The Perfect Couple

by Lexi Landsman

  He looked around her small studio apartment, which was decorated with an eclectic range of colourful pieces. The space was divided by a bookcase that was filled to the brim with books. In front of it was a worn leather couch decorated with animal-print cushions. Framed posters of vintage ads hung on the walls. Every inch of space was taken up so it felt cosy, albeit a little cluttered.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked.

  ‘A year,’ she replied. ‘It was the only place I could afford. The hot water barely ever works. The windows rattle. It’s not luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s home and I love it. I know every nook and cranny – where the chipped tiles are, where ants sneak in under a floorboard, where the previous owner dropped pink nail polish. My favourite thing is to sit there and watch people pass by,’ she said, pointing to an antique blue-and-white chequered fabric chair beside a small, round perspex table by the window. ‘I draw my jewellery designs there too.’

  Daniel could picture her sitting there, the light on her skin, the breeze tussling her short hair, her pencil poised as she stared at the streetscape three floors down.

  ‘And where is home for you?’

  ‘I still live with my parents,’ he admitted, ashamed. ‘We’ve been in Florence for about two years now. We move around a lot, so I don’t really have a fixed address. Europe is my home,’ he said in a playful tone, to hide the sore truth that he didn’t feel a grounding sense of place, an anchor to return to when life got tough.

  Daniel joined her at the table and she poured him a mug of coffee with some cold milk. ‘What’s the longest you’ve ever lived in one place?’

  Daniel thought for a while. ‘We spent about four years based out of London and maybe three in Rome. When I was little, my parents worked on a cave in the Pilbara region of Western Australia for about two years, maybe more.’

  She cupped her coffee mug to warm her hands, her eyes wide. ‘I’d love to go to Australia. One day, I hope I will.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Daniel noticed his phone flashing on her bedside table. He grabbed it to see about fourteen missed calls from his mother, and a series of text messages that grew progressively more panicked. He hadn’t planned on being out all night and it suddenly dawned on him that his parents would have been alarmed when he didn’t return home.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ he said to Caterina, even though all he wanted to do was pull her back into bed with him and lie there until day turned into night. ‘I’ve got help my mamma with a few things.’

  Her eyes were alight with energy. ‘Why don’t I come too? I’d love to meet your parents.’

  ‘Not today,’ Daniel said quickly, pulling on his jeans. It was the second time she had suggested meeting his parents and he hated to think that it could be because she was keen to know his famous father.

  Clearly bruised, Caterina turned to stare out the window, folding her arms over her baggy T-shirt. Daniel came up behind her and rubbed her shoulders. ‘My mother is still recovering and she doesn’t want visitors yet.’ He kissed her. ‘I’d love you to come over when she’s well enough.’

  As he headed home, he wasn’t sure why her suggestion made him deeply uncomfortable. Was it that meeting his parents was a sign of commitment that he wasn’t ready for? Was it, perhaps, that he was worried she might not meet his parents’ expectations? No. It was none of those things. So, reluctantly, Daniel was forced to confront the truth of what he knew deep down but hadn’t wanted to admit. Even to himself.

  He didn’t want Caterina to meet his father.

  Marco was a womaniser and, Daniel knew now, a philanderer too, and for whatever reason, women seemed to swoon over him. Of course, his father would never dare flirt with his own son’s girlfriend, or so Daniel hoped; it was, perhaps, a fear that she would flirt with him. Caterina had shown interest in his father’s work and seemed somewhat intrigued by him. Daniel told himself that it was foolish to think he had anything to be afraid of. After all, Caterina was only twenty years old. But then again, Sofia wasn’t much older.

  It was Sofia who changed his relationship with his father irreversibly, that day he caught them kissing – so-called student and teacher – at Le Pavoniere pool a few months back. Daniel had gone there on one of the days his parents thought he was at university. He had recognised Sofia from a distance. She was hard to miss. Busty and blonde, with long legs and dark tanned skin. At first, she was just dangling her legs in the water and so Daniel had started walking towards her to say hello. He often chatted to her when he visited his parents’ excavation site because their closeness in age meant he had more in common with her than the others. As he neared Sofia, he saw an older man sit beside her, placing one arm around her waist and using his other hand to tilt her face towards his to kiss her. It was only when the older man pulled away that Daniel realised with a jolt that it was his father.

  First, all Daniel felt was shock and disbelief. Marco had never been perfect but Daniel had overlooked his faults and flaws because he was his father. So, seeing him cheat on his mother, and with a woman closer to Daniel’s age than his own, felt like the ultimate betrayal. The anger was overwhelming. Not only did his father have a mistress but he was brazen and tactless enough to flaunt their affair in a public place. He thought of his loving and doting mother, and how she would feel knowing that her husband was having an affair. Daniel had wanted to go right up to his father and punch him in the face. How dare he do that to his mother? But instead, Daniel had left the pool and had swallowed what he’d seen, silenced it, hoping that if he didn’t think about it, he could tuck it away so that he wouldn’t feel its hurtful edges.

  Since then, Daniel had avoided his father; he couldn’t look at him, couldn’t even bear to be in the same room. Anger rose in Daniel whenever he replayed what he saw that day at the pool, and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was his father’s first affair. Would it be better to be blissfully ignorant, to be unaware of Marco’s mistakes and weaknesses, lies and secrets?

  Witnessing his father’s adultery and then later, watching his mother recover from her car accident, had made Daniel think a lot about memory. If only we could choose the memories we wanted to keep and the ones we’d rather dispose of. Like picking photos off a reel, you’d print the shiny, unblemished ones and then simply dispose of all the others. With one gesture, any negative moments would be gone, erased entirely from your memory in order for your life to be composed of only picture-perfect snapshots.

  But now Daniel knew that even if he blocked certain memories, they wouldn’t go away. They would sit there, in the far recesses of his mind, growing and festering like a boil.

  When Daniel got back home, he opened the door to find his mother sitting on the sofa in her gown, her hair a mess, heavy rings under her eyes. She stood up when she saw him and gave him a tight hug, forgetting about her healing ribs for a moment and then wincing back in pain. She crossed her arms. ‘God, Daniel. You gave me a heart attack. What were you thinking not letting us know you weren’t coming home? I’ve been worried sick. I haven’t slept at all. Especially after everything that’s happened.’

  He looked down meekly. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I should have called.’

  She scanned his face. ‘Well, where were you?’

  Daniel could feel his cheeks redden. ‘I stayed at a friend’s place.’

  ‘Well, in future, could you show me some respect by letting me know where you are? I nearly called the police, Daniel. With my accident and all this media attention, I need to know where you and Emily are all the time. Okay?’

  He wanted to tell her that he was twenty and too old to be mollycoddled, but she looked so overwhelmed that he just said what she wanted to hear. ‘I’m really sorry, Mamma. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Well, I guess now is as good a time as any to spend some quality time together. Just you, me and Emmy. I’ve booked train tickets for us so we can spend a few days next week in Lake Como at Dad’s friend�
��s holiday house.’

  Daniel smiled at the suggestion of an unexpected holiday. Then he paused and narrowed his eyes. ‘And Papà?’

  She looked out the window now, her tone neutral. ‘Your dad actually has a conference in Naples to go to.’

  Daniel dropped his hands to his sides, his palms splayed up and open in mix of anger and confusion. ‘He’s going away now, after everything that’s happened?’

  ‘I know it seems sudden but it’s really important for his career.’

  Daniel hated how his mother always put his father’s career and needs ahead of her own. She constantly made excuses for him. ‘There are conferences all the time. Why does he have to go to this one?’

  She still didn’t look at him when she answered. ‘He’s the guest speaker. It’s just for a few days. And anyway, I’m recovering well and I’ve got you and Emmy here with me.’ Her mouth tilted up in a half-smile but her eyes remained the same.

  While Daniel would ordinarily have loved a getaway to Lake Como, he wasn’t keen on the thought of not seeing Caterina. But of course, he had to go. His mother needed him now and unlike his father, he didn’t run away from his responsibilities.

  ‘Do you think you could take some time off from your studies?’

  Guilt stabbed at him as he lied. ‘I’ve done all my assignments, so it won’t be an issue to miss a few days.’

  ‘Good. It will be so nice to spend time together, just the three of us.’

  Daniel put his arm around his mother and hugged her gently. ‘You’re okay, then, with Papà not coming?’

  Sarah gave a simple nod of her head and then quickly changed the subject. ‘Now promise me you won’t scare me again like you did last night! You might be taller than me and twenty years old already, but you’ll always be my little boy. I wouldn’t survive if anything ever happened to you or Emmy.’

  MARCO

  We all have choices in life. But making a choice and being able to follow through with it are two different things. I made the decision as a child that I didn’t want to stay in the towers of Scampìa in Naples. That I didn’t want a life of unemployment, or drugs, or crime. And mostly, that I didn’t want to be anything like my father. But when you’re born into a certain way of life, it’s often impossible to break the cycle. It certainly seemed that way for me.

  So, when I arrived in Naples, I didn’t get that happy sense of nostalgia that most people would have returning to their home city. As an archaeologist, I should have been in my element – after all, Naples was home to the largest historic centre in Europe, enclosing twenty-seven centuries of history.

  It always seemed ironic to me that the place that saved me from my fate was also the place that could so easily have led to my demise. As a child, my perspective of the city was of the graffiti and grime. It wasn’t until my high school teacher, Signora Cavecci, introduced me to the study of archaeology that I realised I was living in one of the most ancient cities in Europe, a place rich in archaeological treasures. Maybe it was because my present and future seemed so bleak that I became so fascinated with the past. Signora Cavecci saw promise in me and singlehandedly turned my life around. If it wasn’t for her belief in me, her help in filling out my university applications and steering me towards a career in academia and archaeology, I would probably still be living in Vele di Scampìa, another child lost to the cycle of drugs and poverty.

  I checked into my hotel in the city centre, which was only a three-kilometre walk to the Naples National Archaeological Museum, where the conference was being held. It housed one of the most valuable collections of art and artefacts of archaeological significance in Italy, boasting extensive collections of Roman and Greek antiquities, including mosaics, sculptures, gems, glass and silver that were unearthed during excavations of Pompeii and Herculaneum.

  As soon as I arrived in Naples, I developed a splitting headache. It was like a bad omen. The place just made me feel sick to my core. Even though I was staying far from the haunting grounds of my childhood, being in the city made me anxious.

  I looked out the window of my hotel room at tattered laundry, strung like flags between the closely set buildings, the early morning light catching on their bright colours as they rose up, level after level, to an overcast sky. In an alleyway below, boys wearing SSC Napoli football shirts were kicking a ball. I listened to them shouting che parata, what a save, and il fallo, foul, and il passaggio, pass, and thought of my childhood and the afternoons I had spent playing football just like them. It was a poor existence but we were happy most of the time because we didn’t know otherwise, and somehow we found ways to keep ourselves entertained.

  I took painkillers to dull my headache and walked to the museum and mentally ran through the main points of my opening address. Naples was the place that taught me how to wear masks to hide sore truths, so I pushed my discomfort away and felt myself embody my public persona.

  When I arrived, the delegates were milling around as champagne and canapés were served. I was usually in my element at social events, savouring any opportunity to tell a fieldwork story and command the attention of the room. Archaeologists were so rarely charismatic people, so I enjoyed standing out. But now I entered cautiously, knowing that most of them would have read the newspaper articles and be fully aware of the cloud that hung over me. So when fellow archaeologists that I’d worked with in the past probed me about the missing necklace and Sarah’s accident, I was clipped and dismissive, telling them I was not at liberty to discuss anything until the police had concluded their investigation.

  I was relieved to be done with the small talk when the conference director stepped onto the podium and gave the opening address before introducing me as the guest speaker.

  ‘Archaeologist, doctor, professor, historian and television host Marco Moretti has travelled across the globe unearthing some of the world’s most valuable antiquities,’ he said to the crowded room. ‘When he’s not at the bottom of a trench, you can find him in front of the camera, guiding viewers through the fascinating worlds of the past. Most recently, he made waves with his published paper on the San Gennaro necklace.’

  He looked down at his notes and paused, swallowing. I started to feel dizzy as I heard the crowd stir and felt their eyes on me. The necklace now felt like a burn mark right through the list of my accomplishments, and it would remain so until it was returned. The director quickly gathered his composure and continued after what felt like hours, though must have only been seconds.

  ‘It gives me great pleasure to invite Marco Moretti to officially open the Roman Archaeology Conference, which fittingly this year is in his birthplace – Naples. What better place for him to revisit the past,’ he said with a smile, oblivious to how deeply his words cut me.

  I usually loved being on the podium and the rush of having all eyes fixed on me, but his introduction had thrown me and I was uncharacteristically nervous. As I spoke, I thought about how I could have – should have – been up there gloating about my discovery of a lifetime. I should have been standing in front of a room of jealous archaeologists but instead I was bathing in humiliation.

  I so desperately wanted my moment of glory. So, as I stood there, feeling the heat of failure emanating from their eyes, I resolved to do whatever it took to reclaim the glory that was owed to me.

  In the afternoon, as I wandered aimlessly around the port of Naples, watching cruise ships and ferries come and go, I realised that I could spend the next three days there until my closing address pretending like I was just another tourist in the city and not a man treading lightly in a place that still pulled at his soul.

  Naples was like a living, breathing being. I could feel it pulse in my chest, sucking the energy from me, holding my throat in a vice. I had a strange feeling that if I took a wrong step, the ground would open up beneath me, and I’d be stuck back there forever.

  It wasn’t just the city that scared me, it was knowing that somewhere, far past the Gulf of Naples and the lure of the sea, past t
he glossy shopping district of Chiaia and the tantalising scents of freshly baked pizza, was my father.

  I had no intention of seeing him despite the fact that I had decided to visit my old friend, Stefano Gianno, who lived in the same tower, a mere six floors below. I hadn’t seen Stefano for a long time but news travelled far and I knew the passing years had not been as kind to him as they had to me. He was a good man but he was born, just like I was, into a life of poverty and poor parenting. And despite his best efforts to escape the path that seemed predetermined for all Scampìa children, he was inevitably sucked into a life of crime.

  I hopped in a taxi and cringed when I told the driver to take me to Vele di Scampìa. I knew my father still lived there because the only time I’d ever heard from him was when he needed money. With the torment he caused me throughout my childhood, you’d think I would have let him rot in that place, and not share a dime with the old bastard. But I had too much pride. So, I’d sent him money when he’d asked for it because I wanted him to know that I was nothing like him. That I’d made a life and a career for myself, and hadn’t turned into a pathetic, jobless alcoholic like him.

  I stared out the window as the suburbs passed by, feeling a nauseating knot in my stomach. When the cab pulled up in front of the towers, I looked up at their imposing sail-like structures and felt like a boy again – full of fear and dread. They had decayed. A mural on the front wall had faded and been overrun by crude graffiti; rubbish was strewn all around. The concrete was blackened and entire building levels had smashed windows. Children rode bikes around dead rats and piles of syringes.

  Like some form of muscle memory, I felt my body slouch and my shoulders hunch. A spiral of insecurity made its way down my spine. I tried to shrug it off and gather myself. I was a grown man. I was not a child. I was not afraid of my father. I repeated those lines to myself as I came to a stop at the door to Tower Two. I should have changed out of my collared shirt and suit pants but I hadn’t thought ahead. I was asking for trouble. I could almost feel the glare of eyes in windows staring down at me. I was fresh prey. I didn’t look like someone who was accustomed to these dark corridors. They could catch me unaware, hold a knife or gun to my head, demand money. What they didn’t know was that I was just a Scampìa kid dressed up in fancy clothes.