* * *
The horror of that day, of having to be in the car with the novelist, that old faggot, not actually gay, so be it, who dared to place his hand on Sandro’s mother’s thigh and right in front of him. Sandro and Roberto and Talia in the back. Good God. Like children, sibling warfare all over again. Roberto ducking, convinced he was going to be gunned down in his mother’s Mercedes. Sandro had said, you’re being ridiculous. No one gives a shit about you, he wanted to say but didn’t. It would have justified Roberto’s fears, that no one cared much if he lived.
Driving in through the gates. Valeras at Valera, and everything he had left Italy to escape was on offer for him. The only thing that wasn’t from that Milanese world was Talia. Because she had an English father and had gone to boarding school in the States, and spoke with a slight English accent that reminded him of a recording he’d once heard of the poet Sylvia Plath reading a short, cunning thing that began,
First, are you our sort of person?
The lilt of Sylvia Plath’s voice. A question she repeated that became the poem’s refrain, Will you marry it? intoned in a way that was gentle and severe and knowing. Will you marry it? He’d fused that stern, sexy voice with Talia’s, and this was later, after they’d already been lovers and the combination made her almost a part of him.
How about this suit—
Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they’ll bury you in it.
Talia became a thing he could not reject when it arrived periodically on offer. She talked like Sylvia Plath and looked a bit like her. And her pushy and insistent sexuality — he liked that, too. It became a habit he relied on. Her pale skin and moon face and the hair, black like an Ardito’s cockerel feathers. She didn’t offer the kind of wretched devotion Italian girls didn’t know better than to supply, they wanted to win your heart by adoring you, cooking you a meal, sleeping with you as maternal care. It was a nightmare. I don’t want maternal care. I can care for myself, and in New York he met these… viragos, who wanted servicing, like Stanley’s wife, and what a relief it was. A vacation from the self, to attend to their needs. Like Giddle, the so-called best friend, but a betrayer who barely had a self, who had a sociopathic freedom from any need for relating. He enjoyed that kind of thing. On occasion. Or rather, he let himself be enjoyed by these women who dictated. He needed a break from his devoted girlfriend, who submitted to his generosity and demanded so little. She was like a daughter. Young Reno. She was both innocent and ambitious and looked to Sandro for direction, and fine, but not all the time. Sometimes he just wanted to forget himself. Doesn’t everyone? Talia was something different, not like an American girl, either. Proof against fire and bombs through the roof. They went out together that afternoon at the factory for air, that was what she said, “for air.” And once outside, with no one around, she had taken the opportunity. Gone right for the zipper. Reached in with such forthright disregard that it made him sad for his sweet young girlfriend who did not know you just reach in and grab it and it’s not cheap or crass, it just is, a hand on a cock, that’s all it was and some women knew what to do, his own black-haired cousin among them. If young Reno, unlike his mean mother and cruel extended family, if she’d known to be rude on occasion, to just take, he might not have strayed. But that was a lie, too, because the truth was that he had liked her as she was, the way she had looked up at him so wide-eyed, searching for some sense of herself, a cue.
He wasn’t worth looking up to. Talia understood this, Talia, who didn’t look to anyone for anything. She was unafraid. She didn’t need to please others. She didn’t love herself or anyone else. She knew better than that. She was an evolved human, a Shrapnel. And he understood it. He liked people who didn’t give a shit but you can’t surround yourself with that, it was only for sometimes. Like a day when he was exactly where he didn’t want to be, a Valera at Valera, and Talia had unzipped his trousers and put her hand on his cock and she, it, had promised escape.
He wasn’t choosing to wreck his relationship. He couldn’t have known his American girlfriend would have found her way to the drab industrial outskirts of Milan, and be there at the factory, right there. How could he have? He never could have predicted her appearance. Just as she surely had no idea what it felt like to be him in that moment.
He had hurt the person he did not hate. A person he might have loved. He didn’t want to say he loved her, because is that how you treat someone you love? He might have loved her. Leave it at that. Something that might have been but was not, that he could have sustained but didn’t.
* * *
His father had said to him, “As you get older, you tolerate less and less well women your own age.” “You mean you do,” Sandro had said. “Yes, I,” his father said. “That’s right. And I used to think it was because I’d escaped time and women didn’t. But that’s not the reason. It’s because I’m stunted. Many men are. If you are that kind of man when you grow up, Sandro, you’ll understand. You’ll go younger in order to tolerate yourself.”
That’s what it was about, at the end of the day. His father was right. It’s what you can stand of yourself.
He’d grown up to be at times an asshole, he supposed. And it was so much easier to call yourself that after you’d acted like one, rather than to trot out a lot of remorse and do all the work needed to distance yourself from the acts that defined you. In that way, he and Ronnie were perhaps not opposites but twins, or becoming so.
He’d looked at her face, so sad and angry. And he had thought, I’m an asshole. Which was a kind of remorse, but not the kind with any hope in it.
Maybe the way she had insinuated herself — by accident, he understood — with the company, staying with them in Utah, or Nevada, wherever it was, had not been much to his liking. And then the publicity tour, derailed, so be it. She’d disappeared, he didn’t know where. One of his mother’s employees, the groundskeeper, had gone off to look for her that day at the factory. He said he’d take her back to the villa in Bellagio, but he had not. Probably she’d insisted on going elsewhere. She and the groundskeeper had not been there when he returned. Sandro hung around the villa for a week, alone with the servants and the thump of giant moths against the windows at night. Where was she? She never came back. He telephoned Ronnie in New York, who told him Time magazine’s cover that week was a plate of spaghetti with a gun in it and the words “Visit Italy.”
* * *
A boarding announcement for his flight. He stood up from his seat as the blanketing echo of many small conversations ricocheted around the high-ceilinged terminal, Trans World. A great white puff through which sailed both swallows and the underside of modernity. Even if the association was not direct. Because TWA was not Oscar Niemeyer but Saarinen. Still, its melted meringue lines told him Brasília equaled death, a nasty little message, private, from the terminal to Sandro.
“Stupidest people on earth,” his father said of the rubber tappers in the Amazon, who made him rich, whose slavery paid for the stunning paean to modernism like the one he was in, the terminal. So dumb and uncivilized that they had weighted their souls with stones. An act whose grave sophistication still impressed Sandro. It suggested they understood what was at stake, how fragile presence, true and felt and lived presence, really was.