Iris lowered her head to protect her eyes from the grainy dirt swirling in the wind. Gathering herself into a ball, she felt incredibly small sitting there on her rock, totally exposed to the elements of nature. The earth rumbled, and Iris looked up as the volcano belched again, spewing out its fiery stones. She stared in awe until the activity ceased, then turned her gaze to the sea below, where a lighthouse winked at her through brightening shades of grey tinged with rose. She was relieved that the night was over.
Once upon a time, Iris had looked forward to nights. Nights when she would lie on her side of the imaginary line that divided the bed she shared with Lily, while the lovely fairies of their homespun tales hovered above them, whispering of happy endings. Nights when she would slip between crisp sheets to snuggle up to Auntie Rosa, her head cradled between fluffy pillows and plump breasts. Nights as a young bride lying in her husband’s embrace, feeling loved and protected and full of hope, imagining his seed seeking out the egg that would become their baby. It was difficult to pinpoint the moment when his arms had started feeling like a vise squeezing the air from her lungs, clamping her in place as she lay awake in the lonely hours before dawn.
She couldn’t take many more nights like that; she needed to have hope in the future, she needed to believe in a love that would last forever, like she had back in those days when she still had Lily, and they both still had their dreams. Lily had found the courage to leave Joe, but now her life was a mess, while Iris was still stuck in a life as confining as Stromboli.
Iris recalled when she had first heard of Stromboli, the year when she was halfway through high school, and halfway through the dog days of a sweltering summer, wishing they would both end soon. She had seen the advertisement for the matinee at the Little Theatre, where they were screening an old flick, Stromboli Terra di Dio. She had asked Lily to go with her, but Lily was not enthusiastic about sitting through a film in black-and-white, where everyone spoke Italian. There would be subtitles, Iris argued, and with an outside temperature of ninety-five degrees, accompanied by the same percentage of humidity in the air, the cool, dark cinema would be a good place to kill a couple of hours. Plus, it would be Iris’s treat; she would pay for the movie, and the popcorn, and something to eat afterwards. The girls re-emerged, squinting, from the movie house a couple of hours later, to see that although the sun had sunk lower in the sky, nothing else seemed to have changed during their absence. This impact with reality frustrated Iris, who was reluctant to abandon the sense of adventure the film had stirred in her. She was in no mood for their usual diner, and convinced Lily they should stay downtown, and go try one of those Garbage Plates at that Nick Tahou place her older brothers were always talking about.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Iris asked her, watching Lily toy with her macaroni salad, while she sank her own teeth into one of those famous white hot dogs she had heard so much about. It really was delicious, she thought, wiping away the condiments dripping from her chin with a paper napkin.
“I am eating, Iris. See for yourself.” Lily held up a cheeseburger that had been nibbled around the edges. What Iris could see was that the food was giving Lily no pleasure. It worried her that so few things did.
Iris took another bite of her hot dog, savoring the combined flavors and textures of the meat with the tangy pickle relish, the spicy ketchup and mustard, the pungent onions and soft bun. She was as ravenous as if she herself had endured the harrowing experience of the Nordic beauty trapped on a remote Mediterranean island with a jealous husband.
“They fell in love, you know. In real life,” Iris said, dipping a French fry into the ketchup and cramming it into her mouth. It was hot and crispy, greasy and salty, the way a fry should be. Not limp and soggy like the ones they served at the suburban family restaurant where they usually went for coffee.
“Who, Karin and the fisherman?” Lily asked, a forkful of macaroni salad poised in front of her mouth. “I’m not surprised. He was handsome.” Iris was about to push the fork those last three inches toward Lily’s lips, when her sister finally delivered the food to her mouth on her own.
“No, Karin and the director,” Iris said. “Actually, Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini. She stole him away from another actress, also his lover, who was supposed to get the part.And from his wife. Ingrid was married, too. They fell in love while they were shooting the movie, then they both got divorced so they could marry each other. Isn’t that romantic?”
“How can you say that, Iris? What’s so romantic about wrecking a marriage?” Lily asked.
“Well, what would you do if you married someone you thought you loved, then you met someone else who you really loved and who really loved you? You could never be happy with your husband again. Would it be right to suffer for the rest of your life?” Iris asked.
“Well, in a way. It might be kind of romantic, like being the heroine in one of those love stories you’re always reading,” Lily said. “But it would never happen to me. You’d have to be crazy to marry someone if you weren’t in love in the first place.”
“Of course you would. But sometimes people get married for other reasons,” Iris had said.
“Such as?” Lily had asked.
“Such as, in the movie. Karin married the guard at the prison camp because it was the only way she could stay in Italy. It was a matter of survival. And he really was in love with her. She didn’t know that in civilian life, he was a stinky fisherman from some hellhole of an island,” Iris said.
“I dunno, Iris,” Lily said. “I mean, you don’t just go marrying the first person that comes along and asks you, do you? Just because he loves you? Can one person love enough for both?”
“I’m not saying it’s right, Lily. I’m just saying you could convince yourself you are marrying the right person for the right reasons. But then you could realize later, even much later, that you married the wrong person for the right reasons, or the right person for the wrong reasons, or the wrong person for the wrong reasons. Maybe that’s what happened to Mom and Dad.”
“Well, when I get married, it’s gonna be for good,” Lily said.
“Me too, Lily, And it’s gonna be for love,” Iris said, wiping her lips with the napkin, now crumpled and soiled.
“To eternal love,” Iris said, raising her glass.
“To eternal love,” Lily repeated, raising hers.
The sisters toasted, their plastic glasses touching with a dull thud: they sucked up the last of their diluted root beers through melting ice, then pushed away the remains of their Garbage Plates. Not even Iris could finish hers.
“Hey, Capo!” a voice called out from behind her. She turned to see Max jogging toward her in the pale morning light. “Race me to the beach!”
“You’re on!” Iris said, hopping down from her perch.
“Then move that pretty ass of yours!” He tossed Iris her backpack as he jogged past without stopping. Iris managed to catch it on the fly, nearly falling over in the process, but was quick to regain her balance. She slipped the straps over her arms and began chasing Max, her sneakers skating over the gravel, her backpack riding her shoulders like a jockey on a trotter, already distancing herself from the worries that had assailed her on the boulder. She had spent far too much time thinking; now it was time to start living. And that, ladies and gentlemen, would be her last thought of the day, she decided, as she careened down the hill, her heart pumping, her thighs shaking with the effort of balancing speed and safety. Running made her feel free, and alive, and now, for the first time, she finally had someone to run with.
“C’mon Capo! Faster!” Max called from over his shoulder, leaving the gravel path for the semi-paved road they had climbed earlier in the Ape.
Iris giggled and pushed herself harder, her heart racing as she rode the wave of energy and optimism gushing inside her. Panting and sweating, she followed Max down a series of steep stairs and shortcuts, arriving at the rocky beach just behind him, her toes sore from banging against the insides of he
r sneakers, her legs burning with lactic acid, her shoulders strained by the bouncing backpack. But she loved the aches and pains; each was a confirmation that all this was real, and not another one of her silly daydreams. Throwing her head back, she looked up at the gulls circling in the clear morning sky, and laughed; she looked at Max, sweaty and winded, and laughed; she looked out at the sea and laughed.
The beach was deserted at this time of day and year, save for a straggly bunch of displaced hippie types, probably German or Dutch, judging from their long blond hair, who waved at them from beside a couple of tents where they had evidently camped for the night. Though it was chilly, three of the women were stark naked, performing what looked like some kind of a ritual in honor of the rising sun. Iris and Max dropped their loads on the beach, kicked off their shoes and socks, and went to the water’s edge. The sea was smooth and thick, its opaline surface reflecting the iridescent hues cast by the early morning light. Iris wriggled her toes in the coarse black sand.
“What are you waiting for?” Max said. “Jump in!”
“But it must be freezing!”
“Didn’t that run warm you up? Or do you want to race again?” Max pulled off her windbreaker, grabbed her wrists with one hand, and began poking her in the ribs with the fingers of the other, hitting all her most ticklish spots.
“Please, Max! Stop!” she giggled.
“Nope! Not until you take off your clothes and jump in!”
“You go first!” she howled.
“No, you go first!” His fingers scurried up her sides to her armpits, making her laugh so hard she doubled over. “You lost!” he reminded her.
“OK, OK!” She would do anything to make him stop tickling her. The sweat was already drying on her skin; if she must jump in, she should do it before she cooled down too much and lost her nerve. An early morning swim in such an incredible place was something she would remember forever - and it would be a perfect way to show Max what a fun-loving travel companion she was. She stripped off her T-shirt, wiggled out of her jeans, and dove into the water before Max could make her take off her underwear.
The shock she felt when she hit the water stopped her heart, sucked away her breath, froze her skin so badly that it burned. She thrashed about to warm up, but instead of subsiding, the paralyzing effect of the initial impact spread, increasing in intensity, producing a painful stinging sensation on her arms, on her chest and neck, on her legs. She splashed her way to the beach, where a fully dressed Max laughed at the sight of her hopping about, dripping in the sand.
“Merda!” he said, pointing at her. “Jellyfish!” She looked down at her wet, pink skin, and saw that it was covered with angry red welts. “Good thing you went first!”
“I don’t know, Piccolina,” Gregorio said. “That trip doesn’t seem to have done you much good. If anything, you seem more depressed and absent-minded than before.” He tilted his head back to scrutinize through the half-lenses of his reading glasses the label of the second bottle of mineral water Iris gave him to set on the table. He had finally succeeded in converting all of the Leales to still mineral water, which, backed by scientific evidence he was prepared to cite (and did), he deemed more salubrious. Iris usually preferred to go along for the sake of avoiding unnecessary discussions, but today she wanted to drink some fizzy. She had stuck a liter bottle in the freezer to make it extra cold, an additional insurance against the possibility that someone else in the family would try to drink it. All of them agreed that cold beverages blocked one’s digestion; all of them would stare at Iris in disapproval, but if she wanted to be reckless with her own digestion today, that was nobody’s business.
“Of course, of all people for you to spend some time with, I certainly wouldn’t have chosen Beatrix. I still don’t know what the two of you have in common.”
“It’s what we don’t have in common that makes us friends,” Iris said, spreading whipped cream over a chocolate cake.
“Just the same, I never should have put you in the hands of a chain-smoking, whiskey-guzzling, man-hating neurotic for a whole week. I still don’t know how she convinced me,” Gregorio said. “And don’t go overboard with that cream.”
Iris felt her face grow hot. She hated it when he talked about Bea like that, almost as much as she hated the way he referred to her, Iris, as if she were a ward of the court, and he her legal guardian. Everything she had worked out in her mind during her time on Stromboli, all those arguments elaborated in support of her need for more space and freedom, now seemed so vague and weak. Her grounds were shaky, her reasons blurred by insecurity, undermined by fear, silenced by a series of wrong times and places in which to verbalize them. Only the memories of that week with Max remained vivid, and continued to feed her tumultuous emotions.
On this rainy Ligurian Sunday, she felt chilled to the core, despite the fact that she had been working in the kitchen all morning. Using the back of a spoon, she created peaks in the whipped cream topping of the birthday cake she had baked for herself, which she would carry to herself at the table at the end of the birthday dinner she had cooked for herself. She insisted on maintaining the birthday traditions she had grown up with, and she was determined to celebrate her special day with the only family she had, even if she had to do all the work herself.
“I think I hear the door!” Gregorio said. “Mamma must be here!” He rushed to the entrance, though Iris didn’t see the necessity; Isabella only traveled down one flight of stairs to reach their door, and she certainly never had any problem letting herself in.
A vibration in the back pocket of her slacks made Iris drop the spoon, which clattered to the floor. Licking whipped cream from her fingers, she pulled out her cell phone and saw Max’s name flashing on the screen. What was he thinking, wanting to talk on a Sunday? She refused the call, then tapped out a quick message.
Sorry, can’t talk! Miss you.
She was cleaning whipped cream from the floor before Gregorio could scold her for making a mess, when the phone vibrated again.
isnt 2day ur bday? i love you even if u r an old lady.
Her hands were shaking as she jammed the phone back into her pocket, pulled it out again, read the message again, shoved it back in her pocket again. She knew it! She had known all along that he loved her. He was just one of those guys who couldn’t say it. No wonder, with all the trauma he had suffered as a child, losing his parents like that. He must be terrified of risking deep attachment to anyone. Fear of abandonment, Beatrix said it was called.
Reading those words she had longed to hear for so long made her giddy with joy. This was the most incredible birthday gift she could have imagined! Her soaring spirits burst through the walls of her kitchen; the floor pitched and rolled like the ferry boat that had taken her and Max to Stromboli. She gripped the handle of the refrigerator door to steady herself, then opened it and took out a bottle of her special occasion spumante. No sense waiting for the others, who would only turn up their noses at her frivolous traditions and unhealthy habits, then perhaps humor her with a polite sip if they were in an indulgent mood. She opened the bottle, letting the cork fly where it may, smiling when she saw the black mark it left on the spotless white ceiling. She poured herself a glass, giggling as the froth overflowed and dripped to the floor. She raised her flute in the air, the bubbling rosé infusing her with optimism. She knew she could have a future with Max. Just like she knew dreams could come true, if your belief in them was strong enough, if you held onto them tight enough, if you wished hard enough.
“We’re ready when you are, Piccolina!” Gregorio called. Her head floated in the air like a birthday balloon, tethered to her body and the other bodies in the dining room by the thinnest of strings. Gregorio’s voice sounded mushy and lifeless, with the consistency of canned peas. All their voices sounded tinny, all their faces seemed frozen as she entered the dining room with the first course, and saw her husband and his mother and his sister and his nephews sitting in the same exact spots where they always sat,
a family of well-preserved vegetables. She went back to the kitchen to get the bottle of spumante.
“Anyone care to join me?” she said, her head looking down on the hand waving the bottle of spumante in the air, but no glasses were nudged her way in acceptance. She saw herself smile and pour another glass, preparing to indulge in the daydreams which would see her through the boring dinner-table conversation made inevitable by the same boring members of the same boring family, who knew every single boring detail of every single boring minute of each other’s boring lives.
Iris saw herself serving and passing dishes; no one seemed to notice her silence as they chewed their food and chatted; no one could have noticed the similarity between Iris’s faraway eyes and the expression on Betty Capotosti’s face the evening she drove away from Chestnut Crest, never to return.
At the end of the meal, Iris saw herself rise and go to the kitchen, where she lit the candles on her birthday cake, then carried it back to the table in silence. She saw herself set it down, and close her eyes to concentrate on her wish. Memories of more joyous birthdays played across the insides of her eyelids and rang in her ears; she saw Uncle Alfred and his Gibson, leading the Capotosti clan in their unique rendition of “Happy Birthday” in her honor; she saw their hands clapping wildly when she blew out the candles then cut the first slice of cake, to be sure that her wish would come true. Iris thought of those who were gone and those who were left in her faraway family, of Max and his precious words, of how her desire to be with Max and with them instead of where she was, might be rolled into one big happy wish. Opening her eyes, she took a deep breath, and blew out the four-plus-one symbolic candles. Her head still bent over the cloud of whipped cream, she raised her eyes to look at the small, silent family sitting tall in their chairs, staring at her. The smoke from the extinguished candles tickled her nostrils, and she straightened up to sneeze.
“Brava, Piccolina!” Gregorio said, reaching over and taking the knife from Iris’s hand. He made a neat, swift slice into the heart of the cake.
The Complete Series Page 117
