by Ever Dundas
London, 5 December 2011
I return from seeing Detective Curtis to find Tim and Ben waiting for me, sitting at the kitchen table. I look at them, suspicious of their ease with each other.
‘How’d it go?’ asks Tim.
I shrug and shake my head.
‘I don’t know why he wanted to see me,’ I say, bending down to greet Sam and Mahler. ‘Mac had already told him everything.’
‘And what’s that then?’ says Ben.
‘Don’t you start in on me too,’ I say, ruffling Mahler’s ears. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘You might find it easier talking to us than the detective or reporters,’ says Tim. ‘You need to talk about it eventually.’
‘Don’t tell me what I need.’
‘We’re here, that’s all.’
I glance at them, annoyed by the look of concern on their faces.
‘I’m just tired, okay?’
Tim gets up and hugs me. I lay my head on his chest.
‘I’m writing about it,’ I say, listening to his heart. ‘I’m still writing about the past. I think I’ll be able to talk about it soon.’
‘I just want you to be okay.’
He runs his fingers through my hair.
‘I know.’
‘Sit down and relax. I’ve made dinner. I’ll get the wine.’
I slump into the chair and watch spectre-Monsta’s tentacles come over the top of the table, followed by the shrew head. Monsta settles, looking at me with those beautiful dark eyes. Tim comes back through, hands Ben a beer and pours me some red wine. I sip it and feel myself unwind.
We have dinner together and tell Ben about the circus. When dinner’s over Ben takes Mahler and Sam for a walk and Tim and I continue talking. He pours me another glass of wine, spilling some on the table as he tells me what happened to our friends after the circus ended. Monsta kerlumpscratches across the table, crouches down and licks up the wine. I smile, watching. A tipsy Monsta would be an entertaining Monsta. I tune back into what Tim is saying, feeling the warmth of the wine in my belly.
‘Ariadne and Adeline had found it hard to get any work after the circus ended,’ he says.
I nod as Monsta stands and sways before kerlumpscratching back to me.
‘They appeared in a few B-movies and did stints in various striptease clubs. I was doing well so I’d send them money when I could. Ariadne got married but it only lasted a few months and I’m pretty sure they only did it for the publicity. They had to make a living.’
‘It’s hard,’ I say. ‘Trying to find your place in the world after you leave the circus. It must have been even harder for them. At least I could disappear into the crowd if I wanted to. What happened?’
‘They gave up showbiz in the end and worked in a newsagent in Brighton. Ariadne died from heart failure in ’89. Adeline followed her two days later.’
I wish I’d kept in touch, wish I’d brought them to Venice. We could have worked together. They could’ve helped with the tours. Could’ve, should’ve.
‘Don’t you have any happily ever after stories?’ I say after a while. ‘Don’t you have any of those?’
‘Does happily ever after exist?’
‘I was happy once.’
‘I’m glad,’ he says. ‘Tell me about your happiness.’
Venice, 1968
On the day of the 1968 Biennale opening, police ran through Piazzo San Marco. I was fascinated by the sight of these quasi-military men in the square. It looked like theatre. I took photos and stopped one of the men, asking in broken Italian what was happening but he raised his hand dismissively and continued running. I followed and caught up with them as they were dragging protesters away from a Biennale pavilion. I knew David would be disgusted by the police and their use of force, so I documented it with my camera; I was a witness and I’d tell this story. I captured the moment a policeman tore a banner – ‘Biennale of capitalists, we’ll burn your pavilions!’ – from a protestor’s hands. I took a photo of the banner as it lay crumpled on the ground, the protestor being hauled away in the background.
I walked over to the policeman, taking more photos as he carried off the girl.
‘Ehi, ma io ti conosco!’ she said to me.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know you,’ I said, and was about to reply in Italian when she said in English, ‘Yes, I’ve seen you, every night, drinking and writing. I’ll meet you there. Tonight, tomorrow, who knows? As soon as I’m free.’
She winked at me. I stood staring after her and as she disappeared I heard her yell, ‘Le foto! Keep taking photos!’
I did as instructed, speaking to the protestors, a mix of students, intellectuals, artists. ‘We’re protesting the commodification of art. It’s no longer about expression, no longer about experimentation, no longer about the art itself. It’s all about money, the rich pigs buying culture and killing it.’
I took photos as artists covered or turned over their own work in support of the protest. By the end of the day all the protestors had been removed and the Biennale opened. I went home and developed the photos. I contacted the UK broadsheet that had published my circus article and was paid a decent sum for the photographs and a first person account. I felt guilty, making money from an anti-capitalist protest, but it all went towards looking after my ever-expanding family.
*
I woke up the next morning on the couch, covered in dogs and cats. I slithered my way out from under them and fixed myself a coffee, thinking of the girl. I had seen her before, at Gio’s bar in the evenings. She’d meet her friends there. I liked listening to them, their raucous conversations and loud laughter. But they were background, merely a familiar comfort, and they seemed so wrapped up in themselves that I was surprised she had noticed me.
That evening I went to Gio’s, waiting for her, but she didn’t show. I wondered if I should go to the police, find out if she was in prison, but I didn’t know her name. I went to the bar the next night, and the next. On the third night she turned up, sitting next to me, putting her hand on mine like we were friends or lovers.
‘Sorry I took so long, those pigs kept me locked up.’
‘They’re not pigs.’
‘No? You on their side?’
‘No. I like pigs.’
‘Aaah, yes, I’ve heard about you – the crazy woman who collects animals. La Pazza dei Piccioni.’
‘You’ve been talking to Gio about me.’
‘I have. I know all about you.’
‘You know everything about me?’
She smiled.
‘I will soon. Drink?’
We ordered wine and properly introduced ourselves. Juliana told me she was an artist and she worked at Ca’ Pesaro, the gallery of modern art, to bring in more money.
‘They weren’t happy when I got arrested. I am lucky to still have my job but I charmed them and all is well.’
She raised her wine glass in a toast. I followed suit and said, ‘To your charm.’
She laughed, a deep belly laugh that caused everyone to turn and look.
‘To my charm,’ she said, clinking glasses, ‘may it forever get me what I want.’
She winked at me and finished off her wine.
‘I like pigeons too, you know,’ she said.
‘You do?’
She nodded. ‘Birds are my favourite animal.’
‘Even pigeons? Most people hate them.’
‘People are stupid. I like your tattoos,’ she said, looking at my arms and chest.
‘I travelled a lot,’ I said. ‘I’d get tattoos wherever I went.’
‘But where are you from? Where were you born?’
‘London.’
‘I was born there too,’ she said. ‘My father was born in Venice but moved to London to study and met my mother at university.’
She was interrupted by Gio who hugged her like they were old friends. He greeted me and squeezed my shoulder as he chatted to Juliana. I couldn’t follow their rapid-f
ire Italian so I sat and watched her. I watched her laugh that mischievous laugh, her whole face lighting up. Her long dark brown hair was tied messily up in a bun with strands falling about her face, stroking her brown skin. As she talked with Gio she poured us more wine and suddenly turned back to me, not missing a beat.
‘We moved back to Venice when I was three,’ she said. ‘We would go to London for holidays and to see my grandparents and I stayed with them when I studied art history there, so I grew up knowing it well.’
I didn’t want her to ask me about my time living in London so I told her of the years travelling with the circus. I painted a romantic picture.
‘So I’ve fallen for a clown?’ she said. ‘You couldn’t be more perfect.’
‘Fallen?’ I said, but she didn’t hear me. Her friends had arrived and she disappeared in a flurry of hugs, laughter and overlapping voices, all discussing the protest and arrests. I drank my wine and watched them together, catching parts of their conversation. Juliana turned to me, pointing, her friends all looking me over. I turned away, pretending to write but trying to listen to what they were saying.
‘Did you miss me?’ she said as she hugged me from behind, her arm across my chest, her head leaning gently on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen them all since the protest. I was telling them about my Goblin-clown.’
‘Yours?’
‘I’m hoping my charm will get me what I want.’
She leaned in and kissed me fleetingly on the mouth and said, ‘Tomorrow, you and I. Dinner.’
‘A date?’
‘Of course a date.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-four. Why?’
‘I’m older. A lot older.’
‘I’ve dated older women.’
She ran her fingers through my hair, tucking it behind my ear.
‘What does it matter? You’re my Goblin-clown and I’m your criminal artist. We’re meant to be.’
‘Are we?’
‘I feel it,’ she said, placing her hand on her chest.
‘Dinner,’ I said, nodding. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘I’ll meet you here at seven.’
She kissed me again and I held her this time.
Venice, 1960s/1970s
I fell in love with Juliana.
We went for dinner that night, talking for hours. Walking tipsily back to her flat, she whispered in my ear a mixture of English and Italian, telling me what she wanted to do to me before throwing her head back and laughing that raucous laugh. Her flat was a mess of paintings and art materials and I negotiated my way through the flotsam, following her to the kitchen. I stripped for her as she poured us prosecco. She held the glasses awkwardly in one hand, spilling some as she led me through to the bedroom. I fell onto her bed and she poured her drink across my breasts and belly. I laughed as the cold hit my skin, as it rolled onto the sheet in rivulets, as it fizzed and pooled in the concave of my stomach. She parted my legs, kissed my cunt and licked from my belly to my breasts, her tongue flicking at my nipples. We kissed, her fingers massaging my inner thighs, moving to my clit and making me moan and then she was gone and I blinked up at her as she stood over me, removing her clothes. I pressed my hand between my legs as she slowly peeled the clothes from her body. Watching her, I came. She finished the prosecco as I knelt on the bed, my arm around her waist, pulling her to me. I kissed her stomach, breathing in her smell as her fingers threaded through my hair. I pulled her down. I kissed and bit her thighs as she put her legs over my shoulders. I tongued at her clit, tasting her, listening to her, feeling her body shake as she came.
We’d meet in the evenings at Gio’s, we’d walk through Venice together in the middle of the night, enjoying the quiet. We’d sleep at hers or more often mine, feeding the animals, playing with them, taking the dogs for walks. I fell for her but I thought I was just a phase for her, a passing affair. I buried the doubts and let it be, I let us exist in the present.
I thought I was happy until the evening I was tired and I got talking about the circus, giving away too much. I told her about the posters, about David, that I was still searching for the brother who escaped to the sea, but she asked too much so I left the bar early, telling her I had to go home to feed the animals. Instead, I walked to the Grand Canal and lowered myself in.
I swam for a moment, then floated. I thought of the tourists finding my body. I thought what a story that would be. I thought it was a shame that I wouldn’t be there to write about it. Goblin Drowns in Canal, no one mourns.
I let go, sinking. I thought of nothing at all. I felt cleansed in the dirty water. It wasn’t deep. It was a struggle to stay on the bed of the canal, with the rubbish and the fish. I floated and I thought of the animals. Juliana will look after them, I thought. I closed my eyes.
I was pulled and jerked out of my garbage grave. A mermaid, a merman, a pirate, a monster. I was to be devoured and my bones were to be buried beneath the silt and junk. They gripped my arm, so tight it hurt. They pulled me, but not down. Up, up, up we went and I saw the black sky again, a bat’s silhouette flittering across the bright stars. They held me round the chest as they swam for land. The canal spat me out and I spat out the canal.
What monster was this? Or guardian angel?
I heaved in air and rolled over, lying on my back, staring up at my monster-angel; he was small and fat, his face scrunched up and ugly. He shouted, limbs exploding out like pistons. He spat on the ground next to me and left. I turned onto my side and watched him barrelling his way down the street, disappearing into an alley.
I wondered how my monster-angel could just leave me. I could so easily roll over and sink back into the canal. But the moment had passed. My monster-angel knew that.
‘The moment of my death has passed into the past,’ I said and laughed. ‘The past is the past is the past.’
I laughed so hard I shook. I got up and walked back to my apartment, leaving a trail of water, drip drip dripping like black ink.
*
The next day was the same as every day. I looked after the animals, I wrote an article, I did the history tour and I met Juliana. The only thing that changed was the posters. I had grown weary of replacing them, but on this day I printed hundreds and I put them everywhere.
I carried his photograph with me. It was crumpled and a tear was worrying at the right hand corner. If the tear went further it would rip right through his head. I took a copy and left the original at home.
‘You seen this boy?’ I’d ask people in cafes, in restaurants, in bars. I’d ask tourists who stopped me for directions. ‘He’d be a man now,’ I’d say. ‘Imagine him in colour and not so pale. He’ll be tanned now. Swarthy after being a sailor for so long, probably a pirate. You seen this man?’
‘No,’ they’d say. ‘We’ve not seen him.’
‘He’s here for sure,’ I’d say. ‘I should have known it, you know? Of all the places. Where else would he settle? This fantastical realm made of water and glass and crumbling stone. Have you seen this man? Imagine him in colour.’
I put hundreds of missing posters all across Venice. They merged with the graffiti, fraying at the edges, spattered with paint. He had a moustache in one and in another a green penis grew out of his forehead, but mostly they were ignored; covered over, forgotten. Have you seen this man? In response I received smears of paint, tags, slogans: ‘Love the lost’.
My phone number was on the posters and in return I received calls from lonely people and old perverts. Love the lost, and I embraced them all. The police fined me for fly posting and graffiti but let me put the poster in their station and in ‘designated areas’. I’d go to the station every week to ask if anyone had seen him. The answer was always no, always ‘we’ll get in touch with you.’ They huffed when I walked through the door each week but they’d ask how I was, asked how many more dogs and cats and injured birds I had collected. I stayed for coffee and they asked if I had found a proper job yet, they asked if I’d settled do
wn with a good man. They warned me not to put my number on the posters, not to answer calls from ‘perverts and crazies’.
*
‘“Stay away from my son, whore!”’
‘What? She said what?’
‘“Stay away from my son, whore!” That’s what she said. Her voice creaks, like old furniture. She sounds like she’s a hundredbillion years old.’
Juliana laughed.
‘The phone call after that, all I got was “Whore! Bitch! Who do you think you are?” That’s all. That was it. She hung up. It’s gone on like that for over a week now.’
Juliana raised her whisky, ‘To the old lady! May she forever be crazy! May she stalk you to your grave.’
‘To the old lady!’ I said, and we downed our drinks.
‘You need to find out who she is.’
‘I can’t get a word in.’
‘You’ll see, she’ll be lonely. Soon she’ll be your best friend. Soon she’ll be your grandmother, offering advice, telling you you’re all skin and bone and you need fattened up.’
‘I’ve never had a grandmother. I never knew her.’
‘Well, you have one now.’
‘She’ll stop calling. She’ll get bored of it and move on to someone else.’
‘I’m telling you,’ she raised her glass. ‘I’m telling you.’
She nodded and I shrugged.
‘We’ll see.’
*
I received a call every night from Maria. She told me her life story. She was rich, she said. Sure, I said. I live in a Palazzetto on the Grand Canal, she said. Sure, I said. Rattling around on my own, she said. Rattling, like my old bones. It’s hard to get around now, she said. And now my son is gone, I’m all alone. What’s your interest in him, whore? What’s your interest in him? Stay away from Antonio!
Next time she phoned she was polite, talking to me like we were old friends, like we were family, like she was some long-lost, concerned relative. Then she said to me, ‘If he wants to leave us, then let him, don’t go shaming my family name all over Venezia!’