by Julie Sarff
“Oh my! I love how the paint seems to be peeling a bit with age,” I murmur. “And the austerity of the walls, with barely any decoration. And the furniture. Why, it’s massive. Is it Queen Anne? Or Louis the XVIth? Whatever it is, it’s gorgeous. Yet it’s simple—not over the top, if you know what I mean. In fact, it’s all, so… so… Well, I don’t know, what is the word exactly?”
I look expectantly at Alice, whose eyes narrow to slits.
“Oh never mind, I can’t think of the word. Anyway, Alice, I love it. I love it all.”
“Could you try not to drip?” Alice’s eyes flash with irritation.
I look at her incredulously. What kind of a question is that? It’s not like I am trying to drip water all over the place. And maybe I wouldn’t be trailing water all over the floor if I hadn’t been stuck out in the pouring rain for several minutes waiting for my soon-to–be-ex-aunt-in-law to finally open the gate and admit me.
“Zen,” I pronounce decidedly.
“What?” Alice’s right eyebrow shoots a mile high.
“It’s all so Zen. The paint color is Zen. That’s the word I was searching for. Very soothing to the eye, that champagne color.”
This time, Alice looks truly speechless and not just pretending to be.
“And it’s all so tasteful. What with the terra cotta tiles and that sweeping stone staircase. And what is that up there? Look at that chandelier. Look at it, Alice. It looks right out of Phantom of the Opera.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Alice says, squinting suspiciously at the chandelier in question.
“Well, it’s very nice anyway. Very nice.”
Alice looks from the chandelier to me and frowns.
Oh, alright, I get it. I’ll stop. I’ll stop salivating over the foyer. I’ll try to think of something more useful to say. But I can’t. I just can’t. I am caught up in the beauty of my surroundings. I mean, can you imagine living here? Can you imagine coming through that massive front door, with that ugly gargoyle knocker, and saying, “Hi, honey, I’m home?”
I can imagine it. I am imagining it right now, but Alice is growing impatient.
“Um, Alice, there is a Ferrari outside in this weather, did you know?” There now, that was a very useful and employee-like thing to say. Alice, however, just stares at me with a blank expression.
“Alice, it’s a Ferrari for heaven’s sake. I know it’s not a convertible or anything, but still it’s probably worth a couple hundred thousand. Shouldn’t somebody, you know, put it away?” I proffer in a helpful tone as I start to peel off my coat.
“It’s none of my business or yours,” she snorts.
“But doesn’t Signore Logan mind? I mean, that his car is getting all wet?”
“Lily Bilbury!” Alice bellows.
What? Am I getting more water on the floor?
“Did you or did you not read the confidentiality agreement?”
The confidentiality agreement? The thirty-pages of legalese that Alice made me sign before I came to work here? Yes, I read it. Most of it. Oh right It says we’re not to mention Signore Logan by name even to each other. I mean, how stupid is that? Like he is Lord Voldemort or something.
“Oh right. Yes. Not to mention him by name,” I whisper.
Alice goes all prickly again.
“And why don’t we mention him by name?” she patronizes.
“Lest someone overhear?” I hazard.
“Precisely. The Signore needs absolute privacy.”
This makes me giggle, but not out loud because Alice looks like she might pulverize me. I do giggle internally, because everybody in Arona knows that mega movie star Brandon Logan bought this place at auction last year. It was on CNN, on Rai Uno, in People (the Italian version) and in every local magazine around. But okay, if Alice wants to play this game, I’ll play.
“Anyway, the Signore is not here. It is not his Ferrari,” Alice sighs as if that answers that. She holds out her hand for my coat.
“Now, Lily, if you’ll follow me we will get started,” she says as she takes my trench and begins to fold it wet side in.
“Yes, but one second, Alice. I have another question,” I say standing firm.
“Well?”
“Well… what in the world is up with the gardener, I mean the grounds are…”
“What?”
“Well, they are quite a mess and a little dangerous actually. I could barely see the driveway with all the branches and vines and leaves and everything. And that gate is practically falling off its hinges,” I say with a lighthearted laugh. I don’t want Alice to think I’m actually complaining or anything on my very first day of work. (Because I am sure complaining on the first day of work is in violation of paragraph 352 on page 27 of that incredibly long legal agreement that, okay, I confess I didn’t really read. I just sort of glanced at it. It was all, “thou shall not do this, and thou shall not do that.” I have to admit, I was so sleep deprived from parenting two toddlers by myself that I fell asleep right at the dining room table with my head on top of the confidentiality agreement. But as soon as I woke up again, I did sign the thing. That, I did do.)
As it turns out, my whole question is for naught, because Alice has no intention of discussing the gardens. Instead, she just drapes my trench over her arm butler-like, and takes off down the hallway, motioning for me to follow. As I am marched into the cloakroom and shown the “staff entrance,” everything becomes startlingly clear. This new job at Villa Buschi is not going to be fabulous at all. I am not about to meet fabulous people and get instantly promoted to do something much more interesting. Instead, I am going to spend my days scrubbing doorknobs with toothbrushes.
Nonetheless, while I stand there being lectured by my aunt-in-law for what seems like an eternity on the basic use of no less than 25 different cleaning solvents, I keep thinking to myself, “I need this job. I really do.” Because, you see, I have a theory which goes like this: economic independence = divorce = happiness. And the truth is, up until last week, I had no real prospects; I had no bright, shiny job offerings looming on the horizon. Which is why, when my aunt showed up on a beautiful Indian summer day, with a proposal that would enable me to become gainfully employed, I listened most intently to what she had to say.
chapter 4
“COME SI PAGA L’AFFITO?” How are you paying the rent, Alice had asked exactly two weeks earlier as she charged through the front door of my new place with her arms full of groceries. It was Alice’s first time seeing my new place, and clearly she was not impressed.
The thing about my apartment is this—it’s a bit closet-like. There is a living room, a bump-out of a kitchen, two tiny bedrooms and a horrendous bathroom. It’s done up in a weird 1970’s tile of a color that I like to call “murky aqua,” or “murqua” for short.
The other thing about the apartment is that due to budgetary concerns, it is sparsely furnished. My living room contains only an orange flowered loveseat that I got real cheap off a guy in Novara, a coffee table from IKEA, a cheap computer on an even cheaper computer desk (with matching cheapskate computer chair) and a television which I basically stole from Enrico. After all, I thought, I should have something from my marital home.
Anyway, I answered Alice’s question about how I was paying my rent with some vague statement about giving English lessons and all she did was murmur an unconvinced “um.”
“Well, actually, Enrico paid my deposit and my first month’s rent.”
“As he should,” she blustered, thrusting the bags of groceries into my arms. Shoulders hunched, she shuffled over to put her purse on my coffee table before turning around and sitting down gingerly on my tiny couch.
“Really, Alice, you shouldn’t worry. I get along fine with the money I make. Oh, and thanks so much for the fruit and veggies, you shouldn’t have.” With that I deposited her groceries on my kitchen table and returned post-haste to the living room where Alice was busy surveying my apartment.
“Would you like somethi
ng to eat?” I asked.
She waved me away as she made a horrible wheezing sound. It was, I expect, Alice’s attempt at a dramatic inhale. “This is not a social visit, Lily. I’ve come to talk about something most serious.”
“Alright.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.
“Yes,” she shrilled unexpectedly. “As you know, the boys mean the world to me. They are like my own grandchildren.”
Um, alright again. Honestly, I didn’t know she felt that way. During the three miserable years I had to live under her roof, she barely seemed to pay any attention to me or the children, except to give us sideways glances and make me feel as if I was a burden that had been thrust upon her. But okay, if she was telling me right there and then that she loved my children—well, that was good to know. I decided to make a mental note of it.
“And, of course, Enrico is like the flesh of my flesh!” Alice sirened on.
Oh my stars… Aunt Alice is cracked. Make no mistake—Enrico is her nephew by marriage. There is no blood between them, or flesh for that matter. Like me, Alice married into the Bettonina family.
But fine, whatever.
“Okay.” I took a deep breath. Whatever it was, whatever she wanted, it would be over in a minute, and then hopefully she would go. But as I waited there, still shifting from one foot to the other, Alice didn’t speak. Instead, she began to tear up. She actually began to sob. She was sitting there on the very edge of my loveseat with big watery brown eyes like those of a cow. So watery, that she had to pull a white hanky from her miniscule purse and dab at her tear-streaked cheeks.
“And seeing the boys living here… in such… such…”
Such what? She better not say what I thought she was going to say. In anticipation of the insult, my whole body stiffened.
“…destitution!” she cried. “Well, Lily, it stabs at the heart!”
Oh for pity’s sake, this is not destitution, I thought. This is small. This is sparsely furnished. But it is not destitution. The children are not without food. They are not shoeless. Unfortunately, however, Aunt Alice looked like she had more to say on this subject. She puffed out her chest. She was coming to her melodramatic point with all the momentum of a freight train, and there was no stopping her.
“Lily, as you and I both know, you are very down and out, and in desperate need of a job. You need a profession. Enrico will have to give you alimony of course, but it will not be enough.”
“Child support. He’ll have to give me child support,” I said hotly, now more than a little annoyed.
“Whatever.” Alice waved her hands again in a random motion. “It just so happens that over at the villa we need some more help, and luckily I have a job for you.” She pronounced these last few words—IO. HO. UN. LAVORO. PER. LEI—with grand emphasis, as if she had solved some horrible problem such as the Middle East peace conflict or testicular cancer, after which she sat and looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to thank her. But I did not. I just watched her and thought that she looked ridiculous balancing her big bottom on the edge of my tiny loveseat. I knew what she was trying to do. She was trying not to move. She did not want to stir up dust. Because like many Italians, my aunt was convinced that foreigners are simply primitive when it comes to housekeeping.
“Lily, did you hear me? I said I have a job for you.”
“Uh, yes. I heard you.”
“Yes, well, you see, it just so happens that Ca’ Buschi needs a maid. And it’s perfect for you. Why the villa is only a quick fifteen minute drive up the lake from Arona, as you know. And that is not very far, not very far at all.”
Yes. True. It is not a bad commute for me but…
“A maid? Why, Alice, I am a college educated woman.” Partially college educated that is. I did two years junior college.
“Don’t you poo poo it.”
“I wasn’t going to ‘poo poo’ it,” I countered defensively.
“It is very hard work,” she rasped on, inching closer and closer to the edge of the loveseat. “But I have arranged for you to do it while Matteo and Luca are in school.”
“Seriously, Aunt Alice, it is very nice of you. But I can’t.”
“Well, that’s too bad. Too bad.” She looked glum and stared at her shoes. “Because you see, it pays 25,000 euros per year, plus gym membership.”
“How much?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“25,000 euros,” Alice repeated.
Good gracious me! I tried to sum it all up in my head. Why, that’s almost $34,000 a year.
“Plus gym membership?” I asked for no reason. I had never really believed in exercise as one of life’s necessities.
“Yes, well, not exactly a gym membership, but the Signore has a private workout room in the villa that you can use when you like.” She fluttered her hands in the general direction of my body. What? Why was she waving her hands like that? Don’t tell me that even my aunt-in-law thinks I need to spend more time in a gym.
I ignored her. As it was, I was temporarily blinded by the number of euros swimming hallucinogenically in front of my eyes. 25,000 euros? For being a maid?
“How many weeks off?” I ask.
“Five, of course.” She shrugged as if it were a stupid question. “But listen carefully, Lily, you must work long hours when the Signore is at home. Okay? Only when he is at home, otherwise you can work while the children are in nursery school. You can build the hours around Luca and Matteo’s schedule. What could be more perfect than that? You know you won’t get an offer like this anywhere else. Va bene?”
“I—I need to think about it,” I said, and I meant it. I really needed to think it all through. As in, I wanted her to leave and I would call her later with my answer. But like the stubborn woman that she is, she clasped her hands in her lap and said, “Va, pensa pure.” (Go on, think well.)
Then she sat there and waited. There ensued a brief awkward pause, during which I considered her offer and could think of no sane reason to say no. Then, there ensued another brief awkward pause, as I thought about the fact that working for Aunt Alice would be difficult, quite possibly torturous. The truth was we had never seen eye to eye. I mean how could anyone really see eye to eye with a woman who thought that I was bringing my children up in squalor?
“Okay,” I broke down, ending my silence at the very moment that my aunt bounded from my loveseat with eyes wide in terror. The poor woman looked positively haunted; as if she suspected—no, truly believed—that a piece of dirt, or perhaps a deadly germ, had crawled off my recycled furniture and attacked her right on her ugly, misshapen wool skirt.
“Oh my, Lily, I forgot I am late for an, um, appointment,” she said, trying to think of some quick excuse. Gathering up her miniscule purse, she crossed my tiny living room, and yanked open my front door. Before she left she paused and said, “And you will take this job 100 percent seriously, not like a joke, not like your marriage. Okay?”
She slipped out the door before I could register the insult. Stealing out into the stairwell after her, I listened to Alice’s heels go clipitty-clop down the concrete stairs of my apartment building. For a while, all I could do was stand there—salivating at all those euros dancing in my head, reveling in the idea of my newfound economic independence. Because, as I previously mentioned, I have a theory. Economic independence = divorce = happiness. And now I had been given the opportunity to put that theory to the test.
October
(Mostly drizzle with a chance of sun)
chapter 5
UNFORTUNATELY THOUGH, THE theory in test was an ugly thing. Trying to obtain economic independence by working for my dear Aunt Alice quickly ended my illusions that there would ever be anything good about my new job.
In fact, strike everything I said about my job being fabulous. It is not fabulous at all, not in any way. And on this first Saturday in October, at precisely 6:25 in the morning, as I grope around frantically in my dresser drawer for clean underwear, I reflect on the fact that with two
small children I simply cannot make it anywhere on time. Especially in the mornings. And since both Alice and the headmistress at my children’s nursery school keep threatening me with vague statements of “If you are late one more time,” I am beginning to feel a lot of undue stress.
And for what? What would happen? I ruminate as I hastily pull thick black tights over my freezing legs. Would my children be tossed out of nursery school only two weeks after starting? Would Alice fire me from Ca’ Buschi? Did it really matter if I de-haired the sink in the downstairs powder room of the villa at 8:15 as opposed to 8 o’clock sharp? Did it really matter if my twins missed the frenzied Buon giorno song that the children sing over and over each morning at nursery school like a pack of rabid monkeys?
(Exactly what is this obsession with being on time? My job… the nursery school… What is it? Like we are all Americans or Swiss or something. Am I living in Italy or what? When did they become so adamant about being on time? And did anybody give the transportation department the memo? Because I have yet to catch a train that departs Arona on time.)
But none of that matters at 6:28. What matters right now is that today I will be on time. Yes. Today. Saturday. Because in this part of Italy, school is six days a week, which means I once again need to move out in order to make it to work this morning. Briskly I pull a skirt on over the tights, and a turtleneck over my head. A moment later I rouse Matteo and quickly get him dressed. So far so good; it is 6:45 and I have to say I am cruising along nicely. I hit a bit of a roadblock when I try to get Luca up and dressed because he goes limp as a dishrag.
So at 6:50 what I am thinking is this: darn, darn, triple darn! (Well, in my head I use a slightly stronger word than darn.) As more experienced parents know—and I am just beginning to realize—it is quite surprising how long it can take to dress a small child who is almost completely supine. And in this particular case I am in possession of a supine child watching television in a seemingly transfixed state. A supine child whose mind is completely oblivious to everything except the current adventures of Pugsie and La-La, or whatever their names are on the Teletubbies.
