At least she was putting that research to use now, Iris thought, as she strolled along the flagstone walkway, her critical eye surveying the scene around her. Her simple Mediterranean garden was starting to take shape, and once the remaining rosemary and sage and lavender bushes were planted, the entrance path would not only look lovely, it would greet guests with flora that would convey to them with fragrant simplicity the essence of the Riviera and the philosophy of the Dimora. She followed the path to the terrace, which she envisioned filled with guests leisurely sipping their frothy cappuccinos and nibbling on flaky croissants so delicious they would revive the bored taste buds of the rich. Facing east, those sitting on the terrace would be kissed by the morning sun as it climbed over the promontory of Sestri Levante and illuminated the Gulf of Tigullio, gateway to the fishing villages of the Cinque Terre which lay beyond the craggy coastal mountains.
She imagined herself one of those fortunate guests as she gazed down at the shimmering waters of the cove just below the hotel, which reflected every hue of green glowing in the lush vegetation of the hillside: umbrella pines, olive trees, cypresses, a jumble of wild shrubs of broom and rosemary and heather. She closed her eyes and inhaled, thinking she would have known the plants were there, even if she could not see them, as she smelled their sweet aromas, coaxed out into the open by the early morning shower, followed by an afternoon of intense spring sun. She observed a group of laborers on the beach, busy sprucing up the red cabanas with a fresh coat of paint in preparation for the season. Were she a guest at this resort on a lovely summer morning, she would certainly surrender to the tempting water below, and enjoy an invigorating plunge before breakfast. She would fancy a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice or an espresso before heading down the short steep path for a swim, and made a mental note to instruct the breakfast crew that guests be allowed that option as part of their complimentary continental breakfast, without being charged extra.
“Ciao, Direttrice!”
Her musings were interrupted by an approaching voice and clatter of heels, both of which she instantly recognized as belonging to Beatrix. There would be plenty of clients like her, too, Iris thought. The type that wouldn’t be caught dead, even at breakfast, sans their full regalia of makeup and jewelry and designer clothes.
“I’ve just spoken with the Mangiagallos,” Beatrix said as she brushed each of Iris’s cheeks with her own. “I know the hotel isn’t even open yet, but I must say, they seem very happy with you. They like your style. Brava! Keep up the good work, and you can call this place home for as long as you want. I’ve known them for years, and I just knew they’d take to you.”
“Thanks, Bea,” Iris said, as soon her friend stopped for breath. “That’s reassuring. Sometimes I feel like such a fake, though.”
“What do you mean?” Beatrix asked.
“Well, you know, I never actually studied hotel management,” Iris said. She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. The longer she lived, the more she realized how much of her life required bluffing. She was tired of it, and wondered whether she was up to this test.
“Oh, nonsense. Do you have any idea how many fakes there are out there? How many incompetent nincompoops with puffed-up credentials who got where they are only because they knew how to sell themselves – or I knew how to sell them? But that’s not your case, you are smart and dedicated, and you’ve been running the show at the Stella for years - without getting the recognition or salary for doing so, I might add. Now you’ll finally be free to take charge and prove yourself to everyone, including yourself,” Beatrix said. “It’s time to kick some ass, dear Iris.”
Beatrix always managed to make her smile, though she sometimes touched on subjects Iris would rather avoid. “Thanks for the pep talk. I just hope I can pull it off. There’s still an awful lot to do. Did I tell you we’re already booked solid for Easter weekend? Well, for Friday and Saturday anyway. Hopefully some guests will want to take advantage of the holiday on Monday and extend a night. If we don’t screw up.”
“Now stop that, Iris!” Whenever Beatrix raised her voice, it came out in a hoarse croak, produced by too many years of too many cigarettes and too many shouting matches, including those with her insolvent second ex-husband, who still relied on her for financial support. “Your insecurity simply exhausts me. Mind if I have a seat?” Beatrix asked, dropping her birdlike frame into a wrought iron patio chair, still wrapped in its packaging.
“Be my guest,” Iris said, pulling up a chair for herself. Worn out from a long day on her feet, she landed heavily on the bubble-wrapped chair, setting off a round of pops.
Beatrix unzipped the Prada bag on her lap, extracted a silver Cartier cigarette case and offered Iris a Muratti before taking one herself. A matching lighter was produced, and the two women lit up.
“So, how’s the rest of life? How are things up on the hill, at Villa Leale?” Beatrix asked, jutting her chin out and tilting it to the sky as she exhaled, her pose a combination of diva and Mussolini.
“Good, I guess,” Iris replied. “Everyone’s fine.” She dangled her right leg over her left, kicking the air with her right foot. Of course, it hadn’t been easy to give Gregorio the attention he deserved lately, and he had no qualms about pointing that out to her. She hoped things would improve once a routine was established, and things were running smoothly.
“How’s that stronza of your sister-in-law?” Beatrix asked.
“Who, Cinzia? Come on, she’s got her good points,” Iris replied, her stubborn sense of loyalty compelling her to defend the woman who radiated more negativity than anyone Iris had ever met.
“Even though I never met the guy, I can’t blame your brother-in-law - what was it, Franco? - for flying the coop when he did. You should do the same.” Beatrix sucked on her cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into her lungs and holding it there. Iris half-expected to see it come out of her ears.
Iris’s head was spinning after her first drag, even though she was smoking occasionally these days, mostly with Beatrix, and never at home. Even if Gregorio should give her permission, she did not want the house to reek of smoke, especially since Isabella, in order to allow Cinzia some free time after school, had developed the habit of bringing her grandchildren to study or watch afternoon television on the set Gregorio had bought Iris for Christmas (thinking it would help soothe a case of holiday homesickness, which of course it didn’t; she had always found TV so bad in Italy she refused to watch it). Even though Iris did not like the idea of her apartment being invaded when she was not in the house (or ever, to be perfectly honest), she would feel selfish putting a stop to a practice Gregorio had encouraged. The family would certainly have something to say if the house smelled of cigarette smoke, even though they all seemed to enjoy Gregorio’s pipe smoke. Probably because the smell was so masculine, and proved that at least one man had hung around.
“You mean Gregorio and I should move to a place of our own?” That would never happen, not now. She forced herself to take another puff.
“Well, that’s not quite what I was thinking.”
“What were you thinking then?”
“Well, I was thinking maybe you should leave, and forget to take Gregorio with you,” Beatrix replied.
“What justification could I possibly have for doing something as outrageous as that?”
“Boredom,” Beatrix said. Her expression was serious as she looked Iris in the eye.
“My life’s not boring.” She was tempted to tell Beatrix that she knew how to find some excitement on the side, if she wanted, but no thank you, ma’am, she had had enough of that. Something had held her back from revealing the secret of her affair with Claudio Olona; part of it was shame, part respect for Gregorio, part fear that the information might not be secure with someone as forthcoming as Bea. It was part of the past, anyway, and she felt better leaving it right there where it belonged.
“I have plenty to do here to keep me busy,” she said instead. “Besides, Gregorio needs
me. His family needs me. So what if I have to make a few sacrifices. That’s part of life. ‘The greater the love, the greater the sacrifice.’ That’s what my Auntie Rosa always says.”
“No offence to your Auntie Rosa, Iris,” Beatrix said, “but what I say is, ‘the greater the sacrifice, the greater the sacrifice.’”
“And just what do you mean by that?” Iris asked. She stubbed her cigarette out on a scrap of slate she had retrieved from a pile of rubble to use as an ashtray, then reached her hands below the seat of her chair, to toy with the bubble wrap.
“What I mean is,” Beatrix continued, “that it’s bullshit. Sacrifice is not a virtue unto itself. Not unless you’re a biblical lamb, brought into this world purposely to be slaughtered. You may have to sacrifice one thing in order to attain another, but all I’m seeing is you sacrificing everything, and other people benefiting from the trade-in. Where is your ROI?”
“My what?” Iris asked. Pop. Pop. Her attention started to drift as she punctured the bubbles; she had realized years ago that it was fairly easy for her to tune out things she did not want to hear, especially when others were speaking Italian, and especially if the Leales were involved in some way. Iris wondered whether her adeptness at blocking out uninteresting or unpleasant words had led to her growing tendency to block out inconvenient thoughts, but there were some things she would just rather not talk about. Not here with Beatrix, not with Gregorio when she lay in bed staring at the same paragraph of her novel, neither he nor she noticing that she never turned the page, not even with herself when she awoke at three o’clock in the morning, her heart racing around in circles for lack of anywhere else to go.
“Your ROI, your return on investment.” Beatrix explained, rolling her eyes behind her Gucci sunglasses. Despite the rose-tinted lenses, Iris could see that the whites were shot through with blood. She had once told Iris she hadn’t been able to sleep for more than four hours at a stretch in years. “In other words, what’s in it for you?”
“I don’t expect anything in return. That’s how families work, in case you don’t know. Besides, I get plenty out of it. I have a comfortable house to live in,” Iris said. “And a husband who adores me and takes care of me. I could stop working tomorrow if I wanted to.” She hoped it didn’t sound like she was taking a jab at Beatrix’s personal life; she had no family, and all her relationships had ended in disaster.
“A husband who adores his version of you,” Beatrix said, as the last bit of cigarette ash dropped from the filter. “Look Iris, we’ve known each other for a while now, right?”
“Right,” Iris said.
“And we’ve never once gone out together as girlfriends, just you and I, have we?” Beatrix said. “For a drink or a pizza or a movie? Have we?”
“I don’t remember,” Iris replied. “No, I don’t think we have. And so?”
“And so. Would you like to?”
“Well, I guess. Sure. It would be nice,” Iris said. She couldn’t imagine what Gregorio would say if she announced she was going out for the evening without him; she had never tried.
“And I know you love to dance. When was the last time you went dancing, or to a party where anyone danced?”
“I can’t really remember. It’s been ages,” Iris said. “Gregorio hates dancing.”
“So you don’t dance.”
“Well, no. Only at home sometimes. When no one’s around upstairs or downstairs and I can put on the music I like,” Iris said. “Or when I go home. One Christmas Eve everyone brought guitars to my brother’s place, and we had this amazing jam session. I even convinced Lily to sing. And my other sisters and I did backup. We improvised dance routines right on the spot. It was a blast!”
“And when was the last time you played the guitar?” Beatrix asked.
“The guitar is a thing of the past. I never was very good at it, despite all of Uncle Alfred’s lessons. None of my friends play anymore.”
“Have your friends changed, or have you changed friends?”
“Look, Bea, I’m exhausted. Let’s call it a day here. How about we sneak a stop in Rapallo and have that aperitif? I’m already in the doghouse because of this job, and your friendship is driving me to drink. Let’s have something strong. Like a nice Americano.”
“Accidenti come piove!” Gregorio muttered through clenched teeth, flinging open the bedroom shutters. “I told you it would rain today.” Cozily ensconced in the blanket, her loose hair doodling curlicues across her pillow, Iris instinctively drew her knees to her chest. With supreme effort, she hoisted her lids to half-mast, and focused her eyes on her first vision of the day: her fifty-something husband standing by the window in his striped pajamas, stomping his foot and shaking his fist like a capricious child who had just been told he could not go out to play.
Too relieved by Gregorio’s weather report to feign chagrin, Iris yawned a silent prayer of gratitude to the pissing heavens, then rolled over to peer at the clock on the bedside table: 8:45. Reading the time on the digital display uplifted her spirits, not only because she had managed to sleep so late on her first day off in a fortnight, but because she did not need to grope around for her glasses before the numbers could be distinguished. Having obtained Gregorio’s approval, subject to his review of a sufficient number of scientific publications and case histories to convince him of the procedure’s safety and effectiveness, Iris had finally undergone laser surgery to rid herself of glasses and contact lenses once and for all.
With so much to do in this single day of repose, Iris was thankful for the inclement weather. She had absolutely no desire to assist Gregorio as he meticulously checked each piece of diving gear before loading it into the car, or accompany him to Santa Margherita, where she would be expected to pass the time with the annoying wife of Gregorio’s diving buddy, who talked incessantly about her prodigious little boy, while their husbands sped off aboard the rubber dinghy. Each spring, Gregorio launched a campaign to persuade Iris to try diving again, and he had convinced himself (but not her) that this year would be the year, as her now perfect vision would certainly make her feel much more at ease. No matter how good her vision, no matter which arguments he used, the prospect of squeezing her body into a wetsuit, saddling herself with heavy gear, and throwing herself into the deep, dark abyss was simply not her idea of fun. Each time Iris begged off, Gregorio accused her of not wanting to spend time together, but that wasn’t quite true; she simply wished to spend it differently. She would be happy to take a hike with him along the trails of Mount Portofino, for example, or a ride along the coast on her Vespa. Maybe she could even drive, and he could ride behind her; maybe he would allow her to act a bit like the teenager she had never had the opportunity to be, at least for half a day.
Her idea of fun would be to simply wander off, without a plan or cumbersome equipment, with nothing more than a hunk of cheese, some fruit, and a bottle of water in a backpack slung over her shoulder, with (or without) Gregorio. His fanatical approach to diving was one of those issues, like his relationship with Isabella, which stirred in Iris sentiments that oscillated between irritation and pity. His obsessive checking of airtight seals and gauges, the way he barked orders or snapped at her if he discovered she had not cleaned or stowed some piece of gear properly, reinforced her theory that a person’s innate tendencies were just as evident in the leisure activities they cultivated, as in the careers they pursued. It was probably more comfortable for Gregorio to transfer the control and precision he relied upon in the operating room to an activity like scuba diving, than it would be for him to set off on a spur-of-the-moment hike. His carefree side, if he had one, had probably been sequestered by Isabella when he was still a boy, and expected to stand in the shoes of his absent and unfaithful father. It saddened her to think that the feel of the sun warming his shoulders as he walked the trails, or of the wind blowing on his face as he rode the scooter would cause Gregorio as much distress as scuba diving would cause Iris.
In any event, Gregorio had been
right about the weather. The previous day had been a quintessential spring day in Liguria, with promises of many more to come dangling from the brilliant sun, floating on the sea of glass. Gregorio kept calling her at work, insisting that spring weather was fickle, and that if she was the boss now, she should make it known by delegating what needed to be done for the remainder of the day, and meet him at the marina. By his fourth call, her head was throbbing (compliments of the software technician’s efforts to explain why a programming glitch kept causing the property management system to crash), it took Iris a great effort to reply in a calm manner. All she wanted was to be left alone to fulfill her responsibilities without the added pressure of Gregorio making her feel guilty for spoiling his Saturday and filling her with worries that he would force her to quit the new job he insisted she did not need.
“I guess we’ll just have to make the best of it,” Gregorio said. Unlike the grace of the Holy Spirit, known to descend upon the faithful with the gentle wings of a dove, to constantly hover over and guide them, anger swooped down on Gregorio with the rapidity of a hawk snatching a bunny, then just as swiftly flapped away. Iris did not react to his short-lived tantrum, having long since learned the best tactic was to simply wait it out. It was already over, in fact: Gregorio sighed, and lowered himself back onto the mattress. The bed springs groaned as he slipped under the sheet, and turned to embrace Iris from behind.
“A little extra time in bed can’t hurt, can it?” he said. “After all, it is Sunday. We can always go to late Mass.” He began rubbing the curves of her hip and thigh briskly, as if friction alone were enough to spark her desire, when the only urges Iris had at that moment were to go pee, then wrap her hands around a steaming mug of caffelatte. But it was apparent by the bulge pressing against her backside that her husband had something else on his mind, not to mention in his pajama pants.
The Complete Series Page 90
