THREE
I spend the whole morning feeling as happy as Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard as she descends those famous steps. And I didn’t even need to kill Luca and leave him in the swimming pool to achieve fame and fortune! Now I can tell people that I actually have a job. Although when my mother finds out, she’ll probably tell me that searching for junk isn’t a real job, that they’re taking pity on me, and that at my age I’d better find myself a husband and pop out a little brat instead. When Erika finds out, she’ll just smile like a cat plucking a sparrow.
Best to leave them both in the dark for now.
So I call Giovanna, one of my best friends. She’s a few years younger than I am and is the most beautiful woman I know, even more so than Erika because her appearance isn’t marred by resting bitch face. She’s a makeup artist for some top fashion designers, and she always has antiwrinkle creams or mud, seaweed, and collagen masks for me. Unfortunately, she’s working, so she cuts me off.
“I’m doing some model’s makeup and I can’t be distracted. This woman is so full of herself. She’s hysterical about a pimple. She won’t drink tap water. She says my perfume is too strong, and she’s demanded absolute silence.”
When I call Lara, my second and only other friend, I get the busy signal—not surprising, given her commitments as an excellent real estate agent, an anxious mother, and a perpetually pissed-off ex-wife.
That exhausts my friends list—I can’t exactly say I have a thriving social life. I’ve got important news, damn it, and there’s no one to tell! I flip open an old phone book and close my eyes to pick a random person to call. When my index finger falls on a funeral home, I decide to give it up. You never know, I might end up signing onto a payment plan for a deluxe coffin.
Then I look at the clock and think of my father. He’s been out of town for a few days at a flower festival, but he should be back by now. He undoubtedly belongs in the group of people that would delight in hearing about my happiness. But the phone rings in vain. It’s not unusual for him to just not pick up the phone if he’s lost in his plant paradise, which he created on his deck. From among his roses, cosmos, chervil, star anise clumps, potted palms, and Aspasia orchids, the telephone ring sounds just like a buzzing bee. Now I’m just talking to myself. So I decide to call a taxi and go see him.
He lives in upscale Prati, near the Vatican, on the top floor of an old, immaculately maintained building. The dark facade makes it look like a giant burnt cookie, but his terrace could give the Hanging Gardens of Babylon some serious competition. After he and my mother separated, my mother knocked down everything that he’d cared for so passionately. A fountain topped by a naked cherub supplanted the greenhouse. A white marble gazebo—reminiscent of a war monument—replaced the flowerbeds. The Japanese carp that filled the pond died almost immediately.
When I ring the doorbell, a woman opens the door, startling me. A woman? Who is she? She doesn’t look very much at home; there’s no towel in her hand or cobweb dangling from her ear. She’s about fifty years old with blue eyes, cheeks as red as a Russian doll’s, and a timid air. She’s wearing a herringbone wool suit, and she’s barefoot. Barefoot? What is a barefoot nesting doll doing at my father’s? Do I have the wrong apartment? I stammer and glance around to make sure I’ve got the right door. But this is indeed the top floor.
“Um . . . I . . . ,” I say uncertainly.
“You must be Carlotta,” the woman murmurs.
My dad appears behind her, wearing gardening gloves and a childlike grin. She blushes, embarrassed, and whispers something to my father. Then she shakes my hand and walks away, still barefoot and still smiling.
“She’s my neighbor,” my dad hastens to clarify. “Every now and then, she comes and helps me with the plants.”
I want to ask him more, especially when I head into the kitchen and see a juicy roast and a pan of shrimp on the counter, most definitely not his work. He’s a magician with growing flora, but when it comes to cooking fauna, he’s a disaster. For the moment, though, he doesn’t seem inclined to say anything else. I can tell he’s happy; there’s a little light in his eyes that I know comes from the things he enjoys: good food, fresh flowers, mowed lawns, dewdrops, serenity, and gratitude. Plus he’s plumper than usual, which, given the frailty we share, is equivalent to extravagance. I let him get away with not explaining—assuming there is any explaining to do.
His apartment is pretty bare on the inside; there are no paintings, no rugs, and just a few pieces of furniture. But out on the terrace, he abandons all modesty and becomes Baroque. The rooftop garden is bursting with vegetation. The plants seem to be laughing in the heat and humidity of the greenhouse that he built. Although it’s late winter, the sun beats down like it’s summer in here. I open a slightly dirty beach chair and sink into it. Just as I’m about to tell him about my professional success, he speaks.
“Erika will be glad to see you!” he exclaims.
I feel a slight jolt. It’s not that I hate my sister—but the thought of seeing her makes me curse my decision to leave the Xanax at home. To be honest, it makes me curse my decision not to stay home myself. I’ll never be nominated for the Older Sisters with a Heart of Gold championships, but Erika will never make the list of finalists in the Perfect Younger Sisters competition, either. I just have to fake it. My mouth contorts itself into a scary smile. Good thing Dad is too busy tending to a mandarin plant to notice.
“What a joy. My two girls together,” he says, moving on to a Kentia palm.
Again, I’m about to tell him my sensational news when the doorbell rings. Okay, this is way too much suspense for my taste. As I go to open the door, I try out my Gloria Swanson walk again, but Erika looks at me like I’m an alien and stink of sulfur. She doesn’t even say hello as she struts inside, merely nodding at me with her chin instead. Her perfume is stronger than the smell of Dad’s entire nursery. She’s wearing a cashmere sweater that’s as soft as baby skin and leather gloves I doubt she takes off even at home.
Dad comes in, wearing his own muddy gloves, to give her a cheerful greeting. Careful lest she get dirty, too, she air-kisses him. It’s weird that she’s here; all she usually does is make her obligatory phone call every couple months.
The reason for her visit soon becomes clear. Among the few things that Dad kept after the divorce is a collection of ancient tapestries he inherited from his mother’s mother. Frankly, I find them ugly. When I was little, I was careful not to touch them for fear that the fabric would turn into a chameleon’s tongue and wrap me up. In one, the men and women, dressed in dark red, sit on the grass like they are enjoying a picnic, but stiffly, as if caught on the toilet. In another, glacial men stand with muskets drawn, as if ready to shoot me in the mouth. I wanted to get rid of them. Even now, as my dad is pulling them out, rolled up like papyrus, I hate to look at them. But Erika likes them. Or perhaps she likes the fact that she’s discovered they’re worth more than she originally thought. Either way, she’s asked Dad if she can have one. Dad must hate them, too, or has only kept them out of respect for his grandmother, because he agrees enthusiastically.
After Erika examines them, she chooses the one I was most afraid of as a child. They chat while she puts the tapestry in a cardboard tube, all without ever taking off her gloves, like a thief who doesn’t want to leave fingerprints. Suddenly, Dad turns to me.
“What was the wonderful news that you were about to tell me?”
Ugh, right now? I blush, and I catch Erika watching me out of the corner of her eye. She seems both curious and a little disappointed. Is my prissy little sister challenging me? What is it about me that bothers her so much? What did I ever do to her?
Just to spite her, I invent a mountain of bullshit, embellishing my tasks and quoting some ridiculous number for a salary. I talk about contracts I’ve already signed, promises of bonuses, Carlotta Lieti ready to conquer the world! My exaggerations make
it sound like any day now I’ll be whisked away to paint a fresco in the Oval Office. Dad believes me, and he’s thrilled. Erika just smiles sardonically.
Suddenly, I’m ready to get out of here. I’m tired of doing my Gloria Swanson act, and I’m ready to munch on a chocolate bar in front of a Grey’s Anatomy episode. But since Erika drove here and I walked, the beautiful sister offers to give the ugly one a ride. Before we leave, Dad gives me a small potted plant, handing it to me as if it were a jewel and asking me to take care of it.
Erika’s car is a deep blue Mini Cooper with leather seats. There are no crumbs on the seats, not even an air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, and the seat belts are covered in soft leather.
After a while, she says smugly, “So, soon you’ll probably be running for president.”
“I have just as much chance to become head of state as you do. Your work is so important that you’ll get the Nobel Prize in peace, medicine, and literature all together.”
“At least you can finally stop living off of Daddy.”
“Look, I’ve had jobs. It’s just that lately—”
“You might as well have not gotten your degree, really. What good did that do you?” She doesn’t look at me as she speaks. She drives with a light touch, switching gears quietly. The only thing that moves is her hair every time she glances in the side mirror.
“Not everyone is lucky enough to land a job where it doesn’t matter if you can draw a straight line,” I say, rigid in my seat. Erika pulls away from me, her hands shaking as she grips the steering wheel. For a few minutes, silence prevails. I keep wondering why, why, why do we have to have these conversations? For us, blood has become water.
“How’s your love life?” she asks after a while, as we’re stopped at a traffic light. It’s almost sunset. The streets are swarming with cars, and traffic roars like a metal leviathan.
“It’s great,” I say firmly.
“I’m going to venture a guess, given your business success, that you’ve managed to snag Johnny Depp.”
“Even better.”
“Tell me, tell me. I’m all ears!” She laughs this time, mocking me. We’re almost to my place.
“I’m engaged to a wonderful guy. Johnny Depp pales in comparison. We’ll be married soon. But your invitation might get lost and not arrive until after the wedding.”
“What’s his name?”
“Luca,” I say without thinking. Damn it! I shouldn’t have done that . . . Since we were teenagers, Erika has stolen everything from me. If I got a new dress or a new book, Erika had to have it, too. She didn’t have to put up too much of a fuss either, because our mother was always willing to bestow beautiful things on her princess, more so than the pauper. So Erika would get two dresses and a subscription to Top Girl magazine. Later she began to steal boys, if she knew I really liked them. All I had to do was let one little comment escape about how I was vaguely interested in someone, and she’d jump on him, all claws and curves. He’d end up feeding her insatiable appetite. If she knew about Luca, she’d stop at nothing to get her hands on him. And Luca, who can’t say no to any beautiful woman who offers herself to him, would jump at the chance to indulge. No, no, no! Luca is mine!
I hurry out of the car, clutching the seedling, to avoid further interrogation. Luckily Erika doesn’t understand. She thinks I’m hurrying to avoid being forced to reveal my lie. But even though it’s a lie, and Luca is just a seductive hallucination, a dream that will only come true when pigs fly, it’s also true. It’s true that he exists, it’s true that I love him, and it’s true that I have to protect him from Erika’s clutches.
I leave without saying good-bye, and for the first time I’m glad I see sarcastic distrust in her eyes. Don’t believe me? Then get out of here! But I still wonder, as I climb the stairs, why? Why are we so different? Why does a bridgeless abyss separate us? We were always together, practically attached at the hip, when we were little. She always followed me around, first crawling, then taking small, hesitant steps. She would draw stories about dragons and wizards, and I’d create puppet shows out of them—she’d laugh and clap her hands.
Then the spell broke. As we grew older, she became more and more beautiful, and I remained ordinary. That created a real gap between us. Our mother took her under her wing, while Dad and I hung back, as if she and Erika had gotten parts in a movie we’d been cut from because we weren’t good enough. The only things I have left to remind myself of how we used to be are some pictures that I confess I still have in a nightstand drawer. I don’t look at them often, but I need to know they’re there, that those memories are real, and that it wasn’t all a dream. Maybe one day we’ll get back to the way we were.
I open the front door with a strange feeling of turmoil brewing in my chest. Feeling defeated, I’m almost tempted to call up Erika and ask her, “Remember how we used to be? Tell me what happened and whose fault it was.” But then, when I get inside, I find Luca walking around with a towel around his waist, fresh out of the shower. As usual. When his hair is wet, it almost reaches his shoulders. That chest could have been carved by Michelangelo. He’s half-naked, talking on the phone with God knows who. He smiles at me, and my insides turn to mush.
There’s no doubt about it. Erika, stay the hell away. I’ve had it with your little games. Don’t even think about putting the shadow of the nail of your little finger on Luca. He may never be mine, but he’ll never be yours.
Having made that satisfactory pact with myself, I move forward.
FOUR
It’s Saturday night, and to celebrate my new job, Lara and Giovanna have arranged a blind triple date for me. Meeting a guy named Tony Boni is not exactly my idea of a perfect weekend. I’d rather watch a documentary on the mating rituals of hooved animals than worry about what to wear to please a stranger who doesn’t even have the decency to change his name.
Luca left hours ago. He works late on the weekends and never gets back before dawn. I look in the mirror and grumble. Nothing new here. The same old Carlotta—the line “You’ve got a lot going for you” will never apply to me. I’m wearing a camel-colored wool skirt, black boots, an angora sweater that will certainly have me spitting out fluff all through dinner, and a coat. I’ve wrapped a striped scarf around my neck, Gryffindor-style. Anything but sexy. Not that I’m trying to be sexy, mind you, but I wonder if I could be. I search the corners of my mind for just one moment when someone has looked at me with approval. I remember the emerald-green dress with a sailor collar and a tulle skirt I wore to my third birthday party that was tolerable. Other than that, I come up short.
When Giovanna buzzes at the downstairs door, I quickly head out. She’s in the seventh heaven phase of a new relationship. Not that she’s new to such emotions, though. From a practical standpoint, her lifestyle isn’t all that different from my sister’s. The big difference is that Giovanna is always hoping to find Mr. Right. Her infatuations run like clockwork: on average, they last about twenty days and go from rags to riches at a dizzying speed. She suddenly and inevitably discovers that she has given herself to a total asshole, so she spends a week crying before she moves on to kiss the next frog. At the moment, she’s head over heels for a young interior designer who’s into minimalist homes and has forced her to replace her grandmother’s furniture with more fashionable stuff. Her bed is currently a mattress thrown on the floor. Her clothes are hung up in the open, her windows have no curtains, and the only things on the walls are abstract prints with polka dots, like a connect-the-dots puzzle. He even tried to get her to upgrade her dog to a Chihuahua or a whippet, which he thought would be better than her fat, cumbersome sheepdog, Bear. Fortunately, Giovanna wouldn’t budge on that. When this is over, I predict she’ll miss her grandmother’s things, including the huge lacquered armoire that hid her messiness and those nice, thick curtains that blocked the view of the Peeping Tom across the street.
Curtains or no
curtains, Giovanna is happy right now, and she greets me with a hug. She’s alone; we’re meeting the others at the restaurant. She’s wearing tight pants, a white blouse, a fuchsia leather coat without buttons, and heels that are so high she’s practically walking on her tiptoes. She’s very beautiful, so beautiful that she can’t go anywhere without attracting looks. Her magnificent hair is long, black, and smooth as water. She’s got blue eyes, she’s tall even without heels, and she’s never lacking in suitors or amazing clothes. As we walk, she tells me about Tony.
“He’s an interesting guy. He’s a painter, so you have a lot in common.”
A shiver of panic runs up my spine. “That doesn’t make me feel good. When you call someone interesting, that’s because you’re trying not to mention that they look like a Porta-Potty.”
“I would never set you up with a Porta-Potty.”
I look at her, perplexed, and half laugh. “You’re forgetting about Eusebio. Remember him? The guy who wore flip-flops in December? He was pretty interesting, too . . .”
We look at each other and can’t help but burst into laughter.
“He really was interesting!” she says “Remember how many jokes he knew?”
“Yeah, and they were all obscene. And he’d pound beers straight from the can, calling everyone who walked by a weirdo, without realizing he was the biggest weirdo of them all! And his laugh sounded like he was blowing raspberries.”
“But you’ve gotta admit, you had fun that night.”
“Yeah, right. Once I saw his checkered cardigan, I wanted to escape out the bathroom window. Too bad it was barred. If Tony is anything like that, I’m going to strangle you.”
We reach Il Buco, a quiet, almost monastic restaurant. This place would be a good choice if I were going to have dinner with the man I love, but right now it just makes me feel uncomfortable. What if I don’t know what to say or do in front of him? I’ll embarrass myself with either silence or mindless babble. Whatever happens, the quiet atmosphere can’t be good.
When in Rome Page 4