and one of lemon.
Shortly after this incident, although I don’t think it was related in any way, I came out in a rash of green spots, and felt an itching deep inside me that I couldn’t scratch.
I showed the spots to Signora Dorotea, worried that I had caught some sort of disease from one of the corpses.The summer was already unusually hot, and many of them had boils and rich varieties of creeping fungus.
“The remedy is simple,” she said. “You need a man, Freda Castro. It’s only natural, and nothing to be ashamed of.” Perhaps she was right, but in my job I didn’t come in contact with many members of the opposite sex, at least not live ones. Still, that same day I was surprised when Cuniberto Moretti (one of the relief pallbearers, who was at other times a vendor of vanilla pods), sidled up to me in the staff room where I was rubbing some balsam into my pustules and asked me out on a date.Thinking about it afterward, I was sure Signora Dorotea must have put him up to it.
I certainly didn’t want to go out with him. I didn’t feel attracted to him in any way. Some girls, I’m sure, would have been drawn to his brown-tinged teeth, and the way clumps of hair sprouted from his neck, but I wasn’t one of them. Still, I felt bad about saying no, so, reluctantly I agreed.
That evening, Cuniberto was loitering in the yard as I returned Signor Giordano to his drawer in cold storage and locked up. He had acquired a bunch of tired-looking daisies, which he thrust at me, blushing.
Together we walked the short distance to Fargo’s, where we shared the empty premises with a sullen waiter who had long given up his struggle with personal hygiene and an ener-getic bluebottle who managed to be everywhere at once. I was grateful to the fly. At least it saved us from the silence there would otherwise have been.
Lemonade was ordered and banged down on the Formica tabletop with a force that ensured much of it was spilled.
What was left we sipped in between stilted attempts at conversation. Really, there was nothing to say. After fifteen minutes that seemed as long as a week I stood up to leave.
Cuniberto seemed surprised.
“Don’t you want those?” he asked, motioning toward the daisies on the counter; they had wilted and were giving off a pungent odor of decay. I shook my head.
Outside he surprised me by lunging at me with his lips, teeth, and tongue in quick succession. I didn’t understand why. Perhaps he thought it was expected of him. I thanked him and set off alone for my apartment.
That night, as I inserted my fingers between those folds of flesh that seemed to harbor the itchiest of the itchy places, I thought, if that was dating, I could do without it.
Chapter 10
Y et despite this inauspicious beginning, between then and the summer of 1971, I did have my share of flirtations. Not on the same scale as Fiamma, of course, because she was as brazen as I was bashful, but I tried to find out about love, and with nobody to guide me, I felt like the one wearing the blindfold in a game of blindman’s bluff.
Signora Dorotea put her faith in sales representatives. She was always making appointments for me to see one or another, even when we had no intention of buying what they were selling. Mostly they were purveyors of rubber gloves, embalming fluids, descalents, powders, waxes, prostheses, cosmetics, wigs, or false teeth. Almost always, of course, they were elderly and liver-spotted, but occasionally a youngish one appeared, struggling beneath the weight of his suitcase of samples. Then Signora Dorotea would nod and wink, and drop the heaviest of hints, which usually had the effect of sending him running to the door.
Another strand of her strategy was to send me on every seminar, training course, and trade show she could find. I became a regular on the circuit, but despite Signora Dorotea’s coaching in small talk, I still found it difficult to overcome my shyness. I just couldn’t think of anything to say
Shortly after this incident, although I don’t think it was related in any way, I came out in a rash of green spots, and felt an itching deep inside me that I couldn’t scratch.
I showed the spots to Signora Dorotea, worried that I had caught some sort of disease from one of the corpses.The summer was already unusually hot, and many of them had boils and rich varieties of creeping fungus.
“The remedy is simple,” she said. “You need a man, Freda Castro. It’s only natural, and nothing to be ashamed of.” Perhaps she was right, but in my job I didn’t come in contact with many members of the opposite sex, at least not live ones. Still, that same day I was surprised when Cuniberto Moretti (one of the relief pallbearers, who was at other times a vendor of vanilla pods), sidled up to me in the staff room where I was rubbing some balsam into my pustules and asked me out on a date.Thinking about it afterward, I was sure Signora Dorotea must have put him up to it.
I certainly didn’t want to go out with him. I didn’t feel attracted to him in any way. Some girls, I’m sure, would have been drawn to his brown-tinged teeth, and the way clumps of hair sprouted from his neck, but I wasn’t one of them. Still, I felt bad about saying no, so, reluctantly I agreed.
That evening, Cuniberto was loitering in the yard as I returned Signor Giordano to his drawer in cold storage and locked up. He had acquired a bunch of tired-looking daisies, which he thrust at me, blushing.
Together we walked the short distance to Fargo’s, where we shared the empty premises with a sullen waiter who had long given up his struggle with personal hygiene and an ener-getic bluebottle who managed to be everywhere at once. I was grateful to the fly. At least it saved us from the silence there would otherwise have been.
Lemonade was ordered and banged down on the Formica tabletop with a force that ensured much of it was spilled.
What was left we sipped in between stilted attempts at conversation. Really, there was nothing to say. After fifteen minutes that seemed as long as a week I stood up to leave.
Cuniberto seemed surprised.
“Don’t you want those?” he asked, motioning toward the daisies on the counter; they had wilted and were giving off a pungent odor of decay. I shook my head.
Outside he surprised me by lunging at me with his lips, teeth, and tongue in quick succession. I didn’t understand why. Perhaps he thought it was expected of him. I thanked him and set off alone for my apartment.
That night, as I inserted my fingers between those folds of flesh that seemed to harbor the itchiest of the itchy places, I thought, if that was dating, I could do without it.
Chapter 10
Y et despite this inauspicious beginning, between then and the summer of 1971, I did have my share of flirtations. Not on the same scale as Fiamma, of course, because she was as brazen as I was bashful, but I tried to find out about love, and with nobody to guide me, I felt like the one wearing the blindfold in a game of blindman’s bluff.
Signora Dorotea put her faith in sales representatives. She was always making appointments for me to see one or another, even when we had no intention of buying what they were selling. Mostly they were purveyors of rubber gloves, embalming fluids, descalents, powders, waxes, prostheses, cosmetics, wigs, or false teeth. Almost always, of course, they were elderly and liver-spotted, but occasionally a youngish one appeared, struggling beneath the weight of his suitcase of samples. Then Signora Dorotea would nod and wink, and drop the heaviest of hints, which usually had the effect of sending him running to the door.
Another strand of her strategy was to send me on every seminar, training course, and trade show she could find. I became a regular on the circuit, but despite Signora Dorotea’s coaching in small talk, I still found it difficult to overcome my shyness. I just couldn’t think of anything to say
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