by Silvia Zucca
I devote myself to Alejandro’s abs, which seem to come directly from a glossy magazine, and I run my fingers over them like the keys on a piano.
Alejandro’s hands run over me, undress me, caress me, followed by his hot tongue and the cold drops of water from his still-dripping hair that fall in my eyes.
I inhale deeply, taking in his intoxicating smell. I look for the perfume of leather that they always describe in romance novels when a man undresses—the scent of a man—but I only smell shower gel, which isn’t even Scots pine, but berry scented. What does it matter when I am about to experience the most mystical, stratospheric, fulfilling, and unique sexual experience in history? He could smell like gingerbread, and I wouldn’t complain.
In the Mr. Zodiac competition, Sagittarius came first, ahead of the others by several lengths. That’s what Tio said. The signs say that I will have as many orgasms as there are stars in the Big Dipper. Hooray!
He spreads my legs and stands over me, only then dropping the towel from his waist.
He looks at me. I look at him.
Virginally, I bat my eyelashes, sliding my eyes over his powerful neck, his virile chest, and that six-pack that could cause a fainting epidemic, and then . . .
Oh god, it must be an optical illusion, caused by overworking those muscles just above, but the effect is like one of those sneezes that as it first starts to tickle your nose seems like it could bring down a house but then extinguishes in your throat with a wheeze.
I frown, but only for a second—I was always taught that it’s rude to stare—and I bring my eyes back to his, smiling gracefully.
Who knows, perhaps Alejandro is like Sting in his heyday, having sex for five or more hours, and a single glance from him is all it takes to reach a climax. Let’s hope, I think to myself, still staring as he approaches.
Come on, Alice; even if he’s not Rocco Siffredi, it will still be a fantastic experience. You’re in love!
15
* * *
Guess If the Sagittarius Is Coming to Dinner
My romance has lasted for two weeks now. When I look into Alejandro’s dark eyes, I lose myself; he can speak to me about anything and I hang, breathless, on his every word.
We make love, too, although it’s not the most important element of our relationship.
I feel so lucky to have found him. I am so happy that tonight we decided to go to my parents’ house. When I called to say I would go over for dinner, I intimated that I had some really big news.
The pretext is the famous boxes, the ones full of my things that Mom and Dad packed before repainting the house.
And Tio will finally have to change his mind about my Sagittarius, because tonight he practically invited himself to dinner, so he will be there, too. I must say that he’s been very kind. He borrowed a Fiat Doblò from a friend so we can easily load all my things. This also means he has instantly found his way into my dad’s heart—he loves organized people.
My personal astrologer follows my dad and shows an interest in painting techniques, asking questions worthy of an art expert faced with the imminent restoration of the Sistine Chapel. My father smiles. Tio can win people over in a heartbeat. He can read anyone with his astrology. So much so, that it seems you have known him forever. Or more like he has known you forever, since he barely speaks about himself.
I glance at the clock. Alejandro should be here soon.
“Your friend is really nice,” says my mom, at the stove. “He’s handsome, too.” She gestures toward the living room.
Instinctively I cast another glance at the door. Well, yes even without all the greasepaint they use to transform him into Marcus Alvarez, I admit that he is easy on the eyes: long legs and broad shoulders, the kind you always see in those gossip magazines that my dad consults during long moments of spiritual retreat in the bathroom, the guys who change their women as often as they change their clothes. But Tio is not like that. In fact, he doesn’t even seem interested in love.
He catches my furtive glance and pulls a face, before blowing me a kiss.
For a second, I wonder if it’s possible that he is the one sending me the yellow roses. That wouldn’t really make any sense, since we talk every day, and he’s done nothing but help me try to find the man of my dreams.
Speaking of roses, I didn’t tell Alejandro about the latest one that arrived yesterday morning. He is un hombre latino, after all, and jealousy is as much a part of his DNA as his dark eyes, amber skin, broad chest, and . . . Oh well, you can’t have everything in life. I think, if given a choice, I would have preferred that that were his dominant trait, but that particular feature must have been a recessive gene. What rotten luck!
Anyway, perfection is scary, isn’t it? I’m glad that there is something there (or not there) that makes him human. Much better . . .
Since it’s getting late, and Dad is already pouring the drinks, I decide to escape down the hall to call Alejandro. The phone rings four or five times before he picks up.
“Hola, amor, where are you? ¿Abajo?” I ask hopefully.
At least three seconds of silence. “Um, no . . . I’m on the highway.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Aliz, lo siento mucho, I cannot be there. They call me for . . . work. I go to Vigevano.”
“What!”
“Lo siento, Aliz. Otra ocasión. Besitos. Besitos.”
He hangs up, without giving it a second thought. Besitos. Besitos, my ass. He ruined the surprise. I could still tell Mom and Dad that I’m dating someone, but it’s not the same thing.
“You see how much of a Libra you are?” says Tio, when I explain the problem to him. “You are a perfectionist, and once you get something in your head, you can’t stand being made to review and correct it.”
“And here I was thinking I had some kind of mental disease. Instead, I’m affected by a form of acute Libra-itis.”
“Hey, I’m here. Am I not enough for you?” He puts his arm around me to console me and gives me a kiss on the forehead.
“Kids, aperitivo time!” my father calls us to order.
The problem isn’t really that Alejandro can’t make it tonight. The fact is that it always triggers something strange in my head when things don’t go according to plan. And, I wasn’t too nice to Alejandro the other night.
I’d had a rough day. I had seen Davide, who is now giving me the cold shoulder. The third episode of the Guide had suffered a drop in viewing figures. Maybe that’s why Davide is so nervous; after all, he was the one who pushed for my program with Mr. President. I might end up on the network’s blacklist after all.
In short, all I wanted was to be cuddled, for Alejandro to hold me in his arms, more tenderly than passionately.
“How are you? Better?” asks Tio.
I shrug. “I guess, sure. Maybe I’ll feel even better not making the announcement tonight.”
“Oh, it’s the announcement now, is it!”
“So to speak.”
He gives me a suspicious look. “Alice, are you really OK? I don’t mean just now because Alejandro’s not coming to dinner, but in general. Are you sure you’re OK with him?”
“Weren’t you the one who said Libra and Sagittarius were compatible signs? Very compatible?”
He sighs. “Sagittarius is undoubtedly a compatible sign, but often individualistic and even all-consuming. And above all, he’s a free spirit, who loves new conquests and doesn’t settle down easily. You have clearly been charmed by the huge qualities of his sign.” He winks at me, like someone who is incredibly well versed on the topic and has studied it at great length.
I bite my lip because I don’t want to discuss intimate matters, but the truth is that that small detail—ha!—that Tio had told me about a Sagittarius was still at the back of my mind . . . In this case, it sure is small, but I think it’s important in a relationship. “Maybe you let yourself be too influenced by zodiac signs in judging people. Everything doesn’t always match up. I can
assure you.”
“So, is this a serious relationship? I mean, isn’t it a bit early to, say, introduce him to your parents?”
“I’m happy, Tio. That I can say despite the relative length”—I cough—“of our relationship, I mean.”
Why do I keep thinking about sex? Sex is, after all, of little importance. In the long run, it’s feelings that matter, right? Yet, to make a long story short, I keep thinking about it.
Given Tio’s comments on the enormous capabilities of the Sagittarius, I’d like to ask him if this particular exception to the rule could be due to perhaps his Ascendant?
“Well, yes, the Ascendant is an important part,” says Tio, when I turn around and ask him the question. “It’s like the mask we show to the world, which largely determines the way others see us, their first impression. Before the twentieth century, it was considered even more important than the Solar Sign because of its influence.”
I think about the way Alejandro and I make love. And ask myself what could the demonic Ascendant be that makes things so difficult?
“Well, it’s not like one should necessarily overdo it,” I reply.
“Come off it!” he exclaims, slapping me on the back. “No one believes you. Sex is a fundamental part of the life of a couple. Otherwise . . .”
“Otherwise what? Is this one of those macho, sexist speeches?” I blurt out. “You mean to say that if someone is ‘small’ and can’t satisfy a woman, he can’t have a serious and rewarding relationship with someone? For your information, I am very, very happy. Very. Can you say the same? Where are your girlfriends? Maybe you’re the one who has something to hide!”
I see his expression darken.
Luckily, my mother intervenes, appearing in the kitchen doorway.
We all sit down and I cast a hard look at Tio, even though I know I shouldn’t be mad at him and that he’s not to blame for what I’m going through.
“I know we usually only do this at Christmas,” announces my mother proudly, “but tonight, we have a guest, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s something to celebrate, right? So, I made a typical family dish: eel.” She smiles winking at my father. “Guido found me a nice, big one.”
I close my eyes, wondering if this isn’t a conspiracy.
The truth is that I am racked with guilt. In reality, it’s not a complete disaster with Alejandro, but that is only because, at a certain point, I throw in the towel and think of someone else . . . Davide. There, I’ve thought it. Mea culpa.
“Aren’t you happy, Alice? You love eel,” says my mother when I pass her my plate.
“Oh, yes,” I repeat. “I love it.”
“And your boyfriend, how’s he doing?” When my father asks this question, I turn abruptly to him as he adds, “Does he eat eel?”
A moment of glacial embarrassment follows, where Tio looks at me, I look at him, and I understand. For my parents, the star of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner is Tio, not Alejandro, about whom they know nothing.
“Guido, you’re such a spoilsport. You should have waited for them to tell us!”
“Oh, I like eel, a lot,” answers Tio through his teeth. “It’s sublime,” he adds, shooting me a glare. “As for love, I fear that there’s been a mistake. Alice doesn’t consider me anything more than a good friend. She’s a Libra, after all, and like everyone in her sign, she longs for an all-encompassing and perfect love.”
“Oh, Alice has always been a perfectionist,” says my mother ruefully, shaking her head. “She should learn to find happiness in little things.”
Tio raises an eyebrow at me with the cunning and cruel air of someone unwilling to forgive. “Exactly. That’s what her boyfriend keeps telling her.”
16
* * *
Just a Question of Horoscope
It’s been days since I’ve received my horoscope. I keep checking the spam folder on my messages, but the reason they’re not arriving is not because of a system error; it’s because of a human error. Tio is mad at me. No, I’m mad at him. Paola called us a pair of idiots for dragging out this game of competitive silence.
Today, though, one of us has to give in. We’re filming the show and we have to behave like serious professionals who can put aside their personal disagreements.
“Alice, we have a problem,” says a colleague entering the production room while I’m checking the video recordings.
“What’s wrong?”
“Marlin doesn’t like the lineup.”
“What do you mean she doesn’t like it? Does she want it printed on scented paper?”
“Good one. No, she wants to do the interview with our skeptic guest, the astrogeologist.”
I knew this moment would come, the moment I would have to cross the threshold of the dressing room and come face-to-face with Tio, or at least with his face through the mirror. I’m sure he saw me, and that’s why he’s pretending to be immersed in his copy of Book of the Zodiac. In the other chair, Marlin takes the gesture as a personal affront and responds by picking up a bottle of makeup remover and squinting her eyes in an attempt to focus on the inscriptions in Japanese on the back.
“So?” I ask, looking from one to the other, without success.
The only one who turns toward me is Erika, the makeup artist, who shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders. Poor thing; I don’t envy her having to cope with the two of them.
Marlin slams the bottle on the table like a Supreme Court justice. “I’ve fronted Good Morning Milan, Vacations Together, Thursdays by the Fire . . . and now? I show the guests in and then I have to sit on my ass the whole time? What am I, a hostess? If that’s what you think, Alice, you’re making a big mistake! I know how to interview a fucking theologist.”
“Astrogeologist.”
“Same thing.”
Obviously, I can’t leave Andrea Magni, the famous astrogeologist, in Marlin’s lacquered clutches after it’s taken a lifetime to convince him to come on the air.
Tio turns to Erika without lowering the newspaper. “Sweetie, could you tell our writer that she can’t let a famous astrogeologist be interviewed by someone who thinks that continental crust is a type of pizza.”
Marlin opens and closes her mouth, outraged. “You want to pay more attention to your own crust! You haven’t heard the last of this,” she mutters, calling Mr. President’s private number and disappearing into the hallway to whine at the phone.
Erika turns toward me with a bewildered look.
I raise my hand. “Excuse me, Erika, could you tell Tio he should be more courteous to his colleagues?”
“Erika, forgive me,” says Tio with an affected tone. “Could you please relay these exact words to our distinguished writer?” He looks at me through the mirror and growls: “Look who’s talking!”
“Erika,” I say, ignoring the poor girl’s desperate look. “Could you remind Mr. Tiziano Falcetti that if he weren’t the first to pass judgment on other people’s private lives, none of this would have happened?”
He slams the book on the counter in front of the mirror. He detests being called by his real name. “And, Erika dear,” he replies, pausing for effect, as if pulling back the string of a bow to take aim, “tell her that if she had never come to me crying about her and her boyfriend’s miserable sex life, I would never have dared to speak my mind. If she doesn’t like my advice, she should quit bothering me and just stand in front of the mirror and tell herself whatever she wants to hear.”
Erika quickly shoves all the makeup scattered on the counter into her bag. “I’m done,” she says, reaching the door.
“Erika!” My voice comes out so shrill that I don’t recognize it.
I don’t turn around, but I can still see her reflection as I stare right at Tio. “Please tell Marlin to come see me. We have to discuss what she’s going to ask Andrea Magni in the interview.”
I couldn’t let Tio have the last word on this. Who does he think he is?
Too bad he’ll never find out Alejandro’s Ascen
dant—I’m sure he’s as curious as a cat. For the record, it’s Capricorn. I know, because I asked my mother-in-law on the telephone.
Tio is not indispensable. From now on, if I want something done, I’ll do it myself. I downloaded a great app on my phone. For less than six euros per week (5.99 to be exact), I have real-time news and updates on my map of the skies. Let me see. As soon as I start it, I hear a tinny new age arpeggio and a few seconds after inserting the data, a message appears on the screen from my new trusted astrological service:
Character Traits of a Sagittarius with a Capricorn Ascendant.
The article is long and, I imagine, very detailed.
Cheerful peoples, athletic and full of energies, who love travels and independence.
In spite of the shaky grammar—you can’t expect a database to write like Ernest Hemingway—it seems to me an apt definition. How wonderful.
Good hereditary health. Their parents might have a beneficial influence on their financial situation. Inherited lands or legacies.
This also makes me very happy. It’s not that I want to pry into his financial affairs, but it would be fantastic to have an estate in Spain.
Endowed with fluctuating emotion, they are often instability, shady, lazy and create a double life. In worse cases, addicted to alcohols and drugs.
I don’t understand how in a few lines he has transformed from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. And then . . . drugs? Oh god!
Serene and reassuring peoples.
Well, I’m definitely reassured now . . .
Little probability of inheriting.
And now no estate in Spain, it appears. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, in the blink of an eye. When I turn around, I am facing a man who looks like he really doesn’t belong here.
“Allow me to introduce myself. Andrea Magni,” he says, offering me his hand. “Miss Bassi, I presume?”
