The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  “Don’t go trying to talk circles around me, Iris. You always want to have the last word.” Signora Mangiagallo hung up without saying goodbye. Iris sighed, rubbed her throbbing temples, and reminded herself it was nothing personal, that she shouldn’t allow her feelings to be hurt if the woman mistreated her; it was just a job. Still, she wished she were working for someone she could admire, or at least respect on a professional level, someone like Claudio, who had taught her everything she knew. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so ambitious; the sense of accomplishment she had experienced at becoming the only female general manager in the Riviera was wearing off. So was the relief she had experienced when she had ended their affair before it could end her marriage, but by now, that was ancient history.

  Iris stared at her desk, searching for enough motivation to begin the day’s work. She would make the rounds first, inspect the premises, check on the staff, greet any guests she encountered. And get that cup of coffee. A nice doppio espresso should straighten her out. As she tidied up the papers scattered about her desk, her eyes wandered to the note she had set aside.

  cara signora capotosti (can’t I just call you iris you can’t be much older than me) too bad you didn’t stay for that drink last night you were very cruel leaving me on that terrace all by myself to stare at the moon i wanted to call you to tell you to look at how beautiful it was but the guy at the desk wouldn’t give me your number. i also wanted to say the breeze reminded me of your breath on my neck when we were hunched over the camera. strange how it could feel so warm, but still make me shiver. was hoping to catch you for a cappuccino this morning but i have to hit the road. i’ll send you some stills when I get back to my studio.

  pax, max

  p.s. take care of those pretty eyes

  Iris scanned the jumble of words a second time, knowing she should be indignant, yet was not quite convinced that the thought of him noticing the feel of her breath on his neck, and being affected by it, actually bothered her. She imagined Vanesi standing at the front desk in his cargo pants and multi-pocketed vest worn over a crumpled shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a gauze foulard looped around his neck (she had seen him use it more than once to wipe off a camera lens), his paraphernalia piled on the floor next to his sneaker-clad feet. He had probably borrowed the felt-tip pen he used to write the note from the receptionist, then he must have handed it over with his room key. The clod hadn’t even been courteous enough to put the note in an envelope, or given a thought to the fact that anyone at the front desk could have read it. She could picture him as he left, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and striding out the door like an adventurer, waving aside the porter who trailed behind in hopes of a tip. He might have looked around one last time, as the guys finished loading the equipment into the RAI van and decided the light was too perfect to resist shooting one final scene. She could hear him cajoling the reluctant crew back out of the van and into action. She could see him waving to them when they finished, slamming the car door, starting the engine, pulling out and driving down the hill to the Via Aurelia, heading for his next assignment, who knew where, or for a weekend of fun in the exciting company of who knew who.

  Tucking the note away in her drawer where it would be safe from indiscreet eyes, she selected another function on her computer, and typed:

  VANESI (enter)

  Three names appeared:

  VANESI GLORIA

  VANESI MASSIMILIANO

  VANESI TOMMASO

  She placed the cursor over the second name, hit “enter” again. Green letters pulsated against a black background, while her eyes darted over the registration record, pausing at the date of birth (he was almost three years younger than she), then the place of birth (Frosinone), then the place of residence (Rome), complete with address. The guy thought he knew so much about her; well, now she knew a few things about him, too. Possessing the power to retrieve his personal data by tapping a few commands on the keyboard made her feel in control, helped quell the sense of intrusion she had not been able to shake since the previous evening, when he had stared at her so intensely and made those inappropriate comments. Knowing when he had been born and where he lived made them even, in a way. If she wanted to, which of course she didn’t, she could probably find out all other kinds of information about him on the Internet. He had said he worked as a freelance, so maybe he even had a website of his own. But why should she be interested? Hadn’t she been disturbed by his probing eyes and comments, and relieved to say goodbye? What did it change if he recalled the feel of her breath on his neck, the way she recalled the peculiar scent of his nearness, and the odd way it had stirred her? There must be something seriously wrong with her if she was even thinking about him.

  She opened her drawer, and extracted the note. The tactile sensation impressed upon her fingertips by the few grams of processed pulp was barely perceptible. She noted the childish script without reading the words again, then brought it to her nose and sniffed, but the only lingering scent was that of marker ink. She imagined Massimiliano Vanesi - “Max” as he had signed his note - sitting on the terrace after she had gone home. She wondered what he would drink. Probably a beer. Had she been there with him, she would have had an Americano; the barman made a fantastic one, with just the right balance of vermouth, bitters and soda water. She would have had the waiter bring them some sage focaccia, cut into little squares they could nibble on as they talked, and some chunks of Parmesan. And some olives, the little black ones from Imperia. She thought back to the previous evening, to what she had been doing when Vanesi would have been thinking of her as he sipped his beer.

  She would have been driving home, her throat tightening so that she could not sing the final verse to “Ruby Tuesday.” She would have been blinking back tears as she searched for another CD, her fingers fumbling to pry open the plastic case. While Max listened to the sea splashing against the rocks below, she would have been listening to the banjo of Béla Fleck leading the mandolin and fiddle and Dobro in poignant concert, as the strings of her aching heart were plucked and bent and strummed, her most private pain surging and swirling around her on the notes of “The Lights of Home.” As Max contemplated the brightening moon in the darkening sky, she would have been pulling up the drive, switching off the engine, and finishing her second cigarette, wishing the song would never end. He may have been ordering a second drink just then, and she would have been hitting the replay button, and lighting a third cigarette off the butt of the previous one.

  She couldn’t remember exactly how long she had sat there, embracing her melancholy, while the ever-changing sky made each second seem shorter and more sharply defined than at any other time of the day. An ephemeral display of pinks and oranges and violets had glowed fiercely, then faded to nothingness, while Iris remained motionless, allowing a blanket of darkness to tuck itself around her. She had reclined her seat back, and looking through the open sunroof, had singled out one, then two, then a sprinkling of stars twinkling in the twilight, thinking how strange it was, knowing they were always out there somewhere, but could not be seen until the light of day faded. Then she had turned her head to regard the windows of the dark villa, wishing she could feel for this aesthetically pleasing conglomerate of stone and plaster even a fraction of the emotions Béla’s music stirred in her.

  It had grown late. She knew she couldn’t sit in the car smoking all night, but the scenes she imagined on the other side of the windows pinned her to her seat. Bluish tones flickering from Isabella’s living room window suggested that Gregorio was upstairs dining with his mother; he had recently told Iris that if she couldn’t be home by the eight o’clock news, which, as she well knew, he enjoyed watching during dinner, he wouldn’t wait for her to eat. As she sat there, she pictured Gregorio and his mother, each balancing a tray on their knees, their jaws grinding to the dictates of proper mastication, their eyes and ears trained on the newsman who relayed the day’s atrocities in his priest-like drone. They did not seem to mind the anchorman�
��s swarthy complexion, his beady black eyes, the brown mole on his flaccid cheek, the jowls that jiggled as he spoke, his oily hair spread thin over a bumpy scalp. Iris had always thought the man looked like a crooked undertaker who relished his role, one who derived a morbid sort of pleasure in knowing that despite his respectable attire, his aspect instilled distrust in those who saw him, and despite its evenly modulated tone and a language of carefully chosen euphemisms, his voice conveyed more horror than reassurance.

  As Iris had listened to the song one last time, a chorus of “if onlys” echoed in the deserted halls of her heart. If only on the other side of those windows she could pick out the shapely silhouette of a teenage girl pacing to and fro, her chin held high, her lips moving as she rehearsed a song, the way Lily used to. If only she could make out the images of a boisterous group of people jostling one another into place around a long table, suppressing giggles as their father led them in prayer. If only she could watch heads as lovely as those of Violet and Jasmine being tossed back in laughter, unleashing long, thick manes of hair. If only she could perceive through the shadows the insuppressible enthusiasm of Marguerite gesticulating animatedly, determined to make her point. If only she could steal a closer peek, and see a woman of ageless beauty silently drift into view, bearing a huge pot of steaming stew with dumplings and setting it on the table, her fair skin flushed from the heat of the kitchen. If only she could glimpse a squat, buxom woman wobbling over to the window, peering out into the darkness, and clapping her hands when she saw Iris arrive. If only she could switch off the wretched blue flickering and switch on the bright lights of home.

  16. Lily

  The Sunday after Easter, Lily noticed that Owen was operating the sound board; she hadn’t realized how much she’d been hoping he would be. He was wearing a headset, adjusting levers and buttons, his glasses on the table next to a half drunk glass of water. Since the choir only performed on special occasions, Lily sat in a pew, wedged anonymously among families and old folks, having opted to allow the boys to stay home, under the unconscious guise that she would get more out of the service. Lily had to turn around in order to catch sight of Owen, and while she expressly told herself not to - reminding herself that it would be too obvious - she found that she couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder several times throughout the service, and as if his stare were tapping her beseechingly on the shoulder, each time it eagerly waited to meet her.

  “Do you have to rush off?” Owen asked after service. “Can’t you stay for fellowship hour?”

  Engaging in fellowship with Owen wasn’t exactly what Lily had on her mind. It seemed almost sacrilegious to use church-sanctioned coffee as an excuse to stay. Like taking communion because you were hungry.

  Ever since they’d met the week before, Lily found Owen creeping into her thoughts, her fantasies, even her dreams. It was ridiculous, really - they had only shared a few moments and exchanged a few words. Yet the stories she wove dismayed and thrilled her, each time leaving her feeling the way she had on the eve of Easter - warm with relief, high on inspiration, and afraid that the passion awakened from within would not so easily be tamed by her halfhearted demands that it furl itself back up inside her, knowing that it would leave her with only the taste of dead tree in her mouth. Today she imagined that they would skip the bad coffee and lard-laden pastries that had been laid out on a folding table in the church basement. Instead, they would slip out the back door, go past the playground, and head into the nature trails of the wildlife sanctuary behind the church property.

  They would talk, although Lily didn’t know about what. She would laugh, he would look at her, the spring sun glinting in his blue eyes, and he would smile. He would take her hand in his and lead her off the beaten path where they would sit together on an old fallen oak. He would raise his hand to her chin, tilt her face up toward his, and kiss her. His lips would be soft and warm, his breath gentle, his tongue sweet.

  “Lily?” Owen repeated. “Can’t you hang out for a bit? I’ve been wanting to have the chance to get to know you a little better.”

  “Oh, I just can’t,” Lily replied. “I have to get home.”

  “So, what is it that keeps you so busy on a Sunday morning?” Owen smiled. “Don’t you get a day off? Even God got a day of rest.”

  Lily felt that he was looking right through her, those bright blue eyes jumping out from behind wire-rimmed glasses, peering into her mind, watching the scene of the two of them, kissing on a fallen oak in the woods.

  “You don’t believe me?” Lily asked. In her frustration she dropped her church bulletin and her Bible and when she bent over to get them, she farted. Not sure if Owen had heard it or not, but wildly embarrassed at the prospect, she struggled to recuperate as she stood back up. “I have a husband, and I have two little boys and there’s a lot of stuff to be done, all the time, every day.”

  Owen knit his brow as his smile dropped away. “Lily - of course I believe you... I’m so sorry - I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “That’s OK.” Her voice cracked under the weight of humiliation. “I’m just having a bad day, I guess. I’m sorry.” She dabbed at the inside corner of her eye with her index finger.

  Owen reached into his pocket, and offered her a tissue.

  “I’m sorry,” Lily repeated, blowing her nose. “I really do have to go now.”

  “Sure, sure, no problem.” Owen headed toward the door, both of them reaching for the knob at the same time, grazing hands before Lily yanked hers back with a gasp.

  “Let me get that for you,” Owen said softly, his voice dripping with tenderness. He opened the door and Lily darted out, like a bird that had accidentally fumbled its way into someone’s house, and frantically found its way out again.

  Lily played the scene over and again in her mind in the days that followed, each time feeling more foolish. Yet despite her efforts to stay as busy as possible (She could hear Bethany’s voice singing, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”), she couldn’t get Owen off of her mind. The way he confidently sat in his chair at the sound table, the sadness in his eyes when he thought he’d hurt her feelings. The way the hairs on her arm stood up when she passed within inches of him to walk out the door. How could she ever face him again? How could she not?

  The next evening while Pierce and Joseph were happily and drowsily settled in front of the television and Joe was at work, Lily booted up the computer and launched America Online. As she waited for the dial-up connection, her heart quickened. She extracted Owen’s business card from the hidden pocket of her wallet.

  She clicked the email icon and watched as a message window opened. She had no idea where he lived or what his life was like, but Lily was titillated to recognize that at that moment, Owen was just a few mouse clicks away. She didn’t even have to leave the house to find him. This was her opportunity to clean up the embarrassment she’d created for herself, to smooth things over. She would write something appropriate and intelligent and show Owen that she wasn’t the basket case she appeared to be. She wrote message after message, but discarded them all. She intended to compose the perfect note and slip it into the crack between self-deprecation and whimsy; surely there was an ideal balance. After thirty minutes at the keyboard, she’d written:

  Dear Owen,

  I just wanted to apologize for getting so upset after service on Sunday. It certainly had nothing to do with anything you said or did. Just one of those days, I guess! I’m enjoying working on the music for the summer concert. Perhaps we’ll run into each other again some time.

  See you soon.

  Mrs. Lily Diotallevi

  PS: Thank you for the tissue; I’m having it cleaned before returning it to you. It will be ready next Tuesday.

  In the subject line, she wrote, “So sorry!” Lily’s heart pounded as the cursor hovered over the “Send” button, poised to make the commitment to jump, yet terrified of the fall.

  “Mommy! Can we have some ice cream?!” Joseph shouted.
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  “Yea, Mommy - we want ice cream,” added Pierce with a giggle, as both boys bounded up the stairs from the family room, Wishes following, vigorously wagging her behind in agreement.

  Now or never, thought Lily. With a click of the mouse, her note flew off into cyberspace, leaving her trembling in its wake. Mechanically, she prepared ice cream sundaes for the boys, cleaned up the kitchen, set the table for Joe’s dinner, and took out the garbage. Each time she passed by the computer, she signed in to AOL and checked for a response. When she heard Joe’s car pull into the driveway, she quickly shut the computer down and busied herself at the stove.

  Just after midnight, Lily woke with thoughts of Owen, her note to him, his potential response to her. Joe snored deeply. She slipped out of bed, tiptoed down to the living room, and turned on the computer. It whirred and wailed and made a concert of noises that she hardly noticed during the day. She hoped it wasn’t loud enough to wake Joe up. What would she tell him if he came down and found her on the computer in the middle of the night? He had agreed to buy it because Joseph's school urged all families to have one, but if he thought that Lily was sneaking down in the middle of the night to do God-knows-what, she wouldn’t put it past him to yank it from the wall and toss it out the window.

  If he did catch her, she would say that she couldn’t sleep, so she thought she would teach herself how to use the word processing software, to be able to help Joseph with his homework. The truth was that Joseph knew more about computers than Lily did, but that was one of the benefits of having a husband who wasn’t around much - he was unfamiliar with the day-to-day operations of the house, so Lily was free to fill in the blanks for him as she saw fit. She had at least that much coming to her.