“Earplugs?” Iriza and I ask at the same time.
She only smiles and closes the door after pointing us to the garage. Soon we understand what she meant. As we near the garage, we hear music. No, that’s inaccurate, calling it music. It sounds like devil worship. The drums pound, the electric guitars groan, and a male voice sporadically yells a few words over the din.
As the leader of the expedition, I go first and peer cautiously into the garage. The door is up, and I get a whiff of the unmistakable aroma of marijuana. Four young guys are banging on their instruments; I must admit it seems more like the instruments are crying out from suffering than producing music. If I don’t get this taken care of soon, we’ll both be deaf. I march to the middle of the garage, right in front of the drummer, who appears to be a sixteen-year-old delinquent type with eyebrow piercings. But he doesn’t notice me right away. The guitarist nudges the bass player, who kicks the drummer, who throws a stick at the keyboardist, who curses and rubs his head. This all takes a good five minutes. Finally, the racket stops.
“Um, hello.” I greet them with a wave.
Iriza steps forward and simply says, “Hey.”
The guitar player must be the Hitchhiker woman’s son. He’s cute, with long blond hair that’s soaked in gel and probably hasn’t been washed since the end of the last millennium.
“What do you want?” he asks, annoyed.
The bass player, a nerdy-looking teenager who you’d expect to be reciting theorems instead of smoking reefer, hurries to extinguish his cigarette. The keyboardist looks at me askew over the can of Sprite and the half-eaten Mars bar on his keyboard. I explain who we are, and the guitar player lights up.
“Oh, we spoke on the phone!” he exclaims. “Massimo, go get the cardboard box behind my sister’s records.”
Massimo rummages behind a stack of dusty LPs and pulls out a box sealed with scotch tape.
“My sister left for college. I don’t know what’s in the mess she left, and I need money. So I’m selling all her shit. She deserves it.”
I join in purely for fun. “Well yeah, you get what’s coming to you. Hey, can I see what all this shit consists of, exactly?”
The boy nods and allows me to open the box. When I see the contents, I’m caught between the urge to shriek with joy and pretend to be unimpressed. Almost everything we’re looking for is in the box, including the Barbie doll dressed as Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch. I wonder how she got these!
“How much do you want for it?” I ask, trying to sound detached.
“I’d give it to you even if it were gold and diamonds,” he says sarcastically. “You’re doing me a favor. If only you knew what she’s like.”
“I’m getting an idea.”
“Let’s do it this way. I’ll give you the whole lot at half price. Two hundred and fifty euro instead of five hundred . . . If you do me a favor.”
I frown, worried that he’s going to ask me to transport a few pounds of cannabis or show him my tits. If so, he’d better ask Iriza. Mine aren’t worth the discount.
“We wrote a rockin’ song. You’ve gotta hear it.”
I’m instantly transported to a rainy winter Sunday long ago, when I was younger and I was forced to listen to Aunt Porzia singing show tunes.
The drummer kicks the snare. The keyboardist finishes off the Mars bar and the Sprite and belches. The bassist recovers his cigarette and stashes it behind one ear. The guitarist grabs a microphone, struggles with some kind of hard rock gesture, raises an arm, and makes a face like he was sniffing cat poop.
“Go!”
The name of the band is printed on the drum: Fuck & Fuck. The song is quite different from Aunt Porzia’s show tunes, although the boy’s voice does bear a resemblance to hers at times. The lyrics are very refined—a skillful repetition of the same two words that form the name of the band. And actually, there is art in their ability to differentiate between the various types of fuck yous, assigning different meaning to it every time. What a flattering song. It’s all too much. I want them to stop singing. I want to smoke a joint. I can’t read what Iriza wants to do. She’s about to either be sick or burst into laughter. It’s not every day that you’re told such a thing for three minutes and fifty seconds straight, not including the instrumental solos. These are the kind of experiences that breed food for thought.
“Well?” the singer asks proudly when it’s all over.
“Wonderful,” I say. “You’re destined to break out. Give this to your relatives for Christmas, and you’ll end up rich. Actually, if you have a CD on hand, I’d like to buy it for my sister for her birthday. She’s just like yours.”
He doesn’t have a CD, but he’s very pleased with my comment. Two hundred and fifty euro later, I have the Barbies. We leave hastily before they ask us to stick around for another song. Just before we disappear from view, however, I turn around to the boys and call out.
“By the way . . . Fuck you! Right?”
All four boys give me a thumbs-up in approval.
Once we’re far away, Iriza laughs to the point of convulsing. “Franz was right,” she finally gasps.
“What do you mean?”
“He talks about you a lot. He says you’re a total riot. He called you a phenomenon.”
“From a sideshow, maybe.”
“No, he only has great things to say about you. You’re really funny. Nothing like that has ever happened to me.”
“Prepare yourself, then, for a whole lot of madness.”
“That’s why he likes you. Being around you is . . . hilarious.”
“He . . . likes me?” I ask, incredulous.
“Very much! Although he’s never said anything about it. But I can tell. I see the way he looks at you. As soon as you walk into the room, his face lights up.”
Well, now I’m uncomfortable. Even though she’s smiling, Iriza looks so sad. She has clearly misinterpreted everything. I try to dispel the misunderstanding with a shrug.
“I just happen to always find myself in these ridiculous situations, probably because I already look like a clown. Look at me! I don’t even need the wig or the fake nose. I’m just someone that Franz can laugh at.”
Once I get home, I realize with horror that Luca seems to be moving out anyway. There’s a bag on the floor of the foyer, and he’s in the kitchen writing a note. I nearly trip over the bag, almost spilling the dolls from the box.
“Hey,” he says. “I was just writing you a note. I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?” I ask, my voice quivering. If I have to, I’ll wrap myself around his leg to keep him from leaving.
“Home. My mom is sick.” He sounds worried. Now my desire to sequester him feels selfish.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“I hope so, too. She’s in the hospital right now. They’re running tests.”
“It’ll be okay.” And I’m being sincere—I hope that the dear woman heals quickly so that the agony can be wiped off Luca’s face.
“Okay, well, I’m off then. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
I feel broken, already lonely. He hasn’t even moved a foot and the apartment feels like a tomb. I’m worried about him.
“Luca!” I say, just as he’s closing the door. I yank it open. “Can I come with you?”
What a stupid question! Where did I come up with that? Did the marijuana fumes in the garage turn my neurons to mush? I want to take it all back when I see the stunned look on Luca’s face.
“Okay.”
“What? Did you just say okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” he repeats. “But hurry up and grab your things. I want to get going.”
I quickly gather some clean underwear, a toothbrush, and a pair of jeans and shove them all into a plastic bag. We head downstairs. It takes three tr
ies to start Luca’s old car.
I realize that I don’t know where we’re going or anything about his family. He answers my questions reluctantly; he’s from Forte dei Marmi. It’s a bit of a trek, a couple hours away, but it doesn’t matter. I’d trek barefoot all the way to Peru just to be with him.
As we get closer to Forte dei Marmi, Luca grows increasingly nervous. The sun starts to set, and we can hear the crashing of the waves. I try to lighten the mood by telling him the story of Fuck & Fuck, and I’m thrilled when he bursts out laughing. We stop for gas, and after grabbing some sandwiches, we’re back on our way. He laughs again when I turn around to find something in the backseat and his arm accidentally brushes against my ass. I’m feeling happy. After weeks of awkwardness, we are finally relaxed around each other. Everything is perfect inside this ancient, uncomfortable car.
It’s nighttime when we arrive in Forte dei Marmi. During the last stretch, the car sputters and coughs like an asthmatic grandmother, and the radiator light comes on. There’s a salty smell in the air here, and the temperature is mild. Country manors, hotels, and villas line the beach. A long jetty extends out into the sea. The moon is a wafer in the sky. Suddenly, I see a gate, and a man peers inside our car. He’s in uniform—a cop? After checking us out for a second, he apologizes and lets us go. We drive along a boulevard. Luca nervously drums the wheel. Finally, we pull up in front of a castle. Well, it’s not really a castle, as there are no turrets and no moat full of crocodiles. But it’s a giant stone villa with dozens of windows, endless foliage, and a fountain (that features neither Aphrodite nor a naked cherub).
“You . . . live . . . here?” I ask, very slowly.
“Not really. Last time I checked, I live with you in Rome.”
“Yeah, I know, but I mean . . . This is your home?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he replies mysteriously.
We get out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath our feet. A street lamp, topiaries, and the house that seems to never end greet us. Luca grabs his bag; now I’m mortified that my things are in a plastic grocery bag.
A figure appears on the doorstep. It’s a woman, but I don’t think it’s his mother. I need to calm down. It’s not like I’m his girlfriend here to meet the family. I need to stop feeling so uncomfortable. After all, what can happen? They’re not going to ask me to recite multiplication tables or to name all the kings of Rome or to calculate the area of a triangle! But I can sense that something is going to happen. For example, the woman on the doorstep could end up being Paola.
It’s Paola.
I recognize her delicate attractiveness, her short hair, and her graceful manners. I shiver, about to fall over. Luca stops, kisses her on the cheek, and turns to me.
“Paola, this is Carlotta.”
Paola stares at me. She has dark eyes. Her lips stretch into a smile.
“Carlotta, this is my sister, Paola.”
What?
Sister?
Sister?
I repeat the same word in my head a dozen times. How is that possible? I’ve been tormented day and night over his . . . sister? I don’t even understand. With a blank expression I extend my hand. Luca starts asking her about their mother. She’s still in the hospital, but she’s recovering. He asks about their father, but strangely, he calls him “your father.” Paola tells him he’s out of the country on business, but he’ll be back tomorrow. Paola asks me if I’m tired and if I’d like to freshen up before dinner. Then she leads me to the top floor and tells the stern-looking housekeeper to make sure I have everything I need. Giving my plastic bag a disgusted look, the housekeeper escorts me to a huge room. It’s so grand that even the toilet paper in the adjacent bathroom is luxurious. In my work suit I don’t fit in. But I wash up and fix up my pale face in a mirror rimmed with crystal roses. Maybe this is why Luca never really talks about himself. I always thought he was a penniless writer-bartender in search of fortune and a place to live. Now I discover that he’s heir to a throne he doesn’t seem to want!
It’s just the three of us for dinner. We eat right in the kitchen, around a marble island that’s as big as my apartment. I don’t know why, but I feel embarrassed. Despite my usual tendency to say stupid things, I am silent. I listen to them talk and absorb the affection between them, the kind that binds two people who grew up together. It’s what’s missing between me and Erika. But I’m not jealous. Instead I feel a combination of joy and nostalgia. Suddenly, Paola leaves the room and returns with a photo album. An inscription on the blue silk cover reads My brother.
“Put those horrors away! I command you!” Luca exclaims as he slices some bread. But he’s smiling.
“No, Carlotta has to see how hideous you were as a child.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “If it’s too shocking, I can reciprocate with photos of my Aunt Ermellina after a perm.”
I’m actually not shocked at all. Luca was beautiful even as a child. I flip through the album as though it were a treasure chest. It shows his entire history: Luca as a child in his mother’s arms, Luca at age six or so on a piebald pony, his arms around the pony’s neck. He looks innocent and ecstatic; even the pony seems to be smiling. Luca as a teenager, already so tall that he towers over all his classmates in the class picture. He must have attended a private school, as they’re all wearing uniforms and posed on a grand staircase. He’s not laughing in this picture. His eyes betray some deep disappointment. Then I find pictures that seem to be from a photo shoot. He must be about twenty. Wearing designer jeans and an open shirt, he’s striking a classic model pose with one hand in his pocket and the other in his hair. No smile, but a pout that conjures suggestive thoughts.
“You were a model?” I ask, surprised and kind of irritated because it’s something he has in common with Erika. Luca rolls his eyes.
“I just did the one job, I swear. I tried it when I was nineteen. I was about to sign a contract with Elite. But after three months in that environment, I decided to go to Abruzzo to detox.”
I want to hug him, but I refrain since Paola is staring at us. Actually, she’s staring at me. I’ve caught her watching me with a smile on her face from time to time. Perhaps she finds me funny? That’s my cross to bear. I’m the funny one. No one ever takes me seriously. But finding out about Luca’s past makes my heart melt. I’ve discovered for sure that there’s so much more to him than I already knew. I just don’t know how I’m going to get over him. We spend the rest of the evening sharing stories and memories.
When we say good night in the doorway of my room, however, Luca brushes his lips against my forehead. He hugs me for a moment. I feel a minefield where my heart should be. He quickly steps back and looks at me with the eyes from his school picture, that same hard expression.
“Get some rest,” he urges, and disappears along with his shadow.
THIRTEEN
Luca and Paola stay at the hospital until late afternoon. I eat lunch by myself while the housekeeper judges my table manners. Afterward, I take a walk through the garden. I can hear the sound of the ocean, but all I see is perfectly trimmed lawns, endless roses, and stone benches.
I hope Luca’s mom is okay. I’m feeling protective of him, and it surprises me. I don’t know what it means, but it adds another dimension to my feelings for him. I don’t feel just passion for him. There’s tenderness, something I wasn’t prepared for. Love is such a mess! You think you’re over it, but it’s just a bottomless pit. I head back inside as the sun starts to set.
Paola tells me that their mother is back from the hospital. “Would you like to meet her before dinner? She can’t come downstairs because she’s still weak, but we talked about you, and she wants to meet you.”
For some reason I feel embarrassed. I’m just a friend. And meeting Luca’s mom shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s not like I’m meeting my future mother-in-law, right?
“Of course. I’d love t
o.”
“My father will be at dinner,” she adds, her voice turning shrill. “He and Luca don’t exactly have the best relationship. So if it feels like an atomic bomb is about to explode, just pretend not to notice.”
I think of my mother and Erika and their innate ability to make me feel like shit. “Don’t worry, I know what that’s like.”
“Some of our family friends will be here, too,” she goes on. “They don’t see Luca very much, so when they found out he was here, they insisted on coming over.”
“Oh . . .” I whisper. “I hope I’m not putting you out. You know, this was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I was still wearing my work clothes when I left! Back home, inviting family friends over means that sixty people will show up, half dressed in feathers and sequins, and when they get drunk, they try to involve the sober half in some absurd contest, like who can gargle longer.”
I wonder what’s wrong with me as all of that comes out. It’s true, but did I really need to tell her?
“It’s not a problem. But if it would make you feel better, I’d be happy to let you borrow one of my dresses.”
“That’d be great, but your housekeeper will have to shorten it a bit.”
Paola smiles and I feel foolish. We choose a simple turquoise sheath dress, and she helps me turn the empress’s gown into a Smurf’s frock by taking it in and shortening it. The fact that she indulges my nonsense is a sign of her kindness.
I don’t see Luca until evening, and I can’t deny that I’m nervous. I have a nagging feeling that his father won’t like me. His mother, however, loves me. My heart pounds as I enter her room like a child who has been called to the principal’s office. It’s just the two of us. Her room is upholstered in delicate lilac silk. There is no evidence that a man sleeps here; she and her husband must occupy separate bedrooms. She is lying on a bench at the foot of the bed, wrapped in a green kimono that perfectly complements her pale complexion and long, graying hair. As soon as she sees me, she stands up and comes over.
“Oh, no, sit down. I’ll come over there,” I say gently. She looks like a classical dancer. Her steps are soft, her wrists are thin, and she’s wearing no makeup. I ask her how she’s feeling.
When in Rome Page 15