The Scent Of Rosa's Oil (11 page)

Rosa listened to each one of those frightening stories with her mouth open, as if under a spell. As Antonia finished up the details of the last death, the thought hit Rosa that there were many dead people around, not just Angela and the person in the coffin she had seen. Later, in her temporary bedroom next to Antonia’s room, she had fantasies about Angela walking around heaven with Antonia’s siblings and wondered if they were getting along or even liked each other. “Angela, be nice to Antonia’s siblings,” she whispered as she fell asleep, “especially to Miranda, who isn’t even supposed to be dead, if you know what I mean.”

At the Luna, the farewell party wound down as the light of dawn peeked over the eastern promontories. Cesare Cortimiglia left the brothel in a stupor, his body numb, his ears ringing, and his head so heavy it felt as if it were filled with stones. He walked out of the
caruggi
slowly, without looking back.

His wedding was as traditional as his good-byes had been outrageous. The ceremony, celebrated in the Cathedral of San Lorenzo by the archbishop, was attended by the members of the Genoese upper class dressed for the occasion: men in their tails, women in lavish dresses of silk and taffeta and hats embellished with fresh flowers. A formal dinner at the Grand Hotel Isotta followed the exchange of vows. A famous French chef cooked the ten-course meal and had it served on silver plates garnished with rose petals. As the bride and the groom left the dinner scene headed for Biarritz, the celebration continued with a rare private performance by members of the orchestra of the Carlo Felice Theater.

Upon their return to Genoa two weeks later, Cesare and Maria Elena Cortimiglia established themselves in a sumptuous top-floor apartment on Via Assarotti overlooking downtown. They soon became an important couple in the Genoese society, partly because of the two families’ social stature, partly because of Cesare Cortimiglia’s ability to maneuver himself into the right places at the right time. Shortly, he became an active politician representing the Liberals—a conservative party. In 1906, one month after his fortieth birthday, he was elected mayor. His twenty-one years in the brothels were public knowledge all over town, so that many wondered how the city had gotten stuck with a man of such predilections as its first citizen:

“Let’s just hope he’s done with those kinds of women.”

“I hear he hasn’t been near a brothel since his wedding day.”

“You don’t really think that men can give up that habit, do you?”

“Time will tell. Let’s wait and see.”

Not only did Cesare stay away from the brothels, but, as mayor, he did only good things for Genoa and its people, driven by a vision for the city that struck a chord in many hearts. He saw Genoa, at the time already in a position of prominence among European cities, as the cultural capital of Europe. From the very beginning of his tenure and even before, during his election campaign, he worked in front of and behind the scenes to improve the infrastructures of the port—the pulsing heart of the city and what, in his opinion, gave Genoa its multicultural connotation and international stature. He brought together entrepreneurs, political leaders, and shipowners on projects to upgrade the transportation system and make access to the warehouses faster and more efficient. His second pet project was the arts. As soon as he took office, he set aside funds from the city budget to increase the number of yearly performances at the Carlo Felice Theater, reopen old theaters, and host famous musical and theatrical performances based in London and Paris. Eventually, the Genoese saw no reason to continue to discuss Cesare Cortimiglia’s old life in the brothels, and the long list of his legendary paid lovers was scratched gradually from the daily gossip.

He received the invitation to Rosa’s party four days before her birthday, around noon, while the city council was in session. As a city employee handed him the off-white envelope, the mayor had a hunch that the missive could be important and related to his old, libertine life rather than to his political one. One quick look at the back of the envelope was all he needed to know that his premonition had been correct. The color of the wax, a pale yellow, told him indeed that the envelope had come from the chambers of Madam C. Unhurriedly, he slipped the envelope into his pocket and forced himself to pay attention to the council’s proceedings. Boring talk: street closures, traffic diversions, floral arrangements inside and outside City Hall, all in preparation for Theodore Roosevelt’s visit to the town. He pursed his lips to hide a yawn, then smiled at the councilmen who debated the issues. It was past one o’clock when the council adjourned and he was able to lock himself in his office and break the seal. The contents of the letter made him frown. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Rosa is already sixteen?”

The party at the Luna that night was informal. The food trays and the bottles of wine and liquor were lined up on the counter, next to plates and silverware the guests could freely use. No one was shy. Soon, the tongues loosened under the influence of the alcohol, and everyone was talking, laughing, and having a good time. The only guest who wasn’t having a good time was the mayor. After his gallant kiss on Rosa’s hand, he had been overcome by despair. “My dear Rosa,” he had mumbled. “It’s so wonderful to see you.”

“Thank you,” Rosa had replied. “Nice to see you, too. I heard a lot about you.”

“Did you really?” the mayor had said rhetorically, trying to disguise his emotions.

Now, a half hour later, he felt as if he had been hit by a tram in motion. The scent he had inhaled off Rosa’s skin was still in his nostrils, and none of the smells that lingered in the parlor—food, liquor, women’s perfumes, cigarette smoke—could overtake it or diminish its power. He lit his pipe and breathed in deeply the tobacco smoke, drank glass after glass of full-bodied red wine, talked to the girls, the other guests, and Madam C, but the only thing he could think of was Rosa. From his position in the middle of the crowded parlor, he followed her moves, entranced by her shiny red hair, her fair, flawless skin, and her aquamarine eyes. He watched her as she blew the candles out on her birthday cake, cut the cake into slices, and laid the slices on the plates. All along, he felt his knees melt to the ground. She approached him a few minutes later. “Are you having a good time?” she asked.

He stared at her with the eyes of a puppy looking for love. “I remember you asleep in that big bed behind the kitchen,” he said, completely at a loss as to how to conduct conversation with her. “You must have been three years old. Maybe four.”

Rosa looked carefully about the room. When she was certain Madam C was nowhere close, she said, “It’s still my bed. Would you like to see it?”

The bedroom smelled heavily of her perfect oil when Rosa opened the door and came in with the confused mayor. “See?” she said. “Here is my bed, like when I was four.”

He smiled, standing by the bedroom door, realizing that for the first time in his entire life he had no clue as to what he should be doing. “Come in,” Rosa said, closing the door behind him.

“Rosa…” he babbled. “I don’t think…I should be here.”

“I want to play the game with you,” Rosa said. “Will you play with me?”

“Rosa, dear, what are you talking about? What game?”

“The game, you silly mayor. Like the girls play upstairs.”

“Rosa,” he mumbled, beginning to sweat and feel dizzy.

Without hesitation but with slow, deliberate moves, staring at Cesare’s foggy eyes, Rosa unbuttoned her dress and let it fall to the floor. He held his breath as Rosa removed her petticoat, corset, and underwear. She stood naked in front of him, not even slightly embarrassed or intimidated, continuing to look into his eyes, watchful for his next move. That was the part of the game she was unclear about. She knew she had to be naked, but she didn’t know what men were supposed to do with their bodies. As the mayor’s breathing became faster, she wondered if she should ask him to show her the money right away or postpone all financial matters until the game was over. She observed him as he placed a hand on his belly and wrestled with something that stuck forward under his gray pants.

“I can’t take this anymore,” Cesare Cortimiglia sighed. That was when he began to undress, frantically, with no sense of where his clothes were falling, forgetting all about the undressing routine he had followed methodically for twenty-six years.

Rosa’s eyes followed his movements like a hawk’s, feeling in her belly the same heat she had felt a few days earlier lying on Margherita’s bed. The moment he tossed away his underwear, she stepped back and let out a short scream; the heat in her belly slowly disappeared. She had never seen a naked man before.

“I want you, Rosa,” Cesare Cortimiglia moaned, almost in tears. He walked up to her and caressed her neck, breasts, and buttocks before pulling her into a long, furious embrace.

Mute with stupefaction, Rosa stood still the whole time, feeling his skin rub against hers and the strange thing he had in the front press against her belly and move up and down like a worm gone mad. She hardly realized that he had lifted her. They dropped on the bed, still entangled in the embrace.

“Touch me,” begged the mayor, out of his mind.

Rosa thought that was fair. If he was allowed to touch her as part of the game, then she should touch him in order to have a chance to win. As he lay on his back, she placed a hand on his stomach and the other hand on his cheek. Slowly, he pushed her hand down from his stomach to his hard penis, and she instinctively grabbed it and looked at it with curiosity and only a trace of well-disguised fear. It was the strangest body part she had ever seen. In a rapture, Cesare closed his eyes and moved Rosa’s hand rhythmically up and down. Suddenly he let out a howl and his belly twisted and his legs extended as Rosa felt his organ became suddenly harder and bigger and saw a white fountain come out of its tip and spray him and her and the clean batiste sheets.
What a weird game,
Rosa thought, as the mayor continued to howl.

He didn’t open his eyes for over a minute. When he did, he stared at Rosa, still naked on the bed with him, still holding his now shrunk, wrinkled penis. “I love you,” he said with humid eyes, then smiled at her and fell gradually and happily asleep. He had never fallen asleep after an orgasm, as he had never tossed his clothes carelessly on the floor. Months later, searching for the rationale for his odd behavior, he’d conclude that a combination of factors had come into play that night: the emotion of returning to the brothel, the strength of the orgasm, the red wine, his older age, and the scent of Rosa’s oil.

Bewildered, Rosa watched him breathe regularly in his sleep. She slipped on her petticoat and dress and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind her. She had been gone less than ten minutes. In the parlor, Margherita was standing on a chair, holding her book of poetry and calling for everyone’s attention. She saw Rosa in a corner and said, “This is for you, Princess Rosa,” then she cleared her throat. Rosa walked up to her and clapped her hands, causing the guests to turn their attention to Margherita. “It’s a love poem,” Margherita said, “called ‘
A Silvia
.’”

Margherita stopped reading as the guests remained silent a while longer. “I think it’s enough,” she said, closing the book. Everyone applauded. Rosa helped her down from the chair and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “That was wonderful. I don’t know why, but when you read aloud, the poems sound so much more beautiful than on paper.”

“You’re welcome, Princess Rosa,” Margherita said with a big smile. “Happy Birthday.”

“Where’s Cesare?” Madam C asked, looking around.