing that goes through our minds . . . I’m not an advocate of it. In fact, I don’t think any guy is.”

  He kisses me again and makes love to me again, before we fall asleep embracing each other.

  • • •

  When I open my eyes, my legs are entwined with his and his nose is buried in my hair.

  As soon as I remember what happened, I find it hard to breathe again and even to move because I am afraid that everything is going to disappear.

  Then the alarm sounds.

  But I didn’t set any alarm.

  In fact, it’s a phone, and Davide lifts his head instantly, stretching out from the mattress in search of his pants. He gives me a look before getting up. “Hello? Yes. No. I’m not in my room, exactly.”

  I sit up, leaning against the headboard of the bed, hugging the pillow, while he puts his pants on and reaches for the door.

  “It’s . . . shit, nine?” He opens the door but then turns toward me with an urg
ent look and, balancing the phone between his chin and his shoulder, indicates his wrist where he’s not wearing any watch. He steps out of the room, barefoot and wearing only his pants, and half closes the door. “Barbara, no, look, I woke up early and I went down to read newspapers in the lobby,” I hear him say when I approach.

  His words strike through me like an arctic chill.

  I’m not only stunned by the readiness with which he is able to concoct a lie barely three minutes after waking up, but more so by the misery of his entire pantomime: the exit from the room while he buttons his pants, the voice that he tries to disguise against the receiver, and above all the pathetic cliché of a roll in the hay with a colleague on a business trip.

  Suddenly, I can no longer see the Davide I fell madly in love with. All I see is a petty user, a slick seducer who, in the end, was able to get exactly what he wanted. Now I am nothing more than something to hide behind a half-closed door.

  I rest my hand on the door handle while I hear him say goodbye to her and tell her that he will see her tomorrow. I swallow my anger until I feel him push the door to come back inside. And that’s when I show my strength, closing it on his face.

  38

  * * *

  Sex, Lies, and Leos

  Luckily, I was able to change my train reservation with my smartphone. After the interview, I will be heading directly to the station.

  Hell, let Barbara keep him for herself. She certainly deserves him. If he tries to get close to me with his gentle manners and his beautiful words, I’ll bite his hand off.

  Naturally, I don’t give a damn about Klauzen; I just can’t wait until this whole thing is over and I can turn my back on that monster (Davide, not Klauzen) and go home.

  “Mademoiselle, pardonnez-moi.”

  At first, I don’t even turn around, but then someone taps me on the shoulder, and I find a girl in a blue hotel uniform standing in front of me, holding out an envelope.

  “C’est pour vous . . . par Monsieur Nardi.”

  She hands me a letter . . . from Davide.

  Alice,

  You have every reason to be angry, and think badly of me. Whatever I could say to try to excuse myself, it wouldn’t be fair to write it in a hurried note.

  Unfortunately, I have to leave, and it is very urgent. But there’s something that I absolutely must tell you, which coincides with the real reason why you and I are in Paris right now.

  I couldn’t tell you before, unfortunately.

  No, I mustn’t lie . . . I could have told you yesterday, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment between us. I am a jerk . . . I know.

  I was the one who arranged for Marlin to have an audition during these days so that she wouldn’t be able to come to Paris.

  I wanted you to come with me, because I had to take you away from Milan.

  Giorgio, the man you have allowed to stay in your home, is a criminal. There is a warrant out for his arrest for insurance fraud. After he visited you at the studios, he was recognized and the network was approached by the police.

  For now, I’ve been able to keep the president out of this matter, but I needed to get you away from your house so that you wouldn’t obstruct the investigation and above all end up in the middle of everything.

  There are other things that I need to tell you. Very important things, but they need to be said face-to-face, and right now, I don’t have time.

  I can’t explain, but I have to run. It concerns Barbara, but not in the way you think.

  I beg you, please trust me just this once. Just me, without looking at horoscopes or making a thousand guesses about my zodiac chart.

  For the interview, I trust you. Give it your all!

  I want to give you a kiss, but you probably wouldn’t let me.

  Davide

  I don’t even know how I manage to reach the taxi, and hand over the paper with Klauzen’s address. My legs are so weak that it seems like I have rubber knees, and my head is spinning.

  Aside from Davide and that fact that he chose Barbara after all, now there’s Giorgio and whatever mess he’s gotten me into.

  For a moment, I toy with the idea of changing my ticket again and flying to Timbuktu.

  The room that I am ushered into is completely white and has a sterility about it that reminds me of a hospital or the final scene of 2001: A Space Odyssey.

  Klauzen is seated on an armchair in front of the window letting in the morning light and doesn’t bother to turn around as I approach.

  It seems I won’t be fighting for the attention of this presumptuous Capricorn, who will not even deign to look at me, so I decide not to make the slightest attempt to curry favor with him.

  The Viking who serves as his assistant explains how to conduct the interview, where to sit, and what questions to ask. I could have tried to impose my will in some way, but I used it all up when I forced myself to come all the way here on my own. Instead, I am as quiet as a mouse and I just nod at her instructions.

  I can’t wait to be home . . . but god knows what will be waiting for me when I get there.

  Oh my god, the police! Who knows if I’ll even still have an apartment when I get back to Milan . . .

  It is only when I sit down in front of Klauzen and the assistant leans into his ear to whisper respectfully that we are ready that he closes the newspaper and points his icy eyes at me.

  “Let’s get the ball rolling,” he says without a preamble, snapping his fingers as if I were a circus poodle, while the assistant puts his silver hair into place with maniacal zeal.

  “Pardon?”

  He raises his eyes to the ceiling, impatiently. Inga stares at me without betraying any expression. “Professor speaks. No qvestions.”

  With that, I motion to Pierre, Klauzen’s cameraman, to start recording, and I muster all the good grace that I possess.

  Klauzen smugly begins to talk about his favorite subject: himself. The Klauzen Foundation, the Klauzen Laboratories, the Klauzen Clinics, the Klauzen Method . . .

  It is so Klauzen-centric that my head starts to spin.

  “In your lovely show,” he says, suddenly ironic, “you speak about horoscopes . . . and well, as you well know, my dear, this has nothing to do with science. However, recent studies would seem to strengthen the hypothesis that there is a link between the time of an individual’s birth and his specific qualities. For example, children conceived in May are more likely to be born prematurely, resulting in fragile health. Similarly, it seems that those born in October are able to achieve excellent academic results, which is more difficult for those who come into the world in July, but who, on the other hand, might enjoy other characteristics, such as a more resistant physical form. And it’s precisely this vision that puts the Klauzen Method at the cutting edge, providing a parent with the necessary information to make the most appropriate decision and deal with these unpleasant problems that parents, the unborn child himself, and society might regret.”

  “I’m sorry, but isn’t this a sort of discrimination?”

  Klauzen stops his monologue and stares at me grimly. “Evidently, you missed the fact that you were supposed to remain silent.”

  Yes, I am a serious professional and I need this interview for the program, but I can’t seem to care as I let the next words escape my mouth.

  “You know what? You can go to hell. You and the Klauzen Foundation. Are you aware of the fact that eugenics has been banned for decades? What you are proposing is disgraceful. You want to churn out perfect children custom-ordered by their parents; kids who will be privileged because of the way in which they were conceived and born. Above all, rich kids; children of rich parents who can afford your care. What about everyone else? Will we be slaves to these privileged individuals? Don’t we all have the right to be able to dream about changing our lives?”

  Inga has so much electricity running through her that she is about to short out as she stands in front of the doctor, shielding him with her body.

  “Let’s reca
ll the army of clones,” I say, pointing at her. “I’m proud of my imperfections! The world as you would like it to be would be deathly boring. And with that, I bid you farewell.”

  39

  * * *

  It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Gemini

  When I set foot on the station platform, I feel like I’m emerging from a bubble, with all the strangeness that it entails.

  I’m really back. I’m home, in Milan, alone. Now I have to deal with what remains of my life and put everything back into place; to once more make order out of chaos and rebuild myself.

  This sucks.

  At the top of my to-do list is a “Davide . . . who?” mental cleanse.

  For the moment, however, as I leave the station and try to find a taxi, I have much more practical concerns.

  Although the pains of young Alice are still my greatest worry, they are closely followed by anxiety about the Giorgio situation and the police, increasing with every step I take toward my apartment.

  The queue of people waiting for taxis is disproportionate, even more so because there aren’t any taxis, which is rather strange for Garibaldi station at seven thirty in the evening.

  “They say that there’s hellish traffic and that the taxis are all caught in it,” someone explains impatiently.

  “Police cars came by before,” says someone else. “Something must have happened.”

  Fortunately, I don’t live that far away. I opt for the subway, where I make a voyage of hope, stuffed like a sardine into the cloud of afternoon underarm odors.

  When I finally emerge onto the street I, too, see police cars passing by. Above me, a helicopter flies noisily and close to the ground.

  Suddenly, a hundred action movie scenes explode in my head of police hunting down criminals by blowing up cars under bypasses and opening fire, while Giorgio, wearing a leather jacket and dark glasses, plays at dodging bullets in slow motion as if he were Neo in The Matrix.