“Damn it Pietro, answer your fucking phone!” Zelda yelled into her own mobile, tears streaming down her face. An approaching group of Asian tourists eyed her warily as they stepped off the sidewalk and out into the bicycle path, giving her a wide berth.
Zelda had never felt like such a failure in her whole life. Her dreams of studying in Amsterdam and ever working for a museum were as good as over. And her supposed boyfriend wasn’t answering his phone even though he knew today was a big day for her. She hung her head over the bridge’s railing, gazing down into the brown-green water of the Prinsengracht, briefly wondering if she shouldn’t just leap over the side and end it all. Moments later, a party boat passed under her feet, one of the many vessels attracted to Amsterdam’s picturesque waterways on this warm August afternoon. A bunch of twenty-something’s wearing orange boas and white fedoras cheered as their boat cruised back into the sunlight. If she jumped, she’d probably only end up breaking her leg on a boat’s deck or contract some weird disease from the junk-filled canals, but surely nothing fatal. What was the point in that?
She plodded on, meandering aimlessly along the narrow streets and bridges connecting the inner city, wondering how today could have gone so very wrong. Her intentions were good and noble. She knew she should call her mentor Marianne and explain her actions before Huub did. But she’d been so emotionally wrung out by his dressing down that she began to wonder if he wasn’t right. Maybe she should be banned from ever working in a Dutch museum. She was incapable of working in a team, had needlessly insulted a rich and influential claimant, and made wild accusations about a senior member of staff without having any real evidence of his wrongdoing.
She stared at her phone, trying to remember what her mentor’s office hours were and wondering if it wouldn’t be better to email her. Though it hardly mattered now what she did. Huub had surely spoken with her already and explained why Zelda should be refused entry into the Museum Studies program. And even if he didn’t go through with his threat to call her straight away, Bernice would eventually tell Marianne everything that had happened; they were good friends after all.
Zelda knew that despite her own misgivings about Karen O’Neil, the project manager was seriously disappointed in her. So much so she’d steadfastly refused to watch the video she and Friedrich had made at the Amstel Hotel or listen to anything she had to say about its contents. Now Karen would certainly get Irises, without so much as a fight from Bernice. Her actions had made a bad situation so much worse that even the project manager would do just about anything to get the New Yorker out of her hair.
Thanks to her, Rita Brouwer would never see Irises again. Worst of all, she’d blown her chance to stay in Amsterdam for nothing. There was no way Marianne would still support her application to the master’s program after she’d learned what she’d done.
Zelda smashed her fists against her thighs. Where was Pietro! All she wanted to do was cry on his shoulder and hear him say it was all going to work out. But for the last two hours he’d refused to answer his phone. If only his grandmother would die, then he would have time to talk to me, she thought bitterly. Instantly guilt washed over her. She didn’t really wish an old woman harm, but Pietro should have made time to be there for her, today of all days.
When her phone did begin to beep seconds later, she snatched it out of her pocket, sure her boyfriend had finally seen her many voicemails and text messages. Her face fell when she saw it was Friedrich texting for the sixth time. He was here for her, whether she liked it or not. Though she was not looking forward to rehashing her terrible morning and having to hear him say ‘I told you so’, she knew he wouldn’t give up until she phoned him back.
She dialed his number as she turned towards home.
“Hey, Zelda, how did your meeting with Bernice go?”
“Badly, very badly.”
“No seriously, how did your bosses react when you showed them our video?”
“Karen O’Neil wants to have me arrested for invasion of privacy, Huub Konijn thinks we tried to steal Irises for Rita Brouwer, and Bernice Dijkstra refused to watch even a few seconds of our DVD.”
“That is bad.”
“And to top it off, both Bernice and Huub said they will be getting in touch with my mentor Marianne and letting her know what a total idiot I am. Bye-bye master’s program and hello Seattle.”
“Come on, give yourself some time to let it all sink in. I’m sure you will find a solution to your problems –”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do this right now,” she sniffled, her voice breaking. “I need some time alone.” And to call Pietro again, she thought, wondering if her Italian lover was trying to reach her right now.
“I’ll call you later, okay?” She ended the call before he could respond and quickly checked for missed calls or messages. There were none.
A few blocks later, Zelda opened the front door to her building. As she climbed the four flights to her studio apartment, her anger at Pietro turned to concern. Maybe something terrible had happened to him. Maybe he wasn’t answering because he couldn’t.
She ran up the last few steps to her studio. Once inside, she rushed over to her desk and rifled through its’ drawers, searching for Pietro’s parents’ home phone number. She’d had to beg it off of him, whining that he didn’t trust her to show some discretion. Zelda knew his grandmother was lying sick in bed and his parents couldn’t speak a word of English; it was just nice to know she had another way of reaching him. Confronted by her crocodile tears, Pietro finally relented, writing it down on a piece of stationary after repeatedly warning her to only use it if there was a real emergency. Her entire world was collapsing around her and she needed her boyfriend. If this wasn’t an emergency, she didn’t know what was. She’d picked up a few Italian words in their three months together; she only hoped it would be enough to get him on the line.
She carefully punched in the eleven-digit number, wanting to get it right the first time. After a few rings, a young woman answered, “Casa Moretti. Pronto?”
Relief washed over her. This must be Pietro’s younger sister. “Buongiorno. Is this Rosa? This is Zelda Richardson. I am calling for Pietro Moretti. Is he home right now?” She spoke slowly and distinctly. Pietro said his sister spoke English quite well, but the phone’s connection crackled with static. She hoped the younger woman could hear her well enough to understand what she was asking.
“Who is this? How do you know my name?” the young woman asked in halting English spoken with a thick, melodious accent.
“Pietro’s told me all about you. I feel like I know you already,” Zelda smiled to herself at this unexpected surprise. Pietro always talked about how great his little sister was and what a pleasure it was to be around her.
“Pietro?” Rosa repeated, before launching into a string of Italian expletives. It reminded her of Pietro’s outburst after he’d slammed his thumb hammering a nail into the wall. “That lazy bastard should be here helping me with the wine harvest, not out with his girlfriend again. I don’t know when he will be back,” she spat into the phone.
Zelda was sure she misheard the girl through the static on the line. Or maybe her English wasn’t as good as Pietro said it was. “You must be mistaken,” she chuckled, “this is his girlfriend calling. Zelda, Zelda Richardson. That’s me.”
Rosa started giggling. Zelda relaxed, it was just a silly cultural misunderstanding after all.
“Oh, so you are that fesso American my brother’s been living with?”
Zelda’s heart froze. “What?” was all she could muster.
“Pietro’s with his girlfriend right now, the same one he’s had since high school,” her words were daggers in Zelda’s heart. “You are just the stupida who’s been paying his bills.”
“No, there must be some mistake. He’s taking care of his grandmother, your grandmother. She’s sick,” Zelda whispered, sinking onto the edge of her couch.
“He told you that? That he’s taking care of our grandmother?” Rosa roared with laughter. “She died five years ago.”
Zelda couldn’t get a sound out. This must be a cruel joke, or Italian sense of humor. Pietro hadn’t been using her this whole time, he couldn’t have been. He loved her!
“I will be sure to tell my lazy brother that his American girlfriend called,” Rosa cackled before hanging up.
Zelda’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces. Her phone dropped to the floor as she covered her eyes with her hands and let the tears flow. Stupida is right.
“How could I have been such an idiot?” she seethed. She should have known Pietro was too good to be true. He didn’t even ask her out on a date until he was about to get kicked out of his apartment. He must have known it would be easy to get her into bed. From the first day of class, it was obvious to everyone that she lusted after him. He was an Italian god with perfect wavy black hair and pearly white teeth; how could she not fall head over heels in love with him? Wasn’t she the one who suggested he move in, at least until he found another place? Wasn’t she the one who said he didn’t need to ask his father for money again, that she had enough saved to pay for everything? Stupid, stupid, stupida!
All these months living together, sleeping together, laughing together, and she never suspected it was all a lie. Such a fool, such a blind, lust-struck fool!
As reality sunk in, a wail of agony rose from her throat, filling the room. Friedrich has been right about Pietro all along. This realization, on top of everything else that had happened today, was simply too much to bear. Zelda curled up into a ball on the couch and bawled her eyes out.