by Ever Dundas
She called every night. Some nights it was ‘Whore! Bitch! Who do you think you are?’ and other nights we’d talk for hours and she’d tell me about her family, about her friends, about her glamorous life before she got old and was forgotten. She was a socialite, she said. ‘All I did was go to parties, look pretty and slay the boys with my viperous tongue.’
‘I can believe that,’ I said, and she’d chuckle, a hoarse, dirty chuckle. ‘You should have seen me,’ she said. ‘You should have seen me back then.’ She’d grow maudlin. I heard the clink of ice in a glass, and she said to me, ‘Come visit. Come visit, it’s been so long. I miss you. I will show you all my photos from back in the day. I was beautiful then. I was everything then.’ I wanted to say, ‘You’re everything now,’ coming to realise that Juliana was right. Instead I said, ‘You don’t know me, Maria. I could be a serial killer. I could be in it to steal your fortune.’
‘In it? In what?’ she said, sharp, distinct. ‘In what?’
‘In this, our friendship.’
‘I call the shots,’ she said. ‘I called you and I call the shots. Now you come and visit me. Come round and I will fatten you up.’
‘How do you know I need fattened?’
‘Anyone who sits on the phone all night talking to some old woman doesn’t know how to cook themselves a proper meal.’
*
‘He really does look like David,’ I said, ‘but older, olive-skinned, and in colour.’
‘You can have the picture,’ she said. ‘Maybe you’ll have more luck finding him if you have a more up to date photograph.’
‘But it’s not him,’ I said. ‘It’s not up to date. It’s someone else.’
‘It could be him, and what does that matter? If it helps you find him?’
I posted photos of her son all across Venice: ‘Have you seen this man?’
When Antonio came home that summer, we got phonecall after phonecall. ‘I’ve seen this man, I’ve seen him.’
‘It’s not him,’ I’d have to say, ‘it’s not him.’
I took an even more up to date photo, but didn’t post it up, waiting patiently until Antonio left so we didn’t get pointless phone calls from people telling us they’d found the man sitting right next to us.
Antonio took us out in the evenings and Maria would say to everyone, ‘Have you seen this man? No, not him, not him exactly, stupid! Why would I be asking, when he’s right here? Someone like him. My son is just like him, you see, but more up to date.’
I sat across from Antonio, watching him eating and drinking and talking. He looked just like David. His skin, his hair, his cheekbones, the shape of his nose. Even the same brown eyes, so dark they looked black. But his manner was different and it shattered the illusion, it ruined his face. You’re not doing it right. You’re not moving your lips the way you should. You’re not smiling the way you should. You’re not raising your eyebrow and giving me that look the way you should. You used to touch your lips, when you were thinking. You’d rub your fingers across your lips but now you pull at your ear, or tap your fingers. You’ve changed too much. If this was you, would you have changed this much? When I find you will I not know you?
*
‘She really was beautiful.’
‘Who?’
‘Maria.’
Antonio didn’t respond. He poured himself more coffee, stood up and gestured at me, to stay, to wait. He came through with her photo album.
‘I’ve seen it so many times,’ I said. ‘She likes reliving her glory days.’
He opened the album and slid it over to me, pointing to a group photo. I’d seen this photo countless times, yet I still felt warmth when I saw her luminous smile, her delicate fingers curled round a glass, her husband’s arm around her shoulder. I smiled. ‘It’s a beautiful photograph.’
I looked up at him and my smile froze.
‘Look again,’ he said.
I looked.
‘This is Maria,’ he said, drumming his finger on the woman she had said was her sister. ‘This.’
I looked at the mousey girl, the one who stood slightly off, away from the others. I scanned across and my gaze fell upon the glittering centre of attention; she was pretty, she glowed. I traced a line between them.
‘You didn’t have to,’ I said. ‘You didn’t have to tell me.’
‘It’s a fantasy. She has never been able to let her sister go.’
‘It’s her story. Let her be who she wants to be.’
‘Don’t you mind being lied to?’
‘It’s her story.’
‘You’re encouraging her to live in the past.’
‘I’m her friend. I look after her.’
‘If you want her money you won’t get it.’
‘Why would I want her money? She’s helping me find David.’
‘She said I look like him.’
‘You do, but in colour.’
‘Don’t you have any friends? Move on with your life. I wonder, what makes you think he’s here?’
‘Where else would he be? There’s nowhere else on earth. Only here.’
‘You’re both fantasists. Why don’t you live your life?’
‘I loved you,’ I said. ‘I loved David. Old-ma and old-da loved him but they didn’t love me because I was Goblin-runt born blue.’
‘Move on,’ he said. ‘Live your life,’ he said.
He closed the album.
*
Maria, Antonio, Juliana and I walked to a restaurant in the early evening. Maria and Antonio walked ahead of us, arm in arm. They stopped, the way blocked. I heard some heated words; Maria didn’t take well to having her routine disrupted.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘They’re filming,’ said Antonio, ‘we have to go round.’
‘What is it? What are they filming?’
I moved closer and saw the film crew and the cast.
‘They’re not even working!’ said Maria. ‘Just standing around, causing us trouble.’
‘They’re working,’ said the man who was blocking our way. ‘You’ll have to go round.’
Maria let out a grunt of dissatisfaction and turned dramatically, pulling her son. As they walked back, I hovered.
‘Is that Dirk Bogarde?’
‘Who?’ said Juliana.
‘You’ll have to go round,’ said the man.
‘What are you filming?’
‘Visconti’s Death in Venice.’
‘That’s Bogarde. I know him from the Doctor films in the fifties. He was a star,’ I said, turning to Juliana. ‘Before your time, he was a star.’
‘Please go round.’
I lingered for a moment, watching Bogarde talk with Visconti. I knew Bogarde had been a soldier in the war, though it wasn’t until later I found out he had witnessed the horrors at Belsen before being stationed in the Far East.
‘He served in the war,’ I said quietly, to no one in particular.
‘Round,’ the man said, raising his eyebrows and making a circle in the air with his finger. ‘Go round.’
Juliana took my hand.
‘We better go,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to lose them.’
‘It was Dirk Bogarde,’ I said when we caught up to them. ‘That star from the fifties. They’re filming Death In Venice.’
Antonio eyed me and said, ‘I know that story, about an old man who can’t let go of an illusion.’
I pretended not to hear and looked at Maria.
‘Do you know him, Maria? Bogarde? He was a dream.’
*
We sat at a table outside the restaurant, waiting for our food. Maria and Antonio were talking and Juliana and I held hands and drank our wine, watching people come and go. I removed my cardigan.
‘Why do you have those?’ Maria said, abruptly breaking away from her conversation with Antonio. She stared at me.
‘What? Why do I have what?’
‘Those tattoos. Why do you have them? How do you expect to find a husban
d with your body all ruined like that?’
Juliana made an exasperated huffing noise. I stared at Maria, dumbstruck, before laughing and shaking my head.
‘I don’t want a husband,’ I said. ‘And I wouldn’t marry anyone who didn’t like my tattoos, so what does it matter?’
‘You’ll never find anyone respectable looking like that,’ she said, ignoring me. ‘You should cover them up.’
‘Maria, you old witch. Sometimes you don’t know when to hold that tongue of yours. You know I have someone.’
Antonio squeezed Maria’s arm as she was about to reply.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Juliana.
‘I just want you to be happy,’ Maria said, brushing Antonio’s hand off. ‘You need a husband to look after you.’
Juliana let loose on Maria, a volley of Italian I struggled to follow. Maria blushed and laughed and said, ‘Nevermind, eh? I’m just old fashioned. To me, a tattooed woman is a loose woman who will never make a good life for herself. I just worry for you.’
‘I know, Maria. I know you do, but I’m happy.’
‘You can’t be that happy if you can’t let go of the past,’ said Antonio.
I could see Juliana was going to defend me, but I squeezed her hand and shook my head.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Antonio’s right. I think I should let him be.’
‘Let who be?’ said Maria.
‘David,’ I said, looking at Antonio. ‘I should just let him be. Wherever he is.’
‘Yes,’ said Antonio. ‘You should let him go.’
‘I should leave him in the past with everything else,’ I said. ‘I should let it all rot.’
I raised my glass and said to Juliana, ‘To the future.’
Juliana hesitated then said, ‘To the future,’ clinking her glass gently against mine. We all toasted and Juliana leaned in and kissed me. I heard Maria make a disapproving clicking noise.
After dinner, we all staggered, talked and laughed our way through the streets. I saw posters of David, of Maria’s son. We tore them down.
‘To the future!’ we shouted.
The next morning was the first day I received a postcard.
*
I didn’t know who they were from. They were unsigned. He said he was living in Edinburgh. That he was well. That he hoped I was well. There was no return address. A postcard arrived once a week, sometimes more. Beautiful scenes of Edinburgh.
“Dear Goblin, I’ve lived here for many years now. You would love it here. I’m well. I hope you’re well.”
Of course, I thought it was David.
But I knew it wasn’t. I knew who it was but I pretended it was this person or that person. It could be whoever I wanted it to be. Until one day he signed it and I ripped it to pieces.
He had attacked me, abandoned me, and now he was sending me postcards telling me he was well and he hoped I was too.
London, 16 March 1930
She died the day she was born. Goblin-runt born blue, not breathing, never to breathe. They buried her in Kensal Green and they lived happily ever after.
London, 16 March 1930
She died the day she was born. Goblin-runt born blue, not breathing, never to breathe. They buried her in Kensal Green and they grieved. They wept at her grave and rent their clothes and wailed. Their son David healed them, bringing joy. Only his love could keep them from clawing their way six feet under to join their baby blue. David became a musician and they were proud. He objected to war and they were proud. He lived until he was 102 years old, when he died peacefully, his wife by his side holding his hand, holding his dear true heart until the moment it stopped.
She was comforted by the lives he had touched, by the people he brought joy to. She was glad of the chance he got to live that his baby sister did not have. She was comforted that he would live on in the lives he had touched, in the music he had made. He would live on.
His baby blue sister was erased the moment she emerged from the womb. Erased and forgotten. She touched no one. No lives were touched, except with grief, which David healed and they forgot, baby born blue, six feet deep.
London, 1939
She told everyone I’d likely died and they all said what a shame it was. Shame, shame, shame.
London, 1930s/1940s
Goblin and Devil, Mac and Stevie. We played in our street, we made up stories, we made up plays. Da died in the war. Ma died in our home, bombed out. David and I went to the sea.
London, 1930s, 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s…
The Crazy Pigeon Woman of Amen Court flew home to her family, held by the pigeons’ beaks clamped shut on her clothes. She flew and flew and flew until she was gone.
Goblin-runt moved in and became the Crazy Pigeon Girl of Amen Court. She learned taxidermy, she fed the baby pigeons and they followed her here and there and they slept in her hair. The local kids spat at her but she didn’t care because she knew they’d get eaten by the lizard people down below. The Crazy Pigeon Girl of Amen Court lived out her days happy and content.
Prison, 1967
My legs buckled and I fell. He had me by the throat. He squeezed. I looked directly into his eyes, glad that someone was finally pushing me down that rabbit hole. Soon I’d be six feet under. Soon the mistake would be erased. But not my mistakes. There was nothing I could do about that now. I couldn’t rewrite the story.
I let go, my breath gone.
The In-Between Realm
Goblin: a mischievous ugly dwarf-like creature of folklore.
Doesn’t exist. A fairy tale.
Venice, 1972
I took the boat out to the Bone Island. I had several bottles of wine. I was knocking one back, rowing, knocking it back, rowing… drinking, drinking, drinking… the sun was high in the sky and my cheeks burned with booze and heat. Chattering and laughing and greeting the dead I leapt from the boat, hoisted out my bottles of wine and clambered ignominiously over the wall, falling, scrabbling, smashing a bottle of wine, saving the others and spraining an ankle. I licked the sweet red wine that dripped from the wall, spattered like blood. I surveyed the land, disappointed to see bushes sprouting up here and there and there and here and where are the bones? I left my treasures by the wall, holding one bottle by the neck, staggering across the uneven ground, pushing at the bushes, peering between the branches and leaves. I found bones; the bleached, the forgotten, the poor, the nobodies. ‘You didn’t count,’ I said. ‘You meant nothing, you are nothing, and I join you and I toast to that!’ I took up a bone, wielding it like a weapon, knocking back the wine, dizzy with booze and sun and suicidal elation. ‘My weary bones,’ I laughed. ‘My weary bones shall rest with the dispossessed. Will you drink to that?’ I sprinkled the wine across this bleached bulbous land. ‘Drink this, my blood,’ I said, and fell back, burrowing into the bones, marking my space amongst the dead, baking in the sun. ‘Drink this, my blood,’ I mumbled. I had a blade with me, hanging around my neck on a silver chain, but I was tired, I was worn out. All I wanted was sleep and I slept, for surely I would die in this heat. Surely these bones would pull me down and down and down. My rotten flesh would feed these plants and I would be gone, disappeared, swallowed up. ‘I am well,’ I said, sinking into sleep. ‘And I hope you are too.’
*
I swayed, gently. I woke and I puked. Someone tried to guide me, guide me to the edge, but I was still sick on myself and in the boat, the rest spewing out into the lagoon. I leaned over the edge watching the little fish hoover up my vomit. I swayed and swayed and I was sick and sick.
Hollowed out, I fell back into the boat, lying on the bottom, laughing.
‘Feeding the fish,’ I said. ‘Feeding the fish.’
A hand gripped my face, clasped around my jaw.
‘Get up. Sit up.’
I sat up, trying to focus.
‘Drink,’ they said. ‘You’re dehydrated. Drink.’
I took the bottle of water from them and knocked it back like it was wine.
*
>
The night after the Bone Island and feeding the fishes, I went out drinking with Juliana and her friends, laughing and dancing, ignoring my throbbing ankle. I passed out in the bar and woke up in my flat. I woke to the smell of burning. I pulled myself up, blinking into the smoke. I would rather drown, but this would do. I leaned back, waiting.
‘You’re not Catholic.’
‘Who’s there?’
Was this murder? Did someone want me dead?
‘It’s me, you idiot. It’s always me, picking up the pieces.’
I looked over and saw Juliana, rummaging through papers, burning my things. She’d found my scraps, my fantasies, my what-ifs. I watched as her anger sent everything up in flames, dropping them into one of my cooking pots. Monty was whining, the cats scratched at the door.
‘What are you doing? They don’t like the smoke, you’re upsetting them.’
‘You’re not fucking Catholic,’ she said. ‘You’re not a martyr.’
I was weak, but I struggled up, opened the door for Monty and the cats to get into the sitting room. I lurched back and fell into bed.
‘What are you burning?’
‘You’re not a slave to this pathetic self-hate. You need help.’
‘You need help,’ I said, curling up into a foetal position, pulling the covers up to my chin. ‘You’re burning my things.’
‘What does it all mean to you? Tell me.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Don’t be a victim of your mother’s hate,’ she said, waving a sheet of my writing at me. ‘She’s gone and you’re here with me in Venice. This is our life. You’re an adult, not a Goblin-runt baby blue.’
‘I tried to kill myself.’
‘I know,’ said Juliana, setting the paper alight. ‘I know.’
‘You know?’
‘Giorgio told me he pulled you out of the canal. I’ve never seen him so angry.’
‘Gio? I didn’t recognise him.’
‘He wouldn’t let up on it. Every time I saw him.’
‘You knew?’
‘I knew.’
‘Okay.’
‘I assured him I was taking care of you,’ she said, her face lost in a haze of smoke. ‘That you were coming out of it.’