Abroad (26 page)

“Oh, Babs.” I stirred my coffee.

“Oh, Taz.”

We laughed.

“Won’t you visit? I
miss
you!”

“It’s not nearly Christmas yet. Anyway, I’m working on Dad for a ticket. How are you? What’s wrong?”

“I went to a party … and this old man hit on me.”

“Ugh.”

“And this other old man—my professor—thought … you know, it’s too confusing.”

“But are you
all right
?”

“Yes. I miss home. Isn’t that funny? I went on and on about coming, and now I miss Lucan.”

“It’s nice. You like us.”

“My friends here are all so strange. I never know what they’re on about. They’re—” I paused, once again deciding to keep their activities from her. “As I said. Strange.”

“What about the American?”

“Claire? Odd, but sweet. Sleeps around a lot.”

“Oh!” Babs laughed. “That reminds me. I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“George asked me to marry him.”

“‘That
reminds
me’!” I shouted, jumping up and running outside. “‘That reminds me.’ How could you not tell me straightaway?”

“You had things to tell me.”

“Babs, you’re maddening. Engaged!”

“Yeah. I mean, we won’t get married for a while, not for years, probably. But he wanted to ask.”

“It’s just so…”

“Early?”

“
Sweet
.” Oh, God. How could we be there already? Babs would be married, taken away from me. “It’s wonderfully sweet. He’s such a solid bloke.”

“I know.” Babs had met George their first year of uni. They were a good-looking, solid, dull couple whom I’d always been a little envious of.

“Well now you
have
to come. If George gets you forever, then I should get you for a few days.”

“All right. I promise I’ll come. Have to get a look at this neighbor, anyway, don’t I?”

“He’s—” I paused. “Terrible. No, wonderful.”

“Oh, Taz!”

“Oh, Babs!”

We hung up laughing. When we ended conversations, we never bothered with goodbye.

19

Within a week, the inevitable happened. Claire and Colin melded into one spectacular body. And in order to hide my unreasonable jealousy, I became the American’s main confidante.

When Claire wasn’t with Colin, which was practically always, she walked about in a sort of dream state, staring out a window for minutes, saying nothing. She had an air of desperation when he wasn’t near. Yet, at least in the beginning, Colin seldom left her unaccompanied; he even sat at her bar with his research for her entire shift.

Sometime after the middle of October, Claire stopped sleeping at our cottage. Her clothes disappeared from the living room; the same balled up dress remained on her bed for a week; the guitar was left neglected behind the sofa; the vegetables on her shelf withered and turned curious colors of yellow and white.

It brought a change in chemistry to our little house, this new bout of love. I was rabidly envious, but the feeling was so unacceptable I hid it with every ounce of concentration I had. I often asked after her happiness, how everything was for them. And the truth was, I really missed her.

Still, it was a relief not to be around her so much, around that strange intensity. Now that the cold weather had set in, it became clear that our home truly was too small for four young women; the place was bursting with our possessions, our emotions, our more and more frequent arguments. Claire was, without question, the loudest and messiest. It wasn’t that she was lazy—she wasn’t. She just seemed rushed, as if life outside were beckoning so forcefully there simply wasn’t
time
for something as mundane as, say, cleaning a dish. So with her gone more, things got tidier, quieter.

Sometimes Colin would come to our house, and she’d make him lunch. These interludes were inevitably uncomfortable. He would avoid looking at me, which I began to consider ridiculous, as we had no connection. Claire would insist on touching him all the time, which he seemed to like. He would just smile and let her climb all over him as he annotated his large, dusty texts.

“Pesto?” she’d ask. “It’s just from the jar.”

Colin was always quiet, working. Yet he often stopped to gaze at her as she moved about the house.

“Whatever you want,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I want pesto.”

“Then I do, too.”

“What are you looking at today?” Claire rested her chin on his shoulder. An ancient, large script was spread over our counter.

“A list of families on Via Bartolo in 1614. How many children, yearly deaths, things like that.”

“Because that’s who the order helped? Children?”

“Sometimes.”

“What order?” Gia asked.

“An old Masonic health order. I’m writing my thesis on it.”

“What’s the name?”

“Misericordia.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Not many people have. It was small, but provides an interesting window into the era. That’s why it’s a good thesis. No one’s done it before.”

“Those orders, were they always men?” Claire asked.

“Yes,” Gia said. “Always.”

“It’s fascinating,” Claire said, kissing him. “I love it, what you’re doing.”

“What is he doing?” Gia asked.

Claire kissed him again.

“It is difficult,” Alessandra said once after they left. “They are so passionate, I feel I should give them privacy. But it is the kitchen! So.”

Claire, being Claire, wanted to share everything about the experience she was having. “I feel amazing,” she said, tossing herself on my bed one afternoon. “Is that how you feel about Marcello? Amazing?”

I hesitated. I hated it when Claire compared Colin to Marcello. I had never felt more frustrated by men, the having of one, the wanting of another. Lately, Marcello seemed barely interested. He had a habit of not calling for days, even if I did. Also, he only appeared late at night.

“I don’t know. Sure. I feel good about him.”

“Well, I feel
amazing
. Colin says all these things. Whatever. He likes to speak Italian to me. I have no idea what he’s talking about. But it’s like, I understand him, totally. He’s so…”

“Romantic?” I asked, a tad longingly. “Sweet?”

“Yeah.” She giggled happily, a sound that made me involuntarily wince. “Do you want to hear how we did it?”

I did, actually.

“He ties up my hands sometimes. Not in a bad way. And then he kisses, like, every part of my body. And one time we took this olive oil and—”

“Oh, don’t say more.”

“Sorry. I had to tell someone. Anyway, we should all go out. The four of us. Could we?”

“Maybe.”

“Taz.” She grabbed my hand and looked at me rather desperately. “I want you to be as happy as I am. Every bit as happy. You know? You
deserve
it.”

“I’m happy, Claire.”

“But why not let yourself go a little. With Marcello, you know?”

“I let myself go exactly as much as I like to. We—we’re going just fine.”

She looked at me thoughtfully. “Hey, why don’t we go underwear shopping? Now. You know, to spice things up.”

“I don’t know. I—”

“Come on,” she said, grabbing her pack. “We need it. Well, I do. Mine look like they’ve been in some kind of war zone.”

I relented, because when Claire wanted something, it was impossible to refuse her. We climbed up to the piazza, stopping first in a very fine store I’d been to with Anna. The proprietor, who recognized me, greeted me with something between enthusiasm and fear.

“She knows you?”

“I’ve come here with friends.”

“
Oh
my God,” Claire said, fingering the bras. “Ninety euros? Jesus. Your friends are seriously loaded.”

“Let’s go somewhere else.”

We walked outside and she linked her arm with mine. “You know, I think I might actually be in love,” she said.

“It’s been a week and a half, Claire.”

“So?” She squeezed my arm harder. “I’m twenty. I’m supposed to fall in love in a week. So are you. Haven’t you read Daisy Miller?”

“Sure. She ended up dead of fever.”

“Yeah, but she was in
love
. I mean, Taz, I think about Colin all the time. It’s sort of torture. It’s like, I’m not really
here
in between the times I see him. I mean, I’m here, but I’m totally distracted, just waiting for him to call. This
can’t
be the way it’s supposed to be.”

“It is, unfortunately,” I said, remembering my misery over Sean. “There’s lots written about that, too.”

“Nerd.”

“Just keep your head.”

“Oh my
God
, Taz. ‘Keep your head.’ That is so
you
. The whole point is to lose our minds.”

“But you just said—”

“You can’t trust what I say. I’m a complete psycho. Here, this place is cheap. Let’s go in here for a thong. A hot-pink one.”

“I—”

“I’ll
buy
it for you, prude. Come on.” She grabbed my hand. “Let’s get you into some danger.”

*   *   *

One night, after attending an oddly grim cocktail party on the north side of town with Jenny, I came home to find Claire on our tiny sofa, poring over an Italian grammar book. There was a bottle of wine on the floor next to her, three-quarters empty. The ashtray, still smoldering, was brimming over.

I took off my coat and sat at the table.

“Why aren’t you at Colin’s?”

“Because I’m allowed to take a fucking night off.”

“Yes, it’s just—”

“Also I’m failing Italian.”

I laughed. “Because your boyfriend is half British?”

“Because I’m an idiot.” She threw the book on the floor, then brought her knees to her chest and dropped her head into her folded arms.

“Claire?”

“What?” Now she was crying.

“What could be the matter?”

“He’s fucking other people. Colin. I’m, like, doing everything for him, and then he’s—
fuck
. I can’t even talk about it.”

“Claire. That can’t be true. He’s with you every single night. How could he possibly have the time?”

“During the day. He never tells me where he’s going.”

“Isn’t he working on his dissertation? It’s a huge thing.”

“Right. No. I mean, that’s what I said. You going to the library?
No
. Where are you going, then? I said. And he looked at me like I was the most annoying bug in the world. Like I was a
roach
.”

“You’re not a roach.”

“He said I didn’t have to know where he was all the time.”

“Well…”

“Well, what? I tell him where
I
am all the time. I could be fucking all of Grifonia if I wanted to.”

“Absolutely. You did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that—”

“Screw it. I know what you mean. I like sex. Fine. But I gave that up after Colin.”

“Claire.” I got up, fetched a jelly glass, and poured myself some of her wine. “It’s only been three weeks. What, exactly, have you given him?”

“I told him I loved him.”

The recklessness of the notion—admitting such a thing so quickly—both thrilled and sickened me at the same time.

“Oh.”

“Bad idea, right?”

“It is soon.”

“So fucking what?”

“I just mean … Claire. Can you really love someone that soon? Look, you don’t know anything about him. Here you are, saying so. You may be feeling this way now, but just a month ago you didn’t know he existed.”

“But now I do,” she said.

“It’s too fast.”

“It’s not. There aren’t fucking rules about this, Taz. I know what I feel.”

“Miserable?”

“Go to hell.” She put her face in her arms again.

“Claire. It’ll be all right. We’re just foreigners. This is all temporary. We’re just having a good time.”

Even as I said the words, they sounded weak. I wanted to tell her that she’d forget the man from the museum. That if he was sleeping with someone else—if that was even possible—she’d get over it, be as carefree as she was before. But I still felt the sharp edge each time I thought of Sean, my boyfriend from long ago. And, of course, I still longed for Colin myself.

“Look,” I said. “Let’s have some more wine. We can go out if you want. And I’ll help you with your Italian. It’s really not so hard.”

“You know what I want?” she said suddenly, looking up. Her perfectly symmetrical features were mottled, her cheeks pink, like a child’s. “For you to arrange that date. With you and Marcello. Will you come out with us, to see what you think?”

“Why would that help?”

“It would. See, he likes you. Said it’s funny that you like gory history stories.”

Was that all he thought of me?
I wondered.

“Claire.”

“Can you do it?”

I got up again, opening another bottle. “I’ll try.”

“I knew you would,” she said, wiping her face and smiling. That perfect skin, those slanted cheekbones, that ready mouth. Her hair had lost all its previous lavender color and was now caramel blond. She was a real, live siren. It was the fatal problem that ran silent beneath it all.

*   *   *

A few days later, Colin came over while no one was home but me.

Claire was sleeping at his apartment again. I hadn’t yet arranged the date she’d asked for, because I hadn’t seen Marcello. He’d gone out of town. It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon, and I was napping on the couch under a musty blanket, having put in a valiant forty-five minutes on my art history paper, something about the medieval perspective on horses. There was a polite knock on the door, and Colin poked his head in.

“She’s not here,” I said, sitting up.

He looked at me in that serious way he had, leaning against the doorjamb and polishing his glasses. Obviously he had come over to slowly pleasure my flatmate with cooking oils and whatnot, and was disappointed to find only me.

I cleared my throat.

“I know she’s not,” he said. I caught my breath at the hope that he might have actually come to see
me
. But then he reached into his bag, taking out what I recognized to be her green rain jacket. “It’s just that she needs this today.”