When in Rome

by Giusti, Amabile

  “You’re even more beautiful,” Catello says.

  “Now, now,” I say tactfully.

  “I’ve lost some hair, haven’t I?”

  “No! What are you talking about?”

  My mother is obviously thrilled—she’s walking around talking to people like she’s the pope and introducing everyone to her beautiful, practically naked daughter. Then, in the midst of all the chaos, I finally see my dad. I raise a hand to get his attention, and Catello seizes the opportunity. In two seconds his arm is snaked around my waist and his fingers clutched around my left breast. What a disgusting date! I’m getting ready to castrate him when someone swoops in and saves me.

  I must have fainted and woken up in a dream. This can’t be true—my life is a disaster show, not a feel-good romantic movie. But it is totally, incredibly, and absurdly true: the pinch I’m giving my arm hurts—and bad!

  Luca leans toward Catello and removes his hand. It must be forceful, because Catello cries out.

  “If you touch her again, I’ll shatter your teeth,” Luca says with a smile, as if he were giving out friendly advice. I stare at Luca in a daze, almost expecting him to dissolve into thin air. But Luca takes my hand and asks me to dance. What is going on?

  “Hey,” he says. “If you don’t shut your mouth, you’ll catch flies.”

  “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

  “I asked for the night off.”

  “But how did you get here? How did you get the address?”

  “There was an invitation on your bed. Geez, Carlotta, do you want me to leave? Do you want to go back to that guy?”

  “No!” I yelp, grabbing him by the lapel. “I’m just amazed that someone who escaped the clutches of my family decided to show up here on purpose.”

  “Were you a good bridesmaid?” he asks, holding me as we start to dance—not too tight, but just tight enough that I can feel his body enveloping mine. He looks very elegant. I don’t know where he got the tuxedo, but it fits him perfectly, emphasizing his shoulders.

  “I was great! But . . . um . . . why did you come?”

  “To keep you company,” Luca says. “Families can be cruel. You need to be able to make fun of them with someone. We’ll tell them that we’re madly in love, we’re going to have a big wedding just like this, we want to get pregnant within a year, and a whole lot of details to satisfy your aunts. All right?”

  Confused and a little excited, I can barely whisper, “Sure!” We dance until my mother’s scream breaks the spell.

  “Luca!” she cries. It’s so loud that the only people on earth who don’t hear are a couple of Eskimo tribes. Suddenly proud of her eldest daughter, she parades me around just like Erika. I can’t really blame her. Luca is quite appetizing, and she’s trembling with the desire to inform everyone that Carlotta has finally managed to do something right. The aunts crowd around us like goats around a single clump of tender grass. Luca smiles, feigns admiration for everything, and above all, listens to their bullshit patiently. I love him even more for it.

  I escape the crowd after a minute and glance around. Catello has fortunately disappeared—perhaps my mother has stuffed him back in his freezer bag. I grab another glass of champagne and a sandwich, then head over to my father. The Russian nesting doll I met at his house is with him. I learn that her name is Coretta. She’s shy and gentle and smiles with her mouth closed.

  “Your mother is so loud,” my father says, as my mother hoots like an owl a few feet away. “She’s so strung out that she introduced me to your sister. And then she almost crushed my wrist trying to show me that fine young man you were dancing with.”

  “Mom’s always like this, even at funerals. Remember when great-aunt Prisca died?”

  “They had to slap her when she laughed.”

  “You look great, Dad.”

  “So do you.”

  As we talk, I discover that Coretta is an excellent listener. And it’s weird—this is only the second time I’ve met her, but I feel completely at ease around her. As people dance around us, I hear that my cousin Lisa has a boyfriend (whom Aunt Porzia also calls Jess). My dad invites me to dance with him as his quiet date grabs some dessert and holes up behind a plant like a hedgehog. He’s shorter than I am, and he dances like a child. He asks me about my life and wants to know if I have a boyfriend—with none of my mother’s motives, just the hope that I find completeness in my life.

  He tells me a little bit about Coretta. A widow, she’s his same age. They share passions for gardening and cooking. She seems to be reserved, simple, and thoughtful. His eyes sparkle as he speaks of her. At the end of the song, he goes back to her, and they hold hands like teenagers. I smile as I watch them, but it immediately disappears when I realize I’ve lost sight of Luca.

  I scan the crowd, sifting through the people dancing, the people stealing slices of cake, the people drinking too much, and the whole lot of people yawning in boredom before I find him. My mother has just introduced him to Erika, then left them alone to save the ice swans that have become the ball in a kids’ game of catch. Damn it! Erika’s date, who’s scarfing down food like he’s ending a hunger strike, is about to be replaced. I want to run over there and stop them, but instead I hover here near the Aphrodite fountain. I already know how this hackneyed plot will turn out. Lost in thought about how to dodge my family’s sympathy, I realize too late that the groom is crouched beside me. He’s taken his hair out of the ponytail and removed his jacket.

  “Tengo permiso de mi amada esposa para bailar un tango con usted.”

  I look at him aghast.

  “What? Dance a tango? No way. Go ask someone who—”

  Ignoring my resistance, Pablo drags me to the dance floor. The guests all move back into a wide circle, ready to watch (or, more likely, murder me for my lack of tango skills). Pablo leads me along to the dramatic music, his cheek pressed to mine, his face fixed in an erotic expression reserved for the tango. Pablo bites his lip, leaves me, takes me, dips me, and I’m sure I look like a rubber doll being tossed around. When it’s over, the audience applauds, and Beatrice looks ecstatic.

  I run away with what little strength I have left before anyone has the chance to suggest an encore. Champagne churns in my belly, threatening to climb up to my mouth. At least if I throw up, no one will notice, as my dress will camouflage it nicely. As I stand by myself, hands pressed to my cheeks, Luca comes out from behind the gazebo.

  “Always the center of attention, huh?” he says sarcastically.

  “You defend yourself well,” I say. “You’ve finally met my sister.”

  “She’s pretty great.”

  I don’t reply; it’s a mean joke. My mother interrupts our short silence, pouncing on us like a lurking lioness.

  “You’ll be staying at my house tonight, of course?” she asks.

  “Actually, we don’t—”

  “Of course!” Luca interrupts me with a grin. He winks and nudges me. I stare at him like a gaping fish.

  “Have you met your father’s new girlfriend?” my mom continues, her voice venomous. “Beatrice insisted that we invite him, and he brought her along. What a dull woman! Always so quiet and brooding. She never laughs. I can’t stand people like that. Am I right, Luca?”

  “A lady is never fully dressed without a smile,” he says innocently. Game, set, match.

  As we eat cake, Erika suddenly seems to remember that she has a sister. She pretends to buzz around me—buzzing around Luca, actually—her body quivering with excitement. Luca brushes her off and holds my hand, but he still pays attention to her, which is all she needs to feel victorious.

  I hate them. I hate this little game. I hate thinking about the pity I’ll get from my aunts. Suddenly I’m too tired, too fed up, and too mortified. I’m getting out of here. I grab my coat and purse and ditch the party.


  My mom’s house, the house I grew up in, isn’t far from here. I walk the road as the snow dances around me. It’s late, it’s cold, and I feel sad. The formula of Luca plus Erika is almost chemical in nature, and inevitable: they will end up sleeping together. I don’t know if I should feel relieved—at least he’s not thinking about the unknown woman he was so sweet with—or angry—because he’s with someone who isn’t me and who happens to be my sister. Now that I don’t have to worry about running into a compassionate aunt, I let my mascara run freely.

  Teresa, my mother’s distant cousin who tends the house in exchange for room and board, opens the door. She hugs me, surprised that I’m already here. I learn that some other distant cousins are sleeping here tonight, and the rooms are ready.

  My mother has changed everything about my childhood home. Now my room is a guest room with a gigantic fireplace—Mom wanted fireplaces in every room—that illuminates the bed and ceiling. The room seems very chic, like a cabin in Aspen. I put my coat and purse on the bed and crouch down in front of the fire that Teresa started. Meanwhile, she gives me some pajamas, since I cleverly left my overnight bag at Beatrice’s. Outside the window, the snow dances, its choreography driven by the wind. Tomorrow morning it will probably have melted, but tonight, it seems endless.

  Suddenly, I hear a racket downstairs—the clan has arrived. I hear my mother asking about me. I go out onto the landing and peek out, like a little girl. I start in surprise—Luca’s there. Erika’s there, too. She must have managed to get a last-minute room from our dear mother. Knowing their vocal abilities, I’m not getting any sleep tonight. Or maybe I still have time to call a taxi? The phone’s in my mother’s room. I head in that direction, but then the guests start to climb the stairs. I shut myself in my room, foolishly intimidated. When Luca enters, I stare at him like he’s a stranger.

  “What’s the matter? Have you seen a ghost?” he asks. His smile fades to a tender look. “Carlotta, you’re so pale . . . Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine. What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” He shakes his head and sits down on the bed. “We’re engaged, aren’t we? Strip down, my love!” He says this last part loud enough to be heard outside. He smiles at me, pecks me on the cheek, lies down on his back, and chuckles softly, his hands on his abdomen.

  “Quit the bullshit!” I say softly. “Anyone can see that you’re into my sister. No one will buy our story.”

  He gets up, still cheerful, takes off his jacket, and throws it at me. “Your sister’s a knockout, but that’s not why I’m here. I had much more fun duping your family.”

  He grabs me and throws me on the bed. A fire ignites within me as Luca climbs over me, laughing, and starts jumping on the bed. The springs groan faintly and the headboard knocks against the wall. I stare at him, as shocked as if he’d just called forth lightning from the ceiling. Suddenly, something presses into my neck. I reach underneath me and Killer Barbie rolls out of my purse. Luca stops jumping.

  “You’re nuts!” he exclaims. “Most girls keep makeup or condoms in their purses, but you carry a psychopathic doll?”

  “I thought she would be the most suitable escort.”

  “She’s perfect for the situation. But since I’m your escort now”—he puts the Barbie doll on the floor—“and since everyone’s in the hallway eavesdropping, how about if we give the people what they want?”

  “They’re probably making bets. They’ve set the odds at slim to none that we’ll—”

  “So let them all lose. Let’s do it.” He hits me with that smile. “Just pretending, of course.”

  “Of course, of course,” I say resignedly.

  “We’ll start off small,” he says softly, brushing his lips against me. I’m already flushed and breathless. “Soft kisses on your mouth, your throat, on every inch of your skin. I taste your tongue. I kiss you until you’re completely breathless, and—” Suddenly he stops, shattering the entire scene. “Come on, Carlotta, you have to make some noise every now and then. Otherwise they’ll think I’m having sex with a corpse.”

  I gasp, still paralyzed by his words, but obey him. My heart pounds as he whispers his smut, softly telling me all about an act that I haven’t partaken of in so long, that I’ve maybe never taken seriously. Now and then he raises his voice, moaning and breathing heavily, for the benefit of the audience in the hall. It seems so real that I’m afraid I’ll lose it just listening to him.

  “Carlotta, doll, if you want it to be credible, you’re going to have to breathe.”

  “But how—”

  He laughs—a howl to the spies outside—winks, and tickles my hips, knowing that I’m quite ticklish there. I cry out, half a laugh, half a scream, to defend myself. Suddenly we’re in an all-out tickle fight, rolling around and grabbing pillows as the bed rocks in place. I decide to play the game, too, even though it’s passionless and I’m embarrassed to fake a sexual encounter that still seems all too real to me, given my past. But I’m happy with the racket we’re making. Pleasure is pain. When it’s over, Luca lies down next to me.

  “You were fantastic, baby,” he says, still loudly. “That was better than that one time in the bathroom of the plane during that turbulence.”

  He’s so handsome and messy; he looks like we really did just make love. He reaches out and strokes my wrist with his thumb. I can’t even bear it. I shake him off.

  “Carlotta, what’s wrong?” he asks, playing with my curls.

  I stick my tongue out at him. He smiles and kisses the tip of my nose. But there’s something strange and lost in his eyes. He stares at me as if something is bothering him. I hope he can’t see the desire behind my discomfort. I hate to imagine what he’d think of me. We’re just friends. Our only sex is pretend sex.

  He closes his eyes, his hand still tight around my wrist. The fire crackles and spits in the fireplace. It’s the only light in the room as the snow whirls around outside. Luca falls asleep quickly, and soon I can watch him without getting caught. I wish I had my sketchbook and a pencil so I could capture the true beauty of his soul that shows through his relaxed face.

  Maybe it would be better if he were out of my life completely. It may be all fun and games to him, but to me, this is no joke.

  EIGHT

  Tony has called me again, for the umpteenth time. I listen to his message and I wonder if I’m willing to tolerate his tongue again.

  “What does the house painter want now?” Luca asks, looking contemptuous. I’m curious—recently, his bad mood only seems to be worsening. He’s often nervous and sullen, and whenever I bring up Tony, his response is always cutting.

  “He’s not a house painter. He’s an artist. He’s showing at an exhibition, and he doesn’t have enough work to put up. He wants to draw my portrait.”

  Luca laughs sardonically. “He wants to immortalize your vagina,” he says.

  My mouth hangs open. “What the . . . ?”

  “He obviously wants to fuck you.”

  “There’s no need to be so explicit!” I exclaim. “And besides, why do you care? Maybe I’d like that. Tony’s an interesting guy.”

  “You’re being a little bitchy.”

  “Excuse me? What do you mean by that?”

  “Just what I said. All you talk about lately is the painter guy and the other guy, the blond German one you work with. Just sleep with them and be done with it.”

  “Maybe I will. I don’t need your advice,” I say, furious.

  So, nearly a month after the vomiting episode, I decide to call Tony back. We agree to meet for coffee in a cafe near the theater.

  I arrive late, sweaty and out of breath from the battle I just won with a vintage toy salesman who wanted an exorbitant sum for a 1965 Astronaut Barbie. Tony is already waiting for me at the cafe. We chat over our espressos, and he tells me about his upcoming exhibition, then asks me about my w
ork.

  “At the moment, I’m hunting down these.” I show him the pretty space traveler with almost maternal pride.

  He casts a rude look at the Barbie. “I suppose little girls like them. But if I were a father, I wouldn’t buy that for my daughter.”

  “Oh . . . Why not?”

  “Why give her a false image of womanhood? It would humiliate her. Barbie dolls are tall and beautiful, too goddess-like. Women just aren’t like that. Real women look like you.”

  “So that makes me . . . what? Chopped liver?” I ask, swallowing the last sip of my coffee and feeling like a cat whose tail was just rudely trampled.

  He raises his hands in surrender and shakes his head. “I didn’t mean that. I think you’re very beautiful, you know.”

  I suppose I deserve it after the whole vomit incident, so I accept his apology. But although I don’t mind the veiled insult, I do mind the way he spoke of the Barbie doll. It reminds me of Lara’s intransigent attitude toward men. “There’s nothing different between these dolls and the princesses in the fairy tales that we’ve read for generations. They were the most beautiful women in the land, right?”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Tony says, “but I just don’t like the emphasis on their plastic appearance. My paintings are interior portraits. Although your beauty is not only interior, mind you. You’re beautiful all the way to the tips of your hair.”

  My hair has always been my soft spot. Compliment these crazy locks, and I’ll melt like a Popsicle in the sun. What harm could there be in granting him the privilege of portraying these features? So I agree to pose for him. After all, it’s not like I have to ask anyone else’s permission.

  A few nights later, as I’m getting ready to go to Tony’s studio, Luca passes by me. He takes a drag from his cigar, then blows the smoke at me, making me cough. His eyes are very green and cold as diamonds.