When in Rome
Page 16
“I’m fine. It’s nothing serious. I am often subject to these kinds of ailments, but my children are both so apprehensive . . .”
“Luca loves you very much, Mrs.—”
“Oh, call me Lorenza, dear.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
“You must love Luca very much, too.”
“Well, sure—”
“This is the first time he’s brought a girl home.”
“But we . . . I mean . . . We’re just friends.”
She ignores my explanation as if it doesn’t matter, and I’m starting to think that she’s right—it doesn’t. Friendship is even more rare than true romantic love, and it makes my presence in this house special. Lorenza gives me an exhausted smile before continuing.
“No, come to think of it, he did bring a rather odd young woman home once, but it was just to spite his father. He was eighteen. He couldn’t even remember her name when she was here. He’ll never forget your name, though, that’s for sure. He couldn’t stop talking about you at the hospital.”
“Really?” I ask, turning red in spite of myself. Damn it.
“Yes, my dear. You just need to be patient and understanding with him. He has the potential to turn into Prince Charming, but he needs to see for himself that love exists. He didn’t have a good example of that growing up, so that’s why he might seem unfeeling.”
I consider telling her again that we’re just friends, that her speculations are all a misunderstanding, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “I will be. I’ll be patient and understanding. I’ll love him forever.”
Lorenza grasps my hand and gives me a look that’s maternal and affectionate. Just then, Luca enters the room. I hope with all my heart that she doesn’t say something like, “Your girlfriend is a wonderful girl, and she told me that she’ll love you forever,” which would smash me as flat as a rug. I jump to my feet as if thorns are pushing up through the bench.
“I have to finish getting ready,” I say to her. “I’ll see you at dinner?”
“No, I’ll be eating in here. I’m not yet strong enough to make it up and down the stairs.”
“Oh. Good night, then.”
I lean in to kiss her cheek and leave her with her son. In an antique mirror in the hallway, I see the love written on my face. I wonder why on earth Luca can’t see it when everyone else clearly can. I’m not just an open book: I’m a book with large-print text. I should have stayed home. I shouldn’t have come here. This trip has been the final straw.
Luca’s voice rings out suddenly. “Is everything okay?”
I gasp and realize that he’s standing next to me. He hasn’t shaved, and he’s wearing a white shirt and faded jeans. I’m as sure that he deliberately chose his informal outfit as I’m sure his father is not going to like me.
“Everything’s great. Your mom is really something.”
“Did you tell her something funny?” Luca asks. “She kept laughing to herself, and she wouldn’t tell me why.”
Thank you, Lorenza, for keeping our little secret! “You know how it is,” I say. “People laugh just looking at me because they can see how fun I am.”
“Yes, that you are.”
“And how are things with you?” I ask him.
“A fairy tale.”
“You’re not too thrilled about dinner, are you?”
“It’s that obvious?”
“Kind of. But it’s just one dinner, Luca. You’ll feel better once it’s over. Besides . . .”
“Besides what?”
“Besides . . . I’m here for you, right now and whenever you need me to be. Give me your hand. Just think of me as your mother for the night.”
Luca smiles and looks at me through hair that droops over his eyes. The corner of his mouth raises in a strange smile.
“I could never think of you as my mother. Not tonight, not ever.”
Family dinners at the Morli house are very different from those at the Lieti house. People don’t swarm like an army of locusts. The aunts mind their own business. The young men don’t wear lobster-colored jackets and cartoon character ties. Everything is understated and chic.
Yet my sense of inadequacy is the same. Luca’s father is an austere and beautiful man. I imagine Luca will look just like him in thirty years. But he barely greets me and stares at me suspiciously. The family friends turn out to be three people. There’s a tall and stern-looking middle-aged woman with a single string of black pearls around her neck. Her husband, who must be a military veteran, has tortoiseshell glasses, a goatee, and a chronic cough. Their daughter looks to be about my age. She is exotic-looking and busty, with dark hair, very little makeup, and almond-shaped eyes that make alarm bells ring in my head. Her name is Iolanda, and it’s clear that she wants to eat Luca up. Even more alarming, it seems that everyone has given her their blessing to do so. Her mother keeps alluding to various things that her dear child can do, implying that she’s superior to every other woman on the planet. I get the impression that Luca’s father wouldn’t mind such a union, either.
But Luca doesn’t say a word. I’ve never seen him so silent and aloof. He doesn’t speak for the entire dinner, even when his father reprimands him for his outfit. Meanwhile, Iolanda sizes me up from underneath her eyelashes, trying to decide whether she should consider me a threat.
“I don’t understand what you do,” she says suddenly. “Prop master? Is that a kind of ragman?”
Her mother jumps in, and her tone is not much friendlier. “I knew a Bulgarian woman who did something like that. She collected used things and resold them to street vendors.”
This makes me blush. It’s not that there’s anything unseemly about handling junk or selling used things at flea markets. It’s just that she so obviously said it to offend me. I want to come up with a witty retort to shoot her down, but this isn’t my house, and I don’t want to be rude here. Mr. Morli seems furious, too, but for an entirely different reason—he clearly views me as beneath both his table and his son. Paola opens her mouth to say something, but Luca cuts her off. He addresses Iolanda with a charming smile.
“What about you? Are you still screwing every eligible bachelor in sight?” He takes a sip of wine and basks in the silence that drops over the dining room. “Now, remind me again, why did that last nice young man leave you? Did he find out he was just one of hundreds?”
Iolanda stutters, flushed. Her mother’s eyes widen, and she sways as if drunk. Her father smiles uncertainly, still coughing, but the real threat is Luca’s father.
“Apologize to our guests immediately!” he orders.
“I don’t think so,” Luca replies, starting to lose his cool. “These people shouldn’t even be here. Your wife was just released from the hospital, yet you host a dinner party like nothing has happened. You couldn’t even be bothered to go up and check on her. You know what? I’m leaving. I’m over this shit.”
He gets up, grabs my hand, and pulls me up and away from the table with him. Everyone stares at us, looking a bit green. I hear them start to buzz with shock as Paola follows us to the front door.
“Please, Luca . . . ,” she says.
“I can’t, Paola. Apologize to Mom for me . . . But I really have to leave.” She doesn’t say anything, but two big tears catch in her eyelashes. As we drive off, I realize I’m still wearing Paola’s dress.
Luca stares straight ahead, as if he were alone. From the look in his eyes, I sense that he’s thinking about his past. He’s running away, despite the limitations imposed by the precarious state of his car. Luca rolls down the window, letting in the salty night air as if that alone were enough to blow away the last hour. I lose track of the time and the number of curves we careen around—and the number of times nausea floods my stomach.
Suddenly, Luca looks over at me. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “It’s just that—”
Luca turns to me, and although it’s dark, I can see that he’s giving me a smile that is more powerful than the sun. “You’re very wise, little butterfly. But my father couldn’t handle that both Paola and I left home as soon as we were adults, or that I’m still single, or that I’ve had a million jobs that he considers shameful, or that I’m chasing my dream of becoming a writer. He just thinks it’s all bullshit. I feel sorry for my sister. She’s always trying to make all the pieces fit, and she won’t admit that some of them will never match up. I know that I should try my best not to provoke him, but sometimes I can’t resist.”
“Is that why you dressed like that tonight? Or why you brought home a weird girl when you were eighteen?”
“How do you know about that?” he asks. Calmer now, he’s no longer taking every hairpin turn like a racecar driver.
“Your mother mentioned it to me.” I summon the courage to ask him what’s really on my mind. “Is that why you agreed to let me come with you? Did you know that your father wouldn’t like me?”
He frowns. “Don’t even joke about that. You’re special. You’re my best friend. Please forgive me for what happened tonight—and forgive my father’s friends. They act like they’re above everyone.”
The phrase you’re my best friend makes me feel like a tree trunk being chainsawed by a lumberjack. But still, it’s something. “Don’t worry,” I say in a cheerful voice. “They kind of had a point. My job isn’t exactly glamorous. Like, one time, for an ad for mozzarella cheese, I had to commission a craftsman to make a huge foam cow udder. Or another time, I had to carry a life-size cardboard replica of the statue of David to the theater on the subway. Do you think Iolanda would have appreciated that? By the way, is it true, what you said to her?”
He laughs. “I toned it down. I didn’t want to upset her mother.”
We talk about ourselves and our childhoods for a while. He tells me about the photo of him on the pony at the circus. I have a similar circus photo, but I’m posing—forced by my mother—next to a contortionist who’s tied up like a sailor’s knot, and sobbing. I’ve hated the circus ever since.
After a long time, we finally fall silent. He takes my hand and squeezes it, only releasing me when he needs to shift gears. I wish time would stop.
After two hours of driving, I can tell he’s getting tired, so I suggest that we pull off the road. We find a hotel off the highway and take two adjacent rooms. It’s getting late, so he says good night with a gentle kiss on my cheek.
The room is pretty bleak and cold; it makes me want to get out of here as soon as possible tomorrow. I wrap myself in a blanket. I know I won’t be able to fall asleep anytime soon—the last twenty-four hours’ most exciting highlights are replaying in my head, and headlights from cars outside stripe the room yellow. Then I hear a knock at the door. It’s Luca, with a bottle of wine in his hand.
“Want to drink?” he asks. “I took it from the bar. I think it’s pretty shitty, probably made with poisonous additives. It might kill us.”
“Or it might just give us the shits. I’m in,” I say. “How glamorous.”
He comes in, sits down on the bed, and volunteers to take the first sip. “If I drop dead, don’t drink this.”
“If you drop dead, that’s all the more reason to drink.”
Two drops of bright purple liquid drip down his chin and onto his dirty shirt. He hands the bottle to me and wipes his lips with the back of his hand.
“In the words of a true sommelier . . . that’s some shitty wine!” He laughs. We finish the entire bottle together, all the while giggling goofily. We’re not that drunk, just happy, but we can tell what’s about to happen. Suddenly, Luca turns on his side, his elbow propped on a pillow, and smiles at me. He’s just been joking about how the mattress is as soft as a rock and the duvet as comfortable as sandpaper. And now he slowly strokes my arm with two fingers as if writing something. He starts at my wrist and trails his fingers up to my shoulder. A shiver runs down my spine. Maybe I should tell him to stop. But instead, I lock my mouth shut and throw away the key.
And then it happens. It starts out with an affectionate kiss that lingers, his lips glued to mine. Then his tongue searches inside my mouth. I open my eyes to make sure this is really happening. It really is Luca who is embracing me, who is on top of me. It isn’t a joke anymore. My mother isn’t eavesdropping down the hall. It’s just us, the intermittent glow of headlights, and a hotel manager who won’t even remember our faces. It’s really happening.
His hands touch me, squeeze me, take me. He kisses me as I take my clothes off. He undresses, too, and I take in his gorgeous body incredulously. Is this how it is with every woman? Do his eyes always glow stormy green when he makes love? Is his mouth always this hot and impatient? And is this woman really me? Yes, it is. And I love him. I love everything about him. This miracle of muscle, lips, tongue, and fingertips crowds everything out of my mind but total happiness—I’ve never made love before now. But despite all of this, I feel chaste. He holds me close, stifling a scream in my hair. As we ride the wave together, I know that even if I were to die right this second, I will live forever. The sweat on our skin sticks us together. Luca smiles and says my name.
“Carlotta.”
But happiness is so fleeting.
As soon as it’s over, something breaks. He stares at the ceiling and swallows. We’re silent. The moment is passing, the next one beginning, as I join the ranks of women prohibited from falling asleep on his shoulder. The polar frost chilling between us hurts my heart.
Then Luca jumps out of bed and does what I wish I could have done first. He throws his clothes back on without looking at me. Feeling more than naked—wounded, bleeding, dying—I cover myself with the blanket. I can’t let myself cry. I knew this would happen. He finally turns to me with a guilty look.
“Damn it, Carlotta, I was so stupid!”
Not exactly what I was hoping for. Of course, I didn’t expect a proposal right then and there, but still. A little harsh.
“We did it without a condom. Do you get that?” He paces around the room, rubbing his hands together as if cold. “Do you understand what I’m saying? You don’t need to worry about diseases, because I get checked regularly, and I’ve always been careful. And I’m sure that’s not something I have to worry about with you.”
I nod, head spinning. However reasonable his concerns are, they make me nauseous.
“And what about . . . Well, is this one of those times of the month where you’re . . .”
“No, no, don’t worry.”
“I swear, Carlotta. I’m mortified.”
“Luca, come on. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah, I know. But . . . Fuck! That shouldn’t have happened! It was a mistake. We were drinking, I felt sad, and sadness and alcohol don’t mix well.”
Please, Luca, just leave, I beg him silently. Don’t say another word or I will shatter into a million pieces.
“Carlotta, I just . . . I’d better get back to my room, okay?” He watches me like a hawk. Perhaps he’s concerned about me.
“Yeah, go ahead. It’s fine. No diseases and no babies!” I smile and make a funny face, trying to act like myself so he
can leave guilt-free. He stops in the middle of the room and bites his lip. We’re so far apart, after being so close, and now I don’t know where we stand. I hate him and love him at the same time.
“Luca, don’t take this so seriously. Nothing will change! It was just sex! Good sex, but nothing more.” Still wrapped in the blanket on the bed, I force myself to smile.
“I . . . Yeah, you’re right. You know, I thought that—”
“I wanted something more? Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re you. Because I care about you. Because we’re friends, and—”
“It’s fine. Go back to your room. I wouldn’t get any sleep anyway, if you were here—I’m used to sleeping alone.”
Nodding, he leaves without another word. The headlights wash over me. I grab my pillow and bury my head in it as the sobs let loose. Before long, my sobs synchronize with the road noise. I wish someone would honor my pain by drawing the curtain. But it’s just me and this scratchy blanket. So I have to do it myself.
FOURTEEN
On the trip home, I feel like a beat-up old car that’s just been shit on by a whole flock of birds. Luca and I don’t look at each other, and we don’t talk. Instead, we contemplate the billboards and road signs we pass. I imagine that the Arctic Circle is warmer than the inside of this car.
I can’t deny that I feel sick about it. Luca obviously can’t handle being next to someone he slept with for this long. He doesn’t even stop for bathroom breaks. He is pensive, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and every once in a while he takes a deep breath. As soon as we get home, Luca runs off to the bar—three hours before his shift starts. We’re back in the Cold War. We’ve constructed an invisible Berlin Wall.
Our avoidance behavior lasts for a few days; then, one afternoon, he comes home with the results of his HIV test. He triumphantly exclaims that it’s negative. I can’t even look at him, but as he waves it around like a flag, I realize that it doesn’t make any sense to keep going like this. I have to deal with it. I know what he thinks about sleeping with me from what he said that night. It was a mistake, an oversight, a blunder. All because of alcohol.