Bad

by Chloé Esposito

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Piazza Navona, Rome, Italy

  We’re sitting out on the terrace of an old-fashioned restaurant right in the heart of Piazza Navona. This place is unbelievable. Textbook romantic. It’s me, Domenico and my mum; we’re like the fucking Brady Bunch. Next thing you know, I’ll be calling this merciless mobster ‘Dad’.

  I study the menu. The rich aromas of lasagne al forno and spaghetti alla puttanesca fill the soft night air. Flickering candles cast warm shadows over the ancient square. The tables are covered with red-and-white-checked cloths. There are olives the colour of emeralds; I pop one in my mouth and crunch its salty, meaty flesh. Bernini’s famous masterpiece is only a few metres away. A towering Egyptian obelisk penetrates the starry sky. Bountiful fountains ejaculate torrents of crashing and splashing white water. I light a smoke and close my eyes. Try to pretend that I’m not here, that I am somewhere else: driving with Nino through Tuscany, in a hot tub with Nino at the Ritz, in bed with Nino in my apartment . . .

  ‘Filthy habit,’ says my mother, coughing at my cigarette smoke.

  Domenico stubs out his cigar.

  I spark another fag.

  Ping.

  A text. It’s him. Of course.

  ‘DID YOU LIKE THE FLOWERS?’

  I’m about to delete it, but then . . . I don’t.

  ‘WERE THEY A GIFT OR A THREAT?’

  A man playing a violin approaches our little table. He’s playing that song about the moon hitting the sky like a big pizza pie.

  ‘That’s amore . . .’ sings Domenico, tapping his foot to the rhythm. He gives the man a €500 bill.

  ‘Grazie. Grazie,’ says the man. He waves his bow in the air with a flourish and turns towards my mother. ‘Signora, perhaps you have a request?’

  My mother sits up in her chair. She dabs her mouth with her serviette. ‘Oh yes, thank you. What’s that one they always play, you know in films set in Italy?’

  ‘“Tu Vuò Fà L’Americano”?’ I say.

  ‘You know, the one that Jude Law sings in The Talented Mr Ripley?’

  ‘It’s “Tu Vuò Fà L’Americano”,’ I say.

  ‘It goes something like this,’ she says. ‘Mericano, mericano, mericano . . . de, de, de, de, de, de, de.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Domenico. ‘Sì. Sì. I know it. “Tu Vuò Fà L’Americano”.’

  ‘Yes. That’s it,’ says my mother.

  Goddamnit, I just got hepeated.

  ‘Può suonare questa canzone?’ Domenico says to the musician.

  The violinist starts to play; he’s standing right beside my ear.

  ‘Mericano, mericano, mericano,’ my mother sings at the top of her lungs.

  I think I’m getting a migraine. I rub my temples and then pick up my knife. I run my thumb along the blade. Who shall I kill first? The fiddler or my tone-deaf mother? Decisions, decisions, decisions . . .

  ‘Mavis,’ says Domenico, leaning in across the table. ‘Tell me, please, be so kind. What did the police want today? I’m so sorry we had to leave.’

  I pick up my wine glass, but it’s already empty. I grab my mother’s glass instead and take a swig of hers.

  ‘They wanted to ask my daughter some questions. She was in Taormina around the time that her twin sister was murdered. Tell me, Domenico. How long have you known my daughter?’

  Domenico frowns and looks at me.

  ‘Since she first arrived in Taormina.’

  ‘So not very long then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And she hasn’t tried to sleep with you yet?’

  ‘Mum,’ I say. How could she?

  Domenico looks at me. ‘No, not yet,’ he says.

  ‘You’re one of the lucky ones,’ she says. ‘You’re the one that got away . . .’

  I grit my teeth. If I smash this glass, I could use a shard to slit her throat.

  ‘More wine?’ asks Domenico, pouring the red into my mother’s already half-full glass.

  Urgh, he’s trying to get her drunk. She’s starting to slur; it’s working.

  ‘Oh, I’ll have some more too,’ I say, as he empties the bottle.

  ‘Thank you,’ my mother says, taking a sip. ‘Delizioso.’

  Domenico and my mum clink glasses for the sixth or seventh time. I stare at the empty seat opposite. It’s like I’m not even here.

  ‘I trust you’re enjoying your linguine, Mavis? Tell me, is it to your taste?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ my mother says. ‘And tell me, Domenico, your English is fantastic. May I ask you where you learnt it?’

  I’ve been wondering that myself . . . It’s all very Regency.

  ‘I learnt English at school, like all the kids in Sicily. But I was fortunate enough to own a copy of Jane Austen’s Persuasion in the original English. It is my favourite book,’ he says. He turns to my mother and reaches over to grab her hand across the table. ‘“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.”’

  ‘Oh, Domenico.’ My mother fans herself with the wine list.

  ‘“Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you.”’

  ‘Oh my.’

  I stab and stab at my pasta. I push the last of the ravioli around on my plate and mop up the sauce. We sit for a while in painful silence.

  ‘Alvina,’ says my mother.

  Domenico frowns. ‘Elizabeth?’

  ‘Beyoncé,’ I say.

  ‘Alvina?’

  ‘Betta?’

  ‘Cough. Cough. Cough,’ I say.

  ‘Can’t you get a glass of water?’ asks my mother.

  ‘Let’s go to the bathroom,’ I say.

  * * *

  *

  ‘Well, he seems like a nice young man,’ my mother says to the cubicle door. Is she talking about Domenico?

  ‘Yeah, sure. He’s a delight.’ I flush the loo and meet her by the sinks.

  ‘What line of business is he in?’ she asks, fluffing her hair. She looks in the mirror and pouts. Then she reapplies her lipstick even though it’s still there.

  ‘Pest extermination,’ I say. A bit like you with your perfume . . .

  I reach for the soap and run the tap. It scalds and burns my hands.

  ‘Ah. Well, that is useful. Is there a lot of demand for that kind of work? You know, down there in Taormina?’

  ‘You’d be surprised . . . It’s seasonal.’

  She opens her powder and dusts her face with a poufy puffy thing.

  ‘It certainly seems to pay very well. Did you see how much money he gave that musician? A €500 bill.’

  ‘Oh yeah, it does. I mean, no, it doesn’t.’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Alvina.’ She sighs. ‘It is not going well with Rupert.’

  Urgh. Rupert Vaughan Willoughby, my mother’s second husband, the biggest loser in history. (Oh no, that’s Nino. Second biggest then.)

  ‘No? And tell me, why is that?’

  Has he finally twigged you’re a succubus? Did he see your serpent tails and birdlike claws? Discover you’re the Queen of the Demons?

  ‘It’s been a number of years that he hasn’t been up to it in the bedroom department. And I am a woman. I have needs.’

  Oh God, I shouldn’t have asked. I am not here. I am not having this conversation. Nino in a Lambo. Nino in speedos. Nino covered in Nutella . . .

  I head towards the bathroom door, but my mum’s still talking to herself in the mirror, transfixed like the Wicked Witch watching Snow White.

  ‘I mean, it was never much more than a mushroom, but at least in the past –’

>   ‘I’m going, Mum. Byeeeeeee.’

  ‘Ernie and I are moving in. We’ll take the guest room,’ she says.

  I push through the doors and back into the restaurant, a little bit of sick rising up in my throat. She isn’t serious. She’s not going to stay. I’ll delete that from my brain.

  Domenico is waiting for me just round the corner. He pushes me into an alcove and up against a wall.

  ‘Che cazzo?’ he hisses into my ear.

  I roll my eyes. ‘What is it now?’

  ‘You are . . . the other twin?’

  Oh my God, not this again. I am so over it . . .

  ‘Yeah, fucking bite me.’

  He reaches into his jacket pocket. I feel the metal of his gun. He shoves it underneath my ribs into my diaphragm.

  ‘OK. OK. I can explain.’

  ‘I’m waiting,’ he says.

  Now what?

  Beth says, ‘It’s over, Alvie.’

  ‘Ambrogio killed Elizabeth because he wanted to be with me . . .’

  Nice one. Go me.

  Domenico raises his eyebrows. I think he buys it.

  ‘Minchia.’

  ‘We were having an affair. We needed my sister out of the way . . .’

  Brilliant, Alvie. This is great. You’re fucking on fire. Top marks for thinking on your feet. He’s going for it, sucker.

  ‘So Ambrogio killed Elizabeth? He murdered her?’

  ‘Yes, he did. Last week,’ I say. ‘He always preferred me, you see . . .’

  I was the sexier twin. I could elaborate for hours about how Beth was shit in bed. I could list all my qualities and drag her name into the mud.

  ‘And your sister was fucking Salvatore?’

  ‘She was, but how did you know that?’

  ‘Nino told me,’ Domenico says.

  Right. Makes sense, I guess. Nino and Domenico are like brothers. They go way, way back. ‘So then when Salvatore found out about Beth . . .’

  ‘He killed Ambrogio.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘Domenico. Please . . . just . . . let me go. I’m sorry I lied.’

  I flutter my eyelashes. Stick out my chest. Do my best ‘damsel in distress’.

  He pushes the gun further into my organs. He’s going to puncture my fucking lungs.

  ‘Don’t do it again,’ he says.

  I shake my head. ‘I won’t.’

  He lets me go and walks away. I lean back against the wall. When I finally catch my breath I follow him down the hall.

  We meet my mother back at the table. Domenico glowers at me.

  ‘Ahthereyouare,’ my mother slurs. ‘Shallwegetthebill?’

  * * *

  *

  We’re walking back towards the flat, Domenico and my mum in front. I am trailing just behind. The breeze is as soft as a Gucci cashmere and merino jumper. The tinkle of a water fountain sounds just like Vivaldi. Giant sycamores wave in the wind as we stroll beneath their branches. We turn a corner on to a bridge that leads us over the River Tiber. The water snakes and sparkles in the light of the silver moon.

  ‘Oh, Domenico, it’s beautiful,’ my mother says, gazing out at the view.

  ‘E bella come te, Mavis. Beautiful like you.’

  We turn into my winding side street of cobblestones and balconies. Ancient wooden doors are adorned with the roaring heads of lions. I look around – just in case – for Nino, but there’s no sign. At least, not yet. Domenico and my mum hold hands. I feel like a gooseberry.

  ‘Well, thank you, Domenico, for a wonderful evening. You really didn’t need to spoil us like that. It was really very chivalrous. Say, thank you, Alvina.’

  ‘Yeah. Cheers. Thanks,’ I say. She thinks I’m five years old.

  ‘The pleasure, signora, was all mine. You are as young and as beautiful as your daughter, if not more so. I trust you enjoyed your supper?’

  ‘Oh yes. Very much. I especially liked the red wine. What was it called again?’

  ‘Regina di Renieri.’

  ‘Ah yes. Regina,’ she says with a hiccough.

  ‘Regina means queen,’ says Domenico.

  But really, who gives a shit?

  ‘And I loved those chocolates they served with dessert. Baci or something?’ she says.

  ‘Sì, Baci. Baci means kisses.’

  ‘They were too sweet for me,’ I say. ‘Kind of saccharine.’

  We climb the endless flights of stairs that lead to my apartment. We stand at the top, huffing and puffing, as I look for my keys. Domenico and his two heavies seem to have made themselves at home. I don’t know where my mum’s going to sleep. It’s a two-bedroom flat. She’ll have to go out and find a hotel . . . at this time of night. With the baby. We push through the door and into the lounge. Riccardo and Giuseppe look up. They’re playing with a laughing baby Ernesto, tickling his tummy and ruffling his hair as he crawls around on the living-room floor. Baby toys are strewn all around them. They look like they’ve had a ball.

  ‘I wish you goodnight,’ Domenico says, kissing my mother’s outstretched hand.

  My mother giggles like a teenage girl.

  I roll my eyes. ‘Goodnight,’ I say. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  I can’t take any more of this. This evening has been hellish. It couldn’t possibly get any worse. I slam my door and flop down on the bed. I stare at the ceiling. There’s a water mark over there in the corner. Upstairs must have a leak. I turn off the light and I’m just drifting off when I hear something bang against one of the walls.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  ‘Domenico. You Italian stallion.’

  ‘Make love to me, Mavis. My queen.’

  Oh my God, I bloody knew it.

  ‘That is beyond gross,’ says Beth.

  For once she’s said something I agree with.

  I pull the pillow over my head. It does nothing to block the noise.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  There’s a CRASH as my bedroom door smashes open. I sit up in bed and turn on the light.

  What is it now?

  Domenico’s standing there, fully aroused and naked from the waist down. Someone kill me. Kill me now.

  ‘Your mother says, “Do you have a condom?”’

  I open my mouth and close it again. I’ve lost the power of speech.

  My fucking mother. This fucking guy. She’s sixty-one. Nearly sixty-two. He is half her age.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I say.

  (Yes, I do. But he’s not having it. There’s a packet of ribbed raspberry-ripple rubbers somewhere in my Prada bag, but I’m saving those for a special occasion. I want them for when I find Nino.)

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘she’s too old to get pregnant.’

  ‘I know, but I have Hepatitis A, B and C.’

  He closes the door and leaves.

  There are muffled voices in the lounge. I hear him asking the two mobsters. I guess one of them must have a johnny because two or three minutes later:

  BANG.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  DAY SIX:

  The Cop

  LAST WEEK

  Saturday, 29 August 2015

  Taormina, Sicily

  My sister’s dead. I’m fucking rich. It’s time to celebrate. I do a line off Nino’s chest then lick the residue. Hot, salty sweat. Acidic cocaine. My brain ignites again. I slide my tongue along his skin. My mouth feels numb. Tastes bitter. I run my fingers through the soft black hair on Nino’s pecs.

  ‘You want another line?’ I say, passing him the rolled-up fifty. ‘Go on, have another one. This shit is really bomb.’

  Nino racks up on my body. He does a line between my
breasts. He licks me from my pubis all the way up to my neck.

  ‘Hey. Stop that. It tickles,’ I say, wriggling out of the way.

  He licks me some more on my face then bites me on the ear.

  ‘Stop it. Stop. I’ll kill you,’ I say. His tongue is hot and wet.

  I whack him over the head with the pillow. He pretends he’s dead. A tiny white feather escapes and floats down on to the bed. I watch it settle on the sheets, then lie down next to him. There is something so erotic about fucking in my dead twin’s bed. The sheets still smell of Ambrogio, of Armani Code Black. That’s my sister’s lingerie all over the floor. I’m even wearing Beth’s lipstick: Rouge Allure by Chanel. There’s some on Nino’s dick.

  We listen to the silence pulsing, to the quiet, empty night. There’s nothing there beyond these walls. We are everything. There is no dead Salvatore lying on the kitchen floor. No Domenico cleaning him up. No sister buried in the wood or Ambrogio cold in a morgue. Nino and I are all that matters. We make the world go around.

  ‘Betta,’ he whispers in my ear. Warm breath – goosebumps – on my neck. I smell his musky, manly scent. ‘Come with me. I have an idea.’

  He grabs my hand and pulls me up. Leaps off the king-size bed.

  ‘What? Why? Where are we going?’

  ‘It’s gonna be great. You will love it.’ He finds his clothes on the bedroom floor. ‘I’ve done it lots of times before. It’s crazy. Fucking fun.’

  He’s speaking fast. His eyes are glassy.

  ‘Done what? What’s great?’ I say.

  I want us to stay right here and do some more cocaine.

  Nino is already leaving. I watch him pull on his blue jeans. He has a body like Brad Pitt, like Tyler Durden in Fight Club. That scene where he’s topless in the basement. That scene where he’s naked in the bath . . . Brad’s perfect, like an action man, but he’s not a patch on him.

  I find my clothes. My pants. My bra. I can’t see my dress, but fuck it. There’s no one around to see us now. Most of them are dead. He disappears through the bedroom door. I follow him, half naked. I run down the hall in Beth’s lingerie, the lacy red La Perla, then all through the villa and out the front door. We’re outside in Beth’s garden. There’s the pool like molten silver. I half expect to see my twin. But no, she’s gone: don’t be an idiot. It’s just us. Relax.