Every Picture Tells a Story

by Gregory Dowling

  I laughed. “I’m sure that’s not in the guidebooks. I’ll definitely hire you for my next tour.”

  “Thank you.”

  So we were finishing on a comic note. Better like that, I thought. Then she looked at me with those so-changeable dark eyes and said, “Someone said to me once that to be successful in business—to sfondare, come si può dire—to make it, you must be both careful and impulsive. The important is to have the instinct about when to be careful, and when to be impulsive.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ciao.” She kissed me, but formally on both cheeks, and said, “Keep in touch.” I watched her dark hair bouncing to her steps as she walked away.

  13

  ON my way to the Britannia School I suddenly realized I was nervous—nervous about giving my talk, of all things. It was crazy. I’d given these talks year after year, and had never felt anything more than a mild exhibitionistic pleasure in front of the students, who had always sat diligently taking notes (when the lights were on) and politely laughing at the appropriate points. So why this stage fright now? Well, maybe one insecurity triggers off another. If you’re worried about possibly getting shot and/or mutilated, you’re not likely to be in the best psychological conditions for standing up and being witty about Bellini.

  I tried to convince myself that this was the explanation, but had a sneaking doubt that even if I were here in circumstances quite unrelated to terrorism, I’d be quaking. After all, I’d been nervous about going into that private view the other day.

  And rightly, as it turned out.

  But these are just students, I told myself. The same set of languorous youths with double-barrel names and Etonian voices that you’ve seen at the Britannia School every year.

  And in fact, as I entered the now-dark campo where the school was situated I heard the familiar noise of high-spirited upper-class voices: those long braying vowels as two girls hailed each other all the way across the square. (In Italy you have to go to Naples to find such unembarrassed long-distance conversations.) “Hey, Charlotte!” “Oh, ciao, Belinda!” Wide fluffed-out skirts, green anoraks, long ruffled blond hair. Only the word ciao (“cheeow”) showed any influence of the surroundings. I made toward the door of the school, listening in to their conversation as they met up in the middle of the square. (Well, I didn’t exactly have to strain my ears.) “It’s somebody on Bellini, isn’t it?” “Yaah. They say he’s been to prison.” “No, go on, you’re making it up.” “No, honest. I got it from Piers. Something to do with drugs.” “Gosh, what fun. Not the sort of thing you’d expect from old Christopher Robin, is it?”

  I went on up the stairs. The piano nobile was already nearly full of students, sitting around and chatting and laughing and saying “Re-eally!” or “Re-eally?” They looked younger than ever. Mere babes. Though quite sexy babes, one or two of them. About two-thirds of them were female. Some of them had turned toward me as I crossed the room and I hastily looked away: if they caught me ogling, what would I be to them but a dirty old man? Lucy was standing at the back by the slide projector. She was wearing fairly tight black corduroy trousers and a white pullover; she looked good, I had to say. And so different from the pink-cheeked adolescents all around. When she saw me she came up to the front and said, “Hi. You can give me the slides. I’ll operate the machine.” Quick businesslike tone. Just the way I’d wanted things. So why did it irritate me so much?

  “Okay,” I said. “Have they been told who I am?”

  “They know your name. And that you’re an artist.”

  “Hadn’t you better warn them not to accept any sweets from me?”

  “Don’t be silly.” This was said quite neutrally as she took the boxes of slides from me. “You’re sure they’re all the right way round?”

  “Well, if any of them comes out upside down, I’ll tell them it’s so we can study the color harmonies more objectively.”

  “I remember that one,” she said, and smiled.

  Professor Perkins pottered in from the staircase. Today he looked as if he were auditioning for a part in Waiting for Godot. He saw us with the slides and said, “Oh, thought it was Jones today.”

  “I’m substituting,” I said.

  “Ah, I see. Well, er, I’ll see you later, no doubt.” And he pottered back out.

  Thank you very much, Professor, for the confidence boost.

  The secretary’s door opened and Mr. Robin peered out and beckoned me. “One word, please.” He closed the door again.

  I felt like a schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study. I turned in puzzlement to Lucy and she said, “I think it’s your fighting in the streets.”

  “My what? Oh, I see.” I went into Luisa’s office. She was sitting placidly reading the provincial pages of the Gazzettino. Mr. Robin was standing by the desk with his arms folded forbiddingly. Somehow he managed to make them look primly symmetrical nonetheless.

  “Ah, Martin,” Mr. Robin said.

  “I’m ready to start if—”

  “Yes, of course. But first I would like some clarification on something that appeared in yesterday’s Gazzettino.”

  “How do you mean, ‘clarification’?”

  “Am I to understand you got involved in some kind of fight?”

  “If you read the article properly, you’ll see that the person mentioned slipped.”

  “We tried to phone this morning to find out what it was all about, but the hotel said you had moved.”

  Not, I noticed, to find out how I was. “Yes, I’ve moved to Santa Croce. People are less clumsy there.”

  “If you remember, I stated yesterday that we would appreciate it if you kept a low profile. This is not the kind of publicity that the Britannia School needs.”

  “The Britannia School didn’t get mentioned.”

  “No, not yet. But who is to say in the next edition of the paper.”

  I hoped he hadn’t caught my wince. I said, “I’ll keep my head right down.”

  “It’s a little late now,” he said. “Martin, I think it would really be better if you limit yourself to just the one lecture. I have to think of the—”

  “School’s reputation, I know.” Another nice prelecture confidence boost. “You’re not going to give me another chance?” I realized how pathetic this sounded as I said it. And besides what was the point? The next day’s newspapers would probably put paid to any such hope. The connection was bound to be made between Saturday’s street fight and Monday’s murder.

  “I really don’t think it would be in the interests of either of us.”

  “Speak for yourself” would be the only sensible answer to this. But that would be to assume that Mr. Robin’s words were supposed to make sense. They were mere bureaucratic noises, issued at occasional intervals to assure the listener that steps were being taken, paths followed, procedures carried out.… So I shrugged and said, “Okay. Are you going to listen in to me?” In case I start a brawl.

  “Yes, of course. Oh, and please do not overrun. The students are to be at the car park at seven to take a coach to Mantua.” He walked to the door.

  I looked at Luisa and she lifted her eyes from the Gazzettino and gave me a sympathetic hand-spreading shrug. I mouthed the word stronzo and she giggled. She said, “Give me the name of the hotel and we’ll send your check there.” I gave it to her and followed Mr. Robin out.

  Well, at least this anger had killed the butterflies in my stomach, I thought. But then as I stood out in front of the sea of faces—well, more like a pink-pebbled beach really—listening to Mr. Robin’s few words of introduction, those butterflies fluttered to life again and I found my hands hot and sweaty. Mr. Robin’s clichés pattered along—“very happy to have with us…”; “well-known artist in his own right…”; “the gift of the artist’s eye”; “could someone please close the shutters?”—and I tried to pull myself together, promising myself that I’d so enthuse them (wild cheering, waving of scarves, thunderous applause) that Mr. Robin would just have to ask me b
ack.

  They listened with polite attention to my opening remarks, laughing courteously but not uproariously at my comparison of the Bellini family to other such prodigy families as the Jacksons (I remembered I’d used the Osmonds in earlier years, but the name would mean nothing to these kids), and when the lights went down for the first slide, there wasn’t the instant outbreak of fumbling and fidgeting and possibly fondling that Professor Perkins always had to put up with. So I calmed down and started to enjoy myself. I suppose there was something reassuring about just being a voice and a pointing rod in the semidarkness; it was another cozy cocoon, like the fog (the fog as I’d yearned for it yesterday morning, rather than the fog as I’d actually felt in on Friday evening).

  I was probably the only one to have a sudden intimation of danger: well, of course I was the only one to need the intimation. I had just said my fifth peremptory “next” and thus brought onto the screen Bellini’s Naples Transfiguration when I noticed the door to the staircase, halfway down the right-hand wall, open a few inches and then close again. Some student who’d missed a boat or something, I thought, and was now embarrassed to come in. I was the only one not facing the screen at that moment, so the only one to notice this tiny movement. I turned back to the screen ready to say something about the subtle play of light when it suddenly struck me that there had been no irruption of light, subtle or otherwise, from the doorway: why was the staircase in darkness? The lights were usually never switched off until the school closed.

  I said, “Er, note the background buildings. I don’t know if you’ve been to Ravenna yet…” and my eyes wandered back to the door. I found myself gripping the rod like a sword.

  Suddenly the Transfiguration disappeared: one moment a silvery serene lucidity, and the next utter blackness. There was a quick silly scream from a girl at the back followed by laughter and a buzz of voices. I jumped away from where I had been standing and crouched with the rod held out: I dimly saw the door open—a flicker of gray amid the blackness—and a dark silhouette slip through.

  Mr. Robin was saying, “All right, keep still everybody, it’s obviously just a power cut.…” Luisa had come out of her office and was saying, “Oh dio, ancora…”

  Then a hand grabbed my shoulder and made as if to spin me around. I have no doubt that if I hadn’t been ready I’d have twirled like a top. As it was I twisted out of reach and lashed out with the rod at head height. It struck something and I heard, amid the hubbub of the rest of the room, a sharp intake of breath. “Pezzo di merda, ti rovino la faccia,” came a quick whispered sentence—“I’ll ruin your face.”

  Why the hell was I fighting back in silence? “Help!” I suddenly shouted—and there was a momentary hush in the room, immediately broken by loud laughter and cheers and just one scream from the same girl at the back. Mr. Robin said, “Come along, that’s enough nonsense. I’m going to get a torch.”

  I was aware that my assailant’s eyes were more adjusted to the dark than mine and mere backing away was no use: he could no doubt see me. I smashed out with the rod again and it was snatched in midair. I leaped forward, taking advantage of the fact that his hand was thus occupied and made to grab his other arm. Something went swish in the air and I felt a hot searing pain on the back of my hand. I yelped, and jumped to the window. I managed to grab the handle of one of the shutters: I knew there was a lamppost almost directly outside the window. I felt my shoulder gripped again and suddenly there was something pricking at my cheek just below my eye. I kept my head dead still and at the same time jerked the handle of the shutter. A silver sliver of light sliced down to the floor and instantly I was released: I fell over and heard his footsteps run to the door; it was swiftly opened and shut again. I heard the faint noise of footsteps on the stairs.

  Another shutter was opened at the back and I pulled myself to my feet in the gloom. I could feel a hot trickle down my cheek and on my hand. The voices in the room were still hearty, jolly, enjoying the unexpected diversion. Mr. Robin was halfway down the center aisle, picking his way past the students who had, I think, been deliberately stretching their legs out. He saw me getting to my feet and said, “Martin, whatever have you been doing?”

  “I—I—nothing.” I ran to the door and started down the staircase.

  He called out to me, “The fuse box is at the bottom, by the cleaning cupboard.”

  I reached the door to the campo and stared out. There were just two old women with shopping bags in the far corner. I closed the door and went toward the fuse box. I pulled the switch and heard the satisfied “Ahs” from above. The staircase remained in darkness. I found the switch by the entrance, and in the light examined my hand. There was a cut halfway across, but not deep. The knife had obviously caught me glancingly. I put my fingers to my cheek and they came away with a dab of blood. But it was only one small laceration; a bandage should be enough.

  At this point Mr. Robin came down the stairs and joined me, repeating, “Whatever were you doing?”

  “I tripped over the wires,” I said, “and got mixed up with the rod.” I noticed, with a kind of paradoxically calm annoyance, that my voice was shaking as I spoke.

  “The wires are at the back of the room,” he said.

  “Ah. Well, I must have tripped over something else. Shall I go on?” I took a handkerchief from my pocket and put it to my cheek.

  “You don’t look in any fit state to. Martin, have you been drinking?”

  “No more than usual. I tell you I just fell over. It was pitch black, wasn’t it?”

  “So it was for all of us. Not drinking, you say. Have you been taking anything else?”

  “A toasted sandwich and a coffee,” I said. I had finally managed to get the tremble out of my voice. I started up the stairs—and found that the tremble had switched to my right hand. I made it grip the handrail firmly. As I entered the room there was a general “Ooh,” and Luisa and Lucy both came forward solicitously. “It’s all right,” I said, “I just slipped.”

  Lucy said, “But what was going on? We heard you shouting ‘Help.’”

  “It was nothing,” I said. I looked around at the students. They were curious, but not especially so. Mr. Robin was making quick officious gestures to get them to return to their seats. Could they really not have seen or heard anything? Well, there had been a great deal of noise and confusion. I said, “Did you see anybody go out the door?”

  “Yes,” Lucy said. “I thought it was somebody going for the lights.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Probably.” It was simplest to leave things like that.

  Luisa gently took the hanky from my cheek and said in Italian, “You need a bandage. What did it?”

  “It must have been the rod,” I said, pointing.

  Lucy said, “Come with me. I’ll clean it up. There’s a first-aid box in the bathroom upstairs.”

  “Okay,” I said. I turned to Mr. Robin. “I’m just going to wash my face off, then I’ll—”

  “Oh, I think we’ll make that a natural break,” he said. “I’m sure you’d rather get over your—your unfortunate mishap. Thank you very much, we’ve all enjoyed the talk a great deal.”

  One or two of the students started a little ragged applause but most of them hadn’t taken in what Mr. Robin had said and merely looked around bewildered. I wondered whether to make any closing remarks myself, but realized I was too irritated to say anything acceptable. I allowed myself to be led away by Lucy. She took me out onto the staircase and we started up to the next floor. We heard Mr. Robin say, “Piazzale Roma at seven, and you are requested to be there on time as the coach will not wait…,” and then the rest of the sentence was drowned by the scraping of chairs and shuffling of feet and excited chatter as the students finally grasped that they could leave the building.

  “Sometimes I’d like to throttle that man—or twist his tie, whichever he’d hate more.”

  Lucy said, “He can get on your nerves.” Then, as we reached the door into the language-school part of the bui
lding, she said, “Martin, just what did happen down there?”

  “I told you. I slipped and cut—”

  “You didn’t get those cuts from that stick thing. What is going on?”

  “What do you mean, ‘going on’?”

  “Something is. Somebody came in and did that to you, didn’t they?”

  I opened the door and passed on into the hall without answering. It was only half as big as the one below, since a dividing wall had been put in to provide an extra classroom. The hall served as a waiting room, and Italian students sat around in ancient wicker chairs thumbing through copies of Country Life and Homes and Gardens, which were presumably supposed to provide them with an idea of everyday life in England. There were big posters of London on the wall, with red buses and smiling beefeaters and bobbies and punks. Through the wall I could hear George Crews’s voice, “Present-perfect simple and present-perfect continuous: I’ve drunk three liters, I’ve been drinking all afternoon. Okay, let’s repeat it.” A slurred chorus of children’s voices repeated the sentence; it sounded like the truth. I made toward the bathroom amid the startled looks of the people waiting. Lucy followed me in. She opened a cupboard above the sink and took out a blue box. I sat on the loo and she looked down at my face.

  “Take that hanky away. Well, am I right?”

  “What about?”

  “Did someone do that to you? And is it anything to do with what happened the other day? Your falling in the canal?”

  “Look, the person I was with slipped.”

  She dabbed at my cheek with wet cotton wool. “You too can be pretty exasperating, you know. You slipped. He slipped. Come on, Martin.” Then in a rather gentler tone—which irritated me no end—she added, “I could see you were trembling when you came back in.”

  “Pretty cold in these big Venetian buildings.”

  She turned back to the sink. “Look, I’m not asking all these questions just because I want a bit of gossip to swap around; I can see you’ve been slashed at, possibly with a knife—and you’re scared. So naturally I want to know why.”