Siracusa

by Delia Ephron

  “Definitely better for her. Well, she’s younger for one thing. Wasn’t she nice to Snow?”

  I worried then. She was nice. Finn had moved right in on her. She was someone he would discover could juggle oranges and he would talk her into doing it on Lo Scoglio and the next thing you knew, she would have a serious crush, and he would, God knows what Finn might do. Better him than the Sicilian men. Maybe not.

  “Did you see her ring?” said Taylor.

  “Yes.”

  “Horrible.”

  We both laughed, our first unstrained moment.

  “I wonder who bought it for her? A man. Older. Richer. She is sort of luscious. I never noticed at Tino’s. Married. A married man, I bet.”

  “She’s brainy,” said Taylor.

  “Not possible.”

  “She was reading The Red and the Black.”

  “Stendhal? Weird. Michael is basing his novel on it.”

  “Well, she’s reading it. When I first met her, she was carrying it.”

  We were in a lingerie shop now. Taylor lifted leggings off a display, striped plum, peach, and white.

  “Those would look cute on Snow.”

  She sank into a chair with the leggings in her lap.

  “Is the signora all right?” asked the saleslady.

  Taylor sniffled quietly, located a tissue in one of her zippered compartments, and mopped her eyes under her giant Prada sunglasses, which, when she raised them, tipped her hat at an angle.

  I was holding six pairs of thong underwear, two for five euros, a great deal, and put them back on the rack. “Taylor, come on. Let’s go.”

  She bobbled up, letting the leggings slide to the floor, where the saleswoman snatched them, and started to walk toward the dressing rooms. “This way.” I pointed to the front door.

  Even desolate, so upset she seemed not to know where she was going, she wasn’t someone to comfort. From the distance she kept, from her rigid posture, always leading with her small proud breasts—it seemed that touch wasn’t something she liked. Every so often I grasped her twiggy arm to keep her from walking into a light pole or tripping on the low metal chain strung like a garland along the sidewalk. That garland was odd. What was it doing there? Was it culturally significant, reflective of some demented Siracusa-think: Those crazy drivers, always taking shortcuts on the sidewalk, this will stop them.

  Thank God a café turned up on the next block, although unfortunately located on a little triangle where two streets intersected. Vespas and cars raced by on both sides. Taylor flinched at every rev of an engine.

  The menu had pictures. I pointed to an orange drink in a tumbler that looked girly, refreshing, and lethal, and held up two fingers.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “About what?” said Tay, which made me laugh.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. About why you’re upset?”

  What with all the eye-wiping, nose-blowing, and general mournfulness, she’d taken off her glasses and hat. She blinked into the sun without realizing she could do anything about it, like ask the waiter to adjust the umbrella, so I did. I noticed too that perhaps her stretchy top was on wrong. Her left arm might be coming out of the neck hole. She might be wearing it sideways. The thing is, all the openings—neck, sleeves, and bottom—were cut ragged and loose. I wasn’t sure.

  “Snow,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  The tears welled again. She sniffled loudly, then sucked her drink through the straw. “This is good. What is it?”

  “No idea. It tastes like orange and it has an orange slice in it. I’m guessing orange liqueur with something else. Wouldn’t this drink be a lovely nail polish color?”

  “Amber,” she said. “I had the cutest amber cardigan but I left it somewhere.” She waved her hand as if she were dismissing what she was about to say before she said it. “I upset her.”

  “Snow?”

  She nodded.

  “Did she upset you?”

  “What?”

  “I had this shrink once who said sometimes you switch things around. For instance, you say you upset her when she upset you.”

  “I don’t like therapists.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re troublemakers.”

  “I went to one after my dad died. She helped me a lot. It was around the time I met Michael. Therapy smoothed the way.”

  She took the skinny straw out of the glass and drank the rest. “Michael is so charming.”

  “I know. He is. I feel, whatever else I did in life, I got that right.”

  “You’re in sync. So devoted.”

  “Michael betrays me all the time. He falls in love with his novel, or play or whatever he’s writing, and I have to seduce him back. I think if you have secrets from the rest of the world, you are married for life. That’s how I keep Michael. I figured out his secrets. He adores you.” I have no idea why I said that except I felt sorry for her.

  “He does?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “He doesn’t think I’m stupid?”

  “Hardly. Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know.” She poked at the ice. “He’s much more sophisticated. I thought maybe he was polite, but then, you know, after, he laughed at me.”

  “Of course not. Besides, Michael loves an audience.”

  “I’m an audience?”

  I had stepped in a minefield. Had I meant to give her a zap? “I mean, you’re charming too and smart. He loves to talk to you.”

  “Should we have another?” She grinned as if she’d suggested something naughty.

  “Definitely.”

  She turned to find the waiter hovering. She’d expected him to be there. Whatever she was insecure about, it wasn’t attention from waiters. “Two more, please. Do I look awful?” she asked him, laughing, and, without waiting for a reaction, swiveled back to me. “Do I?”

  “Not awful. A little sad.”

  “Snow fainted at the Caravaggio.”

  “What? Was she dehydrated?”

  “I mean, she pretended to. Gina was going on and on about Saint Lucia and how she was sentenced to have sex in a brothel. ‘They bring oxen. No one can move her to brothel.’” Taylor imitated Gina.

  “She said that to Snow?”

  “‘They take her eyes out with a forchetta.’”

  “Whose eyes?”

  “Lucia’s.”

  For some reason that struck me funny, and I laughed so hard I snorted. “That’s so funny.”

  “It is?” Taylor started crying again. “I never think anyone thinks I’m funny.” She pulled out one tissue after another. Once she’d used it, she pressed it flat, making a stack. “Snow dropped to the floor. She kind of melted.”

  “How scary.”

  “More embarrassing. We were in a crowd, everyone pressing in. I could smell people’s sweat, that close. I knew she was faking. I know Snow. I hauled her up and out. That’s why she said—”

  “Said what?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Snow probably wanted to embarrass you. She’s getting older.”

  “I was up all night, wide awake, and I finally thought, yes, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to homeschool her.”

  “You’re out of your mind.” I realized I’d said it aloud when I meant only to think it.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean,” I said, “who wants to learn that stuff all over again? Math—can you even do it? You’ll have to if you teach her.”

  “She’s vulnerable. She needs protecting. She could get led down the wrong path.”

  “Romano, Mussolini’s youngest son, was obsessed with jazz. Snow’s embarrassing you is nothing compared to Roma
no’s. I’m sure he loved Benito as much as Snow loves you.”

  “Benito?”

  “Mussolini. The dictator, the dad. Imagine this fascist ruler was at war with the U.S. while his son Romano was in his bedroom listening to jazz. Nothing is more American than jazz, nothing is groovier, actually. Excuse the word, I’m from Berkeley. You’re lucky I haven’t used hemp in a sentence. Nothing is less fascistic than jazz.”

  “How do you know he was in the bedroom?”

  “I’m guessing.”

  “I don’t like jazz.”

  “Neither do I, but I admire it.”

  She passed a flat hand across her face to reveal a hideous grimace and burst out laughing. “My mother always used to tell me not to make faces, and I would stand at the mirror and distort myself.” She sucked up the last of her drink, the waiter materialized, and she nodded, another. “How do you know about Mussolini?”

  “My dad loved jazz. And he was obsessed with this journalist Murray Kempton, who wrote about Romano giving a jazz concert in Siracusa after the war. To play with him, he invited Julius Farmer, a New Orleans jazz marvel. This trip is about my dad. About the things he loved. In Rome, La Dolce Vita and the poet Gregory Corso. I wanted to come here because my dad showed me pictures after he read me an essay Kempton wrote about Siracusa, Romano, and Julius Farmer.”

  She stiffened. “This is your trip?”

  “Huh?”

  “This trip is about your dad?”

  “I miss him and do things with Michael that keep his memory alive.”

  “Why do you think they have scenes in movies that take place in men’s rooms?”

  I looked around to see if there was something to provoke this bizarre change of subject, but there wasn’t. Except drink. “I suppose it’s interesting to men. I’ve noticed that so much of movies are what’s interesting to men. I almost never go.”

  “We see women on the toilet all the time too.”

  “Maybe women are turning into men.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Proving they are just as crude. Or maybe it’s just, we all pee, get used to it.” Might that be an article: Why do they always have movie and TV scenes of men peeing? “There are lots of things I don’t understand about restrooms,” I said. “Toilet flushing, for instance. It’s gotten way too inventive. Half the time in a public restroom it takes me five minutes to figure out how to do it or else the toilet surprises me by doing it itself.”

  Taylor’s mouth hung open. She gaped. I couldn’t remember what we’d been talking about that ended up here. Probably neither could she.

  “You gave Finn that toilet book,” she said.

  I had to think. “Oh, your wedding present. Just a joke.”

  I took out my phone to make a note about movies, TV, and toilets as a possible article.

  “You talked Finn into coming here.”

  “A little, I guess.” I was tapping and not paying attention.

  “I hate this place. It’s ugly and stupid.”

  I looked up then. She was standing and scribbling in the air for a check. Her arm was definitely coming out of the neck hole. She looked like a chic woman gone mad.

  “You hate this?” Confused, I gestured around. “The drinks were delicious.”

  “Siracusa,” she spat. “If you’re so happy with Michael, why do you flirt with Finn?” She shouldered her bag, knocked her glass over, and didn’t look back. As she was about to cross the street, a waiter caught her arm, saving her from being run over.

  “Your top’s on wrong,” I shouted.

  Michael

  THE CAFÉ WAS HIDDEN. Or so I imagined. No sign. A Herald Tribune, the reason I went in. The paper caught my eye through a small dirty window, hung on a rack with a clothespin. Armchairs, for God’s sake. Peace, sanity, respite.

  Left Lizzie reading. Lame excuses, the usual, how could she continue to buy them, and yet she did. Brain on fire, catching magic in a bottle, juices flowing—an avalanche of clichés to justify flight. Like the blessings of a beautiful day, my excuses filled her with happiness. She beamed. “Of course, go, think, walk, make notes—I’m shopping with Taylor. At Finn’s request. They are one of those couples that do that thing, ask other people to help their mates because they can’t. Infantilize each other, yes, that’s what it is.” She struggled with her zipper. “Pasta. They divine each other’s needs that they can’t or won’t fill and dump them on other people. Don’t forget the boat,” she called as she left.

  Got dressed quickly, scurried past Dani the sentry, evaded Kath. According to Lizzie, who had encountered her at breakfast, Kath was off to sun and swim. The wife provided intelligence on the mistress. Can’t say that didn’t amuse me. K, a nightmare, going rogue, wanting to post selfies, demanding a ring, tripping on her power. Never thought I would be exposed by something as prosaic as a credit card charge. No way to hide that. I don’t pay the bills. Too talented. Geniuses don’t pay bills. Lovely Lizzie took care of all that. Lovely Lizzie, who was not stupid, who could be conned for only so long.

  Also that wrinkle of K’s using my miles. I was cooked.

  Had two restorative hours of reading about Syria, the Sudan, and the Palestinians, a long feature on why people like game shows, another on steroid addiction. Outside a monk passed by, trailed by two more, their hands tucked up the sleeves of their brown cloaks, undoubtedly sweltering, but from where I sat, lucky. Considered signing up. Was that what it was called? Rather than continue on to inevitable catastrophe, could clang the heavy iron knocker on the thick monastery door and ask for sanctuary. Dani could mark the route and put a big X at the destination.

  Idea: Julien could have a breakdown and take refuge with the monks. What could be further from the travails of New York social climbing than a monastery? Not a bad idea. Inject spiritualism or the more contemporary mindfulness. Made a note about that, then checked the time.

  Only Finn could save my marriage. How fucked was that?

  The boat. It was my opportunity.

  Four ducks in brown water. Snow and I leaned over the railing to watch them. White ducks in a circle swimming away from one another, not sitting up and cruising as ducks do, enjoying the sights, but their feathered bodies flat, their webbed feet paddling hard (fleeing toxic togetherness?). Dispersing north, south, east, west. Snow glued to my side, Finn left alone to amuse himself—Finn did that so well—as the last of the passengers received a helping hand onto the boat from Captain Emilio.

  Heard her voice—was I having a minor psychotic break? No, it was she. Snow heard her too and straightened up, a distasteful look marring her studied impassivity. Crossed dockside to see K in a spirited canter across the bridge. “Wait for me,” she shouted, her hand high, waving.

  She was wearing my shirt. The striped one. I’d forgotten I gave it to her.

  “That woman,” said Snow. Was it my own horror at K’s arrival, or did Snow’s lack of inflection seem clinically lethal, a lepidopterist sticking a pin in a butterfly?

  The ticket seller held the launch while K pawed through her bag, offered a handful of euros, and let the woman select what was needed. As soon as she had jumped on, Emilio, whose spindly legs spanned the boat and dock, unlashed the rope and shifted his weight on board.

  “Hi,” she said, breathless.

  “Hello.” I extended a hand to shake.

  “I can’t, Mr. Shapner, this ring will murder you.” She sighed with mock exasperation and held out her hand to show Snow. “I got it yesterday at Artesa Jewels. Your mom would love that store.”

  “You’re here,” said Finn to K, turning away from the Serbians he had chatted up (in spite of having no languages in common).

  “It sounded like fun.” She giggled. “I’m drunk on sunshine. We didn’t observe daylight saving in Indiana until I was twenty-one years old. You can Google that if you don’t believe me. Tha
t’s why I love sun.”

  The boat lurched into motion; K squealed. It backed away from the dock, its motor groaning.

  “It could break down,” said Finn with some pleasure.

  “Really?” said K.

  “The engine needs oil, the gears are grinding.” He took a pause. “She lives in New Jersey. She’s expecting to move to the city soon. She has a vision board, you’re on it.”

  “I’m sure I’m not.”

  “A handsome man with a shaved head, right?”

  K’s cheek twitched. She smiled uncertainly. “No.”

  Snow took my hand and pulled me back to the railing. K followed along. I was trapped between them.

  Weren’t boats ideal for accidental deaths? Didn’t people disappear off cruise ships, young women on honeymoons, at least one a year? Of course, unlike this motorboat, cruise ships were small cities and overnight trips provided opportunity, moonlit walks along the deck when who knew what might happen, still. I began to plan K’s demise. For amusement. Call it a literary exercise. It would allow me to survive the hour, keep rage in check. What pretty flags, I noted, off the stern. K and I could loll there on that wooden love seat by those pretty triangles of blue rippling in the breeze, away from the stench of gas and the grind of the engine. K, the sunshine queen, would like that.

  Although Snow. What would I do with Snow? Who clung like a jealous girlfriend.

  The Serbian men, husky and hairy, who filled their shorts and polo shirts to capacity, clustered together under the rectangular awning at the opposite railing. The women, overdressed in pantsuits and gold chains, also under the awning, hogged the long bench, facing inward, uninterested in the sights. That love seat, merely a plank across the stern, was at the end of an exposed empty deck that no one wanted anything to do with, yet it was no more than fifteen feet from the sheltered area.

  I’d never get away with it.

  Although: