When in Rome

by Giusti, Amabile

  Everything comes crashing down during the final scene—not just figuratively. I remain alone onstage, looking out into the audience, as the guy who plays Tom Wingfield tells me to turn off the light. I’m about to slowly press the switch, which will trigger the wings to fold in two after I leave the stage. But something catches my eye: Luca, in the front row. Despite my tendency these past few weeks to imagine him everywhere, this time I know I’m really seeing him. But this doesn’t bother me quite as much as the fact that Erika is sitting next to him. What are they doing here? Why are they here together?

  My thoughts jumble as I stare at them. I don’t even notice the stagehands gesturing at me to get out of the way. I know I need to put one foot in front of the other and walk backstage, but at seeing them together, something inside shuts down. I can do nothing but stare. The backdrop falls and hits me in the head. I collapse to the floor. Now I see nothing.

  I open my eyes to find myself in one of the dressing rooms. Lara, Giovanna, and Iriza are next to me. My head hurts. I’m having trouble extending my arm, as if I borrowed it from someone else and it’s too big for my body. I curl my fingers, and I can feel them starting to swell already. Throbbing pain sears my whole arm.

  “Fortunately, the backdrop is hollow,” I hear Iriza say.

  Giovanna places a bag of ice on my head. “How are you?” she asks.

  “Let’s get you to the emergency room right away,” Lara whispers.

  “Why didn’t you move?” Iriza asks.

  Lara and Giovanna look at each other, both grimacing. Their eyes do all the talking.

  “You don’t have to talk in sign language,” I murmur. “I saw them together.”

  Lara’s grimace turns furious. “We saw them, too. The nerve of them. They wanted to come see how you were doing. But I told your sister that if she even came near you, I’d kick her ass. The asshole, however, is waiting outside the dressing room.”

  “Luca is—”

  “He’s insisting that he has to talk to you. But if you let yourself—”

  “I’m not going to see him. Not now, not ever,” I say firmly.

  My voice scares me. It’s hard and sharp, which matches my mood exactly. He already hurt me so badly; I won’t let him jerk me around anymore. What does he care about me for? He’s got Erika now. The blow to my head seems to have turned on a lightbulb in my head. As painful as all of this is, I can see that I’m not at a crossroads. Instead, there’s only one path to take, and there are no forks in the road.

  “But you were so great,” Iriza says. While she may not understand everything that’s going on, she can tell that I’m upset about more than the head injury. “Your acting was incredible. Even Rocky went so far as to admit that you were tolerable. And I heard someone in the audience say that when you collapsed in the final scene, it was so realistic that you really seemed to be unconscious. You may want to consider a change in career.”

  “I don’t think so. Wait, how are the Barbie dolls? Are they okay?”

  “Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Tell Rocky that I’m never doing this again. He’s either going to have to get Romina a stash of antinausea drugs for the morning sickness or find a replacement. And Lara, if Luca’s still around, I hereby authorize you to kick his ass. Although be careful, because he’ll probably interpret it as flirting. Can we please go to the hospital now? I don’t feel so good. But let’s take the back exit. I don’t want to run into anyone.”

  The emergency room doctor looks at me like I’m an asylum escapee. I don’t blame her. My face is still caked with stage makeup and tears have plowed tracks down my cheeks. I feel dizzy, or drunk (although the only thing I’ve had to drink is a sip of juice that Lara forced me to suck through a straw). The hospital fixes me up a bed and admits me even though nothing is seriously wrong with me. In bed, I’m surrounded by a quadrangle of attention—Lara, Giovanna, and even Franz and Iriza, who insisted on tagging along. All this affection moves me. What more could I want? Well, for starters, I would have loved to have not noticed Luca and Erika. I wonder whose bright idea it was to come to the show.

  I keep thinking about this even as the doctor examines me and asks me how I’m feeling. I respond mechanically until he asks about the play. Then I tell him that it was wonderful—even though the director’s an asshole, the costume designer can’t stop playing grab-ass with the executive producer, the lead actress had her head in a toilet half the night, and I came away with a head injury.

  When the hospital releases me, Giovanna tries to persuade me to let her spend the night with me, but I want to be alone with my thoughts. I’m fine. I feel as fresh as a daisy. Or rather, a blue rose.

  Franz insists on accompanying me home. He supports me as we walk to the front door of my apartment building. “Was that him?” he asks me as I dig in my purse for my keys.

  “Who?”

  “Was that the guy you’re in love with? The one who wanted to get into the dressing room? I had to be stern with him. For a second, I thought he was gonna punch me.”

  “Yeah, that was him. In case you didn’t notice, he was with another woman. To add insult to injury, she happens to be my sister.”

  “That complicates things, I suppose.”

  “I think it actually makes things easier. It’s just as well. He doesn’t give a shit about me. She can have him, for all I care!” I attempt a laugh, but it comes out as a neurotic guffaw.

  “To be honest, he didn’t really seem like he doesn’t care. He was seriously worried about you.”

  “I’m sure he was worried about my health. He loves me in his own way. But there are other things that matter. Like how a person treats another person’s heart, for example.”

  I realize something is wrong with the key as soon as I try to put it in the lock. I changed the lock so Luca couldn’t show up unannounced again and must have grabbed the old key by mistake as I was leaving to go to the theater. Great. I’m locked out of my own home. I explain all this to Franz, but he doesn’t seem to think it’s as big a deal as I do.

  “What’s the problem? Just spend the night at my place, and we’ll look for a locksmith tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “You know you’re safe with me, right? Don’t worry. I’m just offering you a roof and an aspirin.”

  “I just want to make it clear that—”

  “You don’t need to clarify anything, Carlotta.”

  Franz doesn’t live very far away. His house is a charming cottage, neat and comfortable. There are just a few pieces of wooden furniture inside. He tries to make me take his room for the night, but I insist on sleeping on the sofa. I win the argument because I’m upset and exhausted, and my head is ringing like the Hunchback of Notre Dame has taken to it. Contradicting a person in this state would be rude, even if it is done out of kindness.

  In the bathroom, I wash my face and look in the mirror. I’m very pale. Franz makes us dinner, pasta topped with a delicious pesto sauce and almonds. This guy is seriously marriage material. We talk about the show for a while. It went well, and people seemed to think that the actress change in the second act and the final blow to my head were all a part of Rocky’s experimental theatrics.

  “He really will need to find an actress to fill in for the role of Laura, though,” I say firmly.

  “I don’t want to force you, but are you sure you don’t want to do it?” Franz says. “Romina is in really bad shape.” We laugh, thinking about Rocky’s arranged marriage. His grandmother, very insistent that they be married before the baby comes, has already set the date. Her great-grandson must not be born out of wedlock. “You were way better than we expected,” Franz goes on, “and it would only be for a few days, just until we can find another actress.”

  While I admit that my foray into acting was a bit more than I signed up for, doing it again is starting
to seem feasible. Maybe it’s the pain meds talking or maybe Franz’s calming presence. But I can’t help but think that maybe acting could be a kind of therapy, a way to heal and overcome the pain.

  “All right, but only for a few days. And only because you asked me. But no more head injuries.”

  He smiles at me and offers me some fresh fruit. I’m chewing on a slice of apple that Franz pared with fatherly patience when he says something that surprises me.

  “I really hate that guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy that’s making you so gloomy.”

  I shrug. “What can you do? C’est la vie.”

  “You’re right. C’est la vie. You can’t always get what you want.”

  He looks at me, but I’d rather play dumb than follow his line of thought.

  “Sure, take Iriza, for example,” I say impulsively. “She hasn’t gotten what she wants.”

  “What does she want?” Franz asks casually.

  She might kill me, but I can’t help it. “You.”

  He almost chokes on his apple.

  “She hasn’t said anything definite, but . . .” I pause. “Well, it seems like you might like her, too. If that’s the case, please try not to hurt her. Don’t tell her how you took pity on someone else who certainly doesn’t deserve you.”

  I hope he understands what I’m trying to say.

  When I tell him that I’m tired and need to rest, Franz nods and brings me a blanket. I turn on the television, and he turns off the lights.

  “Thanks for everything,” I whisper just before he disappears into his room.

  So here I am, lying under a soft blanket, watching Under Capricorn with the volume on low, with a growing sense of insecurity that frightens me. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m doomed to become a barren spinster with nothing better to do than complain to the landlord about my neighbor’s barking dogs. I will ignore any attractive men who may come my way (if they ever do again) simply because I once had the misfortune of loving one in a way that proved devastating. This pattern will continue as my hair turns white. And in eighty years, just like Rocky’s grandmother, I’ll try to recover my youth by attempting to hide my sad past behind a carefree facade.

  As Ingrid Bergman spirals into an alcoholic depression, I think about Luca and how much water will have to flow under the bridge before I can forget.

  EIGHTEEN

  For the next two evenings I fill the role of Laura and dutifully kiss Jim onstage. Rocky seems more distraught as time goes on—he isn’t wearing his kohl eyeliner, evidence enough—but I think it has more to do with Romina’s newly acquired projectile-vomiting habit than the show.

  Rose, however, has never been in a better mood. She’s even forgotten about Franz’s ass. Franz is suddenly very awkward around Iriza, although he tries to act normally. I don’t understand how he never noticed Iriza’s feelings for him. If it were me, I wouldn’t have been so blinded by her facade of friendship.

  One night, my father invites me to dinner. When I enter the restaurant, though, I realize I am not the only guest. Coretta and Erika are seated at the table with him, in the midst of conversation, and I’m tempted to run back outside and call him with a made-up excuse. But I can’t do that to my dad. He was so excited on the phone, it reminded me of the childlike enthusiasm we shared when I was younger. So I gather my courage and head toward the table with a smile on my face that is meant only for him.

  “My darling,” he says, standing up and hugging me. Coretta shakes my hand, while Erika merely nods in my direction. For a while, we make small talk about my work, which Coretta is particularly interested in; the flowers that are blooming in the greenhouse; and the new kitten Coretta rescued one rainy night, who they named Anemone. As we order our food, I realize that Erika hasn’t said much at all, and not one word to me—she won’t even look me in the eye. She picks at her food and hasn’t indulged at all in her favorite activity, provoking me. This is all very suspicious.

  “Whatever became of that handsome young man who accompanied you to Beatrice’s wedding?” my father says suddenly.

  Erika and I both turn beet red. Her reaction comforts me—perhaps she’s capable of feeling a shred of shame. But the question makes me nervous and annoyed. Even for Princess Bitchface, hooking up with your sister’s ex-boyfriend right after they broke up isn’t something to brag about. And okay, so we weren’t actually together, but Erika doesn’t know that . . . I hope. Although now I worry that Luca told her—maybe they even laughed about it together!

  “It’s a long story,” I say, “but he wasn’t anyone special.” Now it’s my turn to be the provocative one. “How about you, Erika? Are you seeing anyone?”

  For the first time tonight, my sister looks at me, narrowing her eyes ever so briefly. I will never understand how her brain works. I’m the one who should be spiteful—she stole my man and humiliated me in public. She should be contrite and distraught, but instead, she’s glaring at me! I would love nothing more than to grab her by the collar of her silk shirt, but my dad doesn’t deserve such a scene. Besides, the only way to pull us off each other would be a spray from a fire hose.

  “Yeah, I’m seeing someone. We’re really happy together,” she says finally.

  “That’s wonderful!” Dad says. “I’m so happy. Speaking of happy things, Coretta and I have good news to tell you.”

  They smile at each other knowingly. They’re adorable together.

  “We’re getting married,” Coretta says softly. “Your father and I are getting married!” As she says this, she demurely brings her left hand out from underneath the table and shows us a rose-gold ring shaped like a flower with tiny pavé diamond details. It’s a beautiful and elegant ring. Coretta’s cheeks turn a shade of coral. The joy I feel for them overshadows my anger. Even Erika appears pleased. I get up to hug and congratulate them, admiring the ring and asking all the right questions about the proposal.

  After a minute, my dad pulls me aside and whispers in my ear. “You’ll find love, too, honey. Don’t worry. I had hoped it was that gentleman from the wedding, because he seemed to be truly taken with you . . . But it’s okay. You’ll find the right one for you. Don’t give up. Remember, every experience is a gift, even the bad ones. My marriage to your mother brought me you. I’d do it all over again just to have you. You are, and always will be, my greatest love.”

  I put my head on his shoulder and let myself feel small and insecure for a moment, like a bird that hasn’t yet learned to fly. If only I could tell him everything . . . But I can’t. He’s older now, his hair graying and his memory turning fragile, and I want to protect him from pain. I want him to be happy, especially now that he’s found true love with Coretta, and to stay in his little bubble of flowers, leaves, roots, and the dirt under his fingernails. Thanks to my mother, he’s already had his fair share of harsh reality. The least I can do is let him stay happy.

  After dessert, we say good-bye. I’m the first to leave, and even though my dad tries to accompany me back to my apartment, I insist on walking home alone. I live close by, and it’s a nice evening. As soon as I head out, I hear Erika behind me.

  “Why don’t you go out with that hot blond guy from the theater?” she calls. “The one who would bend over backward for you?” Of course she waits until now to bring this up. She had to put on the sweet little sister act in front of my dad and Coretta, but now she’s showing her true colors.

  “I could ask you the same question about the gentleman from the wedding,” I hiss.

  “Oh, you mean Luca?” she says. Her cocky attitude makes me want to slap her.

  “I don’t know, you tell me.”

  Her look rubs me raw. The tip of her tongue briefly touches her lower lip. “He’s crazy about me, you know?”

  I clench my fists inside my coat sleeves. “Well, this is a night full of congratulations all aroun
d. What great news.”

  “Do you have any good news to share?”

  I could tell her the truth, about how I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about drowning myself in the river, about the pain that has shattered me like glass, but something inside makes me lie. I think it’s my underlying need to prove to myself and to Luca that I don’t care about him anymore.

  “Actually, yeah. Franz and I are together. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to take any attention away from Dad and Coretta’s announcement.”

  Erika squints. “So you are together?”

  “Yup. He’s the perfect guy. He is just so kind.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  I tighten the belt around my coat. “Since when do you care if I’m in love or not?” I ask casually. “Usually you couldn’t care less. Or are you only asking because you want to make sure that it’ll really hurt when you steal Franz from me?”

  And with that, I turn around and leave, squaring my shoulders so I’ll look confident and happy from behind. But my face betrays that I feel the exact opposite—more alone than ever.

  One afternoon, Franz asks me to go with him to La Rinascente, an upscale department store, to buy a present for his daughter. He’s going back to Germany in a few weeks to see her. He’s as excited as a puppy as we navigate the department store. I discover that Franz is among the few men who don’t seem to mind shopping trips. While he waits in line to buy a beautiful dollhouse that I would love to have myself, I go outside to window-shop. Suddenly, as I’m peering into the window of a shoe store, I notice a familiar shape in the reflection of the glass. Luca is behind me, standing at a flower kiosk displaying a sign that reads, Roses for the One You Love.

  A burning sensation sizzles from my stomach to my heart. For such a big city, Rome can really be small when it wants to be. I stay put and spy on him in the reflection of the glass. He’s scribbling on a delivery order card for a dozen roses. He looks self-conscious, like he’s never done this before. And then he looks up and notices me. I think for a second I’ll either faint or melt into the ground. But instead, I turn toward him without a hint of emotion. But my head is spinning so much that I feel like Dorothy whirling around in the tornado. I could pass right by him and ignore him, but I want to let him know that I’m over it.