“Milan. Everything OK?”
“Great. Listen, Max is in Monterosso. I’m meeting him for dinner.”
“You’re driving to Monterosso for dinner?” Beatrix asked.
“It’s only an hour away. I’ve already decided. Can I use you again? I have to tell Gregorio something.”
“It would be so much easier for everyone if husbands would simply learn to die when they start getting in the way,” Bea sighed. “Widowhood is such a respectable state. How did it ever go out of style?”
“Bea!”
“Just kidding. Sort of. Go ahead and tell him I’m a desperate wreck, no lie there. And since you’re such a good friend, you would never leave me alone. Would you?”
“Never. Thanks, Bea. I owe you another one.”
“No, you owe it to yourself, Iris. Have fun. Drive carefully. And remember to send me a message when you get home. You know how I worry.”
Iris and her Seicento were already entering the southbound A12 motorway when she finally got through to Gregorio, who had just finished making afternoon rounds at the Policlinico.
“I’m worried about Beatrix again,” she said to her husband after each had inquired about the other’s well-being.
“What is it this time?” Gregorio’s voice tightened every so slightly; she imagined him rolling his eyes and clenching his jaw, like he always did when his patience was about to run out. He probably still bore a grudge against Beatrix for her role in helping Iris land the job at the Dimora. Or maybe he just didn’t like her. He had never come out and said so, and Iris had never asked him, but he had other ways of showing his disapproval. Although Gregorio’s less than friendly attitude toward her didn’t seem to faze Bea, it bothered Iris, who could never quite accept the fact that not all the people she cared for cared for each other. Like her mother and her father. Like Lily and Auntie Rosa.
“She’s devastated.” The image she conjured up of her friend sobbing was so realistic, tears sprang to Iris’s eyes. “Something to do with that man she’s been seeing, but I didn’t get the details. She was crying too hard to explain over the phone. She needs to talk. And since, well, I’m really her only friend here…” Iris was amazed at how convincing she sounded; she would have embellished her story further, had she not been approaching a tunnel. “Wouldn’t you say it’s my duty to be there for her?” That sounded good; Gregorio loved it when anyone talked about duty.
“I respect your sense of duty, Piccolina. That’s commendable. Though if Beatrix were such a good friend, she would think about you, too. She would remember that you have a husband, and that your primary duty is toward him.” Gregorio paused. She could picture him grinding his teeth, waiting for her to react. When she remained silent he added, “Will you be home for dinner?”
“I was thinking of taking her for a pizza. Eating always calms her down.”
“It is a work night, you know. You need your rest.”
“I won’t be late.” Iris slowed down, hoping to close the deal before she entered the tunnel and the connection was cut off.
“Promise you’ll be home by eleven,” Gregorio said.
“I promise.” Iris said, then lost him. She wondered whether he had heard her. She hated making promises when she didn’t know if she could keep them.
A soft haze floated down from the hills and hovered over the sea at sunset, smudging the burnt orange mélange that streaked the sky in front of Monterosso al Mare. There were few tourists milling about on this mild evening in early autumn, though Iris found this time of year much more suitable than summer for exploring the scenic trails that wound along the rugged coast and steep terrain, connecting each of the five villages. Not that it affected her personally; when would she have time to hike?
By the time Max joined Iris on the veranda of the restaurant, the brilliant hues had waned to pastel, then faded. He cursed the production office at RAI TV for providing him with such a lazy assistant, and told Iris she had them to thank if he was twenty minutes late, then proceeded to blame the sun for setting earlier every day. Iris smiled and said not to worry, it obviously wasn’t his fault. Of course he wouldn’t make her rush in time for sunset, then intentionally turn up late. True, she regretted not sharing the beautiful display of colors with him, in addition to losing a little of their limited time together, but apart from that, Iris wouldn’t have minded the wait at all. In fact, as she had sipped her Cinque Terre bianco and contemplated the seascape, she reflected that she ought to use her burgeoning talent for fibbing more often, even when she didn’t have anyone to meet. Lying to steal some time for herself was surely a venial offence when compared with lying to rendezvous with a lover, and what was a little guilt trip if it earned her the freedom to hop in the car and drive away to enjoy an hour or so on her own in a magical setting such as this?
Max ordered a bottle of bianco, and as they sipped, he teased her with little kisses on her neck and ears with lips made cool by the wine. Her giggling turned to laughter as he entertained her with a story of his trip in the cargo bin of the ropeway conveyor he pirated to cart him up the mountain to the terraced vineyards where they were filming footage for the segment on Sciachetrà wine. His descriptions were so colorful and vivid, he made listening to the episode as much fun as if she had experienced it personally with him.
Part of her couldn’t resist comparing the two men, while part of her felt it was unfair, but she couldn’t help thinking that if she had remained home tonight, at this hour Gregorio would be droning on about the day’s events at the Policlinico. Of course his work at the hospital was indisputably more important than Max’s, and of course the events in the operating room infinitely more significant than grapes growing on a hillside. But that realization was of little consolation to Iris all those evenings as she sat across from Gregorio at the dinner table, watching him drink his way through his nightly liter of still mineral water at room temperature, hoping he wouldn’t notice her pouring herself a second glass of wine.
This evening the wine flowed as Max polished off Iris’s share of the house’s special seafood stew cooked according to an ancient recipe in a terracotta amphora. When the bottle was empty and Max’s tummy full, he rose from the table, took Iris by the hand, and led her to his accommodations above the restaurant. Iris glanced at her watch as Max pulled his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it, and when he grunted and collapsed on her a few minutes later, she was actually relieved that he had been so quick, and rather flattered to think how much he must have been desiring her. There wasn’t really time for anything else, but that was fine with her, other things were more important to her than the sex and the wine and the food. She quickly calculated how much time she had left, and was happy to realize she could afford another ten minutes before she would have to wash up and be on her way. A few cuddles and sweet words would keep her company during the drive home, and help her fall asleep once she got there.
“Summer’s finally over,” Max said. He stretched out on his back, crossed his arms behind his head.
“Yes, I guess so,” Iris said.
“Summers are hard as hell for me. That’s why I always travel.”
“Rome must be pretty unbearable in the summer,” she said, wondering why they were talking about the changing seasons, when there were so many more important things to say. She wanted to talk about how she never stopped thinking about him. She wanted to ask how they might find a way to spend more time together, and whether they could try planning things in advance once in a while. But there was no time to get into that now; she’d have to write him an email. She had always been better at writing than talking, anyway, and Max had once told her he kept all her emails, which she thought as romantic as Bea thought worrying.
“Rome’s not the problem,” he said. “Summer is just so fucking depressing.”
“But it’s the best time of year,” Iris said. “Everyone loves summer.”
“Not everyone has been through what I have,” Max said, his eyes fixed on the ceili
ng.
“What do you mean?” Iris said, pulling herself up to a sitting position. She should start easing her way out of bed, even though she did not like the idea of leaving Max lying there, staring at the ceiling, thinking depressing thoughts.
Max drew his knees to his chest and turned on his side, nestling his head in Iris’s naked lap. She began stroking his hair, and said, “Is it something you want to talk about?” Max sighed, his breath moist and warm on her thighs, rekindling her arousal. She wished she could hold his head there forever.
“I was ten,” he began, his voice as spindly as he must have been at that age. “Ten fuckin’ years old, cazzo. You know what it’s like to be a ten-year-old kid on the last day of school?”
“I sure do,” she said, recalling how her hopes would soar like a kite into a cloudless sky at the beginning of each new summer.
“I couldn’t wait to get out of that fucking prison,” Max said, the vibration of his low voice tickling the tender skin of her inner thighs. “I kept looking at that clock, waiting for that fucking bell to ring. It was right next to the cross, I remember, because whenever that bitch of a teacher yelled at me for watching the clock, I told her I was praying.”
Iris slid a bit lower in the bed, her knees turning outward, her legs falling slightly open. She remembered how she used to look at the crucifix and the clock at the same time, too, and pray for the ticking to slow down or speed up, depending on how much she liked the class. She wished time would stop altogether now.
“My family always rented this place in Gaeta for the summer. It was probably a shithole, but I didn’t care where I slept. All that mattered was being by the sea.”
“It must be great for a kid to spend summers by the sea,” Iris said. All she had ever longed for every summer was to swim in a clean, cool lake, but all she ever got was that stinking mud hole. Those memories should make Max thankful, not depressed.
“I slept in a sleeping bag sometimes, out on the balcony by the kitchen,” Max said. “I loved doing that.”
“I loved sleeping bags, too!” Though she and Max had drastically different backgrounds, the more she learned about him, the more she realized how much they had in common. She adored the sense of adventure combined with coziness she had felt when zipping herself into one of those Army green sleeping bags, even if it was full of the musty smells and crusty memories of other bodies, even if it was only to sleep in a tent her father pitched in the backyard. She had longed for a sleeping bag of her own, one in which none of her brothers had slept. Maybe she should buy herself one now, and one for Max, too. Maybe they could camp out one night under the stars.
“It was always too hot to go inside the sleeping bag right away, so I stretched out on top of it. I’d try to stay awake as long as I could, listening to my parents talking and playing cards with my aunt and uncle at the kitchen table,” he said.
Iris could imagine curious little Max, trying to hear what the adults were talking about. It reminded her of when she would stay at Auntie Rosa’s, sitting quietly on a chair in the corner so the adults wouldn’t notice her listening in on their conversations.
“The gulls always woke me up real early, but I liked just lying there thinking about what I would do that day, even though it was the same old shit over and over again, swimming and fishing, fishing and swimming. Today I’d rather shoot myself in the balls, but back then I could never get enough of it. My dad used to take me out in this little blue and white rowboat that came with the place. That thing had so many coats of paint on it, it always got all gooey in the sun, you know? It always smelled like paint and cat piss.”
Iris did not say anything, but wondered where Max was going with this, and how long it would take him to get there. It was getting late, but she sensed she should not rush him. A mixture of growing impatience and unfulfilled desire made her legs twitch; she loved the way his head felt in her lap, she loved running her fingers through his thick hair.
“That feels great,” he sighed to her thighs. After a moment of silence, he said, “I lost it for a minute. What was I saying? Before Gaeta?”
“You were telling me how you were waiting for school to get out.”
“Oh, yeah. I couldn’t stop looking at the goddamn clock on the wall. When the principal opened the door and called the teacher out into the hallway, I thought for sure they were gonna let us out a little early. As soon as she left, everyone started horsing around, then the teacher leaned in, and called me out to the hall. I saw my uncle, Zio Luigi, out there, and I was thinking, all right, fantastic, he came to spring me. I stuck my tongue out at all the other suckers that were still sitting there, and ran out to the hall.”
Max fell silent again. This was turning out to be a lot more complicated than a complaint about the stifling summer climate in Rome. “And then what?” she prompted him.
“Then Zio Luigi put his hand on my shoulder, and told me some shit about how I would have to be a man now. I looked at my teacher and at the principal, trying to figure out what the fuck he meant, but they just stared at me.” Max paused.
“So did he get you out early?” she asked, hoping to move things along.
“He got me out early, all right. But there was no fucking vacation that year, or any other year after that.” Iris felt a tremor pass through Max’s body. “All because of some fucking asshole in a truck.”
“What do you mean? What happened?” She stiffened, fearing what was to come.
“The guy ran a red light. His truck sliced my old man’s car in half. Both my parents were killed on the spot. Fuck them!” Another tremor shook Max’s balled-up body, as he began sobbing.
“Oh, my poor Max! I’m so sorry.” She rocked his head in her lap; she felt his tears flow and mingle with the sticky remnants of his desire, with the warm dampness of her own. Pain and loss were one, joined by a common need for love. Only love could heal Max, and Iris had so much of it to give; she felt it flow from her as she held him close, weeping with him and for him, longing to draw the little orphaned boy into the shelter of her womb. She yearned to tell him she would never leave him, that she would always be there for him. She would, if he wanted her to be. Only not now. Now she had to go.
After a few moments she tried to speak. “Max, I …” Her throat was too tight with emotion for the words to pass. She couldn’t stay, but neither could she go. A few minutes more. Just a few.
The sobs gradually subsided and Max rolled onto his back again, returning his eyes to the ceiling. “You’re gonna go,” he said.
“I have no choice.”
“Right.”
How could he think she would leave if she didn’t have to? How could he think she had a choice? She trembled with sadness and anger and frustration as she prepared to go.
“Ti voglio bene,” she said, because she needed to say something, anything but goodbye. Max was staring at the ceiling when she kissed him on the forehead before hurrying to her car.
“Merda!” Iris gripped the shimmying steering wheel, using all the strength in her arms to guide the wobbling Seicento across the bridge which spanned the hills and valleys of the coastal highway. The bright lights of passing vehicles approached like missiles from behind, exploding in her rearview mirror, blinding her as she struggled to stay in control of her car. She managed to activate her flashers as she slowed down, and the car finally came to a lopsided stop just inside a two-lane tunnel with no emergency lane.
She knew she couldn’t stay in the car, but was terrified to get out. Cars and trucks swerved to avoid hitting her, blaring their horns, flashing their lights, shaking her little Seicento as they roared passed her. Her heart raced, but she knew she must calm down if she wanted to get out of there alive. She pulled the lever to pop open the rear hatch, grabbed her purse, waited for a break in the traffic, then dashed out into the road and to the back of her car, where her fears were confirmed: her left rear tire was blown to shreds, the ribbons of rubber hanging limply from the wheel like overcooked fettuccine.
Once she reached the relative safety of the open highway, Iris sat down on the guardrail, her hands shaking as she made the sign of the cross. The story of Max’s parents’ death was fresh in her mind, and she knew her flat tire could have ended in tragedy. Not that she was safe yet, far from it.
She had just passed Sestri Levante, meaning she was still about twenty kilometers from home, where she had promised to return by eleven. That only gave her fifteen minutes. She reviewed her options. She could call Gregorio, who would be in bed reading by now, awaiting her return. She would have to explain why Bea wasn’t with her, and why they had gone so far to eat a pizza when there were a dozen pizzerias right in Rapallo. Or maybe she wouldn’t explain anything. Maybe this was a sign that she should stop lying and start telling the truth. Or maybe not. Decisions like this were not made when one was stranded on the highway. Max was the one she should call for help. He traveled all over the place, and was used to all kinds of situations; he’d know what to do.
“Pronto?” Iris could barely hear his voice over the roar of the highway. She hoped he hadn’t been sleeping. Or worse, crying.
“It’s me, Max. I’m in trouble. I have a flat tire and my car is stranded in the tunnel!” Iris shouted over the noise.
“Merda!” Max said.
“That’s what I said! I don’t know what to do. I’m scared, and it’s late!”
“You shouldn’t have left,” Max said.
“But Max, you know I couldn’t stay!” As if she didn't already feel wretched enough.
The Complete Series Page 109