When in Rome

by Giusti, Amabile

  “So that’s why you haven’t spoken to me in days,” I whisper.

  “Well, you weren’t exactly talkative.”

  “You’re right. The silence helped me reflect. I was really confused,” I say. “But now I feel sure that it was a mistake. It won’t happen again. And I can tell that you feel bad, or that you’re worried you disappointed me, or something, but don’t worry. I have no hard feelings or delusions. We’re adults. So let’s move on and not talk about this anymore, okay?”

  He seems to try to read my mind with an intense look. Then he runs his fingers through his hair and clears his throat.

  “All right. Let’s move on. I was stupid. But you learn from your mistakes, and it won’t happen again. You can be sure of that.”

  I force myself to smile even though it hurts my jaw. I’m going to fix this grin on my face and keep it there as he goes back to his life. I try to save my pride and dignity by pretending that I don’t care and that I’m okay with just being friends.

  Yet I feel even sadder than before. I can’t tell Lara or Giovanna anything, because I already know what they’d say. They’d blame everything on Luca. How could I argue with that? I can’t tell them that I wasn’t being reckless, that I was in love, or that I’d do it a thousand times over—even knowing how it’d turn out. They’d book me for the next available appointment with the local shrink. Or maybe they’d cry with me. I don’t know. But I don’t want anger or compassion from them. I just want silence.

  Fortunately, work gets me out of the apartment—searching for furniture for the set and trying desperately to track down the last doll in the collection, only to realize that it can’t be found.

  One day, I help Iriza paint the backdrop at the theater. We work like crazy, and before long we’re covered in paint splatters. I don’t feel much like talking. Physical effort, concentration, and the cacophony of Rocky’s voice all do me good. Iriza tries to ask me if everything’s okay, and I flash her a smile to let her know that it is. But while I’m painting the portrait of Laura’s father—who abandoned his wife and children with no warning, only a terse note reading good-bye—my strength vanishes. Men are like that, in fiction and in real life. They take you, use you, deceive you just long enough for you to bear their children, and then they vanish. Your children turn out strange, and people look down on you because you couldn’t keep your marriage going. And yet you still keep their picture hanging over the fireplace.

  I never cry in public if I can help it, especially if said public includes a pain in the ass like Rocky, and I struggle to stop myself. The tears well up, but I refuse to let them win. I’ve cried enough.

  “I’m going to smoke a cigarette,” I say to Iriza.

  “You smoke?” she says.

  “No, but I can always start.”

  I head outside; it’s cold and windy. Why is the weather always like this when I’m sad? Is this nature’s way of expressing solidarity with me? Is nature depressed by the state of my heart? If the sun were shining, the birds chirping, and the flowers blooming, would I be able to see the world in anything else but black and white? I lean on a wall. Someone walks by, and I ask him for a cigarette. He offers me one mechanically and gives me a light, as if used to the question. As he walks away, I take a drag and, as expected, choke and sputter.

  A hand gently beats me on the back. It’s Iriza.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “Remember my theory about Penelope and Circe?” I say.

  She smiles and nods.

  “I tried to be a little bit like Circe, and I guess it didn’t work.”

  “Romantic troubles?”

  I sigh. “All I can do is think about him, but at best, he just thinks of me as a big mistake.”

  Before Iriza can say anything, someone cuts her off. It’s Rose. She grabs the cigarette from my hand and smokes gleefully.

  “What’s going on, girls? What’s the scoop? Are we talking about boys?”

  The question comes out of my mouth before I know why I’m asking it. “Have you ever fallen in love?”

  For a moment, Rose looks exactly like what she is: an old woman with heavy baggage that includes memories and the fear of death. She takes a long drag on the cigarette, which wrinkles her face like an accordion, and then speaks as the smoke filters through her nose and mouth.

  “Yes, once. I was the costume designer for a big theater in Bari, and there was this beautiful actor who was Iago in Othello. He played the part of the traitor so perfectly. By the time I realized he wasn’t performing at all, it was too late.”

  “Did he betray you?”

  “He said all the things he had to say to get me into bed. Do yourselves a favor, ladies. Don’t trust guys like Iago. Don’t fall in love with them.”

  “Don’t you have any good memories of him left?”

  “Oh, sure. Rocky, my grandson.”

  She throws the cigarette on the ground and crushes it with the tip of an orthopedic shoe before heading back inside. Iriza and I don’t say anything for a while. Maybe love is good to some people, but how many? And how long does that happiness last? Apparently for me, just long enough to have the best sex of my life. Love is destined to leave wounds and scars.

  “Franz is going to ask you out,” Iriza suddenly says, interrupting my thoughts.

  “What?”

  “He’s not an Iago, trust me.”

  “Ask me out? What do you mean?”

  “I told you that he likes you, didn’t I?”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  I’m speechless. Iriza’s smile seems totally natural, and I wonder if I was mistaken about her feelings for Franz. In any case, I don’t want to be with him. Not just for me, and not just for Iriza, but also for Franz. Because my heart belongs to another.

  “I’m absolutely sure that you’re wrong,” I say. “But if you’re right, I hope he doesn’t. I can’t deal with it right now. I hope he asks out some other girl who is more deserving of him than I am.”

  “I hope he does, and I hope you say yes.”

  “Are you serious? I’m not the right woman for him!”

  Iriza smiles slightly and shakes her head, her long red hair swaying. The freckles on her cheeks look like poppy seeds. “I know that, but he needs to figure it out for himself.”

  “So you want him to find out the hard way?”

  “Yeah, something like that. You guys would have fun, but he’d understand that you’re not a good match. There’s nothing worse than fighting for a love that never has the chance to blossom. We tend to idealize the people who never get the opportunity to disappoint us. So if he asks you out, I hope you say yes. You have my blessing.”

  If I could close my eyes and press a reset button on my heart, banishing Luca to make room for Franz, I would be the happiest person in the world. But I just can’t do it. There’s another reason, apart from my feelings. While my period is usually very punctual, I seem to have missed it this month. When Luca asked me after we slept together if I was ovulating, I said no, but I lied. I lied on purpose. I wasn’t ready to face the facts.

  The pregnancy test I bought is still in my purse. I don’t know why I haven’t used it yet. Maybe it’s because I’m not ready to find out. I know I should hope that this test comes out negative and thank my lucky stars if it does. Any normal woman in my position would—I’m almost thirty, my job pays me peanuts, I’m single, I slept with someone who took off exactly six minutes after he finished and has barely said one word to me since. But there must be something crazy in my DNA. The thought that new life might be growing inside me intoxicates me in a weird way. I wonder if it’s maternal instinct or fear that this is my last batch of eggs before I hit menopause. Or just that I might be carrying Luca’s child. Ah, yes. Luca hates me, and I’m secretly hoping to have his baby. I’m insane.

  Emma’s birthday party is today. G
iovanna said she couldn’t come because of work, but I suspect she invented an excuse. Some people are afraid of spiders, snakes, or vacuum cleaners, but Giovanna—a very brave and determined woman—is terrified of little brats, especially in large numbers.

  When I get to Lara’s house, I’m greeted by a band of tiny screaming humans running amok; I instantly have chocolate stains all over my skirt. Emma hugs me, forcing me to stoop down to her height (which, to be honest, isn’t that much lower than mine). She’s thrilled with my present, a new book of fables and a makeup bag with raspberry lip gloss inside. I help Lara mind the little guests and keep them from launching cake into the walls with paper towel slings. Amid the chaos, I listen to Lara complain about how cruel her former husband is.

  “He didn’t even call to wish her a happy birthday!” she says in front of the other mothers, who listen enthusiastically. “He’s probably in bed with some new perky-boobed whore. What a bastard.”

  “All men are. No exceptions,” says one mother. She’s a wiry woman with a stern face and hair the color of egg yolks. “After eight years of marriage, my ex decided that he prefers Brazilian asses! So why did he marry me? I’ve never had a Brazilian ass!”

  “It’s not about your ass,” another mother says. She’s petite and looks like a gnome. “It’s the opposites theory. If you’re tall, your husband will screw someone short. If you’re a D cup, he’ll find someone flat-chested. If you’re a housewife, he’ll worship a career woman. Men always want the exact opposite of what they have—so they can always say you weren’t fulfilling their expectations.”

  “If you think that’s the worst, then you’ve gotta listen to me,” another woman says, sounding like she’s dying to spill her juicy secret. “After we were engaged for three years, lived together for two, and married for four, my husband suddenly discovered that he prefers men!”

  I wonder if Lara only invited grumbling ex-wives who have been abandoned by scoundrels. I listen as they share horror stories of loneliness, one-night stands, and children who still wet the bed, imagining myself as a single mother of twin boys—with the hair on my legs starting to curl because I haven’t had time to shave. Shit, I’m screwed. I’ll have to quit my job, or worse, entrust my mother with my children. If it’s a girl, my mother will make sure she’s a tramp; if it’s a boy, she’ll turn him into a womanizer. My stomach will be forever soft, and I’ll no longer be able to bend over to tie my shoes.

  It’s hopeless.

  I get up, head spinning. It’s time to end this torture. I grab my purse from its child-safe place on top of the fridge. Then I lock myself in the bathroom and pull out the device. This plastic blue-and-white wand will tell me if I’ll be able to shave my legs or not for the next few years. I follow the directions. There isn’t anything about how to tear your hair out if you don’t get the response you want. Three minutes pass—I read the clear writing that has materialized like invisible ink. Not pregnant.

  No tiny human in my belly. I don’t know what to feel. Relief? Pain? I sit down on the toilet. Lara knocks on the door.

  “Are you okay, Carlotta? You’ve been in there a long time! Did you fall in?”

  I shove the test in my purse and go out, no longer in the mood to listen to the complaints of the mothers in the living room. I can understand the discomfort of living without a partner, but not the woes of raising children. I must look even weirder than usual, because Lara looks at me apprehensively. I smile. Life is good. I’m not pregnant. My stomach will stay flat. I won’t have to anoint my stretch marks with oil, I won’t have to buy underwear specially made for hippos, and I won’t have to pee seven times a minute. It’s all good. I feel free.

  I stay a little longer. As Emma chases after a teasing boy, I’m almost tempted to pull her aside and tell her that men shouldn’t be pursued. At least not so openly. You can suffer at the thought of losing them; you can wish for a one-night stand to get you pregnant; you can wear a groove into the floor as you pace, waiting for them to return; you can smell sweaters left behind on chairs; but you shouldn’t chase them . . . You must be humble and disciplined. Take me, for example. I pretend to be strong, even though I’ve been thrown away like a used condom. I’m a real woman. I don’t chase men.

  I say good-bye to everyone and leave. It’s a long journey home without a car, but the evening is mild. I’m wearing a cotton beret, a lightweight coat, a dress, and ankle boots . . . and I’m not pregnant. I must celebrate.

  I enter the first bar I see—since I don’t have any children to take care of at home, I can drink as much as I want. It’s small and smoky inside, and most of the patrons have six piercings each and tank tops that emphasize their bodybuilder biceps. The few women here, gathered around the pool tables, are wearing shorts and studded vests. But I don’t really care.

  I order a drink from the bartender, who has very bushy eyebrows that I worry will fall off. A guy comes up to me while I’m nursing my drink. He has the leathery appearance of an old oak tree, and the inscription on his T-shirt is the antithesis of style: I’m not a dick, but I can put one in you. Impressive wordplay. He gives me a compliment, and then asks me what a girl like me is doing in a place like this. So I tell him the truth. I tell him that I’m celebrating the fact that I’m not pregnant. I tell him that the man I love slept with me a few nights ago, but now he hates me. I tell him that I don’t really care what happens to me after I leave this bar. And I cry as I pour my heart out to him, a total stranger. When I’m finished, he looks at me right in the eye and gives me one piece of advice.

  “Baby, that guy is not for you. You need to get rid of him, otherwise you’ll be imprisoned forever.”

  I don’t doubt that the biker prophet’s advice has two meanings—the second being that he wouldn’t mind taking Luca’s place—but his advice resonates with me all the same. I grab a bus home, my breath reeking of gin and my head spinning. I’ll sleep a little before I make a decision about Luca. But when I get home, I realize that sleep will have to wait.

  Luca is home, and he’s not alone. His coat and a woman’s dress are strewn on the floor. I freeze, hearing voices from his room. What the fuck? Is he actually having sex? When I was this close to being the mother of his twin boys? I’m going to kill him. I try to count to ten, but I only get to three.

  I fling his bedroom door open. He’s lying on his back and she’s lying on her side. They seem to be talking. He’s granted her the luxury of conversation! My entrance startles both of them. The girl jumps out of bed immediately, stunned, but it takes Luca a moment to register what’s going on, probably because he’s still dulled from the languor of sex. Then he covers himself up—although I don’t know why. Both women here have seen everything there is to see.

  I take this moment to exclaim, “I just wanted to let you know that I’m not pregnant.”

  I leave the door open on purpose as I leave. Luca springs up, yanks on his boxers, and strides out to intercept me, disheveled and furious in a way that frightens me. The girl comes out, too, even though she’s naked, covering her breasts with her hands.

  “Carlotta! What are you talking about? Have you been drinking?” he asks me.

  “Maybe, but that’s none of your business. The real question is: Who the fuck is that?”

  He gives me a disdainful look. “None of your business, either. I don’t need your permission.”

  “Oh yes you do!” I shout. “I’m sick of the women you bring here, and I’m sick of sharing my apartment! You need to leave. Not tomorrow. Now. Get your stuff and your condom collection, and get out of my sight.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice!” He’s shouting, too. “Do you think I enjoy living with a lunatic? You know what? You need a brain scan! One day you’re all, like, ‘sleep with whoever you want, it’s not like we’re dating, we’re adults,’ and now it’s the opposite? What are you, some kind of schizo? Are you expecting a marriage proposal just because we
slept together once?”

  “Marriage? I’d rather go back to Tony. Do you really think I’ve spent the last few nights thinking only about Luca’s tight little ass? Let me tell you something, my dear. You were nothing memorable!”

  He laughs loudly. “Says the woman who’s as frigid as an icicle! I really think that the other night was the first orgasm you’ve ever had.” He’s never been this cruel.

  “This conversation is over,” I declare. “Luca, I want you to go.”

  “You’re damn right I’m going! I’m sick of you. You know what? You were terrible in bed. You were the worst sex I’ve ever had.”

  I think my vocal cords have imploded—I can’t speak. Luca balls up his fists, staring at me. The girl snatches up her dress from the floor and disappears into the bathroom. I don’t add anything else to this deafening, final silence and make my way to my room. My legs feel funny. I have to hug the door to keep from falling.

  I lock myself inside and stand there, the doorknob pressing into my back, for what seems like forever. I listen to every single noise outside. Luca gets dressed, violently opens his closet, and throws his stuff into a bag. Then I hear the door slam.

  He’s gone. That’s it. Now it’s too late. I lose my balance and slump to the floor like a withered flower. I feel so awful that I can’t even manage to cry.

  FIFTEEN

  Here I am, as charming as a chipped urinal, with bags under my eyes as dark as ripe eggplants. I’ve been cooped up for a week, and the tears still haven’t dried up. I’ve eaten all the pitted olives and capers in the pantry. I’ve been sleeping in his room. I’ve kept the windows closed to trap his scent in here. Since Luca left, my mind has abandoned me. I don’t even know what day it is. I have been wallowing.