When in Rome

by Giusti, Amabile

  “Are you on the pill?” he asks suddenly.

  “Huh?”

  “Are you going to use some method of birth control?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Here,” he says, slipping something into my purse.

  A condom.

  I look at it as if it were a bloody severed hand.

  “Do you know how to use it? Or do I have to explain? That fool might not know how.”

  “Luca!” I shout, flushed with anger and discomfort. “I know how to use it, and anyway, just stop! You know, once you get going, you can really get nasty as hell.”

  “I don’t know anything about this guy. I just want to save your ass and keep you from getting pregnant.”

  I have no intention of sleeping with Tony, but I don’t need him to know that. “I don’t need your advice.”

  I leave the house without looking back, reining in my wild desire to kick him where it hurts.

  The studio is in Testaccio, a hipster neighborhood by the river. Tony lets me in. In his paint-spattered sweater, he actually looks like a painter. In fact, he looks like a painting himself. He’s not wearing his glasses, and his hair is unkempt.

  Inside, I take in the surroundings. The studio is a loft on the top floor of an old building. Its walls are exposed brick, its windows curtainless. Dozens of canvases are stacked everywhere, covered with red-stained sheets. And oh boy . . . There’s a giant bed in the center of the room. I must not jump to conclusions. I’m sure he only intends to be hospitable. If he wants to keep his bed in the middle of his work space, then by all means, he should. And if, by chance, the bed is where he makes me sit while he paints my portrait, then I must not mistake this for lustful intent.

  While he sketches me, though, he barely peeks out from behind his canvas except to adjust my posture and shower me with compliments. And he doesn’t ask for anything more than my beautiful face for his sketches. It’s two hours before he lets me move again. My neck feels rusty, like a piston without oil.

  “Hey,” he realizes. “Did I make you stand still for too long?”

  “Art involves some sacrifice, right?”

  “Come here, forgive me . . .” He looks like a wolf as he comes closer. He kneels on the bed behind me and starts to massage my neck, even though his hands are slightly dirty from painting. It’s a relief—he’s also an artist at giving neck rubs. His hands move masterfully from my shoulders to my neck to my hair. And he talks and he talks and he talks . . . He talks way too much. Tony might have some great qualities, but knowing when to shut up is not one of them.

  After his fingertips work their magic, he asks me if I’m hungry. Fortunately there’s no innuendo in the question—he orders Chinese food over the phone, and half an hour later it arrives. We eat sitting on the bed, and Tony continues to talk as he uses his chopsticks expertly. He sucks noodles between his lips like a snake, and devours steamed dumplings with a pleasure that is almost carnal. When he asks me if I want the cookie, it startles me. Am I so depraved that I distort even the most innocent allusion to a fortune cookie?

  I break it open and read the message: it tells me to be careful because when it rains, it pours. Tony’s fortune urges him to eat when he’s hungry. The way I’ve been interpreting everything since I got here, the two fortunes are clearly double entendres. But I prefer to believe that rain is rain and hunger is hunger.

  After dinner, he throws away the containers and clears the bed. I sit near him, and he continues to blather on about his exhibition and how great my portrait will look in it. Then, suddenly, there’s the first warning sign: silence. An unusual development.

  He smiles. “You’re so beautiful,” he says again (he’s actually said this so many times that I feel like Venus incarnate). Then he puts a hand on my cheek and kisses me. What a brave man to try once more to dive into a sea that I once banned him from entering so ungracefully. Again, his tongue dances inside my mouth, tasting like fortune cookie and steamed rice. It’s so hectic and sloppy that I think I’m going to be sick all over again. But this time, I repress the gag reflex. I think about ice cream, hot chocolate, and toffee, but above all . . . Luca. It doesn’t do anything to help me relax, but at least I can pretend to respond to his advances with enthusiasm, as if all the pleasures of the universe were concentrated in his bustling tongue.

  At the same time, Tony attempts to insert two fingers under my sweater. My hand is quicker, and I cut him off. He grumbles something and tries again. After three unsuccessful attempts, he embarks on a more ambitious mission. He grabs my wrist and slaps my hand on the flap of his pants. He seems to have a .22 semiautomatic hidden in his jeans. Oh my God—now it’s not in his jeans anymore. When did he pull it out? Is there a sliding door in his pants that reads his mind?

  Tony mumbles something I can’t understand. I haven’t touched a man in this region in months, and now I’m discovering that I’d actually rather keep it that way. I feel dirty and lonely, and I really want to leave. I keep firmly rejecting Tony, but he’s either pretending not to understand, or interpreting my reluctance as some kind of provocative game. Finally, he looks me in the eye, a mixture of anger and disgust written on his face.

  “Are you not enjoying this?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

  “What do you think?” I want to say. “I’ve been wiggling like an eel for ten minutes. I’m playing hide and seek with your hand. You’re chasing me all over the bed. Don’t even get me started on your kissing, which I initially tolerated for educational purposes and decided to give a second chance after I made a fool of myself last time . . . Have you not noticed that you’re paralyzing me? Back off, okay?”

  But of course, I just say, “Tony, it’s a bit too soon. I don’t really know you that well . . .”

  Even if I’d known him for three generations and our grandparents had made polenta together, I still wouldn’t want him. But I need him to believe I’m merely a woman of archaic principles—and that maybe in a century and a half, he’ll be able to get to second base.

  “Okay . . . ,” he whispers, clearly disappointed. He lets out a whistle. “Carlotta, I’m as turned on as a bison.”

  I don’t know much about bison, so I don’t say anything, but I’d say he’s more like an anteater, at least his tongue. He rearranges his soldier, still at attention, and zips up his pants. We get up from the bed. I get the impression that he’s eager to get rid of me, but I don’t think it’s because he doesn’t want to see me again—he keeps telling me that he’ll call me, that we have to go out again, that we have to get to know each other better. I think he just wants to be alone.

  On the bus ride home, I commit an act of incivility. I chuck the condom out the window. I just want to get home, take a shower, and, above all, brush my teeth. So happy to be back, away from Tony and his wandering hands, I climb the stairs at last and go inside. But providence is not forgiving. Although the time is a bit unusual—it’s just past midnight—the moans I can hear are anything but. Luca’s already got a girl in his room. His door is ajar, so the sounds are amplified. I can hear vowels, syllables, even words.

  I know that voice.

  Suddenly I’m cold, as if a flurry of snow just burst in through the window. I know I’ll suffer, I know I should just go to my room and turn a blind eye, but I can’t help it. I approach the door. A halo of light filters through the crack. The lampshade on the bedside table dims the light in the room, but the scene is all too clear. There’s Luca, naked on his back. And on top of him is Erika, her hair swishing as usual, her spine twisting like a snake. I stand motionless in the middle of the hallway, my fists clenched and my jaw so tight that I’d need a crowbar to pry it open. Pain courses through me in a shock wave extending from my feet to my ears. By chance, Luca opens his eyes. It’s a coincidence, as I haven’t made any noise. He sees me. At first, he looks surprised. But then his gaze immediately turns wicked. He moves f
aster as he stares at me, lowering his eyelids.

  I run away.

  It’s raining outside, a dirty, black rain that seems to ooze. The streets are empty except for a few passersby. I walk quickly. I don’t know where I’m headed. I just want to get lost under the beating rain. I walk for a long time, without feeling the weight of passing time. I ache. No, scratch that. I’m dying. With each step, I age a century. The only word I can think of, the only word in the midst of the tumult, is why.

  Why, Luca?

  Why, Erika?

  Just for a few minutes of pelvic thrusting, after which you’ll both feel like strangers? Does it not matter that the same blood runs through our veins? Despite the way things are now, I have never been able to forget the two girls who played together and dreamed of futures as princesses, astronauts, ballerinas. Something—but what?—has left us on opposite banks of an impassable river. But was it not enough to despise each other from afar? I never thought she’d really go so far as to try to drown me.

  And Luca . . . I thought he was my friend, but he’s no more than a dirty bastard. My mind wanders to my mother’s triumph and my aunts’ hypocritical commiseration. I must look like a psychopath, chasing ghosts through a stormy night. I’m ready to die now. I’m going to die now. I’m dying now.

  But I don’t die. Instead, I walk for miles.

  A few hours before dawn, I finally summon the strength to go back home. I’m tired and soaking wet. I get inside, and Luca is in the kitchen, smoking a cigar and drinking coffee. He looks like he spent a sleepless night. I just hope that Erika had the decency to leave. I don’t even look at him. I don’t even say hi. I go right to my room and sit down on the bed, dripping on the blanket. I don’t have time to unzip my boots before Luca comes in.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asks. I know he’s trying to provoke me. He’s well aware of what sparked my reaction.

  “Nothing. I just want you to get out of my room.” All my anger disappeared while I was walking. Now I’m only left with disappointment and pain.

  “Well, too bad. I’m not leaving. Damn it, Carlotta, you’re acting ridiculous! Why did you come into my room? Were you spying on me? And don’t pull that ‘I demand an explanation’ bullshit with me. You know I hate to feel controlled.”

  “I’m not trying to control you!” I shout, exasperated. “When have I ever said anything like that? I have to listen to your noises every night. There are always random women pissing in my toilet, rummaging through my fridge, stealing my things, and I’ve never said a thing! But please, I’m dying to know . . . Of all the women in the world, why did you feel the need to sleep with my sister? Did you really have to go on the Ride of the Valkyries with Erika?”

  “For your information, she came here and ripped my pants off!”

  “Oh, you poor thing! Don’t pretend like she violated you. Are you some kind of animal in heat, one that absolutely has to satisfy its carnal instincts?”

  My words, in my jumble of emotions, are vulgar and harsh. Luca runs around the room like a hurricane, still shirtless and smoking with ferocity.

  “And you think you’re so much better than me? What good does your hypocritical holier-than-thou attitude do for you? ‘Oh, I don’t sleep with anyone unless it means something. Oh, other women are sluts, but I’m so chaste. I’m just waiting for my prince.’ And then some guy comes along and gives you some shitty compliment. You don’t know anything about anything, so you go along with it, and he makes you puke when he kisses you!”

  His nastiness and words all baffle me. But I won’t let him win.

  “It’s not the same thing! I’m talking about my sister. I’m not telling you what to do with your dick; just don’t put it in Erika! Even with all your theories about doing it with people to avoid complications, you thought you could just do my sister and it wouldn’t matter? Don’t you see how complicated it is? My whole family thinks we’re together. Did you forget that? And now they think that my boyfriend has to cheat on me because I can’t satisfy him. Poor Carlotta, the loser, who finally had sex for the first time when she was twenty just to get rid of her virginity. Poor Carlotta who can’t keep a man, who will die without ever having kids because only a complete Neanderthal would want to procreate with her. Who’s only ever been with grabby Catello and drooling Tony Boni! Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Wrinkles knot between his eyebrows as he stares at me. He bites his lower lip and asks me a stupid question that exasperates me.

  “Did you sleep with Tony?”

  “You know, Luca, I think you’re right,” I say. “It’s useless for me to pose as a prude, because the truth is, I like sex. I like sex a lot. If I want to sleep with a man, I will. Isn’t that your go-to advice? Haven’t you told me millions of times to just go out with somebody? I think the time has come to act on that advice.”

  “So is that a yes?”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he says. “Is that a yes?”

  “Are you jealous or something?” I say, trying to provoke him.

  “Carlotta!” He spreads his arms, apparently discouraged and sick of me. “Is that what you think? That is so fucking ridiculous. Jealous? Me? Over you? If I wasn’t so pissed off, that would make me laugh. I even gave you a condom before you left, remember? Excuse me for caring about you. From now on, I’m just going to mind my own business. You should do the same.”

  He leaves the room, whisking his cigar and his anger away with him. It’s as if, suddenly, a mountain collapses on our home. I hear him slam his bedroom door and collapse on his bed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decides to move out, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he asks me if I want him to. Right now, I just lay my head down on the pillow and try to fall asleep.

  I’m still cold even with my pajamas on, so I seek refuge under the covers. Submerged and alone, I let myself cry. No one can spy on me here. A part of my soul, perhaps the best part, disappears along with my tears.

  NINE

  “Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur! Happy kitty, sleepy kitty, purr, purr, purr . . .”

  Neither Sheldon Cooper nor his mother is singing this song to me. It’s Emma. I don’t know how she learned it, but she sings it with conviction, as if it were a spell that will heal my invisible wounds. The morning after that awful night, I took a taxi straight to Lara’s. I need Emma’s innocence. I need this hushed peace. She caresses me and sings to me even though she doesn’t know what’s bothering me. But it only lasts until she goes off to kindergarten for the day. Then Lara and Giovanna decide to hold a war council. They plot revenge sitting around the sofa where I’m curled up.

  “What Luca’s done is unforgivable, but your sister is a grade-A bitch,” Giovanna growls. With her high-heeled boots, she’s almost as tall as the ceiling—and formidable.

  “Yes, but Luca is a pig. As usual, he just thinks with his little head, not his big head,” Lara mutters. She’s not very tall, but the anger she’s accumulated against all the men on the planet makes her seem like a giant.

  “But how do you explain all this shit?” Giovanna asks me. “I mean, you and Erika are sisters! This behavior is just so exaggerated. Are you sure you didn’t do anything to provoke them?”

  “He must have forced her into it,” Lara says. “If men are even remotely decent-looking, they think they can do whatever they want.”

  “It didn’t seem forced,” I murmur, remembering how Erika’s back danced. “Luca doesn’t have to force women. I don’t know, guys. I often wonder what I did, but I’ve never figured it out. We were like two peas in a pod when we were kids. Then she grew up and became beautiful. Our mother taught her what she had wanted to teach me and couldn’t—to use my looks to get what I want. It was like Erika was brainwashed, and it was only a matter of time before funny, weird Carlotta wasn’t worthy of her presence anymore. Then she enrolled in private scho
ol and started hanging out with catty girls. We just drifted apart.”

  “You know what I think of your mother,” Lara says. “She’s horribly sexist. She only values women if they’re the eighth wonder of the world. Who knows what she put in Erika’s mind? Of course, her classmates probably didn’t help, either. That’s why my daughter is going to public school and why she’ll never have anything expensive until she can buy it with her own money. But you have to kick Luca out immediately. You can’t keep turning a blind eye. If you weren’t in love with him, you’d never excuse his behavior. He transforms your apartment into a brothel every night. Let me look over the lease, and I’ll dismantle it in two seconds so you can kick him out on his ass.”

  Giovanna immediately sides with Lara. “This has been going on for such a long time. It makes no sense, Carlotta. Are you hoping that one day he’ll fall in love with you? That only happens in the movies. In real life, he’s going to keep this up until he’s fifty.”

  “Luca’s not like that,” I declare, surprising myself.

  “Not like what?” Lara looks like a lioness whose cubs were just threatened.

  “He’s not bad,” I insist, knowing that’s a contemptible opinion. And how could it not be? I came here with mascara running down my cheeks, my hair in tangles, and a cry for help streaming from my lips. I can’t expect my best friends, who have both taken the day off work to be with me, to show any kindness toward the person who ruined me. Especially when the air is foggy with “I told you so.” But I just can’t think badly of Luca. I can’t hate him. A part of me knows he is a better man than his actions show.

  “Please,” I whisper, my eyes burning with tears again. “Can you stop giving me advice? I know it’s for my own good, but can you just treat me like Emma did for a little bit? I swear I’ll really think it all over. I’ll figure out what to do about Luca. But right now I just want to sleep and cry—and sleep some more.”