Chapter 6: What’s in a Name

“Martin, get up. It’s gone ten. The Pope has been up for over five hours, you know.”

“Good for him. Show-off.”

“You’ll miss breakfast!”

“I told you: get them to deliver a tray to the room.”

“I don’t want to eat in the room! I want to eat on the rooftop terrace again! Come on, you can’t stay in bed all day!”

“Yes, I can. I’m on vacation.”

I was being truculent, although I like to think it was in a playful way that women secretly find boyish and charming. Mel would probably not agree. Nor has any other woman I’ve ever met, come to think of it.

“Can’t we at least just take a stroll through the city?” she pleaded.

“No. Because I’ll only run into Silvio Berlusconi in disguise and he’ll make me trim his hedge. Or we’ll find out Rodin modelled the cock of ‘The Walking Man’ on mine. And when we get back they will be shooting a porn movie on our toothbrushes. Or worst of all, you’ll make me go to sodding Pompeii and lure me in by saying it’s a nice train ride. I saw those Post-it notes in the back of your guidebook!”

Melody took a pillow and simply began to pound me with it. It’s hardly fatal, but she put her all into it and after about twenty blows I did get a bit dizzy.

“OKAY, OKAY! STOP THAT!”

“Then get out of bed!”

And so I did, because I am supposed to be a grown-up.

“We can negotiate over breakfast,” said Mel. “I know you don’t really care for ruins, so I’ll take that into account. Although you did chase after Diana Albinson, so a part of you must like them after all.”

Diana is a friend now, even if for a while I felt betrayed by her. But then she has never shown me anything but friendship and support, and why carry a grudge? Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die, right? That quote is often attributed to Buddha, but the nearest source anyone can find points to it having originated at Alcoholics Anonymous. Well, why not? They probably know a thing or two about it.

“Hey! You should be so lucky to have her body when you’re her age!” I said, standing up for Diana.

“I should be so lucky to have it now,” sighed Mel, as she sat on the edge of the bed and put on socks. I like to see my girls in open shoes, but I guess she was expecting to come out of our negotiation having talked me into a long walk.

“I’m glad you insisted,” I said, as we enjoyed an even more glorious morning on the rooftop terrace. The sun was already high in the sky, but there were plenty of sturdy parasols and most guests had already left to explore the town. Apparently they had all stuffed their gullets and quite possibly their pockets with scrambled eggs and sausages, because most of the chafing dishes that had held warm items were empty.

“Please take your time,” said the waiter who brought me my tea. “We can make any hot items that we’ve run out of to order.”

“He’s happy with scrambled eggs. Got any more blueberry croissants?”

“Certo signora.”

“Grazie. Okay, so what’s wrong with Pompeii?”

“Well, apart from the fact it will take up most of the day to get there and back, I just prefer to see stuff that’s still intact. I’m not creative, like you. You can walk through ruins and visualize what it would have been like. That’s how your mind works. I can only see holes and crumbled walls. Then I go and read all the information signs and I feel like I may as well have read a book.”

“Fair point. You are a very dull, limited man. I could tell by the way you skydived into the Oscars. Hey, look, free newspapers! Do you want to sit with your back to them? You wouldn’t want to be aware of any world events or who’s in charge of what nowadays, after all.”

“Yeah, okay, I get it,” I giggled. “Life is just better if you ignore the news. I used to watch The Daily Show and the Colbert Report religiously and all it did was make me angry at how mean and stupid people are.”

“Those shows aren’t the news.”

“They’re better than most news sources. And anyway, nowadays I no longer know which sinister government agency is trying to read my email or how many kittens were burned alive when they accidentally bombed a shelter in Libya. And I feel better for it, because there isn’t a damned thing I can change about it, anyway.”

Mel shrugged. We’d had this debate before.

“So what do you want to do?”

I reached for her hand, to mollify her.

“I was kidding, Mel. If you want to visit Pompeii, we’ll go there. It’s your honeymoon and if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

She gently picked up my hand and, whilst never breaking eye contact, lowered it into a saucer of blueberry jam.

“MEL! Trut! Hahaha!” I laughed, when I found out. (Trut doesn’t translate but it equates to ‘silly cow’ in English. I’d never call her anything worse.)

“That’s for bullshitting me. It’s OUR honeymoon, not just mine. Look, I’m not hung up on this Pompeii thing. I can do that with my next husband, once your life insurance pays out.”

“You do realise you said that out loud, right?”

I don’t actually have life insurance.

“Did I? Damn. I’m joking, obviously. But anyway, there are at least a hundred museums in Rome we haven’t visited yet, so pick any one. Or anything else. If you want to spend the afternoon in bed, that’s fine too. But let’s...”

She stopped talking abruptly.

“What?”

Mel stared at me.

“You’re actually tired, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You’re not. I just ... I wasn’t paying attention, but you are actually tired. Not just from yesterday, but from everything.”

“How can you tell?! What are you all of a sudden, a mindreader?”

“No, but Kate and Caroline have been teaching me how to read you. You slumped in your chair just a little, just from considering what we’d do today. And I can tell from your face, too: your eyes are different. A bit ... darker, almost.”

I leaned back in my chair. Some people would get upset when they found out others were instructing their wife on their tells, but I am long past that. Besides, I never hide anything from her.

“I am a bit tired, truth be told. I haven’t had a break since we used the vouchers from the Oscars goodie bags. That’s a while ago. And I’m still not in very good shape, even with the swimming and the exercises. I find it quite tiring, walking through Rome. And if I’m perfectly honest, I miss Edwin.”

Mel sipped her orange juice and smiled at the waiter, who delivered freshly scrambled eggs and two blueberry croissants.

“Just Edwin?”

“And Kate,” I admitted.

“And Kelly, obviously,” added Melody. “Eat your eggs.”

“Kelly not so much. She’s acting ... weird.”

“Oh, right. Poor girl.”

I shrugged and scooped some egg onto my plate.

“Do you miss Edwin?”

“Yes. You know I do. But I missed you, too. I miss us. And if he were here now, we wouldn’t be able to do anything, and we’d be going around Rome like pack mules. And he’d probably give us some horrific bug he caught in daycare. So I’m making do with the odd picture from Caroline and the knowledge he is too young to miss us, as long as there’s someone to cuddle him. Because I want to be here. With you. And if you’re tired, we rest. God knows you’ve earned it.”

“Thanks.”

“So do you mind if I go shopping for an hour or two after breakfast? You can stay here and just relax. I think they have an XBOX 360 at reception, which you can take to your room.”

“This is why I love you. Exactly this. I will obviously rip your tits off if you EVER hypnotize me again, but...”

Mel spat out some blueberry croissant dough from laughing at my threat. We’d talked about it last night and I was assured there were no more dormant instructions lurking in my mind. All she had wanted was a kiss, really. It was a joke I might even have played on her. Just a kiss. Nothing wrong with that. Except for the timing.

“Good. I can’t really get my shop on if I know you’re waiting outside, so that works out well. Okay, in that case I’m taking this second croissant to go and you can do as you please until ... say, one thirty? Then we’ll have lunch.”

“Sounds good! Got your phone?”

“Yes.”

“Good. If you run into the Dalai Lama, tell him I said ‘hi’.”

Mel got up, downed a glass of orange juice and kissed me.

“Ciao bella.” I said, preparing to watch her behind as she walked off. It’s so easy to miss life’s small pleasures. But before she stood upright, she whispered in my ear:

“Don’t jack off when I’m gone, okay? Save it for mommy.”

“DO YOU KISS MY SON WITH THAT MOUTH?” I called after her, as she walked away and flipped me the bird without even looking back.

Back in our room I resisted the temptation to bother Caroline. If she was following Mel’s instructions Edwin would be napping now, anyway. And I knew from experience you really needed those naps to rest up for the next round of playtime, because he’s a lively lad.

Obviously Mel shared all the photos and updates that Caroline and Peter had been sending her with me. One was a bit odd: it was of Caroline’s naked back in the shower. Edwin was looking at the camera over her shoulder, smiling his nearly toothless smile (he had two tiny white dots in his lower jaw) and clearly having a good time. Mel used to take him into the shower on occasion but I was a bit surprised Caroline did so as well, and even more about her letting Peter take a picture of it, but her face was obscured and anyway, it was a sweet picture. I’ve showered with Caroline. It’s fun. She might not be a twenty-something ballerina anymore, but she’s still quite, quite limber.

I left Kate in peace as well, because I knew things were busy at work. And so I briefly called my parents to let them know things were fine and then decided I’d waste three hours of my life watching ‘Lilyhammer’ on Netflix. (It’s very, very good. Now there’s a part I’d audition for.)

Sure, I get to watch TV at home as well. But Melody was right: I was tired, more so than I let on. Some would call meeting the Pope and not recognizing him the adventure of a lifetime. For me it was just the latest in a long row of stressful events that made it very clear I had next to no control over my life. Starring in a Hollywood movie is fine if that’s what you want. If you’re only doing it because your sister asked you to, it’s just a massive, massive burden. Likewise, fights to the death and the preceding chases also take it out of you, as do near death experiences such as dangling from a bridge whilst holding on to a loved one who will plummet to her death if you let her go.

And then there was the emotional stuff of the past two years: losing my business. My divorce. Having my heart broken by Diana. Burying my first wife, Monique. Losing my newfound friendship with Samantha in all but name, because we just couldn’t see each other anymore. And then for a while I thought I was going to lose Kelly, which really ... I can’t even describe that, it just hurt like chewing glass. And I know that I was well compensated for all of this by fate, what with finding out how much Kate loved me, her letting me be with Melody, getting the odd round of applause and receiving regular, generous deposits in my bank account ... Sure, that’s wonderful. But being tossed around by life like that takes its toll and having Edwin, which was one of the greatest responsibilities I had ever felt, had almost been too much at times. I would never, not in a million years, have guessed I’d ever snap at Melody, or wish for her to get into her van and sod off for at least a month with her bullshit about homeopathic teething-pain droplets and her sodding conspiracy theories about child pain relief tablets, but I have. And worse, frankly. I’ve pictured my hands around her neck more than once, if only for a fraction of a second, when she testily shoved me aside because I needed three tries to get Edwin’s nappy on just right. And that was all from stress and tiredness. Life was beating me over the head with a gold brick that I got to keep at the end of every session. It’s not fun. It just isn’t. I’m an economist with an interest in mathematics who ended up in IT. If I wanted an exciting life, I’d have joined the marines.

Today, however, I loved her as much as I ever had and the future looked good. We were getting used to parenthood and at the same time Edwin was getting more and more aware of his surroundings, which seemed to give him some relief. Nowadays he wouldn’t cry as if he’d fallen into a meat grinder just because he’d woken up; instead, we would find him sitting up in his cot, playing with a stuffed bear or just babbling to himself. Mel had begun to take advice from sane people with professional qualifications rather than websites where deluded mothers with a bachelors degree in Communication Studies felt their opinions were as valid as those of medical researchers, paediatric nurses and whatever the fuck the English equivalent is of the ‘consultatiebureau’. Oh wait, there isn’t one. You know, you really have to move abroad to understand how completely ridiculous some words in your native language can be, and how great The Netherlands are. The ‘consultatiebureau’ is a Dutch government institution which tracks health metrics of all infants, provides free check-ups and vaccinations and gives free, unlimited advice on every conceivable aspect of child care should you need it. You don’t have to show up for the check-ups, but you will have to tell a social worker what the hell is wrong with you for not doing so, because the Dutch firmly believe idiots should have to explain themselves.

Doubtless the Brits don’t have something similar because they can’t afford it, the Americans don’t have it because children once born aren’t worth the tax payer money or the backlash from idiots who think detecting early signs of impending blindness is state interference and the Belgians have the exact same thing as we do but it’s a bureaucratic mess and ten percent of the staff would probably turn out to be convicted paedophiles or fake doctors or something if only someone bothered to screen them. That’s usually how that works over there. And I’m pretty sure Scandinavians have had these services delivered at home by drone since 1930 or something. (Oh and they love it when you call them ‘Scandinavians’.)

I never questioned the name or the existence of the consultatiebureau until I had to explain it to Melody and realised the word meant nothing and the service wasn’t a universal thing. (Likewise, the Dutch military police and border patrol are called ‘Marechaussee’. I can’t even begin to decode that. Conversely, ‘State department’ is a ridiculous name for what should clearly be called the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and ‘Leading aircraftman’ is a job that does not require you to even know how to fly. So it’s not just us. Okay, I’m done for now.)

Mel came back with some paper bags, the ones made from heavy paper stock that has been lacquered like a Steinway and come with barbed wire shoelaces for handles. How lucky I am to be a man and to be able to just point at a pair of shoes in my size, try them on for all of ten seconds and then wear them for at least two years.

“What, no show and tell?” I said, after we kissed and I saw her move the bags into the bedroom.

“No. Listen. I had an idea and I was going to surprise you with it, but then I realised you are probably not in the mood for surprises. So here it is: we’re moving out of this hotel. Now.”

Thank goodness for that! I’d had it up to here with Italy for a while! I missed Edwin and even though I could afford to live in this room for well over 150 years before my money ran out, my Dutch frugality had kicked in and now I felt bad about watching Netflix at a daily rate of 280 pounds. So I was all for packing up! But Mel wasn’t finished yet...

“There will be a car outside in half an hour, which will take us to a lovely little villa on a lake.”

“Which one?” I asked, dreading the answer ‘Lago Maggiore’, because that borders Switzerland. We’d be in the car for hours.

“Lago something. About an hour outside Rome. I’m done shopping, I’m not all that keen to visit more museums and we need some time just for us. So...”

She looked at me nervously and that’s when I decided not to bring up Edwin. I was certain she missed him as much as I did, but she had arranged this for us and I guess that was reason enough. The boy was well cared for and if she could stand to miss him for a few more days, us being together was clearly very important to her. And so, without missing a beat, I got up and said:

“That sounds like a great plan. I’ll pack my own stuff, shall I?”

“That’s very sweet of you, but the car won’t be here any faster and I prefer to do it myself. I need to put some of my stuff in your suitcase.”

Isn’t social conditioning great, guys? A man offers to pack his own suitcase and his wife gives him credit for that, but still assumes he won’t be able to manage.

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, watch some more TV! Or anything else you like, really,” she said, already in the bedroom and flipping open the locks on her suitcase.

“Well, what I’d like to do is have sex with my beautiful wife,” I mumbled, before sauntering to the window. A few seconds later, Mel’s hands folded around my chest as she kissed my neck.

“I could use a quick shower after being out all morning...”

The driver had been waiting for at least fifteen minutes longer than planned, but he didn’t say a word. It was the same guy who had picked us up twice now!

“Do you two have each other on Snapchat or something?” I asked Mel, as we got into the back. The driver was loading our bags.

“No, but he’s with an agency Kate recommends.”

“If he spends the entire trip chatting you up again, I’ll stuff him in the boot and drive us there myself,” I muttered, which was punctuated by the sound of the boot slamming shut behind us.

“Martin, calm down! I’ll shut him up if he does, okay? I just thought it was funny the first time. Relax, you’re on vacation.”

I took Mel’s advice. The driver wasn’t chatty and after we had left Rome, its suburbs and industrial areas behind us, Italy became very pretty very quickly. I had never spent any time outside the major cities and although the terrain was about as hilly as most of England, it was still quite spectacular enough. I’m sure Italians care about as much about maintaining their houses as the Belgians and the French, which is to say hardly at all, but for some reason their dereliction is more picturesque. Like the Belgians they keep their windows shuttered, but in their case it has to do with keeping out the sun more than keeping young, kidnapped girls out of sight. Traffic signs were seen as more of a suggestion than a reminder of the law, and the rule about driving on the right-hand-side was treated with similar indifference, but our driver took things slow and kept his distance. Melody and I chatted about nothing in particular, the things married people discuss that drive their single friends insane. Newly found stains in carpets around the house. Whether we might get a new dishwasher. Mel’s sister’s latest disaster of a boyfriend. Woolworths having the best rompertjes. Sorry, ‘infant bodysuit’ to you. I told you we mostly use Dutch words for these things, haven’t I?

“Finally, some proper mountains!” I said, as we suddenly started driving uphill. The sun was out today and even though it was only early spring and you really needed a coat to go out, it was still nice to drive in the shade afforded by a phalanx of pine trees. I’d have opened the window to see if I could smell them, but our driver’s aftershave had put my olfactory sense out of commission for the day.

“Mountains...” giggled Melody. Even people from the Caribbean who have grown up in Parisian slums are less impressed by mountains than this Dutch boy. Our highest mountain used to be the Vaalserberg, which reaches a pathetic 322 metres. And that’s not 322 when you’re at the foot of it, but 322 from sea level. It’s just a slightly taller hill in the landscape. But recently we have acquired a new mountain, which is a very respectable 877 metres!

Now, you’re probably thinking: ‘Those darned Dutch again! Is there nothing this nation of industrious geniuses can’t do? First they harness the power of the wind and drain their inland lakes. Then they steal land from the very sea and secure it with some of the most amazing dams and levees mankind has ever seen, as the Titans they are! Don’t tell me they BUILT a MOUNTAIN? Are these Dutchmen mere mortal men or the children of Gods?’ Well, the latter, but it’s not quite like that. You see, in 2010 the Caribbean Island of Saba became a special municipality of The Netherlands. Before that they were part of the Kingdom, but as you know Kingdoms can have individual countries in them so it didn’t really count. In 2010, after realising a tiny island filled with uhm ... how can I put this without sounding racist ... rather relaxed people who couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery without financial aid from The Netherlands, they gave up their autonomy and that’s how we got ourselves 877 metres of prime mountain! And you’ll notice every inch of it, because the island is tiny. We were very excited as a nation, but not as excited as I was when we passed through a charming (and poorly maintained) little village with houses painted in cheerful shades of ochre and yellow, only to end up on the edge of a caldera. By that I mean that Lago di Albano is a lake that formed in a volcanic crater. The lake is 170 metres deep and it used to overflow after heavy rains, destroying vineyards and farms in a wide area. That’s why the Romans built a drainage canal in 400 BC. Yes, 400 BC. I like to talk up the Dutch, but you have to take your hat off to Roman engineering.

The lake isn’t very large, about six square kilometres. On one side the banks were rather high and steep, but there was some room for villas on the other side, where the ring road was only slightly above water level. The locals had been making a buck from tourists for hundreds of years, so good luck trying to find a space to park your car and just enjoy the lake for free. The place was littered with ‘private property’ and ‘customers only’ signs, but in a corner of the lake where restaurants and water bike rentals were a bit thinner on the ground were some nice villas, hiding behind rows of those lovely, thin Cypresses. A gate swung open electrically as soon as our driver turned off the paved road and we calmly crunched over a gritted path towards a wonderful villa in light brown stone, with archways and balconies and a roof covered in tiles that were multiple shades of red. The lawn around the building was immaculate and even the pool looked inviting, even though I was pretty sure you wouldn’t want to go in for at least another month or two. I noticed a smaller building in the corner of the grounds, built in the same style but with only a ground floor.

“This is amazing!” whispered Melody, cupping her own mouth with her hands.

“Eezze naice...” agreed our driver. A friendly looking man of about thirty, with a mop-top hairdo and big, black glasses, waved at us and opened the door to Melody as the car came to a stop.

“Hello there, welcome to Villa Belgio. You are Melody and Martin? My name is Arturo, is so good to have you here.”

Villa Belgio ... A well-maintained, aesthetically pleasing building that actually had paint on it was called ‘Villa Belgium’. That could only have come from either immense ignorance or the deepest, blackest sarcasm any person outside the UK had ever managed. I would never, ever have booked a place with that name. It’d be like booking the Hammer hotel or visiting the ‘Tastes of Arkansas’ restaurant.

Arturo and I both looked each other over as we shook hands. He must have seen a somewhat stout, middle-aged man in a summer suit, with a woman by his side who was far too young and far too pretty for the likes of him. I saw a man in a checkered shirt and khaki slacks on sandals and the all too familiar expression of someone who has just been thumbing through his mental Rolodex and discovered he was dealing with someone off the telly or the movies. However, before his mouth had opened fully to point out to me who I was (people always do that, telling me who I am), he thought better of it and just smiled.

“Please, come in. I’ll give you the tour.”

“Yeah, just a sec, let me get our bags...”

Our driver was busy unloading them, but he obviously wasn’t going to take them up to our room.

“No no no, is fine. Just leave them here, I’ll bring them up later. Mi scusi, la corsa è già stata pagata?”

“Si.”

“Se vuole, può parcheggiare la macchina sul retro e prendere un caffè con noi prima di ripartire.”

“Grazie!”

Apparently our driver was offered coffee before heading back and had been paid in advance, so I followed Arturo into the house. The inside was just as nice. Beautiful marble floors, polished to a shine. Antique furniture that looked almost new, but also a modern and inviting sofa and a well-stocked bookcase. Fresh flowers and the smell of something baking wafting in from the kitchen, where a stocky woman of about fifty with her jet black hair tied up in a bun was brewing coffee.

“This is Estelle, she is your personal chef,” announced Arturo. And within thirty seconds flat, Estelle had Mel and me seated at the kitchen table and practically pelted us with fresh baked lemon and white wine biscuits. I’d never heard of those and they’re apparently a treat that’s mainly baked for Easter, but Goddamned if it wasn’t one of the tastiest snacks I’d had in the past five years. They look like nothing so much as muffins that have come out wrong, but man alive, were they good.

“Ciambelline al limone e vino bianco,” said Estelle, smiling as she saw my face.

“Mel! Try this! Jesus Christ!”

“Eh!” said Estelle, and slapped the top of my head! Not very hard, but it was definitely a slap. Melody cracked up, entirely fine with me being assaulted by a strange woman for blaspheming.

“Mi dispiace, I’m sorry. I’ll be good,” I said, deciding that she had a point. Besides, if I made a fuss that would be the last of these biscuits I’d ever eat. My apology was immediately accepted and rewarded with another ciambellina. I was tempted to just stuff it up my nostril, to get the most of the scent. Italians, the world will forgive all your misdeeds as long as you keep cooking.

“When you finished your coffee, I’ll show the room,” laughed Arturo.

“I’m not going to my room. I’m staying in this kitchen for the duration. Bring me a pillow and I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Really?” said Mel, trying to sound insulted in between giggles. “Shame.”

“Well?” asked Melody. We were both on our backs, relaxing on a massive and impeccably clean bed in the master bedroom after having spent half an hour in the kitchen, getting to know our hosts and wolfing down pastry. (Okay, that was just me. Mel has this amazing talent called ´being able to turn down food´. I´ve no idea how she does it, but it horrifies me.) The driver had come in via the kitchen door and was given an espresso. He knocked it back in one go, asked to use the bathroom and then drove off after casting one last, longing look at Melody.

Our shoes were at the front door, as we were asked to wear slippers inside the house. Those were provided, and they were new. Given the effort that must have gone in polishing the marble floors, that was an entirely reasonable request. We had the run of the house, save one room that was locked. Arturo and Estelle would go home after serving dinner. There was even a car we could use, a cream Fiat 500 with a red fabric roof.

“Fantastic. I love this place. And I like Arturo and Estelle.”

“I’m glad you like it,” said Melody, as she turned on her side and found my mouth. I’m sure we were allowed to have sex, but it was a bit weird to go at it with two strangers in the house, especially barely half an hour after we had arrived, so we just kissed.

“How long will we stay?” I asked.

“As long as we like. It’s the off-season. The next booking isn’t for two weeks. Estelle told me she was bored, so she’s going to cook up a storm for us.”

“Oh great, more high carb food. Rich sauces and pasta. That’s exactly what I need,” I sighed, patting my stomach.

“I’ll keep an eye on you,” promised Mel. “And keep you busy when they’re gone. Now, why don’t you have a nap before dinner? I’m going downstairs.”

That sounded good. I love napping, although I rarely take the time. When I was in my teens and depressed half the time, I napped a lot. Anything to make time pass faster. But nowadays I found I always had something to do. Outlets need fixing, lamps replacing, cars washing ... The list never ends.

“I think I just might. But Mel, love, don’t check up on Caroline more than once a day, will you? I miss Edwin too, but...”

“Let me worry about Caroline, Martin. I only contact her after she’s sent me an update or a picture. I was going to browse some picture books I saw downstairs. Get some sleep. Dinner won’t be before seven, so it’s worth your while to undress.”

I was out like a light not five minutes later. My vacation had finally started.

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This Is Your Carstairs Speaking

Ron Dudderie

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