saltwater

What is freedom, anyway? Angelica asks herself. It isn’t power, that’s for sure, no matter what the boys think. When you have power, you’ve got to spend all your time trying to keep it. Dancing and drinking are dangerous distractions, and love is a weakness, in the end. When you’re in your own territory, you have to keep your eye out for traitors and upstarts. And when you’re in somebody else’s, you have to watch your back. 

Angelica wants to be anonymous. At the hotel, she checks in as Angelica Miele, to be sweet instead of salt.

The hotel is old-fashioned and pretty, nothing like her home. The French blue carpets have ivory borders and pink roses at the corners. Crystals hang from the art nouveau chandelier like falling petals. There are gold striped curtains tied with heavy gold tassels. She thinks of her one and only dinner date, giggling while Spadino mocked the stuffy maitre d, and is brusque with the elegant receptionist.

Her room is decorated in soothing shades of sage and cream, and there are botanical prints hanging on the walls. Angelica is transfixed for a moment by the images of spliced hellebore, and the scattered geranium petals. Tossing her phone on the nightstand, she plops facedown on the pillow and cries.

Angelica turns off her phone, and she closes the curtains. She sees no one—except for the boy in livery, rolling a cart of porcelain china and silver platters. Although he is her own age, he seems like a child to her, glancing at her with ignorant, infatuated eyes was he delivers her meals to her room.

Every day begins with cappuccino and chocolate pastry. Angelica eats soft cheese and flaky bread, adds tuna to her spaghetti, and tries carne cruda for the first time, indulging in the delicacies that were forbidden while she was pregnant. She maintains a steady wine buzz from lunch until bedtime, and orders a box of cigarettes, though she only smokes one. It’s too bitter without Nadia.

There’s not much to do besides weep and pray. At first, even TV is painful. She flinches at the news station, when the camera pans over Vatican City while they countdown to the Jubilee. She can’t bear romances or thrillers or heists, and cartoons make her chest tight. So she watches soccer, which never interested her before; she used to mock the men who swooned over Fabio Cannavaro’s jumps and tackles. 

Now, though, soccer is mind-numbing in the best way. She likes that the fans react to every play as though it’s brand new. She is delighted by the announcers’ fast-talking enthusiasm for such trivial battles. The players’ strong calves awaken something inside of her that she thought was long gone.

On the seventh day, Angelica puts on a long black dress, braids her hair in a single rope down her spine, and hangs a gold crucifix around her neck. Taking a steadying breath, she leaves her hotel room. 

At first, she’s tense and watchful; it wouldn’t surprise her to be stalked by some of the families’ goons, but the elevator, the lobby, and the streets are free of familiar faces, so, more relaxed with every step, she strides toward the ruins. She takes a seat near Torre Argentina, her reckless eyes fixed on the rich blue sky instead of the ancient cobblestones. While she daydreams about Caesar bleeding out, a tuxedo cat slinks around her ankle. 

“Where do you live, little friend?” she asks. “Are you alone like me?” Purring, he rolls on his back, letting her rub his belly like a puppy. “You’re a strange one,” she laughs. 

He scampers off at the sound of footsteps, and Angelica looks up to see a woman of indeterminate age, whose blonde bob and pale blue shift dress resemble a 60s movie star’s. Before she realizes what she’s doing, Angelica stands, pretending to catch her heel between the stones. If she was wearing a different outfit, she knows, the woman probably would’ve accused her of being a pickpocket like her poorer cousins—Angelica had the quick reflexes to make a decent thief, but never had to steal when she had a father to buy her presents—but this neat, modest dress inspires trust. The stranger only touches her arm with maternal concern and asks if she’s hurt.

Angelica widens her eyes and stutters a little when she says, “Oh, I’m perfectly fine. Just embarrassed to be so clumsy.” Angelica is trying to pass for the kind of girl who dreams of white gowns and handsome princes: she wants to prove that she’s still good at pretending, and that she can make someone care whether she falls.

Straightening, Angelica adds, “I love your dress.” In no time at all, the stranger is talking about the importance of tailors, and Angelica is smiling benignly and nodding. She’s probably lonely, too. By the time they separate at the next intersection, Angelica almost feels like the frivolous girl she is pretending to be, and decides to explore the boutique the stranger recommended. 

The breeze is gentle as she finds her way to the shop, and the air smells so strongly of honeysuckle that she forgets, for a moment, the sharp scent of saltwater.  Then the glass door slides open, and the shop-girl gives her an unimpressed once-over. Silently berating herself for leaving the expensive jewelry in the hotel lockbox, Angelica tries her best to look imperious while she surveys the mannequins, but she must not succeed, because when the shop-girl notices her eyeing a maxi dress, she scoffs.

“That one,” she says, “is not for you. A waste of those legs, and the bodice will make you look like a boy.” She leads Angelica to an eggplant skirt with a metal hem. Angelica reaches out to touch the fabric, then jolts back, shaking her head. 

“No. I’d like something in black, please.” 

“Are you certain? This color would flatter you better.” 

When she shakes her head again, the shop-girl raises a manicured brow and asks, “Funeral?”

“Widow,” Angelica answers without thinking.

The shop-girl gasps, and for a moment Angelica thinks that she has caught the lie. 

“So young,” she marvels, and Angelica remembers that she is. “I’m sorry for your loss. You probably get that a lot.” The words are kind, but the tone is as sharp as it’s been since Angelica came through the door, and she finds it more comforting than softness would be.

Later, wearing black lace, an underworld version of the dress she wore to that fateful, final party, Angelica walks from the hotel to a wine bar, not quite sure what she is looking for. She eyes the men smoking outside and the couples through the front window, but sees no one she knows. 

Shoulders back, chin up, she orders a glass of red wine at the bar, trying to look like someone who does not cry.

Then she spots a blonde at the corner seat, with white teeth and deep dimples. His blue eyes pause at her lips, breasts, and legs, and when he stands and prowls over, she clutches the stool in anticipation. 

She’s seen that look before, from callers on the street, and schoolboys she was never permitted to kiss. The  occasional Sale minion leered at her when her father’s head was turned, and so did the Anacleti cousin who dropped club flyers at her feet so she’d be sure to see the face of her husband’s DJ sidepiece. And then there was that pig Manfredi, may he burn in hell, she thinks. But she’s never seen the look in the eyes of anyone she actually liked, and she didn’t realize until now how desperate she was for that sort of attention.

The stranger introduces himself, his Italian textbook, and she wonders whether he can tell what she is by her accent. If so, he doesn’t seem at all put off. If anything, he seems intrigued, leaning closer to hear her speak until she can smell his cologne, something rich with leather and vetiver, and see a shaving nick by his ear. 

He seems to like her, even though she doesn’t talk much about herself, laughing at her quiet jokes and her sardonic observations about the people at the bar. She surprises herself by laughing at his. He recounts his recent vacation in Barcelona, and the way he describes the architecture is whimsical and childlike. Since Angelica has never been out of the country, herself, she asks him about his favorite places in Rome.

She is too startled to register his answer, because he runs his hand across her knuckles, touching the spot that has, until recently, been hidden by a wedding ring. She wonders if he also removed his wedding ring for the occasion, then reminds herself that not all men are pigs. 

And at the end of the night, she lets him press her into some shadows, so gently that the lace of her dress does not even snag on the stone. When he kisses her, she closes her eyes, trying to savor his broad shoulders and his hand on her waist, concentrating on pleasure as though she can make it grow through will alone. But it’s not enough, so she pushes him away with delicate but steady hands. 

The next night, she shares aperitivo with a burly brunette. They debate the talent of the Juventus coach, and his booming laugh is so genuine that she cannot help but smile in return. He kisses her exuberantly, and she ought to feel excited, but she doesn’t care for him, so she ignores his Basset hound stare and heads back to the hotel to sleep alone.

The night after that, she flirts with a long-haired bartender. Tall and wiry, he wears a t-shirt and flatteringly tight jeans, and the tattoo on his bicep reads, “flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo.” If I cannot bend the heavens above, I will move Hell. She touches it while she kisses him, feeling a prickle of fear that almost makes it delicious. Almost, but not quite.

Enough is enough. I won’t get what I want like this, she thinks, turning away.

When she turns on her phone, the fear becomes a rash, and she tells herself to be brave, texting, “Can I come visit?” 

Nadia replies immediately, inviting her over the following day and sending the address. Angelica already knows the place—it was Aureliano’s apartment—and realizes that Nadia may simply be unable to type his name. Although she says nothing else, Angelica senses that she’s welcome. 

In the morning, she asks the hotel receptionist where to buy flowers.