The Perfect Couple

by Lexi Landsman

  I knocked on Stefano’s door and as I did, I thought back to our youth and the many times I stood where I did now, waiting for him to come and play, to throw a football around or to ride our skateboards down a dangerous crash course through the car park. A young man opened the door and eyed me uneasily as he took in my collared shirt and tidy appearance.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said tersely.

  He looked a few years older than my son. He was the spitting image of Stefano. Black hair, bushy, closely set eyebrows, thin lips. It was as if I had stepped back in time and was looking at my childhood friend. Yet his face was softer than his father’s. He looked like he was on the cusp of following Stefano’s footsteps into a life of crime or tipping the other away and escaping the cycle, like I did.

  ‘I’m after your father,’ I told him with a smile.

  Stefano came to the door. It had been about fifteen years since I had seen him last and he had not aged well. Where once he had a thick mop of black hair, now his head was shaved, revealing a tattoo of an eagle on the side of his neck. There were smoker’s lines above his mouth and his teeth were grey. I saw him look me over, taking in my collared shirt, my clean-shaven face, my gelled hair. At first, his guard was up and then when I smiled, I saw the moment of recognition.

  ‘Marcollo,’ he said, calling me by my old nickname and then swooping his arm around me to pat my back. ‘Ciao amico mio. È tanto tempo che non ti vedo!’ Hello, my friend. Long time no see, he said. He smiled at me, a single gold tooth gleaming amid the grey. Realising I wasn’t a threat, his son, who had been hovering nearby, relaxed his shoulders and walked away.

  ‘Stefano, it’s good to see you. And I see you have a grown son now.’

  ‘That’s Don. I have three kids. Two daughters, both married. Don wants to study like you did.’ He laughed as if the idea was hysterical. ‘But you can’t pay university fees with drug money.’ He stared at my shirt. ‘You’ve changed, you don’t look like a Scampìa kid anymore,’ he said with a grin. ‘What brings you back here?’

  ‘I’m here for a work conference. I’m an archaeologist now,’ I said, and waited for the judgement. As kids, we always laughed at men in suits, who worked jobs from nine to five. We were never going to be like them, nor were we going to be jobless like our fathers. We would backpack through Europe, then open hostels and make our fortunes, become lifelong travellers, never tied to one place. How unkind life had been to him.

  ‘I run into your papà every now and then. He’s not well?’

  I gave a low grunt. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ I said dismissively, the remnants of my smile fading in an instant. As a kid, Stefano had seen me innumerable times with a black eye or a shining new bruise, even cigarette burns. We’d never talk about it. You learn not to. But he’d invite me over to his place for dinner on those nights; sometimes we’d play video games he’d stolen and I’d sleep over on the floor at the foot of his bed. His father also had a sharp fist but at least his mother was around to soften the blows.

  ‘Did you ever find your mamma?’ he asked

  I shook my head and swallowed hard, feeling like there was an olive pip at the back of my throat. He must have realised my parents were subjects I didn’t want to delve into because he quickly steered the conversation elsewhere.

  ‘I remember that dinosaur model you had,’ he said with a grin, his gold tooth poking out from his stained smoker’s teeth. ‘You loved that thing. You’d spend hours putting the tiny bones together. I thought you were crazy!’

  Once, after a school excursion to a dinosaur exhibition, Signora Cavecci had bought me a digging kit for a T. rex model. I treasured it. The bones were buried in a clay mould and it came with a brush and chisel to uncover all the skeleton parts. I was so proud when I finished putting the dinosaur skeleton together that I put it in a box and took it to school to show Signora Cavecci. But when I got there, I was cornered by three boys, who grabbed the box out my hand, smashed the model to pieces and then gave me a beating for a being a ricchione, a faggot. It was Stefano who pulled them off me and then helped me find all the skeleton parts after the boys had gone.

  ‘You always liked to dig beneath the layers. As if you could dig yourself out of this place,’ Stefano said, snapping me out of the memory. ‘But now, Marco, here at Le Vele is just dirt. You can dig and dig, but there is nothing here but bones. Bones of the dead. And that’s the only way you can leave this place. In the ground.’

  Just because my friend was a criminal and poor didn’t mean he wasn’t smart. And his words cut me deep.

  I’d always wanted to repay him for protecting me that day. I’d never thought of a way how – until now. And so, I took out my wallet and placed a large wad of cash in front of him. It wasn’t a ticket to get him out of there. But I hoped it might be for his son.

  SARAH

  It’s only as I settle at the end of the narrow wooden jetty and dangle my feet in the pearl waters of Lake Como that I realise how desperately I needed to get away. My mind feels battered, which is a strange feeling given that it was my body that bore the impact of the accident. Trying to reclaim my memories and to solve the mystery of the disappearing necklace has taken a heavy toll.

  I take in the serenity, the calmness and the freedom of being able to finally slow down. The water curls over my toes and I lean back on my elbows as the sun warms my skin. Light catches on the lake and sparkles like diamonds.

  While I love the sleepless energy of Florence, there is something intoxicating about being surrounded by water and ancient villages that rise like mist over the mountains all around. We took a train from Florence to Milan and then on to Como San Giovanni station. From there, we hopped on a ferry to reach Menaggio, one of the smaller towns on the western shore of the lake. We’ve only just disembarked from the ferry and already I’ve fallen in love with the place.

  The picturesque scene in front of me appears almost like a watercolour painting – the colourful villas in varying colours of ochre, sienna and yellow clutching the rich green mountains. The emerald waters of the wishbone-shaped lake. The tops of the Rhaetian Alps in the distance.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Mamma,’ Emily says, as if reading my mind. She sits beside me, taking her shoes off to feel the water on her feet. ‘Missy is going to be so jealous when I send her a picture of where we are while she’s stuck at school.’ She snaps a selfie, that teen thing that I still can’t wrap my head around, and her fingers move at an impossible speed as she sends a text. I am hopeful that she will part from her phone while we’re here, for a few hours at least.

  I desperately want to use this time to connect with my children, especially Daniel. I don’t want to be a nosy mother but I can’t help but want to know more about his mystery friend and what he’s working on that keeps him locked up in his room for hours.

  ‘Take off your shoes,’ I urge Daniel as he stands next to our luggage on the jetty.

  ‘Yuck, no, don’t,’ Emily teases.

  Egged on, he takes them off and throws a sock at Emily, who winces away and then flicks it onto the wooden deck as if it’s diseased.

  I laugh. I know I’m biased, but my children are beautiful. Emily is the picture of health with her long strawberry-blonde hair. It’s a unique shade, like watered-down red that in certain lights looks entirely blonde. She has my eyes and colouring while Daniel has inherited Marco’s dark looks. His hair is thick and chocolate brown and his skin is tanned all year round. He has the same mysterious, broody features as his father, which is a stark contrast to his soft and kind demeanour.

  ‘So, while we’re here, what do you want to do?’ I ask.

  ‘I want to go shopping in Bellagio,’ Emily says, without hesitation.

  ‘You know that’s the most expensive village here. Clothing shopping is not in our budget for this trip.’

  ‘What if I window-shop and then happen to unexpectedly find something I really need?’ Emily says, with a cheeky grin.

  ‘Nice try,’ I answer. ‘I know all
your tricks, Em. You can’t fool your mother. Your father, maybe, but not me.’

  Mentioning Marco makes me wish he were with us too. While it’s important for me to spend time with my kids, there’s an intimacy I’m craving to rediscover with my husband. He seems distant at the moment but I’m sure it’s just because he has a lot on his mind, with the necklace, my accident, the police investigation and how we are going to dig ourselves out of this mess.

  ‘Well, I’d love to visit Villa del Balbianello and Villa Carlotta in Tremezzo,’ I offer. I’ve already got tourist brochures that reveal the seductively overgrown old vines, covering the villas like blankets, keeping their ancient stories carefully encased within. ‘And the Como Cathedral and Basilica di Sant’Abbondio. Daniel, what about you?’

  ‘Why don’t we just do one of the ferry tours and visit a few of the villages?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. Well, the day is young.’ I smile. ‘Let’s head to the villa, unpack and then we’ll spend the afternoon sightseeing.’

  It’s a short walk from the jetty to James’s villa so we follow his directions, which leads us away from the lakeside road. Daniel pushes the suitcases and Emily insists on carrying my handbag, even though I am more than capable of holding it over my good arm. My wrist is still in a plaster cast but the pain has eased. Thankfully, my headaches seem to have gone and my ribs only hurt when I twist or cough.

  When we reach the address, my pulse quickens. I ask Daniel to check that I haven’t misread it. I look up to see a luxurious two-storey villa that seems large enough to be a boutique hotel. The walls are painted mustard yellow and every window is framed by olive-painted shutters. Small Juliet balconies on the second floor overlook the enchanting lake view.

  ‘Is this is it?’ Emily says, her mouth gaping open.

  ‘This is the address you gave me,’ Daniel says, looking down at the printed details and then back up at the villa.

  We all exchange smiles, not quite believing our luck, and Emmy races down the spacious gravel driveway to explore the grounds.

  I follow Emily to the back of the villa and its tree-lined gardens, covered in beautiful wisteria. There’s a small pool surrounded by sun lounges, overlooking the three branches of Lake Como and the tranquil rolling hills. ‘This is ah-mazing,’ Emily says. ‘I never want to go back to school.’

  Daniel reaches us with the luggage and searches one of the bags for the keys. He unlocks the front door to reveal a grand entrance hallway that leads to spacious ground-floor reception rooms – a drawing room furnished with regal sofas and fine antique furniture, a comfortable sitting room with garden access and a formal dining room.

  We make our way to the huge kitchen, where French doors lead directly out to the sunny garden and a covered dining terrace.

  ‘I get to choose my room first,’ Emily says as she runs upstairs. Daniel rolls his eyes at her and I laugh, happy to see them behaving like playful siblings. I wander through the villa, completely mesmerised.

  There are four beautiful double bedrooms and I find Emily sprawled out like a starfish in the one with orange walls, a Persian rug and an antique wooden bed pressed up against two windows.

  ‘Comfortable?’ I smirk, happy to see her so content. I would have thought the sleepiness of this small town might have bored my young, active daughter but she seems thrilled by our luxurious quarters and the prospect of spending her days here sunbathing. ‘I’m not moving,’ she says with her eyes closed. ‘Let’s see the villages tomorrow and just relax here for the rest of the day.’

  ‘I’m happy with that. We have all week to explore.’

  I walk into the next room and know instantly that it’s my pick for the stay. It’s large and airy, with a salmon-pink king bed facing the window that opens up to a balcony overlooking the lake. Yellow curtains hang on either side of the window and there’s a velvet pink antique chair positioned to its side. I can feel the warm sunlight shine through the tall windows, bouncing off the wood flooring. Closing my eyes, I let the light run through me, a calming energy, and I tell myself that the mystery of the necklace will be solved and Marco and I will get through this.

  Daniel has settled in the bedroom furthest away from the others and I find him staring out the window at the enchanting lake view, with his notebook in hand and his guitar on the bed. ‘Are you going to write some songs while you’re here?’ I ask.

  He turns to see me and I can tell that I’ve caught him deep in thought. How I long to know what it is that makes my son tick, to have a window into his world that seems so far out of my reach.

  ‘I’d like to,’ he says.

  ‘Emmy and I think we should abandon our plans to visit the villages today and save it for tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure,’ he says.

  So we spend the rest of the day lounging by the pool. In the late afternoon, we explore the town centre and browse the bustling bougainvillea-trellised restaurants, making our way through the narrow cobbled streets and up the stone stairs. We dine at a quaint family-run trattoria in the square, with old stone walls decorated with fairy lights and a perfect view of the lake. We order ravioli stuffed with scallops and garganelli pasta with gorgonzola, and a primavera pizza with cherry tomatoes, rocket and shaved parmigiano to share. With full stomachs, we watch as the sky turns dusty pink at sunset, the sun disappearing behind the mountains, transforming the villages across the water into a show of lights. After dinner, we find a hole-in-the-wall gelateria and sit on the ledge of the fountain in the piazza’s centre eating the best stracciatella gelato we’ve ever tasted.

  Before heading back to our villa, we stroll along the boardwalk and gaze up at the luxurious private villas guarded by wrought iron and wisteria. I see amorous couples that I imagine are honeymooners, known in Italian as luna di miele, strolling arm-in-arm, stealing kisses under the moonlight. It makes me think of Marco and how blissfully in love we once were.

  Lying in bed later that night, I call him. ‘This villa is heavenly. I had no idea it would be so opulent. I’ll text you some pictures. It’s enormous and still has its nineteenth-century charm. There’s a pool overlooking the lake, where Emmy positioned herself for most of the day.’

  It’s Marco’s second evening in Naples and he’s stepped outside from a restaurant, where he is having dinner with some of the organisers of the conference. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Marco replies. ‘I’ll send James an email to thank him.’

  ‘Thank you for organising for us to stay here. You were right – I did need a break. And the kids seem thrilled to be here.’

  Hearing his voice when we’re away from each other makes me miss him, even though we’ve only been apart for two days. I think of the smell of his skin, the warmth of his body against mine at night, that comfort of knowing someone so well. Being here, in this romantic village, makes me crave that closeness even though we haven’t been intimate in months. I don’t know what’s changed between us but we need to fix it.

  The moon streams into my room through the open window, its light catching on the lake and the empty space on the bed beside me.

  ‘I wish you were here with us,’ I say. ‘I miss you.’

  ‘Me too,’ he says and then cuts me off. ‘Listen, I better get back inside. I don’t want to be rude.’

  ‘Okay. I love you,’ I say.

  ‘Love you too.’

  As the line goes dead, I wonder if I’m imagining it or if something with Marco is off. And then it dawns on me that he is probably feeling apprehensive about visiting his hometown. It’s been a while since he returned to Naples and, though he won’t discuss it, I know the trauma of his childhood still weighs heavily on him. He never heard from his mother after she abandoned him as a teenager and he’s always wondered what became of her after she left him with his alcoholic father.

  Marco deliberately shed that part of his identity when he left Naples and reinvented himself. It makes me wonder if there are things in all of us that we can only find again in the place where we left them behi
nd.

  DANIEL

  The balcony of Daniel’s room was the perfect place to write lyrics. He settled on a chair, facing the lake. The water was so calm that it looked like a bath. The early morning sun was warm on his skin and the air was charged with a sort of tranquil energy. His mind felt blissfully uncluttered and he realised that for all his father’s faults and flaws, he had been right about them needing a getaway.

  Daniel was trying to write about the feelings of early lust or love, the sense that his body was made of static electricity, that a match could set the pit of his heart alight – but the words were never right, and soon his pages were filled with crosses and messy scribbles. He gazed out at the water every so often, which was when he noticed a man in the distance, shadowed by a tree, his binoculars facing their villa. Daniel startled, thinking at first that the stranger’s binoculars must have been directed elsewhere and Daniel’s position on the second floor had messed with his perception. As he strained to see closer, the man promptly lowered his binoculars and hastily walked away. He was wearing a black cap and sunglasses, and dark-coloured clothing, but Daniel couldn’t see any features of his face from this distance. Daniel tried to keep him in his eyeline but in seconds, he disappeared from view.

  A sense of disquiet settled in his chest. Then fury. His mother’s and sister’s rooms also faced the lake and at this hour maybe the guy was some pervert hoping to see women or even men undressing. Or, he reasoned, it could simply have been a tourist hoping to spot a celebrity; the lake was known for its visits from famous faces. Or maybe he was just checking out the sites of Lake Como. But then he wouldn’t have had his binoculars trained away from the lake –