Goblin

Home > Other > Goblin > Page 28
Goblin Page 28

by Ever Dundas


  ‘It explains why he’s been such a sullen bastard recently,’ I said.

  ‘Do you know how many people have died in those canals? Too many. And who wants to die there? In all that silt and dirt and tourist garbage?’

  ‘No one,’ I said.

  ‘No one,’ she said, holding her hand up to the flames, feeling the warmth.

  ‘Me,’ I said.

  ‘No one,’ she said, putting more paper into the pot.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with suicide.’

  ‘Are we getting philosophical now?’

  ‘No. Maybe… If I lost you I would happily drown in the silt and the dirt and the tourist garbage.’

  ‘That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,’ she said, her lips curling into a half-smile.

  ‘I’m glad I’m alive,’ I said. ‘Goblin-runt born blue. I’m glad I’m alive. I think I tried to kill myself after that too.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I think.’

  ‘How can you not know?’

  ‘It was lazy, a lazy death on the Bone Island. I was drunk, roasting in the sun. I was going to feed the plants and the lizards when another guardian angel saved me. No one will let me put myself out of my misery. Fall down that rabbit hole.’

  She lit up my diary.

  ‘You’re going to set fire to my home,’ I said.

  ‘Marry me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love you,’ she said, ‘marry me.’

  I sat up and stared at her.

  ‘You’re burning my things!’

  ‘I’m burning your past. You don’t need it.’

  ‘Everyone needs a past.’

  ‘You don’t need to hold it so close. Tell a different story.’

  ‘It’s not legal.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Marriage,’ I said. ‘We’re perverts.’

  ‘We’ll do it our way.’

  ‘You can’t fix me.’

  ‘But I can love you,’ she said. ‘I do love you.’

  ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘Then why are you here? Why are you even here? Why do you bother? You may as well just die.’

  ‘I’ve been trying.’

  ‘Not hard enough,’ she said, standing back from the smoke. ‘If you want to die, you’ll die. But you’re here. I know you want to be and I know you love me.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well then, marry me,’ she said and opened a window. ‘Till death us do part.’

  I watched as the breeze whipped the smoke round the room.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re getting into,’ I said.

  ‘I do. I know exactly,’ she said and set more of my things alight.

  Venice, 24 July 1972

  We got married on the Bone Island.

  I wore one of mum’s old dresses. It was really a nightgown, a long cream slip with lace panels. Juliana wore a silk red dress that belonged to her aunt. We travelled to the Bone Island in Maria’s old motorboat, holding hands as we set off, our lace veils fluttering in the breeze. Our friends followed close behind us; the students I met at the bar and the protest, Juliana’s parents, Monty, Maria, Antonio, Gio, two of my neighbours, and one of the policemen – ‘I knew you’d attract a pervert and a crazy’.

  Maria took the service. When she first found out we were getting married there was all sorts of fuss and histrionics. ‘It’s not real love, how do you even have sex? It’s not right – a woman like you, you need a man to look after you.’ I loved Maria like she was family, so I said to her, ‘You old dragon, you old conservative bitch, don’t tell me what is and isn’t love.’

  She grunted and refused to discuss it. Eventually Juliana charmed her. They talked in Italian, so fast that I couldn’t keep up. They finished each other’s sentences and laughed like old witches.

  ‘What did you talk about?’ I asked Juliana.

  ‘This and that; art, love, life, Venice. She has a dirty sense of humour, that old woman.’

  ‘Did you talk about us?’

  ‘Yes. I said I loved you and she grunted and shook her head. I said, “Maria, you love Goblin. If you love her, you’ll accept she loves pussy.”’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘I did, and the old lady went crimson then laughed like a sailor. She pinched my cheek and said, “You look after her.”’

  ‘She accepts us then?’

  ‘She accepts us, but you know Maria – nothing is ever straightforward.’

  I spoke to Antonio, quizzing him about Maria’s turnaround.

  ‘She’s just jealous,’ he said.

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘She lived a restricted existence – she wasn’t as free as her rebellious sister. She obeyed her parents. She was a good Catholic.’

  ‘She doesn’t really hate queers?’

  ‘She disapproves, but she’ll make an exception for you.’

  I smiled and shook my head.

  ‘She’s good at – what’s the word? – keeping things separate, not seeing the contradiction. And she likes the late rebellion. She gets a kick out of it. “What would papa think?” she asked me. “He’d be scandalised,” I told her and she laughed.’

  We had Maria’s mixed blessing and now the glorious old lady was our stand-in priest, our stand-in government official, and she loved every moment – it was just as much her day as it was ours.

  We gathered on the island where I’d previously gone to die and we celebrated love, the present and the future.

  I don’t remember which part was in which language, but Maria, as agreed, took the service in a mix of Italian, Venetian dialect, and English. My difficulty remembering is partly due to Maria’s liberal stretching of our instructions to mix it up. It seemed that every fifth or sixth word was in a different language, making the ceremony oddly fragmented, with the guests whispering amongst themselves, ‘What did she say? I didn’t catch it,’ before simply accepting the disjointed flow. I don’t remember all that was said, but I remember fragments, I remember the feel of it. The warmth, the sea breeze, the scent of jasmine from the plants Maria brought, the tinkling of the little bells that hung from the leaves. I remember the feel of Juliana’s skin as we held hands.

  ‘Carissimi, oggi siamo qui riuniti,’ said Maria, ‘par tacare in maridauro promiscolo these two beautiful and perverted creatures.’

  She winked at us and our guests cheered. ‘Do you, Goblin, take Juliana Sophia Acciai come tò mojere proibio?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘E tu, Juliana Sophia Acciai, vuoi Goblin to be your unlawfully wedded also-wife?’

  ‘Si, lo voglio.’

  ‘Vi dichiaro moglie bella e perversa and beautiful perverted also-wife. Voaltri vivarete na vita de amore e de sganassade finamente al dì che vu morìa e anca dopo – your love and laughter will echo down the generations, in the lives you touch, in the stories they tell.’

  Maria was crying, struggling to get the words out. A tear slipped down Juliana’s cheek.

  ‘You may kiss the brides.’

  We kissed and I licked the tear from her cheek. There were cheers, laughter, clapping, and singing. We hugged Maria.

  ‘Thank you, grandma,’ I said, and kissed her, but this – the first time I called her grandma – only set her off sobbing. ‘You old dragon, craving all the attention as always. This is a happy day.’ I grabbed hold of her and swung her round, dancing, making her laugh. Antonio swooped in and danced her away, wiping at her face with tissues and I fell into the embrace of Juliana.

  We had a lavish reception at Maria’s, where the prosecco flowed and a banquet was laid out with waiters on hand. As the sun set, the room was bathed in an orange glow. One of the waiters went round the room lighting dozens of candles, enclosing us in a flickering warmth. Maria had set jasmine on her balcony, the breeze carrying the scent. A bat flew in the window; confused, it circled the room over and over before disappearing into the hall, returning, spinning round the room then back out into the night
.

  ‘A good luck bat,’ said Juliana.

  ‘Is that a Venetian thing? Bats are good luck?’

  ‘It’s our thing.’

  Gio lured us out of the room on some pretence. When we returned, the wedding cake was on the centre of the table, our glasses re-filled with prosecco, and our guests had transformed into Beast Folk, each of them wearing an animal mask. Some of the masks had been decorated to resemble the animal as closely as possible, others simply had the shape of the animal’s head but were painted bright colours, adorned with plastic jewels. We were each presented with a mask. Juliana’s was a colourful bird with a huge orange beak, crowned with rainbow feathers. I was given a dog mask, covered in soft synthetic fur.

  We wore our masks throughout the speeches, only removing them briefly to drink a toast and to eat the cake. We were ushered through to the adjacent room where a band played for us and we danced into the middle of the night, some wearing masks, others propping them on their heads or holding them like strange trophies.

  When the guests left, we stayed. Maria not only offered us a room for the night, but the whole palazzo for several days.

  ‘I’ll look after your animals,’ she said, fishing in my bag for our apartment keys. ‘You two lovebirddogs enjoy yourselves. Spero che trascorriate una luna di miele da sogno.’

  Venice, 1970s

  Dad kept on sending postcards and I kept on tearing them up. I told Juliana all about it, about mum, and dad too. One of the postcards I’d torn up the day before, Juliana taped back together. She’d made me breakfast and had placed the postcard next to my plate.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said.

  ‘Making you breakfast. Coffee?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I said, picking up the postcard and reading it again. It said ‘I miss you more than you know.’

  One of the cats jumped into my lap. I put the postcard down and petted her. She purred and padded at my thighs until she was comfortable.

  ‘You’re the one who burned my things,’ I said, as Juliana poured me coffee. ‘You’re the one who said I don’t need the past.’

  ‘This is the present and your dad is trying to make amends.’

  She picked up the postcard and pinned it to the wall above the table.

  ‘Can you make amends after trying to kill your daughter?’

  ‘He’s trying.’

  I drank my coffee and stroked the cat’s head.

  ‘I’m here for you,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  I didn’t receive another postcard for almost a month and when I did it was back to talk of Edinburgh, about a gallery he visited, his chess club. Still no return address. Juliana put them all on the wall. Days could pass with no postcards, but it was all I could think of. It made me angry, how manipulative it all was. There was still no return address.

  ‘Write to him anyway,’ said Juliana.

  Instead, I took them all down and packed them away in a box. The latest one I threw away, but I fished it out later, coffee stained and stinking.

  I got in touch with Tim. Do you know where he lives? Do you have his address? Have you seen him? Tim had met him several times, giving him my address, telling him to reconcile.

  ‘“How can I make amends?” he’d said. I told him just to get in touch,’ Tim said. ‘I hope I wasn’t wrong.’

  He gave me his address and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. I sat down and I wrote:

  ‘youcowardlysonofabitch

  youcowardlysonofabitch

  youcowardlysonofabitch

  youcowardlysonofabitch’

  I wrote another: ‘Is this your idea of atonement? Telling me about your drawing classes and your fucking chess club?’

  And another: ‘I’m well. I’m glad you’re well.’

  And another: ‘I’m married now. I’m happy.’

  And another: ‘I tried to drown myself. I was saved by a fat bald Italian who called me a stupid bitch and left me on the side of the canal. But now I’m well. I’m glad you’re well. Your chess club sounds fun.’

  And another: ‘Fuck you and fuck your fucking chess club.’

  And another and another, until I had my own box of unsent postcards. Finally, I had one I put a stamp on: ‘I’m well. It’s been good to hear from you.’ It sat on my table for a week before I sent it. Juliana and I would look at it over breakfast.

  ‘Today?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not today.’

  Then the day came. I shuffled it into a pile of other mail, hiding it, pretending it wasn’t important as I dropped them all in the post box.

  It was the start of months of correspondence, not going much beyond the mundane. I told him about my history tour job, about Juliana and our wedding, about my published photographs and articles, and all the cats and dogs and birds I took in. I told him he would love it here. I imagined him coming. I imagined going to Edinburgh.

  He sent me a letter one day. His handwriting on the envelope, that familiar British stamp. I didn’t want to open it, but I did. He wasn’t one for many words. It simply said, ‘I’m sorry for what I did. I blamed you. But it wasn’t your fault. I love you and I’m sorry I failed you.’

  I let Juliana see it that evening and she held me in her arms as I cried.

  I didn’t respond directly to the letter. His postcards kept arriving as normal and we shared the mundane as normal, but there was a lighter tone. We teased each other. Made each other laugh. We wrote about him coming here, about me going there. But we never met again. I received a letter from a member of his chess club to say he’d died of a heart attack on 22nd January 1973.

  Maria and Gio looked after the animals when Juliana and I went to Edinburgh for his funeral. It was a small service, with a handful of people.

  His chess club was there. There were four of them after dad had gone, in their seventies and eighties apart from Aaron, a teenage grandson of one of the members. They knew everything about me; dad had never let up talking about me.

  ‘But he was sad when he talked about you,’ said Aaron. ‘It was as if you were dead. We all thought you were dead until the postcards.’

  Not everyone kept in touch when the circus had disbanded, so we weren’t able to notify all the old circus folk. We put a notice in a national paper and picked up some people that way. There was Marv and Horatiu, Angelina and her wife, and old Louise who now looked like a wizened crone. A few of them I didn’t know; they’d joined the circus after I’d left. They all said how sorry they were but they couldn’t look me in the eye.

  We had a wake back at dad’s flat. It was quiet and awkward at first and I clung onto Juliana. Once the drink had taken effect the circus folk all came over to me, Marv surprising me with a long hug and telling me over and over what a great man James was. By the end of the evening Marv, Horatiu, Angelina, old Louise and I were all in a corner together, drunk and reminiscing. Juliana drifted round the room, talking with everyone, topping up drinks. Old Louise started singing “We’ll Meet Again” and the room grew quiet, everyone turning to watch her: ‘Let’s say goodbye with a smile, dear, just for a while, dear, we must part, don’t let this parting upset you, I’ll not forget you.’ Juliana sat with me and I leaned into her, crying silently as we listened to old Louise.

  People started to leave after midnight, but the circus folk stayed, talking and singing into the early hours, falling asleep on the floor, on the couch, under the table, just like when I lived with mum and dad. There was a subdued melancholy in the morning, everyone leaving to catch trains or buses, making false promises to keep in touch.

  A couple of days after the funeral, Juliana returned to look after the animals and I stayed on to sort out dad’s affairs and his possessions. Dad owned the flat and had a small amount of savings. I gave most of the savings to the chess club, some to animal charities and kept the rest to cover travelling. He was frugal and didn’t have much; a few books, and two photo albums. I sobbed as I pored over the ph
otographs of mum, of the three of us together.

  I spent some time walking the streets of Edinburgh and getting lost down all the old closes. One of dad’s chess friends told me dad had spent a lot of time walking along Portobello promenade, so I followed in his footsteps.

  I didn’t want to sell the flat, so we kept it and we went to Edinburgh on holiday two summers in a row and on our second visit I asked Juliana if she wanted to stay. She took time to think about it, but we’d both been talking about how Venice was changing; more hotels, more tourists, and several of our friends had already left. Juliana felt stuck in her job at the gallery and liked the idea of a new start. We brought Monty with us and Maria took in all our other strays, phoning every week telling me what animal had peed on what piece of priceless furniture. We moved into dad’s flat and Juliana made the spare room into an art studio. Our friends came over for holidays, which eased our transition; a constant stream of Venetians sleeping in Juliana’s studio. We both worked part-time jobs – Juliana a waitress in a local restaurant and I was a cashier in a local shop before getting a job doing ghost tours. It took Juliana a year until she got a job at the National Gallery, and it was then we felt finally settled.

  And here I am still. Juliana and Monty are gone but I am here. Or there I was. I should be there, but not now. I’m in London with the flames and the stench and the rotting corpses. I’m in London and everything has turned to shit.

  London, 18 January 2012

  I sit having breakfast with Tim, staring at the morning paper.

  ‘Are you ready to tell me?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I say as Monsta strokes my hand, soothing me.

  I read the headline over and over until the words become meaningless:

  91 YEAR OLD WAR HERO ACCUSED OF 1939 MURDER.

  Tim picks it up.

  ‘Do you mind if I read it?’

  ‘No.’

  I drink my coffee, watching him.

  ‘It says you were a witness. To the murder.’

  I nod.

  ‘You were nine years old.’

  He reads the rest then folds up the paper and throws it on to the table. I pick it up.

  ‘I don’t think you should read it,’ he says.

  ‘Why not?’

 

‹ Prev