Meatloaf in Manhattan

by Robert Power

  Monsignor Di Vincente pours himself a long glass of lemonade, picking out two pieces of ice from the silver bucket by his chair. The tang of lemons tickles and tantalises his throat as he drinks the juice. Out of the corner of his eye, refracted through the crystal glass, he sees, for the first time, the amber-orange, black and white flash of the caged tiger. It is pulled on a wheeled truck by the largest of African elephants, whose magnificent tusks stretch like lances of knights-of-old to the ground below. Atop the elephant, dressed in a ringmaster’s uniform with golden epaulettes on his shoulders and a tasselled fez, sits a Pekinese monkey, as small as the elephant is large. In their wake, the large wooden wheels of the truck turn noisily over the uneven and unpaved road. Imperious, lordly, assured of its birthright, the tiger moves like a snake, like a wave, from one end of the cage to the other.

  At the end of the procession comes an old gypsy caravan, pulled by a chestnut mare with flowing mane. The sides of the caravan are decorated with signs of the zodiac. Above the open window in bold letters reads: GYPSY ROSE LEE, SEVENTH DAUGHTER OF A SEVENTH DAUGHTER, MYSTIC. As the caravan passes by Monsignor Di Vincente fancies he sees the silhouette of a woman leaning over a crystal ball. All this he takes in at a glance, before the glass leaves his lips, and he notes well the moment.

  The procession is at its end, Monsignor Di Vincente watches the crowd growing smaller as it follows the parade over the crest of the hill at the far end of the high street. He watches and listens until the last child and balloon disappear from sight, the rumpy-tump of the band fading into the distance. For the whole day long he sits on the balcony, reflecting, aware that some things have been well met. Soon enough he catches the sparkle of the stars, the fresh stir of the evening breeze, and shudders back to the moment, realising it is time for bed.

  This night he dreams his dream of old. The one he always forgets until he dreams it again. He is walking in a forest. The sun is bright and it is a dry, hot day. Looking to his left he notices a clearing. There, standing in full view, is the tiger. Neither he nor the tiger express surprise or alarm. The tiger, its fur a tinge of Maltese blue, turns and looks at him, as if it has been expecting him all the while. Then, as always, his dreaming self looks beyond the clearing to the ridge of a hill. Walking towards him is the woman, hooded and faceless. In her hands she carries a crystal that catches sparkles from the refracted rays of the sun.

  No one has ever doubted Monsignor Di Vincente. In spite of his troubles he embraces the world. He has a certain presence that makes the doorman say, ‘thank you sir’, after he passes by. He always gets the most sought after tables in exclusive restaurants, the best seats at the opera. It is, in part, his attention to detail, the cut of his clothes, the angle of his hat. The way he consults his timepiece, then flips it back into his waistcoat pocket. His demeanour, his aura, his assured way of walking through life, the silver tip of his cane tapping against the cobbles on the pavement. So when he walks to the marshlands where the circus has pitched its tents, the Pilgrim Geese overhead squawking their way northwards, no one challenges him as he makes his way to the compound and the circus caravans.

  To all intents and purposes the main action is taking place by the canal, in the big top, silhouetted against the star-filled sky. As Monsignor Di Vincente walks between the rows of vans he hears the explosion of the man being shot from the human canon, the whoops of delight from the crowd as he lands in the safety net. The cymbals clatter and the spotlights shine through the striped and coloured canvas to compete with the stars in the sky. The arc of light illuminates the caravans and Monsignor Di Vincente spots the one he is seeking. There sitting in the open window is Gypsy Rose Lee, the flame from a candle lighting up her face. She looks at Monsignor Di Vincente as if she’s been expecting him all along.

  ‘Come up,’ she says as he approaches. ‘First, you must cross my palm with silver and then we shall see what is to be seen.’

  He walks up the small wooden steps to the open door and enters the sanctum. The old gypsy, young and ancient by turn and refraction of light, beckons him to sit down opposite her. He opens the strings of his velvet purse, takes out two silver sovereigns and gives them to the gypsy. She touches his hand, then grasps his fingers and turns his palm over. She stares intently, almost trancelike.

  ‘You are a traveller, one who is worn down by life. I see a great sadness, a broken heart. I see a man on a pilgrimage. A seeker of redemption, one on a quest for reconciliation, repair, one eager to make amends. A man seeking peace of mind.’

  Yes, the old gypsy is right. Monsignor Di Vincente is a seeker, an adventurer; one who has traversed the continents, sailed the seas and oceans of the world. He often feels the need to be somewhere else. At night, whilst others sit down to their dinners or play boardgames, he draws the blinds and dances with a grace that belies his rotundity. His hands becomes candles, flames lighting up the room, casting his shadow on the ceiling. Every now and then, towards the full moon, a peculiar brand of melancholy overtakes him. It begins with the dream of the gathering storm, far out to sea, where the whirlpools spawn, where the thunder begins to roll and rumble. Then, as always, his firstborn son appears, his drowning face clearly distinguishable beneath the water’s surface.

  ‘While father was away on business,’ the son says. ‘It happened while father was away on business.’

  Sometimes this is all. Monsignor Di Vincente might wake, or move on to another dream. At other times, the dream continues, the tidal wave rolls in from the expanse of the ocean, the earthquake tears and dissects the town square in two. His wife and children tumble from the balcony, with the pots of geraniums, the basket of washing, crashing, careering, to the heaving ground below.

  Over the days following his visit to Gypsy Rose Lee the images shadow him through his waking hours. He might be sitting drinking coffee at a roadside cafe, when suddenly the street fills with water, the pallid bodies of his wife and children floating lifelessly past him. Or else there is the clatter of a dustbin lid, the pavement splits asunder, and he sees his baby daughter falling from a ledge overhead. ‘While father was away on business,’ the billboards and news hoardings proclaim to a disapproving public. ‘Earthquake and tidal wave hit South Sea island,’ chant the paper boys on street corners. ‘Monsignor Di Vincente’s family perishes, while he was away on business. Read all about it.’

  Then an unquenchable sadness descends over his blackening heart. Monsignor Di Vincente loses his fascination and inquisitiveness for life. He feels trapped and lost all at the same time, and his soul shrinks to a pea. But time has taught him that any action is better than none. So, the next night, the full moon hanging over the town like a pendulum, the demons waiting at the end of his bed, he takes out his book of maps and plans a trip. He consults his diary, clips the calling card from the Heartmaker to the pages for the following week, and scores ‘vacation’ through the next seven days. Writing a note to the hotel manager to keep his room reserved and aired until he returns, Monsignor Di Vincente leaves the hotel and is down at the river-landing before the dawn arrives.

  Watching the kingfisher skirt the riverbank, tasting a sense of serenity, Monsignor Di Vincente sings softly to himself and to the unfolding day.

  ‘Early one morning, just as the sun is rising, I heard a young maid singing in the va-lley below,

  Oh don’t deceive me, oh never leave me, how could you use a po-or maiden so.’

  Some little time must have passed, because the song has left his head and the smell of the morning fills the air. Monsignor Di Vincente sighs deeper than he thinks he has breath and weeps a tear into the river for his lost children and darling wife. Then, as if to remind him today is all he has or can ever expect, the droning horn of the steamer announces that it, like the vagaries of the day, will shortly reveal itself.

  Around the bend in the river the huge steamer appears, the enormous paddle churning up the water, the steam billowing from its single funnel. Lined along the upper deck are mustachioed men in blaze
rs and boaters, women in full white frocks with wide-brimmed hats or parasols to shade them from the sun. All wave gleaming white handkerchiefs to welcome Monsignor Di Vincente, who stands alone and expectant on the short landing-stage jutting out into the reddened waters of the fast flowing river. Monsignor Di Vincente pauses midway along the gangplank that has been lowered to lead him from the jetty to the deck of the boat. He looks around, savouring the moment of being suspended between the air and the water.

  After he settles into his cabin, Monsignor Di Vincente dresses himself in his new deck shoes, his navy blazer with the gold buttons embossed with anchors and his white flannel trousers. On his head he wears the boater given to him after the regatta at Henley, in honour of his unique, and now famous, contribution to the centenary celebrations. On deck he sits down on a lounger, with his face to the growing warmth of the sun, and listens to the rhythmic pattern of the water being pushed through the huge paddle propelling the steamer along the deep central channel of the river.

  As the day wears on the waterway narrows and each bank fills with a dense profusion of bushes and trees. Observing the scenery, Monsignor Di Vincente is sure he spots a man peering from a branch some twenty feet off the ground. Then later he thinks he hears whispers and messages being passed through the forest as the steamer makes its way upstream.

  The day and night, the flow of the current and the ever-changing riverbank, soothe the mind and soul of Monsignor Di Vincente. By day he reads a book on the flora and fauna of the region and makes sketches of the waterway. At night he dines with his fellow guests and joins in the revelry and pantomime. He plays charades and bridge and one night he bedazzles the crowd with magic tricks. One late afternoon he joins a card game in the lounge. Gazing through the open window, the sun warming his cheek, he is the only one on board to see the Blackfoot brave stalking the boat along the river’s edge. The only one to catch the flash of the pearl of the handle of the warrior’s tomahawk. He feels no fear, though the signs and sounds from the riverbank are clearly ominous. Yet there is more to the movement in the trees than the shadowy trail of the Blackfoot brave.

  Monsignor Di Vincente is also the only one onboard to notice the bird of paradise return to her nest with a croup full of grubs for her fledglings. Something of note on the forest floor, something in the upper branches. It is Monsignor Di Vincente alone, the other voyagers all so unaware, who sees the poised figure of the Blackfoot brave, the yellow and red paint of his face still wet and menacing. Monsignor Di Vincente is about to play his hand of cards: the pair of aces (spades and diamonds) and the knaves (clubs and hearts) set to clean out the bank. Holding high his cards Monsignor Di Vincente is the only one on the boat to notice the first arrow quiver and slice through the air. He watches its release from the bow, of exquisite wood, lovingly carved by the brave from a poplar branch. He follows its flight as it twists and whistles through the space between there and here. He hears the sudden gasp and surprise as it slices through the throat of the ship’s cook, who is frying a pan of snapper fish and humming an old sea shanty.

  By the time they reach the small river town of Padua Saint Christos it is daybreak. Despite the early hour, the square of the Blessed Virgin is full, the crowd is buzzing. But, most unlike any other day, the townspeople are not interested in the bedraggled troupe snaking its way from the quayside, looking for comfort and ears to hear its tale of ambush and drama. In fact, the new arrivals are barely acknowledged, hardly noticed. Only a few heads turns momentarily in their direction.

  There is a more pressing drama for the town to attend to. The previous night, to be discovered with horror this morning, someone had smashed the heads of the mother and child. There for all to see is the doubly decapitated statue, standing (as it has done for five centuries) in the centre of the square. The priest is on his knees, wringing his hands above his head. He throws himself prostrate to the ground, grappling with the dust, uttering shrieks to the heavens, as if it has been his very own wife and child defiled and mutilated. All around the crowd is milling to and fro, arguing and remonstrating, pointing to this one and that one, hurling abusive accusations at neighbours and kin alike. In their hearts, many of the townsfolk have thought of it, as children, as wild adolescents. To smash the statue in the square, the ultimate act, fit for a vandal. To rebel, to make a mark. So in their accusations of each other, they all share a portion of the blame of guilt.

  All the while the ragged river-boat party stands in stunned silence, their sundry belongings gathered at their feet, each mesmerised into inertia, unsure where to move next. Each survivor locked into their own version of events, their own set of images. The marauding braves. The suddenness of the violence. Their hasty retreat and escape by canoe. All deep in a shocked reflection. All except Monsignor Di Vincente. Realising none of this is any of his business, nor any of his responsibility, he sets off to find a pony and trap for hire to take him back to town in time for his rendezous of the next day. His visit to the Heartmaker.

  Back in his hotel room, fresh flowers on the small table by the window, Monsignor Di Vincente feels contented. He peels an orange from the hand-painted bowl and opens up his newspaper. He is in the habit of reading the obituaries on the inside back page. A whole life in a single column. Today’s obituary is of a man who, for fifty years, made cathedrals and castles out of countless matchsticks. All the little details of a life.

  Monsignor Di Vincente likes taking off his leather boots at the end of the day. The creaking noise. The pulling. The yielding and giving. The release, like a childbirth of sorts: the boot wrinkled like a newborn baby. Last thing at night, before he goes to bed, he reads the weather forecast in the newspaper. He notes well the isobars and the wind speeds. He checks the temperature readings of his favourite cities: Vienna, Saint Petersburg, Bogota, Zagreb, Cairo, Palermo and Chicago. He looks out for the hint of storms, for the coming of the next full moon. He picks up the calling card from the bedside table where he had placed it. He runs his fingertips over the lettering as if it were Braille. As if he was blind. He closes his eyes. ‘Maker of hearts,’ he recites. ‘Maker of hearts.’

  They always come in that way, furtively. As if the error is all theirs. Another wrong turn, another mistaken identity. The Heartmaker doesn’t look around, but carries on busying himself with the task at hand. The shaping, this tricky business. Perched on his stool, he continues as he always does, seemingly oblivious (at least to the visitor at the door) to the lift of the latch, the creek of the hinge. He had intended to stop after shaping and hanging this one up to dry. This last heart of the afternoon. He is thirsty and in need of a cup of something. Lemon barley or orange squash, maybe a ginger biscuit or two. The sun had gone down a while back. He can hear the clatter and wheeling of the market traders pushing their stalls along the cobbled street outside the small window of his workroom.

  So that’s how Monsignor Di Vincente first glimpses him, hard at work and concentrating. He pops his head around the door, one foot, in fact both, still in the street. Monsignor Di Vincente drops the letter on the coconut mat in the doorway, just as the Heartmaker turns on the wireless and tunes the cat’s whisker to the cricket scores.

  Next day the Heartmaker sits at the dinner table in the parlour at the back of the house. His wife is busy putting the finishing touches to supper, wiping her hands in a worried manner on the blue and white apron she has tied around her waist. She hears the sound of her husband tapping his fingers on the soft wooden table as he is prone to do when deep in thought.

  ‘What is it?’ implores his wife, for she hates to see him distracted so. ‘What is the tune you are playing?’

  He is staring through the small latticed window into the alleyway that runs along the backs of the houses. A small robin is doing her best to tug a worm from the gap between the cobblestones, laid two centuries earlier. His wife places a plate of freshly steamed vegetables on the table in front of him: the deep green of the broccoli, the polished red of the peppers, sit on the plate like a pic
ture. Lovingly she kisses her husband on the nape of his neck, trying once more to elicit a response.

  ‘So tell me, what is it that preys on your mind, my dear?’ Her impatience finds expression in the apron strings she twines as she speaks.

  ‘Nought but a customer,’ he replies at last, blowing gently on his food, watching the steam changing direction. ‘Nothing of great concern, my sweetness,’ he continues. ‘Merely a customer who doesn’t speak to me, but tells me of his need by letter and by the longing expression of his eyes.’

  He spears a branch of broccoli and holds it before him on the tip of his fork.

  ‘A soul assured, but lacking. Afraid to speak in case someone listens and begins to understand. That’s why he has come to me for a new heart. In the hope he will find expression and openness. That is all that is on my mind,’ he says. Then with a lilt of mischievousness in his voice adds, ‘but what is on my plate? Heavenliness,’ he whoops, swallowing the broccoli, taking a slice of roasted pepper between his fingers, dropping it in his mouth. Then he leaps up, takes his ladylove, his sweetheart, by the hand and dances her around the room.

  ‘You be my honey, honeysuckle, I’ll be your bee,’ he sings into her ear as they dance across the floor. She smiles, letting out a gentle loving sigh of contentment, assured as she is that no one could ever love her more than this man and there is no more happiness to be had. As she thinks these thoughts, twirling slowing to the honeyed hum of his voice, slowly she lets her apron strings drop.