Dante's Arm

By Giorgio Baroni

Dante’s Arm is a poignant and sensual novel, certain to evoke the reader's senses. Set against the varied backdrops of 1970s Italy and Kenya, the story winds its way through palazzos and villas, savannahs and bush country, taking in the colors, sights and smells of unfamiliar and provocative landscapes. Dante’s Arm is history, autobiography, diary, even confession, carrying the reader on a young man's journey through an erotic world of decadence and greed. Livio Maggi finds himself being drawn to a sophisticated older woman. Anxious to gain the acceptance of her elite friends, he struggles to establish himself in their world. His desperation leads him into dangerous territory, as he becomes a pawn in an international diamond smuggling operation - an accomplice to the criminal activities that sustain the wealth and power of a privileged few. Along the way, he explores the voluptuous possibilities of his brave new world, awakening and indulging appetites he never even knew existed – from the simple pleasures of marriage to the exotic, rarified delights of the aristocracy, he is irresistibly compelled to fulfill his hidden desires.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Giorgio Baroni
• Release date: Oct 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310148101

Giorgio Baroni

Giorgio Baroni was born in Northern Italy. For twenty years, Giorgio lived in Europe, Africa and Australia, working in the glamorous world of high fashion industry. He has worked in all the major fashion centers of the world: Milan, Paris, London, New York, Sydney and Los Angeles. While on assignment for Italian Vogue and Australian Vogue, Giorgio experienced firsthand the lifestyle of the international jet set, providing material that inspires his writing.Giorgio has studied with Elena Karina Byrne, former regional director of the Poetry Society of America. Currently, he continues his exploration of creative and screenplay writing at UCLA. He lives and writes in Los Angeles, where he is finishing his second novel, Mosaic Face.

Book preview

Dante’s Arm

A novel

Giorgio Baroni

Copyright 2013 Giorgio Baroni

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Cover Design: Conn Brattain

Cover Painting: Parnell O. Corder

Untitled, watercolor on paper, 2012

Contents

Prologue: Dinner in Nairobi

The Turning Point

Wounded Ego

New Perspective

Fiumicino Airport, Rome, 1973

The Foundation

The New World

The Party on the East Coast

The Diamond Mine

Roma, Città Aperta

The Place of Truth

In Search of Self Worth

A New Peace

The Pink Clothes

Wearing Van Gogh’s Shoes

Adam’s Evil Seed

The Arcane

Colored Balloon Lies

Seeing the Light

Reckoning

Schemes

A New Freedom

The Diamond Cutter

Longings

The Truth

Falling in Love

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Prologue:

Dinner in Nairobi

Italy recedes farther and farther away from me. If I had to look at myself in a mirror, I am certain I would no longer recognize my own features. Through the crowd I recognize one face, Pierre, the black servant. He offers me a drink, which I gladly accept. I am exhausted. I have left my family—my father, my mother, my sister and brothers—in their distant orbits.

Looming here in the dark, a woman in a black dress comes toward me. I can barely make out the shape of her face. "Buona sera, I am Isabella Maceli Dominici."

"Buona sera, Countess. Very nice to meet you."

Call me Isabella, please. We are among friends, yes? Let’s leave the titles out. I am Gianni’s wife and you must be Livio, the man who has captured everyone’s attention. I must say, I am a bit jealous of you. After all, I am the hostess and tonight no one seems to be the slightest bit interested in me.

I apologize, Isabella; I did not mean to steal your limelight.

She laughs, amused. With an arched eyebrow and a flirtatious smile, she takes my arm and glances at me. Thank you, Livio. I see you are contrite.

We follow a meandering path to the garden. Tiki torches illuminate her face with an intimate light. She is beautiful. Her nearness sends a surge of heat right through my body.

We talk about Luciana and our first meeting. Isabella seems open minded, not so conservative as Luciana makes her out to be. She seems to be enjoying my conversation and laughs amiably, though all at once her tone changes. Luciana is a good catch, don’t you agree?

I sense that our friendly chat is sliding toward dangerous ground. My feet begin to slow down. What do you mean by that?

She is a woman of intellect and culture. She is rich. Being linked to her can be advantageous.

I am well aware of my inadequacy of class. Love though, breaks through those boundaries.

More often than not, feelings get confused.

Obviously, I don’t deserve her. I should leave her. That is what everyone here wants; am I wrong?

Isabella’s face darkens. I see.

Withdrawing her arm from mine with her seductive grin, she retreats into the garden. I watch her tracking the winding path. I have been rude to her, but I can’t let go of my resentment.

Everyone is talking down to me. The cocktail is taking effect and my glass is empty. I need another drink in preparation for the next countess who wants to bait me.

Pierre refills my glass as a group of guests parade toward me, led by Lady Marisa Grassi. As the deluge of introductions continues, the interrogation starts up again. I wonder whether I will hold up.

When did you meet Luciana?

I first saw her at a bar.

At a bar? Signora Duina repeats, gesturing with her hands as well as her eyes. Do you mean that you picked Luciana up at a bar?

No, I said I first saw her at a bar.

And now Grazia and Roberto Bella join the conversation, What kind of bar?

Luciana goes to bars to meet men?

No, that’s not true, I protest.

This is fantastic! Wait until I tell my husband. Laughter breaks out.

Countess Crespoli tries to rescue me. Don’t put words in his mouth; let him speak.

So, who went to the bar to pick up whom? More laughter.

Did she pick up other men or were you the first? It’s hard to follow who’s speaking.

We all should go next time.

Yes, yes, let’s all join her when she goes to the bars.

I shift my weight from one leg to the other and raise my voice to overcome their chatter. We actually met…um, spoke at my salon. I am a hairdresser and she became my client.

Another squeal. Oh! You are a hairdresser?

Oh, please don’t look at my hair; it looks terrible! The water here is so bad it makes my hair lie flat.

My hair is so fine I can never do anything with it. Perhaps you can help me?

What kind of style would be good for my hair?

The chatter is numbing, I no longer care who is talking. My drink tastes like airplane fuel, yet my body will not move without it. Faces begin to blur; everything is comical, but I am not insensitive to my feelings. The onslaught continues. As if I am invisible, a woman’s voice from a group standing a few meters away reaches me and everyone else.

Did she bring along her boy gardener?

Darling, that’s her hairdresser, someone replies.

She travels with her hairdresser?

Apparently, he takes care of more things than her hair.

What is she doing with him? Someone queries, and the group erupts into laughter. It’s presumptuous for her to bring him here. He must be fifteen years younger than she, she remarks loudly.

I turn toward Luciana and gaze at her, while she is conversing with Lady Marisa and Countess Isabella near the pool. Having heard everything, she turns. Yes, my dear, Luciana begins delicately. He is very young. Eighteen years younger to be precise. It’s the best sex I ever had. Perhaps, you should get one for yourself.

Everyone quiets down in embarrassment, but Luciana is not finished. You are welcome to try him if you wish. He will certainly put a smile on your face. He has my personal guarantee.

She slowly glances in my direction. Am I their evening’s entertainment? Luciana’s words hang like a blade over my head. She sees my jaw muscles tightening. In a swoon of flowered musk, she comes closer.

The behavior of these people is outrageous. They think they are cultured. I’d rather hustle for shoe repairs in Brescia than be like them.

I’m sorry, Livio.

My mother warned me about the aristocracy: ‘When they are done with you they will discard you like an old toy.’ No, correction: like an old sex slave.

Livio, that’s not true.

She tries to caress my face, but I spurn her. As if the world has just tipped over on its side, everyone’s attention is suddenly directed towards the arrival of our host, Count Gianni Maceli Dominici.

"Buona sera a tutti. Good evening everyone." He greets us in a baritone voice as he walks in my direction.

Luciana is right behind me and we meet the count halfway across the lawn. He embraces Luciana and glances at me.

Dear Luciana, I am so glad to see you looking well. I was very worried about you. I have just spoken to Giulio on the phone and he told me everything. I am so sorry that you two separated. But, perhaps it won’t be for long. What do you think? Still holding his hands around her waist, he continues. You had your fun, but you must consider your position. What you are having, this little fling…cannot last.

Luciana interrupts and frees herself from his grip. Gianni, perhaps you are upset because it isn’t with you that I am having this…little fling.

Luciana...that’s preposterous. You think so little of me.

You are little, Gianni. At least that is your reputation among the women you sleep with.

He stares at her for a minute, his face ashen. He glances at his wife, standing a few meters away, and backs off. I’m mortified. Should I hide behind the bushes? Take a taxi to the airport? Raise a toast to Othello?

Luciana grabs my hand and squeezes it. The count looks away from Luciana and then, as if he rewound the film and I have just arrived, he turns to me.

Welcome to my house, Livio. I hope you will enjoy your stay here.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Signor Conte."

Call me Gianni.

It is beautiful here, Gianni. I gaze past him, to a tangle of greenery. Indeed. He smiles and walks away quietly, his loosened shirttail hanging out in the darkness.

Luciana and I glance at each other. I turn and walk away. Luciana follows. As her stilettos sink into the soft grass, she grasps onto me to regain balance.

Livio, what’s wrong?

This seemingly polite exchange of words is certainly different from what I’m used to. In my neighborhood, in Brescia, people put on a show. They pull their hair, scream and yell, and call each other names. Here in Africa, these Italian aristocrats’ words are more lethal than their smiles.

Don’t be so dramatic, she says, entirely dismissing my feelings.

Luciana, I have been in this relationship for the past ten months and it still feels as if I have to watch every step I take. They have openly ridiculed me. Yet I am a guest and I am going to be seated at their table.

Luciana stares at me and has no reply. She takes hold of my face, kisses my lips, winks, and joins a group of ladies. I could follow her, but I’m hot and tired. I search for Pierre. I see him, alone at the bar, rearranging the glasses. He greets me with a smile and a glass of champagne.

Thank you, Pierre, I’m having a hard time.

No need to explain, sir, I know.

Making small talk with Pierre feels uncomplicated, and finally I am able to have a relaxed chat with someone here.

He looks at me with his witty eyes, You ought to go back to your friends, sir.

Friends? The heat returns to my face. I have broken another of their rules: I have just confided in a servant. It felt as if I were chatting with my old friend Renato. But he isn’t Renato. Perhaps the ladies are right. I am only a hairdresser from the provinces.

Dinner is served in the garden under a huge white and yellow striped marquee. I have never seen tables so sumptuously set. Countess Isabella has impeccable taste. I admire how she mixes the romantic with the modern. Guests amble between the tables, which are covered with the finest white piqué linens hanging to the ground. Large, round silver platters support two porcelain plates decorated with yellow and blue bull’s eyes. Three different-sized silver forks fan out from the left side of each plate and two knives on the right.

As we are searching for our hand-lettered place cards between the small fork and teaspoon and three different-sized glasses, I find Luciana’s name. Her seat is between Count Gianni, our host, and Prince Andrea Grassi. I spot mine opposite hers, between Countess Isabella, our hostess, and Lady Marisa Grassi. I pick up the exquisite crystal champagne glass, which sparkles in the candlelight. I have a feeling that we are not the guests of honor, but the evening’s entertainment.

Speaking to Luciana across the table, I can hardly hear her. Panic starts to set in. What am I going to say to these women? I watch Lady Marisa coming toward our table, weaving between guests. The daisy embroidery on her Lancetti dress makes her look youthful and innocent.

Luciana, am I at your table?

Yes, you are, right next to Livio.

Lady Marisa glances at me smiling. Then she turns toward a man and a woman. Livio, have you met the Countess Bevilaqua di Leis, and Signor Cesare Dallara?

No I have not. How do you do, countess? She pulls a faint smile. I shake hands with Signor Dallara. Your accent sounds like you are from Brescia.

Yes, I am.

So am I. My parents live in Via Veneto.

It is such a lovely location, yet one must be careful. Today the riff-raff is spreading everywhere, the countess retorts.

I don’t feel like lying or telling Signor Dallara that I was raised in the poorest area of the city, so I drop the subject. Luciana, with her eyes, prompts me to keep the conversation going. I stare at the Countess, hoping to find something to talk about. Her face is as stern as a dried-up fish and her dress is as dull. She eyes me in a condescending manner, as though I were her patio furniture. Clearly, we will not be having much to say to one another.

I stand for a moment longer and help Lady Marisa with her chair. Leaning toward me she whispers. That’s Bambola Alfieri chatting up Cesare. His wife is the blonde lady, speaking to Countess Covelo.

Looking in their direction, I note, Signora Dallara is a very beautiful lady.

Yes, she is. I can’t believe that her husband is flirting with that Bambola.

I take it you don’t like Signorina Alfieri?

It’s not that I dislike her, but she is here to catch a husband and I don’t want it to be mine that she catches.

Lady Marisa’s sharing such a personal confidence is unnerving and I didn’t think before asking such a question. I feel all the blood in my body rush to my face. Reaching for the stem of my empty glass, I try to change the subject, but I can scarcely hear my own voice. Do you have any children?

Lady Marisa is humming the tune along with the musicians, while our hostess, Countess Isabella, is busy giving orders from her seat, a cursory smile here and there. As she turns around to speak with the servants, she tosses her black horse’s mane to one side and deliberately shoves her breasts under my nose. Her skin is as white as frosted Venetian glass. From the other side of the table I meet Luciana’s eyes.

We have three children, Lady Marisa replies. Are they here with you?

No, they are not. We left them back in Rome with a tutor. I move aside to let the sommelier fill my glass.

Food arrives in staccato: pasta amatriciana, porchetta alla Romana, wines and more wines. Empty plates are removed and dexterous servants lay new china. More food arrives, more plates removed. My eyelids weigh as much as the marquee tent. I must keep Lady Marisa at my side. She keeps the conversation light, like froth atop the waves.

Do you miss them?

Yes, I do, but at the same time, it’s nice to be alone with my husband. Andrea and I need to have some time by ourselves; we have such busy schedules. He is often in Artena minding his vineyards, while I stay in Rome with the children.

The interval between courses is long enough to allow the guests to have a cigarette and mingle. I can smell the air rising from below. How I would love to bend down under the table to smell the earth beneath Luciana’s feet!

A woman approaches us. Marisa, we haven’t exchanged a word all night. She looks at me with contempt, reaching for Marisa’s hand. I understand and move away, giving them privacy. She is, as we say in Brescia, vistosa, showy, with an overhanging chest that reminds me of a balcony; yet somehow the rest of her body is well proportioned. Her hair is oxidized and ill kempt, hanging down her back. She looks like the statue of the Madonna delle Grazie with her preponderance of jewels. Nothing about her is subtle.

A servant announces that after-dinner drinks will be served at the bar. Now, voices are louder than usual, a consequence of the dinner’s wine. New groups are forming. I can hear from a distance talk about great men: Socrates, Catalina, Aristotle, and Cicero. I would love to join the conversations, but my knowledge of ancient philosophers and politicians is elementary. Signor Dallara is reciting the Canto Decimo, L’Inferno from Dante’s Divine Comedy. I feel myself falling into the net of his voice. I have never heard anyone recite Dante from memory like that. Andrea Grassi sidles up to me with a glass of Vin Santo in his hand. I fear he is going to engage me in topics that I am not familiar with. Heat rises in my entire body. I take a step away from him.

The taste of this wine is unmistakable, there is no comparison. He speaks with true authority.

I’m afraid I am not a connoisseur of wines, but I trust your taste, Principe.

I would prefer to return to Dante, but he continues. On my estate I make good wine, never of this caliber, though. Even after a lifetime of experience, it seems there is always something that goes wrong. He lifts the glass against the light and takes another sip, savoring the wine. And here, Queen Aphrodite pours heavenly nectar into gold cups and fills them gracefully with sudden joy. He recites Greek mythology as if it were his family story.

I pat my forehead with my handkerchief. I must get away from all of this. As I glance around, I notice Luciana waving me over. Forgetting to excuse myself, I walk away from Andrea Grassi. I find it hard to keep up with all this protocol. Luciana slides her arm into mine. Marisa and Isabella have kept you engaged so much, you’ve ignored me all night.

It wasn’t my choice. I had to.

You can relax now. She caresses my face and kisses me on the lips. Pierre is still walking around, refilling glasses with champagne. He offers to refill mine and I nod in approval. As he comes near me, he whispers that the pool water is very warm at night. That was exactly what I needed to hear and I sneak away to change into a pair of swim trunks. As I walk back to the pool, once again everyone’s eyes are on me. I dive in, resurfacing to the sound of chatter breaking the air above my head like a sudden flurry of birds. I swim to the edge of the pool where Pierre is holding my glass of champagne with a big smile on his face.

Excellent dive, sir!

I am suddenly sober. I hope someone might join me in breaking the rules. Won’t you come for a swim, Luciana?

No, thank you, the water is too cold for me.

I know it’s an excuse, but she is maintaining the code of behavior. I climb out of the pool and two male servants with white towels dry my body. I’m alarmed into submission. Suddenly I am back in Brescia and my mother is drying me after a bath.

The Turning Point

The Rosati Café is one of the oldest establishments in Brescia. Can I sit at a table outside? I yell at the waiter. The poor man is deaf. He ignores me, so I repeat my request. He turns with an attitude and shows me to my table. I throw my coat on the back of the chair and search for the sunglasses in the inside pocket. The bar is already filled with regulars having their morning espressos and brioche. A woman is being seated a few tables away from me. No doubt she, too, is a regular. Sliding my sunglasses over my eyes, I look at her as I reach for the chair with my left hand. My waiter stands in front of me, unyielding and blocking my view, pad and pencil ready. I peek around him and watch her placing her handbag and sunglasses on the table, while sliding her camel overcoat off her shoulder, revealing a pinstriped suit. Standing in silhouette against the sun, she tosses her long hair to one side. She must be more than two meters tall in her stilettos. I listen to her speaking to the waiter. Her Italian is impeccable and without a regional accent. She crosses her legs, one almost in front of the other. Turned sideways, they give the illusion of being longer than they really are. She intrigues me and I wonder what kind of life she leads. An espresso, a glass of water and the Corriere Della Sera are brought to her table. She unfolds the newspaper and glances at new patrons as they are seated. I try to make eye contact, but in vain. She begins to scan the front page of the paper, holding it up in front of her face. A hand comes out from time to time to pick up the cup and disappears behind it again. I wonder what color her eyes are. She takes a small sip from the cup, but her attention is on the paper. Now the cup is in midair, inches away from her face for a few seconds, then holding the paper steady with one hand, she lowers it enough for me to see her bringing the coffee cup to her red lips. Taking the final sip, she puts both paper and cup down on the table. Her large, deepset eyes are lined with black lashes; her fleshy red lips draw attention to a seductive smile. She moves as if underwater. A gentle breeze blows her hair over her face, covering it for an instant, and with her index finger she removes the strands from the lipstick. Then, taking a sip of water, she folds the paper. Standing up, she glances at the room again and now, she smiles at me. I smile back.

Back at the salon, my mother, tending the reception on busy days, tells me that my first client has telephoned and will be a few minutes late. I check my appointments to see who it is. Beside her name it says ‘new client’ in red. I lift my eyes and the mesmerizing woman from the Rosati Café is standing in front of me with a smile. Hello, I am Luciana Porri.

She extends her hand. I stare at her, speechless, leaving her hand hanging in midair. Coming out of the thick fog, I shake hers. We walk past Signora Frette, who is having highlights put through her hair by the colorist. Signora Porri stops and has a few words with her. I’m confused. I have known Signora Frette for a number of years; how is it that I have never met Signora Porri? Nervously, I interrupt their conversation and ask Signora Porri to follow me. Still, I find it difficult to speak, until I realize that unlike the others who snub me, she is talking with me instead of at me. She makes me feel at ease with our conversation; she listens.

In the treatment center of the salon, my assistant applies a cucumber masque to Signora Porri’s red hair. All the while, she is telling me that unless she is going to Geneva, London, Paris, New York or Sydney for business, she spends a lot of time in Africa. I suggest she make an appointment prior to each trip and immediately after.

Two days prior to our next appointment, Signora Porri’s assistant telephones with a concern; la Signora has just returned from Kenya, sick. Her doctor has prescribed total rest since she is incapacitated, the assistant asks if I wouldn’t mind dropping by her home to do her hair treatments. Reluctantly, I agree; I don’t like to make house calls. However, this is a special occasion. I scribble the address on a piece of paper.

The problem with living on my own is that I am always late. Though I enjoy the freedom from my parents, even this morning I will have to run out without drinking my coffee. Outside, the garage pavement is still wet from last night’s rain. I turn left and the surrounding fields are bright yellow with flowers. Their sweet fragrance fills the air. On Viale Europa, I drive past a row of twelve new buildings, onto Via Turati and La Pusterla that run alongside Maddalena Mountain. Both sides of the road are crammed with luxury villas, in the shade of ancient pine trees rising high from beautiful gardens.

They are evidence of the long-lasting wealth that these families have been enjoying. I drive by the shrine of the dog on the corner of Via Dei Ronchi. The road goes up Maddalena Mountain to the Osteria i Ronchi, famous for its pollo alla diavola, devil’s chicken, and its homemade wine. When I was a little boy, my family, along with my grandparents, used to go there on summer weekends for lunch. Everyone sat around a long wooden table under a tree. Food and wine were placed in the middle and everyone ate as much as they liked. Those were happy weekends; even my father smiled. I remember these times with nostalgia, and as I turn left on Viale Venezia, I feel uncomfortably excited. This is the most elegant neighborhood in the city.

As I ring the bell, in my mind I go through the list of the equipment that I need for Signora Porri. A large, stocky woman, wearing light-blue cotton twinset sweaters walks out the small gatehouse, leaving the door open behind her. A whiff of onion soup reaches me. She greets me with a tooth-y smile as she holds a string of pearls cupped in her left hand, as if at any moment the string might break and the pearls will scatter all over the ground.

Good morning, I am Signora Porri’s hairdresser.

She smiles and goes back inside to announce me on the intercom. With another smile she opens the smaller gate and directs me to the house. Princess DeVici is expecting you.

I look at her perplexed, then down to my note and up at the street number on the gate’s post. I am at the right address, but I’m looking for signora Porri, not Princess DeVici.

Follow the pebble driveway to the top. The house is behind those trees.

Carried by the earthy smell of her perspiration, I walk up a driveway lined with cypresses to an unexpectedly modern house. An attractive young maid in a black dress and a white apron stands on the steps waiting for me. She greets me and holds her left arm out in the direction I should go. Inside a large rotunda, she tells me to wait. The hall is completely bare, with white marble floors disappearing into ghostly white walls. It is architecturally challenging, a marriage between Palladio and DePadova styles. Even if it feels strange, it’s remarkably beautiful. I don’t remember through which door the young housemaid disappeared. It feels like the antechamber of Paradise. I hear muted voices and expect to see the maid come back, but nothing happens for what seems a long while. Then, like a strange enchantment, Signora Porri appears.

Livio, I hope I haven’t caused you too much trouble.

No, not at all, Signora Porri,

Call me Luciana, please. She offers me her hand in the customary greeting.

Certainly, Signora. I am sorry…Luciana. I mumble, uncertain of what I am apologizing for, except that it seems the formal thing to do.

Thank you for coming. My hair desperately needs your attention before it all falls out.

I follow her through a door into a corridor to the bedrooms. The dressing room is a fairly large suite. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors form the wardrobe doors reflect a pistachio-colored sofa, a lovely nuance of color in the room. The only other piece of furniture is a clear, oval-shaped coffee table. There is a sensation of endless space. Luciana sits on a chair, which looks to be more valuable than all of the furniture in my apartment. While I apply the treatment to her fiery colored hair, we begin with small talk, but then she describes her wonderful recent trip to Kenya.

Unfortunately, on our way back to Italy, I caught this terrible bug. You know, the stale airplane air.

It’s an unfortunate ending to such a vacation.

You should come with us to Africa sometime, Livio. You would like it. I am prepared for none of this, but out loud, I reply to Luciana politely.

I would love to go, but how can I leave my clients? They would all follow me; then what kind of a holiday would that be?

Yes, what a horrible thought!

I feel a bit confused and comical at the same time. My face has turned red and, at any moment I am expecting blood to spill out of my ears. Her skin, by contrast is as luminous as the alabaster vase that stands beside the bathtub. She is ravishing. We move through glass doors to the lounge chair in the courtyard outside the bedroom. Luciana abandons herself to my touch. I massage her neck, her shoulders and her head very slowly, gently. She is drifting off; I am still a stranger.

You have magic hands.

I nod to myself and remain silent, gazing at rows of Cipressa, dwarf cypress, trimmed severely to match the geometric style of the house. To my right, a colonnaded portico connects the two wings of the house. Placed in the center is a large rectangular ottoman with dozens of cushions in every color. Sheer ivory linen curtains billow in the spring breeze. Occasional lounge chairs punctuate a cobalt-blue lap pool. The manicured deep green lawn slopes down to meet a magnificent ancient oak tree with minimalist precision.

Where am I?

Handing me a one-hundred-thousand lire bill, Luciana confirms our next appointment. I apologize for not being able to give her change.

On Friday, Luciana walks directly to the treatment center, where the colorist is waiting. But this time, she stops near me and touches my elbow lightly, as I’m finishing Signorina DeAngelis’ hair. She compliments me on a beautiful haircut. Her proximity sends me spinning again. I have been self-conscious since attending to her hair in the privacy of her home, but today she tells me how amusing I was and that she enjoyed our conversation immensely. Before leaving, she invites me to have dinner tomorrow night at her house. My mother, always wary of the ladies’ gossiping, turns the music a little louder and encourages us to be discreet.

Bring a friend if you like, Luciana says and walks out.

At the bar Chalet the next evening, Aretha Franklin’s latest song, Until You Come Back To Me, is blasting through the speakers. The song excites the crowd so much that it’s impossible to have a conversation or even think. I debate whether to stay and wait for Renato or leave. Here is where we always meet before going off to the nightclubs. None of my friends can ever agree on a destination and to complicate matters tonight, their girlfriends are here, too. I see Renato getting out of his double-parked car. Rushing through the tables he bumps into a guy, spilling the fellow’s drink. He apologizes and moves on. The guy, upset, shouts a few heated words at him. Renato ignores this and comes directly to my table.

Yeah, I know I’m late. You know that I like to make an entrance, even when deciding something mundane, like which club to go to. I always like to have the last word. It’s psychological.

No shit!

Tonight, there’s a group of girls coming from Milan to the Sesto Senso nightclub. Let’s just leave everyone here and go.

He spins on his feet and sings along with Mick Jagger’s song Angie. While everyone else continues to argue, Renato and I speed off in his navy blue Fiat 500.

Renato works for the most elegant florist in town. Back in our school days, we would always support one another, as we still do now. I helped him with the lessons he was too lazy to study and he helped me overcome my shyness. He is always able to charm the most beautiful girl in the room, and I rely on him to introduce me to the second best. Renato’s sense of humor is unchallengeable and I envy his confidence. He is my only friend who has enough intellect, style and presence to take to Signora Porri’s dinner.

We arrive in our new suits and ties at the gatehouse and it occurs to me that Signora Porri has asked me to bring a friend simply to make me feel comfortable. Renato rings the bell and the same woman appears in the same cotton twinset sweaters, her hand still cupping the pearls and the same smile upon her lips. But this time, she can’t take her eyes off Renato and tells us that Princess DeVici is expecting us. Renato glances at me quizzically. I shrug my shoulders. She opens the small gate and directs us to the main house. We follow the pebbled path, carried along by that same earthy smell of her perspiration. Luciana is on the doorstep, welcoming us.

The light is diffused inside the giant rotunda; the double doors are open and at the end of the corridor, more rooms. As I introduce Renato to our hostess, he asks Signora Porri if she’s just moved in.

If you are alluding to the sparse furnishings, I am a devout minimalist. I am very fond of modernism. I adore the clean design of DePadova. But Livio, she places her hand on my shoulder, Is a true authority on the subject.

I wonder where she got that idea! Luciana glides swiftly through the room like a red chiffon cloud.

The young maid, holding a silver tray with glasses of champagne, enters the room and offers us one as if it were the blood of Christ. Renato glances at me, picks up a gold Cartier lighter from the side table and lights a cigarette.

As the maid walks away, I use the opportunity to whisper: You should ask before lighting a cigarette.

He slides the lighter in his pocket. I kick his leg to get his attention again and tell him to return the lighter to the table. He points his finger at me as if it were a gun. I know too well what that means.

The conversation carries on smoothly