“Did you tell him you need him to come home?”
“No,” Iris said, taking another sip of wine. “It would only make him feel bad. He can’t just drop everything and leave because of me.”
“He can’t?”
“Of course not. He’s on a tight schedule, and everything’s all set up weeks in advance when he films those segments.” It was true; Iris had seen it for herself, she had even helped make the arrangements.
“So what would you like him to do?”
“Well, there are ways of being close to someone without being physically in the same place. You can talk to them about their feelings on the phone, for example. You can console them. But I know that’s not fair of me, either.”
“What’s not fair?”
“Expecting Max to get over his past as if it were a case of chicken pox. I have to keep reminding myself how traumatized he was by his parents’ death. He simply wouldn’t be able to cope with seeing me all weepy and sad, but it’s not because he doesn’t care about me. It’s because witnessing my grief would trigger a whole series of mechanisms that would throw him completely off balance.”
“So he keeps his balance by working, leaving you to deal with your mourning all alone?” Bea leaned toward Iris and stabbed a cube of mortadella with a toothpick.
“I can handle it; Max can’t,” Iris said, her voice strong with resolve as she ground her cigarette butt into the ashtray. “Now that we’ve talked it over, I realize it’s for the best he couldn’t come back today. This will give me a little more time to get myself together. I’ve been such a downer.”
“Whoa! Hold on. Let me get this straight. You’re expected to tend to all his needs, put up with him when he’s depressed, change your plans - not to mention your entire life - to suit his, but then you have to play the smiling muse and nursemaid even when you have shit of your own to deal with?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it that way.”
“What other way would you put it? Honestly, Iris, what are you, some kind of Florence Nightingale? Are you on a humanitarian mission to save the weak and troubled? Are you hoping to reap your rewards in another life? Because I’ll be damned if you are going to see any in this one, unless you learn how to demand what you are entitled to. Entitlement. That’s the keyword. Learn it.”
Either Iris wasn’t able to explain herself, or Bea wasn’t able to understand. And she was irritated by her friend’s gratuitous advice, the same way she had been irritated when Gregorio made her ask for Sundays off and a week’s vacation before she had even started her new job; and when Max pestered her to demand more money from Gregorio, from Signora Mangiagallo, and even from the people at RAI. She didn’t want to demand anything from anyone. And all she wanted from Bea now was a little support – if she wanted to give it.
“Maybe you could go easy on me tonight?” she said.
“I’m serious, Iris.”
“I know you are. I appreciate your concern. But can we give it a rest for now? Please?”
“So when will Max be home?”
“As soon as he can,” Iris said. “He promised. Enough about me, though. Tell me what kind of trouble you’ve been getting yourself into lately.”
As the women sipped and talked, a lopsided moon rose over the promontory of Portofino, and began inching its way up and across the sky. Gobba a levante, luna calante, gobba a ponente, luna crescente. Iris always resorted to the rhyme to figure out whether the moon was waning or waxing, coming or going. She wished there were a rhyme that could help her figure that out about herself.
A procession of small fishing boats was setting off from Camogli, complacently allowing the lead gozzo to tow them out to sea, the lights of their lampare blinking as the boats rocked to and fro on the waves. Beatrix took Iris up on her suggestion and began chatting about a revelation that had come to her during a recent session with her shrink, but Iris was far away, lost in thoughts of her own, scrutinizing the darkening horizon in search of something she thought might be out there, but couldn’t quite see.
“Ciao, Capo! Sono arrivato!”
Iris was squatted over the plants in her terrace when Max’s voice broke the sleepy afternoon silence. The unexpected intrusion knocked her off balance and straight into the arms of a prickly pear plant.
“Yikes!” she squealed, as the thorns stabbed her in the butt. The terrace had seemed so spacious when she signed the one-year lease for the apartment, and indeed there was plenty of room for the sage and basil and rosemary plants, as well as for the potted lilac bush and lemon tree, which she hoped to plant in the garden of a permanent home one day soon. It was the growing colony of cacti for which Max had a passion that made her feel cramped; no matter how cautiously she moved about, she was always getting jabbed and pricked and poked at.
“Max!” she cried, her heart lunging as she rushed to greet him, wiping the sweat from her brow with the hem of her T-shirt. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
The loneliness and anxiety that had plagued her during their separation vanished at the sight of Max standing there in the hallway, doused in the golden afternoon sun streaming through the windows, his rumpled clothes and mocha skin lending him the intriguing aspect of an adventurous traveler hailing from some exotic corner of the globe. Grinning that smile she had missed so much, he dipped a shoulder to lower his dusty backpack to the floor. He looked every bit as happy to see her as she was to see him, and the moment she felt his arms around her, all those nasty little doubts that had been nagging her in his absence flew right out the open door.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming today?” she said.
“I thought you liked surprises,” Max said.
“Of course I do!” Iris said. Of course she did. But she also liked to be physically and psychologically prepared for things. She would have taken a shower, for example, and dressed in a cute outfit, and done something with her hair. She would have put on a little make-up, and some nail polish. All those little touches that Max liked. But none of those things were really important; the important thing was that Max was home.
Iris nuzzled her face in his chest, blinking back tears of emotion, drinking in his familiar scent. “I missed you so much!”
“I missed you too, Capo,” Max said, taking her chin in his hand and tilting her mouth to his. The warmth of his full, moist lips and the slightly sour taste of his tongue made the blood rush to her head and her body throb with desire. When he released her and they stood facing each other, she knew he felt the same way. They needed each other, and they would satisfy each other, but first they had a lot of catching up to do.
“Permesso?” A grating female voice announced a pair of skittish brown eyes, an aquiline nose and a crooked mouth peeking through the door Max had left ajar. Iris’s lips twitched, determined to hold her smile in place, as she tilted her head inquisitively at Max.
“Vieni avanti, Silli!” Max said. “Come on in, don’t be shy.” Shy was not the first word Iris would have used to describe the compact brunette who bounced into her living room within a nanosecond of the invitation. “Silli, this is Iris,” Max said.
“Silly?” Iris said.
“Well, it’s really Silvana,” Max said. Silli’s just a nickname I gave her.”
Iris was used to Max bringing unexpected guests over for dinner, or for the weekend, or for an impromptu party. One day it was wrap day, another day it was a birthday, another day it was have fun with your friends day. Today was different, though. Today she wanted Max to herself. She wondered who the woman was (in addition to being Silli) and why and when Max would give her a nickname. But not wanting to embarrass Max or his friend with such blunt questions, she extended her hand politely, and said, “Piacere.”
Tolerant, or even sympathetic, was perhaps a word Iris could use to describe the smile on the face of the woman Max called Silli as she shook her hand, but certainly not friendly. Quickly dropping Iris’s hand (noticing the potting soil under her nails, Iris couldn’t bla
me her), the woman’s attention was directed to her surroundings. Iris followed the shifty eyes as they inspected the apartment, making her feel self-conscious about the mismatched pieces of furniture that had settled in like homeless relatives. Iris wondered why she felt the impulse to explain to this stranger that at one time she had owned finer furniture, and that she certainly would again in the future, once she and Max moved to a permanent place of their own.
The afternoon was hot and still, and the air in the sun-filled room was quickly overpowered by Max’s body odor and the woman’s musky perfume. Iris felt sticky, and her butt throbbed from its encounter with the cactus.
“How can you stand it like this?” Max asked, as he went around the room, closing all the windows, and switching on the air conditioning full blast. Iris detested air conditioning, but unfortunately, it had come with the apartment. The thin layer of perspiration she had worked up on the terrace instantly froze on her skin; she sneezed.
“Cazzo, that’s a Vanesi, isn’t it?” the woman said, pointing the manicured index finger of an arm bejeweled with bangles to the giant unframed canvas hanging on the wall behind the sofa. That this nicknamed visitor was no stranger to Massimiliano Vanesi was obvious, but that she could recognize Max’s pathos in a painting made her wonder even more about their connection.
“Colpevole!” Max laughed. “I plead guilty, it’s mine.”
Iris averted her eyes from the painting; the dark forms lurking beneath the wild spattering of acrylic angst reminded her of Dolores’s last paintings, and filled her with a sense of doom. Her only consolation was that it would be gone before long, as soon as Max fell prey to another bout of depression, and produced a new masterpiece to hang in its place.
“Do you have more canvases here?” Silvana whatever-her-last-name-was asked Max, as if nothing in the world could interest her more. Perhaps that explained her presence here; maybe Max had convinced her to buy or barter a painting; maybe she owned a gallery.
“Sure. If you’re a good girl, I’ll show them to you later. There are plenty down in the storage room.”
The mention of the storage room made Iris cringe; every time she went there to look for something, she was irked by the way Max had buried her belongings under all the paraphernalia he had brought from Rome and dumped there: defunct movie equipment he couldn’t bear to part with; musty camping gear from the summer after high school when he had hitchhiked to Morocco; the fishing tackle he still hadn’t used; the bicycle he had ridden once down to Camogli, but couldn’t pedal back up the hill; and, to top of the tottering piles of crap, the prolific manifestations of his most recently discovered artistic talent.
Though Iris was disturbed by his work, painting seemed to be an effective form of therapy for Max during his tumultuous mood swings, so she had done what she could to encourage him. She had bought him an easel, and a plastic sheet to cover the terracotta tiles on the terrace where he liked to paint. But when inspiration grabbed Max, it did not waste time on preparations; he grabbed his tubes of paint and brushes, and began his unrestrained splashing and smearing. When Iris arrived with the plastic sheet in hand, Max waved her away, saying that any interruption would spoil the spontaneity of the creative process, that it would be like trying to put on a condom in the middle of an orgasm. She wondered if she would be able to explain that to the landlord when it came time to move out.
“OK, later it is, but you have to promise!” Silvana said to Max, as she plopped down on the sofa. Iris wondered what Max intended by “later,” and what the woman was planning to do at her house between now and then besides act like she owned the place.
“Capo, I know you have lots to tell me,” Max said, sitting down next to Silvana. “But first you gotta hear about this amazing coincidence!” It was as if he could read her mind, and by now, she knew he actually could, to some extent. She hated to be cynical, but she had noticed that Max was very good at knowing how and when to dole out the information, the attention, the praise, and the criticism he gave her, in order to lead her where he wanted her to go.
“Aren’t you curious?” Max said.
“About what?” Iris said, distracted by her reflections.
“About the coincidence I was telling you about.”
“Yes, sure. The amazing coincidence. Go on.”
Max grinned. “I was getting my visitor’s badge at the Mediaset reception area, and I heard this voice calling my name. A voice I hadn’t heard in ages, but recognized instantly!”
“This voice, let me guess, belonged to, um … ” Iris searched for a way to avoid pronouncing her name without being rude, but couldn’t. “Silvana?” she said, immediately regretting it, as she perceived the status of the woman on her sofa shift ever so slightly, but irrevocably, from that of stranger to acquaintance.
“How did you know?” Max said, slapping his knee.
“Female intuition?” Iris smiled.
“Anyway, Silvana works right there, at Mediaset. How fuckin’ amazing is that? She introduced me around to a few people after my meeting. While we were having lunch, she told me she just bought an apartment in San Rocco!”
“Oh, you had lunch? How nice.” He had time for lunch, but not time to call her and tell her he was coming home. Or that he would be bringing a visitor.
“Did you hear what I said? An apartment in San Rocco! You can walk there from here!” Max chuckled as he looked from Iris, to Silvana, to Iris again.
“How convenient,” Iris said, not sure why or for whom it might prove convenient, but afraid to find out.
“She was planning to drive down tomorrow to check on the contractors - the place is being totally renovated – but I told her why not come with me today? Who wants to stick around Milan on a Friday night, you know?”
“Of course,” Iris nodded, her mind busily fitting together each tidbit of time-released information. A house undergoing renovations … a capacious shoulder bag on the floor by Silvana’s feet … a foot in the door here, a foot in the door there. A clear picture was forming. She knew how to recognize the signs by now.
“I figured why not let her sleep on the sofa bed?” Max finally spit it out. “Silli wanted me to check with you first, but I said you wouldn’t mind. Especially since the sofa bed is actually mine.”
Silvana made a little bouncing movement on the sofa and laughed. “It still has a good spring to it.”
“Cut the shit, Silli, or you’ll get me in trouble here,” Max said, punching her playfully in the arm, then turning to Iris while Silli made a show of suppressing more giggles. “Don’t pay any attention to her, Capo. In case you’re wondering, Silli and me are just old friends.”
Iris had already met several of Max’s “old friends” in Rome, and knew that at some point in time each of the females had taken a bounce or two on some bed with him. Whenever Iris remarked on the frequent occurrence of the phenomenon, Max told her she was old-fashioned, that she’d been a married lady too long, that the past was the past, and that the rest of the world was living in the Third Millenium now, anytime she cared to join in.
Iris just stood there, letting the air conditioning spit cold air in her face. Max stared at Silvana, Silvana stared at Iris, Iris sneezed.
“Why don’t you go change, Capo?” Max suggested, turning to her. “And while you’re at it, have a look in the mirror; you have dirt all over your nose.”
Iris wished she were witty enough to tell him that the dirt on her nose was nothing compared to the pain in her ass, and not the kind caused by the cactus needles. Instead, she apologized. “Sorry, I was doing a little gardening,” she said, brushing her nose off with her hand. “I’ll grab a quick shower. I’m sure you’ll see to it that Silvana gets whatever she needs.”
“You’d better close the door,” Iris said to Max several hours later, watching him strip off his shirt without unbuttoning it and dropping it to the floor. In the soft light of her bedside lamp, she noticed that his torso was as deeply tanned as his arms. Either he had been workin
g without a shirt on, or had taken plenty of swimming breaks; probably both, judging from her experience on the road with him. Max shut the door, unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned the fly of his white jeans. He lowered them to his knees, then stepped out of them, stomping on the cuffs to free his feet. Iris was already in bed, lying naked beneath the sheet she had slipped under while Max was in the bathroom.
Ever since the promising kiss Max had planted on her lips that afternoon when he breezed through the door, Iris had felt a desperate desire rising inside her, despite her disappointment that they were not alone, despite the stabs of jealousy caused by Silvana’s presence - or perhaps in part because of them. Iris had spoken little as the three of them strolled from Ruta to San Rocco, stopping at the historic Nicco’s bar for an aperitivo before Silvana showed them where her new house was, then stopping again on their way home for a plate of pansotti. Throughout the evening, she had been constantly distracted by the scenes conjured up by her fidgety imagination, first picturing Max and Silvana making love, then imagining Max and herself making love later. Max had been fondling Iris in front of Silvana all evening, resting his hand on her buttocks as they walked, nipping at her neck, caressing her bare thighs as they chatted over Americanos and watched the sun set. Each time Iris caught Silvana watching Max touch her, she felt a strange thrill. By the time she pulled out the sofa bed for Silvana and retreated to her room, Iris no longer felt like the helpless little mouse being pawed at by the cat, she felt like the cat.
“You still have to tell me about your trip,” Max said, standing in front of her. She knew he wanted her, too.
“Not now,” Iris said. The time for sobbing and seeking solace in his arms was over; she had survived without his sympathy, and now she needed his substance. She needed passion to crush her loneliness. She needed joy to squelch her sadness. She needed to reconnect with Max, she needed him to convince her that she belonged in Italy, that they belonged together, and that nothing else or no one else mattered.
[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series Page 137