A Not So Lonely Planet

by Karina Kennedy

  “Yeah, I’ll take that, mate.” Yang’s mojito glass has been empty for ten minutes. As the men return to their corners, I glance around the pools and realize there are others, and they’re not just men. A woman reclining by the saltwater pool has draped her body in the exact same position as Regina’s, unconsciously mirroring.

  “So, what you’re sayin’ is, basically men are just penis puppets,” Yang says.

  “No. Not just men. And not just sex. It’s bigger than that and not as crass, mon amour,” objects Yin.

  “Absolument, chèrie. Sex is just one intention. Beauty and strength create desire, admiration, love. There is an energy that draws others. It is simple but powerful,” explains Regina.

  “Raw but not savage,” I say.

  “Precisely, my dear.” Regina looks at me and smiles. My heart does a tiny cricket leap. So, I am not immune. I desire her approval. I desire her knowledge. I want to remember everything she says.

  “The gaze is there,” she says. “You may reject or embrace it.”

  “I embrace the energy,” says Yang, slipping into the pool, wrapping her arms around Yin’s waist, biting her gently on the neck. I take her spot next to the oracle.

  “This energy is a female power,” I say, toweling off.

  “And should be used with respect,” adds Yin.

  “Not only female, but often female. This is because recognizing it takes awareness,” Regina explains. “To command it you must first surrender to it.”

  “And some don’t surrender easily.” I am thinking of myself.

  “I do not mean give yourself always. You can share in many ways,” Regina says.

  “Regina’s like the Jedi master of sex,” Yang laughs.

  “Not exactly. But it’s an art I’ve been practicing my whole life. Even as a girl, I noticed boys and men staring. The butcher saved me the best cuts of meat to take home to my mother. The florist let me take any flower I wanted from his shop. My brother’s friends kicked the football at me, and when they got older, fought over who would fix my bike or carry my books. It was terrifying and wonderful. I could not escape it, so I embraced it. But twenty-five years in the public eye does teach you a lot about yourself.” I digest this, nodding. The music from the nearby speakers breaks through my thoughts. It’s a French love song, sung in English. “She is everywoman. She is.”

  “I love this song,” Yin smiles. “It’s better in French, though.”

  “Marina is writing a book about influential women,” Yin says to Regina.

  “And sex,” says Yang. “I told her to put a lot of sex in there.”

  “È fantastico,” Regina says. Then, to me, “You are writing every word we say into your brain as we speak, are you not, scrittore?” Regina laughs. “My dear, come and stay at my little villa on the hill. There are some other artists you should meet.”

  “Wow, that’s so generous,” I say, thrown. I look over at the floating pretzel that is now Yin and Yang.

  “We’re staying at Regina’s too,” Yang says.

  “You can enjoy yourself, relax and write,” Regina says.

  “Alright, thank you,” I say, trying not to sound like I just won the lottery.

  “Elle m’ensorcelle, elle m’embrasse, et je n’ai besoin de personne d’autre,” Yin sings along with the song, but in French instead of English.

  “The other artists will inspire you. Painters, musicians, a poet,” says Regina. “Always creating. In fact, tomorrow there is a photo shoot in the garden. My friend visiting from Florence is a talented photographer with exhibitions all over Europe and millions of followers on Instagram,” she says. Photographer? My stomach twists.

  “You met him at dinner,” says Yang with an evil grin. She means Frantonio, but I already know this.

  “Elle est chaque femme. Elle est,” sings Yin. Suddenly, the words to the song that Yin is singing snap my brain to attention.

  She bewitches me,

  she kisses me,

  I need no one else.

  She is everywoman.

  She is.

  Elle est. The mysterious message was a song, not a poem. Elle est is a French love song. I smile to myself. Frantonio had called French the most powerful language in the world. The message had to be from him.

  Chapter 18

  How Not to Command the Gaze

  Casa di Pavone: Thursday, 6:35 p.m.

  Perched on a regal hilltop between Amalfi and Ravello, Regina’s “little villa” is more like a small resort, with garden, fountains, pool, sauna, spa, terraces and patios with tables, loungers, couches, and winding steps that lead to more terraces and patios. That’s just the outside. There’s even a peacock that wanders around.

  “He just showed up one day.” (Of course he did.) “That’s how we named the house,” she explains. The inside is just as beautiful as the outside, simply yet fashionably done with retro Italian furniture from the sixties. Objets d’art and archaeological artifacts from all over the world decorate shelves: Egyptian vase, Aztec death mask, samurai sword. A vintage poster from the film Le Mans is autographed to Regina’s father from Steve McQueen. “The first film I ever did was with Steve McQueen. He and my father would talk about cars and motorcycles for hours.” (Of course he did.)

  But this poster is not what demands your attention in the main living room. It is the large, black and white, nude photo of Regina that hangs between two windows. I am one hundred percent certain that nobody is ever looking out of those windows. It’s Caravaggio meets Mapplethorpe: dramatic lighting and contrast that dilate your eyes, sinewy curves that tighten your jaw. I’d taken one photography course with my minor in art history, and my attempted nude self-portraits all had me looking uncomfortably constipated.

  “My French-Italian photographer friend took that.” (Of course he did.) My stomach tightens at the mention of Frantonio. Every time we enter a new room, I wonder if he’s going to be there. Regina introduces me to a few people who are reading in the library, one in the kitchen, two more on a terrace, but so far, no Frantonio. I can’t stop thinking about the mysterious message. Did he send it? Was he thinking about me too? I would find out soon.

  A gorgeous young man who is certainly a stripper or Olympic swimmer greets us and takes my bag. “This is Piero, one of my assistants. He will show you to your room.”

  “Maybe you want to have a nap before dinner?” he says. I try not to stare at his perfect ass following him up the stairs. Maybe I want to have a lap dance before dinner. We take a series of halls and staircases. I should be dropping breadcrumbs.

  My Room, Casa di Pavone: Thursday, 7:23 p.m.

  Despite my exhaustion, I do not nap. The prospect of seeing Frantonio fills me with excitement and dread. In Roma, I’d rejected the sexual gaze, as if I’d not publicly invited it. Then in Positano, I’d courted it back again, but lost control on the curve. Amateur. Regina would have crossed the finish line. I try to remember what she said. I have to surrender to the power of the gaze if I am to master the force. Ok-ay, but what did all that sexual Star Wars crap mean in real terms?

  GUIDELINES FOR COMMANDING THE SEXUAL GAZE:

  1. Receive the Gaze: Do not be afraid of your own allure. It’s not always about sex. It is part of you, like your shadow, only the opposite. It’s the fire inside you that attracts others. No matter what you look like, you have this. Find it. Light it.

  2. Interpret the Gaze: Determine the gazer’s intent: love, admiration, or desire? Some want merely to bask in the warmth of your fire. Some want to burn like you do. And, others want you to light their fires.

  3. Respect the Gaze: Do not underestimate the power of the gaze. It can burn both ways. If someone wants something from you, the power lies with you. Do not abuse it. If your intents match, act. If not, extinguish flames immediately.

  4. Command the Gaze: This does not always mean action. Sometimes a slow burning candle is better than a bonfire.

  “Marina?” It’s Yin at the door.

  “Quit flicking yo
ur bean and get out here, DLT. Cocktails on the terrace.” And Yang.

  “I’m almost ready, I’ll meet you there,” I answer. Actually I’m in my underwear and haven’t done my hair. I stare at my list of rules. Ridiculous. How is this going to help me? Frantonio is a professional gazer. He gets paid to record his gaze and share it with others. But he did photograph me dancing around a fountain in Rome. Okay. Accept the gaze: I’m gaze worthy. In Positano, he followed me to the bathroom and kissed me. Interpret the gaze: he wants me to light his fire. He’s an attractive, talented, wealthy French-Italian artist, and a very good kisser. Yes, I want to light it. Respect the gaze: our intents match. Now, I just have to command the gaze. My attempt at a bonfire backfired, so I’m going for the slow burn. I got this. I dig out my ridiculously uncomfortable stilettos. They’re now torturously uncomfortable thanks to my Capri blisters.

  Dining Terrace, Casa di Pavone: Thursday, 8:16 p.m.

  I make my entrance into the dining terrace with a slow glide that’s meant to be graceful, the way Regina floats as if she had wheels instead of feet. I lead with my breasts, arms swinging, hips swaying. But, every two feet my heels stick between cobblestones on the terrace.

  “You hurt yourself, DLT? Why you walkin’ like a prossie with lead boots?” Yang hands me a glass of wine. How is she still drinking? The English and Irish have hollow legs. I’ll just hold the glass so nobody offers me another. The large, open terrace is lit with beautiful hanging lights and candles. A waterfall gurgles. A man sitting on a bench plays guitar as a young woman next to him sings softly. I notice a camera set up on a tripod between the bar and the koi pond. Frantonio must be here somewhere.

  “I like your dress,” offers Yin. I’m wearing a backless plum-colored halter dress, made of silk. I hung it inside the shower stall during my shower to steam out the wrinkles. It fell. Now it has no wrinkles because it’s wet. But nobody else knows that.

  “Why are you wet, mate?” Yang asks.

  “I’m not wet,” I say.

  “You sweatin’? You nervous or something?” Yang asks.

  “No, I’m fine.” I glance around. There are about eighteen people enjoying cocktails and wine, some standing, some seated at the table, or on couches and benches. “Are all these people staying here too?” I ask.

  “No, some are local friends and others are models, in town for the photo shoot tomorrow,” explains Yin. As she says this, my eyes fall on Frantonio.

  “But he is,” says Yang pointedly. Frantonio is wearing a light blue dress shirt with the top two buttons open, and a stylish sports coat. His hair a bit ruffled; he’s got blue-rimmed glasses, elegant and manly at the same time. Leaning against a column, chatting with two gorgeous women, Frantonio doesn’t even notice me. “Maybe you should check if his prick is still broken from the other night,” laughs Yang. I watch Frantonio put his arm around one of the girls with a flowing red mane. “Scratch that,” she says. “Looks like it’s back in working order.”

  “Be nice.” Yin elbows her. The second girl also drapes herself on Frantonio.

  “I am. She doesn’t need to be wastin’ her time with that arsehole photographer anyway. He’s got an ego the size of Russia.” She leans in closer. “Look at all these gorgeous girls, mate, try something different.” She raises an eyebrow at me.

  I’m looking at the gorgeous girls—hanging on Frantonio. I position myself in his field of view and laugh loudly at Yang’s suggestion, as if I’m having the time of my life. He doesn’t look over. How am I supposed to command the sexual gaze of a man who’s not even looking? The guitar player transitions into a faster piece by the Gypsy Kings. I’m suddenly filled with purpose.

  “Let’s dance,” I say.

  “There’s not really a dance floor,” Yin says.

  “We’ll make our own, near the bar,” I say as I pull her by the hand, closer to the music . . . and Frantonio. But he still doesn’t look at me.

  “Nobody else is dancing,” says Yin shyly. But I’m already moving around her, swaying my body to the sexy sounds of the guitar. Yin joins in, half-heartedly. I twirl slowly and sensually—but Frantonio isn’t watching me, he’s flirting with the redhead. Sliding up behind Yin, I pull her to me by her hips. Our bodies move together as one.

  “Yeah baby.” Yang is enjoying this heartily. Frantonio is oblivious. The music gets faster. I spin Yin out and dip her over the fishpond. She squeals as the tips of her hair skim the surface. I twirl her quickly, flinging droplets of water from her flying hair onto the small crowd of people now watching us. Frantonio is still not looking. I raise my arm for Yin to spin me, and she does. Around and around I go. I break free and keep twirling, faster, across the stones like a ballerina, knocking into the tripod, sending the camera crashing into the fishpond. Now, Frantonio is looking at me.

  Chapter 19

  How Not to Apologize

  Dining Terrace, Casa di Pavone: Thursday, 8:38 p.m.

  I cannot breathe. I cannot see straight. The party now looks like Picasso’s Guernica mural: gasping faces, arms in the air, wailing heads floating toward me—how did that screaming horse get in here? The music has stopped. Everything has stopped. People are staring at me, and at the sunken camera with tripod legs sticking out of the water like a giant, upside-down, drowning insect.

  IF YOU ever find yourself in this situation, DEFINITELY DO NOT:

  1. Cry. Okay you can cry.

  2. Yell, “It’s fine, it’s fine, these new ones are all waterproof! The underwater shots of the fish are going to be totally amazing!”

  3. Laugh hysterically while you cry.

  4. Tell everyone to stand back as you jump into the pond.

  5. Climb out of the pond, clutching the camera to your breast like a rescued puppy, tripod legs sticking out behind you.

  6. Run dripping and barefoot through the house with tripod legs knocking into antique furniture, slipping and sliding on the tile in the wrong hallway, and burst into the wrong room where an old lady is getting dressed.

  My Room, Casa di Pavone: Thursday, 8:55 p.m.

  Why am I such a walking disaster? My mother is a complete klutz, hurting herself all the time. Maybe it’s genetic. Even as a girl, I was falling, crashing, bungling my way through one debacle after the next. Aunt Catherine used to say my mind was always three steps ahead of my body. I think she’s right.

  Now, sweat beads on my forehead as I hover over the bed, holding a hairdryer set on “low-cool” at a forty-five degree angle to the army of tiny camera pieces lined up in formation across the bed. Online emergency instructions to just “open it up and dry it out” seemed like a good idea when I started, but now I want to hunt down whatever nerd typed that and throttle him. There’s no easy way to “open it up.” The first piece led to the second, to the third, to the one hundred and sixtieth. The warranty is definitely void on this baby now. Of course, that was probably true when it flooded with fish poo water. As I wave the dryer in circles, I wonder how I’m going to get it back together, and if the elderly Italian woman I barged in on is now lying dead of a heart attack. Her door looked just like mine. Honest mistake.

  “Open the door, DLT,” demands Yang. “You’ve been hiding long enough. I’ve brought you something you need.” I switch off the hairdryer and open the door. There stands Yang with the samurai sword from the living room. “I can hold it for you while you throw yourself onto it, see?” She demonstrates.

  “Thanks.” I do not laugh.

  “I’m just fuckin’ with ya. You’re overreacting. Regina’s rich as fuck, she can get another camera.” It turns out the camera is Regina’s. Somehow this makes me feel worse. Yang follows me into the room and sees the five million tiny camera pieces, laid in orderly rows of increasing size. “Holy shit, mate!” She loses it, laughing so hard she has to put the sword down.

  “Don’t touch!” I turn the hair dryer back on and resume my hopeless operation. “Who’s the old woman? Did I kill her?”

  “Regina’s ex-mother-in-law? She live
s here, used to all sorts, don’t worry. It’s a simple cock up. The whole thing was like hugely entertaining. Somebody called you Buster Keaton after you ran out.”

  “Perfetto.”

  “Regina’s not cross. The only one who got bent was that pretentious photographer, ’cause he’d taken some shots before you came outside. Fuck him.”

  “No. That will clearly not be happening now.”

  “Good. Come out and talk to that cracking hot singer, DLT. I think she likes you. She had people helping her write a funny song about you. It was like a game.”

  “What?” My heart sinks.

  “Yeah.” She sings, “Kooky American girl likes to twirl, but grace turns to dis-grace in a whirl—”

  “Stop! Basta!” I turn the hairdryer on Yang. I love this new Italian word.

  “That feels good. Do my pits. What was the second part of the song?”

  “Get out, please. I don’t want to hear the song.”

  “No it’s really good, there’s a bit where she rhymes mortification with slutty gyration and ruined vacation. Everyone’s so fuckin’ creative around here.”

  “GET OUT!” I throw a pillow. Yang ducks and moves for the door, laughing.

  “Don’t stay in here all night, DLT. You need to eat to keep your strength up for your next comical catastrophe.” I throw another pillow and it hits the back of the door as she closes it. Great. I had been given a free stay at an impossibly amazing villa with fellow artists and writers . . . who were now composing ballads about my blunders. Where do you go from here? I will just stay in my room until the morning and then slip out while everyone was still asleep. Feeling tears welling up in my eyes again, I turn the hairdryer on my face to fight them back. Eyes wide like a lizard, I try not to blink as my eyeballs dry out. Another knock.

  “Go away, Yang! I’m not coming out.” But she knocks again. Angrily I throw the hairdryer down, pick up the samurai sword, stomp over to the door, and throw it open. It’s Frantonio. He sees the sword and takes a step back and holds up his hands. Sport coat off, his face a bit flushed from the wine, he’s now looking more relaxed.