The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  Iris grabbed Max’s elbow. “Oh, my God! That’s … oh shoot, what’s her name? I know I’ve seen her somewhere before.” Iris pointed her chin at a sparrow-like redhead across the room who was also wearing something that didn’t quite fit her: her boobs. They were at least three sizes too big for her scrawny frame, making her look like she might topple over at any moment.

  “Marinella Arquati. She has a morning show,” Max said, his eyes darting around the room as he nodded at a balding man with sloping shoulders and glow-in-the-dark teeth, who gestured for him to go over.

  Iris never watched morning shows, and doubted she ever would, even if she didn’t have a job.

  “She wrote a few cookbooks, too,” Max added. “Made a bundle with them.”

  “That’s where I’ve seen her picture! On the cover of that cookbook, Mangiamo Insieme?. She looks just like that picture, the way she does that thing with her hair draped over her cleavage like a veil. Except without the apron. Someone gave me a copy for Christmas one year.” That someone was Cinzia, and the year was the same one Iris had been accused of ruining the Leale Easter dinner. But Iris mentioned neither the name, nor the incident. It seemed disloyal to talk about Gregorio or any member of his family when she was with Max, even if she didn’t say anything bad about them. Maybe it was just the fact that Max even knew about them, while they didn’t know about Max.

  “Too bad the slut hasn’t cooked a meal in her life,” Max said.

  “Who?” Iris asked, distracted by her mental meanderings.

  “Marinella, no? I went to her villa in Trastevere for a party a couple of months ago. Every single thing was catered. She had a state of the art professional kitchen installed for free by the suckers that equipped the set at the studio, and it still had stickers on it.”

  Iris had never tried out any of Marinella’s recipes; she always cooked according to her inspiration and what was available. And with all her years of practice, she certainly didn’t need any step-by-step illustrated recipes to tell her what to do. “I don’t know about her cooking,” Iris said, “but it sure doesn’t look like she eats much. The only meat on her is her boobs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such big ones in real life. Except maybe my Auntie Rosa’s, but she never showed them off like that.”

  “That breast meat is not exactly of the corn-fed variety. Marinella’s last husband was a plastic surgeon, so those knockers were freebies, too. She better be careful not to bend over any lit burners on that show if she doesn’t want those girls to melt right on the air.”

  Iris giggled at the image; it was so much fun to be with someone who made her laugh, just by the way he said things. Max’s language was a bit more vulgar than she was used to, but that was how they all talked in his circles. She knew it wasn’t fair to make comparisons, but Gregorio always used such dry, clinical terminology, even with her. If he were to make the same comment about Marinella, he would call her boobs “prostheses” instead of “knockers” – it just didn’t sound as funny.

  Iris looked around at the stunning penthouse with its polished hardwood floors, beamed ceilings, and walls covered with what Iris bet were valuable works of original art.

  “Shouldn’t we say hello to the hostess, and thank her for the invitation?” she asked. She would like to compliment her on her lovely home.

  “Nah, who the hell knows where she is - probably blowing coke in the bathroom. We’ll bump into her sooner or later.” Max snatched two glasses of bubbly from a tray carried by a Filipino manservant in a white uniform. “How about a drink?” he said, handing one to Iris.

  “I’d love one!” she said. Iris touched the rim of her glass to Max’s, and said “cin cin!”. He smiled and shook his head. It must be his crowd didn’t think it cool to toast, the way Isabella’s crowd didn’t think it proper say “buon appetito” before eating. Iris didn’t really care, not enough to feel stupid, anyway. She was too happy to be there with Max, rubbing elbows with famous people. Not that she didn’t deal with her share of VIPs at the Dimora, but mingling with them socially was different from being responsible for their comfort as guests of her hotel.

  She raised her eyes over the brim of her glass, and spotted a man walking in the door. Now if he wasn’t important, someone should tell him so, because he certainly acted the part. His practiced smile was as stiff and out of place at a party as the hulk who trailed him in a dark suit and sunglasses, with a hand cupped over one ear. Judging from the way the man panned the room with his beady eyes, left to right, right to left, without ever turning his head, never pausing or looking anyone in the eye when they greeted him, Iris guessed he was a politician. She couldn’t quite place his face, but several names came to mind. It was easy to learn them all; there were never any new politicians in Italy, only ones that died.

  “Who is that man?” she finally whispered to Max. He was watching him, too.

  “Giulio Canestrato. He’s whatever he needs to be to protect his slippery little ass. For now, he’s a head honcho at Viale Mazzini.”

  “Where’s Viale Mazzini?” Iris asked.

  “From which planet doth thou hail, Alien?” Max said. “It’s here, in Rome. That’s where RAI has its headquarters. Viale Mazzini is RAI, remember that if you hear it again. Because you will.”

  “Sorry,” Iris said, blushing. “I’m still learning.”

  “Yes, you are learning,” Max said, running his fingers down her spine, then giving her silky red rump a squeeze. Max downed the rest of his spumante and grabbed two full glasses from the Filipino passing with his silver tray, still nodding and smiling. Iris smiled back at him, wondering vaguely whether his wife was helping in the kitchen, and what comments they might exchange at the end of a party.

  “Come on,” Max said, putting a hand on her butt to push her along. “I’m gonna introduce you around to a few people.” Crossing the room on her borrowed stilts, Iris was grateful for having learned to dance en pointe.

  “Hey, Tony, how’s it going?” Max said, punching the sloping shoulder of the balding man with the bright teeth who had been gesticulating for him to come over.

  “Ciao, Max. Who’s your little friend?” The man looked up at her face, then let his eyes roam over the short red dress, continuing down her long legs to her red toes. She blushed at the way the man looked at her, but if he was out of line, she was sure Max would take care of it. After all, the clothes had come from his closet, and the man was his friend.

  “I’m Iris,” she said, as Max turned to whisper something in someone else’s ear.

  “Nice to meet you, Iris.” The man extended a hand. “I’m Tony.” Of course. He was that Tony. He had been hosting game shows ever since television had made its debut in the homes of Italy. His teeth were indeed very white, his skin very tan, and his dyed hair frozen in time by massive quantities of hairspray. Just like he appeared on the screen.

  She took his hand, and said, “It’s a real pleasure to meet you.” She couldn’t very well tell him that she never watched his show unless she was forced to, or that he was a favorite of her mother-in-law and sister-in law, which would imply that her opinion was not included in the consensus.

  “So are you Max’s new sidekick?” Tony asked.

  Iris smiled. “It depends on what you mean by ‘sidekick.’”

  “He told me he had a new assistant.”

  “Well, I’m not his assistant. I’m his - just a friend of his.” Iris wondered how Max would have introduced her, and what the new assistant he had never mentioned looked like.

  “Gotcha. So what’s your line of business, Iris?”

  “Hotels.”

  “Gotcha,” Tony said, nodding. Iris did not want to get into details, but wondered what he thought she did. Whenever she gave that same generic answer, people’s reactions varied according to their perceptions of her. The owner of a dry goods store in Rapallo, always seeing her dressed in sneakers and jeans when she came to stock up for the Leales the first Saturday of every month, thought she was a maid. Onc
e, when she was dressed in a suit and flying to London in business class, the gentleman seated next to her, after receiving the same answer to the same question, assumed she owned a hotel. The way she looked tonight, Tony might mistake her for an escort, or worse.

  But Tony’s attention had already been diverted by a cluster of pretty young things - probably aspiring showgirls – throwing their scantily clad bodies at him. Iris cringed to think that she was probably old enough to be the mother of any one of them. She didn’t feel that old, but since she was, she thanked God she didn’t have to worry about a daughter like that.

  Iris glanced around in search of Max, who had wandered away. She spotted him in a far corner of the room, huddled together with a couple of long-haired men of athletic build. One looked like the Italian soccer player featured in a poster hanging in the bedroom of Cinzia’s youngest son, and the other one with all the skinny black braids might have been Brazilian. She didn’t know or care anything about soccer, and didn’t want to have to pretend, so she watched Max in action from a distance. He snatched three glasses from the Filipino, then said something that made the other two guys toss their heads back and laugh. She decided not to interrupt his networking, and practice being a little more outgoing; maybe she should roam about a bit and see who else she might recognize.

  She did spot someone – it was that singer everyone talked about after she won the San Remo Festival back in February. She had the name of a stone - Turchese or Onyx or something like that. And the man she was chatting with, he was a Minister of Education, or maybe that was in the previous government, maybe now he was Health - either way, she recognized him right off the bat. His picture had recently been in all the papers as the alleged perpetrator of a sex crime involving a minor. Of course, he had no intention of stepping down, and no one was about to force him. It would take years for any kind of ruling, and in the meantime, judging by the smirk on the man’s face and the look of adoration in the singer’s eyes, he seemed to have reaped considerable benefits from the publicity.

  Iris felt awkward standing there all alone, in a room where everyone else seemed to be engaged in several conversations at the same time. She had seen people walking up and down the stairs off to the right, and decided to investigate. Gripping her sandals with her toes and pressing her knees together to avoid exposing herself, she cautiously climbed the stairs. Stepping onto the terrace, she swooned in the seductive embrace of the Roman night.

  Thanks to the opportunities first presented to her by Claudio Olona, Iris had sipped cappuccinos by morning and champagne by night on the terraces of some of the city’s most luxurious hotels. She had enjoyed the views of Roman rooftops and cupolas, of the Pantheon and the Colosseum, of Piazza Navona and Piazza di Spagna, of Via Veneto and Via Nazionale. But this was the first time she had set foot on a private terrace, where the atmosphere was animated by the voices and gestures of glamorous people having a good time, or doing a superb job faking it. The atmosphere here was softer, the stage less grandiose, as if the pulleys and ropes holding the backdrop in place were left slack. Loud voices and bursts of laughter rode bareback on the mild night air, mingling with the sounds from adjacent terraces, before dropping like crumbs to the crowds milling below.

  Iris had always loved strolling through Campo Dè Fiori by day. The square pulsated with the colors and sounds and smells of a picture-perfect Roman market, where buckets of fresh cut flowers vied for attention with the exotic spices that tickled your nostrils, and just looking at the succulent fruits bursting out of their skins made your mouth water. At this hour, the hawkers and their goods had long since abandoned their stalls, and the sunshine had been replaced by soft amber lights that washed over the slowly crumbling buildings.

  Clusters of young people gathered around the hooded statue in the center of the Campo, doing what they did best on a lovely Roman night: talking, flirting, smoking, drinking, laughing. Their rowdy socializing was unaffected by the hooded stare of the monk immortalized in bronze, who had been burnt at the stake in that very spot for saying what he thought, or by the scrutiny of the American woman in borrowed clothes gazing down upon them from the terrace of a penthouse, who wondered if she would ever find the courage to speak her mind as that monk had done, and what her punishment would be if she did.

  4. Lily

  After what seemed like endless days of struggle and exhaustion, Lily didn’t feel any closer to understanding what was going on in her life. She still felt constantly sad and continually challenged. Day-to-day demands teased the limits of her stamina, and the boys tested the limits of her patience. They had been told only that “Mommy and Daddy needed a time-out”. Which they apparently interpreted as meaning that their father had misbehaved, and Lily was punishing him by putting him in a naughty chair in a far off corner to think about what he had done. They begged her to let him come home, stating that they were sure he was sorry, and whatever it was, he would never do it again. They were especially insistent on the matter after returning from spending time with Joe, which made their short visits with him less of a break for Lily, and more of another crisis that needed her time and attention. Everyone was confused and quick to anger, as the family sat on the edge of their collective seat, anxious to know what life might be like in six months. Or six weeks. Or six days.

  Lily felt immobilized, curled up on the couch in the living room, smoking with the drapes drawn. Just to catch her breath, she reasoned. The routines that she had so valued and adhered to so strictly for so long were now too flimsy to provide her life with any sense of structure. Put the kids on the bus, do the breakfast dishes, clean the bathroom, sweep the kitchen floor. Stop and have a second cup of coffee. Put a load of laundry in. Run the errands. Stop at the grocery store. Put the clean clothes into the dryer. Eat lunch. Take Wishes for a walk. Fold the clothes, get the kids off the bus. She knew the drill as she knew her own face. The tasks of her past had been sufficiently demanding to inhibit the meanderings of a discontented housewife, but were not now enchanting enough to constrain the footsteps of a wandering soul seeking life’s meaning.

  She silently praised the increasingly darker colder days for granting her permission to send the boys down into the family room to watch TV after dinner, while she sat and prayed for bedtime so the guilt of not being more engaged with them would ease, for just a few hours.

  Ever since the night at the police station, Lily felt like she was living someone else’s life. She wondered who was living hers. Each day, she vowed to herself that she would find a way to launch herself into action. And each day she promised she would try again tomorrow. She would certainly have to fill her mother in soon on what was going on. At the very least, she could probably help Lily navigate some of the legal issues. She had built an avocation out of helping destitute women make their way through divorce court. Even if blood hadn’t qualified Lily for assistance, surely the depth of her desperation would.

  The Family Court waiting area smelled of rubber erasers and body odor. Testament, no doubt, to those who had agonized here over the negotiation of their lives. Lily toddled along behind her mother, the way she imagined she must have on countless Sunday mornings when the Capotosti family trailed down Rugby Road to St. Augustine’s for Mass. In the same way, Lily was unconcerned about where to go and what to do once she arrived. The intensity of her anxiety was rivaled only by the gratitude she felt for her mother, knowing that she did not have to face the ordeal alone.

  Over the years, Lily had criticized her mother’s casual parenting style, a style that hadn’t adequately prepared Lily for her first period, or taught her social graces - a lack of which had caused her embarrassment on more than one occasion - a style that had made her look the other way when Lily stood at the altar as an ignorant bride of nineteen years. Yet all was forgiven in the moment that Lily and her mother stepped off the elevator and into this strange land of litigation and Latin. This was Betty Capotosti’s playground, and Lily was content to let her lead the way. More than content, she w
as desperate for the company, the expertise, and the sense of protection her mother offered, if not for the homemade cowboy cookies that she always stashed in her purse in a plastic zipper bag. The two women sat side by side, waiting for the bailiff to open the doors to the courtroom, where they would bring Lily’s petition for an Order of Protection before a judge.

  “No thanks, Mom,” said Lily. “I’m not hungry.”

  Her mother waved the opened bag under Lily’s nose. “Just smell that,” she said. “Oatmeal, raisins, brown sugar... it’s practically like having a bowl of oatmeal. You need to keep your energy up, Lily. Have one. Tom pulled them fresh out of the oven this morning.” Tom Bailey was a man that Lily’s mother had met the previous year through the personal ads. He was a quiet man who loved to play jazz piano, cook and bake, and firmly believed in the powers of food and music to soothe the soul.

  Lily obediently took a cookie from the bag and nibbled on the edge of it. Home baked cookies. Just like Mama’s live-in boyfriend used to make. She looked up at her mother, who was doing her best to don a look of reproach - without much success. Her face had only grown gentler with the passing years, her skin more translucent, her wavy hair softer and lighter, having been tempered by time so that it appeared more the color of sandy earth than of smoldering fire. The only hardness that could be found was in her eyes. They seemed a darker green, the result of the defenses she had erected for herself, the walls she’d built during her long and arduous battle with the world, a battle that started with Lily’s father and wound through her life like a vine seeking out oppression and injustice, encircling itself around the cause of every abused woman who crossed her path, as if by helping them she might somehow settle the rage that still paced about inside of her, even after all these years.

  “I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve sat in this spot, Lily.” Her mother looked around the room with a sense of wistfulness that might have been reserved for discovering the height markers of a growing child on a forgotten door jamb. “So many women have gone through what you’re going through, yet so many more have not because they are too afraid. I’m so proud of you. You are brave.”