The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  “How nice,” Iris said. She could hear the split logs crackling in the Alpine fireplace, as bright flames took the chill out of the evening air; she could hear the laughter of the foursome as they reminisced about previous weekends spent skiing together.

  “We decided to just take it easy, and spend the day at the spa.” She could see them wrapped in plush white robes; she could hear their groans of pleasure as the masseuse beat the kinks out of their backs, feel the jets of the Jacuzzi as they pummeled their aching joints and muscles. “Then we went to Fernanda’s favorite restaurant for dinner.” She could visualize him waving away the menus, conferring with the Maître, ordering just the right wine to accompany just the right dishes, leading the toast to his wife’s continued health and happiness. “I was able to do that, and almost enjoy it. All thanks to you.”

  “Glad to be of help,” Iris said, as Claudio stretched in the bed, with that half-smile smirk on his face. She imagined how he would spend the evening after she left. He would shower and dress, make a few phone calls, including one to his wife and kids, then go have a delicious dinner in his restaurant, from which he would admire the lovely view. Iris glanced at her watch and stood; she did not like the feeling of his sticky semen trickling down the insides of her thighs, but could not spare the time for a shower. She’d rinse off in the bidet, then hurry home to where she belonged, hoping none of the staff would see her slink away out the service entrance.

  Five days later, Iris was again relieved to be back home. “I’m back!” she called out, as she entered the brightly lit hallway, her suitcase trailing behind her. She moved with the grace typical of women who had studied ballet as little girls; in one flowing action, she pushed the door closed with one foot, bent to lower her bag and briefcase to the floor, shrugged off her trench coat, and kicked off her high heels.

  “A-mo-re!” If the singsong voice bouncing off the walls as Gregorio approached was any indication, her husband was in a particularly cheerful mood this evening. Iris’s nerves were frazzled, and she was exhausted; she wished she had made it home before him, and had time to settle in, shower, unwind with a glass of wine.

  “I was afraid I was going to have to eat all by myself,” Gregorio said, extending his arms to embrace her. “Mamma and Cinzia insisted I dine with them earlier, but I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me. Or Zenzero.” The ginger cat had followed on the heels of Gregorio’s slippers, its lively trot dicing its mewing into high-pitched staccato notes, reminding Iris of a long-ago sweltering summer afternoon spent singing into the blades of an oscillating fan with Lily. The cat pointed its quivering tail to the ceiling, shimmied and purred its welcome between the two sets of legs and ankles. The greeting she had received at the boutique hotels in Mayfair and St. Germain-des-Prés where she had spent the last few nights paled by comparison.

  “It’s good to be back home,” Iris said, averting her face just in time to abort the kiss Gregorio attempted to deliver to her lips, which instead centered the dimple on her right cheek. He put his arms around her and she allowed her cheek to rest against his shoulder; her breath was quick and shallow. The strong, rhythmic beat of his heart against hers calmed her, steadying her erratic breath and slowing her racing pulse. It felt good to tell the truth: it was good to be back home. Like a repentant sinner steeping in the redeeming scent of incense in a church, Iris was uplifted as she inhaled the clean fragrance of Marseilles soap lingering on the surface of her husband’s skin, and the indelible chemical nosegay of hospital smells that lay beneath.

  “Your plane must have gotten in early,” Gregorio said.

  “My plane? Early?” Iris’s thoughts ran in circles trying to remember what time she had told him she would be arriving.

  “Yes. I was at the airport.”

  “When? Where? How come I didn’t see you?”

  “I was scheduled to oversee a complicated procedure, but I got out of it. Well, actually, the patient went into cardiac arrest before we even got our hands on him. So I thought I’d surprise you,” Gregorio said. “I got to the airport just as the five-thirty-five British Airways from Gatwick landed, and I waited until the very last passenger came through the gate, but no Iris! I felt so foolish, like a stood-up fiancé, all alone with a bunch of roses.”

  “Roses? You came to the airport with roses?” Iris asked, her heart spinning out of control, her face flushing bright red with retroactive panic.

  “Yes indeed, Piccolina! I’m in the mood to celebrate. The roses are in a vase on the table,” Gregorio said. “Anyway, your phone was switched off, so I checked with the desk. They told me you might be on the next flight arriving at eight forty-five, but they wouldn’t say for sure. At that point, I thought I’d organize something for dinner, rather than wait for three hours. Now, here it is only eight o’clock, and you’re home already! How you managed that is beyond me.”

  “You shouldn’t have bothered coming to the airport. I told you I’d take a taxi like I always do,” Iris replied, her struggle to remain calm sucking the color from her cheeks. Why had she let Claudio talk her into leaving London a day early and meeting him in Paris? He didn’t seem to mind that it would mean rescheduling two important meetings at the World Travel Mart and taking a very risky gamble without the hedge of a prefabricated plan. However, refusal was never really an option with Claudio once he got an idea, and in fact, before even checking with her, he had already taken care of modifying her travel arrangements. This time his justification was an irrepressible craving for the oysters one could only find at his favorite huîterie in the sixth arrondissement. In the early days of their affair, Iris had relished the ironic sense of freedom she derived from not being offered the possibility to say no; the more decided he was, the less timorous and reluctant she felt. If Claudio insisted upon taking her to the Gritti Palace for the national hoteliers’ conference being held in Venice, or to Rome for the tourist board workshop, where he would sleep in no other hotel than the Hassler, who was she to object? She was thoroughly impressed with the luxury hotels and Michelin-starred restaurants that were Claudio’s milieu, and playing cicerone to her seemed to amuse him as much as it stimulated her.

  London, Paris, and Claudio’s doubt-free world were not here to bolster her confidence now, as she stood in the entrance of her home, wondering what was passing through her husband’s mind. He had never once found the time to meet her at the airport in the past. Had he grown suspicious? And what were the flowers for? She imagined how the scene could have played out, she and Claudio arriving on the flight from Paris, and running into Gregorio and his bouquet of roses. She felt like throwing up, and it wasn’t because of the oysters; which, by the way, she always found disgusting. Good thing there had been plenty of chilled champagne to chase the briny blobs of slime down her throat.

  “Maybe you didn’t come on British Airways after all? I saw an Alitalia flight on the arrivals board, too, but that was delayed an hour,” Gregorio said, generously offering Iris an alibi. Could it be a trap? Maybe, but what else could she say?

  “Thank God for that delay,” she said in the most travel-weary voice she could summon to her aid, as her mind worked furiously to script a plausible scenario. Her face was still pressed against Gregorio’s chest as she spoke; she could not trust herself to look him in the eye. “I was held up at the travel fair all morning, but I managed to catch the Gatwick Express in plenty of time. Of course, the darn train broke down and I missed my BA flight. Fortunately, I found a seat on Alitalia just as it was boarding. So here I am!” she concluded. “And that’s the important thing, right?” She looked up at him, hoping to avoid further speculation on flights and schedules and airports and other minutiae that might consort with each other to trip up her already shaky footing, hoping he would not notice the twitch she felt tugging at the corners of her lips.

  “Yes, Piccolina,” Gregorio concurred as he released her. “That’s the important thing. But you really have to learn to let me know when you have a change of plans. Otherwise we are go
ing to have to seriously rethink this business of you working at a job that requires you to run off here and there like some sort of traveling salesman. Mamma and Cinzia and I had enough of that with my father.”

  “I know, I’m sorry,” Iris said.

  “Especially when there’s no need for you to work. I understand a smart girl like you needs to keep her mind occupied, but what’s wrong with working from home as a translator? You could keep your own hours, right here in the comfort of our own home. It’s a pity neither one of us gets to spend much time here. Mamma was just saying yesterday that … ”

  “I’m sorry, Gregorio,” Iris said. “I wanted to call and let you know, it’s just …”

  “I know, I know. If you have to choose between wasting time trying to get in touch and running to catch your flight, you go for the plane. And I’m glad you did.”

  “So am I!” Iris said. “All I really wanted was to get home as soon as possible. And here I am.” She tried to keep the twitch out of her smile, as she was struck with the doubt that she may not have turned off the mobile phone Claudio had given her to use for their clandestine communications. All she needed now was for it to start ringing in her purse.

  “Now, you go take a nice hot shower. What perfume are you wearing, anyway? It’s not very feminine, if you don’t mind my saying so. You have to stop letting those duty free saleswomen spray you with their dreadful samples every time you walk though an airport. I’ll bet you can’t wait to wash it off, can you?”

  Without waiting for an answer he placed his hands on Iris’s shoulders, spun her around, and sent her down the corridor, with an affectionate pat on her butt. “Now, be good and run along,” he added. “You just leave everything right there. I’ll deliver your suitcase to our room, just like they do at those hotels you can’t seem to get enough of. Off you go, scoot! Like a good little girl!”

  While Iris struggled to remember whether there was any compromising evidence that should make her worry about leaving her suitcase in Gregorio’s hands, she had already been nudged halfway down the hall. In under two minutes she had checked the mobile phone (it was off) and hid it in her underwear drawer, removed her contact lenses, stripped, and was standing naked in the bathtub, trembling with exhaustion, worry and guilt. The ongoing lies were wearing her down, tautening her nerves to the point of snapping; sooner or later she would slip up, sooner or later, Gregorio would nail her. And then what? How could she face him? What would Isabella do? And Cinzia? What would she say to Auntie Rosa and her family, when she was disgraced and shipped back home? While her sisters and brothers were all busy with families of their own, having the integrity and courage to admit their mistakes and divorce when things did not work out, she was being despicably two-faced. How had she turned into a liar and a cheat? She longed for someone to talk to, but her only two friends had deserted her; Liz had moved to Miami after her husband was offered a job as captain for a cruise line, and Deirdre had gone back to Ireland to marry a widowed professor of Italian from Dublin, whom she had met in the Cinque Terre, where he was hiking the trails with his four sons. She could never write to Lily or her other sisters; she could never confess her sins in writing, and they would never understand.

  She turned on the water full blast, as hot as she could stand it, hoping it would chase away the confusion and guilt and fear buzzing around her like horseflies around manure. Lately she had noticed that the more guilty she felt, the longer her showers lasted, and by the time she had massaged the third dollop of shampoo into her hair, her head and its concerns were swimming in an immense cloud of bubbly lather. She was just starting to calm down when a new wave of paralyzing panic shot through her. Knowing she had not a moment to waste, she forced her body to action, slipping as she hopped out of the tub, then slid across the hall to her bedroom, where she found her suitcase standing at the foot of the bed. The bold black letters CDG GOA clearly advertised that the suitcase, and consequently Iris, had traveled on a flight from Paris. She clawed at the tag furiously, her wet fingers slipping as she tried to rip it off the handle. With a final yank, the elastic broke.

  “What are you doing there?” Iris spun around, nude, hiding her hand behind her back, and the tag in the palm of her hand. Gregorio stood in the doorway, glaring at her. A mountain of lather slid from her head and floated to the floor, its bubbles disintegrating with a series of soft pops. She had no further alibis to invent, no further excuses to offer. She wished he’d say something, and get it over with.

  “Look at the mess you’re making!” Gregorio said. “You’re dripping all over the new parquet!”

  “I’m sorry … I know …,” she stammered. “It’s just that I … um … forgot something,” Iris wiped ineffectually at the suds and water pooling at her feet, her rapid movements sending further fluffs of foam to the floor. “I’ll mop it up right away!”

  Gregorio sighed, shook his head. “No, just go finish your shower, I’ll take care of it.” Iris hurried from the room, her eyes downcast as she pattered passed him. Closing the door to the bathroom, which for safety reasons Gregorio had made her promise to never lock, she disposed of the tag in the toilet; she had to flush three times before the incriminating evidence stopped bobbing to the surface to haunt her.

  “Everything all right in there?” Gregorio’s voice called, minutes later, from the other side of the door. He had never once walked in on her; his respect of privacy was both appreciated and reciprocated. Memories of the promiscuous washing of faces and brushing of teeth with siblings before rushing off to school, and of brothers beating down the door while she tried to get the hang of using tampons were not easily erased from her mind.

  “Fine!” Iris called over the running water. It still might be fine, right?

  “Dinner’s ready when you are!”

  “Dinner? Really?” She wondered what he had managed to prepare, and why. Thoughts of her last meal with Claudio and of the raw bivalves still floating around in her stomach made her want to puke.

  “I was going to try my hand at cooking something, but Cinzia made minestrone and gave me a potful,” he yelled, as Iris tilted her face into the spray.

  She could hear his words, though his voice sounded miles away, distanced by much more than the door separating them. As the water ran over her head, she thought of all the times she had lied, all the times she had sneaked around, all the times she had risked getting caught. For what? For a man who would skip his son’s birthday to run off to Alba for the first white truffles of the season? She had a wonderful husband who took excellent care of her, and so did his family, really, if you knew how to interpret their actions. She should learn to take life more seriously, learn to appreciate what really counted, forget her superficial notions about “having fun” and “being happy.” That was so childish. This was real life.

  “After dinner we’ll run up and say hi to Mamma. She’s been on my back all week, questioning why I should put up with your trips,” he called through the door. “But don’t tell her I told you!”

  “Of course I won’t,” Iris called to him. Instead of irritating her, his talk of Mamma was oddly reassuring, like Gregorio himself. He was older, wiser, and knew what was best for her. Why couldn’t she just enjoy the love and security offered her by a man any woman in her right mind would give her eyeteeth to have as a husband?

  “Don't you want to know why I came to meet you with the roses?” Gregorio called through the door.

  “Of course I do.” At least, she thought she did. She was so confused, it was hard to say. She lathered her scalp, her ears, her neck. One more time couldn’t hurt.

  “Remember that conference I told you about?” Gregorio said. “Next year? In Stockholm?”

  “Of course,” Iris lied. She had no idea what he was talking about. Every evening he rambled on about a different conference to be attended, a different colleague that had botched a procedure, a different scandal involving a different chief of department. There was no way she could remember it all. But at that
moment, with her ears full of suds, she was more than happy to listen to anything that did not involve her directly.

  “Well, guess who has been appointed to head the scientific committee?” Gregorio’s hands beat a drumroll on the door. “Yours truly!”

  A burst of cold water abruptly replaced the hot.

  “Heeeyy!” Iris screamed. Cinzia must be using the goddamn dishwasher.

  “I knew you’d be happy for me, Piccolina!” Gregorio cried. “I’ll tell you more about it over dinner. Now dry off before you shrivel up like a prune!”

  Trembling, she turned off the tap and reached for her towel. She felt misplaced, wasted, as if she had been carried out to sea by the current, and spent the past year rotting like a piece of driftwood. How had she strayed so far off course? She, who balked at breaking the rules; she, who always stopped at crosswalks, who would walk an extra mile rather than trespass on private property, who would not leave her car illegally parked for even two minutes, who spent twice as long as any Italian in any queue, because she waited her turn instead of cutting. She marveled that she could live with herself, that she could even look at herself, and not be disgusted.

  Infidelity was wrong, no matter how you looked at it; she would be devastated if the tables were turned, and Gregorio should ever betray her. She wondered whether evil people actually knew they were evil, or if there were a pair of knobs inside their heads, like dials on a short-wave radio, one used to squelch the static interference of the conscience, the other to tune into a frequency that transmitted justifications for any imaginable transgression, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  Her chin trembled, and tears stung her eyes as she dried herself, then wrapped her hair in the towel. She was thankful for the steam that fogged up the mirror as she opened the door to leave. Her eyes were the last thing she wanted to look at.