The Knotty Bride (21 page)

chapter 6

T
HAT EVENING AFTER work, I decide to tie one on. I know a mother should be more upstanding and virtuous, but my children are safe with their father for the evening and so why not? Given the morning I’ve had, I could use a relaxing drink.

“You never did finish telling me how that first day of working with your aunt went,” my best friend Rupa says as she tips her head way back and plops an olive in her mouth—Roman emperor style.

We are having martinis at my place, which is unfortunate because Rupa cannot hold her liquor.

“Didn’t I tell you about that?” I ask as I sit on my living room floor in a full-length, flowing red sari.

“No, you never got quite that far.” Rupa pops another olive in her mouth and lies back on my loveseat, dangling her petite feet over the end. Rupa is my best friend here in Arona; she is originally from India, but spent six years at Northwestern doing her undergraduate and graduate studies. That’s where she met her fantastic husband Dario, who was also at Northwestern studying law.

Anyway, what was Rupa saying? I still haven’t told her about my first day of work and two whole weeks have gone by?

“Well, Rupa my dear, let me tell you now,” I begin, taking a swig of martini.

“I did tell you about the grounds being a mess and about the tour of the villa Alice gave me, right?” I cough. The cocktail Rupa has concocted stings as it goes down.

“Yes, but how was the rest of it? The part where your aunt-in-law finally became your boss?”

Ah yes, that part. My eyes narrow as I stick my index finger up in the air in a gesture that says, “Hold on, after I take another sip of my drink, I am going to tell you something of the utmost importance.”

I take an enormous gulp, cough vigorously, and set my glass down on the coffee table. I need my hands free for the oration I am about to deliver.

“Let’s review the good part again, shall we? I always like to think about positive things first. The tour of the villa really was the high point. I told you all about the salons, and the dining room and the game room, and the hidden stone spiral staircase in the back of the house? The one that is a little spooky, like something out of Nancy Drew. I told you about that right?”

“Yes, yes,” Rupa replies, eager to get to the dirt. “Go on.”

I decide it best to stand up, so I can pontificate better, but I seem to have some trouble locating my feet.

“Whoa there.” Rupa holds a hand out to steady me. “Easy my friend, you are swaying a bit.”

“Pish posh.” I dismiss her with a smooth gesture and I think, my how I love Saturday nights with Rupa. This is the one and possibly only good thing about Enrico; he takes the boys every Saturday night and all day Sunday so that I get a break. So on the rare Saturday that Rupa is free, we have these little get-togethers.

“Now where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you about my first day at Villa Buschi. Well, the official torture started around ten o’clock, or was it eleven? No matter, because some time around then Alice finished giving me the tour of the place and then the cleaning lessons kicked in.”

“Oh dear,” Rupa says as she snacks loudly on another olive. She looks so pretty tonight—dark-eyed, raven-haired and absolutely resplendent in a scarlet sari with golden embroidery, the same exact gold as the slippers she has on. Hmm, that must have come as a matched set. It reminds me of what she wore when I first met her. For a moment, I am swept back in time, thinking how lucky I am to have met Rupa four years ago when she was accidentally driving her Citroen down the pedestrian strip in Arona. It was actually quite funny because all these Italians were yelling at her to get out of the way and yet she could not understand a word they were saying. I just happened to be there too, so I walked over to her car and told her, in English, that if she kept going the way she was going, she would probably end up killing somebody.

We have been best friends ever since.

Actually, the only thing anyone really needs to know about Rupa (I call her Ruup) is that she is the most kindhearted, generous person in the world AND she has an entire closet full of the most amazing saris—in violent reds, rich purples, regal silvers and full-flush yellows—just like a Marharanee would own. Only, of course, she has no place to wear them here in Italy. Whenever we can, we get together and put on the saris, sometimes all thirty of them in one night –constantly mixing and matching. Then we sit around drinking cocktails. 

“Hmm, where was I?” I muse. “I’ve seemed to completely lose my train of thought… Oh, oh right.” I polish off my martini in one last gulp. “Well, let me tell you, my dear Rupa, that first morning was spent learning a little thing I lovingly refer to as Alice Bettonina’s THREE PRINCIPLE LAWS OF FINE VILLA UPKEEP!”

I raise three fingers, or at least try to, but my left arm has gone numb. I give up trying and just sway on the spot. Then I say, “You see my dear Ruup. The laws go something like this. First Law - CLEAN EVERYTHING - EVERY DAY!” I manage to hold up my pinky.

“You’re drunk!” Rupa laughs.

“Posh posh.” I make my smooth gesture again.

“You mean pish posh.”

“That’s what I said. Now, where was I? Ah yes, the First Law –Clean Everything Every Day. To this end, Alice gave me my very first daily task sheet. Now these task sheets -I swear, my dear Rupa- are thick like the Bible. So thick that if each page were stretched end to end, I am sure it would snake all the way from here to the Swiss border.”

“Oh come on, now.” Rupa giggles and swishes her skewered olive around her martini with vigor. Goodness, how many olives is this woman going to eat?

“No, no. Isstrue,” I say.

“You are slurring your words.” Rupa frowns as she looks at my empty glass.

“Now the second law, the Second Law is a doosie!” My voice rises in excitement. “The Second Law of Fine Villa Upkeep is –ARM YOURSELF! To this end, I was involved in an intense meet and greet with all the cleansly solvents. I mean cleaning solvents. ARM yourself with all the cleansly solvents; strap them to your chest if necessary.”

“You are completely drunk and stark raving mad.”

“Why is it, Rupa?” I cut her off as I begin to wax philosophical. “I mean have you ever wondered? Why is it that here in Italy they give all the cleansly solvents such silly names?”

“You mean the cleaning solvents?”

“Precizzzely.” I raise my empty glass to her in toast.

“I think maybe you have had enough for tonight,” she says quietly.

“Have you noticed,” I counter, “that all the cleaning products here in Italy have English names? Why English?” (Rupa shrugs her shoulders at this.) “Does it make them sound better?”(She shrugs again.) “Does it make them sound more clean-like if their names are in English, rather than Italian? I don’t know. I really don’t. And why such crazy English names like ‘Sparkle and Shine’ and ‘The Clean Crew’ and ‘Fancy Free’? Or something like that. Can’t quite remember the names right now.”

“How ‘bout I get you a nice glass of water?” Rupa jumps to her feet before I can stop her and is back with the glass of water in nothing flat. Of course that’s because I live in a shoebox. Not very far between the living room and the kitchen. But anywho…

“The Third Law is the worst though,” I go on dramatically as she puts the water down on the coffee table. “The Third Villa Upkeep Law is the absolute worst.” I raise an impressive hand (which again means “hold on just a sec”) as I take a sip of water.

“Because the Third Law is this: CLEAN IN AN EXTRA SPECIAL WAY PAYING EXTRA SPECIAL ATTENTION!”

“What the devil does that mean?” Rupa sits back down with remarkable composure for one who must be so far gone. After all, she has polished off the first martini and started in on her second.

“What that means, my friend. What that involves is… isss… my dear Auntie Alice showing me exactly how to polish this and how to scrub that! Everything mind you, Rupa! How exactly to spit-shine the balustrade, the bed rail, the umbrella stand, the doorknob, the doorjamb, the bust-like thingy in the corner. What do you call it?”

“A statue?” Rupa ventures.

“No, no it’s more of a sculpture. Anyway, she teaches me how to clean everything! The painting by so and so on the wall, the stair climber in the gym, the Italian leather sofas in the salon etc., etc… To clean it in an extra special way with an extra special cleansly solvent just for that purpose.”

“You get what I’m saying?” I pause.

Rupa doesn’t look at me; she is back to dunking olives.

“But not of course the Fabergé egg. She didn’t show me how to clean that. I am not to go anywhere near the Fabergé egg, which is sitting there, all vulnerable, on a shelf in the library.”

“Brandon Logan has a Fabergé egg?” Rupa cuts in, looking quite serious.

“He has.” I wink and tip my empty martini glass in her direction. “Yes, Mr. Logan must be quite the man. Now, where was I? Oh yes…” I snicker. “I was talking about the three laws of Fine Villa Upkeep. So the thing is, just like in the laws of physics, all the laws of cleaning seem to be equally boring and annoying.” I nod my head in agreement with my own statement. “That’s it. That’s right. That’s what I say. All the cleaning laws seem to be equally annoying. But the Third Villa Upkeep law, my friend…” I shake my head violently. “The Third Law in demonstration is clearly anybody’s worst incubo.” (Here I use the Italian word for nightmare because at the moment my brain has gone all fuzzy and I can’t remember the English word. Oh wait, its nightmare, I just said it, or… er… thought it.)

“Yes, it’s anybody’s worst incubo, Rupa. Seriously,” I repeat. “Not because it’s soooo bad to learn how to clean something the correct way, mind you. No. No, my friend. That’s not it at all,” I preach, shaking my head even more violently so that a mass of thick, frizzy hair falls forward into my face.

“O mama, I need a haircut,” I sputter “And something to cover this ass bond. Oops…” I gurgle maniacally, “I mean ash…he he he… I mean ash blond. I mean, I need something to cover this ash blond.”

“Water, sweetie, drink it up!” Rupa’s forehead wrinkles in concern.

“Oh right, oh right. Bottoms up.” I chug my water and then slam my glass down upside down on the coffee table. “Done!” I scream.

“Anywho, anywho, where was I, girlfriend? That’s right the Third Villa Upkeep Law in demonstration—it was a nightmare! It was always preceded by a ritual so heinous, so tortuous, that it could lead a sane person to bloodshed.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Rupa nods wisely. “Your aunt is a severe woman. ‘Bout as friendly as a puff adder.”

“Essaaactly, essactly, a puff adder. She’s a puff adder…” I concur and sit back down with a thud. For a moment I grow silent. Somehow the alcohol has tongue-tied my brain so I sit and watch mesmerized as Rupa finishes her second martini. As soon as she polishes it off, she begins to make another batch. She has laid out all the fixings on my coffee table, and now she is putting all the gin and vermouth and kerosene—or something that smells like that—into a beautiful silver flask and shaking it vigorously. Working quickly, she pulls out a fistful of olives from the jar and brusquely skewers each one with a glitzy cocktail stick, like some sort of expert spear-fisher person. Rupa always makes the best drinks for our little cocktails-and-saris-get-togethers.

“Yes, yes Rupa.” I lurch forward, suddenly remembering exactly what I was talking about. “You see, for some reason, Alice thinks I never pay close enough attention to what she’s saying. Never! In fact, Alice firmly believes with every fiber of her soul that I am a flibbergibbet! Can you imagine that?”

“A what?”

“A flibbertybit,” I say, but my lips seem to refuse to move in the way I need them too.

“You mean a flibbertigibbet.”

“Precizzely.” I wish I had a glass to toast her with but both my martini glass and water glass are now empty. “Alice thinks I am a flibber tibbit. You know—one who can’t concentrate. So that morning, right before she started to explain to me exactly how to clean a particular object, she would snap her fingers right in front of my face!” I say, and throw an arm up in the air and attempt to snap my fingers in demonstration.

“Easy there, Lily,” Rupa says. “I get the idea.”

But I’m not listening to her because I am ranting, “And 
that
 my friend is what almost led to the bloodshed. Alice would snap her squat fingers right in front of my face and then she would say obnoxiously ‘Oh, Lily? You are paying extra special attention?’”