by Liska Jacobs
“You are not having fun?” he says, grinning.
“It’s a long time since I’ve been to a club. It’s louder than I remember.”
I catch him glance at my chest and want to crow to all the young half-clothed girls dancing. I am triumphant.
“Come dance,” he says, taking my hand.
He maneuvers us into the center of the dance floor. I look around to see if Hannah or her girlfriends—or anyone—is watching. “Relax,” he says. I laugh when he pretends to be stiff. “Like this,” he says, shaking out his limbs. He puts his hands on my waist. Rilassati. I breathe in and try to mimic his movements. Beneath the red lights he looks more tempting. “Rilassati,” he reminds me. Slowly, slowly. I close my eyes. Is he wearing cologne? I tilt my head closer. His leg is between mine, he presses up into me and runs his hands down my sides—ribs, waist, hips. He stops there, at my hips, and pulls gently. I catch his eyes, I can see how dark I’ve made them, how hot and uneven his breathing. Something in me shifts then, and I can feel the weight of his desire, a heavy, serious thing.
I pull away. I want to tell him something about hunger, I want to warn him. But he’s smiling, that same playful, teasing smile. So I move my hips, God help me. I close my eyes and tilt my head so I catch his cologne again. Closer, closer—there is the scent of my own breath against his skin too. I imagine, I fantasize. In the space between his collarbone and neck, from his jaw to his mouth—I allow myself to pretend. Where’s the harm in that? Rome is the original Hollywood.
* * *
One afternoon Donato isn’t at the park, nor is he waiting at the little café. I start and delete at least ten different text messages before deciding not to send him any at all. I had gotten used to the pace of things. The early mornings when I listened to Paul and Hannah get ready, the blow-dryer, the kettle, the dropping of keys. Then the midday heat, when everything is buzzing—the sun, the cicadas, the hustlers and tourists. This is when Donato and I would drink caffè freddos at the park until Hannah could join us. Soon after that the golden hour—when one Negroni would slip into three, laughter would shift into quick coy glances, and I’d fantasize about letting that heat engulf us both.
When Hannah gets out of class we go for espressos at a café near her school.
“It’s only one afternoon,” my niece says when I ask if Donato will be meeting us later.
She looks tired. There are dark circles under her eyes. It’s her last week of class, and she’s in the middle of exams.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“He’s taking Bruce to get shots,” Hannah says. Her brows knit together. “Trish says he might go with them to the Aeolian Islands.”
My limbs are tingly. I stir another lump of sugar into my espresso. “I thought Donato was coming with his parents and us to Puglia?”
She shrugs. I’m not sure if there is enough blood getting to my limbs. I want to stand up, I need to be moving. The waiter returns with our cornetti. He smiles at us, saying something to Hannah in Italian. I recognize molto bella.
“What did he say?” I ask when he’s gone.
“That mother and daughter are very beautiful.”
We sit and watch the nearby tourists throw coins into a modest fountain, their gelatos dripping onto their wrists. An old man in a tuxedo is playing a cello, the instrument’s case open for tips. He pauses to mop his forehead.
“Can I tell you something, Aunt Cilla?” My niece leans forward in her chair.
“You can tell me anything.”
She sighs. “I’m in love.”
I can taste the espresso, it is threatening to come back up. “Someone I know?”
She giggles. “Donato, of course. Do you think he knows? Do you think he feels the same?”
I can’t look at her. I concentrate on breaking apart layers of the cornetto, wiping the cream from my fingers. “It’s best not to rush into these things.”
She sits back in her chair. “So you don’t think he likes me.”
But I’m thinking about when Donato showed us the Tarpeian Rock.
This is where traitors were flung to their deaths.
It wasn’t a dramatic cliff, only a narrow cobblestone street with cars parked tightly together. I remember mourning doves cooed in a nearby fountain. A pair of butterflies flitted by. But maybe that is betrayal. Sneaky and not how I thought it would look.
“That’s not it,” I manage. “It’s just that he’s a lot older than you.”
“Hardly,” she says. “And what about you and Uncle Guy?”
The look she’s giving me. Maybe Emily did tell her the truth about us after all. “It was a different time,” I start.
“You know, I don’t think Mom liked him. She thought you could do better.”
A flash of anger. What did Emily know?
I clear my throat. “Has he … have you and Donato been intimate?”
Hannah bursts out laughing. Her whole face is pink and she’s biting at her lips. She cannot get ahold of herself. When the waiter comes back with the bill she breaks into giggles again and I have to look away. Clearly, she has not been intimate with anyone.
“Oh, Aunt Cilla,” she says when she finally gains control. “You saw our first kiss—you were there. You took a picture for us. I felt it down to my toes.”
“While I was here,” I repeat.
“Well, it sort of started last summer,” she says. “When we went to Florence with our parents.” She tells me about how Donato took her to his favorite gelato place, and how afterward he bought her the chain at a nearby shop. She pulls out Emily’s pendant from beneath her shirt, fingers its gold chain. Eighteen karat gold, she reminds me. I feel nauseated.
“Will you ask the waiter to refill my water glass?”
“The funny thing is,” my niece continues, not hearing me, “I thought we were just friends!”
Donato does not meet us for drinks later, even though Hannah texts him.
“Maybe try one more time?” I urge. “Let him know I’m buying the first round.”
He is not at dinner either, despite both his parents arriving with a bottle of amaro, Paul pouring tiny glassfuls while they talked about grant research and visa paperwork. Why speak in English if I don’t know or care what they’re talking about? I thought of Hannah and Donato’s kiss—how he wrapped her in his arms, Hannah tilting back a little, her eyes closed. I don’t want to picture it, but I do. Over and over. Sometimes with music crescendoing.
I feign a headache and go to bed early. Twice I get up and go to the window to see if the light is on in his room. I take four Advil PMs and drift into a dark dreamless sleep. I have a hard time waking up. There is the sound of Hannah’s blow-dryer, roaring, and the kettle screeching. The front door slams, my eyes open. I listen to the bolt lock. Hannah’s and my brother-in-law’s footsteps echoing in the stairwell. Then silence. I roll over, over and over. The pillow lengthwise, below my knees, on my face to block out the sunlight. But I can’t get comfortable. Someone is knocking at the door now. Paul and Hannah might have locked themselves out, or maybe it’s another apartment altogether. But then I hear him, “Cilla, Cilla, buongiorno!”
I hurry downstairs, that heat rekindling. There waiting in the hallway with Bruce is Donato. “Get dressed,” he says. “We will have breakfast.”
* * *
“I’m a little upset with you,” I tell him after we’re seated in the courtyard of the Hotel de Russie. The waiter brings us Americanos and a basket of pastries.
“Me?” He spreads a glob of jam onto a scone. “Ahh, you missed me yesterday.” He stuffs it into his mouth.
“You are so full of yourself,” I tell him, which makes him laugh that big boyish laugh. I try to ignore the inquisitive stares. It’s a certain type of patron here. Plastic surgery, expensive jewelry and watches. It reminds me of the crowds in Hollywood restaurants, where everyone is looking at everyone else. I can feel them thinking it. Mother and son? She could be old enough. But then again, maybe it is so
mething else … It had been the same with Guy, but not to this extent. It’s different when the woman is older.
“It’s because…” My voice falters. I watch Donato suck a bit of jam off his thumb. I want to ask about Hannah. I want to tell him to stop flirting with my niece. But he looks very young. My phone vibrates, Hannah is calling. I silence it.
The table beside us has stopped talking. The woman looks away when our eyes meet.
“Are you coming to Puglia with us?” I ask.
Donato grins. “Do you want me to come?”
“If you’re busy with Silvia, I understand.”
He leans forward so that we are very close. I watch a muscle in his forearm twitch as he caresses my hand. “I will be there,” he says.
“How is everything?” the waiter asks, and I sit back so abruptly that I bump the table, spilling my Americano.
At the park, Hannah is already waiting for us.
“Where have you been?” she asks. “I called you both.”
“I’m sorry.” I pull my phone out. “I accidentally silenced it.”
I’ve missed three calls from Guy. I can feel the color drain from my face.
Donato’s smile is sly, taunting, when he says to my niece, “Cilla and I were having breakfast.”
Guy’s phone goes straight to voice mail. What if something happened? I’m breathing quickly, ignoring Hannah and Donato who are talking in Italian. I leave a message for Guy, Call me when you get this. Maybe he’s e-mailed.
“Are either of you going to ask how my final was?” Hannah is saying.
My e-mail won’t load. The signal is weak, and I’ve forgotten to charge my phone, the battery is about to die.
“Cilla,” Hannah cries. But I’m already flagging down a cab.
“I have to get back to the apartment,” I tell her. Donato reaches for my arm but I shake him off. “Everything’s fine, but I have to go.” My voice sounds high-pitched.
I have been neglecting my mom. “Please hurry,” I tell the cabdriver. I’m remembering when her physical therapist called a few days ago while we were in the Pantheon—I didn’t walk outside to take the call.
She’s doing very well, he said.
Could you speak up? A choir was singing an impromptu hymn. Hannah was in awe, her hands folded together. Donato looked back at me—he could be a sculpture himself.
She may be able to come home a little early.
What? I said. What are you saying? She’s supposed to be there for six weeks.
Ms. Messing, the physical therapist said, clearing his throat. This isn’t a hotel. When your mom is better she has to go home.
I could see it then, I could feel it. The end of this trip. The oxygen tanks, the wheelchairs, the eventual diapers and twenty-four-hour caregiving. I said something about the connection being bad. I can’t hear you, I’ll call back later. But of course, I never did.
Outside the apartment I struggle with the key. I think I can hear Paul inside, only that can’t be right. He’s at the university until late, like always. I recognize the voice almost as soon as the door opens, before I even see Guy, who is sitting on the couch, feet on the coffee table, cell phone pressed to his ear.
* * *
“It’s such a mess,” Guy says, sitting on the edge of my bed. I’ve brought him to my room because I’m worried Hannah and Donato are right behind me. And the thought of Donato seeing Guy—their meeting—is unbearable. Because I’ve forgotten some things about Guy. How tight his jeans are, for one—expensive, which I’m sure would impress Donato, but ridiculously tight for a man almost sixty. And that waft of cologne, the oversize Omega watch—the thinning hair, the round, somewhat protruding gut. The way he bites his nails when stressed. I’d forgotten how phony he comes off on first impression. Old and phony.
He’s already assured me that Mom is okay. No, no, nothing like that. She’s fine. The nursing home is taking good care of her. Then I thought maybe he had come to surprise me. We used to talk about going to Europe together—when I was a lot younger. To Paris or the Amalfi Coast. A twinge of dread, how could I leave now? But he’s here because his film is over budget and a potential investor is docked in Porto Turistico on a yacht. He’s a fan of your dad’s, he had pleaded. Come with me to convince him. I need you. A strange mixture of relief and disappointment.
“I’m in a real bind,” he says, keeping his hands in his lap.
“Well, I have dinner plans.”
He fiddles with the A/C unit.
“It’s so warm in here. I thought Paul would put you up in a hotel. I mean, you came all this way to babysit his daughter. Do you want me to get you a hotel room?”
It’s discombobulating seeing him here. Filling my little room with the scent of him, touching my things, looking at the view from the window. He is supposed to be in Los Angeles, which had felt, until he arrived, far, far away. I glance across the courtyard, to Donato’s window, and then pull the curtains closed.
“Hannah’s my only niece,” I remind him.
“I know,” he mumbles. He spots my collection of postcards sitting on the desk. “And quite the little tour guide. Have you really been to all these places?” He holds up a postcard I bought at a museum gift shop at the Capitoline Museums. It’s a copy of a Greek statue, a nude boy. I had liked the symmetry, the harmony of the angles.
“Is this one for me?” he asks, grinning. Such a familiar grin. It should shift something in me but doesn’t.
“Yours is in the mail.” I take the stack from him.
He gets up, examining the rest of the room. He has the kind of swagger that men have when they know they look good on paper. “Is this Hannah?” He’s picked up a framed photo of her. “Goddamn, she’s a looker. Do you think she has any interest in film? I could get her—”
“I don’t think Paul would like that,” I say, taking the photo from him.
He changes tactics then, putting his arms around me. “You look fantastic, by the way. Italy agrees with you.”
I can smell the Tic Tacs, the Romeo y Julieta cigars—and that cologne, which feels abrasive now. “It’ll be like old times. You and me—closing deals.”
“Fine,” I tell him. Because I need to get him out of here fast.
He waits while I shower and pretends to sneak a peek when I dress.
“What?” he says. “Can you blame me? You look damn good in this light.”
Downstairs a town car is waiting for us.
“You knew I’d say yes?” I ask him.
He slips his sunglasses on, smiling at me. “You’re my go-to gal.”
We head out of the city, toward the port. Guy pointing out ruins—the Colosseum, a basilica, the Aurelian Walls.
“Remember when you said you’d take me to Italy?” I ask.
He takes my hand and kisses the palm. “We were so young. But hey—we finally made it.”
I was so young, I think. Outside my window, graffiti-covered storefronts and cafés and apartment blocks whiz by. He’s kept hold of my hand, which has begun to sweat.
“All your mom wants to do is talk about the past,” Guy is saying. “Every time I saw her these last few weeks it was ‘Do you remember when…’”
He’s rolled his window down, puffing on a cigarillo.
The smell reminded me of when he let me try one. Actually, he offered it to Emily first, and I remember being so jealous that I lied and said I smoked them all the time. Give me my own. He must have known I was lying, I couldn’t have been older than twelve. Which would have made Emily nine. I slide my hand out from his grip.
“Sorry, was I making you hot?” he says.
Another thing I remember, how upset Emily was when I told her about us. But he’s practically our uncle! Jealous, I had thought, and I told her so. This male presence in our lives, who had been the focus of our youthful flirtations, was in love with me. That’s how I had told her. Guy and I are in love. I had wanted someone to confide in and was hurt that my sister did not want to hear any of it. Gross!
she cried, when I told her that yes, we were having sex. Are you careful? she asked, and I thought she meant did we use condoms. Of course we use protection—but the look she gave me made me blush. Don’t tell Mom and Dad, I said. And to her credit, she never did. But something changed between us. She steered clear of Guy at parties, and by proxy, steered clear of me too.
“I really appreciate this,” Guy says, grinning that familiar grin. “I owe you.”
Seeing him like this, swooping in not because he’s worried about me, but because he needs me to vouch for him again—it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I pretend not to see his outstretched hand when we’ve reached the port and he tries to help me from the car.
I follow him down a boardwalk cluttered with families and retired couples in bathing suits, their skin shining and pink. I can make out a meager swatch of beach that looks hard and dirty. The air is humid and reeks of a baking-hot harbor. All seaweed and salt.
“Ciao, Ms. Messing,” the investor says when I step onto the boat, which is wide and expensive and exactly the kind of boat you want an investor to own. “This is a real honor.”
Hollywood is an easy sell, that’s what Guy doesn’t get. No outsider ever does. Everyone wants to believe, our dad used to say. A producer might feign reservation, but all it takes is the right kind of confidence. And Dad was excellent at pretending. It’s why there were always parties at the house. Let the good times roll, Mom used to say.
I remember once being invited to an opening of a photography exhibition. A friend of our parents’, who had been unknown, had become someone important. As so often was the case. Another of Mom’s proverbs: Better to be kingmaker than king.
Emily and I went to the show with Guy. We must have been seventeen and twenty years old. The two of us arrived in Chanel dresses borrowed from our mom—cameras flashing, everyone eager to meet us.
“Your parents’ parties are legendary,” Guy’s investor is saying to me. He pours me more prosecco.
“Oh, the stories I could tell you,” I play along.
It’s a different kind of inheritance. A sort of calling card. You are the daughters of Elliot and Louise Messing. And poof, just like that, we were in. Emily’s brief modeling career was because of it, my stint as a producer too. It’s why I know how badly an outsider like Guy’s investor wants in, and why I can make the price feel like a steal.