I undress, dropping layers around the apartment, and to conclude this unforgettable evening, I fall asleep with my head on the kitchen table—in the exact spot where Sandra smashed her thighs a few nights ago. As I drift off to sleep, I vaguely wonder if I ever remembered to disinfect the table.
I wake up to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. My eyes fly to the clock on the wall. It’s five thirty in the morning. Shit! Luca must be coming back from the bar with that girl. They’re probably stripping outside the door. They can’t find me here, also half-naked and looking like the creature from the Black Lagoon. My heart pounding, my hands pressed to my ribs to silence it, I run to my room. I collapse in bed, all ears. I think I can hear the gasps of the girl who passed him that note, and the rustle of footsteps in the hallway, but nothing that evokes the thrill of two passionate lovers. I curl up on my side and realize that I’m cold. After all, I’m only wearing underwear. As I slip out from the covers, Luca opens the door. It’s not a pretty scene, either—my goose bumps and boobs are in plain sight. My mouth half opens to protest weakly, and then I collapse, my head dancing a rumba again. Luca stands there with my pantyhose in one hand, crumpled like used tissue. His expression is not pleasant. He comes closer, smelling of the outside world and the cold, then helps me get under the covers. He sits down on the bed with my pantyhose still in his hand.
“So tell me what happened.”
That’s weird. That girl is out there waiting for him, and he’s in here hanging out with the girl who smells like vomit and can’t even think straight.
“Where’s the compliment guy?” he adds.
“How should I know? I threw up on him!”
“What?”
“He kissed me and I threw up on him. I don’t think he’s going to tell me I’m beautiful again.”
“Right,” he says coldly.
“You can go, it’s all right, I’ll allow it . . .” I wave my hand like a queen dismissing a subject. I don’t want him to feel obligated to sit here and listen to my painful confessions while his blonde servant anxiously awaits him.
“Are you sure?”
“No, go ahead. Just don’t make too much noise. My head is a mess.”
“Do you want some chamomile tea?”
“No!” I’m starting to get nervous, and I don’t know why. Maybe I want him to hurry up and get rid of that woman; tonight the thought of the impending wild sex is making me feel dirtier and more desperate than usual.
“Have you been drinking again?”
“No! I mean, yes. Water.”
“Why is your bra in the blender?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know.”
“A little cranky, aren’t you, butterfly?”
Then he leaves, his footsteps slow on the floor. His shadow disappears behind the door. How weird; the silence continues. Then I hear the roar of the shower and no cursing from the stairs. I don’t understand. Somewhere outside, a clock chimes six times in a row. A blade of dawn filters in from the window. Luca goes into his room, closes the door, and then there’s silence.
FIVE
The first thing I hear on Sunday is my mother’s voice blabbering on the answering machine. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but the tone of her voice scares me. When I look at the bedside clock, it blinds me like a beacon. It’s almost noon. I get up and my head feels like it’s leaping around in a ballet.
Luca is standing in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hands. I’m sure he already went for a run, as he does most mornings, but he looks as fresh as a flower. He casts an amused glance at me.
“New fashion statement?” he asks. “Is today au naturel day?”
“What . . . ?” I look down and realize that I’m naked. Covering myself, I flee to the bathroom. I take a fifteen-minute shower under boiling water, with my curls stuffed inside a shower cap to make them easier to manage later. When I’m all dried off and wrapped in my bathrobe, I head back to the kitchen. I grab a goblet-sized coffee cup and take a sip that slightly burns my tongue. I immediately think of last night’s nasty business—Tony’s kiss and my vomit on his shoes. I shudder in horror.
“How are you feeling?” asks Luca.
“Like a piece of shit.”
“Did you really puke on that guy, or did you just say that because you were drunk?”
“His tongue was a little . . . you know, wet, and with the vodka, it was just an indigestible combination. I couldn’t help it.”
“You know, tongues usually do tend to be wet.”
“But not this wet!” I say. “I’ve kissed guys before, and I know that Tony’s tongue was much wetter than average. And then there was the movement . . .”
“What movement?”
“Well, up and down, back and forth. It was like tongue choreography!”
“So what did you do?” Luca asks.
“I told you! I threw up.”
“I meant before that. When he was playing tonsil hockey with you.”
“I think I was paralyzed.”
He laughs and almost spits out his coffee. I can’t help but join in. Sure, if I think about that horrifying tongue or the fact that I let him explore my mouth with said tongue or how I gifted him with the slimy contents of my stomach in a show of gratitude, I want to smother myself with a pillow. But if I pretend that the mishap happened to some other moron who doesn’t even know how to kiss, then I can see the humor of it.
“Anyway, it’s not my fault,” I say. “I’m a great kisser.”
“I’ve got my doubts about that.”
“You might be an expert when it comes to sex, but you’ve clearly got a lot to learn when it comes to kissing.”
“How do you know that?”
“There’s no way you can devote the proper amount of time to kissing when you’re so busy howling.”
“I kiss like I fuck—brilliantly.”
“Are you offended?” I say.
“No, I’m just saying that someone as awkward as you doesn’t really have any room to talk here.”
“And I’m just saying that you’re a conceited asshole.”
“Come here, you distrustful little witch.”
It all happens in the blink of an eye. He jumps up, grabs me by the collar of my robe, and kisses me. Oh. My. God. I let his tongue open my lips. It’s slow, nothing choreographed, and tastes mildly like coffee. We break apart, and I bite my lip. He caresses me, then dives back in, this time embracing me. When he finally pulls away, there’s an insolent smile on his lips.
“So? What’d you think?”
“Well . . .” I feign indifference, pretending that my legs have not turned to spaghetti under my robe. “I don’t know, it wasn’t anything mind-blowing . . .”
“You want a war?” he laughs. This time he picks me up and sets me on top of the table, cradling my head in his hands as he kisses me again. I tremble all over, inside and out.
Suddenly a voice brings me back down to earth. Behind us in the hall, a bunch of keys jangling in her hand, is my nuisance of a mother, dressed to the nines. She must have recently dyed her hair; I see new shades of cognac in an ombré pattern. She blinks like a porcelain doll, watching us with a mischievous look beneath two miles of eyelashes. Luca sees her and startles.
“No, my dear,” she says shamelessly. “It’s quite all right! I tried to call you all morning, Carlotta, so I just dropped by to see how you were doing. I have your keys, remember?”
I’m speechless. I open and close my mouth, and all I can hear is the amplified smack of my lips. I know exactly what she’s thinking, and it’s going to be impossible to explain to her that Luca and I were just kidding around, that there’s nothing between us, that my perch on the table with my legs spread wide open has no sexual implication. I jump down and readjust my bathrobe, cursing the unfortunate moment when I gave her those keys.
Mom approaches Luca, shakes his hand, and sizes him up. She approves. Better, she’s intrigued. They talk in the kitchen while I run to get dressed, and I hear her laughing at his jokes. I’ve forgotten my headache in the terror of trying to figure out how to get rid of her as soon as possible, before Luca decides to move out and leave me with just the memory of the taste of that amazing kiss. I throw on something haphazardly—jeans and a sweater, chainmail . . . I really have no idea. I’m so confused, I can’t even see straight.
When I get back, my mother is informing Luca about my teenage years. In fact, she’s so kind as to share that at eighteen, I was still desperately waiting for boobs—and envying thirteen-year-old Erika’s enormous rack. Luca listens politely, obviously holding back laughter, with one eyebrow raised and his hands stuffed in his pants pockets.
“Um, Mom . . . I think you should give me back my keys.”
“Oh, sure, sure, hold on. Here, my darling, now that I know you’re all right, I won’t have to worry anymore.”
She insists that everything is fine, which I take to mean that as long as I’m with a guy that looks like Luca, she’ll sleep soundly at night.
“Do you have anything going on this morning?” I ask, and it’s my way of telling her to get out of here. Somehow I’m holding back my tears—maybe because Luca doesn’t seem angry; instead, he seems to be enjoying all of this, as if it were a tennis match. His gaze bounces back and forth from me to my mother as he rests against the sink with his arms crossed over his chest.
I finally manage to convince my mother to leave. I guide her with a little push on the small of her back, open the door, and find something right in front of my nose. Or rather, someone. It’s the girl with the polka-dot thong. The one with the lisp, who criticized my refrigerator. Or at least I think it is, because she’s actually wearing clothes this time, and I only recognize her eyes and her horse mouth. My mother stops, sensing my tension at seeing the tearful, pissed-off young lady standing there. She doesn’t budge; her sixth sense tells her that this girl isn’t selling something door to door.
The girl looks behind us and zeroes in on Luca. He’s probably pretty annoyed; he always is when his one-night stands dare to demand something else from him. Sandra, enraged by three days with no response to her messages, enters the apartment, brushing us aside as if we were made of papier-mâché. My mother looks at me, shocked that I’m allowing this tramp to make a beeline for my man. I don’t even have time to grope for an explanation when Sandra bursts.
“You thtupid bathtard! You fucked me for an hour thtraight the other night, and now you’re pretending not to know me? You owe me a little more conthideration! What do you think, that I’m thome kind of thtupid bitch?”
Luca’s answer isn’t exactly cryptic. “Yes,” he says, not bothered in the least. “That about sums it up.”
I’m worried that any minute now she’s going to pull a revolver out of her purse and hold it to his head. My mom, however, is ready to kick back, relax, order a bucket of popcorn, and enjoy the show. I drag her outside, lock the door behind us, and accompany her resolutely outside to the sidewalk. It’s frigid out here.
“You shouldn’t leave him alone with that girl,” she says. “She had an incredible ass and her perfume smelled expensive.”
“Don’t worry, Luca will handle her.”
“That’s the problem.”
“What?”
“That young lady seemed intent on nabbing your suitor, and if you’re not careful, she’ll steal him right out from under your nose. I bet she’s good in bed, but I’m not as optimistic about you.”
“Mom! You’re always thinking about the same thing.”
“Sex is important. If you had more of it, you wouldn’t have all this acne under your chin, see?” She tips my head back as if I were a horse getting its teeth examined. “Erika has skin as soft as apricots,” she says loudly.
“Oh, I’m sure she does!” I say, humiliated.
“Let’s go back in and see what happens.”
“I’m going back inside, Mom. You need to go!” Now I’m practically screaming, and a few passersby stare at me in horror.
“I could help you.”
“I don’t even want to know what kind of help you could give me, and I’m begging you to please just go home. I can take care of myself.”
“You must bring Luca to the wedding—to show him to all of the aunts!” she says, as if he’s some kind of trophy.
“I don’t even know if I’m going, and if I do, I’m not bringing Luca.”
“Why not?”
“He can’t go. He’s busy.”
If I attempted to tell her the truth, and if I said I didn’t want to be like Sandra or any of his other ephemeral flings because I couldn’t stand the embarrassment and discomfort that would follow—and that I don’t just want sex from him, but his mind, his soul, his breath, his memories, his future, too—all I’d do is convince her that I’m both crazy and conceited.
A cab pulls up to the curb, and I’m about to flag it for my mother when Giovanna jumps out of it. She races over and grabs me like a piranha.
“I told that useless piece of shit Armando to go to hell!” she shrieks before I can say anything. “He kept bringing up all these awful things from last night, saying that my boobs were on display, and that that guy from the bar was staring at me . . . He even told me again I had to get rid of Bear, this time because he wags his tail too loud! And then our make-up sex lasted four—yes, four—minutes total, including foreplay! That’s it! I can’t take it anymore. So I told him that we were through, that he should go buy some Viagra and find someone else to wipe his ass for him! Then he accused me of going out last night basically naked! How dare he!”
She opens her coat, and I realize that she’s still wearing her outfit from last night. “Do I look naked?” she yells, shaking her boobs for everyone on the sidewalk. A bearded jogger stops dead at the sight. Giovanna closes her coat, disappointing the wide-eyed athlete, and promptly bursts into tears. My mother, on the other hand, looks very satisfied. She’s clearly enjoying this extraordinary morning, so much that I don’t think she’s noticed her breath looks like speech bubbles in the freezing air. She must be storing up gossip to report to the aunts.
Eventually, I just give Giovanna a hug to get her moving, because I’m freezing and Sandra hasn’t come down yet, which can only mean something bad. Giovanna hails a taxi with her arm outstretched and her coat wide open. A taxi driver slams on his brakes and asks her see-through shirt where he can take it. My mother, wrapped in her fur coat, does not intend to let go of our argument.
“Anyway, back to Luca,” she says as soon as Giovanna is gone. “I can see he’s got a wild side. I don’t know if you can keep up with him. You should spice things up more! How about a nice outfit like Giovanna’s? Or a padded push-up bra? I have a friend who swears by push-up pantyhose.”
“Thank you, Mother. I’m sure you’re right, as always. But all of my body parts would thud to the ground when I undressed. And there are noise restrictions in our apartment complex.”
“You should wear more makeup. You have such a mouth, and your hair—why don’t you ever use a flatiron?”
“I’ll just make an appointment with the dry cleaner to steam clean my head.” I’m tired and sullen. The cold has permeated every inch of my body, and I’m pretty sure that an icicle will form on the end of my nose any second now. When another taxi finally pulls up to the curb, I pray that it’s not Tony seeking damages for the vomit on his nice shoes. The taxi is empty, but my mother’s still not ready to leave.
“Oh, I forgot. I also came here to tell you something from your cousin Beatrice. She wants you to be her maid of honor.”
“Ah . . .” is all I can get out. My reaction obviously horrifies her—she thinks I should be jumping for joy and delighting the passersby with some sidewalk acrobatic
s. “Thank Beatrice for me, but tell her that I cannot accept.”
“But you’ve already accepted!”
“What? When? You heard me actually say yes? I don’t think so.”
“I accepted for you—I told her you’d love to.”
“And when were you planning on telling me?”
“You can’t back out,” my mother says. “She already had the seamstress work on your dress, and your name has been printed on the programs.”
I wish I could nudge the nearby manhole cover open with my heel and disappear inside. I stifle a scream, and a pinprick of unhappiness begins to pierce my heart.
“Is she getting in or not?” the taxi driver demands before continuing on his way, leaving me to be her prisoner.
“When were you planning on telling me?” I repeat. “I suppose you were going to wait until the wedding day, if I even showed up, to let me know that my dear cousin wants me to walk down the aisle dressed like a cupcake, while all the aunts murmur, ‘Poor insignificant Carlotta, she’ll never get married and she makes barely any money—’”
“You’re being unfair, as usual,” she says, not letting me have the last word. “You’re going to be the maid of honor and make me proud for once in your life. The dress is almost ready. I’ll send it to you in a week. I’m sure it’ll be fine. We took measurements from Lisa.”
“Beatrice’s sister? But she’s twelve years old!”
“And she has a bigger bosom than you. But it’ll work.”
I’m about to say something when someone grabs me by the shoulders.
“Pervert!” Sandra yells into my ear.
I turn around as my mother’s delight meter shoots up to the stars.
“What?”
“You dirty bitch!”
I have no idea why she’s calling me this, and I tell her so.
Sandra puffs out her cheeks. “Looking the way you do, how dare you act like that!”
“Dirty bitch?” I say again, while a family walking by stares at me like I’m dealing drugs to children.
When in Rome Page 6