‘Céline didn’t cheat on Vincent with Leo. She cheatedonLeowithVincent. Leo was her husband.’
Mortified, Stella felt the blood drain from her face down to her fingertips. ‘Excuse me?’
‘They were married, well, were, are . . . Who knows now? Here . . .’ He translated a section of the last paragraph into English so that Stella could follow. ‘. . .so I have decided to stay with Leo, despite his faults, for he is a good man deep down. I know this will come as a shock to you, but these past seven years always had to come to an end. You even said it yourself, how much longer could we keep it up? You should move on now. I will, for the sake of my marriage and for the sake of my children . . .’ Marco set the letter down on the coffee table, waiting for Stella’s reaction.
‘She haschildren?’
‘Sì.’
‘He had a seven-year affair with a married woman who has children?’ she repeated again, hoping the second time would reveal some clarity. Throwing her face into her hands, Stella began to weep. ‘Who is this person? I feel sick!’
Marco comforted her with a shoulder to cry on, quite literally, as he translated the rest of the letter. They later established that it was indeed the final exchange from Céline to Vincent.
Stella wasn’t yet satisfied. She stormed into Vincent’s room, retrieved the remaining letters and returned to her previous position on the couch. ‘Please!’ she begged. ‘I need to know the whole story.’
One by one, they opened all the letters, laying them in chronological order across the dining table. Systematically, they read through every single one, revealing the true depth of the illicit affair Vincent and Céline had shared. From sordid trips to London to having sex in the communal garage as her children slept contentedly in the apartment, the two stopped at nothing when it came to exploring their forbidden passion. Céline had, according to her letters, considered leaving Leo on a number of occasions. During the later letters, she went as far as threatening Vincent with evidence of internal corruption within the paper if he dared reveal their connection or, worse, leave her.
Despite the fact that the exchange was one-sided, having only been privy to Céline’s letters, the content of Vincent’s was clear in the content of her reply. Clearly, he was as manipulative, dangerous and deceitful as Céline.
‘What are you going to do about it?’ Marco asked once they had finished reading the last letter.
‘I’m going to embarrass him. Shame him. Mock him publicly. He won’t know what hit him. He shattered my world when the truth finally came out, soI,’ she took a confident pause, ‘am going to shatter his.’
‘Don’t do anything stupid Stella,’ he warned.
‘Marco, karmic retribution is never stupid. It’s completely necessary.’
trentasette
Vincent was safely back in Rome, making his way home on foot.
He had waited at the airport for his luggage for over an hour, followed by a long coach ride to Termini through the congested traffic heading into Rome for New Year’s Eve. Unable to connect to the H, he was able to get as close as Piazza Venezia before alighting and finishing the journey to Trastevere on foot. He had sent Stella a message telling her he would be home a little later than initially expected.
Her reply was immediate:Yay! Get ready for the welcome of the century!
He smiled. She was the none the wiser and still conveniently gullible. The best combination.
As he approached Piazza Santa Maria, he was comforted by the thought that Marcella had promised them a traditional New Year’s banquet oflenticchie e cotechino.Itsoothed the rumble in his stomach.
Life in the piazzawas already in full swing, preparing for the evening’s festivities. Despite the bitter cold that had descended upon Rome, the atmosphere was lively enough to distract Vincent from the chill that reverberated down his spine.
Families with young children celebrated in the square, munching down onroasted chestnutsandciambelloniwith glee. The usual street vendors flogging their wares had also appeared for the evening’s takings.
Pushing through the masses, Vincent made a beeline for Via di San Calisto. As he approached their palazzo, rounding the corner, he noticed the light was on in their kitchen.
‘Dinner!’ he said aloud. ‘Thank God!’
Continuing around the bend, Vincent was forced to stop immediately, almost running into a group of people that had gathered in the street. There was a mess of confusion, people laughing and shouting, pointing to the window of their apartment.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked an elderly gentleman who had also stopped mid-stroll. There was no time for him to reply.
‘BASTARDO!’ Marcella appeared at the kitchen window with a large pile of clothes in her arms. With all her might, she tossed them out the window to the awaiting crowd below. This was met with cheering and laughter from her audience. ‘PORCO!’ came another insult, followed by a pile of books which hit the cobblestones with a heavy thud.
‘What the . . .?’ he muttered to himself. Pushing his way through the crowd, Vincent stood front and centre, assessing the carnage. Evidently, he had missed some of the action, recognising the smashed remains of his bedside table, lamp, more clothes and several pairs of his shoes on the heap. ‘Marcella! What the hell are you doing?’
‘Ecco il pezzo di merda!’ she acknowledged Vincent’s arrival to the crowd, much like a ringmaster at the circus. ‘Vincent, here in Italy, we have a tradition on New Year’s Eve whereby you throw your trash and things you no longer want out the window.’ She gestured to the chaos below.
He was furiously clambering to save what he could from the pile as onlookers laughed and mocked him. Teenagers stood recording on their phones, while others clapped in delight. This was a scene not expected or ever seen on the quaint streets of Trastevere. Given the enthusiasm and growing audience presence, it would certainly be remembered for many years to come.
