by Guy Burt
‘We should tell someone.’
‘What’s he doing here? I thought you said nobody came here any more.’
‘I told you there was a hermit.’
‘He’s too young to be the hermit, Alex. He looks much younger than my father.’
‘He must be the hermit.’
‘How did he get hurt?’
‘I don’t know. There’s blood on his clothes. I think it’s his leg, or something.’
‘You’ve got blood on your arm,’ Jamie says suddenly. ‘Look.’
We stare at Anna’s arm; there is a narrow streak of something dark there. She drags the arm awkwardly against her T-shirt, leaving a smeary stain.
‘I moved him a bit. He was all leant over and his breathing was funny. I thought he ought to sit up.’
‘Is he unconscious?’
‘I think so. He’s been like that since I found him.’
‘We should call an ambulance,’ Jamie says.
Slowly, Anna nods. ‘Yes. We’d better. Where from?’
‘Home, of course.’
‘Isn’t there somewhere nearer?’
I frown. ‘Lena says we shouldn’t talk to strangers,’ I say.
‘OK, then. We’ll go home.’
There is a sound from where the man is lying, and a groan. All three of us jump a little, eyes wide.
‘Come on,’ Jamie says. ‘We should hurry.’
We have reached the door when the man shifts again. I glance back. His eyes are open for the first time, and he is looking around the chapel, but his expression is dazed, as though he isn’t quite sure what he’s seeing.
‘Come on,’ Jamie says, louder, pushing my back.
The man blinks at the sound of the voice, and turns his head. He seems to focus on the three of us, bunched up against the chapel door. He opens his mouth and says something – or, at least, a sound comes out, almost a croak. But it isn’t proper words, just noises.
Jamie is tugging at my arm, but Anna stops dead. We are so close together that I can actually feel her body go rigid for a moment.
‘Wait,’ she says. Jamie lets go of me and turns to her.
‘What is it?’ he says. Anna takes a step back into the room.
‘He doesn’t want us to go,’ she says. Her voice has changed again; instead of the tension that had been there before, there is now a kind of wonder in it – surprise and recognition muddled together.
‘What?’ Jamie says.
‘How can you tell?’ I asked.
She doesn’t answer. Jamie and I look quickly at each other, and then back to where Anna has taken another step towards the hermit.
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘We won’t be gone long. We’re going to get an ambulance.’
The man shakes his head. When he speaks again, he seems to have regained command of his voice, and I understand him easily enough. His voice is low, and his breathing is still coming to him with difficulty, but I think he sounds nice.
‘Don’t do that, please,’ he says. ‘There really isn’t any need. I’m not – I’m not so badly hurt.’
‘You look pretty bad,’ Jamie says, following Anna a little way but still keeping his distance from the man.
‘I’m not. Just my leg, really.’ He smiles at us, and his smile is friendly and rueful at the same time, as if he is embarrassed at all the fuss. ‘I’ve had a bit of an accident – well, you can see that, of course.’
‘What happened?’ Anna asks.
‘I can tell you, if you like.’ He pauses. ‘Do you want to sit down?’
‘I don’t think we should,’ Jamie says, trying to keep his voice low enough that only we will hear. The man hears him, though, and nods.
‘You’re sensible,’ he says. ‘That’s good. You have to be careful these days. You stay there, if you want. But I promise I’m not crazy or anything.’ He looks at himself for a second. ‘I’m a mess,’ he says, simply. ‘I hope I didn’t startle you.’
‘Not really,’ Jamie says, and I can tell he is less nervous than he was a moment before.
‘There’s blood on your leg,’ I say.
‘I see it. It hurts a bit, but like I said, it’s not too bad. I think I cut it a little in the crash.’
‘There was a crash?’ Anna says. ‘Where?’
‘On the road into town,’ the man says. ‘Last night. I think I must have fallen asleep at the wheel, and then—’ He stops, and looks at the three of us standing there watching him. Another smile crosses his face briefly. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I think I need your help. I understand if you don’t want to get involved –’ he says this looking straight at Jamie ‘– but I’d be grateful if you’d hear me out. Then you can make a decision.’
‘All right,’ Jamie says slowly. ‘Tell us.’
‘Of course we’ll help,’ Anna says. She goes over and sits herself on the floor right next to the hermit, and then glares at Jamie as if daring him to say anything. I watch as Jamie struggles with what to do, and then he gives in and goes across as well. I follow, and the three of us sit there, Jamie and I a little warily, Anna as if nothing unusual is going on at all.
‘Thank you,’ the man says quietly. ‘It was getting difficult shouting across the room like that.’
‘How did you hurt your leg?’ I ask.
He looks at me; his eyes are brown and calm-looking. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Alex,’ I say. Jamie shoots a glance at me as if to warn me against something, but it is too late.
‘Well, Alex, it was like this. I was coming to town to see my grandmother. She lives down by the sea here; she’s very old now and she doesn’t get to see me so often. I had a few weeks’ holiday from work and I thought I’d drive down and surprise her.’ The hermit pauses, takes a breath. ‘That’s why I don’t want you to call an ambulance. If I have to go to hospital, they’ll call her, and she’ll think it’s worse than it is. I don’t want to worry her. At her age – well, you understand,’ he says. Anna nods, and, after a second, so does Jamie.
‘And the crash?’
‘That was last night. It was late and, like I said, I think I fell asleep for a moment. I’d been driving for quite a while, you see. The car went off the road and into one of the stream gullies up that way.’ He nods sideways, indicating the top end of the valley. ‘I woke up and suddenly the world was upside down. The car was completely smashed, but I was OK. It must still be up there.’
‘The road into town?’ Jamie says, incredulously. ‘There’s like a cliff there. It’s really steep.’
‘No, not that road.’ The man nods gravely. ‘You’re right; I’d never have survived that. But there are barriers there to stop you coming off, yes?’
‘Oh,’ Jamie says. ‘Yeah. There are.’
‘The road I was on – it’s more of a farm road. It comes down very steeply from the main road, and then it winds down to where the fields are. It passes very close to here. That’s where the crash happened.’
‘You were lucky the car didn’t explode,’ I say.
‘Maybe. But I think that happens more in films than in real life, yes?’
Anna says, ‘You were still lucky to get out.’
‘Yes. The door was thrown open. If it hadn’t been – well, I suppose I might still be there. But it was quite easy to get out. And then the only building I could see was this one, so I headed for it. You should have seen me last night when I got here,’ he says, shaking his head and smiling a little. ‘I’d got a stick to help me walk – there, you can see it.’ He nods again, and we turn to see a length of tree branch to one side of the door. None of us have noticed it before. ‘I was leaning on that, and lurching along like a pirate, and then I couldn’t get the doors open—’
He breaks off, laughing softly. I find I am laughing too at the description.
‘I remember saying some very rude things then. But in the end I found the side door. It was such a relief to be able to lie down; I think I fell asleep again. And that’s how I got here.’
‘So what shoul
d we do now?’ Jamie says. ‘If you don’t want us to call an ambulance, I mean.’
‘Well …’ The hermit is lost in thought for a moment. Then his face clears. ‘Of course. I should have thought of it earlier. Do you know Signor Ferucci?’
We glance at each other. Anna says, ‘In the big house on the hillside?’
‘Yes.’
Jamie says, ‘Not really. Nobody really knows him. But we know where he lives.’
‘Perfect. Well, I know him too. He’s a good friend of mine. I was going to pay him a visit while I was here anyway. Maybe if you told him, he could bring his car and come and get me. Then I could stay at his house until I’m well enough to go and see my grandmother without scaring her. What do you think?’
‘You want us to go and tell Signor Ferucci that you’re here?’ Jamie says.
‘That’s all, yes. But please – nobody else. You know how people gossip in little towns. If you tell other people, my grandmother might hear. I’d never forgive myself.’
‘OK,’ Anna says. ‘Jamie?’
‘Yeah, OK.’
‘Alex?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I know where his house is. We could go now, if you like.’
‘Thank you,’ the man says. ‘You’re being very kind.’
‘That’s OK,’ Jamie says.
Anna says, ‘Where do you live?’
‘Rome, at the moment.’
‘Oh. I don’t know Rome very well. My family live in Vicenza.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’ve been there.’
‘Where were you born?’
‘Naples.’
‘I’ve been there,’ Anna says seriously. ‘Is that where you grew up?’
‘Yes.’ He shifts again a little, and I see his face twist for a moment as he moves.
‘We’d better get going,’ Jamie says.
Anna doesn’t seem to hear him. She says, ‘Did you live there a long time?’
For the first time, a shade of irritation crosses the hermit’s face. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘All the time I was growing up. Please, now—’
‘Yeah,’ Jamie says. ‘Come on, Anna.’
‘Oh. Yeah,’ Anna says. To the hermit she adds, ‘We’ll try not to be long, OK? You should get some sleep if you can. We’ll be back soon.’
‘Thank you,’ the man says; it seems to me that his voice is fainter than before.
We go to the door. Sneaking a quick glance back, I can see that the hermit has closed his eyes again, just like Anna told him.
Outside, we stand in the searing afternoon sunlight and look at each other.
‘This is really exciting,’ I say.
‘You shouldn’t have talked to him, though,’ Jamie says to Anna. ‘I mean, he could have been dangerous. He could have been anyone.’
Anna doesn’t say anything.
‘He wasn’t, though,’ I say. ‘He knows Signor Ferucci. I told you he was the hermit.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Jamie says. ‘He’s too young.’
‘Well, maybe he’s another hermit.’
‘No he’s not. You heard what he said. He lives in Rome.’ He suddenly grins at me. ‘You and your hermits. Anna? Are you OK?’
She seems to be staring at nothing. After a long moment, she blinks and shakes her head slightly.
‘Anna? What is it?’
‘He said he grew up in Naples,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Jamie says slowly. ‘That’s right.’
There’s another silence. The afternoon buzzes and hums around us. I can see Jamie is getting impatient; but he’s also curious, wants to know what has made Anna go like this.
At last, she says, ‘He said he crashed his car.’
‘Yes.’
‘He said the road was near here. A farm road that comes down steep from the main road. That’s right, isn’t it?’
Jamie is nodding. ‘Yeah, that’s what he said. Why?’
Anna doesn’t answer him. ‘You reckon we could find that road?’
Jamie’s impatience finally gets the better of him. ‘Anna, what is it? We’ve got to go and find Signor Ferucci. Come on.’
She shakes her head again. ‘No. No, we have to go and see.’
‘See what?’
‘Where the car is. If it’s like he says.’
‘We can do that afterwards,’ Jamie says. ‘It’ll be there for days, probably.’
‘No. We’ve got to go now,’ she says simply.
Jamie and I stare at her. Jamie’s mouth is slightly open, as if he’s searching for something to say that will shake this abrupt, unexplained stubbornness.
I say, ‘Why do you want to see his car?’
A strange look comes over Anna’s face. She says, ‘I’m not sure.’ There’s another impenetrable pause, and then she says, ‘I don’t think he’s telling the truth.’
‘About what?’ Jamie says.
‘I don’t know.’
‘We have to get Signor Ferucci,’ I say, starting to feel nervous. The bushes near the side door of the chapel stir very slightly in a breath of air.
‘No,’ Anna says. ‘We have to go and find his car. We’ll do that first.’ She catches Jamie’s eye, and grudgingly adds, ‘We can go and see Signor Ferucci then, OK?’
Jamie looks like he’s struggling with something. Anna stares at him, her eyes dark. At last he shrugs, and the conflict in him eases.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘But we’ve got to be quick. You just want to look, right?’
‘I just want to look,’ Anna confirms, but I think that her voice sounds weirdly distant, as though she isn’t really concentrating on the question.
‘And then we’ll go straight into town.’
‘Yeah. Of course.’
‘Right, then,’ Jamie says uncertainly. Anna is looking away from him, at the little door that leads into the cool darkness to where the hermit lies sleeping. For a long time it looks as if she’s forgotten our whole conversation, and might be going to stand here until the sun goes down. I tug at the side of her T-shirt.
‘Anna?’
She shivers. ‘Yeah. Let’s go.’
And we start up the valley together, heading into territory none of us have explored before, following the winding of the river and keeping our eyes open for a road cutting close by, down from the head of the valley.
Across the valley, back down towards where the wonderful blue of the Mediterranean comes up to fill the curve between the two shoulders of land, there is a white house on the hillside, behind a wall. Acres and acres of estate in there slide slowly into ruin, but the house itself always looks sharp and new. Sometimes there are cars on the wide driveway, and they are always shiny and clean, and not clogged with the red dust of the valley. The gates hardly ever open and when they do, the shiny cars hardly ever come down towards the sea: instead they drive off up the valley, going to places I can’t imagine. Once in a while there is a tall man with a neatly trimmed beard in the town, but that is all; and that’s only once in a while.
Unexplored territory. My mother says, ‘Thank God nothing like that ever happens here,’ and turns the volume on the radio down low when she sees me in the doorway.
If time had happened differently, we would have built a tree house, Jamie and I. Perhaps it would have had a rope to climb up, and perhaps it would have been high enough that we would be able to look down the valley and see all the way to the water. These things could have happened.
These things could have happened: a young couple could have gone to a jazz club one night, and they could have drunk beers and talked about an old friend of theirs, and they could have smiled at each other as they remembered. And they could have listened to the music, and let the memories that it brought wash over them, and hardly need to talk now because the music says so much, and they both know it so well. And then they could go out into the night, and fall into step, and have their arms around each other as they walk.
And then they turn a corner and the friend they’ve been talking about comes out of a
bar there, and they are all surprised and amazed and delighted because they haven’t seen each other in so long; and it’s like, Hey! What the hell are you doing here? Christ, it’s good to see you. You know where we’ve just been? And we were talking—
And the three of them have their arms round each other now, and behind them in the night the young people in the jazz club listen, and the musicians play, and the music keeps going until it’s late, very late. And the music doesn’t stop – there’s no end – and the three friends are talking and laughing and saying that they’ll never lose touch like that again. And the night becomes morning and it’s another day, and the musicians are tired and the friends are tired as the sun rises over the old city. No-one is dead, and no-one dies, and that is how it could have happened.
I cling to the photographs as if to a sea anchor in a storm, staring at them fiercely, trying to hold myself in the present by force of will. These paintings, at least, have nothing to do with the past.
Whatever it is that is missing here can’t be understood with the images scattered round me on the floor. The exhibition will be linear, at eye level, a progression from past to present. I have worked my way round the living room, taping them to the walls: bisecting the room with an almost continuous line of images, broken only at that place where the wall dissolves into a swirl of brush marks and half-formed shapes. By chance it falls right in the centre of the sequence. It makes the whole thing seem in some way uneven, lopsided; but I have found I can’t cover these new brush strokes, no matter how hard I try. Whenever I try to ignore them, they end up sucking me back in again. I know, suddenly, that I have to buy proper brushes; proper paints. I need to get colour into this scene: the leached, deadened colour of moonlight, with its heightened contrasts. I can’t leave it the way it is.
I frown, shake my head and turn my attention from where substance is starting to emerge from confusion, to where the forms are already complete, finished.
Something is wrong here. I knew it in London, and it’s the same now. I can’t shake the feeling.
Faces stare out at me, fractured and distorted: a middle-aged woman writing by a window, her hand smoothing the pages of the book open in front of her. A man – a farmer, perhaps – crouched, holding a stone in his hand. It’s not the faces. It’s the eyes. The eyes look back at me from these paintings and there is something I am not understanding.