An Astrological Guide for Broken Hearts

by Silvia Zucca

  What do I do now? “Look, Riccardino, what a nice little car. Wanna play with the car?”

  He snatches it from me and starts to beat it on the floor. “I wanna break the car!”

  “No, come on, don’t do that.” I try to remove it from his hand. “Give me that car . . . come on, give it to me!”

  But instead of giving me the car, he takes the opportunity to smash it against my head with all his might.

  “Shit!” I bring my hand to my mouth, and I have tears in my eyes from the pain. But he’s stopped.

  “Is shit like poopoo?” he asks me.

  “Um, no. I mean . . . I didn’t say shit, technically . . . I mean I didn’t actually say that word.”

  “Shit!”

  “No!”

  “Shit poopoo, shit poopoo, shit poopoo!”

  “That’s enough!” Suddenly I get a stroke of genius. “How about watching some TV?”

  In my infinite discussions with Paola, we have determined that television is very morally harmful, and we have always despised those parents who are incapable of doing anything but sedating the minds of their children by placing them in front of stupid programs. Should I feel guilty as I furiously search for the remote? Like hell. It’s not like he’s my own son, right?

  Unfortunately, I turn on the TV and realize that it is only transmitting images of the Delta studio, and all we can see are the outtakes from Astrological Guide because they have cut to commercial.

  “That man is completely naked!” exclaims Riccardino pointing his finger.

  I’m sitting at the desk and when I look up at the monitor, I see that Alejandro is walking in front of the cameras and he is still shirtless. A moment later, Raffaella appears, rests her hands on his abs, and pushes him away.

  “Oh fu—”

  Riccardino looks right at me and says confidently, “Shit.”

  I sigh, the screen goes black, and after the musical interlude the show starts up again.

  “To charm a Scorpio,” Tio says, “you must be mysterious. Even in the best relationships, always expect a storm just around the corner. To keep him captivated, you must always be elusive. But Scorpio is also one of the most dangerous signs of the zodiac, and if he should think that you had wronged him, he would hunt you down and make you pay.”

  Oh, to hell with Enrico, Tio who sent me to look for him, and everything else.

  “I’m so thirsty!!” says Riccardino.

  On Enrico’s desk, there are several empty boxes of fruit juice, but there is still one unopened. “Do you want this?” I ask him, stuffing a straw in his Minute Maid.

  He then climbs onto me and starts to drink heartily. Of course, when he’s calm, he’s really cute.

  He puts his curly head on me and sighs, relaxing. I do the same, leaning back in the chair and enjoying the warmth emanating from his little body, and it starts to spread through my body, too.

  No, wait. Not my entire body.

  I lift up Riccardino and raise my eyes to the ceiling railing against Saturn’s curse . . . and against the child’s pee on the skirt of my business suit.

  “Why the hell don’t they put a diaper on you, little hydrant of Satan?”

  In response, Riccardino bursts into tears, and the only solution is that we go wash up and change clothing. Lucky for him, I find a bag with his other clothes.

  Not far from the studios, there is a fully equipped bathroom for management, with a shower and a hair dryer. I head in that direction, dragging Riccardino with me.

  “Let’s pretend we are boats!” he says, opening the sink faucet and spraying water on me.

  “Let’s pretend that you’re a fish and I’ll put your head under water and see if you can breathe,” I answer as I start removing my clothing. At this point, I know that not even my blouse will escape unscathed if I keep it on while I wash it, and, since there is a shower, I might as well take the opportunity to remove all the day’s delightful fragrances.

  After rinsing my clothes, I hand over the hair dryer to Riccardino with a task.

  “Now you’re a cowboy and you have to point this gun at the clothes, which are dangerous bandits. OK?” This way he can at least help dry them while I take a quick shower.

  While I soap myself up, I keep looking over my shoulder. Behind the opaque curtain, I see his shadow fidgeting, and I pray that he doesn’t even think about pulling a Psycho and throwing the hair dryer at me as a joke.

  When I finish, I wrap myself in a towel. But as soon as I turn off the water, I realize that the room is quiet. Too quiet.

  When I pull open the curtain I almost have a heart attack. He’s not there. The door is wide open, and Riccardino is gone. What’s worse is that my clothes have also disappeared. All of them. The only thing left is a single shoe, Cinderella style, but in my case, I don’t even have half a pumpkin to work with.

  “Riccardino!”

  Nothing. Even when I lean out in the hallway, the infamous child is nowhere to be found. Instead, I catch sight of something on the floor. I know it is practically a suicide mission, but the alternative is staying trapped, naked, in the management bathroom, so I run to retrieve my bra, strewn on the ground by Tom Thumb.

  I’m already bending down when I hear voices. I pull the bra out of their path just in time to slip into a closet as Davide and Enrico pass directly in front of it.

  “Good conduct is the most important thing, Davide. Stealing material is unacceptable, and if he’s made a mistake, he must take responsibility for his actions.”

  If only Davide were not there, perhaps I could have caught Enrico’s attention and gotten some help. But what would I say? “Hey, Dad, I lost your son”?

  God, if he only knew that Riccardino was doing a solo marathon through the corridors of the studios, wandering around like Lady Godiva would be the least of my problems.

  As Davide and Enrico move farther down the hallway, I suddenly hear Riccardino laugh. Damn him, he’s enjoying himself, wreaking havoc like a Teletubby version of Attila the Hun!

  The door of the production room that we use for the newscast is open. I step out of the closet and move closer to the door.

  “Riccardino? Are you in here? Come on, don’t push your luck. Come out now.”

  I move through the dark but stop when I catch a glimpse of a shadow running back and forth.

  “Riccardino!” I exclaim.

  I see him in the shadows, but he speeds past, throwing me to the ground and grasping at the door.

  When I get up, fumbling in the dark, I discover that in his flight, the Killer Baby has lost another of his trophies. Praise the Lord; it is my skirt. Yes, it’s still wet, but at least I no longer risk showing the world my backside (or my front side, which would be even worse!).

  A second later, I feel like I’m going to die when I see Davide and Enrico cross the hallway. Davide stops next to the column behind which I am hiding, and I pray that he is not blessed with X-ray vision.

  “Davide . . . ?” calls Enrico, who had moved a few steps ahead.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” says Davide. “I just thought I heard a kid’s voice.”

  “A kid?” Enrico laughs hysterically. “Here? A kid? That’s just crazy!”

  “Yes . . .” Davide turns toward the hallway that winds around the studios. “There at the far end.”

  I wait for Enrico to lead him away and then I follow Davide’s directions. He was right. Now that I’m closer, I hear him, too. “Riccardino?”

  I see him, but what I find is terrifying. He is lying still, on his back, like the child from The Ring. When he turns around he says, “I wanna give you a boo-boo!” And then clings to my calf like a Rottweiler.

  After what seems like an eternity, I find myself panting and writhing on the ground like a lame horse, but with my blouse safely back in my hands. The score is Riccardino 0, Alice 1.

  As I drag myself away hobbling, with a bare left foot, I fasten the buttons of my blouse and think of all the ways that I can make him pay.

>   When I turn the corner, however, I bump smack into a concrete wall that I am certain wasn’t here before. A wall that grabs me and holds me close, putting its hands on my butt. A wall with rippling muscles and the powerful, masculine, virile scent of leather.

  Alejandro.

  The grip on my buttocks gives no sign of loosening up.

  He looks into my eyes and says, “Lo siento mucho.”

  “I . . . feel it mucho, too,” I reply, as long as it seems there is a balloon between us right now.

  “Alice!”

  Enrico’s thundering voice has the effect of detaching Alejandro’s hands from my butt cheeks and causing me to stagger backward.

  “What are you . . . ? Where is . . . ?” Enrico turns white as a ghost, then bites his lip because he definitely can’t ask me about his sweet little baby in front of Davide.

  That’s right. Davide. Nardi glares first at Alejandro and then at me without saying a word.

  “Umm . . . everything is . . . under control,” I say, tugging at my blouse as I try to pull myself together, and I realize I’ve fastened the buttons incorrectly. “I was just talking about the program, with . . . Alejandro here, and I was asking him . . . um . . . what sign he was.”

  “Sagittarius.”

  “OK . . . great . . . interesting.”

  “Discovering someone’s zodiac sign, and then their horoscope, is an effective way to start to understand a person,” Tio is saying in the studio. “On this show, we’re here to give you some tips. Do you want to tame a Scorpio? This is a sign that loves extremes, so you could try spicy food or a very sweet cream pie . . .”

  I think that for Enrico, at this moment, a necklace of garlic would be more useful.

  And just then, Luciano pans out to show the entire studio, and I have a revelation.

  Leaning against the large screen behind the guests’ seats, lies my lonely missing shoe.

  “Cut to commercials!” I yell.

  “I can’t, there are still at least ten minutes left,” says Luciano. “What’s the matter?”

  If my Christian Louboutin is in there, Riccardino must be, too!

  I ignore Luciano’s shouts and, trying to make as little noise as possible, I slip into the studio to look around. There are cameramen, the studio assistant, the guests, Tio, and Marlin . . . but no Riccardino? He might be small, but somebody is sure to notice him under their feet. Unless . . .

  When I spot him, I am astounded. He has climbed the platform that runs around the floodlights, almost fourteen feet off the ground.

  If he were to fall, maybe the world would be spared all kinds of trouble in the future, but I wouldn’t live to reap the benefit.

  Riccardino sees me, too. In answer to my desperate gesturing, he holds up the last article of clothing and waves it: my underwear.

  As I start to climb the ladder, I don’t know if I’m more afraid that he’ll crash to the ground, that he’ll drop the underwear on the head of one of the guests, or that someone will look up and realize “commando” doesn’t just refer to my climbing skills.

  Riccardino is in his element up there, and does a miniature version of the Phantom of the Opera, dropping down the ladder on the opposite side of the studio.

  I, however, manage to let my foot slip and end up practically counting the rungs from top to bottom with my chin. I stifle a couple of rightful but very un-ladylike utterances and enter through the service door to collect the panties that Riccardino has left behind.

  “Alice?”

  Maybe this is a nightmare. Maybe I’ll wake up and discover that I haven’t even gotten to work yet and none of this has happened. Instead, I am standing in front of Davide, while holding my panties.

  “Would you care to tell me what’s been going on here tonight?”

  What else could I say other than, “It’s not what it looks like . . . I can explain?”

  His eyes narrow. “Aren’t you going to put them on?” he says, alluding to my underwear.

  I bite my lip, and he sighs and turns his back to me, granting me, bless him, a hint of privacy.

  “So, you really couldn’t wait?”

  I blink. “Well, no, Enrico . . .”

  “Enrico?” He spins around, and his neck turns blood red. “First that King Kong creature and now Enrico?”

  “Alejandro? No, no, no . . . ” I’m going to have to explain everything to him from the beginning, hoping that Enrico won’t kill me and that Davide is not on the Dark Side of the Force and about to reprimand us both for hiding a minor in a dangerous workplace. When I’ve finished, he stares at me as if I just revealed that Mr. President likes to dress up as a nun in private and get spanked.

  “He stole your clothes?”

  “After he peed on me, yes.”

  He rubs his face with a hand and makes a face. Then I notice that he has bruised knuckles.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “It’s nothing, just a scratch.” Between the two of us, we’d make great dialogue writers for Mal d’Amore. I stare at him as he takes a few steps and then turns back toward me. “Are you coming?”

  “Where?”

  “To look for the kid.”

  • • •

  “How did you decide to work in television?”

  We are walking through the sets of Mal d’Amore, passing by the offices of the show’s powerful steel magnates to reach the emergency hallway.

  “Well . . . actually, I would have liked to work in film,” I tell him.

  “And what films do you like?”

  I avoid his gaze. “Oh, well, obviously the great directors. You know, Forman, Kubrick, Kiarostami . . .”

  “And the truth?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those are not really the movies that you love. I can tell when you’re lying, Alice. I can read it on your face.”

  “OK, you win. I love romantic comedies, filled with misadventures that always finish with a happy ending that makes you feel that all is right with the world.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, Ghost, for example. It’s a beautiful love story.”

  “Sure. He dies . . . What could be more perfect?”

  “Pretty Woman.”

  “Very romantic. She’s a prost—”

  “Someone Like You!” I interrupt him.

  “Like me?”

  “No . . . I mean, that’s the title of another movie. When Harry Met Sally, Notting Hill . . . Dirty Dancing.”

  “They all seem a bit dated. Is there nothing in theaters now that you would like to see?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “When I watch them again, I feel like a girl. What can I say, I’ve always had my head a little bit in the clouds. It’s my dad’s fault.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I go to open a closet door to look for Riccardino, but it must have been off its hinges because it immediately starts to topple over.

  “Watch out!” Behind me, Davide grabs it with both hands, preventing it from ending up on my head, and I find myself trapped between his arms and the closet.

  “In the sense that,” I say, trying not to think about the warmth of his body and the beating of his heart against my back. “He chose my name: Alice. He calls me Alice in Wonderland. I think Alice in La La Land would be more suitable.”

  I turn around and see that he is smiling.

  “And you?”

  We cross what appears to be the aisle of a shopping center, with shelves full of colorful products.

  “Well, not David and Goliath. They just named me after my grandfather.”

  “I didn’t mean that! I was trying to ask why you do this job . . .”

  Davide, suddenly serious, shifts his gaze to the next set. “Let’s try over there.” Instead of answering my question, he enters another set and examines it like a crime scene, taking care to avoid looking at me.

  “I’m going to say he’s not here either. He is small, but there’s no way he could have slipped through the cracks in the floor,
” I comment, earning a glance and a snort.

  “Are you always like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Sarcastic.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t think I can be anything else.”

  “No, it’s nice! I mean, I like it, but . . .” He crosses another door, leaving that “but” hanging. But what? I look at him quizzically, and he sighs again.

  “It’s hard to keep up with you.”

  Uh-oh. One less point for Alice.

  “It’s not always easy to keep up with you either,” I say, but without being aggressive, “a career man, in an important position. I mean, a girl might feel uncomfortable.” I chuckle, adding: “But you are a man, after all. You probably used to play with other kids like I did . . . the things that make us all human.”

  But I see his jaw harden. “Um . . . no.”

  He doesn’t say anything more and turns his back. When we have covered practically all of the sets without finding a trace of the child, he holds the door open for me to let me pass, and I get the feeling that something has ended, that a spell has been broken. And, in fact, we are soon joined by Enrico, who gives me a grim look and then bites his lip, staring at Davide as he asks me, “Why aren’t you in the production room?”

  I don’t know what to say. Enrico doesn’t know that Davide knows. I know that Davide knows, but I also know that he shouldn’t know what he knows. But does Davide know that he shouldn’t know what he knows? My head is spinning!

  “I called her,” says Davide, causing me to breathe a sigh of relief. “But now she’s all yours, if you need her.”

  It doesn’t mean anything, but that “all yours” makes my stomach clench.

  “Did you find him?” I ask Enrico as soon as the coast is clear.

  “No, I didn’t find him! Damn it, Alice, how the hell did you lose him in the first place? If something happens to him, Emilia will kill me. And I will kill you, don’t doubt that.”

  “Why couldn’t your wife keep him at home?” I growl.

  “She said that I have to spend some time with my son. And that she needed a break.”

  “But you need to work, Enrico. She should understand that. You can’t bring a kid here; it’s way too dangerous. What about a babysitter?”

  “Emilia’s gone, Alice. She took off to spend the afternoon at the beach with her friends. And all three babysitters said no.”