trentanove
‘Lucia, there’s something I need to tell you.’
The change in his tone immediately ignited Lucia’s fight-or-flight response, and she felt the magic of the night of passionate sex ebb away. ‘What is it?’
Alex steeled himself and made his way to a freestanding wardrobe in the corner of the room. He opened it and withdrew a large white box, which he set down beside her on the bed. With his lips pressed into a thin line, he realised this would be the moment it could all come undone. ‘You and I have a past. A history.’
‘Together?’
He nodded. ‘ Sì . From long ago.’ He pointed his chin in the direction of the box.
Alex watched with trepidation as Lucia wiggled off the lid and peered inside. What met her eyes was a collection of yellowed newspaper clippings, decades old, meticulously cut with straight edges. She withdrew the first, and immediately recognised what she was reading.
Lucia’s solemn eleven-year-old face looked back at her from the page. She began to tremble.
‘Lucia, I . . .’
‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’ She waved the paper at him.
‘ No . Lucia, please . . .’
‘If this . . .’ She gestured to the bed, ‘. . . was a conquest for you, then well done. You win.’ With an exasperated grunt, she tore the newspaper clipping to shreds and threw the pieces at him.
‘It’s not like that at all, Lucia. Look.’ He pressed the box into her lap, and withdrew the next article. ‘Please, just look.’
Her eyes were darkened pits, and despite the proffered article dangling in front of her, she refused to break his eye contact. ‘Why should I?’
‘Because . . . you and I are the same.’
Her left eyebrow curled ever so slightly, and with an indignant huff she snatched the article from his hand. It began like all the others she had ever read, and in the case of many, even memorised: Venice in a flood of tears . . . High waters quash all hopes . . . Venetian Valentine’s Day Disaster and Wild weather drowns hopes of survivors .
She had built up a solid wall of self-preservation over the years, but nothing could have prepared her for what she was about to learn.
As Lucia’s eyes meticulously scanned every word, Alex made his way back to the bed and sat a short distance away from her. He was waiting for it; the moment she would catch on, put it all together, but how would she take it?
Reading to the end of the page, she flipped over the article then suddenly stopped.
Alex’s heart seized.
Lucia was suddenly faced with a black-and-white photo she had never seen before. There stood eleven-year-old Lucia at the fondamenta with Mariella by her side. Just beyond Lucia, in the background, was a long-legged, dark-haired boy. With the paparazzo visible in the foreground, this photo captured the moment that the infamous photo of Lucia had been taken. And, at that very moment, the boy in the background was pleading with an outstretched hand for it to stop.
Lucia studied his printed face, although it was difficult to discern on the aged paper and bleeding print lines. There was something familiar about him. His deep-set dark eyes and broad shoulders – already broad even though he was only perhaps fifteen or sixteen.
Her eyes returned to the text, and she skim-read ahead before eventually arriving at the names . . . Scarpa, Elio, e moglie, Furlan, Carla, e figlio, Scarpa, Massimiliano . . .
Lucia dropped the article and her hands clamped over her mouth.
Alex inched his way closer to her on the edge of the bed.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she turned to face him, article in hand. ‘Is this you? Are you this boy?’
Alex’s eyes closed slowly, and his head dropped. ‘I wish I wasn’t. But yes, that’s me.’
She ran her finger along the printed names of the deceased family members. ‘And this is your family?’
‘My parents. My brother. I lost them too that night in the accident. My family. Your family. And all the others.’
‘ Dio . . .’ Her green eyes welled with tears and she slowly climbed off the bed and began pacing the apartment.
‘I was born in Perth, in Western Australia, like I told you before, but my papà was Italian. A Venetian. My mamma was Australian, of Italian descent. We were here visiting my nonni when it happened. And after the accident . . . I chose not to return home. Not without them . I just couldn’t. I was sixteen.’
Lucia walked to the window and stared at her own home across Calle del Leone. This was the view of her world that Alex had. Their apartment windows aligned perfectly, and she wondered for a moment how often he stood here and looked out for her, as she did for him. But the realisation brought her back to the present, and the reality of their entwined lives.
Her breath hitched and the tears started to flow once again.
She turned and walked over to him, and with open arms drew him up to standing. She wrapped herself around him in a tight consoling embrace, nuzzling her face into the space at the base of his neck. In return, his arms cocooned her, and the pair stood there unified by their shared grief.
‘I’m sorry that you . . .’ she broke off, sobbing into his shoulder. ‘No one should have to have lived what we have. Especially as children.’
He nodded into her warm fragrant hair. ‘I know.’
Despite having to relive that moment by the fondamenta all over again, Lucia felt some relief in the knowledge that Alex shared this history with her. This terrible, life-changing history. She found comfort and security in their unity – in the fact that he truly understood what it was like – and she squeezed him a little tighter.
Over his shoulder she could see the article on his bed. The image of sixteen-year-old Alex, arm outstretched to the other photographer. She pulled away slightly from his hold and asked, ‘What happened there?’ She gestured to the photo.
Alex drew in a long breath. Collecting the article, he said, ‘After you left on the dinghy, most of the crowd disappeared. I was behind you the entire time. You never saw me.’ His red-veined eyes met hers. ‘After it was all . . . done . . . right before I was put on the next boat . . . I found the paparazzo who took the photo.’
Lucia’s eyes narrowed. ‘And?’
‘I asked him to delete it. But he simply laughed at me.’
‘Why did you ask him to do that?’
‘Because it would have been cruel to publish that photo. Capturing grief and shock like that.’
‘You asked him to do that? Even in your moment of grief and shock?’
Alex’s lips pursed to mask his welling emotions, and he nodded.
She reached across and wrapped her arms around him once again. ‘ Grazie , Alex. You have no idea how much it means to hear this. That photo has haunted me for twenty years.’
Alex’s hand made its way to catch and caress the back of Lucia’s neck, his fingers knitting tightly into the warmth of her long dark hair. Lucia felt so safe yet so vulnerable there with him. And just as she was about to pull back and plant a tender kiss on his lips, something stopped her. She tensed from head to toe, shook her head and took a step back. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I have a question.’
Noting this change in her, Alex suddenly swallowed. ‘Yes?’
‘When did you work out who I was? This shared history? Or, have you known all along?’
No matter his answer, Alex knew he was about to upset her. ‘The morning after you were assaulted in your apartment.’
Lucia’s stomach knotted. ‘So, two weeks ago?’
‘Yes.’ Alex braced himself.
‘And when you came over for the dinner-breakfast, I explicitly asked you if you knew who I was. You said you didn’t—’
‘I lied. I’m sorry.’
Lucia felt winded. The person she had found such comfort in, such a unique bond with, the person she had let into her home and shared intimacy with, had betrayed her. Just like so many others. ‘And you’ve been sitting on this lie, this knowledge. When were you going to tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?’ Her jaw tensed.
‘Luc—’
‘You’ve made a fool of me Alex.’ Her arms dropped defeatedly by her sides. ‘Here I have been worried about you these past two weeks. I could tell something had changed, I sensed you pull away. I was concerned for you . . .’ But then she stopped. ‘That’s it. It’s because of this . Your guilty conscience about keeping this a secret from me.’ She walked over to the window and looked across at La Scuola Rosa. ‘My life is in utter ruins, Alex. I have reached the bottom of the lagoon, and I might as well just drown there. Let Venice take the last of the Trevisans.’
‘I’m sorry, Lucia. We had finally found some peace between us. I didn’t want to ruin that by dredging up the past because I didn’t know how you would take the news. The longer I waited . . . I didn’t want to risk . . . Because I, actually really li—’ He stopped himself. ‘I’m sorry . . .’
Lucia had heard enough. ‘Alex, thank you for last night.’ She gestured to his unmade bed. ‘And thank you for sharing the truth. Better late than never.’
She hurriedly collected her things, and bolted down the stairs to the rear service entry.
‘The truth?!’ Alex called, right before she dipped outside to the service canal landing. ‘You want the truth?’
But she was already gone.
A few hours later, Lucia pressed the buzzer and waited, and within moments she could hear Francesco’s feet padding to the door of his apartment.
‘ Buona Pasqua . . . quasi !’ he announced, flinging it wide open.
Lucia’s vacant expression and paler-than-usual colour made him dramatically retreat a pace, pressing a hand to his chest. ‘What’s wrong with you? How did last night go? I texted you, did you see my messages?’
‘It was Alex.’
‘What do you mean, “It was Alex”?’ Francesco welcomed her inside, and Stefano, who had slept over, joined them in the kitchen.
‘It was Alex all along. The kisser.’
‘WHAT?!’ Francesco’s face erupted with shock. ‘The man? The kisser?’
Stefano looked from one to the other, his hands over his mouth in surprise.
Lucia nodded. ‘It was him. He was there. He had the mask . . .’ She could feel perspiration break out on her brow and her breath grow more laboured.
Sensing her rising panic, Francesco pulled out a chair for her and helped her sit down. ‘ Dio . . .’ he breathed, pouring her a glass of water.
‘And there’s more.’ She took a sip, then set the glass down on the table. ‘Alex lost his family in the same accident that killed my parents.’
Both Francesco and Stefano dropped to their chairs, and Francesco too was growing paler by the second. ‘No . . . this . . . it isn’t . . .’
‘He lost his mamma , papà and brother. And he saw the moment that the . . . the godforsaken photo of me was taken!’
With trembling hands, Francesco shimmied to the edge of his seat to catch Lucia’s bouncing thighs in his hands. ‘No . . .’
‘And Checco . . . he asked the photographer not to publish the photo. He tried to help me. To save me from that. But we know how that played out.’
Francesco flew back in his chair, stunned by the revelation. ‘ Aspetta . . . So you are connected. And have been for decades.’
Lucia nodded again, then succumbed to tears. ‘All this time.’
Francesco’s head dropped into his hands. ‘This is incredible.’ Returning her gaze once more, he said, ‘Are you ok? How do you feel about this?’
‘Confused. Relieved. Angry. It makes no sense.’
‘What do you mean?’ Stefano asked kindly, reaching across to stroke her forearm.
‘Confused because . . . I just didn’t see this coming. Relieved because it’s all out in the open. And angry . . . because he lied to me.’
‘About what?’ Francesco asked, eyes narrowing.
‘I asked him point-blank that night I invited him over for dinner. Breakfast. Whatever. “Do you know who I am?” He said he knew nothing of anything. I’m just Lucia Trevisan. But he had worked out how he knew me by then.’
Stefano and Francesco locked eyes and shared a knowing look.
‘Did he explain why he lied?’ Francesco asked.
Through her shame, she said, ‘Because he knew the news would upset me. He backed himself into a corner. And he didn’t want to break the new peace and trust we’d built.’
Francesco exhaled then rubbed his eyes in frustration. ‘Ok, all this aside.’ He waved his hands through the air to indicate the messiness of the situation. ‘How do you feel about Alex?’
‘I’m disappointed and conf—’
‘No. About Alex. About him.’
With a tired sigh, Lucia admitted, ‘I think I could really like him.’
Stefano sat back in his chair and allowed a small smile to bloom on his face. ‘Contempt can breed love.’
Lucia exhaled. ‘Love? This thing Alex and I share isn’t even love-adjacent.’
‘But it could be,’ Francesco teased.
‘I have been to hell and back these past few months. Decades . . .’
‘You can’t use that excuse anymore, Lucia,’ Francesco said with a pointed finger. ‘Because it seems Alex has too.’
Lucia was silent for a moment. She catalogued in her mind all the feelings she had experienced since 23.59. Hope. Trepidation. Relief. Pleasure. Fear. Shock. Anger. A complete kaleidoscope of ups and downs. And then the sensation of Alex’s naked body wrapped around hers, the way he had completed her so perfectly, moulded to her form so uniquely, smothered her worry. ‘We had sex last night.’
‘Sex?’ Francesco blurted.
‘And it was so good.’ She folded over on herself, hugging her knees. ‘He felt like a second skin. Like a custom fit. Tailored and taut.’
‘Like a black leather mask?’ Francesco said, grinning.
She raised her head and served him with a flash of a playful disapproving glare. ‘The universe has a sick sense of humour.’