Chapter Nine
Hot. I need to look hot as hell, I type into my translator app.
The helpful sales manager has patiently waited while I stumble through the language barrier.
Most people in La Musa speak at least some English, but she seems to know zero.
Which is fine. I’m the one who’s a foreigner, but it’s been over a month in and so far, my Italian language skills consist solely of the phrases my language learning app teaches me and random idioms from Vincenzo.
And I haven’t yet gotten to the level where I learn how to ask the shopkeeper where she keeps the sluttiest lingerie.
Benito’s been avoiding me since our late-night rendezvous a week ago.
He leaves for work early in the morning before I wake up and returns well after dinner.
While I’ve been enjoying being Anita’s de facto child in his absence, I’m annoyed too.
The idea that he regrets our almost. . .
whatever moment, makes me regret it too.
My original instincts to avoid anything more than cordiality with Benito were right.
I need to focus on being unattached and unemotional.
We find an understanding between my shoddy Italian and her exaggerated pantomiming, and I go into the fitting room to try on several pieces.
First, an all-black lace bodysuit with cutouts on the boobs and between my legs.
It looked elegant on the hanger, but on my short torso, I look like a kid wearing a worn-out swimsuit.
Next, a red matching lace bra and thong.
The bra looks good, but the thong is made of so little fabric, there’d be nothing to suck in my love handles underneath my dress.
A bright blue teddy looks like the sorority girl version of a Violet Beauregarde costume.
A silky green negligee makes me look like I’m one of Santa’s helpers.
And a pink corset makes it seem like I’m trying to seduce a viscount.
I put my regular clothes back on and exit the fitting room. In the main store area, I see Valeria chatting with the salesclerk. I try to quickly put my items back before she notices me but I’m not fast enough. “Izzy!” she says, waving.
I shove everything onto one hook as she walks over to me. “Valeria, hi.”
She speaks in Italian to the other woman, and I hear my name. The woman smiles at me. “Izzy,” Valeria says, “this is Francesca.”
I wave at her shyly. “Piacere.”
“We were just discussing the town news, have you heard?” she asks.
I shake my head. Valeria continues, “Apparently there’s a big project in the works to completely change La Musa.
” She shakes her head disapprovingly. My heart sinks.
Benito must be going through with his father’s ideas.
“If it happens, several of our existing businesses will have to close.”
“Wait, really?” I ask.
Valeria nods. “Well, our leases would end, as the company doing the work owns the buildings. Some of these leases are 50 years old or more.” Valeria sighs. “We could move, but where would we move to? It’s not like there’s other space available.”
I say a quick prayer of thanksgiving that I did not sleep with Benito the other night.
If what Valeria is saying is true, my original assessment of him is correct and he super sucks.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve seen his softer side—I’ve been blinded by horniness before. “The wine shop would have to close?”
Valeria sighs again. “It seems like it, yes. And the worst part is, whether intentional or not, the development affects mostly the women-owned businesses in town.”
My gut boils. Sexist. Benito is also sexist. “That’s completely unfair,” I say.
“Completely,” Valeria agrees.
“Is there anything we can do?” I ask.
“That’s what Francesca and I were just discussing,” Valeria says. “Us two and the other women affected are gathering at Bar Musa later this week to figure out a game plan.”
My brain sparks. It’s a familiar feeling, like when I learned the girls’ soccer team at Fairfax High had to practice on the baseball fields, which don’t even get watered in the off-season.
It’s like I hear an injustice happening, and my body’s natural response is to spring into action.
I take a deep breath. I need to stay out of this.
It doesn’t involve me. “Maybe I can help,” my mouth spits out despite my brain’s insistence on staying neutral.
Valeria perks up. “Oh, Izzy, you’re too kind. I will let you know if there’s something you can do.”
“No, seriously,” I say. My larynx and pharynx and vocal cords are apparently on a separate mission from my consciousness. “I have. . . experience in community organizing, and I could really help.”
Valeria lights up. “We could use someone with experience. Definitely come, then,” she says.
She gives me the details and we say our goodbyes. I pull the matching red set off the rack and pay for it. Giac will just have to deal with my love handles.
I take the initiative and invite Giac to dinner when I see him at the caffetteria the next morning.
He excitedly says yes, and suggests we meet up that night at Ristorante Claudio.
When I walk in wearing a loose but low-cut black maxi dress, my red set underneath, I remember it’s one of the few truly upscale places in La Musa.
White tablecloths, dim lighting, and live, inoffensive jazz greet us as we walk in.
It’s also uncharacteristically packed, and Giac must have an in with the staff, because we’re quickly ushered to the last free table in the center of the restaurant.
A bottle of wine and an order of arancine quickly arrive at the table. “They like you here, Giac,” I say.
Giac shrugs it off. “I’ve been here a lot over the years. Best carbonara in all of Italy right here if you can believe it.”
“I’m a vegetarian, so that’s a no for me. What else is good?” I ask, trying to discern from the menu what is and is not meat free.
Giac feigns shock. “Izzy, you cannot be a vegetarian in Umbria. What with all the wild boar, the. . .” He snaps his fingers. “Guanciale and ooo the prosciutto! The pancetta.” Giac closes his eyes like he’s in a trance.
“You know what else is here?” I start. “Mozzarella, parmigiana, ricotta, marscarpone. . .” My stomach growls. “I’m good.”
Our waiter comes and we quickly put in our orders. I settle on the umbricelli, the thick, spaghetti-like pasta shape native to the region, al pecorino with plans to add a mountain of Parmesan on top.
“Izzy,” Giac starts, “we’ve seen much of each other, but I feel like I know nothing about you. Tell me everything.”
I freeze mid-sip of wine. This was supposed to be dinner, a bottle of wine, and sex—I hadn’t prepared for the conversation part of the evening. “What do you want to know?” I ask.
Giac furrows his brow. “Everything. Where you’re from? Why you came to Italy? All of it.” He takes a sip of wine. “Benito mentioned something on the train about being a politician.”
I nearly choke on the piece of bread I’ve been stress-eating while I figure out how best to answer as coolly as possibly. “Yeah, I dabbled.”
“What was your job back in California?” he asks.
“Oh, I did a little bit of this, a little bit of that,” I answer noncommittally.
“All I know about Los Angeles is from American television. Let me guess,” he starts.
“You were on one of those reality shows where people think they’ll find love.
You were the last woman standing, of course, but you decided you were better off without the noioso male lead and went off on your own instead. ”
“Noioso?” I ask.
“Boring,” Giac says. “Tell me, I’m right, aren’t I?” His toothy grin is visible through his wine glass as he takes in a long drink.
“No, I wish. I worked for Congress,” I say, praying he doesn’t care much about the ins and outs of United States government and is willing to quickly move on to the next topic.
Giac fixes his gaze on me then snaps his fingers together. “That’s where I know you from!”
I squeeze my eyes together. Maybe if I focus hard enough, I can teleport to somewhere else. “No, no. I’m sure you don’t know me. I wasn’t famous,” I say.
“Women eat!” Giac exclaims. I cringe. “Women Eat” became a rallying cry of sorts after one of my colleagues on the other side posted an unflattering photo of me going to town on some French fries at the LA County Fair.
He’d said it was undignified and disgusting, and my lone retort was to tweet back, Breaking News: Women Eat.
I didn’t intend for it to become a whole thing, but hashtags went viral, shirts were made.
“You recognized me?” I ask. I want to die. I want to leave. I want to jump into a vat of tomato sauce and let it boil me like an aragosta meeting its end.
Giac nods enthusiastically. “My sister, she’s 17, she asked for one of your shirts because that angry little brunette singer had one, so I googled what it meant. . . wow. I cannot believe it’s been you this whole time.”
My palms are slick, and I feel a bead of sweat drip down my back, landing somewhere in my thong. “Don’t hold it against me,” I say.
“What is there to hold against?” Giac asks, his eyes still wild with excitement over this revelation. “You should be proud.”
The waiter comes by, delivering our food.
I immediately start twirling a noodle with my fork.
“I lost,” I say, my head down. “And it was all so. . .” I can’t bring myself to tell Giac the whole of it.
To admit I feel anything other than wine-buzzed would open up the emotional floodgates.
I don’t want to do that again. I don’t want to share like I did with Benito.
I don’t want the embarrassment, the humiliation, the pain, to exist here in Italy.
“I’m starting over,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. ”
Giac raises his glass toward me. “Well then, Izzy. Let’s drink to that.”