The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  “What the hell do you want me to do?” Max said. It was hard to hear his tone of voice with the traffic rumbling by, but he sounded angry. Or maybe he was just shaken. Maybe after reliving the story of his parents’ death, he just couldn’t handle the fact that she was in danger.

  “I don’t know! But I need help!” What she wanted was someone to tell her what to do.

  “Aren’t there any of SOS phones around?”

  “I don’t see any. And I’m afraid to go looking for one in the dark! Besides, it would take ages for them to come and tow me.”

  “Well you can’t just sit there all night. You’re gonna have to call your husband,” Max said. “Doesn’t he always figure everything out for you?”

  “I can’t call Gregorio! I told him I was out with my girlfriend!”

  “You’ll think of something by the time he gets there.”

  Iris didn’t want to think of something. She was tired of always trying to think of something. Tears sprung to her eyes, blurring the headlights of an oncoming car that headed straight for her. For a moment, she wished it would hit her. But then it slowed to a stop. A robust figure got out of the car and hurried toward her in the dark. Maybe the man would help her. Or abduct or rob or rape her. Whatever happened, it would get her out of her current situation.

  “Sta bene, Signora?” he called. “Are you all right?”

  “Sì, sto bene!” she replied to the approaching silhouette. “Thanks anyway, Max,” she said into the phone. “You better get some sleep.” Iris did not wait for an answer, and again could not say goodbye. Using her knuckles to wipe the tears from her eyes, she turned to the man now standing in front of her. He was close enough for her to see the lines of concern in his forehead.

  “Thank you so much for stopping,” she said. “I’m not hurt, just stranded. Flat tire.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the tunnel.

  “Let me have a look there,” he said. “You must have a spare, right?”

  “Oh, yes!” Iris said, nodding her head.

  The man went back to his car, returning with a battery-operated flare. “You wave this to warn other drivers we’re here,” he said, handing the flare to her, “while I see what I can do.”

  It made her nervous to stand on the side of the road facing the oncoming traffic, but it made her more nervous thinking of that kind soul risking his life to save her. She waved the flare madly, screaming, “Slow down!” and “Look out!” and “Danger!” though she knew no one could hear her warnings.

  “You can stop now!” a voice called from behind her less than ten minutes later. “You’re all set.”

  “You mean you fixed it? Really? I can’t believe it.” Iris was weak with relief.

  “What good are forty years as a mechanic if I can’t help a lady in distress?”

  “I don’t know how to thank you!” Iris said. “Can I pay you for your trouble?”

  “Absolutely not!” the man said. “It’s my duty. I couldn’t take money for helping out the wife of Dottor Leale.”

  “You know my husband?” Iris asked, her overtaxed heart thumping in her chest, her smile freezing on her face.

  “Certamente, Signora! I’m Mario Triboni? Autofficina Triboni?” Looking for signs of recognition in her face, the man held up his hands, smiling apologetically at the fact they were too soiled with grease for a handshake. Iris kept smiling her frozen smile, nodding her head.

  “Dottor Leale brings in all your family’s cars for tune-ups. One of my best customers. I tell him once a year is fine, but he’s there like clockwork, every six months, changing the oil or the filters or whatever needs changing. We’ve never met, but you’re the only Leale without a white car. When I got a closer look at that Seicento in there, I put two and two together. You got that funny bumper sticker in English. Don’t see many of those around here.”

  “Yes,” Iris said. People often commented on the “Failure is Impossible” bumper sticker her mother had bought for her at the Susan B. Anthony luncheon they had attended together. It made her car easy to recognize, but that had never been a problem before. What if this nice man couldn’t wait to tell Gregorio about his good deed? What if it was already time for a six-month check-up and this whole episode came out, as it surely would?

  “Mind if I ask you something, Signora Leale?” The man said, looking a bit embarrassed. Maybe he was wondering what she was doing out by herself at eleven o’clock. Should she tell him it was none of his business? Or should she repeat the pizzeria story, but ask the man to not mention where he had found her? Would that satisfy his curiosity, or make him more suspicious?

  “Not at all,” she said. She’d think of something. She always did. What happened, happened. They would cross that bridge when they came to it, right Mom? Failure is impossible, right Mom?

  “I don’t really know how to say this,” the man said, headlights flashing across his face.

  Iris wished it were all over, she wished she were safe in her bed. She wished she had never taken such a risk tonight.

  “Is there a problem?” she said.

  “Well, Signora, when Dottor Leale brought in your Seicento last month, he wanted me to put on a new set of tires, but I told him it was a waste of money.” The man looked at the ground, then back up at Iris. “Those tires didn’t even have fifteen thousand kilometers on them, and when he told me you only drive from the house to that hotel where you work, I convinced him we should just rotate them.”

  Iris let her lungs expand with relief, suck in a deep breath. Asphalt and exhaust fumes had never smelled so good.

  “That was very honest of you,” she said.

  “Like I said, Dottor Leale is a good customer, and I’d never take advantage of him.”

  “Of course not.”

  “A tire can blow anytime, you see, but I feel responsible, you see?”

  “But you shouldn’t,” Iris said. How she loved this Mario! “I’ll tell you what. How about I stop by your shop tomorrow for a new spare? My husband doesn’t really need to know, does he?”

  “Signora, I would have never asked you, but would you really do that for me?”

  “Signor Mario, it will be my pleasure.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have any more,” Iris said without much conviction, her head lolling on the overstuffed cushion of Beatrix’s sofa as her neighbor poured another round from the chilled bottle of Ribolla Gialla.

  “What’s with you tonight?” Beatrix asked. “I’m not used to seeing you so down.”

  “They aren’t really calling it ‘down.’ They’re calling it ‘depressed.’”

  “Depressed? You? Says who?”

  “Says Gregorio’s colleague at the Policlinico. He took me in for an evaluation.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope. Apparently, I am suffering from work-related stress, possibly combined with hormonal imbalance, maybe even the onset of premature menopause. Add to that the unresolved issues of my infertility, my father’s sudden death, my parents’ messy divorce, my screwed-up childhood, and so on. Apparently, I have not grieved properly over the years, and now my exhaustion is exacerbating the symptoms.”

  “And Gregorio buys into that? Doesn’t he think therapy is a bunch of bunk?”

  “Yes, but this guy is a psychiatrist, not a therapist.

  “And what did you say to this so-called diagnosis?”

  “Well, since I couldn’t tell them it was bullshit, and I couldn’t tell them about Max, I told them not to worry about me. I told them I learned pretty early in life that you just have to keep smiling, and move on.”

  “So we are looking at childhood-related causes, and work-related causes, and physiological causes, is that correct?” Bea asked.

  “Correct.”

  “No mention of marital problems?”

  “The doctor asked us, but Gregorio said everything was fine in that department, so I just nodded.”

  Iris studied the wine she swirled around in her glass, then took
a sip before continuing. “Gregorio was kind enough to sum it up for the kind shrink, as if I weren’t there.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “’The patient is displaying a marked alteration in character and habits, manifesting irritability, loss of appetite, forgetfulness and insomnia. Daily activities such as cooking and cleaning previously performed with diligence and cheerfulness are being grossly neglected. Third party observations made by members of the patient’s family support this.’”

  “I can totally hear him!” Bea said.

  “And I can totally hear what Isabella and Cinzia must be saying behind my back. Oh, by the way – you didn’t get left out of the discussion, either.

  “I’m honored.”

  “Yes, Gregorio expressed a concern that I am ‘developing a dependency on alcohol and tobacco.’ And we all know who my pusher is.”

  Beatrix waved a dismissive hand in front of her face, then reached for her cigarette case, took out two cigarettes, lit them both, and passed one to Iris. “So how do these luminaries plan to fix you?” she asked.

  “The psychiatrist prescribed an antidepressant, and something to relieve my anxiety, so I can sleep.” Iris drew on the cigarette and coughed. She didn’t need Gregorio to tell her she was smoking too much. She would definitely cut down. Soon, but not now.

  “An antidepressant? What exactly?”

  “Sero-something-or-other, I don’t remember. Gregorio holds onto it for me.”

  “I’ve only been gone a month - when did all this happen?” Beatrix asked.

  “Gregorio was getting pretty insistent, so I finally let him drag me in about ten days ago. I felt so close to breaking point, I really didn’t care. All I wanted was a good night’s sleep.”

  “You’re actually taking the drugs?”

  “Gregorio made me. But I discontinued the antidepressant right away. It made me feel confused, and detached, as if I were walking around with my head inside a big glass jar.

  “What did Gregorio have to say to that?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t know. We haven’t gotten to the point where he actually straps me to the bed and watches me swallow the pills.” They both giggled. “I’ve grown quite attached to those little blue ones, though. The pharmacist down in Rapallo scored me an extra box, so now I have a secret stash in the office. I take half a pill just before I head home if I’m feeling edgy. Then Gregorio doles me out a whole one when we drink our chamomile. It’s an express train to la-la land. Safe and restful dreamless sleep.”

  “Do you really want to stop dreaming, Iris?”

  “Not if I could choose what to dream about, but I can’t. That I can only do when I’m awake. And nobody better mess with my daydreams.”

  “Iris, this is no way to solve your problems,” Beatrix said.

  “I know. There is no way. But maybe the pills will help me accept them.”

  “What you have to accept is that you have a choice, Iris. This is your life, and you have to take control over it. There is a solution, if you want it badly enough.”

  “I could never leave Gregorio, if that’s what you’re hinting at again. I can’t stand the thought of hurting him.”

  “Oh, come on Iris. You’re talking to me. Of course you don’t want to hurt Gregorio. But that’s not the crux of your problem, is it?”

  “I don’t know, I’m so confused.”

  “Just look at yourself! You’re scared shitless, aren’t you?”

  Iris dropped her eyes, and began counting the squares in the geometric design of the floor tiles. She already knew there were twelve squares per tile, one for each Capotosti; she had counted them many times before. She inhaled sharply, her breath colliding with a sigh escaping in the opposite direction.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m terrified.”

  “The only way to beat fear is to face it, not run away from it.”

  “I’m just afraid of doing the wrong thing. Of hurting people who don’t deserve it. You know those dreams I was having for a while? About the dead man? I’m pretty sure they weren’t about my father; they were about Gregorio. That’s the only way out I can imagine. Isn’t that awful?”

  “Have you fantasized about killing him, like I used to when I was married to my second husband?”

  “Of course not!”

  “As I’ve said, the world would be a better place if more husbands were thoughtful enough to die,” Beatrix tiled her head back, and blew smoke into the air. They both smoked in silence for a bit, before Iris spoke again.

  “I know I’ve told you all this before, Bea. But that night in Monterosso when Max told me about his parents’ accident, it was such an intense moment, I can’t even describe it. It just came pouring out, without warning. I thought maybe he would never refer to it again, especially after the way I ran out on him. But he sent me a long email a couple of days later saying nothing like that had ever happened before. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about it in years, except for his analyst, but for some reason, he felt the urge to open up to me. Max needs me. Gregorio doesn’t.”

  “It sounds like your friend Max needs lots of things, and it doesn’t take a shrink to realize he may pose a challenge when it comes to developing attachments. The fact that he never got married or had kids worries me a tad.”

  “He just never found the right person. Someone who could really understand him, like I do. I know what it’s like to be deprived of a family. The Leales aren’t my family, they’re Gregorio’s, and no matter how hard I try, they’ll never truly accept me.”

  “You’re a good catch for a man like Max. You certainly wouldn’t be lugging into the relationship any of that oversized baggage that makes men jittery – no in-laws, no kids, no pressure to have a baby together. You have the maturity and depth of a forty-year-old, the body of a thirty-year-old, and the spirit of a twenty-year-old. He has everything to gain: a mother, a lover, a playmate. But what about you?”

  “Max makes me feel alive, for God’s sake! I experienced more emotion in those few hours, than in the past ten years with Gregorio. I felt this incredible intimacy, like a communion of the souls or whatever you want to call it. And I’m so glad he did share those things with me. It makes it easier for me to understand him if I know where he’s coming from. I think he was hiding behind an emotional barrier, you know? It was all sex and jokes before, but now he sends me the most incredible emails. And look at this romantic message he sent just this morning.” Iris scrolled down the messages on the cell phone which never left her side. “‘I need your kind of good.’ And how about this one, from yesterday: ‘I feel empty tonight.’”

  “Iris, really?” Bea exhaled smoke through her nose, then crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “That’s romantic?”

  “To me it is. Max is expressing all these individual needs to me. It’s his way of telling me he needs me.”

  “I’m not really worried about what Max needs, I’m worried about what Iris needs. You know my rule of thumb: the farther a man is willing to travel to be with you, and the more money he spends trying to make you happy, the more you know he’s worth it. Until men make some kind of an investment, they don’t have anything to lose. That does not seem to be the case with Max, but if you’re so taken with him, he must be doing something right. And regardless what happens, it’s better than being stuffed with pills and locked up in your ivory tower with the Leales. So I say, let’s do it,” Beatrix said.

  “Do what?”

  “Find a way for you to spend more time with him.” She stood up, lit two more cigarettes, passed one to Iris, and began pacing the living room floor.

  Iris fought against the cushiness of the sofa to sit up straight, then poured more wine for both of them. Screw the Xanax.

  “And just how are we going to arrange that?” she asked.

  “Talk to Max,” Bea said. “Find out when you can spend a week together, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “A week? Now you’re the one on drugs!” Iris said.

  “I’ll reque
st a private audience with Doc Gregorio, tell him how worried I am about you. I know taking sick leave is against your religion, but we’ll get that psychiatrist to prescribe a week off work, and I’ll convince Gregorio to let me take you somewhere to unwind. I’ll tell him some bullshit story about you missing your sisters, add some stuff about your need for female companionship.”

  “That part’s not bullshit, it’s true.” Iris said, tears springing to her eyes. They came so easily these days. But at least part of the lie would be true. And if Bea was willing to provide Gregorio with a complete, alternative version to the truth, Iris might not need to lie at all. She would just have to go along with it. The hotel would be closing for the season at the end of October, so things would be calming down there. She would get the medical certificate for Gregorio’s benefit, but she wouldn’t use it; that would be dishonest. She’d take vacation time, and keep that detail to herself. This was actually starting to sound possible.

  “But if you say we’re going away together, you’ll have to hide out,” Iris said.

  “I’ll just say we’re leaving from Milan, then I’ll stay there. The peace and quiet of this bourgeois hilltop get on my nerves when you’re not around, anyway.”

  “Isn’t it too evil? Too daring? Do you think we can really pull it off?” Iris asked.

  “No, it isn’t. And yes, we can. What ails you can’t be cured with antidepressants. Believe me, I’ve been there. It’s time for action. Action, reaction. Action, reaction.”

  “What ever happened to ‘the best reaction is no reaction’?”

  “Do your homework, Iris. That one’s for when you get caught.”

  Iris shook hands with the Italian representative of Delightful Hotels and Resorts, then stepped out into the golden Roman afternoon. Sunshine bathed her side of Via Veneto, stimulating whatever receptors or glands were responsible for producing enthusiasm. She was utterly brimming with it: for the deal she had just closed, for the marvelous city she was in, for her exciting plans for the evening. She had concluded the negotiations swiftly and favorably, officially making the Dimora Baia dell’Incanto the newest member of DHR, then politely refused an invitation to dinner and a complimentary night at Rome’s flagship DHR affiliate, the posh hotel where the previously cancelled meeting had at last been held. She had plenty of time to get where she was going, and planned to enjoy a long walk through the city, trying to imagine how it would feel if she were to spend more time there in the future.