The day promises to be a recipe for disaster: blasts of scathing sunlight, fits of freezing rain, garnished with dry bursts of wind. Someone who is sensitive to abrupt shifts in weather is likely to change mood and direction instantaneously—like those aluminum weathervanes spinning around with every puff of wind.
Giovanni has always belonged to this unhappy category of humanity. It was passed onto him by his mother, a terrible woman who carved the names of her enemies into idiomatic headstones. His father, on the other hand…
Hm. Any memory of that man has suddenly dissipated into the muggy air.
Regardless, Giovanni does not fail to live up to his inborn nature. No sooner had he stopped his car along the ten-kilometer marker along Route 6 that he feels like putting it back in gear and returning to the airport to catch the earliest plane out of here.
A horrible noise emits from the car, akin to the wail of an animal the moment it becomes roadkill. The car stops completely. There is no way of moving it.
Cursing the saints, Giovanni exits the vehicle. A bus full of kids speeds by, honks loudly, narrowly avoiding him.
Giovanni opens the hood and studies the contents. Purely a symbolic gesture, a morning toilet ritual, since he doesn't know the first thing about cars. If someone tells him that a motor runs on squid ink, he will believe it.
Speaking of squid ink, his mood is black enough to dress 50 kilograms of spaghetti.
While he fumes, a cyclist paddles by without so much of a glance. Halfway up the road, he stops. Backpedals as though he has suffered a beastly condition called a change of heart.
"Sir, you are a traffic hazard," says the cyclist, a young man who looks like dead coral.
"You're a traffic hazard," Giovanni retorts.
"You need to pull to the side of the road."
"What fucking road? We're standing on sand! I'm up to my nipples in sand!"
Exhaling through his ears, the young man inspects Giovanni's car. "Battery isn't leaking. Engine and radiator are not overheating. Shall we look at your gas tank?"
Dry as a wallet in a casino.
The young man emits a great sigh. "All right. Mister…"
"Giovanni."
Another soul-leeching sigh. "I knew I shouldn't have stepped outside today. Mister Giovanni, I'll go to the nearest filling station for some gasoline. Try not to get run over, please."
Giovanni waits, simmering like the heat around him. A few minutes later, the young man returns with gasoline. Once the car is rehydrated, Giovanni guns the engine and speeds away.
"You're late," says Madame Dean, head of Rainbow Rocket University.
"My car broke down," Giovanni says.
"You're singing me half the Mass, boy."
The car did stop working, yes, but after that he didn't go straight to his destination. Instead, he stopped by a food shack on the side of the road. Running his finger up and down the menu, he ended up ordering a lau lau. A planned 10-minute snack evolved into an hour-long meal. The manifestation of Spring blasted into his face upon unraveling the package of luau leaves. He shuddered when the savory saltiness of the butterfish overwhelmed his capacity for intelligent thought. After such a divine meal, he took a nap under the shade of the banyan tree.
"You are 2 hours late," Madame Dean snaps. "Just like your father when I gave birth to you."
"Pity. Are you disappointed that more of his genes went to me than you?"
She gives him such a withering look, one he casually deflects by pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. Tastes like the man who left to buy cheese and never came back.
"You'll be teaching at one of the nation's most prestigious universities," she continues. "As faculty, you represent the institution's morals and values…"
Giovanni recalls the torroncini he'd eaten as a boy. The marzipan would cake his tongue, the pumpkin jam would cling to his throat, the bits of roasted almond would lodge into his teeth. The old housekeeper who snuck him the treats passed away decades ago. She was more than a best friend.
Frustrated, Madame Dean jabs a sharp finger to the door. "Introduce yourself to the others."
The reception is held in the Grand Ballroom, located near the on-campus dormitories. Cutting a wide path around the chattering strangers, he sets his sights on the bar.
To appease the diverse population of new hires, Madame Dean had her catering flown in from overseas. Giovanni gingerly picks up what appears to be a white meatball. Once he puts it in his mouth, he realizes—in horror—that it isn't meat but a mixture of raw Brussel sprouts and mushed green beans pressed around a core of tilapia.
The nearest trash can is blocked by strangers. What the hell are they talking about, seeing how no one has anything in common with each other? Meanwhile, this ball of nastiness sits in Giovanni's mouth, its moist contents seeping into his tongue like mold penetrating into bread. Uttering a litany of curses, he closes and eyes and swallow.
Tears prickle in the back of his eyeballs. He wants to cry.
"Hello there!" says a stranger. "My name is—"
"Over there!" Giovanni cries.
"What? Where?"
"There's someone who cares!"
Giovanni staggers out of the ballroom, breathing heavenly to expel the taste of puréed brimstone. He has nothing against vegetables, but that horrid combination is potent enough to topple the Tower of Pisa.
"Mister Giovanni?"
Giovanni jumps. "How do you know my name?"
"I spent my paycheck on gasoline for your car."
Slowly, memory pushes through the harrowing aftertaste of overcooked green beans. Giovanni studies the young man. Without his helmet, his hair matches his eyes: a powdered blue. He dons a suit the color of 3 day's buildup of snow.
"That, and you're also wearing your nametag."
Indeed, Giovanni has forgotten to trash that insidious scrap of identification! Someone must've identified him after he bolted out as though he had shit his pants! There goes first impressions!
"Why are you here?" says the young man, cocking his head like an owl.
"Because all new faculty have to report to a meet-and-greet," Giovanni replies bitterly. "Did you go in with someone?"
"I will be teaching this academic year."
"You're a professor?"
"I will be, yes."
Giovanni looks the young man up and down. "How old are you?"
"27. And you?"
That question nudges him into the throes of depression. "I'm a professor too. We'll be seeing each other more often."
The young man digs into the trash can and holds up a crumpled nametag. Cyrus. Below his name are the languages he speaks, as required by Madame Dean to foster more international inclusion.
"Where are you from?" says Giovanni.
"Hokkaido. In Japan."
"Is that near Tokyo?"
"About 8 hours by train."
"What's the weather like?"
"Snow. Cold."
Now it's Cyrus's turn.
"And you, sir?"
"Sicily."
"Hmm."
"Next to North Italy and Tunisia."
"Hmmmm."
"You don't get out much, do you?"
There goes another windy sigh.
"Why are you hiding out here?" Giovanni asks.
"Being fake isn't worth my energy. I can care less that their daughter received a pony for her 11th birthday. I truly can care less."
Giovanni feels a kinship with this Cyrus. He watches his fingernails grow before finding the courage to hand the young man a slip of paper.
"Your phone number?" says Cyrus.
"Yes."
"Thank you."
"Of course. I have to go now."
"Do you have enough gasoline to make it home?"
"Yes."
"Good. Very good. Stay safe, sir."
When Giovanni returns to his seafront house, the phone is jumping off its stand.
"Hello?" he says tentatively.
"Giovanni! Now you pick up?"
Then Giovanni remembers that he had promised to call his estranged wife upon immediate arrival to the island.
"Sorry."
"'Sorry?' That's all I get?"
"Ariana, I was busy. My car—"
"Goodbye, Giovanni."
And she hangs up.
Disheartened, Giovanni goes to the bathroom and takes a shower. Afterwards, he sits on the veranda and gazes out to the horizon. The sea is as flat as a mirror. An all-consuming hunger overcomes him, accompanied by a wave of melancholy.
The phone sings again. Giovanni watches a cloud roll by before picking up the receiver.
"Mister Giovanni?"
"You want my opinion about the current state of bees? Here's one: Get your phonebook and shove it up your ass!"
"I am Cyrus. You gave me your number at the university reception."
Giovanni puts down the phone, breathes loudly, and presses his ear against the receiver. "Ciao, Cyrus."
"Good afternoon."
"Can I help you with anything?"
"I wished to confirm that this is indeed your contact information."
"It is."
"Thank you."
"Cyrus, have you eaten yet?"
"No."
Giovanni moistens his lips. Should he proceed with this request with a mere acquaintance? The droning of the refrigerator is driving him mad. "Do you want to have dinner at my place?"
"I'll be there in 5 minutes."
The line goes dead. 3 minutes later, the phone cries again.
"I apologize, Mister Giovanni. What is your address?"
Exactly 5 minutes later, there comes a knock on the door. Cyrus has changed into a polo shirt and trousers.
"Is now a bad time?" he grunts.
Giovanni traces Cyrus's adverted gaze and realizes that he is naked. So he races into his bedroom, throws on a shirt, and properly greets his guest.
"This is for you, sir." Cyrus sets down his ice box and pulls out a vein-colored octopus.
"Matre santa!" Giovanni shouts.
"You don't like it, do you. I knew I should've gotten something from a store."
Quite the contrary, Giovanni is elated. Live octopus? Did Cyrus read his heart, thereby procuring the perfect gift?
"Where did you buy that?"
"I caught it. Off the beach."
Giovanni feels their kinship straightening. He almost wants to kiss Cyrus, but refrains himself.
"Come in," he says. "Make yourself comfortable."
While Cyrus solicits in the foyer, Giovanni brings the octopus into his kitchen. First, a deft strike between its eyes, killing the brain and the animal instantaneously. Second, clean out its innards and entrails. Third, thrust it in the freezer. Freezing before cooking will tenderize the octopus's tough flesh.
Meanwhile, Cyrus is hovering outside Giovanni's bathroom. The cleanliness of the entire house can be summarized by the state of the toilet. So far, Cyrus hasn't voiced any complaints.
At last, Giovanni deems it time to prepare dinner. When he cooks for himself, he cooks with one asscheek hanging off the counter. Cooking for others is like a heart operation: any and all mistakes are costly.
They sit on the veranda. The sun is dipping into the sea, and the breeze is pleasantly cool.
"Octopus a strascinasale," Giovanni proclaims proudly. "Boiled octopus tossed in olive oil and lemon juice."
Cyrus can only nod, stunned at the colorful dish before him.
Then they eat. No one talks, much less acknowledges the other's existence. Giovanni is wholly convinced that Cyrus and him are related by some long-lost gene.
Suddenly, blood trickles down Cyrus's eyes. Giovanni almost falls out of his chair when he attempts to stand.
"What's wrong?" Cyrus asks.
"What's wrong with me? You have blood on your face!"
Frowning, Cyrus touches his cheek, pulling back a bright red palm. He excuses himself and runs to the bathroom. When he returns, his face is clean and completely sober.
"My apologies."
"W-What was that? Are you allergic to octopus?"
"No. Thank you for the meal, sir."
"Where are you going?"
"Don't you want me to leave?"
"I got lemon juice in my damned eye making this for you!"
Cyrus sits back down. As he chews, blood wells in his tear ducts and tips over onto his cheeks like water sloshing out of a full reservoir. If Giovanni listens closely, bypassing the loud clanking of forks and knives, he hears sniffling.
Is Cyrus crying? Giovanni breaks into cold sweat. Why the hell is Cyrus crying? Is he upset? Sad? Deeply moved by the tenderness of the octopus?
"Is everything all right at home?" Giovanni asks once everything is cleaned up.
"I live alone." Cyrus presents a clean square of paper. "This is my address."
Giovanni has no idea what to do with that but accepts it anyway. He eyes Cyrus cautiously. The young man is surprisingly nonplussed given that he had lost half his weight in blood.
"I'll be leaving now." Cyrus gives a deep nod of the head. "I'll see you around campus, Mister Giovanni."
"Just 'Giovanni' is fine."
Cyrus stands in the doorway, pursing his lips as though he wants to prolong the conversation. Instead, he nods again and drifts out to the yard. Hopping on his bicycle, he turns, stares, and rides off into the vista.
Afterwards, Giovanni takes another shower and hops into bed, still dripping. Tomorrow begins his first day as a professor. He unplugs the telephone, removes the batteries of his alarm clock, and slips into a leaden sleep.