By Annette Koco
MARGHERITA
Margherita walked the long cobblestone path down to the lake as she had done so many times before. The stone steps were steeply terraced and regularly punctuated by large pots of red geranium. Botticelli angels decorating the urns were chipped in places, and the once smooth terracotta was now crazed with fine cracks in their façade. Cypress columns lining the path to the water stood tall, stoic and seemed to have survived the ravages of time far better than she. As the cool summer breeze whipped up from the water, fine wisps of grey hair escaped her messy bun.
The vista from the Montinao estate still took Margherita’s breath away. Her eyes squinted in the early morning sunlight, which shimmered on the horizon as she took in the distant blue of the Italian Alps. The sprawling pastel-coloured villas that dotted the coastline and marched back up the surrounding hills spoke of generations of privilege. Though she recognised beauty when she saw it, this place also left her with an undeniable sense of unease. Most of these estates had been held by the same families for centuries, and the Montinao estate was no different.
When Margherita arrived at the spot where the summer house once stood, she stopped to breathe in the familiar lemon-scented air. Her knees creaked when she bent down and stared at the small white cross on the grassy mound. This was the cross Marco kept asking about – he really could be so annoying – she realised he could bring it all undone. All the while, she had to play nice and was still expected to be his loyal little supplicant. She was only ‘the help,’ after all. The ‘help’ his father liked to screw over in more ways than one.
She had played nursemaid to Marco his entire life, and here he was, still messing with her. The entitled little shit – he was a Montinao, after all.
Sibella deserved that name as much as he did, Margherita thought and twisted the rings on her heat-swollen tubby fingers .
Margherita felt the anger rise from her stomach; the bitter pill of injustice only added to her constant state of indigestion.
Not much longer, she reminded herself.
Lydia’s funeral and the reading of the will were tomorrow. However, she realised that the closer she came to success, the greater the danger she faced. Marco needed to stop asking about this damn cross and who was buried there. If he didn’t, it could ruin everything. All her meticulous planning would have been for nothing – learning Sofia’s accent, quirky mannerisms, habits, the fire, all of it.
Sibella had been an excellent mimic, thank God, and thought of it as a game – those days growing up by the lake had taught her a lot.
The shadows from the trees above swayed, and sunlight dappled in and out as her thoughts danced over the years. Tears welled in her eyes as she continued to stare at the cross. She thought of what might have been and who lay there.
When she first met Stefano, things had been very different. But that all changed when he met Lydia in Rome that Summer in ‘65.
She thought about Sibella’s troubled childhood. The golden years of childhood the Montinao’s look back on so fondly were not so golden for Sibella – always hiding in the shadows, never daring to venture up to the villa on the hill. Stashed away, she was like damaged goods in the little oak cabin down by the lake. Margherita could never risk Stefano seeing her, so she kept her daughter close.
Margherita used to enjoy watching Sibella as a toddler play with the Montinao’s children. She had once hoped they would get along – be friends – but they never even gave her a chance.
After Margherita had finished the cleaning, she would often sit and watch the children while her knitting needles clicked and clacked away. Invisible to them, she listened, observed and heard the mean games they would play. The haunting laughter of Sofia when she joked to Marco, ‘I wonder how long she’ll wait for us to find her before she works out we’re not looking?’ The teasing about her skinny legs, her alopecia. Then when they were teens, the games got meaner. These memories solidified her resolve the night of the fire. She knew she was doing the right thing – though being Catholic, she knew God may not see it that way.
The day of Lydia’s funeral finally came, and Margherita was once again expected to play nice with the Montinaos. She had become a decent actress after years of practice at stifling emotions.
The funeral was to be held in a small chapel at the family’s crypt in Milan. This would, unfortunately, necessitate a trip down the SS340. Something she had neither the time nor inclination for, but hey, they were ‘family.’
She threw down a quick espresso, pursed her red lips and hit the express lane.
Margherita arrived at the Milan cemetery in time to witness the cavalcade of Aston Martin DB 9’s, Ferrari 380’s and Porsche 911’s – an elite supermarket of supercars – in this carpark, they were the equivalent of a Toyota Hilux Ute. She drove around until she found a discreet spot down the back under an old olive tree. She parked her aging grey Mitsubishi, with its’ soft patina of rusting paint and familiar ding in the front passenger panel; the ding Marco put there when he kicked it the Christmas Stefano forgot to come home. When she locked the car and walked past the flaking paint on the bonnet, she felt a pang of embarrassment.
As she walked along the pine-tree-lined grove to the chapel, she saw them milling about in their Italian designer labels, naturally, all in respectable black. A veritable parade of Italian fashion through the ages; Prada, Dolce e Gabbana, Gucci, and Versace; the women accessorised with sky-high, spindly stilettos.
How chic, she thought and raised a judgmental brow.
Over by the priest, Stella, Marco’s wife, mooning about. She is the worst of them, she thought – new money. Of course, we all knew why she stayed with that philandering husband of hers – and it was not his looks, though they were good. The prim little blunt-cut bob wasn’t fooling anyone. She’s honestly as bad as he is – running about town with his accountant was the word – she could be more imaginative, but at least it’s not the proverbial pool man or gardener. Now that really would be a cliché.
There was Marco, sauntering around in his mirrored sunglasses, black Armani suit and loafers – no socks. Margherita looked over, caught his eye, and shot him a look calibrated with just the right amount of confected sorrow. Was he thinking about the past too? She wondered. Did he ever feel as guilty as she did? Did he still blame himself for the fire? And did he feel guilty about Lydia too?
Marco had ignored her pleas for help towards the end, just like she ignored Sofia’s.
How was she going to get through today? It honestly felt like moving uphill through thick, soupy polenta.
Margherita did feel a little guilty about Lydia, though. But then Lydia had betrayed her in the most primal way when she had Stefano insist on an abortion. Luckily, Lydia was never one to follow up.
The sight of Stefano’s tombstone, overgrown with moss, even though it had only been two years, took her back in much the same way as the cross had yesterday. Transporting her to a different time – where moments froze over, and time moved at a glacial pace. They tormented her on repeat. Those moments when she still had time to save Sofia from the fire.
‘Beloved husband of Lydia,’ the tombstone read.
Was that before or after he dipped his wick where it wasn’t wanted? She thought.
The memory of his weight, the hot breath, and the hands that grabbed her breasts and gripped her throat, still gave her claustrophobia.
* * *
LYDIA
So, apparently, I’m dead.
Surrounded by fluffy white clouds and floating in warm womb-like water, that’s what I thought it would be like – but it’s nothing like that. There were clouds at first, but this was more like a thick fog; until it cleared. But now, here I am, peering down at my own funeral.
Look at them with their vile crocodile tears and thinly veiled contempt. In all honesty, it was fortunate that I was dead because I couldn’t stomach living through another minute of this.
I looked down at my cold body lying in a glossy, white casket, surrounded by an assortment of white blooms; gardenias, dahlias and my garden roses. At least they got that right. But Christ, they have made my face up like some sort of showgirl – look at the red lips, red nails – outrageous. And what on earth am I wearing? I look old. How strange? My skin is a sallow grey, with red rouge plastered on top, fooling no one. What’s with the ruffled high collar in white lace? – how very Victorian. No doubt Sofia put herself in charge of my wardrobe – the one without an ounce of fashion sense.
I can’t wait until we get to the wake, where hopefully, the champagne pops and the fun begins. When I asked to die, I clearly stipulated that the wake be held at Il Salumaio di Montenapoleone’ Let’s watch what happens there. I can’t wait to see what Marco makes of me leaving everything to Sofia. He won’t be happy. This could be fun.
When I arrived at my wake, I realised I could mingle in and out of the crowd, drinking in their small talk while they proceeded to drink their body weight in champagne. I watched Stella stumble in her ridiculous stilettos on the pebble and mosaic garden courtyard of the Il Salumaio. I chuckled to no one in particular. A seriously impractical surface for a restaurant in the heart of Milan’s fashion quarter and somewhat ironic.
This business of being dead was surprisingly good. All those hors d’oeuvres with no calories, champagne without the migraine. You can zero in on any conversation.
So, let’s see who is going to be the most interesting hypocrite today?
Oh look, there’s Margherita – the upstart who seduced my husband. I made sure she got rid of the baby. Who is she talking to? I can’t see her face. Oh, it’s Sofia. Or is it Sofia…there’s something a bit off about her. I wonder what they have to talk about?
‘Sofia, how are you feeling?’ said Margherita. ‘Are you excited about the will reading? At last, hey?
‘What was that?’ I asked, but I don’t think they heard me. The sound is a bit scratchy and goes in and out like bad WIFI. I wish there was better reception in this after-life business. You’d think they’d get that right.
Hang on, why would she be excited about the Will? She’s not supposed to know anything yet – the reading is not until tomorrow. Wait a minute, wasn’t Sofia always taller than Margherita? Is it the heels? I guess I haven’t seen them together for a while…
* * *
LYDIA
THE YEAR BEFORE I DIED
I looked in the mirror at my reflection and saw only a faded facsimile of myself – an unfamiliar face in an unfamiliar body. Who was this person? It definitely was not me. When did I get this old? I was here, but I was not here. Who then was thinking these thoughts? What was going on? This was getting scary. Who could I even tell? They will think I’ve lost my mind. Lock me up. Put me away.
Where am I? What is this bathroom? It seems very basic…the laminate, plastic taps.
A random thought jumps into my head. I can see the newsreel footage replayed in my mind. I can’t believe JFK got shot! What next? John Lennon?
I peered into the hallway and saw all these people in white plastic suits and surgical masks.
What is going on? What is with all the masks? Is this some new fashion look? Seriously, they look like aliens.