When in Rome

by Giusti, Amabile

  We go inside. The small room is full but silent. I get the feeling that everyone is staring at us. A cemetery in the wilds of Alaska would be livelier than this place. I see Lara at a table in the back with three men. One is her temporary flame, one is Giovanna’s temporary flame, and I think the third one is my very temporary blind date.

  As I get closer, I realize that Tony Boni, at least at first glance, is less disgusting than I pictured. I introduce myself, and we sit down. He’s actually quite good-looking. He’s tall and wearing glasses and a dark suit. He doesn’t seem to have any weird tics, and he doesn’t ask me if I’ve heard the one about the ice queen whose husband slept with a thermos. He’s actually rather polite.

  Lara won’t take her eyes off of her phone, which she keeps on the table, lest she miss a call from Emma’s babysitter. Now that her stormy marriage is over, Lara is disillusioned by men. She only goes out to make Giovanna happy and to give her vagina the occasional workout—although she worries the whole time that something could be happening to her little girl. While she’s a lovely woman, with caramel-colored skin and a shiny bob right out of the roaring ’20s, her negative experience with her ex-husband has left her in a permanent bad mood. To compensate, she eats like there’s no tomorrow. Now she weighs almost 180 pounds and is more pissed off than ever, which makes her want to eat even more.

  She met Filippo a few days ago. He’s pretty buff, which makes her look slimmer, but he’s got a really long face. The relationship won’t last. Filippo will say, do, or think something wrong, and she’ll say the same thing she always does: “I knew it. All men are assholes. I’m going to Google how to become a lesbian.”

  Armando scans the almost-bare walls and the few tables in the restaurant. “We were just noticing that this place is a bit too heavily decorated,” he says. His words reverberate in the sepulchral silence.

  “Oh . . . you’re so right!” Giovanna says. “What would you do to make it more cutting-edge?”

  “I’d get rid of some of the light, reduce the number of tables, and tone down all this shouting we’re doing.”

  I have to wonder if he’s just messing with us. I’d like to argue that a quartet of corpses would be more exuberant than we are, but Armando’s kind of touchy, and I don’t want to risk offending him. So I keep my mouth shut while he babbles on pompously. Lara fumbles with her phone, seeming to think she may have missed a call, but in here, the ringing would be as loud as a jet engine.

  I get to talking to Tony Boni, and I discover that his real name is actually Antonio.

  “I heard you paint,” he says enthusiastically.

  “Yeah, but I only do it for myself. I’m no Caravaggio.”

  “But who is? I’m not even sure I know how to paint seriously. I’ve never studied it, I’ve never had training,” he explains. “My work isn’t for everyone. I love still life and portraits, and I like to portray genuine, spontaneous, everyday things. How about you? Giovanna said you work in theater?”

  I explain in detail what I do, and he listens with interest. Over dinner, I realize that Tony is actually much nicer than I expected. While Filippo and Lara silently stuff their faces and Armando harasses everyone with his theories, Tony pours me a drink and gives me an unexpected compliment about my hair.

  “It’s so lively and sinuous. I’d love to paint your face. You’re very beautiful.”

  Beautiful? I laugh. “It’d end up looking like a caricature of a rabbit.”

  “I’ve never seen a face as extraordinary as yours,” he says. “It amazes me that you aren’t aware of that. As an artist, you should be able to recognize the details. Your upper lip is sublime. It’s got a particular curve, like a small wave.”

  For a moment, I look at him as if he were wearing a straitjacket. And I feel stupidly excited.

  I wonder why, when I do receive a compliment, I’m convinced it’s a shameless lie told for the sole purpose of getting between my legs. Perhaps it’s because no one has really admired me for, like, a century. Maybe it’s because my mother called me this morning to remind me again of Beatrice’s wedding. Or maybe it’s because I’m thinking about Luca pouring alcohol into the glass of some woman who’s willing to give it to him right there, right then, on the bar.

  But sometimes it’s nice to pretend I’m not the ugly version of my little sister. Also the red wine, which is full-bodied and fruity, is making me feel euphoric. I’m happy to be out, and the way Tony is staring at me certainly doesn’t bother me.

  When the waiters bring out our stuffed pigeon, he abandons his fork to separate it with his hands. He dismembers the bird’s chest with four pairs of fingers, his pinkies politely arched downward. It seems strange to see him struggling with such a rugged task when he’s dressed so nicely. Suddenly, he pulls out a chunk of shiny, juicy white meat covered in sauce; unexpectedly, he offers it to me. He holds out the piece of flesh with the thumb, index, and middle fingers of his left hand, his eyes inviting and suggestive. I do not accept. I say I’m a vegetarian. I’m probably blushing, but I feel like taking that bite would be an acceptance of an indecent proposal. It would be like admitting that, yes, I would very much like for his . . . paintbrush . . . to make some artistic sketch on my practically untouched canvas. I’m not that reckless. Sure, I’m flattered that he finds me desirable, but I suspect he’d treat any female the same way tonight.

  When we leave the restaurant, rain has started to fall. Lara runs off to get a taxi with Filippo. Armando suggests after-dinner drinks at a local bar called Tabula Rasa. That name, combined with my knowledge of his bizarre tastes, makes me think it’s a popular spot for small groups of chic radicals—aka pretentious assholes—to drink and languish. Luckily, Tony nixes Armando’s idea.

  “I know a great place on Cassia, it’s called Chiodo,” he counteroffers. “They just opened a few months ago. They make great drinks and there’s good music.”

  A tremor rocks my chest. That’s where Luca works. I’ve never been there because it’s out of the way—and, to be honest, no one’s ever invited me. Giovanna accepts with unseemly enthusiasm, which Armando doesn’t approve of. But when Tony and I decide to go, he’s forced to go with the flow.

  When Tony and I are alone in his car, he seizes the opportunity to ask if he can draw me.

  “I swear, you have a terrific face,” he insists.

  “The idea of staying still while someone stares at me, focusing on my flaws, embarrasses me a little bit.”

  “You’re wrong, you know,” he says. “In a face like yours, when it’s scrutinized, the flaws disappear. You have the exact opposite problem. At first glance, your face seems imperfect, strange, inundated with freckles, but a keen eye will capture the treasure hidden behind the curtain. The big eyes that are the color of chestnut honey, the eyelashes that are so long they cast shadows on your cheeks, and your chin . . . I could try to copy the curve, but I’d never do it justice. And you know, Carlotta, you’ve got a neck that a swan would be jealous of.”

  I should probably ask him to stop, but I’m enjoying this. I confess, I’m a little bit excited. Not sexually, I mean. Emotionally. I feel like an awkward preteen who’s been ensnared by a bunch of bullshit.

  A beam of flashing lights crossing the sky leads us to Chiodo. Armando is so out of his element, he seems almost on the verge of hysterics. I won’t let him get to me, though. We park the car near Luca’s, and the ulcer in my stomach sears as we hit the red carpet. A bouncer who resembles a giant redwood checks us out, then we go inside. The place is huge. Stone arches separate it into several rooms, some with tables and some with sofas, and one dedicated to dancing. We check our coats and search for the bar. My nerves pound in my ears as loudly as the music. I must be losing it. I see Luca every day—I just saw him a few hours ago—but I’m acting as if I haven’t seen him in a century.

  As we approach the bar, Tony politely takes my elbow in his hand, and we walk ov
er with Giovanna and a very distraught Armando. At the polished wooden counter, where drinkers crowd around like ants, we sit down on four leather stools. My eyes wander in search of Luca. All the bartenders are dressed like him, though: white shirt, dark pants, a hint of a beard, and an impish air. They pour out liquor with acrobatic skill, sliding the tumblers across the counter, smiling, winking, and waiting for the next customer who wants an extra dose of alcoholic pampering.

  Finally, I see him. He’s farther down the bar, laughing with a group of escort-free hens. All of a sudden, I feel hot. Tony asks everyone what we’d like to drink; I go for a cosmopolitan. The wine I drank with dinner should last me for seven lifetimes, but with a cosmo in hand, I’ll look like Carrie in Sex and the City. Tony chooses a dry gin and gives the order to a bartender—not Luca. Then Luca switches spots with that bartender. Perhaps he’s sick of pretending to flirt with those fifty-year-old cougars, who were clearly attempting to undress him with their eyes. He leans over to help a gorgeous blonde who’s wearing something that resembles a towel. Perched on the stool, she strategically crosses her legs so that she offers him a quick glimpse of the equipment concealed between her thighs. He fills a glass for her, perhaps wondering what else of hers he can fill after his shift. Giovanna and Armando head off to the sofas. Tony whispers into my ear, asking me if I want to dance. I say yes at the exact moment that Luca sees us.

  I can be satisfied. At least he recognizes me, and if only for a moment, I diverted his attention from the Scarlett Johansson look-alike. His expression is dazed, as if I were the last person he expected to see, but he nods and smiles at me, and the smile I give him back is happy. Then he frowns, suddenly serious, and his tiredness shows on his face.

  The dance room is quieter—the music a slow sax solo—so we can talk. Tony hugs me with discreet energy, talking about himself and his art, while I sneak peeks over at the bar, only half listening and occasionally nodding. Suddenly, Giovanna appears through the crowd and drags me into the bathroom. She seems nervous.

  “Nothing I ever do is good enough for him!” she blurts out when the door closes. “He says I’m too risqué and that some guy was just staring at my tits.”

  “It’s weird that he doesn’t like your shirt,” I say. “I thought he was into minimalism.”

  “Oh, don’t you start!” she says with a snort. She powders her nose and checks her neckline in the mirror. “I don’t see anything!”

  “Gio, you know that I love Armando like I love ex-lax in my lemonade, but you can’t deny that you’re practically naked. You’re beautiful, but you’re naked, and it’s also raining.”

  “Oh stop it! You’ve been dancing dirty with Tony!” She’s pretending to be angry, but it’s all in good fun. “Do you think you’re gonna sleep together?”

  “Okay, you’re about as delicate as a hippo.”

  “Then let me ask more politely. Do you think you’ll allow him to end your prolonged chastity with his . . . bowling pin? And stop looking at me like that! He’s obviously into you.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re still pining over your hunk of a roommate! He doesn’t want you, sweetie. If he did, after six months of hanging out at home half-naked, you guys would have already done it. He’d find a way to make you understand. And then dive into some other pool.”

  “You’re too . . . too . . .”

  “I’m only being sincere, Carlotta. You have to get over him. It’s a fact. He doesn’t want you. So he’s probably one of the hottest guys we’ve ever seen, but there are plenty of fish in the sea.”

  “And I end up getting a squid.”

  I look at my reflection while a lady in a leopard-print sheath dress puts a cigarette out in the sink. Giovanna has a point, I know, but she could at least be less dramatic about it. She continues as she powders her nose.

  “That was blunt, but if I’m not, you’ll never see inside another man’s pants again. In any case, Luca is not the guy for you.”

  I sigh. My high from the night has been officially grounded. I’m almost tempted to inform her that Armando isn’t the guy for her, either, but there’s really no need, because she’ll figure it out soon enough.

  “We’d better get out of this bathroom,” I say, my voice a little muffled. She’s right; Luca doesn’t want me that way. I feel like crying as Giovanna tries to spruce me up and urges me to forget about that idiot who doesn’t know what he’s missing.

  I leave and sneak over to the bar, feeling awful. Offended. Lonely. I climb onto a stool and order another cosmopolitan, then another, and down them in two gulps each. The burn travels from my throat to my stomach to my bowels. I stare at the empty glasses, thinking about what a poor fool I am. I’m neither young nor old, neither a virgin nor a whore, neither a teetotaler nor an alcoholic. I’m just a cluster of mediocre cells. My mother’s right. I’m going to look like an idiot at Beatrice’s wedding. I can just see the look on Erika’s face, the way she’ll silently insult me with her smile.

  “Hey, don’t overdo it. That stuff is heavy for someone who’s already had a whole bottle of wine.”

  Luca’s slightly sharp voice penetrates my thoughts. I look up and see him standing in front of me with his elbows on the counter. He’s looking at my third cosmo—empty—and another glass of something else that slipped down my throat without protest and set my stomach on fire.

  “Bring me another?” I say.

  “I think you’re done. You’ve had enough.”

  “I’m twenty-nine, almost thirty. I’m not driving. I can drink as much as I want.”

  “What’s wrong? Did your knight dump you?” I don’t reply. Right now, I hate him, because he wants every other girl except me. “I didn’t know you were going out tonight,” he continues.

  “It’s not like I tell you everything I do. I met a nice guy who’s a painter. He said I’m beautiful.”

  “I think that’s a good start.” He walks away, and I watch him fill up the glasses of a few businessmen toasting some kind of success. When he turns, he smiles at me. I don’t know whether it’s the alcohol or the tears in my eyes, but my vision is skewed. My world twists as if I were looking through glasses with the wrong prescription, as if he were a total stranger. There’s something abnormal about his smile that I can’t figure out.

  “Compliments are a quick, free pass to your underwear,” he says to me and then moves away to the other side of the bar, where he works his magic with his bottles. The Scarlett Johansson doppelgänger hands him a note. I bet she’ll be the lucky girl of the evening. He reads the note, and she speaks into his ear. I ask a different bartender for another drink. This guy has long hair that I’d just love to tear out and wear instead of my crazy curls.

  He looks at me apologetically, then shrugs his muscular shoulders. “I can’t. Your tab’s closed.”

  I look at him askance. “What does that mean? Give me a drink!” My voice comes out distorted, as if I’m yelling underwater. The bartender glances at Luca, and then I understand. Luca must have told him not to serve me anything else. This infuriates me. I’m considering climbing on top of the bar to make a speech about my legitimate right to be hung over when I hear a voice behind me. I turn around. Tony Boni is smiling at me.

  “There you are! Armando and Giovanna are gone,” he tells me.

  “They were fighting.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I think it was about nipples? Giovanna’s, I mean.”

  “Ah . . .”

  “Apparently some guy was staring at them too much? But what was he supposed to do? They were out in plain sight, calling out hello. So the guy was just being polite by responding. Armando really shouldn’t take offense.”

  “Shall we go?” Tony asks me, offering me his arm.

  “Yes!” I reply immediately, jumping off the stool like a monkey.

 
I stumble and he grabs me with an “Upsy-daisy!” He steers me toward the coat check, and I don’t look back.

  It’s cold outside, bitterly cold. The streets are brushed with a layer of shiny ice that crunches beneath my heels. Tony takes my hand, which is fine by me because I’m afraid I might fall over. We walk over to the parking lot. I wrap my scarf around my neck and take a deep breath, feeling the chill enter my nose and cleanse my brain.

  “Do you want to do something else together?” he asks me. “Otherwise I can just take you straight home?”

  “Of course! The night is young!” He doesn’t seem to notice my sarcasm. The parking lot isn’t very crowded, and the car windows are fogged with ice and the quiet. Tony continues to talk, but I’m not listening to a single syllable.

  Suddenly, something unexpected happens. He stops right in the middle of the parking lot. Embraces me like an octopus and plants a kiss right on my mouth. It’s not really a friendly kiss, either. His tongue pierces the barrier of my lips, manages to break through the stronghold of my teeth, and finally, moist and heavy, it meets my tongue, swirling it around. I don’t participate much in this exhibition—things are getting hazy.

  And then suddenly, I push Tony away and vomit onto the pavement, splattering his shoes. I suppose it’s because of the kiss, but also the after-dinner vodka and the wine at dinner, and perhaps even the sparkling wine from last New Year’s. It’s not a pretty scene. All things considered, he’s nice about it. He offers me his handkerchief and helps me climb into the car. Then things get fuzzy—there are lights, and some wind coming in through the open window, and an awkward, embarrassing silence. He drops me off at home; I doubt he’ll ever so much as point a finger in my direction again.

  I climb the stairs with the agility of a potted shrub and vomit again, crying now, into the toilet this time. I rinse my face under cold running water and emerge with my hair soaked, my mascara smeared everywhere. I feel my unhappiness all the way down to my toes.