As she set off, Iris was grateful for the upbringing that had engrained in her a practical sense which not even moments of sheer folly could ever completely obliterate. A lightweight change of clothes, a black silk peignoir, and some basic toiletries were stowed in a compartment of the briefcase she slung over her shoulder. That was the extent of her baggage, and the sensible pumps she favored for business attire would be reliable walking companions. At five-foot-seven, with a husband just two inches taller, vanity rarely lured Iris into high heels, even when she wasn’t working. She wondered how the high-heeled women she saw managed to fight their way through the undisciplined traffic and the throngs of pedestrians that clogged the streets of the capital. Consulting the creased and worn city map which she had hung onto as a souvenir of her very first trip to Rome, Iris decided that instead of going back down Via Veneto the way she had come, she would cut through to Via Sistina, and from there to Trinità dei Monti. Walking down the impressive Spanish Steps to the piazza below always filled her with wonder, and an exhilarating feeling of traversing history. She had seen a fashion show televised from there once, and as she walked, she wondered how the models could have descended with such grace the one hundred and thirty-five marble steps trodden to buttery smoothness over the centuries. At the bottom of the stairs, she paused to look at the little house on the corner, where the twenty-six-year-old John Keats died of consumption, a victim of the doctor who bled him and fed him only one anchovy and one piece of bread each day. She supposed her antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications were no more likely to cure her of her ailments than bleeding and starving might have cured the poet.
As she crossed Piazza di Spagna to Via Condotti, Iris was caught up in a drove of German tourists wearing white socks and sandals. The warm October day made them prefer gelato to the roasted chestnuts sold on the street corner, and they licked their cones happily, pointing and chatting as they admired the fashions in the famous boutiques. It was quite impossible to imagine any of them clad in the prêt-à-porter creations of Gucci or Valentino, Armani or Prada, but clothes like that did make one dream, she thought, as she looked over a strapless red Valentino gown. As a little girl spinning fairytales in bed with Lily, she could not have known anything about Rome or designers, yet that red dress was precisely the one she wore in her fantasies.
At the end of the street, she turned right onto Via del Corso, where the merchandise was decidedly more suited to her budget and lifestyle. She felt a stab of guilt, recalling that Gregorio had imagined her there the evening he phoned her in Sabaudia. She spotted a church and ducked inside with the excuse of lighting a candle for Auntie Rosa, but while she was there, she offered up a quick prayer that the Madonna, or maybe Mary Magdalene, who was probably better at understanding the mind of an adultress, would help her find her way before she cracked up or screwed up. And though she blushed at the circumstances in which the promise had been extracted from her that night in the Countess’s bed, she also said a little prayer for Max, and for the souls of his parents.
There was still a spring in her step when she reached Piazza del Popolo, and from there headed across the bridge over the Tiber river. Never had the air been a more perfect temperature, never had Rome been more stunning or full of promise than today. This girl from Rochester was far from depressed; indeed, she could barely contain her excitement as she ventured into the residential streets of the Prati district, just blocks from St. Peter’s Square, reflecting it might be a very nice place to live, if one were inclined to set up house in Rome.
“Hey, so that’s where you’ve been hiding!” Max called out, cutting a swathe in the aperitivo crowd. Iris had already noticed on other occasions that when Max entered a room, something indefinable happened, something destabilizing, energizing. The man behind the bar nodded and smiled at him, a handful of other people drinking and chatting waved at him, shouting out comments. “Ciao Maxi,” cooed a leggy brunette sitting on a barstool with her back to Iris. “Come va, stronzo?” said the skinny guy with gelled hair and an earring. “Che cazzo di fine hai fatto ieri sera?” demanded a stocky man whose tattooed arms stuck out of a muscle shirt, holding a tall glass of beer. It was strange to think that all these people knew Max, that they were part of his everyday life, the one he led without her. It gave Iris a thrill to push back the curtain on that life and take a peek inside.
“Isn’t this the place where you said to wait? I’ve been here since seven, just like you told me,” she said, acting more amused than annoyed. The only way to deal with all his last-minute changes of plan and delays was to keep a sense of humor.
“Stop bitching and give me a kiss, Capo,” Max said, leaning over the barstool where she had been sitting in her business suit nursing a glass of white wine for the past half-hour, pretending to review the contract she took from her briefcase to stave off undesired attention. She didn’t want Max to walk in and find her talking to another man, but now that she knew these people were his friends, she regretted not having socialized with them; she might have gleaned some interesting information about life in his Roman neighborhood. Maybe he would have gotten a charge out of walking in and find her laughing and joking with his friends; maybe he would have even been a little jealous of the guy she had caught leering at her crossed legs.
Not that it mattered anymore. Max was already pressing his lips against hers, grunting as he shoved his tongue to the back of her mouth, then just as quickly pulling away. He threw back his head, combing his fingers through his hair and laughing, while she sat there looking shocked and embarrassed. She couldn’t get used to being so demonstrative in public, but something pleased her about the fact that Max wanted to kiss her like that in front of all these people he knew. She touched her fingers to her mouth, wiping the saliva from her lips, glancing around to check whether anyone had been watching. The leggy girl was staring at Iris from over her shoulder, and the look on her face was not friendly.
Max pulled off the ribbon that held Iris’s hair in a ponytail, then tousled her curls with a hand. “Hey, Beautiful,” he said, in English.
“Hey, Handsome,” she replied in English, tossing her head. Max didn’t speak much English, but he sometimes made her to speak the language to him when they were in a crowd. A number of people turned to look at them, no doubt wondering where she was from, what she was doing there, how she knew Max.
“I hate to tear you away from this lovely little group,” he said, now speaking loudly in Italian, “but I have other plans for the night.”
Iris reached into her purse to pay for her drink, but Max stopped her. “Passo dopo, Luca!” he called to the man behind the bar.
“Sì, sì, va bene, passi sempre dopo!” the man said, shaking his head, wiping a glass with a towel. “Sure you will. Why pay now, when you can pay later?” Another round of nods and waves and ciaos and amiable insults were exchanged as Max led Iris out onto the sidewalk, across the street, and into an apartment building. He opened the wrought iron gate to an old-fashioned elevator, and once inside pressed the little black button with a “6” on it: they were going to the top floor.
A few days after her conversation with Bea, Iris decided that the best way to devise a plan for a week together would be to speak with Max in person. She let him know that she would be in Rome on business, and he immediately suggested he join her at the hotel after her meeting. Besides being risky, Iris did not think that would be very professional on her part, so she told him it wasn’t possible. She spent her life in hotels, anyway; what she really wanted to do was share a piece of Max’s life in Rome. She wanted to sleep in his bed, have morning coffee in his kitchen, and shower in his bathroom. He said she could crash at his place, informed her of the dates he would be in town, and she set it up.
Max unlocked a series of bolts, and kicked open the door with a sneaker-clad foot. “Voilà,” he said. The apartment was dim, but enough light came in through the undressed windows to see that the living room, if you could call it that, was crammed with boxes and c
ases and half-packed duffel bags whose contents spilled onto the floor. A bicycle leaned against a scuffed wall, and video cassettes were piled on every surface that was not occupied by magazines, newspapers, dirty dishes, overflowing ashtrays, pizza boxes, or soiled glasses.
“It’s not usually such a pig-pen,” Max said, flashing the same sheepish smile he used on her when he was late. “I’m hardly ever here, and that bitch of a cleaning lady left me a note saying she refuses to come back until I clean. I mean, what the fuck does she think I pay her for?”
It was unmistakably the home of a single man, totally devoid of any female touch, and Iris didn’t mind that one bit. A desire to create here the atmosphere of domesticity she rarely experienced in her own home these days made her arms twitch and her fingers tingle. Her muscles literally ached to dig into this mess; if only she were free to stay a couple of days, she would turn the place inside out. What she could see of the furniture beneath the clutter seemed chic and contemporary, a combination of black leather, steel and glass. It looked like Max had a nice entertainment system, too. If they cleared off a place to sit, they might even watch a movie later, or maybe he would show her some of his work, one of those short films he was always talking about. Then they could listen to some music while they talked about their plans, like a real couple spending an evening at home, without having to watch the clock.
She was curious to check out the kitchen; his cupboards were probably bare, and she’d be willing to bet that his fridge wouldn’t contain more than a few cans of beer, an opened bottle of wine, and some moldy cheese – unless of course he had a bottle of spumante chilling to celebrate the occasion.
Before she could verify the accuracy of her speculations, Iris found herself face-down in her bra and undies on the unmade bed, her hands tied behind her back with one of her lace-top stockings, her skirt and jacket and blouse entangled in the rumpled black sheets. The tired texture of the low quality cotton against her flushed cheeks combined with the stale smell that reminded her of used gym socks and popcorn made Iris wonder when the linens had been last laundered. Max, in the meantime, had already begun licking and sucking and gnawing at her.
“Please Max - not there - ” she said more than once, hoping to stop him from leaving his mark on visible areas of skin. Whenever she scolded him for the blemishes and bruises she found on her neck and shoulders and tummy after their encounters, he always laughed and said she hadn’t seemed to mind at the time. Since her honeymoon, Iris had come up with several arguments to convince herself that the lights-off policy Gregorio enforced during sex was not such a bad idea, but Max was by far the most compelling.
All attempts at caution, all further reflections of any sort were swiftly beaten back by the riotous impulses that commandeered her body. Iris succumbed to her captor, submitting to his titillating tortures, whimpering and begging for more. Even the bed was whipped up to a frenzy, banging and groaning until Iris’s shrieks and Max’s screams flew out the open window and into the street. Max collapsed on top of her, his slippery, hairless chest pressing down on her back, crushing her bound arms between their bodies.
“What do you say, Capo?” he grunted.
“Wow,” she croaked. “Except I can’t breathe.”
Max laughed. “I mean it!” she said. Max began tickling her ribs. “Don’t!” she said, squirming under his weight. “I hate being tickled!” He tickled her more, his pudgy fingers flying up and down her sides, reaching under her arms. “No!” she cried. “Stop!” She was giggling uncontrollably, gasping for air; she was little Iris forced to play tickle torture with her brothers when her parents were away, skinny little Iris laughing herself to death while everyone thought she was having fun.
“STOP!” she screamed.
“OK, OK!” Max laughed, rolling onto his back.
“Untie me!” she cried.
“What do you say?”
“Please!” Iris said.
Max untied the stocking and she rolled over heavily, panting and rubbing her throbbing red wrists and sore shoulders. Her heart pounded as she lay flat on her back, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath, her eyes staring at the ceiling, watching an enormous cobweb hovering above her. It must have taken months to grow one that big.
“Hey, we better get going,” Max said, jumping out of bed.
“Go where?” For once, Iris did not have to rush, but Max was already pulling on his jeans. It wasn’t the first time she noticed him dressing without underwear, and wondered how comfortable it was for a man.
“To a party.”
“A party? Really?” Iris blinked as her View-Master mind ejected a series of previously imagined images and flicked through the new. Gone were the quiet evening, the talks, the plans, the cuddles, all replaced by scenes of her and Max going out as a couple, Max escorting her by the elbow through a roomful of interesting people, Max introducing her to his friends, holding her hand, whispering in her ear, laughing.
“What’s the occasion?” she asked, wishing she had come equipped for a party.
“Nothing special. Just some people I have to see.”
“Does it have anything to do with your film project?” Every time Iris asked him how things were progressing, Max said he was ready to roll. All he needed now was the backing of a couple more of the right people. With his talent and determination, she knew he’d make it, sooner or later.
“In the industry, everything has to do with everything else. It’s all about connections, staying in the loop, you know? You always run into the same bunch of fakes, but you never know when someone will introduce you to someone else who doesn’t have his head up his asshole. You gotta be in the right place at the right time.”
“It’s like that with everything.” Iris sat on the edge of the bed and smiled up at him. “Look at how we met.”
“That’s what I mean. You never know who you’ll run into. And they’ll have good food, and plenty of free booze.”
“Can I take a quick shower first?” Iris said.
Still buckling his belt, Max leaned over her and sniffed. “Mmmm - you smell like fresh sex,” he said. “Don’t wash it off. Men can smell that, you know? You’ll drive them all crazy.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Iris said, fishing her rumpled blouse out of the twisted sheets.
“I’m dead serious, Capo. You always smell way too clean. Don’t you know that body odors are a turn-on?” Iris had grown so accustomed to the scent of disinfectant on Gregorio that she often felt slightly stinky by comparison; she had been showering twice a day for years. She had already taken one that morning, so maybe she should humor Max and go along with his suggestion; did she or did she not want to experiment with his alternative lifestyle? How “alternative” would it be if she never deviated from the same old rules she always followed?
“And forget about that blouse,” Max continued, pulling on his shirt. “Grab something to wear from the closet. Last door on the right is for visitors. Someone about your size left some stuff here once. Expensive stuff. They always give models a shitload of free samples.”
Her blouse still clutched in her hand, her mind still processing the extra information that came with her orders, Iris got up and walked to the closet. It took an effort for her to open the door, and she wanted to slam it shut again when she saw the collection of skimpy dresses dangling from wire hangers, the shelf full of balled-up lingerie, the dozen disjointed pairs of high heels lying on the floor.
Ten minutes later, Max called the elevator to the sixth floor. Iris stood shoulder-to-shoulder next to him on the landing, an additional eight centimeters added to her height by the spike heels of sandals a size too big. She was glad she had painted her toenails red (another detail that complicated her life: Max thought varnished nails sexy, Gregorio thought them cheap). At least her toes, if not the rest of her, matched the short dress Max had made her squeeze into, while banning the panties whose unsightly lines he said ruined its sleek, smooth look.
The elevator door groaned when Max pulled it open, and the couple stepped toward their reflections in the mirrored wall of the compartment. Max laughed. “I wonder what your old man and his mamma would think if they could see you now.”
Iris knew what they’d think: they’d think she looked like a slut. For an instant, Max’s cockeyed smile made her want to side with the Leales. She did feel a little embarrassed going out in public in such a skimpy dress, but she certainly wouldn’t be running into people she knew. She would pretend she was going to a costume party, that would help her loosen up. And this was Rome, she would have fun.
“You look good enough to eat,” Max said, tousling the curls Iris had adjusted minutes earlier in front of the bathroom mirror, telling herself that all three toothbrushes standing in a cruddy ceramic glass could easily belong to Max, then forcing herself to run away before peeking into the medicine cabinet in search of tampons or birth control devices, or whatever other horrors it might hold.
The elevator jerked and began its descent. Iris and Max cross-studied their reflections. Iris did a half-turn, wondering whether her butt looked outrageously big. Max jutted out the jaw of a face darkened by day-old bristle and a season-old tan, tilting his head first to the right, then to the left. He rolled up the sleeves of his wrinkled silk shirt to just above the elbow. Iris was glad they were in a rush, otherwise she might have offered to iron it for him, and even she knew that would have sounded ridiculously wifey.
“We make a great couple,” Max declared to their reflection. Iris smiled. She would have walked the five hundred kilometers to Rome in those absurd heels to hear him say that.
The Complete Series Page 111
