by Silvia Zucca
“What do you mean ‘wonderful’? Tio, do you realize what you are saying? Do you know what this means for me?”
For him, it’s “wonderful.” I didn’t sleep a wink all night. I kept getting up to look in the mirror, convinced that my face would start crumbling, like in the Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
“Of course, sweetie. First of all, it’s wonderful that you can become this type of strong and resolute woman. And besides, did you check the compatibility with . . . Well, you know who? Perhaps it’s not so bad now.”
Obviously, that’s the first thing that I did. Well, the second, if you count slamming my head against the wall. The third thing I did was go back to slamming my head against the wall. Mine and Davide’s astrological charts are even more at odds than before.
“It doesn’t matter,” I cut him off. “This is not me!” I exclaim, tapping my index finger against the new astrological chart that has thrown me into an abyss of uncertainty, ripped apart my identity, and sent me into paranoia. “Here it says that I have Leo rising, no less. And that, therefore, I should have the personality of a leader. And then, here . . . I have Mars in the second house, which means I have an innate ability to make money. As if!”
“Oh, come on, Alice,” Tio says, dismissing my panic with a regal wave. “Frankly, after all these months, I thought that you would understand a little bit more.” He pulls the papers out of my hand. “Here. Your Ascendant. It’s true that Leo is usually a sign of leadership, but look here: ‘is endowed with enormous creativity, but has the tendency to dramatize every little thing, probably because of inner insecurity,’ ” he proclaims, with a certain satisfaction. “This is you.”
I snatch the papers out of his hands and find what he just read. It’s a line and a half in the middle of at least fifteen others that speak about how much I love to stand out, take charge, and lead groups of people and even, why not, to be a source of inspiration for them. Source of inspiration! At best, I have been able to inspire men . . . to leave me.
“And all this?” I ask him, showing him the rest of the astrological epitaph.
Tio shrugs his shoulders. “In reality, you could well be like this, but you haven’t yet found the strength to come out of your shell. But listen, this is right: ‘You have a big heart, and you are so kind and generous that you feel hurt when you have to deal with cruelty and selfishness in others.’ ”
I snort and take back my birth chart, beckoning for Luciano to come over. “Listen,” I say to my colleague, “if someone reading your horoscope were to say to you: ‘You have a big heart and you are so kind and generous that you feel hurt when you have to deal with cruelty and selfishness in others . . .’ ”
Luciano nods. “Well said, Alice. Couldn’t be more accurate. There aren’t many who understand it, I can assure you. I have a very sensitive soul.”
After he walks away, sighing, Tio claps his hands and says. “Excellent! And?”
“Anyone would tell you they recognize themselves in this description.”
He squints and then crosses his arms over his chest, on the defensive. “But not you . . .”
“Of course I recognize myself in it. But, if anyone can, what value does it have? Tio, why don’t you understand? If, for all these months, I was able to live my life believing that I was the woman from the other birth chart, seeing myself in every word, following the movements of the stars every day as if they were talking to me, I can’t simply say: ‘Oops . . . let’s cross this out and start a new chapter, with an entirely different Alice.’ Because that’s what this birth chart is telling me, Tio, that I am a different person.”
“You are you, regardless, honey . . .”
I sigh. “Exactly. That’s the thing, Tio. Exactly that. I am me, regardless.” I shake my head. “It would be best if you went into the studio now.”
• • •
A couple minutes later, I am at the door of the recording studio. I poke my head inside, just in time to see a neon sign saying “An Astrological Guide for” swaying toward the floor on steel cables.
Ferruccio oversees the dismantling operation as the sets from my television program are stacked on the cart, ready to be stored in the warehouse where they will be repainted and transformed into something else. The second part of the sign, “Broken Hearts,” is still hanging and glowing boldly in the emptiness. Sitting just below it, I notice Carlo. The description couldn’t be more striking if there were an arrow pointing at him.
“So?” I ask him, trying to swallow my sense of guilt. It was only a little while ago that Cristina made me sign an oath in blood not to reveal where she was.
“Uh . . .” he responds with a dejected sigh.
It’s not very Aquarian to be lost for words, and even less like Carlo, but I understand that this isn’t a particularly happy time for him either. I clear my throat.
“On the one hand, isn’t this what you wanted? How could you have spent your life with a woman who you didn’t love, when you wanted to be with someone else?”
“But how do I know what I want? How do any of us know, Alice? Are you sure about what you want? Is it always so black and white?”
No, it never is. Not anymore. Maybe once upon a time it was, but with age, your view is clouded, and you have to keep forcing yourself to see all the nuances. Carlo’s words are strangely illuminating. We are all scared; no one really knows where to go.
I offer him my hand, and when he gets up, I hug him.
“It will all work out. You’ll see,” I whisper. I will speak to Cristina and try to convince her to talk to him again. In this moment, I feel very Zen and at peace with the world.
When Carlo steps away from me, his eyes are so full of tears that the words “Cristina is at my house!” almost roll off the tip of my tongue.
But he speaks first. “I almost forgot . . . I bumped into the president before, and he told me that he wanted to speak with you.”
Ah. Well, clearly you can’t be Zen and at peace with the world for more than thirty seconds.
As I leave the studio and go upstairs, I am still trying to reconcile myself to my new astrological chart, because in moments like these, I would really love to know what to expect.
Tio would say that it is typical of a Libra not to love surprises and to want everything to be under control. At this point, I would say that it is typical of me, who happens to be a Libra, but who knows. If I were born in March, perhaps I wouldn’t even be that different.
Instinctively, I call Paola, because I am sure that two words from her will steer my thoughts back on track.
“First, find out what he wants. Then call me back and we’ll talk about it.”
That’s Pragmatic Paola, the most practical woman in the universe. And she’s not wrong. Why don’t I think about things the way she does? They don’t seem like such complicated solutions.
“You won’t know what he wants until you speak to him,” stresses my friend, and I feel a little calmer. “After all, apart from that little incident with Giorgio that caused him a bit of trouble with the law—plus a black eye and topsy-turvy offices—why should he be mad at you?”
I stop in front of the president’s door with my knuckles poised, about to knock. I knock.
“Come in.”
“Mr. President.”
“Alice, take a seat.”
When I close the door behind me twenty minutes later, I seem to have entered one of those science-fiction films where all you have to do is walk through a doorway and you are living in a parallel reality.
Mr. President asked me to leave the Mi-A-Mi Network.
Not because I’ve been fired. At least, not in the real sense of the word.
In the past months, Astrological Guide for Broken Hearts has drawn audiences away from the main channels, and many people noticed it. In addition to an offer for a merger that will save it from ruin, the network received a proposal to take over the format of the show, and a production company asked for me. They want to interview
me. In Rome. If I’m interested.
Am I interested?
Without even realizing it, I stop in front of a closed door. If I’m looking for a place to meditate, there’s nowhere better than an empty office.
Maybe it will do me good, seeing it without Davide and all his belongings. It will help me to clear his image from my mind, to create a turning point after which he will no longer be part of my life—after which, if I were to accept that offer, many of the people I know now would no longer be part of my life. I don’t know if I have the strength.
On the one hand, the idea galvanizes me; on the other hand, I am terrified.
I push the door handle.
The room is suffused with light and silence. On the desk, there is a large box and not much else. The marks on the white walls scarcely betray a past of posters and frames. By the window, there is a can of paint that will erase all traces of Davide’s presence here.
I sigh quietly and turn around to leave, but the door that I left open is now closed, and although I can hardly believe it, Davide is in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him in a shrill voice.
“Well, it’s my office. At least, for today.” He points to the box on the table.
I wish that my heart wouldn’t beat so strongly in my ears, so hard that I can’t think straight while the memory of our kisses tears me away from reality for a second.
“So . . .”
“Alice . . .”
We speak at the same time, one over the other. Even our words long to embrace one another.
I am such a hopeless romantic. This man can say whatever he likes, but the truth is that he has used me in the worst way.
“I’ll let you finish sorting out your things,” I tell him, detaching my gaze from his and taking a step toward the door. It’s a risky move, since he’s in front of it, but I have to give him a clear signal that he can’t keep playing games. “Excuse me,” I say, making him understand that I need him to move.
Davide does step aside, but he keeps his hand on the door.
“Please, Alice. We haven’t been able to talk after . . . Paris.”
My emotions knot in my stomach. “There is nothing to say, Davide. We got caught up in the situation, by the attraction that we’ve felt for each other over the past few months. We got carried away. Let’s leave it at that and go back to our normal lives.”
He stares at me, frowning, then finally removes his hand from the door, but only to take mine. “You’re not wrong in saying that in all these months we were drawn to each other like magnets.” I feel his thumb caressing the back of my hand. “Alice . . . it’s not easy for me. I am . . . Ugh. I’m not able to trust people. My life has never been very stable, ever since I was a kid. I told you. So, I have real problems with . . . letting myself get attached, and I end up hurting myself and hurting those who want to be close to me. Look at Barbara . . .”
Oh no, please. Not the beatification of Barbara. I can’t take this.
“Listen, Davide. You don’t need to explain yourself.” With an enormous amount of willpower, I successfully remove my hand from his. “I’ve thought about it, too, and it really wouldn’t work out between us anyway. Our astrological charts are completely incompatible, for starters. And, to tell the truth, you aren’t what I want in life. I want a man who is really there. I want a man who makes me feel like a queen every time he looks at me. I don’t want to be anxious every time we say goodbye because I don’t know when I’ll see him again, if he’s hiding something from me, or what kind of mood he is in.” I sigh. “I don’t want to joke around anymore. I want a man I can build something with. Or at least, believe that I can.” Davide opens his mouth again to speak, but I stop him, saying, “And maybe Daniele can be that man.”
My heart leaps into my throat when I say it. It seems that an ax has fallen heavily between a before and after, and now the two pieces of what my life has been up to this point can never be sewn back together.
Davide looks at me. Then he walks past me to reach the desk and his box.
“I’m happy that you are so clear-minded,” he says, keeping his back to me. “You are a beautiful person, Alice.” He turns to face me for a second, and his crooked smile, sweet and slightly melancholic, still makes me weak at the knees. “If the only good thing to come out of all this is that you understand that, and you found your determination . . . I can only be happy.”
42
* * *
The Unbearable Lightness of Virgo
I brought you this,” Daniele says, lifting up a paper bag. He is waiting for me just outside the Mi-A-Mi gate, leaning against his car.
“What’s this? A gift?” I’m a little embarrassed as I take the bag and look inside.
“It’s just a poncho. I saw it in a store window and thought it would look great with your hair.”
I sigh, barely holding back a smile as I pull out the poncho from the package and try it on. It’s a little out of style, but he is the cutest person on the planet. I get up on my tiptoes and graze his lips with a kiss.
We have been dating for three weeks. Religiously. In other words, ever since we got together, hardly a day has gone by that we haven’t seen each other, so it seems like we’ve been dating for much longer. Maybe it’s because my life with Daniele is far more interesting than it was without him.
In addition to being a ruggedly handsome, Joe Manganiello type, he is also one of those socially responsible people who gives the impression of being in total harmony with the universe. Like last Sunday, when we went to clean up the waters of that stream . . . the what-was-it-called?
“Tonight, we are going out. I want to give you a treat, so I am bringing you to a place that you are going to love.”
I clap my hands with excitement and give him another kiss on the cheek. It’s nice to have a boyfriend with initiative, and his ideas are always exceptional.
In the car, I turn on my phone and it immediately starts to blow up with messages and missed calls.
Two are from Tio, and I instantly feel my throat tighten in anxiety. I delete the notifications right away, deciding to ignore them. I haven’t spoken to him in more than two weeks.
It’s not that I’m mad at him. I’ve just made the conscious decision to avoid falling down the tunnel of astrological temptation; a tunnel that he dropped me into. And no, I don’t feel guilty. I decided that I shouldn’t feel guilty for making a mature choice to release someone from my life. It’s part of my growth plan to acquire the awareness of an adult woman.
Picking up the phone and returning that notorious call from the production company in Rome should be part of the same plan, but I haven’t been able to do it yet.
I also have a missed call and a text from Paola.
Call me as soon as possible.
OK, her I better call, I think. After all, she’s always been there when I’ve needed her, and it’s only right that she feels she can count on me as I do her. Maybe after dinner, though. It’s not polite to be on the phone when you have company.
And I have thirty-two missed calls from Cristina.
I start viciously scratching my neck.
Daniele smiles at me patiently and stretches his hand to caress my neck. “You need some of that green tea ointment that I used in Kenya for rashes. Don’t keep scratching yourself; you’re only making it worse.”
But I can’t help it. I can’t take her anymore—Cristina, I mean. Just hearing her voice or, in this case, seeing her name on my phone causes me to break out in hives.
“Hello, Cristina? Is everything OK?” My voice is casual, but my insides are spitting fire like a dragon with slow digestion.
“I’m done with all of them,” she yells, blowing out my eardrum.
“What happened?”
“My mother refuses to let me cancel the ceremony. She took over the planning of my wedding and has called everyone saying that ‘obviously’ it will still take place. Obviously, my ass! I’m not going to marry Carlo, not
even under pain of torture!”
When your belly is the size of a gigantic watermelon and you have the psychological stability of Alex DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange because your boyfriend has admitted to you that he’s fallen for someone else, it’s hardly surprising that you’re not sprinting down the aisle to say “I do.”
Although, marrying Carlo just to spend the rest of your life tormenting him doesn’t seem like such a bad idea to me.
“Cris, don’t you at least want to talk—”
“Really?! You’ve gone over to their side? You’re not my friend anymore! If you’re not my friend, you can just say so. I know you’ve always hated me. I know you’ve never been able to accept—”
“Please, Cristina, calm down. Look, I’m out to dinner tonight . . . No, I won’t be late. Yes, I’ll call your mother and tell her to go fuck herself . . . Definitely. OK . . . But try to stay calm. Bye. Of course, I love you . . . No, I don’t hate you because you are a fat, crazy, pregnant woman. Bye . . . Uh, sure . . . I’ll bring you some pickles and tuna sauce? I’ll ask the restaurant . . . Bye. Bye. Yes, bye.” I end the call and collapse onto the seat, staring into space.
Daniele touches my arm, and when I look at him, he leans toward me to give me a passionate kiss on the lips. “Better not say all those nasty things to her mother. She might be offended, and I’m sure your friend doesn’t really feel that way,” he adds, before getting out of the car.
When I get out, I’m not prepared for the muddy track that greets me, and my foot slides forward.
“Careful!” Daniele grabs me, putting his arm around my waist, holding me until we reach the door. “Can you make it?”
Can I make it through the door? Hmm, let’s see . . . I look at him and sigh, squeezing my lips into a smile. “It’ll be tough, but I’ll try.”
“Hold on, then.” He steps in front of me and holds the door open for me.
OK, he didn’t get my joke. Never mind. I mumble a “thank you” and walk inside.
The first thing I notice is that we are in a farmhouse with granite flooring, like what my parents had when I was little, i.e., three restructurings ago. The lights are cool white neon, and one of them, in the back corner of the large room, flashes continuously, as if it’s about to burn out at any moment.