The Italian Party

by Christina Lynch

  “It’s so modern,” said Carlo, running a hand over it.

  The range looked so wonderfully, reassuringly American that she felt like hugging it, as if she had run into a friend from back home. The moving man maneuvered it into place, but when he went to plug it in, the plug was the wrong size. Carlo called down to one of the little boys below to go get the electrician. A few minutes later, a man wearing gray coveralls and carrying a gray metal case arrived. He doffed his hat and got to work, but soon shook his head. Scottie could not understand the words, but she got the gist of it. None of the appliances worked. It was something to do with the voltage, or the wiring, or the kind of gas, or the plumbing. More little men in jumpsuits were called in as the day progressed. Scottie got dirtier and dustier and sweatier, while Carlo, who to her horror not only went to retrieve a tool chest but took off his jacket and rolled up his elegantly monogrammed sleeves and pitched in, seemed as clean and crisp as when he walked through the door. The only sense that he was exerting any effort at all came from a faint smell of bleach that wafted off his white shirt now and then. It reminded Scottie of childhood, of running through sheets on the line in the backyard of their house on Alden Drive in Beverly Hills.

  “What do you think of Siena so far?” he asked.

  “I think it’s lovely. My Aunt Ida thinks all Italians are savages. She’s terribly worried about me.” She wasn’t quite sure why she said this—it was the opposite of what she intended to say.

  Carlo laughed. “And your mother? Did she tell you to be worried about Italians?”

  Scottie blushed. “My mother died when I was a baby. I don’t remember her.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, pausing in his work to look at her, wrench in hand.

  “They told me it was a car accident, but I used to make up more romantic stories than that.”

  Carlo gave her a quizzical smile. “Such as—?”

  “That she was shot down while flying her own plane on a secret mission to stop the Nazis. Silly, I know.”

  “Sometimes stories are comforting.”

  “Yes. I found out the truth when my father died last summer. My mother was his housemaid. They … well … He had to marry her. Also, she drank.” She gasped a little as she laughed. “I haven’t told anyone that, not even my best friend. I don’t know why I’m telling you, and you a marchese.”

  Carlo laughed. “You think we don’t have plenty of housemaids in our family line? And alcoholics—they are the virtuous ones. The popes are the worst. We have a pope in our family who had six children.”

  “Really? I thought they weren’t supposed to—”

  “They aren’t. Strictly forbidden.” He put down the wrench. “Well, you will have hot water. That is something, at least. But this stove—hmmm.”

  By late afternoon there had been a lot of gesticulating and raised voices when handyman after handyman threw up his hands and said he had never seen such things before, and had no idea how to make them operate.

  “I’ve stolen your whole day,” Scottie said to Carlo, although she would have been totally lost without him.

  “I’m happy to help, and I’m so sorry,” said Carlo, gesturing to the appliances. “I feel terrible about this.”

  He seemed so troubled that Scottie felt the need to reassure him. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” she said, then added in a whisper, “I’m not much of a cook anyway. This way my husband won’t find out.”

  Husband. She said it as a sort of talisman, a way of warding off the attraction she felt for Carlo.

  His eyes behind the glasses were large and liquid, like her horse Sonny Boy’s. “I’d love to meet your wife,” she said. “It would be lovely to have a friend who knows America. Where did she go to school?”

  “Smith.” She expected him to say more, but he didn’t. Scottie tried to picture the four of them out together, having fun. The older couple would mentor her and Michael, like the parents they wished they’d had. Maybe Michael would absorb some of Carlo’s charm. Was it disloyal to think that way, to want him to be different?

  From an open crate Carlo picked up the lasso Scottie had brought with her from California when she was sent to boarding school at age fourteen. “Ah, you are a cowgirl?”

  “Hardly. I’ve never actually gotten that over the head of a steer. But I love to ride,” she said.

  “I raise cows and horses. You know Persani?”

  “The breed that the D’Inzeo brothers ride?” Raimondo and Piero D’Inzeo were famous Italian show jumpers, contenders to win the Olympics this year. Scottie had followed their stellar careers in the sports pages and in Chronicle of the Horse, and she and Leona had swooned over their aquiline profiles and military bearing.

  Carlo brightened in surprise that she knew them. “Yes,” he said, obviously pleased. “You must come to the farm sometime and see the mares and foals.”

  She wanted to say yes very badly, but something about Carlo felt dangerous to her. Not him, but the way he made her think about Michael. The contrast between them. “I would love to. But I’ve made a promise to myself that I’ll get us all set up here before I go horse-crazy.” She squinted, the sun in her eyes. “By the way, what’s with all the shutters?” Each window had wooden inside panels that closed out the light and fitted over the glass. Then there were the slatted outdoor shutters. She’d noticed that, all day long, every window on the piazza but hers had been shuttered. “Are you Italians vampires so you have to live in total darkness?” Later on she would wonder if she had overstepped, being so casual with an actual marchese. Who knew why she said the things she said? Half of them she regretted later. But Carlo was so easy to be around, so quick to laugh. It was a cliché, that thing about feeling like you had always known someone, but here it was. In a land of strangers, she had found a friend. That was all it was.

  “Yes,” he said. “Those of us who are not werewolves. But the shutters are for the heat. During the day you close these”—he showed her, closing the outdoor shutters—“but leave these open.” He opened the glass window wide.

  “It’s so dark.” She had grown up with sunlight and fresh air filling the house day and night.

  “But cool,” said Carlo. “Then at night, you leave the outside ones open but close the indoor wood panels, so your neighbors can’t see you. There is nothing to do in Siena but gossip, I’m afraid, and we Italians love to spy.”

  He rolled down his sleeves, put his cuff links back in, donned his tweed jacket and replaced the fedora he had left sitting on a moving crate.

  His eyes lingered on her for just longer than they should have, and she ran her hand self-consciously over her hair, loose, messy, unsprayed. There was something about the way he was looking at her. A wistfulness.

  “I’m so happy to have a young couple in the house. I hope you and your husband are very happy here,” he said. “My grandfather was born in this room, I think.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Giuseppe.”

  “I’ll talk to him now and then,” she said. “In case he’s listening. Oh, I need to give you the rent.”

  She went for the envelope that Michael had left her, but Carlo waved her away, suddenly quite formal, the nobleman again. “You may drop it off at Signor Barco’s office in Via Garibaldi. He handles all of my business here. I am rarely in Siena these days.” A shadow passed over his eyes, and his hand on the doorknob tightened. She fought the urge to put her own hand over it, to ask him what was wrong.

  “I hope we’ll see you again,” she said.

  “Perhaps we will,” he said. “Arrivederci, signora.” And the heavy door shut behind him.

  She saw that he had left his tool chest behind, and ran over to the window to call to him, but she could not find him in the crowd below. He had vanished.

  5.

  As darkness settled on the piazza, the beautiful, gleaming, cutting-edge appliances that had traveled four thousand miles across the ocean stood, unplugged and unplumbed, in the shiny-fl
oored kitchen, while Scottie heated a can of Campbell’s soup on an East German hotplate that had magically appeared in the midst of the chaos.

  “The toilet works,” she said cheerily to herself. It was pink, with a black seat, although the plumber (another little man in gray overalls) kept asking where the bidet was, and was rather openly disgusted when she said she didn’t have one. On the other hand, he had no idea what the shower attachment to the bathtub was for, and seemed genuinely frightened when she said that it poured water over one’s head.

  “Water over the head?” he kept repeating, as if something had been lost in translation. She was sorry Carlo had left, and missed his comforting, capable presence.

  When the plumber finally abandoned her and she was alone, she wanted to join the crowd in the piazza, but found that she felt shy, afraid to talk to anyone, and afraid of getting lost. She was standing there, feeling awkward, when the mayor crossed in front of her. She smiled at him out of politeness, and to her horror, he stopped.

  “You are American?” he asked in English.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Welcome to Siena. I am Ugo Rosini.” He shook her hand, and held it just a second longer than an American would. And twice as long as ultrapolite and correct Carlo had.

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “Your face is on a lot of posters.”

  “I’m running for reelection.” His smile was confident, and more than a little flirtatious, which surprised her, though Leona had warned her about Italians. Well, not warned her. Encouraged her. “The men aren’t rude like people say,” she had said when she returned from Rome. “They make you feel like the sexiest woman on the planet. Like you’re Elizabeth Taylor or something, even if you don’t have any makeup on and your hair’s a fright. They eat you up with their eyes.”

  Scottie did in fact feel like she was being consumed. It was not unpleasant, since she felt the ring on her hand made her invulnerable. Ugo asked, “Have you been to the top of the Museo dell’Opera Metropolitana?”

  “I haven’t been anywhere,” she said.

  “Not to the Duomo?” His tone was a mix of surprise and reproach.

  She shook her head.

  “We must go immediately,” he said. He offered her his arm.

  She hesitated. Was this kind of spontaneous invitation normal in this culture? Would it be offensive to refuse? Was there anything to fear here?

  “Signora,” he said in a tone of reproach, “I am the mayor. It is not only perfectly safe, it is my job to show off my beautiful city.”

  Even in flats, she was taller than he was, though he had the athlete’s bulky strength she had noticed earlier. He led her through the streets, giving her thumbnail sketches of the city’s long history. “First we will see where St. Catherine lived. She was very crazy woman.”

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

  “Well, she refused to marry her dead sister’s husband like her parents wanted and stopped eating and cut off all her hair to make her point.”

  “That sounds reasonable to me.”

  “She had visions of Christ, and decided to dedicate her life to helping the sick.”

  “Not crazy. Selfless.”

  “Then she got into politics, trying to achieve peace in the world.”

  “Now she sounds crazy.”

  Ugo laughed. “You’re right.”

  “Are you really a Communist?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You’re the first one I’ve ever met. You’re not what I expected.”

  “Let me guess. Two heads, red eyes and a plan to overthrow America.” He gave her arm a little squeeze, pulling her against him more closely as three men in suits and fedoras passed them heading in the other direction on the narrow brick street, stepping aside to make room for them. They knew Ugo, clearly, but just nodded. Their eyes lingered on Scottie, and she could hear them talking and laughing as soon as they passed them.

  “They think we’re lovers,” he laughed. “Maybe we should be.”

  He meant it in jest, and she answered in jest. “Sounds like a good way to end the Cold War to me. We might win the Nobel Peace Prize.”

  But as they entered the stairwell to climb up to the top of the half-finished Duomo, he paused. She had taken one look at the metal stairs and kicked off her shoes and climbed eagerly, reminded of New York City fire escapes where you could see the ground below your feet the whole way up. She had always liked that feeling of vertigo you got when you looked at the spaces between the stairs. She paused on the landing above him, pigeons disturbed from their roost fluttering overhead. A floodlamp lit the stairwell from below. When she looked down, there was a pained look on Ugo’s face.

  “What’s the matter?” she called.

  He grinned. “Stop there, just for a moment,” he said. She did, and he walked up two stairs until he was right under her. “I just want to look at heaven,” he said.

  She froze, horrified. He was looking up her dress. She wanted to scream. It was happening again. Just like at Vassar. There it had begun innocently, like this, and then things had gotten out of control. And then she had missed her period.

  She had so badly wanted to tell Leona, to beg for her help and advice, but only a few months earlier they had both made fun of a girl who had had to leave school because of a “mistake.” Scottie, ever eager to make the glamorous Leona laugh, to distinguish the two of them as smarter than the sheeplike, well-behaved, white-gloved hordes, had casually referred to the girl as a slut.

  No, she had decided that she could not tell Leona, could not risk losing the friendship at the center of her world, so instead, when she met Michael at a mixer and he paid attention to her, she let him court her, and married him. She left Vassar before graduation, a smashing success who had landed her “Mrs.” degree.

  It was all a lie, and now this man could seem to see that.

  She pulled her skirt around her.

  “Wait,” he whispered, laughing a little. “Don’t you see that this is your power? You are doing nothing wrong. It is I who am looking, that is all.”

  She stared at his face, aghast. He was looking into her eyes. Laughing, but also asking to be tortured. For goodness’ sake, she thought. Really? She was confused, and angry, and a little frightened.

  He lifted one eyebrow playfully, put his hands together in prayer. She gave an involuntary laugh.

  “I thought Communists didn’t believe in God.”

  “I’m praying to you,” he said. “Tease me.”

  Was he right? Was this her power? Did she have power? She moved one foot, slowly, across the metal bars. This is so wrong.

  She heard him sigh. She slid her foot a little farther. Daring, testing, she lifted her dress away from her legs a little. He gave a low moan. It scared her, to think she was doing this. Yes, it was all in good fun, and yes, she was wearing underwear and a slip, but still. This was a respected man in Siena! The mayor!

  It was a joke, it was playful, but you weren’t supposed to play these games. These games led to women being ruined, to babies being abandoned, unwanted. Men never seemed to suffer from these games, but women …

  It was Vassar all over again, hands on her body. She felt nausea rising, panic.

  Stop, she told herself. Stop. You’re not there, you’re not that girl anymore. You’re here. He was right, she had the power.

  She walked down the stairs.

  “I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten something at home,” she said. “I should go.” He made no move to stop her as she passed him, but he said, “Please, signora, I have offended you and I’m sorry. I only wished to pay you a compliment, to make you laugh.”

  She stopped a few feet below him on the stairs. “You were very kind to offer to show me the city, but I have to go.”

  “It was lovely to meet you,” he said with a big grin. “And I think even though you are shocked, you enjoyed meeting me, too. Siena is a small place. I will see you again.”

  She felt how flu
shed her face was, and was suddenly mortified. She ran back down the narrow street and into the Campo, then walked briskly back to number 5, letting the heavy wooden door slam behind her.

  FOUR

  L’ISTRICE, THE PORCUPINE

  “I ONLY STAB IN SELF-DEFENSE”

  1.

  Scottie threw herself on the couch in despair. She had very conflicting ideas about sex, all of which were based on very little information and almost no experience. She had had no mother to talk to, no sisters. Only Leona, who knew as little as she did. Sex with Michael was quick, and they both kept their eyes closed.

  You were not supposed to like it.

  You were not supposed to long for it.

  You were not supposed to think about it.

  You were not supposed to dream about it.

  It was not supposed to be fun.

  It was not supposed to be about power.

  Was it?

  Women who did these things were homewreckers, whores.

  Weren’t they?

  2.

  Michael was looking forward to celebrating the fact that he and Duncan were living in the same country, that Michael had improbably, impossibly managed to make that happen. Duncan, the blueblooded scion of an old railroad family, the consummate Yale man, was the only person other than Ambassador Luce he knew in Rome, and was the entire reason he had come to Italy at all. They had arranged to meet after work at a noisy bar near the Spanish Steps. It was full of expatriates, women in fur stoles and men in sharply tapering trousers that made them look like bandleaders. Duncan, jovial, easygoing, with the quasi-British locution of his class, seemed to know everyone, and to Michael’s annoyance they all came over to greet him with shrieks and hearty ciaos and air kisses and said the same boring things: “Where did you get that suit?” “Have you been to that new club on Via Veneto?” “The ambassador is doing a damn fine job, no matter what they say.” The bar was decorated with large oil paintings of sad clown faces. Michael was impatient as the minutes ticked by. It was Yale all over again, Duncan the big man on campus, Michael the dog under the table waiting for scraps.