You’re shocked? Really? My whole life people have been acting like I can’t do anything right, and as though I can’t be trusted to behave - so why are you surprised that I cheated? Surely you expected it - especially given that you say you “understand” why I did it. (Just because you read about my life doesn’t mean you understand it.)
Anyway, I wasn’t going to tell you about Owen. I had decided not to; I didn’t think I needed the bad press. Didn’t I have enough shit going on already in my life to adequately live up to my reputation? Why paint a picture for you that was so much more shameful than the one you already saw?
But then you told your story about Claudio and it made me brave. It made me want to be honest with you in return. Imagine my shock upon reading this most recent email and finding out that you also seem to corner the market on confession. So now you’re a better Mary Magdalene than I am, too. I can’t even screw up properly.
Maybe I will always see you as the lucky one and myself as the victim. Have you ever considered the possibility that I see it that way because that’s how it was? I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. Join the club.
I also wonder what we’ve gotten into here, but I hope you’re not considering backing out of this now that my guts are lying all over the place.
Lily
From: Iris Capotosti
To: Lily Capotosti
Sent: Sat, November 19, 2010 at 7:25 AM
Subject: Re: Re: Shocked
Dear Lily,
I didn’t expect you to have an affair, and I didn’t expect you not to. I just didn’t expect you let me go on feeling ashamed of myself for so long when you could have kept me company.
I understand a lot more than you imagine, Lily. I couldn’t sleep last night because of it. But let’s not get into that now.
Don’t worry, I’m not backing out. I’ll defer any conclusions until I have the whole story, and I think you should do the same.
Iris
17. Iris
“This is what it’s like,” Iris said aloud, alone in her office. Snatches of conversations from her whirlwind trip home to Rochester before the hotel opening stood out in her memories like the boldface subject lines of the twenty-two unread emails on her computer screen. Just weeks ago, everyone had been so curious to hear about her glamorous new job. Now, the glamour and novelty were wearing thin, and all she was left with was a shitload of work. And this was what it was like, six days a week, Saturdays included. She glanced at her watch, and winced. It was late, again, but the emails were still coming in. She stared at her computer screen, trying to determine by the sender’s address and subject line which messages would require immediate attention, which might be eliminated, and which she might leave for the following morning, when her phone shattered the silence with the piercing electronic ring she had started hearing in her sleep.
“Signora Iris, there’s someone here to see you,” a young lady’s pleasantly modulated voice informed her. That morning, Iris had instructed the new receptionist to address her in this more informal manner, like the rest of the front office staff, instead of calling her “Direttrice.” The title still embarrassed her, and she would hate to think she needed to rely upon its use in order to command respect.
“I didn’t think I had anything else scheduled for today, Marisa.” Iris cradled the phone between her neck and shoulder as she flipped open her appointment book. “And I was just considering leaving. Who is it?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t give me his name. He seemed to know his way around, he said he’d be waiting on the terrace. I’m sorry, Signora Iris, maybe I should have insisted more, but he just walked away, and I didn’t want to pester him. Should I go tell him you’ve already gone for the day?”
Iris sighed. “No, that’s all right. I’ll go myself and see what it’s all about.” Iris had learned back at the Stella di Levante to always give drop-ins a few minutes of her time, whenever possible, and her availability was often rewarded. In the few months since the Dimora had opened its doors to the public, her policy had resulted in an extremely lucrative booking by a wealthy guest, the owner of one of the major soccer teams, who had sent an assistant to inspect the accommodations and arrange the details of his stay directly with her. Another time, a travel writer from Chicago had stopped by unannounced to interview Iris for a piece slated for publication in a leading magazine. On yet another occasion, a glowing review of the Dimora had appeared in a German travel guide following the impromptu site inspection of the reviewer, to whom Iris had offered a tour of the premises and a drink on the terrace. You just never knew. Iris reached into her drawer for the mirror and lipstick she kept there, applied a fresh coat, and went to see who was going to be responsible for making her get home late this time.
“Buonasera,” Iris said, throwing back her shoulders as she walked across the terrace to the man slouched over the balustrade, his back toward her. She often wished someone had drilled into her the importance of standing up straight, back when she was a gangly adolescent embarrassed by her height, but no one had, and her quest for perfect posture was an ongoing effort. “How may I help you?” The man, who seemed to be enjoying the view, pivoted slowly to face her.
“Ciao, bella Direttrice,” he said. It took Iris a moment to recognize the deeply tanned face in the fading light.
“Signor Vanesi!” Surprise doused Iris like a cold shower, making her heart hop, her skin tingle. They shook hands in greeting; the feel of his soft, moist hand, with its long, meaty fingers was familiar, unexpected.
“I thought we agreed you would call me Max.” Massimiliano Vanesi turned up the corners of his mouth in what could easily bloom into a smile, if he let it. “Or didn’t you get that letter I wrote you? Did that jealous weasel of a guy at the front desk shred it to pieces instead of delivering it to you like I told him?”
Iris had never been good at training her body to downplay her emotions. Unlike the man’s lips, if hers wanted to smile, like now, they did. “No. I mean, yes. I got the letter,” she stammered, blushing furiously.
“And?” Vanesi faced her squarely, his backside resting against the balustrade. He ran the fingers of both hands through the thick black hair that hung from a jagged part down the middle of his scalp, then crossed his arms.
What did he expect her to say? It was not exactly the sort of letter you answered.
“Have you been thinking of me?” he asked. His bluntness caught her off guard. Was she supposed to tell him that not a day had gone by without her taking that letter out of her desk drawer and rereading it? Some days, several times. She especially liked the part where he said the feel of her breath on his neck had made him shiver.
“Well, you did say you would send me some pictures. I was sort of expecting to hear from you,” Iris said.
“It’s been a hell of a month. It takes those clowns at RAI TV forever to make a decision about anything, then they’ve got you running all over the place like shit in the sewer. When I left here, I went straight down to Elba, then Ponza, then on to Capri and Ischia,” he said. “Have you ever been to any of those islands?”
“Only Ischia. I go every year in May. Oh, and once I took the ferry to Capri from there. Just for the day.” She didn’t even think about why she had automatically said “I” instead of “we.” It had just come out that way.
“Ischia, huh?” Vanesi tilted his head slowly from left to right, ear to shoulder, like a scale being tipped by the positive and negative aspects of the island as they ran through his mind. “Not my favorite,” he pronounced.
“It’s actually very pleasant, if you find a quiet place to stay. The gardens are lovely at that time of year. And the thermal baths are rejuvenating.” What kind of an answer was that? Something had prompted her to defend Gregorio’s fixation with the island, but she cringed at the way her comments made her sound like a prim English spinster from the nineteenth century, who traveled to the Continent for its agreeable
climate and salubrious baths. In fact, Ischia was over-developed, with way too many people and cars for her taste. But she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“There are so many other beautiful islands. Why would you keep going to Ischia, once you’ve seen it?”
“Tradition, I guess.” It was no business of his that Gregorio was the one who insisted on going there every May for the scuba diving. He had been livid when she told him she could not go this year; her presence at the hotel was crucial as the Dimora geared up for its first high season, and taking a week off was out of the question. Instead of going along without her, as she had insisted vehemently and hoped fervently he would, Gregorio had given up his vacation and spent the week complaining, relaying to her each evening over dinner the news he received from his diving companions about the ideal weather conditions and exceptional immersions they were enjoying. It still wasn’t clear to Iris whether it had been the idea of going without her that Gregorio didn’t like, or the thought of leaving her alone for a week.
“Tradition,” Vanesi said, nodding his head slowly. “I never would have thought of that. Interesting.”
Wincing from the man’s blind stab at the private life about which he knew nothing, Iris quickly changed the subject. “So what brings you here, Signor Vanesi?”
“It’s Max, remember?” He revealed the rest of the smile he had been dangling in front of her. It was even more captivating than she recalled. His teeth were stark white, in contrast to his dark skin, and so straight they almost slanted inward. Nice and even across, too, except for the canines, which came to a sharp point, well below the others.
“All right. You win. Max it is,” Iris said. “What brings you here, Max?”
“I came to settle up.” Max stood up straight, and crossed his arms over his slightly pudgy abdomen. She had forgotten how tall he was.
“Settle up what?”
“Like you said, I owe you some prints. Which I have come personally to deliver into your precious hands. As for you, I believe you owe me an aperitivo.”
“I do?”
“Yes, you do. To make up for the one you skipped out on.” His decisive tone of voice told Iris there was no way she could beg off this time without seeming rude or, worse still, scared.
“Then by all means, follow me.” Iris crooked a finger at him and led him to her favorite table in the far corner, nodding and smiling at the guests she encountered along the way. The cocktail crowd had thinned out as dinnertime approached, and the waiter was busy tidying up. As soon as they were seated, he walked over.
“What would you like, Max? A beer? A glass of wine? A cocktail?” Iris asked.
“Champagne would be nice,” Max said, without hesitation.
“Champagne?”
“I have a policy of never refusing free champagne. And this one is on you, remember?”
“Of course. Champagne it is then.” Iris said to the waiter.
“Would you like a bottle, or two flutes, Signora Iris?” he asked.
“Two flutes will be fine, Giovanni.” Iris said.
“To start with,” Max added, grinning. He pushed his chair back, and crossed his legs. As he placed his right ankle over his left knee, his white linen trousers crept up his leg, revealing skin as tan as his face and arms. He reached into his backpack and pulled out an envelope. “Here you go, Signora Direttrice Capotosti.” He could not seem to resist teasing her in some way.
“If you’re Max, I’m Iris,” she said.
“I know. But I like Capotosti. Maybe you should just have people call you ‘Capo’ - that’s a good nickname for a big boss lady like you.
“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” Iris said. She had never liked the term “boss” in English, and the same held true for its Italian equivalent “capo.” After all, she wasn’t the foreman on a construction site, she was the manager of a luxury hotel.
“Well, then I’ll call you Capo.” Iris wondered when exactly he planned on calling her that. Once they drank their glass of champagne, she would be on her way home, and he would head off to some other island hideaway, never to be seen or heard from again.
“Something tells me it would be pointless to argue with you,” Iris said, feigning exasperation. “Go ahead and call me whatever you want. As long as no one else hears!”
Max laughed, then with a serious face and deliberate gesture, pushed the envelope across the table to her. Iris had a habit of imagining the dynamics behind the interactions she witnessed between people; it was a game she had begun playing more frequently ever since she had started working at hotels. She wondered what she would think of the two of them if she were an observer, watching from the outside. The complicit way in which Max was looking at her, combined with the obvious discomfort on her part, might lead one to suspect he was slipping her a payoff in the mysterious envelope. Or perhaps some compromising evidence that could be employed to blackmail someone.
“Aren’t you going to look inside?” Max said. At that moment, the champagne was served, accompanied by a small silver tray bearing delectable tidbits to go along with it.
Iris waited for the waiter to leave, then opened the envelope. Inside, she found a series of eight-by-ten glossy photographs of herself, in various stages of movement, as she had walked across that same terrace a month earlier. She couldn’t make out her facial expression that well because her features were purposely blurred, but it was the sensation the photographs conveyed that appealed to her, the controlled way in which she carried herself, yet looked like she was poised to break loose, prepared to run fast and far. Fortunately, her posture wasn’t half bad. “How did you do that?” she said, sitting tall in her chair as she examined the prints. “You were taping, weren’t you?”
“Yes, these are stills I extrapolated from the tape. Do you like them?”
The light of that magical time of evening had been captured beautifully, and she had never seen an image of herself quite like any of these. The only person who ever took photographs of her was Gregorio, and she always looked so stiff. Not that it was his fault, of course. She just wasn’t photogenic.
“They’re very nice,” she said. “Thank you so much for bringing them.”
“Can you see what I was talking about?” he said. “About the wild girl beneath the sophisticated lady?”
Iris did, definitely. “Yes, I suppose I can.”
“Look at the last one,” Max said.
As instructed, Iris picked out the last photograph from the dozen or so in her hands. It was printed horizontally. She cocked her head, then rotated the photograph. She found herself staring at a pair of green eyes. Her eyes.
“Remember the other thing I said? That made you so pissed off, you left without having a drink with me?” Max said.
“Not really,” Iris lied, her pulse accelerating. “You said lots of things.”
“I said your eyes didn’t match your smile. That they were sad.”
“And so?” Iris hoped he wasn’t going to start in on her again. She just wanted to drink her champagne in peace and go home.
“I just wanted you to see for yourself. That’s all.” Iris had seen for herself. That very same evening when she had gone home and stared at her face in the bathroom mirror and started to cry. And every day since, when she washed her face and put on her makeup. And any time she caught a glimpse of them in any mirror she passed. She looked down at the image of her eyes, which she held in her hand. He was right. They were sad. They hadn’t always been like that, had they? Had her dreaminess changed to sadness, like Lily’s sparkle had turned to glass?
Iris nodded, and swallowed, blinking back tears. She looked at Max.
“I’m going to tell you another little secret, Capo,” Max said, leaning close. “Then we’ll concentrate on drinking this champagne.”
Not knowing what to say, Iris nodded again.
“When you walked over to me a few minutes ago and said ‘buonasera,’ and I turned around, something important happened. Those eyes li
t up, Capo. For a split second, the sadness vanished. I wouldn’t be surprised if it actually had something to do with seeing me.”
This man, this Max Vanesi! Why did he have to come here and start messing with her? She didn’t need him to tell her what she felt. Yes, she had experienced a jolt of joy, a rush of excitement, a thrill of danger when she recognized him. She couldn’t deny it, but that didn’t mean she had to admit it. Least of all, to him.
“Let’s just say I was moved by the beauty of the evening,” she said, raising her flute.
“Let’s.” He touched his glass to hers, then downed the champagne in one thirsty gulp. “Such beauty deserves the rest of that bottle, don’t you think?”
Beatrix splashed a second round of whiskey over the ice cubes melting in their tumblers. Gregorio and some colleagues from the Policlinico had been invited to dinner in Genoa by the area manager of a Swiss pharmaceutical company, leaving Iris free to slip next door to visit her friend. She had been dying to talk to her since Max’s visit to the hotel a week earlier.
“So what happened next? Did he take a room at the hotel?” Beatrix said, offering Iris a cigarette, and lighting one for herself.
“No, of course not!” Iris said.
“Why not?” Beatrix asked.
“He suggested it, actually. I couldn’t really tell if he was serious or joking, but he said I was the manager, or the ‘Capo’ as he started calling me, and I should be able to justify a free room for someone who worked for RAI television. Which I could, of course. I just didn’t think it was right.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“No. I said we were fully booked. I didn’t want to get into some kind of moralistic discussion about my idea of right and wrong, you know? What would have been the point?”
“So you drank a whole bottle of champagne together, and then you sent him home?”
The Complete Series Page 98