Notorious

by Roberta Lowing

  The wood was warped. There was a gap between the door and the wall, as much as a finger’s width in some places. He saw the stone landing, the first steps, a lit lantern hanging on a bracket in the wall. Below it, on a thin nail driven between two blocks of stone, was a small key on a metal ring.

  He stared at it for a long time. It was barely an arm’s length away but only his fingertips fitted through the gap. He looked at the wire gleaming wetly in the moonlight and straightened it, fingers slipping. He measured it against his outstretched arm.

  He bent one end into a hook, held the other end firmly, and pushed the wire through the gap.

  The thin red line snaked along the wall towards the key.

  Somewhere below him, a door banged, voices echoed up the stairs. He stopped, rigid, the wood cutting into his cheekbone, splinters separating his eyelashes. The lantern shuddered in a new eddy of wind. He held his breath but no-one came.

  Please God, he thought, be with me.

  The hooked end of the wire was almost at the key. But he hadn’t reckoned on the thinness of the metal: it was beginning to bend under its own weight. The further he pushed it, the more it bent. It was nearly at the key but diving down past it.

  He stood on tiptoe, moved his fingers up in the gap so the wire was above the key now. But it was curving badly; he doubted if he could get the hook through the metal ring. He tried anyway, jerking wildly. The hook missed the ring completely the first time. He tried again, another miss, but closer. He took a deep breath, willed himself to slow. He brought his arm down and up again quickly, like flicking a whip. The hook rose, caught the edge of the metal ring, kept rising; the key was coming off the nail. He brought his hand down frantically, the hook dropped, the key fell, the hook caught the ring, it held there, swinging in the light, so close. The wire buckled.

  The key fell to the ground.

  He pulled the wire through the gap, threw himself down and looked under the door. The key lay, trembling in the lantern light. It was much nearer than before. The metal ring was slightly raised. He saw space between it and the uneven stone. If he could hook the wire under it . . .

  He folded the wire back and twisted it to make it shorter but thicker. He also bent the other end to make the hook deeper and longer. Then, lying full length, he pushed the wire out, closer and closer to the key. Against the ground, the wire was easier to handle. It went straight towards the key and he felt a thrill of elation.

  Yes, he thought. Then told himself, Don’t get over-confident.

  The wire was already at the key. He flipped it over so the hook was dragging against the ground and pushed. The sharp point ran up and over the key-ring. He dragged back, sharply, and the hook slid under the ring and caught it.

  He willed himself not to rush, moving his hand back a few inches at a time. The key came easily across this piece of stone paving. There was barely half an arm’s length between it and him.

  But at the grouting around the next piece of stone, the key’s teeth disappeared into the gap. The key stopped. It was caught. He pulled, sweating now despite the cold. The cuts on his chin had re-opened; red was pooling near the door. He pulled again, felt the resistance. He eased off then tugged, sharply. The key came free.

  As he lay down and yanked the key the last few inches, a door slammed. More voices. Someone coming up the stairs.

  He pulled the key under the door, ripped it off the hook and threw the wire to one side. The footsteps were closer. He shoved the key into the lock. It disappeared almost up to the ring. Unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes, he turned the key, willing the door to open.

  He turned and turned. The key spun wildly, unable to catch the lock. He turned and turned the wolf’s head knob but the door didn’t move.

  The key was far too small. He knew it even as the footsteps sounded on the landing outside.

  He threw the key behind him and slumped against the door, gasping. Blood was running down his throat, falling on the wolf’s head doorknob as though it were weeping red tears.

  Why have You forsaken me? he thought and bowed his head.

  The footsteps stopped on the landing. He heard breathing as ragged as his own.

  Rosita’s voice came through the gap. ‘Signor Rimbaud.’ She scratched at the door. ‘Arthur.’

  ‘That’s not my name,’ he said in Polish.

  ‘Arthur?’

  ‘You have the book,’ he said in Italian.

  ‘If I keep it safe for you?’ She pressed her mouth against the gap; her warm breath touched his cheek. Their mouths were less than a hand’s width apart. She said something that sounded like, ‘We could almost kiss from here.’

  ‘We’ll never kiss,’ he said loudly. ‘I’ll never marry.’

  There was a long silence. Her breath stopped. She had turned her head away.

  ‘I’ll never pass on my father’s blood. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you let me out?’

  ‘They’ll kill me.’ Her voice faltered into a sigh.

  ‘Where is the priest?’

  ‘He won’t come,’ she said. ‘He’s ashamed. He betrayed you.’

  He had an image of his father laughing at him, sitting up to his waist in treasure, drinking red liquid from cups made of gold as bright as the sun.

  Czeslaw said, ‘It’s all been for nothing.’ He sat down and placed his hand in the red stain on the floor. The mark left there reminded him of the palm leaf on his map.

  ‘Rome,’ he said. ‘I’ll never see you now.’

  ‘If you had said you would marry me,’ said Rosita, ‘they wouldn’t have trusted you but they would have let you live. Why couldn’t you just say it? Am I that ugly?’

  ‘No,’ he said. He rested his head against the door.

  ‘Couldn’t you have lied?’ she said.

  ‘That’s what my father said. I’m sorry, Rosita. It was beyond my control. It was God’s will.’

  She gave a scornful laugh. ‘Men always say that.’ He heard her slap the door.

  ‘I didn’t want to be part of a lie anymore,’ he said.

  A long pause. She said, ‘I know.’ Her fingers reached through the gap. He stood slowly, like an old man, and touched her fingertips with his own. She pressed back and, with a choked sound, withdrew.

  ‘Dante didn’t betray you,’ she said. ‘He was drugged too.’

  But her voice was already growing fainter. ‘No-one ever gets away.’ Her footsteps receded.

  ‘Help me!’ he shouted.

  He listened. The door slammed. She was gone.

  He didn’t know how long he sat. He dozed and kicked out his leg so that it caught the key on the floor. The clinking metal woke him completely.

  He looked from the key to the sideboard.

  The small key.

  He picked it up and squatted next to the sideboard. The moonlight was falling almost directly onto the wooden doors and he found the keyhole easily, slid the key in and turned.

  The cupboard opened. He yanked the door back onto its hinges with such anger that he felt the metal buckle. The moonlight fell on the two shelves inside. On the top was his satchel. He ripped it open, but found only his compass.

  The maps, the money, the leather bag were gone. And the Frenchman’s diary.

  He searched the bottom shelf. At the front were four folded sheets, large ones, made of thick coarse cotton. Stout cotton. He put them to one side, felt around the back of the shelf, in the darkness, and grasped a sack of clothes.

  He sorted through the shirts and trousers and skirts and blouses, all different sizes. Good quality: he recognised the Viennese tailor on the label on one silk shirt. On another, he found rust-coloured stains; more stains on a fawn driving coat.

  He was turning the Viennese shirt between his hands when he noticed writing on the inside seam. The ink had run but he recognised German: Mein Liebling, it read, Ich bin ein verlassener Mann –

  A thread had pulled, the words blurred together
in the low light. He shoved the shirt into the sack. He didn’t want to read any more.

  He used the compass’s sharp edge to work a hole between the threads. Deliberately thinking of his father, he put all his strength into tearing the material.

  When he had twisted and knotted the strips into a long thick rope, he dragged the sideboard over to the window, tied one end of the rope around the wooden legs and threw the other end away into the darkness. He checked the knot and climbed out.

  For a moment he couldn’t make himself let go of the window sill. The cold air between his toes made his soles flinch. He hung, fingernails digging into the sill, feeling flakes of old metal – was the window rusting? With a gasp, he grabbed the sheets and fell a body’s length before he tightened his grip. He grazed his knuckles on the stone, which reassured him. He lowered himself, hand over hand, curling his soles around material already stiff with cold, feeling the wind at his back. He hoped it was a Polish wind.

  The wind hauled at the sheets, making Czeslaw swing out from the wall. Returning, he hit the stone. He flattened his back, slowed and slid down the twisting rope, revolving in the black wind, his face going round and round. Two faces in the black wind.

  Ripping sounded above him. He dropped half a body’s length and kicked out, desperate for a toe-hold. He felt himself falling before he actually fell. The wind was cold against his temple. The ground was coming up to meet him. It would show him its harshest face. He twisted and landed on his back. Rocky teeth cut his shoulder blades, he jolted, flipped over, fell further through air then hit hard ground. He was flung onto his back again, still moving. He slammed into a tough bush, grabbed at the stunted trunk with both hands. His lungs felt flattened. All he could do was swallow at the air, like a fish.

  A long howl sliced the night and he forced himself onto his knees. He breathed.

  Lights flickered above him. The outline of the tower was misty against the night sky; a few smaller buildings huddled in grey smears beneath it, more leaning away into the slope, their square lit eyes watching him. He had missed the houses as he fell and landed on the mountainside.

  He shivered. It was not as cold on the ground but he was going to be ill without warm clothes or shelter. And he didn’t know what poison was in his system. He tried to stand, was too weak, and resorted to a half-scrabble, half-crouch. Rocks clattered nearby; he thought he heard breathing – panting – an animal sound. If he could find a cave or a hollow, he might stay there until first light. Hopefully they wouldn’t realise he was gone until after dawn.

  His fingers touched threads of silk. For some reason he thought of the picnic basket at the base of the mountain. He was visualising thimbles and rose petals when his hand felt cold flesh.

  He saw the red hair, the reflection of the moon in dead eyes. The body of an unknown man. There was a pair of driving goggles wrapped around the man’s wrist and nothing below the knees. The wolves or dogs had been at him, were probably nearby.

  He sent up a prayer for the stranger and turned to go. Far above, a shout, and a rushing sound. He ducked, hands over his head. He thought a wolf was jumping at him.

  A weight hit the ground nearby. Chips of rock cut his cheek, grit blinded him. He cleared his eyes, listened. The weight was not moving. Was it rubbish? Was this the village rubbish tip?

  He slid gingerly over to the dark shape on the ground. He knew what he would find even before he turned the body over, before the moon caught the white in the old eyes, before he felt the wooden cross on the long metal chain. He knew even before the voices sounded nearby.

  SICILY, TEN MONTHS EARLIER

  FRIDAY

  I stand as close as I can to the edge of the cliff and look at the rapidly thinning line of light on the horizon. Swelling purple clouds fill the sky. Lightning pitch-forks into the black sea, funnels of black air revolve along the edge of the world. Black crows are stationary above me, battering the wind. Far out, towards Tunisia, the white crests of waves turn over like scrolls; a tanker is rolling, a whale at rest under the purple clouds. The rain comes down in flat sheets; the wind plucks my hair – my new blonde hair – and I close my eyes and lift my face to the hard cold needles.

  A gust of wind tugs my skirt. Beside me, the man who calls himself Devlin curses. He stretches out a hand, drops it.

  ‘Would you goddamn come away from the edge?’ he says, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. His hands are shaking, not with cold.

  ‘Like this?’ I say, stepping closer to the sea. He stares at me, not meeting my eyes. The blood ebbs under his tan.

  ‘You agreed,’ he shouts.

  ‘What about this?’ I say, stepping closer to the edge.

  ‘I don’t have time for your bullshit. We’ve only got two weeks.’

  ‘Your schedule.’ I turn my back on him.

  ‘I’m not saving you,’ he says. ‘I’m not.’

  I tilt my head, opening my mouth to let the black air in.

  ‘It’s a trick,’ he shouts. ‘You won’t get your passport.’

  A dull bang, and another. He is by the Mercedes, trying to open the driver’s side door, but the wind snatches it out of his hands. It is slamming and reopening. He heaves the door back and slams it shut so brutally the car rocks.

  He looks at me. There is maybe three coffins’ lengths between us. ‘Do it!’ he shouts. ‘I dare you.’ He waits, hauls the door open and climbs inside. He bends over the wheel, opens his briefcase. There is a flash of silver at his lips.

  I am alone but I know, now that I can’t watch him, he is watching me. I raise my arms to the sky, enfolding the swollen clouds. The metal on my wrist flashes.

  I shout, ‘Rise up, you black mottled sea. Rise up, you roiling boiling waters. Rise up from your labyrinth of canyons and caverns. Rise up past the splintered mast.’

  I am encircled by the malevolent metal band around my left wrist and the wind which grasps my ankles, jabs between my fingers, under my nails. Rain flattens my eyelashes, pricks my tongue, runs down my throat. The grassless ground beneath me turns to mud. Below the cliff edge, the roiling water swallows the jagged rocks, an endless mouth shifting and swallowing.

  ‘Rise up,’ I shout to the black sea. ‘Rise up under the bloody sun. Play with your dice of bones. Play with the broken crockery on your shore. Roll out your deep black flint-backed bolts.’

  My soaked skirt is heavy, weighing me down. But still a fierce gust sends me backwards, skidding on the slicked earth. I almost fall; the wind reverses direction, catches me across my spine. I am pushed forward, cold rings my neck. I raise my hands higher, see water drops flying from the silver bracelet. Beneath it, the bandage around my wrist is sodden and cold.

  ‘Roar with your mouth as big as the ocean,’ I shout. I am almost at the cliff edge. The wind hits the ground like a hammer. The white scrolls turn over and over, the black clouds wreathe my shoulders. There is black fog in my mouth. I can breathe clearly for the first time in months. I stretch my arms to the black mist. It looks solid enough to walk on. I think to myself, Why not?

  I lean back into the wind, supported by it. The wind tugs at the bracelet on my wrist, trying to drag it off. Impossible, I think. I’ve tried.

  Another dull bang. I smell salt, feel splinters of ice and rock; dirt hits my cheek. I take one last breath. I put out my left wrist. My stigma, my shame. A circle of pure anger.

  ‘Rise up,’ I shout, ‘and swallow everything I have known.’

  I step out onto the black air. For one magnificent second, I am flying. My heart is empty. The relief of not having to remember is enormous, pure euphoria. Better than every drug. This is what I have been searching for, I think. For three years.

  Then – I am earth-heavy again. Maybe the silver shackle around my wrist won’t let me go. Maybe it is the weight of my soul returning. Those twenty-one grams that should vanish from the body at the point of death. I fall through the black air. In a sour irony, the silver circle around my wrist is illuminated like a halo.
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br />   A hand grabs me by the throat, the other grips my arm. I am lifted and thrown, landing on my back, my skirt a lily pad around me. Devlin above me, his hand still at my throat. He puts one knee on my shoulder, grips my throat with both hands. I can barely see him through the rain. The set lines of his face are smudged, trembling. He could be crying but I know he is not.

  He says, ‘Look at what you’ve done to yourself.’

  I put my hand on his hand, so that the bracelet on my wrist cuts into him. A green shadow seeps from the bracelet’s inner rim. It turns the wet bandage green, it tints the grey air. I pull his hand into my throat. ‘Do it,’ I whisper. He can barely hear me but his grasp tightens. He knows what I am saying.

  Banging sounds behind us. The car door slamming and bouncing. He turns his head. The rain lessens and I see his thin straight nose, the heavy jaw, the raindrops caught in the precisely cut sideburns, the thick cropped dark hair flecked with grey. Then he pushes back and stands.

  ‘You’ve really hit rock bottom,’ he says.

  The rain is bending my lashes into my eyes. I see him through black lines across my vision. ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘I think I can fall further if I try.’

  He says, ‘Your father was a criminal’ and what sounds like, ‘and so are you’, but the words dissolve in the wind as he turns away.

  I sit up. The metal bracelet slides down. It always looks like it is going to slide off. But every time, it catches on the bandage, on the top of my thumb-bone. I hold it against me, feel the tiny pulse inside the green illuminated panel.

  My dead hair hangs like seaweed over my shoulders. He is walking away. I wonder what meeting him would have been like without the disguises. The double acts.

  ‘I want to renegotiate,’ I shout after him.

  He goes to the rear of the car.

  I scream, ‘I don’t want to know anymore.’

  He hasn’t heard me. He is taking something out of the boot. It is my small suitcase, the one with my books. My art books, my poetry books. My diary. He goes past me, to the edge of the cliff. I see webbed fingers of black mist wrap around the polished wood handle, stroke the gold monogram.