not to play the game. I behave with respect, loyalty and trust toward you. I do not expose my emotions to other women. I’m committed to my vows.”
After a pause, I add. “You make me feel hopeless. All I want is for you to be trustworthy.”
Emily fumes, “That’s a big problem for you, Renzo. You subscribe to a weird philosophy and you keep everything inside. Women are different. We need to vent. We want to share. I am a social being. You are a hopeless recluse buried in your books and your computer. You have no friends. You never present your feelings except to your punching bag. I’m sure every karate kick and all those punches at the heavy bag are directed at me.”
I am still dressed in my sweat suit having worked out in our basement weight room. I take a tiny sip of the liquid protein concoction from my shaker bottle labeled No Pain, No Gain that I had prepared earlier.
“Why? Because I do not make myself open and vulnerable to strangers? Because I do not run- around with other women? You’re the one who meets men in parking lots, behind buildings and in secluded industrial areas after sunset.”
“How the hell do you know that? Are you having me followed?” yells Emily, wide-eyed and flushed, her paranoia seeping through.
I do not succumb to her attempt to shift the
blame by raising her voice several decibels. Loud, sounding fury is a bullying tool that signifies anemic, porous thinking.
“Emily, you can’t keep the truth suppressed. You have kissed other men. I hear you talking into the phone at night when you think that I am asleep: making fun of me with your boyfriends. Ridiculing me. Laughing at me.”
Emily, newly composed, sips from her glass, latte mug, and says, “I can handle other men. I have not crossed any line. I resent your jealousy. You need to grow up. I am not your mother. Perhaps, you should see a shrink. You clearly have childhood issues to resolve.”
“Thank you, Dr. Freud. Emily, if nothing else, you are emotionally promiscuous. Our trip to Italy is not going to cleanse your risky attitude and behavior. You are going to blunder and bang. We have two teenage kids who deserve better. For their sake Emily, if not ours, you have to make up your mind if you want this marriage to survive.”
Emily vacantly stares at me. I see that she is lost in her own thoughts balancing the pros and cons of my statement.
I wait. Nothing. I am frustrated and furious. I open the patio door, and before stomping out, say, with gravity and resolve.
“Keep it up and one day you’ll leave me no choice but to walk away from you without warning.” I exit onto the backyard patio, almost slamming the door off its hinges. Emily mumbled an
epithet but I did not care to listen to it.
Chapter 4
Toronto, Canada
Pearson International Airport
The lead up to our Italy trip is exciting for Emily and the kids, but not for me. I am comfortable with our perennial holidays to the Caribbean and don’t see the value of crossing from contemporary to bygone days across the Atlantic Ocean to attend the wedding of a cousin I have not previously met.
Emily has traveled with her family to Italy before our marriage. She brags about the ragazzi italiani carini, cute Italian boys, she met. Her past story of a cousin trying to kiss her and feel her up was recounted more like a milestone achievement than with the disgust it deserved. I have not been back to Italy since my exile as a child.
My irritation upturns, swelled with the
booking, packing, driving and inevitable waiting at the airport. So many hours suffered at the shrine of boredom. Post security check through, Emily pleasures herself with airport shopping. She is always on the prowl for the latest fashion trends, looking for whatever is chic on the streets.
One tour of duty and she smells like a perfume sampling counter. The kids play with their electronics with the dedication and focus of famished creatures devouring food. While I sit here, at Gate 49, with all the travel trappings, silently sipping a cappuccino. I rubberneck between the check-in counter and my wife’s whereabouts. I am a regular business flyer but I have developed a total eclipse of interest in airports and flying. I must be developing a social conscience because I find ‘first class seating’ tasteless and offensive.
Today, we lumber our way to our economy seats near the front of the airplane. Well, my family does. I have to snake my way several rows farther into the womb. Without having paid for guaranteed seating, an uncalled-for rip-off according to Emily, adjacent accommodation is a gamble. She does not appear troubled by the lost bet but then, why would she? I suffer the consequences of her actions as I find a seat alone.
Removing my black, Intrepid leather shoulder bag, I plop myself in my assigned aisle seat. Luckily, the middle seat remains unoccupied except for a knapsack adorned with a Canadian flag emblem. I pay scant attention to the occupant next to the window. Airplane windows appealed to me back when I enjoyed snapping pictures
of beautiful moments: a vast mountain range, a concrete cityscape, and a dazzling sunset. I have photographed them and more enough times in the past.
My early curiosity extended to include why there is a hole in airplane windows. I think it is some failsafe method of preserving pressurization integrity: a hole to feed the air gap between the outer and inner acrylic panes. That is what I surmised when I cared. I am no longer curious or desire to substantiate my speculations. Routine traveling has blurred my right-brain impulses.
Passengers find takeoffs and landings fascinating. I prefer the interlude in between when I can resort to reading and writing.
“I’m snooping…are you a bigamist?”
A soft voice that seems to sing rather than masticate words startles me. A beautiful, young woman boldly gazes. Like a portrait, her body is leaning forward, her head slightly tilted. Still, her large dark eyes, eyebrows raised, follow every nervous shuffle I make.
I stammer. “Excuse me?”
“I asked whether you are a bigamist. I see you have two wedding bands. A gold one on your left hand and a silver one on your right hand.”
My stareretreatsfrom thewoman’s long curly eyelashes and thick glossy brown hair and captures her entirely. I feel like I am falling backwards. She is long-limbed, dark-skinned, slim and athletic. I imagine that in a bikini she unquestionably turns heads. Her tenacity raises doubts.
“Are you an investigative journalist?” I like
my ability to land on my feet. I react quickly and excel under pressure.
The woman laughs exposing a wide-eyed captivating smile with pearl white teeth.
“Not quite. I am an arts professor from York University. I am researching a bit of art history and thought that taking a sabbatical and going back to Italy would be best for combining work with pleasure. My home base is going to be the American University of Rome but Italy is going to be my classroom.”
Again, with that smile. It is captivating. I stare in silence as she continues.
“I am not looking forward to sleeping eight hours in these cramped quarters. Thankfully, we are blessed with an empty seat that we can share.”
Pretending a professorial air, she navigates herself back on course.
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
I am starting to unwind. My left-brain logic revs up.
“No, I’m not a bigamist. The gold ring represents the first 24 years of my marriage. The silver ring symbolizes the 25th. I’m going to Italy to attend a relative’s wedding and, in part, to celebrate my 25th wedding anniversary.”
“Without your wife?” the woman teases.
I had not noticed Aphrodite in the airport terminal or when I first sat down. She had been resting in the window