An Astrological Guide for Broken Hearts

by Silvia Zucca

  “Isn’t this a fantastic place?” says Daniele.

  Oh god, that’s not exactly the word I would use to describe it. As I take my seat, I tell myself that, for now, I should be satisfied that I’m not having a seizure, and that we have our backs to the flashing neon lights.

  I don’t intend to be mean, it’s just that as a Libra with Venus in Libra and the Moon in Pisces—someone who is naturally predisposed to appreciate beauty and luxury—I immediately notice when there are improvements to be made in an environment. It’s genetic.

  Oh no. I did it again. I give myself a slap as punishment for this astrological failing.

  “You don’t like it?” Daniele asks, worried.

  “Oh no, it’s not that. It’s just . . . I forgot something. This is great!” I reach out my hand and intertwine my fingers with his. “It’s very rustic . . .” I say, looking at the peeling paint.

  Daniele smiles and puts the menu in front of me. Now my jaw drops.

  From a place like this, I would have expected anything but this elegant book bound in silk, and definitely not the dishes that are listed inside . . .

  Shrimp in chocolate with tomatoes, almonds, and pistachios; risotto with scallops and coral cream, thyme, lemon, and saffron . . . I didn’t even know that you could eat coral. I smile at him.

  “I knew you’d like this place, and you haven’t even seen it all yet. The entire farm is part of a project to restore the area.”

  He’s about to start telling me about it when my cell phone starts ringing again. It’s Paola, and I don’t have the heart to let it go to voice mail.

  “Excuse me for a second,” I say to Daniele. “Hello, Paola . . .”

  “Alice, you have to do something!” My best friend’s voice has none of the usual Zen calm that, frankly, I sometimes find irritating. “I can’t take it anymore. Giacomo can’t take it anymore. And Sandrino is getting hives.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Your friend Cristina calls me all the time. I’ve heard about her entire relationship with Carlo, everything about Carlo, and her whole life without Carlo. I want to have a life of my own, too. You have to call Carlo!” she finishes in an exasperated and final tone.

  “Paola, I can’t call him. I promised. And you said yourself that she had to be the one to deal with Carlo.”

  “That’s what I thought, before I gave her my phone number. Honestly, Alice, I’m risking divorce here. Giacomo and I were just about to . . . you know . . . the baby’s with my mother, you know how it is . . . we want to . . .”

  “OK, I get it, I get it. I’ll call her right now. Calm down.”

  “Call Carlo. They can sort it out between themselves.”

  “OK. I’ll handle it.” I sigh, exasperated, and it takes me a couple of seconds to get my bearings and remember what I was talking about with Daniele. “You were saying?”

  But my phone starts to ring again, and this time it’s Cristina.

  “Oh, no!”

  In front of me, Daniele presses his hand to his face.

  I’m about to put it down. But what if she’s sick? I cast a glance at the phone. It’s not ringing anymore.

  I try to relax and enjoy the wonderful meal that has just been put in front of me, forgetting Cristina, Paola, and any other outside interference.

  This man is perfect, I think. Maybe it was worth going through all those disappointments if they were just preparation for this man with whom I can exist in perfect harmony.

  “The poncho, the flowers, this special restaurant . . . it almost seems like we are celebrating something. Have I forgotten our anniversary?” I say, joking, although I am genuinely a bit confused.

  Daniele dries his lips and looks at me puzzled. “Well, an anniversary is celebrated after a year, Alice. We’ve only been dating for a couple of weeks.”

  Maybe I should explain I was just joking around. I mean, we are almost totally compatible. After all, what couple doesn’t have to do a little bit of work?

  “I want to talk to you about something . . .” I tell him, swallowing fearfully.

  I still haven’t responded to the job offer in Rome. To tell the truth, I’ve been avoiding the topic for three weeks, but my future is at stake, so we have to talk about it.

  “Actually, we do have something to celebrate,” he says, interrupting me and giving me an intense look. “Alice, like I said before, we haven’t been dating for very long, but I feel like you are becoming someone important in my life.”

  I frown. “Yes, well, it has only been three weeks. Not much time at all.”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to lose you, Alice.”

  He turns to the waiter and nods, then gets up and asks me to follow him. We go through a different door than the one we came in, which opens onto the courtyard of the farm. I cross it, focusing on the warmth of Daniele’s hand on my side.

  “I’ve just been offered an incredible project, one of those things that you dream about your whole life,” he says.

  We reach what at first seems like a wooden panel, but he grabs one end and slides it across; it’s a door.

  “This place is never what it seems,” I reply, with a hint of nervousness as I begin to glimpse figures moving in the shadows, other people.

  “The Wessler Foundation believes strongly in this and is willing to sponsor me for two years, the entire duration of the project.”

  “Two years?” I turn around. “OK . . .” I don’t know what to say. “Where?”

  “Around the world. I won’t be in the same place for more than two months.”

  Man, and to think I’ve been afraid to talk to him about Rome.

  “Alice . . .” He looks me in the eye and holds my hands, bringing them to his lips. “I want you to come with me.”

  “What?”

  I ask myself why it’s suddenly so hot in here and why I have the feeling that this sculpture, which looks like an enormous curved beehive, is about to fall on me.

  I breathe and think of how much the mere idea of changing cities freaks me out, not to mention traveling the world for two years.

  “Daniele, I don’t know . . .”

  All of a sudden, I miss Tio: his reassuring, fraternal hugs, his nonsense that helps me overcome my problems, his lightness. Getting away from Daniele makes me feel lighter, and I start wandering around the place, as if I were floating.

  Of course, as he says, I could see the world. It would be a rare and unique opportunity to check almost everything off my list that I’ve ever wanted to see. But then what? What do you wish for when you have nothing more to wish for?

  Oh god. I feel dizzy.

  The problem is that I feel too small to tackle all this. It’s not that I don’t feel up to it; it’s just that it seems impossible that this woman that I am imagining could be me. Me, Alice Bassi, the minion who dreamed of making films and instead is practically drowning under the paperwork for talk shows at a small TV station. The production assistant that a production company in Rome wants to interview. Even that seems like a dream bigger than me. The problem is that it could be my dream. . . .

  Behind me, the lights are switched on. When I turn around, I notice a small stage, just a small raised platform with a microphone. Someone starts to clap and I do the same, hoping to blend in with the crowd, but when I recognize the man climbing the platform, I get a cramp in my arms.

  “Oh shit . . .” I murmur.

  “It’s Professor Klauzen,” explains Daniele, who in the meantime has joined me. “Part of the proceeds from tonight’s auction will be donated to his research. He really is a great man,” Daniele whispers in my ear. “He literally fell in love with my work and wants me to do a report on his research. Complete with a portrait.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Having a person of his caliber on my side is fundamental.”

  Oh, sure. How could he not see the arrogant and conceited jerk that Klauzen actually is? And, above all, how could that same jerk not be of fundamental importance for his career?
<
br />   Klauzen, meanwhile, continues to overact on the stage, while I wonder where to hide. Of course, when he finishes playing Marlon Brando, Daniele will want to go over and say hello; and I don’t want to be there to ruin his career.

  “I’m going to powder my nose . . .”

  I feel the weight of Daniele’s gaze on me. “Powder your nose? You are already quite pale.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  “I mean that I need to go pee,” I explain, translating for him.

  “Oh. The bathrooms are down there. I’ll wait for you here.”

  Obviously, I find this very comforting.

  With all the unbelievable remodeling that they’ve done, I have to say that the bathroom is a real disappointment. It’s practically a three-by-three-foot room with a single stall, which at the moment is occupied.

  While I wait, my gaze falls on the mirror. Yes, I do have the complexion of a Corpse Bride.

  I’m a bitch. What am I complaining about? I have a perfect, nice, attentive man . . . Sure, he has all the wit of an ironing board, but what does that matter? Everyone is different.

  Damn, if there were just one person that I never wanted to see again in my life it would be Klauzen! I sigh. Just my luck.

  I hear the toilet flush in the stall. I dry my hands and straighten up, trying to assume an expression of friendly neutrality.

  And I stand corrected.

  Of the top ten people I never wanted to come face-to-face with in my life again, I suddenly realize that Klauzen is not number one. At the top of the list is Barbara Buchneim-Wessler Ricci Pastori, who is standing in front of me right now.

  For a second, I think that it is some sort of vision. The second thought that crosses my mind is: Barbara Buchneim-Wessler Ricci Pastori pees like us mere mortals. And, furthermore, she also rearranges the elastic of the underwear pinching her behind.

  It’s an idiotic thought, but it is comforting.

  I hope in vain to blend in with the sink, but it’s useless to try and escape. Barbara looks at me with those green, catlike eyes, and her face changes from the relaxation of someone who has just found honest relief to the annoyed stiffness of someone who has just noticed an unpleasant souvenir under their shoe.

  Neither of us says a word, and the sound of water running into the sink is as deafening as a waterfall.

  A second later, she leaves, and I close myself in the stall. What now?

  I close the toilet seat and sit on top of it, putting my head in my hands. Damn it, how is it that one way or another, I always end up crying about my life in a toilet stall?

  Can things get any worse?

  Well . . . I could see Davide here next to his girlfriend.

  Oh, no. Please, St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes, at least spare me this. I call the only person who can rescue me now.

  “Hello?”

  “Babe! I can’t believe that you finally called me back!” Tio’s voice is full of emotion, and against my will, I smile.

  “I’m sorry . . . it’s just that . . . I’m trying to take my life into my own hands and not be dependent on horoscopes.”

  “No worries, hon. Now, where are you?”

  “Um, in a toilet stall . . .”

  “Well, that seems like an excellent way to take your life into your own hands.”

  “Tio, I’m at a farm just outside Milan. You know those places that are restored partly to be cool and partly for doing good works . . . They also have art exhibitions here.”

  “Mmm, yes. I know where you are. I went there a couple weeks ago with Andrea. Excellent food.” He is silent, waiting for me to say something, and when I don’t he continues. “And how is the bathroom?”

  “Eh . . . disappointing.”

  “Ah, I see. That’s where the architects always fall short.”

  “Tio, Klauzen is out there.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “And I just bumped into Barbara Buchneim-Wessler, etc., etc.”

  “Double shit, etc., etc. There’s no window you can escape out of without being seen?”

  I raise my head and notice a little one with bars.

  “Tio, I can’t escape: I’m with Daniele.”

  “Well, then, fake a heart attack and have him take you home.”

  “Of course, and I’ll especially enjoy giving Dr. Klauzen the satisfaction of feeling my tits while he plays the hero.”

  “Well, at least you might make friends . . . this time.”

  “If he recognized me, I bet he’d crack a couple ribs on purpose—or even leave me there to die,” I say, fiddling with the roll of toilet paper.

  “OK, then I’ll come get you in the next couple of days . . . from the toilet where you now reside.”

  “Be serious.”

  “No, you be serious,” he blurts out, losing his cool. “You’ve avoided your best friend for three weeks. Now, you’ve shut yourself in a restaurant bathroom. Is this how you intend to be an adult, Alice? Do you think being an adult means taking refuge in comfortable situations in order to avoid making serious decisions? To renounce amazing opportunities because you might have to finally come face-to-face with yourself?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I know you were offered an interview in Rome, and you haven’t answered yet. Shit, Alice, do you want to lose your shot at having the job of a lifetime for the latest man who you don’t really love?”

  I knew it was a mistake to call him. Now I have a lump in my throat that’s the size of a gravestone.

  “You . . . you . . . you!” is all I can say, as if I had hung up on him.

  “I, nothing. Now go back out there and show them what you’re made of. You are Alice Bassi. Thanks to you and your program, a television network that everyone thought was hopeless has come thundering back with an audience that all the major channels are jealous of. You are a survivor, you are tough, and you always fight your way back. Always. And even though you don’t believe it, there is more strength in those skimpy little arms of yours than in the arms of a sumo wrestler. Go back in there and rip out that viper’s eyes!”

  I spring up, more galvanized by his pep talk than Rocky Balboa on his way to the world title.

  “I’m going out there. I must break them.”

  “Excellent. See you in hell, gringa.”

  And so I go, but even after I fling open the bathroom door with the boldness of a bandit from the Wild West, as the hubbub gets louder and the lights get dimmer, my courage starts to waver.

  Maybe I don’t exactly need to break him. Maybe I just need to say a quick hello, pretend to faint, and get myself taken home. This also seems like an excellent plan.

  As luck would have it, Daniele is at the stage and at his side are both Klauzen and Barbara. As if that weren’t enough, now that the presentation is over, the lights have been switched back on and, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have the slightest chance of hiding.

  I’m heading straight into the eye of the storm.

  “There you are!” Daniele exclaims euphorically.

  Then, strangely, while Barbara sourly purses her lips, Klauzen wrinkles his forehead and smiles at me. Okay, let’s say that he shows his repeatedly whitened teeth and offers me his hand.

  “So, you’re Daniele’s famous steady girl, then?”

  Point One: I haven’t been called anyone’s “steady girl” since middle school when Giampiero Guastamacchia’s father caught us making out on the benches below his house.

  Point Two: I don’t know if this Santa Claus version of Klauzen frightens me more or less than the one in the SS costume.

  Point Three: This level of friendliness can mean only one of two things, a trap or an aneurism.

  “Um, girlfriend. I mean . . . Let’s just say I’m a friend,” I reply, distancing myself.

  “Oh yes, of course,” intervenes Barbara, this time she is smiling, too, but it’s not in the least bit reassuring. “Nowadays the word ‘friendship’ means so many thi
ngs.”

  What she is really trying to say escapes me, but it’s better to play along.

  “You!” Klauzen exclaims, suddenly.

  I jump and prepare for the worst. Now he will tell me that I am inept, that he will have me barred from any registry I have any intention of ever enrolling in, and he will ensure that my hysterical premenstrual outburst is seen on world television.

  “Your face is very familiar. Do you have relatives in Brittany, by any chance?”

  “Um . . .” Seriously, he doesn’t recognize me? “Actually, no.”

  “Perhaps . . .” intervenes Barbara with a sly grin, “in Paris?”

  Klauzen shakes his head. “Paris? Why? I only go there for work. I hardly know anyone in Paris.”

  I raise an eyebrow, wondering if he is screwing with me, if this isn’t a way to hang me out to dry and make me repent for all my sins.

  If I’m not skating on thin ice with Klauzen, I certainly am with Barbara, so I try to quickly focus their attention on my “steady guy.”

  “Daniele told me about the project you proposed for him,” I say.

  “I’ve asked Alice to come with me. I think that she could be very useful to the venture,” adds Daniele.

  But Barbara keeps pressing, saying, in these exact words, “Oh, I don’t doubt it. Miss Bassi always knows how to keep busy.”

  As she speaks, she gives me a pointed look and, oh god, I understand—she knows everything about what happened in Paris between Davide and me. If I didn’t hate him enough for using me, now I hate him even more for wanting to wipe his conscience clean with his girlfriend, probably making me out to be worse than Mata Hari.

  Klauzen stares at me dumbfounded. “Really, how so? What kind of work do you do, Miss Bassi?”

  “Um, I work . . . I work in television. I am a director of production.” I tell myself that now he will remember. Now, he will put two and two together and take me to his laboratory to perform dehumanizing experiments on me.

  “Bah! Television. I don’t hold it in high regard,” he mutters. “Recently I had the worst experience in an interview. I was in Paris, actually, and there was this moron of a journalist . . .” He looks in my eyes, and I gulp. “Extremely, extremely rude.”