When in Rome

by Giusti, Amabile

  “Are you with anyone?”

  “I’m currently out of the chalk circle, waiting for the man I love to realize that I’m the right woman for him.”

  Iriza explodes in crystalline laughter. “Then you’re like the winner in Rocky’s adaptation. Or Penelope from The Odyssey, the woman who waits confidently. Hopefully that will pay off.”

  “I’ve always wondered if Penelope really does win in the end,” I say. “Ulysses basically just leaves her again after a while. It’s typical—men hardly stop for long. They make us believe they’re here for good, but then the sea calls to them. Who knows, maybe Ulysses went back to have another go with Circe.”

  Iriza winces playfully. “I hope not.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say in a guru-like tone. “Perhaps there is a solution—Penelope is seriously detrimental to his mental health by herself. Even Circe, after she’s used up all her seduction techniques, will become boring. I think it’s all about balance. A little bit domestic and a little bit slutty, you know?”

  “Does that work for you?”

  “Oh, I haven’t tested my theory yet. I guess I’ll try it out and let you know!”

  Iriza nods to the waiter to bring us our bill, and she insists on paying.

  My social life has blossomed. Tony called me again. Given the terrible way I acted, I’m beginning to think that he either really likes me, or that vomit turns him on. I haven’t called him back, just like I haven’t called back Giovanna or my mother, who have both left me a handful of delusional messages. Giovanna called to tell me that she’s met a great guy, and my mother to say that my bridesmaid’s dress is on its way—and that she’s sending a message from Catello with it.

  Strangely, Erika calls one evening. Unfortunately, Luca picks up as I’m locked in the bathroom with a wax-strip Groucho Marx mustache under my nose. Through the door, I hear his voice turning overly polite, and then he says her name and alarm bells blare in my mind. I burst out of the bathroom screaming “Noooo!” in a manner worthy of Renata Tebaldi. I dive onto the couch and snatch the phone from his hands like a soccer goalie blocking a penalty kick with a textbook dive.

  Luca looks at me, stunned, his last words—“Yes, we live together”—hanging in the air. The look I give him is a cross between Freddy Krueger and a fawn: ruthless and pleading. As I talk to Erika, however, I lose the fawn part.

  “What do you want,” I say, not even bothering to phrase it like a question.

  “For how educated you are, you have the manners of a truck driver. Were you singing just now, or do you not want me to meet Luca?”

  A growl rises up inside of me—either my stomach rumbling, or my soul churning with anger. “Why are you calling me? It’s not my birthday. It’s not even my funeral.”

  “I hear you’ve been chosen as maid of honor,” she says, making no effort to disguise the mockery in her voice. “Congratulations!”

  “Do you want to take my place?”

  “I would never deprive you of such a glorious moment.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Carlotta, you’re so tense. Relax, okay?”

  “I’m relaxed! I am very relaxed!” I say, sounding as relaxed as someone about to be subjected to lethal injection.

  “Luca’s such a nice guy, and he has a beautiful voice. Mom said he was very interesting.”

  “Mom thinks a lot of things are interesting—Aunt Porzia’s broccoli cake, for example.”

  “I’ll just see him at the wedding, then. You’re bringing him, right?”

  “I have to go,” I say, without answering her question.

  “You don’t always have to be so uptight, little sister. Irritability gives you wrinkles.”

  “And hypocrisy gives you hemorrhoids.”

  With that, I end the conversation by throwing the phone on the couch. I’m breathing hard when Luca comes to check on me before he goes out.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, giving me a pat on the cheek. I’d like to bare my soul to him about my senseless struggle with my sister and our stupid competition to see who can crush the other (which I’ve never won, of course). I’d like to wrest the promise from him that if she calls again, he will treat her like a butler would, completely detached, and not give her a second glance if he meets her. But such promises—if he would be so magnanimous as to make them—would be meaningless. We’re not together. He’s not my boyfriend, and I have no right to extort such oaths from him.

  Moreover, he’s not the problem. I am. As long as things are so fragile that just the idea of Erika makes me seriously fear losing him, I will never be happy, and our relationship will never be more than this exhausting game of war. I don’t know much, but I do know this: the battle will turn once I get my hands on something she can’t touch. A job that I’m proud of, true love, and above all else, deep self-love. Until then, my feelings will never change. So I just tell Luca that sometimes my family makes me hysterical. Then I run to the bathroom, as the wax has turned into wallpaper glue.

  On Friday morning, the package containing my bridesmaid dress arrives. Entirely taffeta, the color dung-brown, it’s worse than even my most horrifying speculations. Along with the dress is the nice message from Catello that my mother promised she would pass along. It’s written in kindergartenesque handwriting on the back of the invitation.

  “I can’t weit to see you again.”

  Weit?

  After a lot of thinking, I’ve decided he must be one of two guys that my mother tried to set me up with a few years ago, during an end-of-the-year party at her aunt Ermellina’s house. One of the two was pretty cool; he was tall and dark, had great hair and a tiny nose ring, and smoked enough for four Turks. He wasn’t that bad, except that he kept trying to reach out and touch me. The other guy, however, had a spittle problem, a receding hairline, and glasses that made his pupils look like watermelon seeds. I spent the whole evening trying to escape the nightmare that was both of these guys. I hope I don’t have to do the same thing this time around.

  The whole wedding is making me nervous. The thought of seeing all my relatives (especially Erika) increases my despair as well as my desire to invent an excuse and stay home. But I want to see my dad—who will surely be there, as he has kept a civil relationship with my mother’s side of the family—and that’s stronger than everything else.

  Saturday afternoon, I do my makeup under the watchful eyes of three Barbie dolls that I just bought on the Internet. They’re the only ones I’ve managed to find quickly online. While I almost pinch my eyelids with my eyelash curler, the three plastic women peek out from the dressing table, still in their pink boxes. Peach Blossom Barbie probably feels sorry for me, but the other two are laughing at me behind my back. Killer Barbie, with her knife and little black dress, looks at me with contempt. Tattoo Barbie, with her beautiful bob, an anthology of tattoos on her arms, and leopard-print leggings, would probably tell me to throw out the bridesmaid dress—to hell with Beatrice and all seven generations of my family! If only I had the courage . . .

  Suddenly, Luca interrupts my silent conversation with the dolls. Stopping out in the hall, he leans against the doorjamb and stares at me.

  “You’re prettier without makeup,” he says with a smile, and it’s not even sarcastic. As always, he’s half-naked. Damn him. He’s wearing blue cutoffs that used to be suit pants. They’re already sitting low on his waist, but he thrusts his hands in his pockets with so much energy that it’s a miracle the pants don’t fall to the floor. He’d probably laugh and show off his goods with pride.

  “Am I?” I fake disinterest while flames lick the inside of my stomach.

  “Yeah. It hides your freckles,” he says, coming in and sitting down on my bed. Peeking at him in the mirror, I feel like an ice cube on a sunny windowsill.

  “The idea was to make me look less like a strawberry.”

  “I li
ke your strawberry face. Your freckles and your hair are fun.”

  “Fun like a roller coaster ride.” But I’m happy he’s talking to me. He seems more peaceful. I wonder what it would be like to lick his face, like licking the frosting of a donut . . .

  “You’re beautiful, Carlotta, and that’s coming from an expert.”

  I gasp and accidentally smear mascara all over my cheek. A wave of heat ripples through me, and I unconsciously clench my crossed legs.

  I try to joke. “Yeah, beautiful for a freak of nature.” He watches me with attention that I don’t understand. My heart pounds against my poor ribs. If he doesn’t stop, I might faint.

  “Don’t make jokes, butterfly. I’m just being brotherly. No ulterior motives.”

  He gets up, comes over to the dressing table, and starts to play with one of my curls while I dab at the mascara stain on my cheek. As I watch his abdomen in the mirror, I wish we were on the cover of a romance novel, me half-naked as well, with his powerful arms wrapped around me, his nostrils flaring with desire. Instead, I point to the dress that’s laid out on the chair.

  “Will I be able to look elegant in my diarrhea-colored bridesmaid dress?”

  “Mmm,” he mumbles. He’s probably not saying anything so he won’t offend me.

  He keeps fiddling with my hair, and my stomach quivers as if I’ve swallowed a full-size python. He bends down, pecks me on the cheek, smiles, shakes his head, and goes into the kitchen. In a little while, he’ll probably go out for one of his usual nights at the bar. I put on the dress and immediately cover it with my coat, which is long enough to conceal every reproachful inch. Then I go to the kitchen, too.

  “I just hope Catello has stopped his inappropriate touching or spitting habits,” I sigh, slipping on my shoes.

  Luca gulps black coffee. “Who’s Catello?”

  “The guy that my mother wants me to sleep with,” I say with a shrug. Luca winces. If I were a bit more confident, I’d think that the idea of me and Catello has upset him.

  I laugh. “Just know that I’m undergoing this torture all to save you.” He doesn’t laugh at all. He swallows the last sip of coffee and leans on the table with his arms crossed. “Catello is the toll that I must pay for your freedom from Aunt Porzia, Aunt Palma, and Aunt Ermelline.” And Erika, whose attacks I fear the most. Still silent, he gives me a strange look. I move to the doorway. “Okay, I’m going. I probably won’t come back tonight. I’m afraid I’ll be sleeping at my mom’s place.” I have an overnight bag with me that contains everything I’ll need to spend the night in the loony bin with my dear mother for a warden.

  “With Catello?” he asks. He smiles a bit, then waves good-bye.

  The very thought of the night ending with Catello makes me break out into a cold sweat. If Catello even thinks about coming near me, I’ll crush him. I should have let Lara give me pepper spray. For lack of a better option, I take the armed Barbie doll out of her box. Perhaps I’ll defend myself with her, or maybe having her in my purse will give me what I need not to succumb to such destruction. I swear, I’m the only bridesmaid on earth with such an item in my bag.

  My family lives in the suburb of Camilluccia, in a cluster of villas surrounded by plants and trees. Thirty-two years ago, when my mother met my father, she moved from Calabria to the sunny suburbs with delusions of grandeur about what it would be like to have a wealthy husband. Her delusions were quickly stifled. But all the aunts followed her lead, migrating like a flock of hawks to turn the neighborhood into their own microvillage. Their stretch of houses—with their large gardens, kidney-shaped swimming pools, tiny dogs, and garish fountains—look like they belong in Los Angeles.

  I open the gate and walk very slowly up my Aunt Palma’s driveway, enjoying the silence that pulses through the trees. Furious chaos awaits me a few hundred feet away—a swarm of people and lights, and a circus tent erected in the garden. I’ve never seen so many tulips. They must have wiped the Netherlands clean to fill the lawn, the balconies, the Aphrodite-shaped fountain, the steps, and the gazebo.

  When I see my mother with Aunt Porzia, I try to hide behind a giant cactus plant. But she notices me immediately and drags my aunt over.

  “Are you alone?” she says without even saying hello. “Well then, I’m going to call Catello.”

  She disappears, while Aunt Porzia eyes me from behind her Swarovski-studded glasses. She’s shorter than I am, but her hug crushes me. She is wearing a ridiculous headscarf, and she’s so tan she must have spent the last month in a tanning bed. I ask how she’s doing after we exchange pleasantries.

  She pinches my cheek, frowns, and says loudly, “You’re too skinny. Are you too poor to buy food?”

  “I either go to the soup kitchen or feed on roots and berries. It depends on the day.”

  “Didn’t you bring your boyfriend? You can’t keep a man! You should learn from your sister, with that pretty boy, Jess. They’ve been together for a lifetime.”

  “No doubt,” I say under my breath. “Erika knows how to do things for a lifetime.”

  “If you don’t find a husband,” Aunt Porzia goes on, “you’ll never have children, and you’ll die without heirs.”

  “That just means no one will be killed over the division of my assets.”

  “Always witty, aren’t you, big sister?” Erika’s charming and treacherous voice catches me off guard. To say that she is beautiful would be like saying the sun is warm. She’s wearing gloves and a long, backless sapphire dress with a slit that goes all the way to her pubic region. She looks like she’s not wearing makeup (which means she spent several hours in front of the mirror to achieve this look), and her hair slides down her bare back like a silk cloth, swaying with every movement. A bald, muscular guy is standing next to her. Aunt Porzia practically forces him to kneel to receive her affection and kisses. She calls him Jess, which would make him the thousandth Jess in my little sister’s sex life.

  “This dress is so pretty,” Erika says in a tone that a stranger might perceive as caring. But I know her too well. I shift the coat to make sure the dress is completely shielded, and she lifts a corner of her mouth. “It looks great on you. It makes you look tan.”

  “At least I don’t have to worry about getting sick,” I say, pointing to her outfit, which is really more of an optical illusion than a dress. “Won’t your colon freeze?”

  “Oh, I’m still so young, I won’t get cold. So why are you here alone?” She smiles, and I can tell she’s swinging between the displeasure of having her sex appeal taken down a notch and the triumph of knowing I’m as alone as an unmatched sock.

  At that moment, my mother returns, Catello in tow. It’s the touchy guy with the nose ring, only it’s gone, and so is the hair. He’s not quite completely bald, but his forehead—topped with a horrid comb-over—glistens under the lights. He’s a little pudgy, and he hasn’t kicked his smoking habit. He’s wearing a red jacket and a pair of black jeans. He shakes my hand and licks the tip of his cigarette in a way that warns me I’ll be in danger the whole evening.

  Luckily, just then the bridesmaids are called to duty. Inside the house, I get rid of the coat and overnight bag and emerge in all my poop-colored glory. Beatrice is in her room just finishing getting dressed. The room is full of women all over the age of forty, and for a moment I think I’m in the wrong place. It’s only the abundance of brown garments that lets me know I’m not. Beatrice has chosen only spinsters as her bridesmaids, and I’m the only one not on the verge of menopause. What an honor to be first in a line of losers. I don’t see Beatrice at first, and then I remember that I shouldn’t be looking for a nun with a mustache, but a pregnant bride dressed in white. And then I see her. She’s dressed in dazzling white. Her injected lips are boatlike, her new nose too small, and her eyebrows dyed to match her newly blonde hair. As we wave hello, my eyes burn from the glow of her dress. Aunt Palma squeezes me, and so d
o all my mother’s sisters.

  Once the procession of spinsters begins, I’m embarrassed to find myself part of a wedding that seems to be straight out of a rom-com. We descend the stairs holding bouquets of thorny thistles, then head over to the gazebo, where the tulle-covered wooden benches for the guests resemble clouds. The ashen sky threatens snow, but only a few guests are hiding underneath puffy fur coats.

  Photographers hop around like grasshoppers. A few babies start to cry. The organist plays the wedding march. I must admit the groom, Pablo, is rather handsome; his long hair is tied back in a ponytail, and he has strong Spanish features and a sensual expression. I wonder where they met—he doesn’t seem like the type of guy to frequent a monastery. The bridesmaids take their places as the celebrant speaks of eternal love. A tenor sings Schubert’s “Ave Maria” in the background. Finally, deafening cheers ring out.

  After about eight hundred more or less identical photographs, we reach the refreshments tent. I grab a glass of champagne and hover close to the walls to try to hide from Catello. I must look like a spy on the run. Just when I think I’m safe, half hidden behind a decorative urn at the back of the tent, my persecutor hunts me down.

  “There’s my beautiful partner!”

  “Um . . . ,” I say, folding my arms tightly across my breasts like a freshly embalmed corpse to prevent Catello from grabbing onto them.

  “Can I get you a sandwich? Would you like to dance? Tell me what you want to do; I’m here for you!”

  “Thanks, but—”

  “Would you like to take a walk, just the two of us?” Both his eyes and his forehead glisten. I shudder. If we were alone, I’m sure he’d make some kind of obscene proposal, and I’d have to crush his balls.

  “I wouldn’t mind a sandwich,” I say, hoping that will send him away. But I underestimated him. He yells out to a waiter, and soon a tray appears for us. It’s full of adorable brown bites that closely resemble my dress. While Catello talks, I circle the tent slowly, hoping to find my father in the crowd. He’s the only one who can save me from this brute.