Me and You (6 page)

‘Thanks.’

‘By the way, your face is orange. You overdid the fake tan.’ And she closed the door.

Operation Bunker was falling apart. Mum wanted to speak to Alessia’s mother. Olivia had found me. And I had a fluorescent face.

I kept looking at myself in the mirror and rereading the tanning instructions. It didn’t say anything about how long it took to go away.

I found an old bottle of Jif Lemon, smeared it all over my face, and then lay down on the bed.

The only thing I was sure of was that Olivia wouldn’t say anything. She didn’t seem like the sort of person who would tell on me.

After ten minutes I washed my face but it was just as orange as before.

I rummaged through my sister’s big box. Everything had just been chucked in, mostly clothes and shoes. An old laptop. A manual camera without a lens. A statue of Buddha made of smelly
wood. Sheets of paper with stuff written on it in big round handwriting. The majority were lists. People to invite to a party. Shopping lists. In a light blue folder I found some photographs of
Olivia when she was still in good shape. In one of them she was lying on a red velvet settee, wearing just a man’s shirt, part of her boob was visible. In another shot she was sitting on a
chair, a cigarette in her mouth, putting on her stockings. The one I liked the most was one of her taken from behind with her head turned towards the camera. With one hand she covered her boob. And
her legs looked like they were never-ending.

I shouldn’t even think about her. Olivia was fifty per cent my sister.

Among the photos there was a small one, in black and white. My father, with long hair, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, sitting on the bollard of a jetty with a little girl, probably Olivia,
who was sitting on his knee and eating an ice cream.

I burst out laughing. I would never have imagined that when he was young my father would have dressed so badly. I’d always known him with greying hair cut short and a grey suit with a tie
and the shoes with holes in them. But here, with his hair like an old-fashioned tennis player’s, he looked happy.

There was even a letter that Olivia had written to Dad.

I read it three times. I hadn’t realised that Olivia hated Dad so much. I knew they didn’t get on, but he was her father, after all. I mean, give him a break! If you didn’t
know Dad you might think he wasn’t that nice. He looked like one of those men who takes himself too seriously, as though they carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. But if you met
him at the beach in summer or on the ski slope he would be very polite and nice. Anyway, Olivia was the one who had decided not to see him any more. She was the nasty one who had ganged up on him
with the dentist. Dad was doing his best to rebuild their relationship.

‘“Diary of a Hatred” . . . That’s crazy. And what does she need all that money for anyway?’ I said. I’d done the right thing not giving her mine. She
didn’t deserve it. And she’d even had photos taken in the nude.

I threw all the stuff back inside the box and put it back behind the door.

It must have been about three a.m. and I was floating in the dark, headphones on, playing Soul Reaver, when I had the feeling that there had been a noise in the cellar. I took
the headphones off and slowly turned my head.

Someone was knocking at the window.

I jumped backwards and a tingle slid down my spine like I had hairs on my back and somebody was caressing them. I swallowed a scream.

Who could it be?

Whoever it was wouldn’t stop knocking.

The windows reflected the bluish glare of the TV screen and me, standing up, terrified.

I tried to swallow. My head was spinning in fear. Inhaling and exhaling, I had to keep calm. There was no danger. There were bars on the window and nobody could slip through them.

I turned on the torch and shakily pointed it at the window.

Behind the glass Olivia was gesturing to me to open up.

‘Fuck!’ I snorted. I went to the window and threw it open. Icy air slipped in. ‘What do you want now?’

Her eyes were red and she looked really tired. ‘Fuck. I was knocking for half an hour.’

‘I had my headphones on. What is it?’

‘I need hospitality, little brother.’

I pretended I didn’t understand. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that I don’t have anywhere to sleep.’

‘And you want to sleep here?’

‘Well done.’

I shook my head. ‘No way.’

‘Why?’

‘Because. This is my cellar. I’m here. There’s only room for one person.’

She looked at me in silence, like she thought I was joking.

‘I’m sorry, that’s the way it is. I really can’t . . .’

She shook her head disbelievingly. ‘It’s freezing cold. It must be minus five out here. I don’t know where the fuck to go. I’m asking you a favour.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You know what? You’re your father’s son.’

‘Our father,’ I corrected.

She pulled out a packet of Marlboro and lit one. ‘Can you explain to me why I can’t stay here tonight? What’s the problem?’

What should I say to her? I was getting really angry. I could feel it pushing up against my diaphragm. ‘You’ll mess everything up. There isn’t any room. It’s dangerous.
I’m here undercover. I can’t open the door for you. Go somewhere else. In fact, I’ve got an idea. Ring the buzzer upstairs. They’ll put you up in the guest room.
You’ll be much more comfortable . . .’

‘I’d rather sleep on a park bench in Villa Borghese than sleep with those two tossers.’

Who did she think she was? What had Dad done to deserve such a daughter? I kicked the wall. ‘Please . . . I’m begging you . . . everything is just perfect in here. I’ve
organised everything and now you arrive and mess it all up . . .’ I realised I had started to whine and I hated whining.

‘All right . . . What’s your name? Lorenzo. Lorenzo, listen carefully. I’ve been good to you. This morning you asked me not to say anything and I didn’t say anything. I
didn’t ask you anything. I don’t want to know. That’s your business. I am asking you a favour. If you come out for just a moment and open the main door I’ll come in. Nobody
will see us.’

‘No. I swore I wouldn’t come out.’

She looked at me. ‘Who did you swear that to?’

‘To myself.’

She took a drag of her cigarette. ‘Fine. You know what I’ll do? I’ll start ringing the buzzer and I’ll tell them you’re down in the cellar. What do you think of
that?’

‘You wouldn’t . . .’

A smug little smile came appeared on her face. ‘You don’t think so? You don’t know me . . .’ She moved towards the middle of the garden and in a fairly loud voice said,
‘Listen up, everyone! Can you hear me? A boy is hiding in the cellar. It’s Lorenzo Cuni, who’s pretending to be away on ski week . . . Hello . . .’

I threw my arms against the bars and I begged, ‘Shut up! Shut up, please.’

She looked at me in amusement. ‘So, are you going to let me in or do I have to wake up the whole building?’

I couldn’t believe how sly she was. She’d completely fucked me over. ‘All right, but you have to leave tomorrow morning. Promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘I’m coming. Go round to the main door.’

I ran out in such a rush that I only noticed when I was halfway along the corridor that I wasn’t wearing shoes. I had to be super-quick. Luckily it was late. My parents were often out in
the evening, but not until three in the morning.

Imagine if when I open the main door I run straight into my parents on their way in. I would look so stupid, I thought as I jumped up the stairs two at a time and dodged past the porter’s
flat. At night there was no need to worry about the Silver Monkey. His wasn’t sleep but a sort of hibernation, he’d explained to me, and his disrupted sleeping pattern was all the fault
of the gypsies. One night, about three years ago, they had entered his house and sprayed an anaesthetic in his face. With all the houses nearby full of money, paintings and jewellery those morons
had broken into the Silver Monkey’s flat. They took a pair of binoculars and a radio. Anyway, the poor guy had slept for three days straight. They hadn’t even been able to keep him
awake in the hospital emergency ward. He explained to me that since that night he always felt sleepy and when he did go to bed he slept so deeply that ‘if an earthquake hits, I’m
fucked. What the hell did those gypsy bastards spray me with?’

I crossed the foyer. The marble was cold beneath my feet.

I opened the main door and she was standing there, waiting for me.

‘Thanks, little brother,’ she said.

6

Olivia sat down on the settee. She took off her boots, crossed her legs and lit up another cigarette. ‘It really is a nice little spot here. Very cosy.’

‘Thanks,’ I answered as if it were my house.

‘Have you got anything to drink?’

‘There’s some fruit juice, some warm Coke and water.’

‘Don’t you have any beer?’

‘No.’

‘Some juice then.’ She ordered as if she were in a café.

I brought her the bottle and she took a big swig and wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘This is the first quiet moment of my day.’ She rubbed her eyes and puffed out a
cloud of smoke. ‘I need to rest.’ She let her head fall back against the settee and sat there, just staring at the ceiling.

I watched her silently not knowing what to say. Maybe she didn’t feel like talking, or she didn’t consider me someone she could chat with. So much the better.

I lay down and began reading, but I couldn’t concentrate. I studied her from behind the book. She had the cigarette in her mouth and her eyes were closed. The ash was growing longer but
she didn’t tap it off. I was worried that it would fall on her and burn her. Maybe she was sleeping.

‘Are you cold? Do you want a blanket?’ I asked her just to see.

It took her ages to answer me. With her eyes closed she said, ‘Yes, thank you.’

‘These are the Countess’s . . . They’re old and they smell a bit.’

‘The Countess?’

‘Yeah, she lived in the house before we did. Seems like Dad bought the house and he didn’t even kick her out. He waited for her to die. To give her a hand. All this stuff is from her
house.’

‘Ah. He bought the residual life estate.’

‘What?’

‘You don’t know what residual life estate is?’

‘No.’

‘It’s when someone who doesn’t have any relatives or any more money sells their house below market value, but can go on living there until they die . . . It’s not easy to
explain.’ She laughed to herself. ‘Wait. I’ll explain it better . . .’ She was speaking slowly, like she couldn’t find the words. ‘Imagine you’re old and
you’ve got nobody, and you get fuck all from your pension. So what do you do? You sell your house with you in it and then when you die the house and everything in it goes to the person who
bought it . . . Get it now?’

‘Yes.’ I hadn’t understood. ‘For how long, though?’

‘It depends when you die. A day or ten years. You might sell the residual life estate and live for another twenty years.’

‘How come?’

‘I don’t know . . . But I think that if people are hoping you’ll die . . .’

‘So if you buy the house you hope the old lady dies quickly? That’s not nice.’

‘Clever boy. So Dad . . . bought your . . . house when the . . .’ And she stopped. I waited for her to finish but I saw that her arms had flopped to the side like she’d been
shot in the chest. The cigarette, hanging from her lips, had burned itself out, and the ashes had fallen onto her neck.

I crept towards her and put my ear up against her face. She was breathing.

I took the stub out of her mouth and then I got a blanket and put it over her.

When I woke the sun was already high in a blue cloudless sky. The palm tree shook, moved by the wind. It was a perfect day for skiing in Cortina.

Olivia was curled up on the settee and was sleeping with her face squashed up against a grubby cushion. She must have been really tired.

‘Let’s leave her be a little longer,’ I said to myself and I remembered my mobile was turned off. As soon as I turned it on I got three texts. Two from my mother. She was
worried and wanted me to call her as soon as we reached a place where there was reception. One from my father. It said that Mum was worried and to call her as soon as I had reception again.

I had breakfast and then I settled down to play Soul Reaver.

Olivia woke up an hour later.

I kept playing but every now and then I sneaked a look at her. I wanted to make it clear to her that I was tough, someone who didn’t need anyone.