The Worst Kind of Want Page 4

  The meat dishes come, the lamb stewed in its own juices, the potatoes are tender and bright yellow. I don’t need a knife, but the waiter brings big serious-looking ones with serrated silver blades.

  I can tell Marie is interested in stories about Hollywood, but Tonio, when I bring up my first film, really my father’s final movie, fidgets in his seat, cuts through his meat so that the knife screeches against the plate.

  “Mi dispiace,” he says without looking up. He reaches for the bottle of wine, but Paul is there first, offering Marie some, and then me.

  “It must be very glamorous,” Marie says.

  Tonio lets his silverware drop on his plate. He says something quickly to his wife in Italian.

  For dessert Paul orders a mixed berry gelato, and without asking, espresso for Marie, and grappa for himself and Tonio.

  “An espresso for me too,” I tell the waiter, who is turning away.

  “Oh! I’m sorry,” Paul says, touching my arm. “We’re so used to going out the three of us. Do you want anything else? A grappa? Cheese plate?”

  “No, please,” I say, looking at the waiter and Paul. “Only the espresso, I’m about to fall asleep in my chair. I could not eat another bite. Everything was delicious.”

  “We should have done this tomorrow,” Paul says. “But I wanted so badly to take you out tonight. To do Rome right on your first night here. Isn’t it the most beautiful city you’ve ever seen? I mean, look right there—those stumps around the patio tables, do you see them? That’s what’s left of three hundred columns, once the Porticus of Octavia, built in 146 BC, reconstructed by Augustus in 23 BC, then again two hundred and thirty years later.” Paul is really excited now. The grappa has arrived, and he twists the stem of the tiny glass. The candlelight dapples his face with light and shadow. “We are living here, Cilla. Ghosts and all.”

  * * *

  The nurse sounds annoyed when I call.

  “Is it very late?” I hear methodic beeping, hushed talking.

  I had woken up early. Or maybe I hadn’t slept at all, only hovered on the surface, like floating on the ocean at home with Emily. We used to swim naked at night. Stripping down and running out, hopping over the sand crabs and pebbles and pieces of shells. We’d swim past the surf, the tangles of seaweed, Emily braver than I. She’d swim farther and farther, urging me to follow her into the dark.

  “It’s nearly nine o’clock, Ms. Messing. Your mother is asleep already.”

  I push open the bedroom window; the light outside is graying. Seagulls are nesting on the roof across the courtyard. One begins to call.

  I try to place the accent. “Is this Olga?”

  “Doris, ma’am.”

  “How is she doing? Has she been behaving herself?” I picture the nursing home, its looped hallway silent except for the few patients who prefer to stay up at night. Dad was like that, always refusing to sleep. At night he would not stay in bed. He sat in the community room or the physical therapy room, or roamed the halls in his wheelchair, nodding off and then lurching awake. We’d get phone calls in the middle of the night, Dad on the other end whispering about nursing home conspiracies, demanding that Mom come and get him. I started keeping the house phone with me so I could intercept the calls. Is that you, Cilla, sweetheart? Please, please, come and get me. Please. It’s the pleading I remember most.

  “She was in a good mood today, we’re starting physical therapy next week. Do you want me to have the doctor phone you with an update?”

  “Yes, thank you. Tell her I’ll call in the morning to say hello.”

  “I’m sure she’ll like that. Good night, Ms. Messing.”

  I lie down on the bed, watching the light outside grow brighter and brighter. Car sounds increase, construction noises commence. The temperature shifts, becomes heavier, warmer. Somewhere a siren begins to wail. It sounds obscured, though, like a muffled voice track on a bad recording. I must fall back to sleep, because suddenly there is a knock at the bedroom door and my niece bounds into the room.

  “Buongiorno!” She plops down on the foot of the bed. I can smell her lotion, which has some kind of florally perfume. “We left you coffee and breakfast downstairs. See you at two, okay? Two o’clock, don’t forget.”

  I struggle to sit up.

  “Wow, you are not a morning person,” she says, reaching out to fix my hair. “Mom was like that too. I have a hair mask in my bathroom, it’ll help repair this. It’s made with avocado.”

  Downstairs I hear Paul call for her.

  “Be right there!” she yells.

  “Hannah, please,” I say. “Not so loud.”

  “Two o’clock, okay? Don’t be late, I have so much planned for us.”

  She’s wearing sparkly blue eye shadow, her blond hair straightened so that it frames her face.

  “I’ll be there at two sharp, I promise.”

  She gives me a kiss, and then bounces downstairs. I listen until the commotion ceases, until the front door shuts and the bolt locks.

  On the kitchen counter Paul’s left a note with Hannah’s school address, which is near the Piazza del Popolo, and a list of phone numbers if I should need to get ahold of him. He will be at the university until late tonight.

  I pour a cup of coffee and start to inspect the kitchen cupboards. Note the expired tub of yogurt, the leaky box of kosher salt, the almost empty bowl of sugar. Emily would never have had sugar in the house. Not long after Hannah was born, she started to make her own herbal teas and salves. Soon she forbade anything processed; everything had to be homemade. It was maddening how self-righteous she was about it. If someone complained of an ailment, there was some elixir made from elderberry or turmeric that would help. Once she brought over carrot soup to help with Dad’s macular degeneration. Never mind that he’d have to eat a couple pounds’ worth of carrots to get any real nutritional value from them.

  In Hannah’s bathroom I find an old dried tube of toothpaste, next to a disgusting hairbrush—a hunk of long blond hairs with bits of frizz and dandruff. I decide to buy her another one this afternoon and throw it out.

  It’s warm again, but early enough that there’s cloud cover. I don’t know what had me spooked the night before, but in the morning light, Monti is a charming little neighborhood, perfect for a green-screen backdrop. Boxed geraniums hang from balconies, a fountain gurgles in the piazza. The crush of tourists has not yet descended and I’m able to walk through the streets easily. A shop owner props open her door, nodding to me, Buongiorno! There is the whirring of an espresso machine, the racket of cups and spoons and plates coming from a café. Pigeons in the street fly off when a cab whizzes by.

  By the time I get to the Roman Forum there are tour groups everywhere and the sun is beating down. Italian, English, French, Chinese, Russian. I’m almost trampled by a large German family, their towheaded children nearly shoving me out of line. I check my ticket for what must be the fiftieth time. I bought it while still in Los Angeles, thinking it wise to plan in advance. But the website’s translation was confusing and difficult to navigate. The entry time on the ticket says 00:00, which can’t be right, that would mean midnight. I tried calling but couldn’t get through. When it’s my turn at the box office window, I show the printed ticket to the woman. Try to explain my dilemma.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I say, as she blinks at me. She’s probably around my age but with a stylish neckerchief and a pretty clip in her thick undyed hair. “I chose nine thirty on the website, not midnight.”

  She stares at me blankly. “I’m sorry, do you understand?” I swallow. “I don’t speak Italian.”

  She looks at the paper, then smiles, chuckling. “Do not worry,” she says, waving her hand. “You have a ticket, you go in.” She’s still smiling that mysterious smile. This must happen all day, I realize. She hears the accent and thinks, ah, another American with their life mapped out to the minute. Not here. Not in Rome. Do not worry. As if timetables and tickets and planning in advance were trivial, silly
things.

  “Scusa,” a mother behind me says, tugging on her child’s arm. She steps in front of me.

  Inside, the ruins seem sculpted. I’m suspicious of the flowers growing between crumbling brick, it looks entirely too picturesque. It can’t be real. A good set designer could make a more believable ruin than this.

  I’ve followed my tour book into a dead end, somewhere not on the map. It’s sweltering now, the cicadas at full pitch. I take a break on a slab of stone with vines growing on a nearby wall like shaggy mops of hair. A pair of white butterflies float down, almost resting on the vines, and then back up, they flit away. I try to let go and be present for this moment.

  Where should I go for lunch after this? I use my phone to see if the restaurants I marked in my book are nearby. Should I call and make a reservation? And Mom, what time should I call her? Do not worry, I hear that woman from the box office say. She said it as if absolving me of something. Guy had said that every city is the set version of Rome. Maybe that has something to do with it. Living in a city that’s not made in the image of any other, she knows what’s important and what isn’t. There had been a similar unhurried vibe at dinner last night, as if it could have stretched on forever.

  I close my eyes. Within a minute I’ve listed five things to ask the doctor when he calls with an update on Mom’s condition. I open my eyes and snap a picture of my sandaled feet standing on the broken stone floor, proof that I was here. But the toes in the photo look dry and ugly. I delete it.

  Nearby, a couple is wrapped in an embrace. I can’t tell their age—younger than Donato and his friends. This is no PG embrace either, she is nearly straddling him, her hands in his hair. I can see him working his tongue into her mouth, the movement his hand is making under her skirt. I hear a moan escape from one of them and look away. It’s been a long time since I’ve been that girl. Or maybe I’ve never been her. I sneak another look, just to note how she’s slouched a little, her eyes shut.

  They break apart just as a noisy tour group enters the small alcove.

  “Those vestal virgins found guilty of being unchaste”—their leader’s voice ricochets off the surrounding walls—“were whipped to death in the public square.” She pauses so they can take photos and ask questions. “Public deaths were popular,” I hear her answer someone. “As were blood shows—known as munera. After lunch we will see the slave quarters beneath the Colosseum.”

  There are collective oohhs and aahhs, and I wonder if they would watch one, or if I would. The ripping of flesh, the breaking of man. Suddenly I get a cramp. When was the last time I had my period? Three, five weeks ago? I can’t remember. I should have been recording it in that damn diary.

  One of the tour members is watching the couple, who are back at it. Our eyes meet, and I feel myself blush. He’s short and hefty, wearing pleated pants and a sweat-stained polo shirt. His hand rests on a camera that hangs around his neck. He smiles, waggles his eyebrows. Yes, hi, hello. I give him a polite grimace and turn so I can sit more comfortably. Then slowly, out of the corner of my eye I see him raise his camera and click. I don’t know if he’s taking a picture of me or the couple or the ruins. Maybe all three.

  When the cramp subsides, the tour has moved on. The couple too. At the entrance, I flag down a cab, feeling more spent than I should.

  “Signora, signora.” The cabby rattles off something in Italian.

  Usually a migraine precedes my period, and I think I feel one coming on.

  “Where to?” he finally asks in English.

  “Somewhere quiet, please,” I tell him as I roll up the window. I want to shut out those tourists, that young kissing couple, that horrible little man. It’s too early to wait in the piazza for Hannah, and I don’t want to go back to the apartment, to that small narrow bedroom. That would be like giving up. I imagine the woman at the box office would disapprove. Do not worry.

  “Somewhere quiet,” I repeat again, rubbing my temples. “Somewhere near the Piazza del Popolo, but not the Piazza del Popolo.”

  I don’t know if he understands me or not, but he nods and rolls the rest of the windows up, switching on the air conditioner to full blast.

  * * *

  “Villa Borghese,” the cabdriver says, and he gives me two thumbs up. I pay him, probably tipping too much, because his smile is very big as he pulls away.

  It’s an expansive park, with grassy acres, overgrown plane trees and stone pines making it look unkempt. Tourists roll by on Segways, others pedal tandem bikes. A family rests beside a fountain. I watch the mother cup water and motion for her sons to drink. They’re obedient, both of them shirtless and scrawny. I can see every bump and ridge in their spines, like a delicate string of beads. There is pleasure and joy in the mother’s face. When they’re finished they clatter onto their bikes and ride away.

  The path I take leads to a large empty space, no trees or structures or anything. Not a plaque to explain what it was once for. There are a few people throwing balls for dogs, but I can’t imagine ancient Rome having a dog park.

  One of the dog owners looks over. He’s far away, but I can tell from the tilt of his head, from the full laugh, that it’s Donato.

  I see him wave, a small dog jumping at his legs. For some reason, I sit on a bench and pretend to look through my guidebook.

  When he reaches me he says, “Cilla, ciao!”

  “Donato.” I look up, feigning surprise.

  He bends to kiss my cheek. His lips are as soft as they look.

  When I move away he still has hold of my arm.

  “In Italy we kiss twice,” he says, and pulls me in again.

  “Oh, right.” I fumble for his other cheek. “Ciao,” I say, trying to ignore how much pleasure he is taking from befuddling me.

  “Are you here alone?” he asks, grinning.

  “I came from the Forum, I’m meeting Hannah soon.”

  The dog, a brown-and-white Jack Russell, paws at my legs, whimpering.

  “No, Bruce, no,” he says, pulling on the leash. “I watch him for a friend while she is at work.”

  “Hello you, hello.” I pet the dog until it’s settled down. “Why did she name him Bruce?”

  He pantomimes a machine gun. “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!”

  “After Bruce Willis. Nice guy, by the way. Swell.”

  Swell? Who talks like that? I bet his mother doesn’t use whatever the equivalent in Italian is.

  He’s sat down now, his hands in his lap. He’s wearing a striped collared shirt, the collar undone, sleeves rolled up. It’s the first time I notice his hands, which look older than the rest of him—dried and cracked around the knuckles, long knobby fingers, narrow delicate wrists. And his forearms, have I ever paid attention to forearms until now? How nice they seem, lithe and hard all at once, a vein or two raised under tan skin. I watch the hand nearest me disappear into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He offers me one.

  “No, thank you.”

  He tosses his head, breathing in a long drag, then pushes a curl behind his ear. It doesn’t catch, though, and when he smiles it brushes the top of his lashes.

  “Where does your friend work?” I ask, petting Bruce, who has jumped onto the bench and rolled over so I can reach his belly.

  “Cristiano and his sister own Club Fluid.” He raises his arms in the air, gyrates with his hips. “It’s where we like to dance. Do you like martinis? Silvia makes a good martini.” He blows smoke out of his mouth when he says martinis.

  “Vodka or gin?”

  “Gin,” he says, frowning. “Vodka is disgusting.”

  I prefer vodka, but don’t say so.

  He points at the terrier. “Bruce likes you.”

  There’s that wry smile, as if he’s in on some private joke at my expense. It’s exasperating to be next to someone so young and confident. To feel your sore breasts, heavy like a pair of stones; to have your calves throb, your lower back ache. I want to say, There are things I know that would wipe th
at smile off your face.

  Instead I look at my watch. “I have to meet Hannah.”

  He nods. “Piazza del Popolo.”

  I look at him but he’s focusing on the dog now, pushing Bruce from the bench. “I’ll walk with you,” he says. He checks his phone. Starts to text someone. “Do you want a caffè?”

  He takes me to one of the outdoor cafés in the park. It has a pretty green-and-white awning, potted flowers around wrought-iron tables and chairs. When we sit, a tired thin girl with dyed bright red hair comes over to take our order. Donato speaks beautiful, refined Italian. I can tell it isn’t just me who thinks so, the girl has changed her stance, perked up a bit. He stops mid-sentence and switches to English. “Are you hungry?” he asks me.

  I shake my head but I can tell when he starts up again that he’s ordering food.

  “Something light. We can eat again with Hannah.”

  Bruce has circled under his chair and lain down. The waitress brings us two espressos and a bottle of sparkling water. She smiles prettily at Donato now.

  “How do you like Rome?” he asks when we’re alone, tapping my guidebook, which I’ve set on the table.

  Embarrassed, I slip it into my bag. “It’s a bit overwhelming, to be honest. There’s a lot to do.”

  “Don’t worry, we will make sure you see everything.”

  “Do you mean you?”

  “Sure,” he says, tapping his breast. “But not Rick Steves’s Rome, Donato’s Rome. This is your first time in Italy?”

  “It’s my first trip to Europe. I haven’t done much traveling.”

  He nods as if he understands. “Hannah says you take care of your mamma, and before that your papà.”

  I don’t like the pity I hear in his voice. Caring for your parents as they age—that’s what good children do. I clear my throat. “Hannah will want to know where I am.”