“Don’t forget to tell them you can’t work weekends. And that we’ve already booked our vacation to Ischia,” Gregorio said. Since the year after their marriage, the couple had developed the habit of spending the last week of May in Ischia, where Iris visited the thermal baths, whose anti-inflammatory properties were purported to improve fertility, and Gregorio kicked off the summer diving season before the onslaught of tourists invaded the island.
“It’s not like a regular job, Gregorio,” she said, refilling her glass. “It’s a hotel, open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Try to think of it as a hospital for healthy people. But let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. You don’t walk into a job interview asking for time off. It all happened so fast! I can hardly believe it!”
“I’m very proud of you, Piccolina. But remember, you don’t exactly need that job. You live in a beautiful house, drive a car that’s large enough for a family of four, own a closetful of nice clothes you never wear. And you have a husband who happens to love the way you look in fine jewelry. God knows I work hard enough to provide you with all that. If you only had half an idea of the things I have to endure at the Policlinico. Take today. We had a patient with perforated diverticulitis and an onset of peritonitis. And do you know what that cretin Gardella said to me when he waltzed into the O.R.?”
The question did not require an answer. Iris knew Gregorio would proceed with his story without further prompting, and that it would lead to another one, and yet another, until the events of his day were unfolded and laid out before her. She had stopped trying to turn his soliloquy into conversation years earlier, when her comments were recurrently passed over, and his impatient or overly scientific answers to her questions left her feeling more ignorant than informed. It was just as well; she would be free to think about her new occupation. Gregorio may not think she needed that job, but she wanted it. She wanted to break out of that dusty office and swing from those four stars. She couldn’t wait to write to Auntie Rosa and her sisters to tell them the news. She’d have to be extra tactful in her letter to Lily, and measure each word to make sure it didn’t sound like she was bragging. Lily was so sensitive these days.
Iris tilted her empty flute, and poured herself another glass of spumante, letting it bubble over the edge just enough to irritate Gregorio, who looked at her disapprovingly, as he droned on.
Iris breathed a sigh of relief as the elevator door slid shut on the buzz of early evening activity, leaving her alone with her reflection. It had been a long day, and she looked tired. She should already be on her way home, but this was the time of day when her help was most needed to resolve those problems which were simply too complicated or delicate to be dealt with by the overworked front office staff who had their hands full with guests besieging them in all languages, asking for restaurant recommendations or driving directions, complaining about cocktail service or demanding to know why their laundry had not been delivered.
A circle of diamonds flashed as she rotated her wrist to glance at her Cartier Baignoire; she was even more dismayed by the sight of the late hour indicated by the watch’s hands, than by the style of the timepiece itself (her thirtieth birthday present from Gregorio, though she had neither needed nor wanted another new watch). Gregorio would just have to wait for his supper, if he got home before she did. Looking in the mirror, she shook the frown from her face, and tilted her head to check her appearance, as the car whisked her up the six floors to the Terrazza del Cielo Roof Garden. Her hair was swept away from her face in a simple chignon, from which a few disobedient strands had strayed. At this hour, she couldn’t blame them for wandering off on their own to curl up against her long neck, just below the ears where a pair of perfect pearls (her tenth anniversary gift from Gregorio) were centered on pink lobes. Her face, tanned from tagging along on her husband’s scuba diving expeditions, required little make-up, just a touch of plum eye shadow and mascara to complement her eyes, and matching gloss to keep her lips shiny and moist. She extracted a tube from the pocket of her navy blue blazer and applied a fresh coat, rubbed her lips together to even out the color, then bared her teeth to make sure none had smeared. Whenever Isabella got lipstick on her teeth, Iris debated over whether to point it out or not, but in the end never did. If her mother-in-law was going to insist on wearing lipstick around the house, if she was going to keep marring the water glasses and staining the napkins Iris got stuck washing after the Sunday dinners someone at some point had decided should be hosted by Iris, she could just keep walking around with lipstick on her teeth.
Iris reached under the hem of her knee-length skirt, and adjusted the lacy stretch tops of her thigh-high stockings; like their wearer, they were starting to lose their grip and ready to call it a day. Iris couldn’t wait to free herself of the garments and the role into which she had been constricted since morning. If she hadn’t been summoned by the big boss, she might have hopped on the Vespa she had finally convinced Gregorio to let her buy, and made a detour to Paraggi before heading home. This was her favorite time of day to sneak in a swim, when the sun dropped behind the promontory, and most bathers packed up and migrated elsewhere. Plunging into the cool emerald water was an ideal way to cleanse herself of the stress accumulated by the end of a demanding day at the hotel. Though she never strayed far from shore, her swims made her feel as though she were leaving all earthly concerns behind, and entering another world. Floating on her back, she imagined her body as it would appear from the sky above or the sea below, rocking softly on the gentle waves, suspended between two dimensions. She could never stay long, but that didn’t matter much, either; even a brief pause between her roles and responsibilities of hotel and home, a slice of time and space in which she could just be Iris, was a precious gift to herself, without making her feel too guilty.
The elevator jerked to a halt, just as she was smoothing her skirt over her hips and buttocks; a quick glance over her shoulder in the mirror assured her that the modest slit was centered perfectly between her legs. The door slid open, and the Assistant Manager of the Grand Hotel Stella di Levante clicked her high heels out of the elevator and into the Roof Garden restaurant. She was immediately drawn to the terrace, where she was captivated by the streaks of crimson and violet performing jetés and pirouettes against a backdrop of deep blue. The view was irresistible, and its beauty seemed to liberate her heart from the strings she had felt tightening around it of late. Here, it was free to dance with the clouds in the sky, fly across the gulf past Santa Margherita Ligure and over the promontory of Portofino, then soar out to the open Mediterranean.
“Buonasera, Iris.” The voice came from behind her, startling her with its unexpected proximity. Once in a while, she still had difficulty deciphering the nuances that were a prerogative of the Italian language, such as the formal-friendly ambiguity created by the use of a polite greeting coupled with her first name. The person speaking to her now was both her senior and her superior, so it would be his call to invite her to address him by his first name, if he should so desire. Until he did so, she would keep referring to him as “Dottore” to his face, and “Olona” in her mind, the way she would refer to the American president as Reagan.
“Buonasera Dottore,” Iris replied. Her composure in greeting the gentleman, achieved through practice, was belied by the blush infusing her cheeks.
“Not a bad view, is it?” he asked, standing next to her.
“It’s simply breathtaking. I could stay here and stare for hours on end, and still never get tired of looking at it,” Iris replied. “Not that I do,” she hastened to add, fearing he might think that was how she wiled away her days. Olona was busy following the construction of a new hotel in Milan, and only came down to the Stella di Levante once or twice a month to meet with the Direttore, usually arriving in the evening, as Iris was leaving, and departing the following morning, as Iris reported for duty. Their brief conversations were limited to cordial inquiries about how the job was going, or amusing anecdotes about the
owner’s years at Cornell University, which he recounted in English.
“Of course you don’t,” Olona replied. “Or you wouldn’t have obtained such impressive results on the job in your very first year with us.” A smile visited his lips, then vanished as he turned to gaze at the panorama. The man’s streamlined features, so perfectly trained in the exercise of conveying approval or criticism during the course of his constant quest for quality and efficiency relaxed; his expression turned pensive.
Iris was unprepared to respond to a compliment on her performance in the presence of such beauty, so remained silent. A full minute passed before he spoke again, his eyes still fixed on the view. “You’re a sensitive woman. I think you’ll agree that it can be unbearably painful to witness such loveliness.” Odd he should say such a thing to her, even if she did consider herself sensitive; judging from his words, he must be, too. Regardless, she knew exactly what he meant about it being painful. An overabundance of natural beauty always stirred contrasting emotions within her: elation, despair; hope, despondency; anticipation, nostalgia.
“Suddenly, a splendid, apparently endless summer day begins slipping away from you,” Olona continued. “Only as the day retreats, do you realize the full extent of its beauty. And just as the intensity reaches its climax, the end draws near. Soon, you are abandoned, left alone in the fading afterglow. Soon, the hopes and intentions and promises with which you started that day are swallowed up by the darkness. What is done, is done. What opportunities have been lost, cannot be brought back.”
Olona spoke exceptionally good English, albeit in a rather contrived manner, perfected during the course of his privileged education abroad. His voice was soft when he addressed her, in contrast with the stiff, businesslike image that was projected by his tall, arrow-straight physique, perfectly poised beneath the fine fabric of his impeccably tailored suit.
“You wanted to show me something, Dottore?” Iris asked, detaching her eyes from the seascape to look at him. Olona pivoted to face her. His right cheek, awash with the fiery glow of the sky as it melted into the twilight, was tinged a deep shade of pink; his left was enshrouded in the shadows of the still deserted restaurant. The air held the promise of delightful dishes yet to be served, corks yet to be discreetly pulled and sniffed, wines yet to gurgle delicately from impressively labeled bottles, candlelit conversations yet to be engaged in. As she looked at the two faces of Olona, Iris tried to imagine how she might appear in that same light, to his eyes. Would her eyes and expression seem as spirited and contradictory as his?
“Yes, Iris,” he said. “I did want to discuss something other than the view. As I was saying, I’m impressed with your progress. You’ve been doing a brilliant job filling in for the Direttore during his absence this week. I’d like your opinion on the new line of table linens I’m looking at. I told Parodini what I had in mind, but he sent me a sales rep with a suitcase full of rags so tacky I wouldn’t serve my Saluki his dog chow on them. He’s a Ligurian to the bone, always worried about saving money - as if it came out of his own pocket. Not that it’s a negative trait, mind you, but it’s not the only thing that counts. Do come with me.” He turned and led the way to the far end of the restaurant, where two tables had been dressed with sample tablecloths. As he walked, she admired the way his suit jacket sat confidently upon his square shoulders, dropping to just the right length, following the fluidity of his movements.
Iris approached the first table, assessed its visual impact on her, lifted a corner of the tablecloth, let it glide between her thumb and forefinger. She turned to the second table and repeated the gesture.
“Egyptian cotton damask?” she said to Olona.
“Exactly,” he answered.
“I definitely prefer the texture of this one, as well as its neutral shade,” Iris continued, tapping her index finger on the second tablecloth, as her eyes surveyed the pink and green walls of the restaurant, the chaotic geometric decorations hanging from the ceiling like lopsided stalactites, the busy carpeting. “If I may say so …” she started, but stopped in midsentence.
“You may,” Olona gestured with a hand for her to continue. “Go on.”
She didn’t want to sound stupid, but knew that not completing her sentence would sound even stupider. “Well, it’s just that I think the architect might have overdone it a bit when he designed these interiors. If I were a guest dining here, the only thing I’d want to look at - besides the man sitting across from me, of course - would be the sea and sky on the other side of those windows. Personally, I think too many colors are a distraction. Rather than complement the atmosphere, they disturb it. It’s as if they were trying to compete with the view, but how can you beat the perfection of what’s out there?”
“My thoughts exactly!” Claudio Olona raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice, as if he were about to share confidential information. “The architect was a family friend, you know how those things work. His father was a classmate of my father’s in Milan, and during the last renovation he was given free rein to experiment. He’s actually done quite a bit of interesting work in Italy and abroad.”
“Hmmm.” Iris did not wish to risk offending a family friend, and she knew virtually nothing about architecture. But she did understand enough about what tourists wanted to experience in a luxury Italian hotel overlooking the Mediterranean to know that the angular forms and loud tones surrounding her were not it.
“You don’t seem impressed,” Olona said.
“Well, it’s not my place to say so, but I just don’t feel that a hotel like this is the right stage for that type of experimentation. I think excessive visual stimulation disturbs the emotional experience.” Olona cocked his head, looking her in the eye as she spoke. “In, um, my opinion, of course,” she added. As if a man like him would care about her opinion regarding something she knew nothing about. As a rule, she preferred listening to talking, when people she considered her intellectual superiors dragged her into unfamiliar territory. Listening attentively, speaking only when she was sure of what she had to say, trusting her common sense to guide her, and answering questions with questions: these were the techniques she had developed to help her squeak by while adapting to her new country, striving to meet the standards of her new family, learning the ropes of new jobs, expanding her knowledge. Most of those intellectually superior people were more interested in hearing themselves talk, anyway, and were always in search of an audience.
“I prefer simplicity,” Iris said. It would be difficult for anyone to find fault with such a statement, wouldn’t it?
“Then it’s settled. Simple. Elegant. That’s the effect we want.” Olona pointed to the table by the window. “It’s the most expensive line, of course, but one mustn’t skimp on quality, must one? Now the only thing left is to try it out. Would you care to join me for dinner?”
“Dinner? Tonight?” Now she was sure she sounded stupid. Her thoughts ran amok, wondering how she could possibly obtain Gregorio’s permission to stay for dinner; whether she should even try; how she would look if she didn’t. She had only remained after hours a handful of times, and had been fascinated by the transformation that came over the hotel at night. The guests she spotted in the late afternoon, exhausted from their day of sightseeing, reemerged from their rooms relaxed and refreshed, their duties as tourists absolved. The Italians could be singled out immediately, with their knack for looking stylish yet never overdressed in the casual atmosphere of a seaside location, while the foreigners were decked out in the elegant evening wear they had selected in perhaps months of planning what was for many a once-in-a-lifetime vacation. The Italians avoided aggregation, each couple or group talking and laughing among themselves, while the French and Germans and Swiss spoke in well-modulated tones as they sipped cocktails on the terrace. The Americans tended to strike up conversations with each other, exchanging experiences and insider tips with those who shared a common language, at times allowing some of the bolder British to join in. As the guests chatted an
d mingled, dusk fell and dots of light flickered to life, setting the coast of Portofino aglow. Iris had often imagined what she would do if she were the manager in charge of the hotel at that magical time of evening. She envisaged herself strolling among the tables, greeting the guests, inquiring whether they were enjoying their stay, now and then graciously offering a glass of Prosecco to repeat clients, or to those who had suffered any sort of negative experience, hoping her gesture might help make amends for any shortcomings of the hotel, of the Riviera, of Italy at large. She would signal silently to the barman when she saw tables that hadn’t been cleared or ashtrays that hadn’t been emptied, and he would send a waiter straight away. The staff wouldn’t fear her, but rather respect her and want to please her, because she would treat them with kindness and fairness.
To be quite honest, she would be very happy to dine with Claudio Olona at his hotel tonight. After all, it was her job. After all, he was the owner. After all, didn’t Gregorio work plenty of nights himself?
A half-smile appeared on the side of Olona’s face streaked with ribbons of fading crimson. “Yes, of course. Tonight. It is almost dinner time, or hadn’t you noticed? Please don’t tell me you are one of those dreadful women who don’t eat because they’re always watching their figure. Yours is perfect.”
“No. I mean, yes,” Iris stammered, embarrassed by his reference to her shape. “To dinner. That would be nice. I just need to make a phone call.”
“Of course, take your time,” he said. “I have to run down to the office a moment. Shall we meet back up here in ten minutes?”
“Fine,” Iris said, hoping hers were the only ears that picked up the crazy tam-tam of her heart.
The remaining half of Olona’s mouth completed the smile, as he nodded, then turned and walked to the elevator, leaving Iris in the empty restaurant, suspended somewhere between sunset and darkness, duty and daring, curiosity and caution. She ducked into the restaurant’s small office, and dialed her home number: no answer. She tried Cinzia’s.
The Complete Series Page 78
