I smiled. ‘In the Silver Monkey’s apartment. I stole them from him when I came back from the hospital. They’re warm . . .’
‘Doesn’t matter. You’re the best,’ she said and with her Swiss Army knife she opened two, and passed one to me.
‘I don’t like beer . . .’
‘Doesn’t matter. We have to celebrate.’ She put the bottle to her mouth and in one swallow she finished off half. ‘God, beer is so good.’
I put the bottle up to my mouth too and pretended that I didn’t think it was disgusting.
We set the coffee table with a tablecloth we’d found among the Countess’s rags. We lit a candle and polished off the artichokes and two tins of tuna. And biscuits for dessert.
Afterwards, our stomachs full, we flopped onto the settee in the dark of the cellar with our feet up on the coffee table. The flame of the candle lit them up. They were identical. Long and white, with bony toes.
Olivia lit up a Muratti. She puffed out a cloud of smoke. ‘Do you remember when we went to Capri one summer?’
The beer had loosened my tongue. ‘Not really. I just remember there were loads of steps to climb. And there was a well that lizards came out of. And big lemons.’
‘And you don’t remember when they threw you into the water?’
I turned to look at her. ‘No.’
‘We were on Dad’s motorboat in front of the Faraglioni.’
‘I’ve seen the motorboat in photos. It was shiny wood. It was called Sweet Melody II. There’s even a photo where Dad is waterskiing.’
‘This sailor, who was all tanned, he had curly hair and a gold chain, used to drive it. You were terrified of the water. As soon as you saw the beach you would scream until they put your armbands on. You wouldn’t even get on the ferry if you didn’t have them on. Anyway, that day we were out in open water and everyone was swimming and you were wrapped around the ladder like a crab watching us. If anyone suggested you swim you went crazy. Then we caught some sea urchins and we ate them with bread. Dad and the sailor had drunk loads of wine, and the sailor told a story about how to make kids get over their fear of water by throwing them into the sea without water wings or lifejackets. They go under for a bit but afterwards they all learn to swim. You were down in the cockpit playing with your toys, they came up to you from behind, slipped your armbands off and you started wriggling, yelling like they were skinning you alive. I told them to leave you alone, but they wouldn’t listen. And that was it, they threw you in the water.’
I listened to her in awe. ‘And my mother didn’t do anything?’
‘She wasn’t there that day.’
‘And then what happened?’
She smiled. ‘You sank. Dad dived in to get you. But after a second you popped up screaming like a shark had bitten you. You began flapping your arms and . . . you swam.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, doggy paddle, with your eyes popping out of your head and you grabbed onto the ladder and you jumped out like you’d been dipped in lava.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then you ran into the cabin and you curled up on the bunk bed trembling and breathing with your mouth open. Dad tried to calm you down, saying that you’d been very good, that you were a great swimmer, that you didn’t need the water wings any more. But you kept on crying. You yelled at him to go away.’
‘And then what?’
‘You fell asleep all of a sudden. You went down like you’d been given an anaesthetic. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘And you . . . what did you do?’
‘I lay down next to you. Then the motorboat took off. And me and you, we stayed down in the cabin where it smelled of bilge and everything was shaking and rocking.’
‘Me and you?’
‘Yes.’ She took a drag of her cigarette. ‘Me and you.’
‘How weird. I don’t remember anything. Dad never told me about that.’
‘Of course he didn’t, he fucked up . . . And if your mother had found out she would’ve eaten him alive. Can you swim now?’
I shrugged. ‘Yes.’
‘And you’re not afraid of the water?’
‘No. I even did swimming for a while. But I gave it up. I can’t think with water in my ears. I hate the swimming pool.’
Olivia stubbed out the cigarette in the tuna tin. ‘What’s the thing you hate most in the world?’
There were so many things. ‘Surprise parties, maybe. Two years ago my mother organised one for me. All those people wishing me happy birthday. It was a nightmare. New Year’s Eve is another thing I hate. What about you?’
‘Me . . . Let me think. I can’t stand weddings.’
‘Yeah, I hate those too.’
‘Hang on!’ Olivia got up. ‘Look what I found.’ She pulled out a square red suitcase. She opened it. There was a record player inside. ‘Who knows if it still works.’
We plugged it in and the turntable began spinning. She started looking through a box full of records. ‘I can’t believe it . . . Look at this, this is fantastic.’ She pulled out an LP and showed it to me. ‘I love this song.’ She placed it on the turntable and together with Marcella Bella she began to sing in a shaky voice: ‘Mi ricordo montagne verdi e le corse di una bambina con l’amico mio più sincero, un coniglio dal muso nero . . .’ ‘I remember the green mountains and a little girl racing against her dearest friend, a rabbit with a black nose . . .’
I turned down the volume. ‘Quiet . . . Quiet . . . They can hear us. Mrs Barattieri, the Monkey . . .’
But Olivia wasn’t listening to me. She was dancing in front of me, swaying and singing softly: ‘Poi un giorno mi prese il treno, l’erba, il prato e quello che era mio scomparivano . . .’ ‘Then one day he took away my train, the grass, the field and what was mine disappeared . . .’
She grabbed my hands and, looking at me with those magnetic eyes of hers, she pulled me towards her. ‘Il mio destino è di stare accanto a te, con te vicino più paura non avrò, e un po’ bambina tornerò.’ ‘My destiny is to be next to you, with you near me I won’t be afraid, and I will be a little girl again.’
I sighed and, awkwardly, I began to dance. That’s what I hated most. Dancing.
But that evening I danced, and when I danced I felt something I’d never felt before. I felt alive – it took my breath away. In a few hours I would leave that cellar. And everything might go back to the way it was. And yet I knew that beyond that door the world was waiting for me, and that I would be able to talk to the others like I was one of them. Decide to do things and then actually do them. I could leave. I could go to boarding school. I could change the furniture in my bedroom.
The cellar was dark. I could hear the steady breathing of my sister lying on the settee.
She had finished off five bottles of beer and a packet of Muratti cigarettes.
I wasn’t able to fall asleep. I wanted to keep on talking. I was thinking back to the raid on the Silver Monkey, back to when I saw the others leaving for ski week, to the dinner with the beers, my sister and me chatting like adults, dancing to ‘Montagne Verdi’.
‘Olivia?’ I whispered.
She took a while to answer. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you asleep?’
‘No.’
‘What will you do when we get out of here?’
‘I don’t know . . . I might go away.’
‘Where to?’
‘I have a sort of boyfriend who lives in Bali.’
‘Bali? In Indonesia?’
‘Yes, he teaches yoga and does massages in a place by the sea full of palm trees. There are loads of colourful fish. I want to work out whether we’re still together. I want to try and be his woman for real. If he wants me . . .’
‘His woman,’ I murmured with my mouth on the pillow.
He was lucky that guy. He could say, ‘Olivia is my woman.’ I would have liked to go to Bali too. Catch the plane with Olivia. And laugh in the check-in queue without needing to talk. Her and me, f
lying towards the colourful fish. And Olivia would say to her boyfriend, ‘This is Lorenzo, my brother.’
‘What’s your boyfriend’s name?’ I asked, struggling to speak.
‘Roman.’
‘Is he a nice guy?’
‘I’m sure you’d like him.’
It was cool that Olivia knew me well enough to know that I’d like her boyfriend. ‘Listen, I have to tell you something . . . I said I was going skiing in Cortina because I made a huge mess of things. I was at school and I heard that some of my classmates were going skiing. They hadn’t invited me to go. And I really don’t care about going away on trips with other people, but when I got home I told Mum that I’d been invited along too. And she believed me and she was happy and she started crying, and I didn’t have the guts to tell her the truth so I hid out down here. You know what? Since that day I’ve been trying to work out why I told her that lie.’
‘And have you worked it out?’
‘Yes. Because I did want to go. Because I wanted to ski with them – I’m a good skier. Because I wanted to show them the secret slopes. And because I don’t have any friends . . . And I wanted to be one of them.’
I heard her getting up.
‘Move over.’
I made some room and she lay down next to me and hugged me tightly. I could feel her bony knee. I put one hand on her hip, I could count her rib bones, then I rubbed her back. Underneath my fingers, her pointy vertebrae.
‘Olivia, will you promise me something?’
‘What?’
‘That you won’t take drugs ever again. Never ever again.’
‘I swear to God. Never again. I won’t let that happen to me ever again,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘And numb nuts, will you promise that we’ll see each other again?’
‘I promise.’
When I woke up my sister had gone.
She’d left me a note.
Cividale del Friuli
12 June 2010
I have another sip of coffee and read the note again.
Dear Lorenzo,
I remembered that another thing I hate are goodbyes and so I’ve decided to slip out before you wake up.
Thanks for helping me. I’m happy I found a brother hidden in a cellar.
Remember to keep the promise.
Yours,
Oli
P.S. Watch out for the Silver Monkey.
Today, after ten years, I will see her again for the first time since that night.
I fold the note up and put it back in my wallet. I pick up my suitcase and walk out of the hotel.
A cold wind is blowing, but a pale sun has made room in between the clouds and is warming my forehead. I turn up the collar of my coat and cross the street. The suitcase wheels rattle on the cobbles.
This is the street. I walk in through a stone entrance that opens into a square courtyard full of cars.
A doorman points me in the right direction. I open the glass door.
‘Can I help you?’
‘My name’s Lorenzo Cuni.’
He gestures for me to follow as he walks down a corridor. He stops in front of a door. ‘Here we are.’
‘My suitcase?’
‘It’s best you leave it here.’
The room is big, covered in white tiles. It’s cold.
My sister is lying on a table. A sheet covers her up to her neck.
I move closer. I struggle to put one foot in front of the other.
‘Is it her? Do you recognise her?’
‘Yes . . . it’s her.’ I move a little closer. ‘How did you manage to find me?’
‘Your sister’s purse had a little piece of paper with your number on it.’
‘Can I stay with her?’
‘Five minutes.’ He goes out and closes the door.
I lift up the sheet and take her yellow hand. She is skinny like when we were in the cellar. Her face is relaxed and she is as beautiful as ever. She looks like she’s sleeping.
I bend over and put my nose up against her neck.
Olivia Cuni was born in Milan on 25 September 1976 and died at the Bar della stazione in Cividale del Friuli on 9 January 2010 of an overdose. She was thirty-three years old.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication page
Epigraph page
Contents
Introduction
Cividale del Friuli: 12 January 2010
Rome: Ten years earlier
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
Cividale del Friuli: 12 June 2010
Author biography
Niccolò Ammaniti, Me and You
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