An Astrological Guide for Broken Hearts

by Silvia Zucca

  Tio is in love with you, Alice.

  Oh damn.

  If Tio really is in love with me, this is a serious problem. I understand just how serious as soon as I set foot in the entrance of the castle, catching sight of a man standing there, looking at a picture of a gentleman in a large wig. It could be a scene from a period film, like Pride and Prejudice, when Elizabeth accidentally interrupts Mr. Darcy’s contemplation of his ancestor’s portrait. Except the gloves tightening behind his back are motorcycle gloves, and he is wearing a pair of black, ripped, badass jeans.

  Davide spins around and drops one of his gloves to the ground in surprise. There is definitely something up with him. I would call it amazement, anxiety, or perhaps even melancholy. Maybe these are the three sides of the Bermuda Triangle that attract me to him.

  As usual, he looks at me and doesn’t speak.

  “Is there something wrong? You are as pale as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  “Me? Oh, well . . . the fact is that I was imagining just that.”

  “What?”

  “You, walking through that door.”

  “Oh . . .” I smile, even though I don’t really know what he means.

  “You are strange. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Constantly. And you?”

  “Constantly. I was thinking of writing it on my ID.” We both laugh.

  “See? That is precisely what makes you so unique,” he says suddenly. “You are so brilliant. You are beautiful, friendly, intelligent . . .”

  OK. Stop everything. To say I was a little confused at this point would be an understatement.

  “I mean, I was hoping that you would come in here because I have to tell you something.”

  I smile at him. “Tell me.”

  His lips part; his tongue moistens them, and then his teeth bite on them for a second . . . This is why I have to clarify things with Tio. Even if, unfortunately, he were to have a crush on me, which I dread that he does, I cannot, simply cannot . . . Just as it would never work with Andrea, Alejandro, or Carlo, it could never work with him. And it’s not because of incompatible horoscopes, his sign, his ascendant, or some dancing planet that capriciously became transverse at the moment of our birth. It can’t work because I am in love with someone else.

  Walking through that door, looking at Davide’s back, it suddenly became very clear to me, as if it were written in big, bold letters before me.

  I have fallen in love with Davide Nardi.

  And I am scared shitless.

  I love the way his strength vibrates under his calm appearance. I love everything that he sets eyes on, because his gaze envelops it and cradles it gently, and I love every word that passes his lips, in that smooth but rough voice, like an intimate caress between the two of us.

  “I am a jerk,” he blurts out.

  “Sorry?”

  “Bringing you here was a mistake. What the hell was I thinking?” As he drags me out the door, I hear him repeat, “Asshole, asshole, asshole!”

  “Do you want to stop for a second? We can’t leave. I can’t leave. I have to work. I have to find Tio . . .” As much as I would love to go away with him, I can’t abandon the set or leave Tio like this, without having resolved things, or at least having tried.

  Davide isn’t listening to me. He fastens his helmet, almost feverishly, his gaze determined not to meet mine while he opens the storage compartment of his motorcycle, pulls out a second helmet, and puts it on my head.

  “Wait, I’ll fix it. This one has a loose clasp,” he says, fiddling with the strap under my chin. “I need to talk to you, Alice, but I have to do it far away from here, immediately. Please, come with me. Now.”

  The tsunami raging in his eyes overwhelms me. I am reeling in the muddled flow of words and emotions: logic and fairness versus feelings and desires.

  I nod.

  He looks me in the eye again, terribly serious, raking in the air, as if to gather his courage. He starts to put on his gloves but realizes that he only has one in his hand.

  “Wait, you dropped it in the entrance.” I run toward the doorway, and the helmet makes my head dance like one of those little dogs with a spring for a neck. I return, waving the glove, victorious, but Davide is no longer alone.

  I catch sight of his beautiful derrière, but this time I don’t lose myself because my attention moves swiftly to the woman I see speaking to him. The woman who has parked, if one can call it that, the horse she has just dismounted alongside Davide’s motorcycle.

  A motorcycle and a horse make for quite a strange pair. On the other hand, this woman, ethereal in her beige riding suit, and Davide, rugged in all-black, go together like night and day.

  Looking at her, I am reminded that fate is a cruel mistress and that, try as you might, elegance is something that you are born with. We mere mortals would have a blouse covered in sweat stains, bird’s nest hair, and a noticeably flushed face, at least, but she looks absolutely flawless.

  “Barbara, let me introduce you to Alice . . . Alice Bassi. Um, the creator of the show, actually. Alice, this is Barbara Buchneim-Wessler Ricci Pastori . . . who has kindly opened her home to us today.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Bu-ka-inen . . .” It’s impossible not to stumble on that last name.

  “And I am delighted to meet someone from Davide’s work.” As she shakes my hand, her eyes never leave Davide, and her lips uncover a row of teeth as white as the driven snow.

  Maybe it has something to do with the name? It’s not like you can be called Blu-cher-God-Knows-What and not walk around like you have a stick where the sun doesn’t shine.

  Oh god, I despise her. She’s too perfect to not make me feel like crap. How can I compete with Barbie Frau Blucher-Fritz-Rich? And then there is that look that she shoots at Davide while she lays a hand on his arm with the grace of a geisha.

  “You already know each other, then,” I say, imitating her and resting a hand on Davide.

  “I worked with Barbara’s husband before I was hired by Mi-A-Mi Network,” intervenes Davide, moving toward his bike and leaving us both behind.

  HUSBAND.

  Your Honor, let the record show that the word husband was uttered and clearly heard by yours truly.

  “Really? That’s fantastic,” I exclaim, smiling at the woman.

  “Absolutely. He was very helpful in an extremely difficult period,” says Barbara fondly. “By the way, how is Flash?”

  “He is great. He seems happy in his new home.”

  This talk of Flash leaves a funny taste in my mouth, as if I should remember something that escapes me right now. It’s not just a question of memory, but also of distraction, because the crew is flocking toward the house, clamoring to reach the cars and vans and finally go on lunch break.

  Alejandro gives me a look full of resentment as he drops a little bag of sandwiches on the seat of the car that he will drive to the office to search for the missing lighting bag. From a distance, Mara shoots me a knowing glance, calling Alejandro’s attention to the afternoon work.

  Reluctantly, I move away from Davide. As much as it bothers me to abandon my turf, I have a job to do.

  When I sneak between the parked cars, I see Cristina wandering around like a tormented soul, massaging her stomach. “Everything OK?” I ask when she reaches me close to Alejandro’s car.

  “I think I’m going to throw up!”

  Oh, crap! I hurriedly open the car door, grab the bag of sandwiches from the seat, and place it in front of her mouth just in time for her to lose her breakfast into it.

  “I’m so sorry!” she says.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I answer. Come to think of it . . . “Actually, thank you.”

  As she walks away to rinse her hands and mouth in the fountain, I close the bag and throw it back on the seat. I try to undo the helmet, but all I manage to do is break a fingernail.

  “Is there something wrong?” Carlo asks.

  “You should ask her,” I reply, pointi
ng to Cristina, who is sitting on the edge of the fountain and dipping her hands in up to her wrists. “She’s very tired.”

  “She should have stayed home.”

  “She wanted to be near you.”

  Carlo bites his lip and looks at the time. “We are at a good point with work, but we can’t let ourselves get distracted.”

  “Take this thing off me,” I say, referring to the helmet.

  Carlo tries to unfasten the strap under my chin.

  “You’re right about one thing,” I add thoughtfully, moving my eyes toward Cristina. “We can’t let ourselves get distracted.”

  He understands that I’m not referring to work and abandons his effort to try and free me.

  “Come on, undo it!”

  “I can’t, and you don’t deserve a favor from me anyway. Instead of rubbing salt in my wounds, why don’t you focus on your Golden Boy and go fetch him from wherever he’s ended up?”

  “Tio?” I won’t tell him that I’m arguing with Tio, too; although it’s basically his fault.

  Carlo looks at me and then shifts his gaze to Davide and Barbara with the hint of a smile. “We can’t let ourselves get distracted . . .”

  I don’t bother telling him to go to hell; Carlo can find the way on his own. I walk away with a dismissive wave of my hand and head directly for Andrea Magni.

  When he notices me, he straightens his back and attempts a smile. Something’s bothering him, and he is unable to hide it.

  “Excuse me, Andrea, do you know where I can find Tio?” I ask, still trying to unfasten the helmet strap and only succeeding in tightening it even more.

  Magni has lost his affable look and gives me a frown. “We were in the vicinity of the filming site when he announced his need to be alone.”

  “Ah, I see . . .” I say, and I head off into the woods, thinking about how to broach the conversation with Tio without hurting him any more than necessary or any more than I already have. But damn, it’s not going to be easy. When Alejandro dumped me, there were times when I felt like I wanted to die.

  Oh god. I stop to collect my thoughts when I see that the set that we are preparing overlooks a ravine of at least fifty feet.

  OK, let’s not be melodramatic. I mean, whatever I’m imagining, Tio would never dream of doing something like that. To get the thought out of my mind, I lean over the ravine a little to see what’s below.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Even with the helmet, I mean,” warns a voice behind me, and then someone grabs my arm.

  “You’re alive!” I turn around and fly at him, bumping against his chest like a rugby player.

  He doesn’t hug me back, and after a couple of seconds of bewildered stiffness, he walks away. “Why are you here?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I really don’t think so.”

  “But you have to let me explain. I understand how you feel . . . but it’s wrong. I’m here because I care about you, and I want us to think through things together.”

  “Alice, really, just drop it . . . so that neither of us gets hurt. I thought I wanted to talk to you about it, but maybe it’s always been difficult because I felt that you wouldn’t understand me.” He kicks a few pebbles that roll down into the ravine. “The problem is that I really care about you, but I didn’t want to have to lie anymore in order to be close to you. Paola told me more than once to tell you but . . .”

  “Paola?”

  Tio nods. “She knew immediately, but I begged her to keep it to herself.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say in a low voice. “I wish that things could stay as they were.”

  “I wanted that, too, but there comes a point when it’s impossible to keep hiding the truth. And, believe me, it’s very difficult for me. I’ve never told anyone before . . . But with you, Alice . . . With you it’s different. Well, it was different.”

  “Tio, please try to understand. It’s not easy for me either. I never suspected anything. I know this is hurting you, but I just can’t . . . I can’t accept it.”

  “Andrea told me that I couldn’t trust you! Hell, are we in the twenty-first century or not?”

  I blink; dumbfounded. Andrea was also in on the secret? Why don’t we add someone else? My parents? The cleaning lady? “And what does Andrea have to do with it? Anyway, some things never change. It’s not like things are so different today from the Middle Ages . . .”

  “Honey, wake up!” he exclaims, passing a hand through his hair. “I have news for you: society has evolved. You’re the one thinking like an old bigot.”

  I stare at him with my mouth wide open. “Me, a bigot? I’m just a person with morals!”

  I may be old, but I’m still agile enough to give him a good kick in the shin. Things are evidently deteriorating.

  “This is the way you resolve things, is it? Like the good cavewoman that you are! But what can I expect from someone who defines her friend’s feelings as promiscuous and threatens to tell others about him so that he is ostracized?”

  “So you don’t think that I am right to defend a pregnant woman?” I yell angrily. “And I have no reason to be angry if Carlo wants to cheat and mess up the wedding? But of course, take his side. After all, you’re a man, too. Clearly, I don’t have an open mind, but for me Cristina is in need of a friend now more than ever, and I don’t know if telling her the truth would really improve the situation. That’s why I came to talk to you; I wanted your advice, but I’m sorry that you misunderstood. And I’m sorry I hurt your feelings . . . but I know what mine are, Tio, and I can’t . . . I can’t love you. For me you are a very special friend, but I can’t offer you anything else. I am afraid of losing you, too. Believe me, I am terrified of that possibility, but what can I do?”

  I am out of breath, the words flowing from my lips mingling with the tears from my eyes.

  “Stop! Enough, Alice! Enough!” he said raising his hands in surrender. I close my eyes, deflated.

  When I open them again, Tio is in front of me, his face a few inches from my nose. His fingers fumble with the evil buckle, and after a few attempts, he is able to open it. I’m free at last. As soon as he lifts the helmet off, I feel like I can breathe again.

  Tio takes my face in his hands, and I see the hint of a smile. He looks into my eyes, and they are blue, as clear and honest as ever.

  “Alice, I’m gay.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m gay. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past half hour. I’ve been trying to tell you for a while, even when you came to me before. But then you started all this talk about promiscuity, saying that you couldn’t accept me . . .”

  “I was talking about Carlo.”

  “I know. I know that now.” He sighs and looks up at the sky. “I don’t know how you feel about it, but you don’t have to worry about the fact that you’re not in love with me. I don’t love you either . . . not in that sense, at least. But I love you like a sister, stubborn little mule that you are.”

  “Oh, Tio!” I exclaim through tears. “I don’t love you either.”

  We give each other a massive hug, because no one is in love with anyone.

  Tio goes to change and then head to lunch, and in the parking lot, all that’s left is Mara’s small car. She is waiting for me, leaning against the hood with her arms crossed over her chest.

  When she sees me, she stands up straight and slips a hand into her pocket.

  “Here. Nardi asked me to give this to you because he had to leave.”

  I frown and take the note.

  I’ll be back Tuesday. I’ll pick you up at eight. Alice, this isn’t a request.

  “Everything OK?” Mara asks.

  Over the past couple of weeks, Mara and I have discovered that we actually have a lot in common. In addition to our dead and buried flings with Alejandro, we are both Libras, which made her like a zodiac sister to me.

  “Yes,” I murmur, lost in thought.

  She stretches out her arms behin
d her back, walking around to the trunk of the car. “Did you throw out his lunch?” she asks.

  I fold the paper and slip it into my pocket. “I did even better,” I reply.

  Then I smile, thinking about the moment when Alejandro will shove his hand into the bag of sandwiches and find the filling that Cristina so kindly added to them.

  Mara opens the trunk. “What should we do with this?”

  And there it is, bag number four, the one with the spotlights that Ferruccio was looking for. I sigh, looking at my watch. “In ten minutes, we’ll call him, tell him that we’ve found it, and that he should come back.”

  As soon as we close the door, we see Tio coming toward us and we both smile, as innocently as Thelma and Louise.

  23

  * * *

  A Story of Streets, Libras, and Crime

  Even gurus have their shortcomings, and Paola, my personal guru, subjects me to shopping.

  The result is that on my day off I have spent forty-five minutes in a jewelry shop looking at earrings . . . all the earrings in the shop.

  “Paola . . .” I try to call her to order by drumming my fingers on the counter.

  It doesn’t work, and she goes back to rummaging through the shelves. I turn to examine the bracelets. I really have to make it stop. There must be a way to sedate her, even at the price of having to carry her home myself.

  It’s not that I don’t like to shop. It’s just that today my hours are limited. But Paola doesn’t know that.

  “Excuse me . . .”

  The saleswoman ambushes me behind the mirror.

  “I’m just looking, thank you.”

  “Of course. But a man came in before . . . It’s a bit strange, but he left fifty euros for you to spend however you wish.”

  She pulls out the banknote and shows it to me. On it is written: Meet me, I’m at the café opposite.

  I squint in the direction of the café, but the window is tinted, and only shadows are visible. At the tables outside, there is just one couple being accosted by a flower vendor.

  Roses . . .

  “What was he like? Could you describe him for me?” I ask, feeling the blood drain from my face.