CHAPTER 17

“'Aeza' li, kayf halik?”

(TRANSLATION: My darlings, how are you?”)

With his phone held at arms length, their mother could see both her sons and the large smile on her face warmed Saint's heart.

“Wakan yan aijtimae fi baris ldhlk nahn natanawal alghada' maeaan qabl lah lilqabd ealaa rihlat eawdatih.”

(TRANSLATION: Yann had a meeting in Paris so we're having lunch together before he has to catch his flight back.)

At that answer, deep frowns settled in his mum's dark brown eyes as they focused on his younger sibling. “Qaribaan jda? kunt la albaqa' alllaylat mae 'akhik , Yanni?”

(TRANSLATION: So soon? You're not staying the night with your brother, Yanni?)

“Ya mumia', wldy 'atfal wazawjat alladhin yatawaqqaeun li albayt w tud sant luk rbma yakun mashghulaan jiddaan mae eamalih liqada' bed alwaqt maei. "

(TRANSLATION: Oh mummy, I have children and a wife who are expecting me home and Saint-Luc would probably be too busy with his work to spend time with me.)

Saint didn't miss his brother's subtle taunting of having his own family and he had to brace himself from giving his brother a dirty look and if they weren't on a videocall with their mother he surely would have.

At the mention of her grandchildren, Yann had stolen full attention and so Saint just passed the phone to him as his arms were starting to ache.

Saint would be lying if he said that he didn't feel even the slightest bit of envy of his brother who was currently promising their mother that he would bring the children to Antalya for the summer so they could spend time with her.

It still provided Saint with much guilt at the thought that he still hadn't told his mother about his own nuptials. Something he knew his mother would be deeply hurt by for keeping her in the dark for so long. It wasn't that Saint didn't want to tell her but, despite everything going seemingly well between him and Naomi, he still didn't know if he had a marriage worth talking about.

In the midst of his brooding envy, Saint couldn't help but notice the subtle changes in their mother. Ayda's signature black turban hat was on her head, but Saint could see how his mother's face appeared more gaunt like and her naturally bronze skin looked more pale.

And it wasn't lost on Saint how much weight she'd lost, but knowing Ayda she would be too prideful to admit to her own son that she was finally doing something to lower her blood pressure, so Saint let it be for the moment, but his spirit wasn't totally convinced.

Forking up a lettuce to his mouth, a small smiled played on Saint's lips at the thought of Naomi's verbal distaste of his diet. More thoughts of his wife's quirks found their way to the centre of Saint's mind as he continued eating.

A few minutes later Saint-Yann handed the phone back to him and after promising their mother that he would stop working so much and take more time to rest, they said their byes.

Both brothers knew how important it was for Ayda to see her children getting along and spending time together. For her sake they'd agreed to put on the act of being the closest of brothers but as soon as the call ended they were back to being a little more than kin and less than kind.

Their parents had always babied Saint-Yann and allowed him to get away with things which they wouldn't have otherwise with him. They shared a room growing up and they'd each demarcated the room in half with an invisible line. Saint always kept his side of the room tidy but of course baby Yanni didn't, instead of just reprimanding their 'baby' his mother would say Saint should have the responsibility to make sure the whole room was tidy as he was oldest which was clearly unfair and because he'd failed to do that he would get his priviledges taken away for the week.

Despite their unsolvable differences there was unspoken love that would take the equivalent of a metal detector to discover and make itself more manifest in their relationship as siblings.

“Allez-vous la colère des classes de gestion?”

(TRANSLATION: Are you going to anger management classes?)

“Allez-vous des conseils de mariage et des groupes anonymes d'alcool?”

(TRANSLATION: Are you going to marriage counselling and alcohol anonymous groups?)

Saint felt the stab of shame that Saint-Yann had perpetrated in his gut but was determined to show indifference. Signalling the waitress for the bill he dug into his pocket to take out a few notes, before answering his brother.

“Je ne suis pas un alcoolique.”

(TRANSLATION: I am not an alcoholic.)

He knew he wasn't. It was just on few occassions after Naomi had left their home and the loneliness had knocked him several steps backwards, he consoled himself with several rounds of whisky.

Many a times he had just wanted to beg her to come back - he would take the series of arguments over the loud silence, but he knew they couldn't continue living like that. She would have to want him, want them, want their marriage and so when she'd invited him to Naples he knew it to be only by divine intervention.

“Cessez de vous dire que Saint-Luc, vous pourriez être en mesure de projeter dans l'existence.”

(TRANSLATION: Keep telling yourself that Saint-Luc, you might be able to project it into existence.)

“ Comme toujours, il a été un plaisir Saint-Yann. Envoyer mes salutations à Amira et les enfants.”

(TRANSLATION: As always, it's been a pleasure Saint-Yann. Send my regards to Amirah and the children.)

Glad to have the short rendezvous done with his brother, he left his brother alone at the table and walked the short trip back to his office.

Startled out of her sleep, Naomi woke hearing loud, desperate knocks on her neighbour's door. She looked on her phone and saw it was just past one in the morning.

These were her neighbour's opening hours.

When she'd first moved to the apartment and had heard the same impatient knocks at nearly the same time that lasted for several hours in the early morning, she'd have her eye glued to the peephole, watching as her neighbour's customers displayed some erratic behaviours, clearly having withdrawal symptoms.

After some time Naomi couldn't continue watching, because the scene before her was just sad and heartbreaking, but she couldn't go back to sleep either.

Non vedo, non sento, non parlo.

And so minding her business, Naomi set up shop with her wool and wood stick and made her blankets for the homeless, that she planned to drop off at the church later on in the week.

Still even in her heart of hearts, Naomi was not settled in the act of pretending nothing was going on outside her apartment door, but she didn't know how she could help the situation.

Just like how she didn't know if anything she was doing was going to resurrect her fragile marriage.

Naomi had been five years old when her mother had stabbed her father with a kitchen knife after finding out about his affairs with other women. She remembered the crimson stain on her dad’s blue polo shirt. She remembered the knife. She remembered the panic on her mother’s face at realising what she'd done.

Her father never pressed charges.

In a weird way, Naomi knew her parents loved each other but there’d been so much water under the bridge that her parents no longer knew how to show it other than living under the same roof and disguising sexual frustration with passive-aggressiveness.

Pausing her knitting, Naomi pressed her fingertips against the throbbing pain on her forehead that seemed to threaten to pierce her skull in two. Thinking about her parents always did this to her.

It would be over five months since she last saw her parents and the sad part was that she didn't even miss them. Constantly they'd begged for her to come and see them and as usual in their typical Nigerian way tried to bully her to come back, but with one text promising to cut off all contact with them, they'd backed off.

Now for their sanity and hers, she sent text messages once every two weeks to say she was okay.

Naomi felt better off without them.

Before she could hold them back, tears fell and she watched through bleary eyes her tear drops drop onto her nail beds and cover it like a nail polish would.

She was happy, she was free, she was healing.

She always wondered how her parents could have lived and decided to leave such a beautiful country such as Italy. With all the good and bad, Italy will always be her home regardless of her having lived most of her life in England.

The noise of the motor cycles weaving in out of the tiny cobbled streets. The smell of the decaying bricks.

The symphonic chatter of the market sellers in the morning.

The beauty in the mess. The heat!

It was just one big whole community. La famiglia.

And she wanted to capture the essence of it all.

So she'd decided that that's what she would do with her fashion show.

This was her home after all. The Gran Palais, Guggenheims, Tate Modern and all the upper class stuff was nice, but with hers, Napoli – that's where real life was.

On those rare days, where she took a few hours of the day for not working, she went out to her balcony staring at the clear blue sky and enjoying the sound of the waves crashing against the islands coasts.

It all felt real to her then.

And she could only hope and pray that once her vision for the fashion show has been executed, it could all be real for her and Saint.

Not wanting to give room for her self-sabotaging thoughts to lead her to a dark place, she packed her away her knitting equipments and picked up her pad that she left on her bedside table and started sketching.