This Crumbling Pageant Page 6

  He was obliged to follow her. But he lagged behind just long enough to sneak back over to the stove and switch on the overhead exhaust fan.

  &

  During dinner, Janet mostly talked about: her birds; Italy versus the United States (she was violently patriotic); and Richard, a semi-retired English barrister residing in Bologna with his Italian wife—or, as Janet called her, “that wife of his.” She was obviously a little sweet on Richard, though she kept characterizing him as “such a wimp.”

  Initially, Scott was worried about what backstory to give for himself—whether he should stick to the truth, or lie out of his ass—but fortunately the topic of him never came up, and anyhow he soon relaxed when he realized that Janet, like all great bores, showed zero curiosity about others around her. She seldom posed any kind of question whatsoever, unless it was to launch into her own prepared rant (“What religion are you? Because these Muslims…”). She couldn’t have had many friends.

  “Do you know any other Americans here?” he asked, probing through his dish. In the magma of tomato sauce the tines of his fork touched another slab of eggplant. It was his third helping of eggplant parmesan. After the fuss he had made, he felt he had little alternative but to wade through at least that many sizable portions. Added to his list of credits were two meatballs, a chunk of roast pork butt, a stuffed pepper, two artichokes, smoked cheeses, pitted black olives, another stuffed pepper, a serving bowl of rigatoni, and that greasy potato chip.

  Janet made a “kh” noise, like she was going to spit. “Please,” she said, “I got nothing in common with those women. They’re such chatterboxes, and they’re always complaining. Plus they always go to this same restaurant over and over again even though they know I can’t stand the place!”

  Finally, after all her talk about Italy and how “spineless” it was, Scott became fed up. “So what the hell are you doing here if you hate it so much?”

  “Oh,” she replied, with a dismissive wave of the hand, “me and my late husband moved here five years ago after buying the apartment.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Scott said, humbled. “How did he die?”

  She touched her chest. “His heart.”

  “Heart attack.” He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she said, with a hint of intrigue. “It was cancer.”

  “Heart cancer?” Scott said. “How awful.”

  A little smirk returned to Janet’s lips. “So let me tell you what Cochise did today.”

  And back she went to her favorite topic, going off on a long, rambling tale of the high adventures of her cockatoos. It started off with one cockatiel, Cochise, pestering the other, Isabella. He kept hopping closer and closer to her in the cage, while Isabella, with a disdainful look on her face, kept hopping away (Janet reenacted this dance with her fork and knife). But the irrepressible Cochise had a few cards up his sleeve, though what those cards were Scott could never figure out, because he had long ago stopped listening.

  “So can you believe that?” Janet asked.

  He rolled his eyes in agreement. Then he racked his brains for something to add. “So, wait… Which bird did that?”

  Wrong response. The woman was quite bowled over. Her eyes were popping out and swaying around, and she was steadying herself against an imminent swoon. Finally she found her voice and cried out the name that surely all the world must know:

  “Taz!”

  Whoever that was. She expanded on this with a “Duh!” and an “Ugh, you are so slow!”

  Scott bore the insult in good humor. Janet looked at him, chuckling in his chair, as if she were seeing him for the first time and as if it were dawning on her that she was, in fact, entertaining a half-wit.

  8

  That night Scott felt hounded by bad dreams where he found himself in a vat of boiling blood. In his hands was the Kensett painting, which he struggled to keep over his head. He was battling some confusion over how much damage the painting could sustain without being ruined (he himself was not being harmed). At times, the work seemed salvageable, even as the colors became runny and slid down the canvas and down his bare arms. At other times, he knew nobody was going to want a melted painting. He also had the muddled impression that there was something else in there with him, something which required his attention, and even in the dream Scott thought this was an odd distraction.

  He woke up after having been in bed only an hour and a half, feeling fluey and nauseous. His stomach was rejecting all that heavy cooking oil. He tottered off to the toilet, sank to his knees, lifted the lid, and threw up royally.

  Next morning he was outside Janet’s building, tapping on her buzzer.

  She let him up and met him at the door.

  “Surprise surprise!” he sang out over the prating birds.

  “What do you want?” she asked, clutching a fluffy bathrobe at her throat.

  “Sorry to bother you so early, but I needed to go to this part of town, and while I was here I thought I’d drop off this little present.” He held out a flat gift box. “Just to thank you for all the trouble you went through last night.” He became soulful. “Really, it was much appreciated.”

  Her posture relaxed. Fixing her hair, she warbled, “Oh, come on in, then. What is it?”

  Scott marched past her with the box and went directly for the kitchen. “It’s something for the kitchen.”

  She followed him in. Scott stationed himself in front of the stovetop and began removing the contents of the box.

  “Here we are!” he said, in a blizzard of white tissue paper. “It’s a hand-painted majolica tile, from a boutique in Positano, the most chic destination on the Amalfi coast.” Carefully, Scott plucked the Kensett painting off the shelf and replaced it with the tile, which Holly had purchased for her sister. “The ceramic is tough. Red clay. It can take repeated cleanings. That’s why they’re perfect for the kitchen. The artisans make them following the same techniques they used back in the Renaissance. Like I said, they’re all painted by hand, in lead-free glazes, so each one is unique. Isn’t it pretty?” Scott panted. “So colorful. Sometimes they represent animals, fruit, or just beautiful patterns, like this one.”

  His phone was ringing. He fished it out, put it on silent, then faced the woman to see how his pitch was going over.

  Janet gave the briefest shake of her head. She was unable to lie.

  “I don’t wannit,” she said tersely. “It’s ugly.”

  “Ha ha ha ha ha!” Scott exploded woodenly. “You crack me up.” He grabbed the Kensett. “Now this,” he said, persevering. “Where should we put this? Hmm… Let me see.”

  He went out of the kitchen, leaving Janet to run after him.

  “Not here,” he was saying. “There’s no wall space over here. And not here. The birds will get blood on it. Oh, I know!” He went over to the fireplace (it was a non-working fireplace, the pit showcasing Victorian dolls), and carved out some room for the frame on the marble mantelpiece. “Now what do you think of that?”

  Janet appraised the painting in its new location. “I guess that’s a good spot for it,” she allowed.

  “Of course it is!” Scott affirmed hoarsely. He exhaled. “Okay, I guess I’ll leave you alone now. I just wanted to give you that little gift, and thank you once more for the beautiful dinner.”

  She swatted his arm. “Oh, you!” She told him he looked like he needed some home-cooking, and then tried to entice him to come over for dinner again the following week. “I’m making polenta.”

  &

  Before starting the car to go back home, Scott remembered that Holly had tried calling. He took out his phone.

  Ten missed calls, three voicemails, and five text messages—all from Holly, all within a span of five minutes. The texts said things like “asap” and “???” and “!!!!!!!” The phone started ringing.

  “What happened?” he asked her.

  “Didn’t you get my messages?” she demanded.

/>   Scott was relieved. She was just mad at him. “You know, sweetheart,” he began, “next time it’s urgent, just leave one message. I can get back to you quicker that way.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I told you this morning where I was going.”

  “I mean how far are you?”

  “Not far from the main square. Why?”

  “You need to get back here right away and pick me up, because I’m supposed to be at the museum for an interview at ten o’ clock.”

  “You scheduled an interview for ten o’ clock today?”

  “Yes!”

  It was earsplitting, that “yes.” Scott recovered. “Where’s the museum again?”

  “It’s near where you are. In the Piazza Maggiore.”

  He looked at his watch. “We’ll never make it, honey. Just call and tell them to reschedule. They’ll understand.”

  “No! We can make it if you leave right now.”

  “No we can’t. I don’t get it. What’s the emergency? How about you call and tell them you thought you could make it at ten, but your idiot husband has the car, and ask if it’s alright if you’re a little late? They won’t care. They understand you’re a foreigner and that, you know, it’s difficult for you.”

  “I can’t. They told me the woman in charge is only going to be free today at ten, and if I can’t make it, I’ll have to wait for sometime next week to see her.”

  “And you don’t want to do that,” he stated for the record.

  “Of course not!”

  “Alright,” Scott sighed. “But like I said, baby, we won’t make it. Why don’t you just catch the bus?”

  “I already tried that. I waited a half hour before I realized they’re on strike today.”

  “You can walk.”

  “It’s too late for that!”

  “Okay, so call a cab.”

  “That’ll take even longer!” she said, reaching a fever pitch.

  “Fine!” Scott said. She wasn’t making sense, and her needless anxiety harkened back to the way she had been in an earlier phase of their relationship, when she was in school. He had forgotten about this side of her. “I’m leaving now. Just calm down, for Christ’s sake.”

  Holly was waiting outside when he drew up to their building. She got into the car.

  “You’re wearing jeans?” he said.

  She adjusted herself in the seat, and gave a testy shrug. “You can wear jeans to interviews here.”

  “You know we’re never going to make it by ten, right?”

  “Just go!” she commanded, pointing down the road.

  He gunned it, recklessly cutting off a family of four on a motor scooter, just to show Holly how ridiculous she was being. It wasn’t fair of her to put this pressure on him, when she knew full well how skittish he felt driving in Bologna, with its network of alleys and courts, and its eddying rotaries, and the roar of its ring road, and the old ladies wobbling abreast of his car on electric bicycles, and especially since Holly always declined to take the wheel herself.

  He merged onto his neighborhood’s main thoroughfare, Via Santo Stefano. Ordinarily, it took about ten minutes to get from their apartment in the southeastern quarter of the city to the main square, but traffic at that hour was still hectic. They were indisputably late by the time they neared the Piazza Maggiore. Scott put his blinker on and started to make a right-hand turn, but Holly squealed, “No, it’s quicker if you go straight!”

  He swerved back onto the main road and almost struck the car that had been behind him, a dinky little Fiat letting out a very thin and annoying beep. It stopped at a red light, and Scott pulled up next to it on the right, rolling down his window.

  “What are you doing, honey?” Holly asked.

  The Fiat was rocking around from the gestures of its enraged driver, a middle-aged woman with frizzy, salt-and-pepper hair. Scott eased his head out the window, and went bananas. He was in a dark place, but he believed he called her a “mental case cow.” Goaded to a venomous frenzy, the woman reached across her passenger seat, rolled the window down a crack, and sniped at them through the opening. Holly reached for her ponytail and examined it for split ends. Scott hit back with a blast of obscenities that resounded over the city and drove its pigeons to the skies. When the light turned green, the woman sped away, annihilated. Flushed with triumph, Scott looked over at his wife.

  “What is wrong with you?” she wanted to know.

  He had some difficulty finding the ideal place to drop her off.

  “It doesn’t matter!” she told him. “Just drop me off anywhere!”

  He obeyed. She checked her face in the mirror and then got out.

  “Good luck, honey,” he tried to say before the door slammed.

  &

  As she entered the piazza, one of Holly’s heels became lodged between the cobblestones, and she lurched forward missing a shoe. She hobbled back, bent down, and after a couple good yanks with both hands was able to wrench the shoe free. A street-sweeper with Down’s syndrome applauded her.

  In the hushed museum lobby, a nice-looking young man was behind the reception desk with a stylish woman in her forties. Holly caught her breath, straightened the hem of her sweater, and approached the desk. In Italian, she said:

  “Excuse me, I’m sorry for interrupting, but I was scheduled for an interview today at ten. Holly Whittier? I’m sorry I’m late. This bus strike, you know!”

  “Ah, yes!” The woman came out from behind the counter to greet her warmly. “Mrs. Whittier, thank you for coming in on such short notice. I’m Laura. You poor dear, I’m so sorry about this strike.” She clapped her hands together and looked up in prayer. “Who knows what their demands are this time! It’s really just a way for them to have an impromptu holiday.” She turned to the young man. “Actually, Claudio, I think it’s a good policy. We should adopt it. That’s what my grandmother used to do. Two or three times a year she would refuse to do any housework, claiming she was on strike.”

  They all laughed. It was a comfortable environment. The woman went on, “Claudio and I were just talking about you. I believe you and he live on the same street. We were saying that maybe in the future you can come in together.”

  “That’s true,” the young man said to Holly, with wide-eyed friendliness. “My sister and I both work in the same area. She drops me off in her car, so it would be very easy for you to come with us.”

  Holly was instantly in love with these people. How nice it was going to be to work with them every day!

  An assistant passed through from the gallery to a back room. In her hands was a living, breathing painting by Giorgio Morandi. What precious work materials!

  “Ah, here is the director,” Laura said, waving to someone entering the museum. She reached over and gave Holly a heartening touch on the wrist. “See, you weren’t late after all.”

  Holly turned around to meet the director, a middle-aged woman with frizzy, salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Silvia, this is Holly Whittier,” Laura was saying.

  From the acid smile on the director’s face Holly could tell right away that she had been recognized. The woman put her hand out for a parody of a handshake. “Buona giornata,” she said. Have a nice day.

  &

  Scott didn’t know what else to say. With an abundance of caution, he backed the car out onto the road. Holly stared out her window.

  They cruised past the main square, where a loose band of men in heavy blue uniforms and black shoes ran around playing a slapdash game of soccer.

  “There are our striking bus drivers,” Scott said dejectedly.

  That evening he could hear Holly on the phone in the bedroom. She had called Luca San Michele and was asking him if he had, by any chance, talked to his friend who works at the Pinacoteca Nazionale.

  9

  Frosty were the weeks that followed.

  On television the weather was predicted by men who, by their uni
forms, looked like full-bird colonels. Sparkling cold air had descended on southern Europe. Siberia was to blame. Already the shops in Bologna were decorated for Christmas, their expansive window displays cascading with furs, or whirring with vintage toys, or piled high with dainty boxes of candied sweets. The baker showed off his tempting rolls, cottage-loaves, twists, and hot-spiced gingerbread nuts. The butcher festooned his plate-glass with sausages, and garnished a boar’s head with turnips and beets. From the forests of the north, a great fir was hacked down, dragged off bleeding sap and mounted in the main square like some wild beast.

  There seemed no end to the outdoor festivals. Jugglers, fire eaters, acrobats, dancers, and drummers drew huge crowds among the shoppers. Chestnut vendors and real Bohemian musicians (from Bohemia) filled the street corners.

  Scott continued to worm his way into Janet’s life, while she, little by little, was turning him into her page boy. It all began when she asked if he would mind taking her to the supermarket outside the city. She cleverly connected the request to the quantities of eggplant and meatballs and leftover spaghetti he had been consuming. Though he didn’t relish the idea of restocking her fridge after he had worked so hard to deplete it, Scott said okay, and before he knew it he was behind a shopping cart, following her around the cool supermarket aisles. Janet bought in bulk. The metal carriage jangled as she tossed in canned goods, flour, frozen treats, meat, and plastic gallons of olive oil. Pomegranate was the order of the day. Every other item was either pomegranate-based or pomegranate-infused—juice, shampoo, chocolate, but never the fruit of the poor pomegranate, no. “Gross,” Janet said. In another aisle she spied someone she knew. She told Scott, “I know this one. She’s from England.” She added, “Divorced.”

  As they passed, Janet said in a smug drawl, “How’s it going, Robin?”