When in Rome

by Giusti, Amabile

  Right as our lips are about to touch, the door of the house swings open. Franz and I jump apart. An elderly gentleman frowns at us.

  “Come inside,” he says.

  For a moment, I feel like I’m in a horror movie. I can only hope Leatherface isn’t hiding in here. But we soon discover that the man who stopped our kiss is precisely the man we were looking for. His skin is sunburnt, and his eyes are gray like slate. The interior of the house must have been beautiful once, but now it looks abandoned and so dusty that you could write out an entire Homer poem on the furniture with your finger. The man doesn’t say anything, but he beckons us to follow him into another room.

  Franz and I look at each other, puzzled. He doesn’t look dangerous. I don’t think he’s concealing any weapons, and I’m sure Franz could take him out in a heartbeat if he ends up being a psychopath. When he opens the door, my heart stops. It’s a little girl’s room. It’s neat, clean, and a little bit old-fashioned. It looks like something out of a TV show from the ’80s. The entire room is pink, from the bedspread to the chandelier to the cabinet doors. And it’s a shrine to Barbie’s world. Barbie accessories are everywhere—on the shelves, the bedside table, the floor, the desk . . . Barbie’s house, Barbie’s horse, Barbie’s dog, dozens of Barbie’s dresses hanging on a tiny rack. There’s even a Barbie tea parlor and a Barbie bathtub with soap bubbles. The Barbie dolls lying around don’t seem to be particularly rare, and they’ve obviously been played with quite a bit.

  Then, there, on the bed, I see the one I’m looking for. That mythical chimera. The first Barbie doll, in perfect condition, as if just removed from her box. She’s sitting on a cushion, looking at us with eyes that I’m sure are the gateway to many secrets. This whole thing is just too much. I am afraid to touch her, for fear of breaking her.

  “She loved that doll,” the old man whispers to me. “She played with it like it was made of glass. She treated it with respect.”

  He ends up telling us the story behind all of this. Thirty years ago, his granddaughter was thirteen. She was developmentally delayed. While her body aged, her desires and faculties remained anchored at that age of innocence. Desperate and unprepared, her parents wanted to send her to a facility, but her grandfather insisted that she live with him. He cared for her here and made sure she was comfortable and happy. Her life was filled with pure air, unconditional love, and a magical world of castles, stables, fancy cars, princess dresses, and dreams.

  Years later, the girl became very ill, and the doctors said there was no hope. Her grandfather wanted to fulfill her greatest wish: to own the original Barbie doll. He bought a computer, hooked it up to the Internet, and finally tracked down a French collector who had this special doll. He sold all of the land he owned, except for the plot where he currently lives, to buy that doll. His granddaughter died a year later. It’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard. I realize I’ve been crying silently while he talks. He reminds me of my father, which makes me cry even harder.

  “Excuse me,” I say, wiping away my tears.

  “It’s fine,” he replies. “I heard what you said outside. You said something that struck me: ‘You don’t have to be a woman to be maternal.’ I agree with that. And I know that Laura would have, too.”

  I can’t believe what I just heard. His granddaughter’s name was Laura, just like the protagonist in our production! I tell him this, as well as why we’re really here.

  “You can take it,” he murmurs. “It’s a gift. Provided that you take good care of her. I get the feeling that you understand, that your father must have been there when your mother wasn’t.”

  Do I understand? Do I ever. I want to ask him to come back with us so he doesn’t have to stay here alone while the dust gathers in all the rooms except this one. But I don’t say anything, because I also know that you can’t change the past. So we leave him there, in front of his house surrounded by sunflowers, waving good-bye.

  It’s now evening, and we’ve returned from our trip. I cradled the Barbie doll in my arms the entire ride back, alternately crying and napping. Franz must not think I’m a ray of sunshine after this. But there are more clouds inside my mind than I let on.

  “I decided something,” he tells me as he pulls up in front of my apartment. “I want to dedicate the show to that man’s granddaughter. I’ll write it on the playbill. What do you think?”

  “That’s a wonderful idea.”

  “I’ll even reserve a front-row seat for him. I’ll send him an invitation to come to Rome at our expense. But I don’t think he’ll come.”

  “I don’t think so, either,” I say. “But he’ll hold onto it, and he’ll tell Laura everything when they finally meet again.”

  Franz smiles gently. “Before, when he opened the door, we—”

  “Yeah,” I interrupt—we both know what we’re talking about. The almost-kiss. “Maybe it just wasn’t the right time yet,” I whisper. “That’s okay.”

  “So there will be a right time?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” I smile sincerely.

  “Do you want me to come in with you and make sure there’s no bad guys hiding in your apartment?”

  “Thanks, but no need. The bad guys know there’s nothing to steal at my place.”

  “As you wish. Get some sleep. I’ll see you at the theater.”

  He leans toward me and kisses me on the cheek. He waits for me to open the door before he drives off. A perfect gentleman. I climb the stairs tiredly. My eyes are puffy, and my heart is heavy from all the emotions of this strange day. I open the door and go inside. And then terror paralyzes me. I should have listened to Franz.

  The hall light is on, and I know for sure it was off when I left this morning. Noises come from Luca’s room. And then Luca himself appears in the doorway with his laptop under his arm. He’s wearing jeans, a leather jacket, and Doc Martens with no laces. His hair is a little longer, and he’s grown some facial hair. His expression is, simply put, hostile. I suddenly feel like a drug addict who’s fallen off the wagon. How do you kill love? If there’s a way, would someone just tell me what it is? Seeing him again is enough to make me feel like I’m finally able to breathe after holding my breath for so long.

  “Beautiful fresco,” he says venomously, alluding to my painting on the wall of what used to be his room. “It speaks volumes about what you think of me and of us. Better than a thousand words.”

  Anger bubbles up out of me. “What are you doing here?” I ask him, completely ignoring his words about the painting. It’s my home, and I can paint whatever the hell I like.

  “I came to get my laptop. I forgot it here. I buzzed the intercom, but you weren’t here. Were you out for a walk?”

  “I can go wherever I damn well please. Give me the keys.”

  Luca giggles and takes a few steps toward me. His boots squeak on the ceramic tile. I step back without knowing why.

  “I saw you with the blond guy. Are you fucking him?”

  I hate it when he’s this crass, so I decide to fire back. “Do you have everything? I hope so, because I’m having the locks changed. If you try to come back, I’ll call the cops.”

  In response, he takes a few more steps toward me. I’m basically trapped between him and the wall. Only Barbie is between us, still cradled in my arms.

  “Are you sleeping with him?” Luca asks again. I feel strange, kind of like hot liquid wax. We are so close to each other that anyone observing us would think we were full of love, not hatred and resentment. I shove him back and walk away with force.

  “Go away,” I order him, shocked at how firm I sound. He shakes his head and scoffs, then runs a hand through his hair and pulls his keys from his pocket. He drops them on the counter dismissively and leaves, slamming the door so hard the walls shake.

  I lock the door and pull the latch. I realize that I’m trembling. I slide to the ground and curl up in
the fetal position. I hope I never have to see Luca again. I don’t ask for much, so I’m asking for just this one little thing: that our paths divide so I can get back to my old self. I need to be the old Carlotta again. I don’t know how much longer I can stand to be this weepy mess.

  SEVENTEEN

  Franz and I haven’t had a chance to talk privately over the last few days, which is good, because I wouldn’t know what to say to him. In my opinion, the interruption of our kiss was providential. The cosmic forces do not want us to be together. And neither do I. I’m sure Iriza doesn’t either, although she continues to pretend that it doesn’t bother her. She asks about our trip and merely shrugs when I tell her everything, including the almost-kiss.

  “You’re not mad?” I ask, surprised. “At me or him? You don’t want to run me over with a tank engine?”

  Iriza gives me a sad smile and a logical answer. “First of all, you didn’t actually kiss. Second, it’s not like he and I are even together. Besides, you can’t make somebody love you.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I can’t pretend that I don’t wish I were you. I can only hope that Franz develops feelings for me over time. But trying to force my life to go a certain way, just because I want it to . . . That’s ridiculous. Whatever happens, happens. It’s all up to destiny. Life has taught me that there are things you just have to learn to accept, and that makes you a better person.”

  I don’t see any resignation in her eyes. Instead, she’s warrior-like in her seemingly cold wisdom. I admire her. “You’re right. But please know that nothing will ever happen between me and Franz. You can at least consider that obstacle circumvented.”

  Between conversations here and hard work there, the show finally arrives. On opening night, the theater is full, a turnout I didn’t expect. Lara and Giovanna are here, along with Giovanna’s new boyfriend, Roberto, who she says hasn’t made a move on her yet. She thinks it’s out of respect; I think he’s gay.

  The dolls are proudly displayed in a glass case. The actors are so pale in their makeup and costumes that they look like ghosts. Rocky is wearing his usual scarf and seven layers of black eyeliner. Rose attempts her usual ass-grab as Franz passes by and, as usual, he expertly scoots out of the way just in time. Nothing new here. I’ve grown fond of this madhouse. I’m afraid that I will miss it when it’s all over.

  During the show, the audience is attentive and interested. Apparently, they appreciate Rocky’s update. I wander around backstage, listening to the lines that I’ve heard so many times that I know them by heart.

  However, I sense something strange going on during intermission. Despite how smoothly everything is running, Rocky seems nervous. I have no intention of asking him what’s wrong, so I try to avoid him by slipping into the dressing rooms and stumble on something quite unexpected. Romina, the actress who plays Laura, is in tears in one of the rooms while Rose attempts to console her. A young woman from the costume department is with them, and she obeys Rose like a soldier when she commands her to find Rocky. She returns with him moments later. I don’t mean to eavesdrop at the door, but once you start, it’s impossible to stop. Rose, who’s usually so protective of Rocky, lashes out at him with bitterness I’ve never heard—as if he were the Big Bad Wolf just caught trying to devour Little Red Riding Hood.

  “You will take responsibility for this, I swear to God,” she says. “You will not abandon this girl and leave her to a life of ridicule. You will marry her, and our family will finally have a legitimate son after all these years. That’s how it’s going to be—I’ve decided.”

  Rocky tries to stammer out a protest, but his attempts are futile. Romina groans and yanks open the door. She doesn’t even notice me standing outside as she rushes to the bathroom with a hand over her mouth. I hear her throwing up into the toilet. I guess Rocky knocked her up. I’m surprised that his swimmers were able to procreate, and I’m even more surprised that he’s capable of making love to a woman. I’ve called Rocky a lot of names, but bastard hasn’t been one of them—I really didn’t believe he was the type of director who would take advantage of his actresses . . . Now I understand why Romina has gained weight! And the asshole had the nerve to admonish her for it in front of everyone.

  Now the poor girl is crying her eyes out in the bathroom. I feel compelled to comfort her. After all, I just had a pregnancy scare myself, and I didn’t have a grandmother like Rose forcing me to marry the villain of my story.

  “I’m so nauseous,” Romina murmurs, gripping the toilet bowl like a life raft on the open ocean. “I tried to hold it in during the first act, but I can’t do it anymore.”

  “You can’t do what?” I ask, vaguely alarmed.

  “The rest of the show! I can’t puke onstage.”

  “Of course you can’t, but what can we do?” I’m asking myself more than her. “We don’t have an understudy. We’ll have to stop the show.”

  “Poor, darling man,” Romina mumbles between dry heaves. “He’s worked so hard on this.”

  It takes me a few moments to realize that the poor, darling man in question is Rocky. It’s very difficult to imagine him as sweet and precious. Love is truly a mystery.

  Rose comes into the bathroom, followed by Rocky, face contorted into a pout that resembles a chicken’s backside.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” she says, “Carlotta will step in for you.”

  Who is Carlotta? I wonder. Then it hits me. She means me.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Rocky and I both yell simultaneously, me like Tarzan standing off with a group of poachers.

  “There’s no other way,” Rose says. “Otherwise, we’d have to suspend the show and refund everyone’s tickets. You know the lines by heart, my dear, and with all this makeup, no one will notice that you’re a different actress.”

  “They’ll notice, all right!” I shout. “I’m not an actress. What about my hair? Romina’s hair is silky smooth, and mine looks like a rat’s nest!”

  “Trivial details. We’ll figure it out,” Rose insists. “It’s not like you can really do that much to make this show worse.”

  Rose’s comment so offends Rocky that he seems to forget all about her suggestion.

  “I refuse,” I exclaim. “Acting is beyond the scope of my contract.”

  But Granny just won’t let this go. “To hell with your contract! Your friends are asking you to do this. A queasy expectant mother is asking you to do this. An old woman is asking you to do this. And when Franz finds out, he’ll be asking you to do it, too, because I know he doesn’t want to reimburse people for their tickets.”

  Damn, she’s good.

  “Absolutely not,” says Rocky. Apparently finding out he’s betrothed and a father is enough of a surprise for one night; he can’t handle the idea of me acting in his show. “I won’t have it. She’s unfortunate-looking and dull. Just looking at her hair makes me sick. Her elocution skills are terrible. I will not allow you to ruin my work. You’ll play that role over my dead body!”

  After this string of compliments, someone speaks out vehemently: “Then prepare to die, asshole, because there’s gonna be another Laura in the second act, and she’ll knock your socks off.”

  I almost faint when I realize that voice is mine.

  I’m ready. We solved the hair issue with a wig. I’ve got full stage makeup on. The dress fits me like a glove. I remember my lines . . . I think. Franz told me repeatedly that I don’t have to do this, that we can postpone the performance, but I can’t let Rocky get away with everything he just said. I am determined to show him I’m better than what he thinks of me.

  As soon as the curtain rises, though, I curse myself for giving in to my pride. Couldn’t I have just brushed off the insults and let bygones be bygones? But I can’t let either Laura down—the character Laura that I love so much or the Laura whose name appears on the poster for the show. So I decide to th
row myself into this performance, both for myself and for every woman out there who’s in love with a man who ends up marrying someone else. I’m terrified, but here I go.

  I am Laura as her mother forces her to wear a new dress in the hopes of catching the eye of their guest.

  I am Laura as she trembles at the thought of being inadequate.

  I am Laura as she curls up on the couch in front of her only friend, a laptop.

  It comes naturally to me because I’m not acting. I’m being myself onstage. And everything happening onstage connects to my own life.

  She loved him in high school.

  He wouldn’t even look her way.

  She has no self-confidence.

  He asks her to dance.

  She shows him her collection.

  He breaks the most important doll. It’s an accident, but still.

  Jim tells her, “The different people are not like other people, but being different is nothing to be ashamed of. Because other people are not such wonderful people. They’re one hundred times one thousand. You’re one times one! They walk all over the earth. You just stay here. They’re common as—weeds, but—you—well, you’re—blue roses!”

  I almost cry as I dance with Jim, who I imagine to be Luca. I do cry as he kisses me. And when he reveals to me that he’s engaged to be married, the tears come down my cheeks like waterfalls. No one expected this. Romina never cried in rehearsals. She looked sad and upset, but she didn’t cry. I look like an orphan lost in the woods. But how can I hear him say, “Being in love has made a new man of me! The power of love is really pretty tremendous!” without thinking about how much I’ve changed? Or without asking myself what will become of me and where I will go from here?