Woman Last Seen in Her Thirties: A Novel

by Camille Pagán

  I would have to have a word with Barbara of Bridgewater Travel. She had been right: I was enjoying traveling on my own. I had already been living alone for the better part of a year, but vacationing by myself was something else entirely. It was freeing to decide what I wanted to see, when I wanted to eat, and if I had simply had enough of any given outing or experience without asking for another person’s input.

  But Barbara had failed to inform me that there would be loved-up couples at every turn, reminding me that my vacation was far from the romantic one I had originally planned.

  The food tour I had signed up for was no exception. As we introduced ourselves at the tree-canopied public park where we were meeting, I discovered there were five pairs—and once again, markedly solo me. As I sat on the end of a park bench, waiting for our tour to officially commence, I felt like a teen who had been waiting too long to be asked to dance.

  The tour guide, Benito, was a genial Italian man in his forties. He had beautiful black curls and wore a crisp blue shirt that fit impeccably, even at his stomach, which was the only part of his body that wasn’t trim. He had grown up in Rome but attended college in New York, he told us in melodically accented English before turning to me and winking.

  A wink? I was aghast. A younger man, and an attractive one at that, just winked at me? Maybe a wink didn’t mean the same thing in Italian. I ordered myself to focus on food.

  Testaccio, said Benito as we began to walk, had been a bustling trade center for meat, olive oil, and other foods for centuries. It was the culinary epicenter of the city, and since Rome was nothing if not its food, “some, myself included, would say this neighborhood is the authentic heart of Rome,” he told us.

  “This is Mount Testaccio,” said Benito as we approached a hill. “Not much of a mountain, but surely a miracle: it is built on clay pots that held olive oil centuries ago.”

  As we drew closer, I saw that the hill’s shrubs and greenery grew on thin dirt that was atop stacks of broken pieces of clay. “Olive oil makes anything porous rancid after a while, so the citizens could not reuse their amphorae, or clay jars. Instead, they were discarded here,” said Benito, and if I wasn’t mistaken, he was smiling right at me. “But as you can see, this garbage heap is not haphazard at all. The jars were arranged carefully and topped with a limestone mix that keeps them from crumbling. From the wreckage, a landmark was born.”

  I smiled back at Benito. I was a heap of wreckage myself. What did I have to lose by engaging in a little harmless flirting, if that was indeed what was happening?

  Our first stop on the tour was a salumeria where cured meat, cheese, olive oil, and truffle products were sold. “If you have ever had truffle salt or truffle oil, what you’ve had was not the fungi at all, but an organic compound with an aroma similar to the truffle. This,” said Benito with pride, passing out thin crackers topped with a fluffy white cheese that contained small gray bits, “is what truffle really tastes like.”

  I actually moaned as the cheese melted on my tongue. Benito laughed and sidled up to me. “Good, good! That is the intended reaction,” he said. Then he lowered his voice. “I always hope for one true food lover on each tour, but I am rarely so lucky as I am today.”

  The playful gleam in his eye said he was definitely flirting, but it had been so long since anyone had flirted with me that I wasn’t sure what to do about that. Italian men were legendary for their womanizing ways, I reminded myself, even as my cheeks reddened because no amount of rationalizing could dull the pleasure of being noticed.

  After the truffles, Benito served us several cuts of meat that the owner of the salumeria had chosen for us: prosciutto, coppa, and a savory rustic sausage called cacciatorini. “Remember, we have several more stops, so go slow and loosen your belts,” Benito cautioned.

  Our pack headed to the Mercato Testaccio, a bustling food market composed of stalls beneath a metal-framed structure. The market itself was only a few years old, but many of the families manning the stalls were fourth-, fifth-, and even sixth-generation carryovers from the previous market that had once stood in the same place. There, we visited a cheesemonger who rose at three each morning to make mozzarella from scratch, and snacked on bruschetta, whose oil-drizzled tomatoes, basil, and crusty bread had all come from the vendors. Then we washed it down with small glasses of garnet-hued Montepulciano.

  Yes, absolutely, please, thank you, I said to every single thing that was offered to me, including the wine, even though I was growing uncomfortably full. Each sip and bite seemed to signify that for as much as Adam had taken from me, he had not managed to sap all the pleasure from my life.

  After the market, we moved on to a trattoria that specialized in classic Roman fritti: fried artichokes, fried peppers and eggplant, and my favorite, fried squash blossoms. Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly eat another thing, Benito told us it was time for a late lunch. We headed to a restaurant that had been built into the side of Mount Testaccio. The aerated clay provided its own heating and cooling system, which kept the restaurant temperate all year round, Benito said.

  We were seated at a long table at the rear of the restaurant, near a glass wall that showcased the cracked clay mountainside that made up the back of the building. “This is cacio e pepe,” said Benito as a waiter placed before us platters of pale yellow pasta tubes speckled with black pepper. “Take a bite,” he instructed after we had served ourselves. “What do you think the sauce is made of?” He smiled devilishly, and I felt my lips turn upward, too.

  “Eggs?” asked one-half of a newlywed couple, and Benito shook his head.

  “A bit of cream?” ventured a young British woman.

  “That’s precisely what it tastes like, but true cacio e pepe is made only with pecorino cheese and black pepper,” he said, catching my eye. “The chef adds a bit of the water used to boil the pasta to mix it just before it’s served, and that gives it its creamy texture.”

  Benito paired our pasta with a local Italian wine called cesanese, which he described as having hints of mulberry, juniper, and a forest floor. To me, it tasted like being an ocean away from my troubles. When he offered seconds, I held out my glass.

  “Have you enjoyed yourself?” asked Benito. We had just wrapped up our last stop, for espresso at a bustling café, and the group had begun to scatter.

  I put my hand on my stomach, which was threatening to break the zipper of my pants. “Maybe a bit too much.”

  Benito gave me a wide, almost wolfish grin. “Then I have done my job. I assume you won’t want to eat tonight, but—” He slipped his hand into the front pocket of his shirt and retrieved a business card, which he handed to me. “If you are interested in joining me for a cocktail or a glass of wine, I would be pleased to show you more of Rome.”

  This sent a shiver of satisfaction through me. An attractive, interesting man had not only seen me, he had decided he wanted to see more. Of course, I had been alive long enough to know that his interest in me made him even more appealing than he would have been otherwise. But it didn’t matter. Being attracted to someone other than Adam felt like a revelation. Maybe it was not the autumn of my romantic life. Maybe there was some spring left in me after all.

  But what if he was crawling with crabs, or a psychopath—or married? My eyes traveled from his face to his left hand. I hadn’t noticed a wedding ring, but I had heard that many Europeans didn’t wear them.

  My visual inquiry did not escape Benito. “I am not married,” he said pleasantly. “I am a man who would be happy for the company of a beautiful woman and fellow food lover. But”—he bowed his head slightly, which made me laugh—“there is no pressure. Only an offer.”

  I felt a small flutter. Maybe Benito could be a new adventure on my Roman vacation. After all, what did I have left to lose?

  Nothing. Not a damn thing.

  “Yes,” I said to Benito, whose face lit up at my response. “I would like to have a drink with you.” Possibly two, I thought as I accepted his outstretch
ed arm. A date with Benito sounded like just the thing to help me forget about Adam—and find out if the signs of life stirring within me meant I was ready to make contact.

  ELEVEN

  “Buongiorno, tesora mia!” sang a man’s voice.

  I’m still dreaming, I thought as a man’s voice sang through the air. I threw my arm over my eyes to block the light. Just ten more minutes of sleep. Five, even. Three might almost be enough.

  A shadow settled over my body, and I cracked my eyes open just enough to realize Benito was standing over me.

  “Mary and Joseph!” I exclaimed. This was not a dream. I was awake, wretchedly awake, and I had just woken up in a strange man’s bed.

  “Hello again. Would you like un cappuccino?” said Benito, smiling down at me with big white teeth. He was wearing an undershirt, linen pants, and a gold watch. “I would be happy to make you one.”

  “Um,” I mumbled, pulling the sheet to my chest as I attempted to sit up. It was then that I realized that I wasn’t actually naked. But . . . I never wore a bra to bed, even though this was said to be the only way to avoid cleavage wrinkles, of which I had plenty. Had Benito put it back on me in an attempt to make me feel less exposed? The thought of him strapping my boulder holder back on my unconscious body made me flush with confusion and shame. What on earth had I been thinking? Who cared if my husband had left me? I was still married, if only by law. And I didn’t know Benito from—well, from Adam.

  But I had gotten here on purpose, hadn’t I? I couldn’t actually remember. I knew Benito and I had sat at an outdoor patio on the edge of Testaccio and sipped negronis (delicious at the time; now the thought of the bitter drink made me want to regurgitate the previous day’s food tour all over Benito’s bed—this was Benito’s bed, wasn’t it?) as I made small talk and he made eyes at me.

  When the sun slipped beneath the horizon, it had become quite chilly. We had still been too full to eat; I did remember that. To warm up, Benito and I had sipped sambuca and then walked for a while—where, I couldn’t say, as it had looked an awful lot like everywhere else I had been. I recalled him telling me about how he had started the food-tour company, and about his daughter, who lived with her mother, and . . . I had no idea what else we had talked about. At some point we had hopped into a taxi to go to a wine bar in Aventino, where he lived; I remembered him leaning across the seat to kiss me, and thinking that he was a good kisser.

  Everything after the taxi was a blank.

  My stomach turned again as I realized I couldn’t recall what had happened during my first sexual encounter with someone other than Adam in thirty-two years. “Bathroom?” I asked Benito, who was still standing beside the bed.

  “Right over here, past the kitchen, on the left,” he said agreeably, pointing through the door of the small bedroom.

  I glanced around and saw that my clothes were folded on a chair in the corner. Either the night had not been too raucous, or Benito was a neatnik. Both thoughts managed to be mildly comforting.

  “I will be in the kitchen,” said Benito before closing the door behind himself.

  I tossed on my clothes and ran past him into the bathroom. As I sat on the tiny toilet (why were European bathrooms designed for elves?), taking deep breaths and willing myself not to vomit, I felt as low as I ever had, which was saying a lot. I had cheated on my husband, even if he wouldn’t be my husband for long, and I hadn’t even been fully conscious to enjoy it.

  In the mirror, I examined myself for bruises, though I doubted Benito had hurt me. What exactly had happened? The truth would probably be only seventy percent as awful as whatever I could imagine. But how could I find out? Ask my apparent Italian lover for a detailed play-by-play of the night before and pray he told me the truth?

  When I reemerged, Benito was standing at his kitchen counter. He was dressed in a button-down and a pair of crisp slacks.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing me a small white mug. “I think you might want this.”

  What I wanted was a tranquilizer to slip into my cappuccino. “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  Benito sat at the small round table in his kitchen, drinking coffee, and I decided to join him. The table was in front of a large set of windows overlooking a public square of some sort; beyond that was the crest of a steep hill, and farther still, what looked to be much of Rome. “About last night,” I began.

  Benito smiled. Then his smile became a grin, which quickly turned into a chuckle.

  So I had thoroughly humiliated myself. “What?” I asked crossly. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it wasn’t polite to laugh at someone you slept with?”

  Benito stopped laughing. “I slept on the sofa,” he said solemnly.

  “I meant in the biblical sense.” It occurred to me that he might not be familiar with the expression. “Someone you had sex with,” I clarified.

  He continued to look at me quizzically.

  “Intercourse,” I said with exasperation, hoping that I would not have to resort to hand gestures to bridge what was turning out to be a sizable language gap. “Or, I don’t know. Something like that.”

  Benito began to laugh again, and I was tempted to slap the table like I sometimes used to when Zoe and Jack wouldn’t stop fooling around. “Maggie,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes, “we did not have relations of any sort.”

  I could have fainted with relief. “Really?”

  Benito smiled again, this time gently, and I realized he wasn’t being unkind. “Of course, I wish that were not the case, but it is. You do not remember?”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then I am now very glad we did not go any further. I should have known to take you home after our cocktails, but you said you were so happy to not be thinking of this Alan—”

  “Adam,” I corrected. My cheeks were on fire.

  “That’s right,” Benito said, nodding. “Anyway, you seemed happy, and we were having a nice time. In the taxi . . .” Now it was his turn to flush. “What can I say? I am attracted to you, Maggie. I was happy when you kissed me.”

  I kissed him? At this point it was splitting hairs to figure out who had made the first move, but this still astonished me. “Thank you,” I said, managing a small smile. “I’m attracted to you, too, Benito. But clearly I’m a mess. At another point in life, maybe this would have worked out differently.” I sighed. “If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind telling me the rest of what happened last night? I don’t remember much beyond getting out of the taxi.”

  “We ordered a bottle of wine at the wine bar. We split it, but—” He held both hands palms up. “You seemed fine. I am sorry I did not realize that wasn’t the case.”

  I had to know the rest, however mortifying. “Then what?”

  Benito took a sip of his coffee. “You asked to see my apartment. I agreed.” His face grew serious. “When we got here, you became quiet. I told you I would take you home, but you asked to use my phone first.”

  I looked at him, appalled. “I did what?”

  “You wanted to call Al—Adam.”

  “But you didn’t let me, right?”

  “Let you!” Benito laughed again. “You insisted! I could not have stopped you if I had thrown my phone out the window.”

  I ran some quick math in my head. It had probably been ten or so at night in Italy when I had called, which meant it had been five in the morning in Chicago. “He didn’t pick up, right?”

  “He picked up,” said Benito cheerfully.

  My gut was in knots. “Oh my word.”

  His eyes met mine, and only then did I realize they were such a dark blue that they were almost navy. “You were taking off your clothes as you talked to him. You told him you were about to make love to a handsome Italian man.” Benito gave me another grin. “You can imagine that I was pleased to hear myself described in such a way. I did not hear the rest, because you disappeared into the bathroom. You were not gone long.”

  I put my head on the tabl
e. What else had I said? It was true that I had wanted Adam to feel terrible for hurting me the way he had. But I didn’t want to utterly humiliate myself in the process. Now Adam probably knew what I was only beginning to realize: the bottom of my life had just given out, and I was now in free fall to somewhere even darker and more despairing.

  “Do not worry, Maggie,” said Benito, who hadn’t gathered that my torment no longer had anything to do with whether he and I had played naked Twister. He touched the top of my head lightly. “My mother raised me to fear God and respect women. I could not convince you to put your shirt back on, but you accepted tea and toast. Then I put you to bed.”

  I finished my coffee and thanked Benito for his kindness. He flagged down a taxi for me and kissed me goodbye on both cheeks, and we parted ways. How strange to have shared such a moment with a person I would never see again, I thought on the ride back. How fortunate that said person had been Benito and not a different man, who might have taken advantage of my idiocy. How humiliating that I had drunkenly called my husband after knowing he truly did not want to be my husband anymore.

  Even more than a shower, I needed a disinfectant for my soul. When I approached Piazza Navona, I asked the taxi driver to drop me in front of a church I had walked past several times. It was open to the public all day, and I ducked inside.

  While I suspected there might be a higher power at play in the universe, religion itself held no lure; I would never understand how so many vastly different faiths could claim to have a patent on the afterlife. But after taking a seat on one of the pews, I bowed my head. My limited understanding of Catholicism did not keep me from feeling the presence of every weeping wife who had ever knelt before God beneath the opulently imagined heavens on the church’s ceiling. I didn’t yet know how, but just as many a woman before me had managed to, I would have to pull myself out of this.