Research: Journals
The Journal
Past Issues
25.2
Kathleen L. Cappy
Incident at Piazza BarberiniNewlyweds Helen and Joe are making love three stories above Via Turati. The walls of the Morgana are thin, and Joe hears the couple in 310 doing the same. His neighbors have turned up the volume on their radio. He’s wildly inspired by their Verdi and the woman’s little moans. In his imagination, his neighbors are Italian. He pictures the woman as a young Sophia Loren and her lover as a middle-aged Al Pacino. The woman, he imagines, is the man’s matinee mistress, and her toenails are lacquered bright red. He hears the man in 310 climax in sync with the soprano, and he wants this moment to be eternity, but, of course, he succumbs too easily and too quickly.
“Wow, I love you, baby. That was peak, oceanic,” Joe sighs. “Wonder if it’s something in the Mediterranean air?”
“More like something on the other side of the wall,” Helen says.
He feels transparent, guilty, tries to feign nonchalance. “They were good, I agree.”
“Not that good,” she says. “Plus it doesn’t make a difference for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can climax anywhere, anytime if I want to.”
“You don’t need me?”
“You’re divine, but I can do it all by myself, no God needed.” She turns from him and sits on the side of the bed.
“What do you mean?”
“Honey buns, sex happens between the ears.”
“Not mine,” he says.
“Sure it does. You’re in denial.” She wraps herself in a towel, walks over to the window and opens the gold brocade drapes.
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“This is July. I need fresh air.”
“Stop being evasive,” he says. “Ear sex, remember?”
Helen returns to the bed, sits next to him. He feels like a small boy whose mother is reading him a bedtime story. In the late afternoon light, he thinks she looks like The Venus of Urbino.
She raises one eyebrow. “I can will it. The first time I did it I was fifteen, sitting in an English class. It was after lunch and I was stoned and super-infatuated with my teacher, Mr. Chancy. And I did it.”
“You did what?”
“I put my head down on my desk and closed my eyes. Then I pulled my sweater over my head because the room was air-conditioned. It was May, hot outside, and I was sweaty and chilled—”
“You didn’t need privacy?”
“I didn’t know I was going to do it, but as soon as I warmed up and opened my eyes, I felt like I was in the room by myself. It was weird because I knew there were other people, and I could smell the musk of the boy behind me and could hear Mr. Chancy reading Portia’s quality of mercy speech, but I felt invisible, like pure skin and aroma.”
“You were hallucinating.”
“I was intoxicated by the smell of my underarm, and it happened, I came, and I made a noise loud enough that the boy behind me jabbed me, said, ‘Hey, what’s going on in there?’ And I answered, ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’”
“You were smoking good stuff back then,” Joe says.
“I can do it dopeless. I’ve done it a thousand times, in the supermarket, on elevators, at work. I don’t even need the sweater these days. I just close my eyes and will it, and it happens.”
“A thousand times. Make it a thousand and one. Do it now. I want to watch.”
“No, silly. It’s three o’clock. Siesta is over, and I’m not in the mood. We have a date, the Trevi, remember.”
She sings to him in the shower, “Three Coins in a Fountain.” Her voice is mocking something, and he is not sure what.
~~~
He knows she is right about sex, and it bothers him. There are things he doesn’t want to reveal to her. Cold hands, warm heart. His palms are usually hot and sweaty. He believes he might have a cold heart. Of course, Helen’s hands are usually cool. Then there’s his toe theory. At an impressionable age, he heard that if a person’s second toe extends beyond the big toe, that means the person is a supreme sexual being. Joe’s second toes are stubby and much shorter than his big toes, and it worries him. Helen’s second toes, on the other hand, extend gracefully beyond her big ones by a full quarter-inch. This was the first thing he noticed about Helen. He was behind her in line for “The Talented Mr. Ripley.” She was wearing rubber flip-flops; he doesn’t remember anything else. Smitten, he found a seat behind her and her friends. During previews she got up for a snack, and he followed. It cost him $24.50—three large popcorns, one box of jujubes, and four large soft drinks—to persuade her and her friends to meet him at O’Malley’s after the movie. Of course, he loves her because she is pretty and sweet, because she is good in bed, because she makes him laugh. He thinks he would love her without her long second toes, but he can’t be sure, and as much as he wants to tell her his secrets, he just can’t now; it’s too embarrassing.
~~~
By four o’clock, Helen and Joe are strolling down Via Milano. Joe is busy checking out the feet of the Roman statues. He wonders if Helen is doing it without him.
“If you decide to do it, let me know, please.”
“Yeah, sure,” she says, “even if we’re in the Temple of the Vestal Virgins, I’ll tell you.”
As they walk, he notices Roman statues all have long second toes. It figures, Romans and orgies. He tries to imagine the crowd on the street naked and coupling, and he begins to edit the crowd, deleting the very, very young and the ancient. Then he sees an Italian woman in sandals, and his orgiastic thoughts evaporate. Her sandals are black patents with little heels and a daisy between her toes. He likes the way the leather thong intersects the space between her big toe and her long second one, likes her ankle bracelet, wants to veer off his course and follow her as she vanishes into the crowd. Shortly after, he spots a shoe store and steers Helen, who is wearing sensible, tan, leather Walkmasters and cotton socks, toward the window.
“You want to look at women’s shoes?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Italians are famous for shoes.”
“Let’s not waste time on shoes. This might interfere with me doing it.”
“I want to buy you a pair of Italian sandals in Rome. I see the pair for you, right there.” He is pointing at a pair of red snakeskin thong-type sandals with hourglass heels. The price is in liras, and while he is puzzling his way through the conversion, she arrives at the answer: eighty-five dollars.
“They’re gorgeous, expensive and impractical.” Helen grabs his hand and tries to pull him away from the window. “We’re not Mr. and Mrs. Moneybags.”
“But no way eighty-five dollars is going to make us or break us.” He tugs her back in front of the window. “This is our honeymoon. Try them on, please, for me.”
“All right, fine. I’ll let you twist my arm.”
He enjoys their moments in the shoe store, delights in watching Helen unlacing her Walkmasters, peeling back her cotton socks. Something about the lint on her sweaty feet, even their aroma, makes him think he might be able to will an orgasm, too. He sighs heavily as she slides the thong between her toes, and wonders if the Italian salesmen are as excited as he is. He decides they all wear the mask of European sang-froid. He turns away, tries to affect the European mask and misses Helen posturing in front of the full-length mirror, misses seeing the salesman blow her a kiss. At the sound of her voice, he snaps out of his trance, disoriented. She is speaking Italian and the men understand her. He feels stupid for skipping Berlitz classes. The salesmen are gesturing wildly, and Helen is smiling and pirouetting, and the bella lingua is flying all around, but Joe picks up only a few words: caldo, rossa, bella donna. He senses that the Italian men are about to close the sale and feels triumphant but left out.
“Joe, I love them,” Helen says. “Let’s get them.”
He is ecstatic, fumbles for his Visa card, relieved that he doesn’t have to deal in liras or conversions. He’s vulnerable and knows it. After he finishes paying for the sandals, he sees Helen placing them back in their box, then lacing up her Walkmasters.
“Aren’t you going to wear them?”
“They’re not designed for walking. They’re putana shoes.”
“Poo-what? What are you talking about?
She leans close to his ear. “They’re whore shoes.”
“What’s wrong with that?” he asks. “Wear them now, please.”
“What’s up with you and these shoes? I can wear them to dinner.”
They arrive at the Trevi, which is surrounded by a large crowd of Japanese tourists. While they wait for the tour guide to finish his schtick, they find shade and comfort by leaning against the wall of Santi Vincenzo e Anastasi.
Joe whispers, “Do it.” The Japanese laugh at their guide’s joke.
“There are twenty-two popes’ hearts entombed in this very wall,” Helen says.
“Are you crazy? That would be sacrilege.”
Joe jumps away from the wall. He watches her rub her shoulders into the wall. He feels like the cat’s toy. The Japanese tourists queue up behind their guide, who carries a yellow umbrella and waves it as if he were the Pied Piper of Hamelin leading the children out of the city. As they move away, Joe walks toward the fountain and secures a place. Helen blows him a kiss, then leaves her spot on the church wall to join him. They toss their coins. She doesn’t sing the song this time, thank God. An elderly couple asks Joe to snap their picture. The old man offers him their camera. He agrees and takes three shots of the couple. In turn, they offer to snap Joe and Helen’s picture.
“Hold on,” he says. “Can you wait just a minute so my wife can put on her Italian shoes?
“No problem,” the old man answers.
Joe wonders if the old man likes the old lady’s feet. He tries to imagine Helen’s feet with corns and bunions, wonders how he’ll feel then.
“I’m not changing,” Helen says. “It’s wet. I might ruin them.”
The old man snaps Helen and Joe, returns their camera, and Helen says, “I just did it.”
“You promised to tell me first,” Joe says.
“I didn’t want to offend the elderly couple. Wait until you see the photo, maybe you’ll be able to tell,” she teases.
“They destroy obscene photos at the developers,” he says. “No chance. I want the real thing, baby, nothing but the real thing.”
~~~
Joe loves the way Helen looks that evening. She wears her peekaboo sundress
and the red sandals. They find the small restaurant the hotel clerk recommended an easy walk away. At La Diligenza Rossa, their waiter speaks excellent English.
“I’m not from Roma,” he says. “I’m Neapolitan, a filmmaker. Have you seen ‘The Talented Mr. Ripley?’”
“Oh, my God, yes,” Helen says. “We met at that movie.”
Joe thinks the waiter is unctuous, pompous, doesn’t like his smarmy chitchat.
“I was an extra,” the waiter says. “Maybe you remember seeing me?”
“Yes, I do,” Helen laughs.
“You’re joking,” the waiter says.
“No, I never forget a face. You were the guy at the bar in the club scene.”
“Wow, that’s amazing. You’re the first ever to recognize me. That deserves a bottle of vino on me.”
Joe doesn’t remember seeing the waiter in the movie, but then Joe wasn’t watching the movie. He was engaged in toe fantasies then, as he is now.
They both enjoy the wine, and by the time they finish their espresso and Sambucca, Joe is really anxious to leave, wants Helen all to himself. On the walk back to the Morgana, an intoxicated Helen sings her own version of Little Anthony’s “Hurt So Bad.”
“Oh, I think I’m falling off the curb over you-oo-oo, yes I do-oo-oo.” She shoves the tipsy Joe off the sidewalk.
“See, Helen, I knew you and the sandals were destined—nothing like vino, song and shoes.” It’s as if he had designed this goofy moment himself.
Much to Joe’s disappointment, Helen messes up his next scene. She crashes, leaving him with a remote, Italian television, and the couple next door, who are at it again. He pictures their headboard a mirror image of the yellow vinyl one in his room, thinks he feels the weight of the woman’s shoulders pressing through the wall. When he mutes the TV, he can hear her breathe, or maybe it’s the man; he can’t be sure. He wants to see these neighbors. Sometime after one o’clock, he turns off the television. He’s been watching “Blazing Saddles” dubbed in Italian, and even though he remembers the film, he can’t really make out much of what’s going on or what they’re saying. Feeling out-of-joint, he goes over to the sleeping Helen, kisses her long toes, first one, then the other. He turns out the lights and falls asleep hoping to catch a glimpse of his neighbors, hoping to catch Helen doing it, hoping to do it with Helen soon, real soon, and he falls asleep manufacturing the scene in which he is Helen’s supreme sexual being.
~~~
The next morning, as Helen emerges from the shower, Joe thinks she looks like Venus rising out of the sea. As she towels the spaces between her toes, she announces that she is going to wear her new sandals. Much to her surprise, they turned out to be comfortable. “Roman women wore sandals just like these for centuries,” she says, and pops Joe with the tip of her towel.
“Their toes free in the fresh air,” he says.
“You don’t have to shout. You’ll wake the neighbors.”
He is fixated on her feet as she slips into her capris and silk top and has forgotten all about his longing to see the hotel neighbor’s red toenails. Hand in hand, they stroll out of the Morgana into a beautiful Roman morning. On their way to the Forum, not once does Joe let his eyes stray to the statues and their marble toes. This day he is faithful.
At the Arch of Septimius Severus. he snaps Helen’s picture with a young boy who is dressed as a gladiator, complete with plastic sword. As they walk down the hill toward the Temple of the Vestals, Joe says, “No excuses. I want to see you do it in the Temple of the Vestal Virgins. We’ll stay there as long as needed, do whatever it takes to get you in the mood.”
“I’m not your Roman sex slave. This cobbled path doesn’t make for easy walking, and my feet are starting to hurt. I don’t do it when I’m in pain, and I’ll probably be a genuine tenderfoot by the time we get there.”
“Let me carry you,” he says.
“No, yo-yo,” she says.
It’s eleven o’clock, hot, crowded and sweltering when they arrive at the Temple of the Vestals. The temple is not a temple, just three columns. A nun, who, to Joe, looks like the BBC’s Sister Wendy, narrates the legend of the vestals to a group of African clerics. It’s the usual claptrap about the sacred flame and the live entombment of naughty vestals. Joe is bored and tries to ease Helen away from the crowd. He sees the perfect spot for her to do it over by Casa delle Vestali. He swears he won’t bury her alive and nudges her toward the Casa, which consists of a large pile of brick rubble. She resists, but he manages to move her about three feet closer to the goal.
Just as he begins to ease her out of the crowd, he hears an African priest ask, “Sister, do you know the origin of the legend that involves the vestals placing rose petals on their tongues and the petals turning into foreskins of the Gods?” Helen fake-chokes and chortles, and Joe misses the answer.
“Hold on,” he says, “I want to hear this,” and he pulls her back to hear the nun tell the African cleric that he is confusing Vestalis with Norse goddesses. As the Africans leave, a group of teenage students and their tour guide approach. A teenage girl in platform shoes stumbles and steps on Helen’s toes. Joe helps her hobble over to the Vestali rubble. He feels too guilty to ask her to do it, realizes his desire has been thwarted once again, and accepts her suggestion that they find a restaurant with air-conditioning and toilets.
They set out to the Coliseum. Rome is not Epcot, and they don’t find a convenient air-conditioned place to grab a Colossalburger. What’s worse, they learn they must return to the top of Palatine Hill in order to purchase tickets to enter the Coliseum, and there’s no way Helen is going to retrace her steps. Joe, having been derailed the evening before and at the Casa delle Vestali, is trying to get his production back on schedule, is aiming for a replay of yesterday’s siesta scene. He suggests that they grab a bite at the Hostaria Angelo, a restaurant a few doors away from the Morgana. Helen accepts his suggestion, but counters with one of her own.
“I want to visit San Pietro in Vincoli.”
“What’s that?”
“A church.”
“Not another church,” he says.
“This one has Saint Peter’s chains.”
“Since when have you been into chains or Saint Peter?”
“I want to see how they package those two-thousand-year-old chains, in gold, malachite, lapis, in the wood of the true cross.”
“Get real,” he says.
“Really, Michelangelo’s statue of Moses is there, and that’s what I want to see. Let’s hurry before they close for siesta.”
Joe impersonates Elvis with “It’s now or never, Saint Pete won’t wait.” Helen groans.
The church is very dark and cool. The illuminated chains are behind the altar in a glass case that is within a larger glass case. Saint Peter’s chains are totally upstaged by Michelangelo’s much-larger-than-life Moses seated on the right side of the altar. Joe is surprised that Moses is not guarded or encased like the Pieta at Saint Peter’s Cathedral. There are only a handful of tourists in the church and a few women praying in front of the candles. It is quiet, eerie and subdued. He watches Helen as she approaches Moses. He sees her reach out to Moses’ exposed marble knee and caress it tenderly.
“My God,” she says, “I’m touching a Michelangelo.”
Joe wants to touch Moses, too, wants to feel his monumental feet. Moses is wearing sandals, has the long second toe. It figures, he thinks, God promised Moses that his descendants would outnumber the stars, and, of course, he would bless him with the long toe. Joe wants to fill his hand with that toe for good luck, wants to bend down and nibble Helen’s toe, wants to give into his urges right there in the church. Strangely, he senses his second toes creeping out in front of his big toes, and he is about to grab Helen when he is once again snapped out of his reverie by her voice, once again embarrassed by his own fantasy.
“What’s that on Moses’ head, horns or hair? I thought horns were for satyrs,” she says.
“I don’t know. Maybe the guidebook will tell us. Let’s go out where there’s light.”
They move out of the church. Joe leans against the column just outside the door, refocuses his eyes and searches for the answer to Helen’s question.
“Wow, I didn’t feel my feet when I was in the church.” She lifts up one leg, wraps her foot around her calf and moves it up and down her leg. “Must have been the power of Moses. They’re really sore. I knew I was crazy to wear these ten minutes after we left the hotel this morning.”
“And that clumsy little Lolita in her platforms didn’t help,” Joe says. “Let’s sit down and rest. Take them off.”
She does. He watches her wiggle her toes and loves it. He can’t wait to get back to the hotel. He is trying to be patient, still searching the guidebook when a man carrying a satchel approaches the seated Helen. Joe is reading, The horns sprouting out of his head derive from a mistranslation of the Hebrew word for “rays of light,” which are the way ancient texts describe his head. He is thinking how cool Moses would look with fiber optic filaments, with a neon halo, electric blue, and just as he directs his attention back to Helen, she’s in mid-pantomime/conversation with the man, who by this time has taken an array of massage oils out of his bag. The man is pointing to her feet, speaking Italian and then kneading an imaginary something and smiling. Helen nods her head, and the man is saying very slowly, “Va bene, va bene, tredicimilia lira. Mi dica?”
“Si, per favore,” Helen says.
Joe is miffed that she is negotiating in Italian and shocked to see the man pouring oil on her feet. He is speechless as he watches the man cradle his beloved’s foot, knead her toes, run his fingers between them, manipulate her lovely arch. The aroma of his oil reminds Joe of almonds and ripe apricots. He sees the man playing a game with Helen’s toes. Of course, it’s all done in Italian, but it sounds and looks something like the one-little-piggy-went-to-market game. Joe feels like the piggy that cries all the way home. He watches Helen close her eyes, hears her moan and recalls the old dictum be careful what you pray for, it might come true. He knows he has seen her will it, but he also knows he has been cuckolded and that it is going to set him back tredicimila lira, whatever that is.
As the man is wiping oil off Helen’s feet with a white cotton towel, she turns to Joe. “That’s my first foot massage, and I’m telling you, that’s a slice of heaven. I owe him thirteen thousand lira.”
“Thirteen thousand lira?”
“Yes,” she says. “That’s about five bucks, one of the best investments I’ve ever made.”
Joe hands Helen the money. “Then you pay him.”
“What’s wrong with you, Mr. Grumpy?”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
She pays her masseur, and Joe hates the sound of her grazie and his prego. Joe looks at his watch: 12:42. His production is running maybe twelve minutes behind schedule, but this most recent scene has changed his entire concept of direction. He decides it’s time to confer with his headstrong leading lady.
“You did it,” he says, “didn’t you?”
“Did what?”
“You had an orgasm when that guy was rubbing your feet. I saw it.”
She frowns and then laughs. “Don’t be silly. It just felt so good and so relaxing, and now I’m ready to walk all over Rome with you, oh, master, if that’s what you want, and in these sandals that are so important to you. You ought to go give that guy another thirteen thousand lira for that.”
“Helen, I saw your face.”
“So? You don’t know what I look like when I do it. That wasn’t it. Remember, Joe, you missed it at Trevi. It’s subtle, very subtle, more between my ears than on my face.”
At this point it’s obvious to Joe that the only sensible move is to scratch his afternoon love scene. He takes Helen to lunch at the Hostario Angelo. They mutter a few words to each other. She sleeps soundly from three to six. He watches more Italian TV and listens once again to the neighbors. This afternoon he thinks the soprano screeches and the woman’s sounds are tawdry. Hell of a way, he thinks, to end our Roman honeymoon.
Helen awakens and wants to go back to her favorite restaurant, La Diligenza Rossa. She tells him she likes the food and the service, says maybe the waiter will cough up another bottle of wine. He agrees mechanically, and she laces up her Walkmasters.
~~~
The maitre d’ approaches and Helen speaks to him in Italian and requests the Neapolitan waiter. They are seated and silent. Joe fiddles with his silverware. Helen studies the menu.
“Oh, my American fans have returned. Buonasera.”
“Hello,” Joe says.
“Buonasera,” Helen says. “Come va?”
“Bene, grazie,” the waiter replies and turns to Joe. “Good evening, sir.”
Joe bristles and Helen orders carcioffi and saltimbocca alla Romana.
“And for the gentlemen?”
Joe orders the same as Helen, has no idea what it is and doesn’t care. He stares at her until she says, “What’s eating you?”
“Up until yesterday, I thought we had a really good thing.”
“What’s changed?”
“When you told me you could do it at will, it started me wondering,” he says.
“I thought you liked it, thought you were all hot and bothered by it.”
“You know I wanted to see it,” he says, “but what happened outside the church really freaked me out.”
“I got a foot massage. My feet were killing me. I was trying to humor you along and wear your putana shoes. You’re not being very fair with me.”
“The massage looked like more than that.”
“Could’ve been, but wasn’t. I love you, married you. That guy at the church just isn’t my type.” She pauses. “But he gave a great massage, and I needed it.”
“You were having more than a massage. I saw your face. I can read you. You were thinking about our goombah waiter.”
“You’re wrong,” she says. “I was thinking about those rose petals and godly foreskins.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Think you can handle the answer? Remember,” she says, “you’re not the captain of my id. I’ll have my fantasy life with you or without you.”
“Wait,” he says. “Don’t get mad. I didn’t start this conversation. You did. Calm down.”
“You guard your fantasies like they’re the Crown Jewels,” Helen says. “Tell me what turns you on. Tell me when you first started loving women’s shoes.”
He thinks she sounds like Dr. Joyce Brothers. “It’s not really shoes. It’s toes, arches, ankles, feet. I love feet, your feet and your long second toes.”
“Second toes?”
“Yeah, your second toes are longer than your big toes, and that turns me on. I guess I’m silly, but it really bothered me to see another man touch your feet.”
“Interesting, very interesting. Did you marry me for my toes or my brains?” She laughs.
The waiter delivers their carcioffi. They look like artichokes to Joe. He’s not sure how to eat them. He watches Helen, who detaches the first petal with her fingers and nibbles at its fleshy base. Between nibbles, she says, “My God, I wedded a foot man. Can this marriage be saved now that he’s out of the closet? Let’s order a bottle of wine and talk about it.”
~~~
After dinner, they walk, window shop and people watch. Helen has put her arm around Joe to steady his gait. She is inebriated and chattering away about the restorative power of art. Soon they are in front of a farmacia. Joe segues to sculpture and long toes, and Helen guides him into the store. She approaches the clerk and shifts into Italian. Joe’s not sure what she’s after at first, but then he gets it as she points to the bottles of oil, and the clerk takes them off the shelf. He is thrilled to hand over fifty thousand lira for bottles labeled mandorla and albicocca. Helen carries the fragrant oils, almond and apricot, out of the farmacia, and they are back out on the crowded street.
“Joe, my feet are killing me right now.”
“Let’s rest,” he says, and he points to a fountain. They cross the street. “Here we are at the Fountain of the Apes,” Joe says. “How ridiculous.”
“It’s api, Fountain of the Barberini Bees,” she says. She sits on its marble apron, facing the posterior view of Bernini’s statue of a virile Neptune. Hundreds of people are passing through the piazza. The city is noisy from cars, horns and scooters. When she offers him the bottles of oil, Joe feels like the world’s spinning around the Fountain of Bees, and he’s at its center. He kneels, removing first Helen’s shoes, then her socks. He cradles her toes in his palm and quivers. He looks up and thinks he sees her gazing at Neptune.
“Shhh, listen carefully,” she says, and before he can break the paper seal on the almond oil, she says, “I’m willing it,” and it’s the most amazing sound he has ever heard, a primordial feline moan. He’s oblivious to the few people who have stopped to watch him caress his beloved’s feet. He runs his fingers between her toes and she wills it, then he stretches her arch and grasps her ankles, and he feels her body shudder yet another time. He doesn’t hear the British woman ask her husband for a teeny-weeny footsy rub, doesn’t see the small girl drop her pistachio gelato, doesn’t hear her Italian temper tantrum. All he hears is a fountain, and it must have been his imagination, but he will swear later that evening he heard the buzzing of bees, and in this moment he knows the nirvana of Helen.
