by Bel Mooney
Not forgiveness, but pity.
Yet, you will ask me, do I pity Anthony Carl? I never hated him, not even afterwards when, with the memory of that weekend fresh in my mind, I attempted to summon up righteous anger against him. Wealthy and secure, he is happy in the knowledge that his kingdom goes from strength to strength; no backlash could touch him now. He has even taken to saying that reading magazines like Emperor is a form of ‘Safe sex’: “Why take risks with partners you don’t know? Relax safely with the partner you do know,” ran his campaign. He would never miss a trick. He and his kind will always be there, making money, fawned on, ready to use whoever will offer herself (or himself) for use. No – Anthony Carl felt no pity for Annelisa, and needs nothing now from me, neither pity nor hatred nor fear. But not forgiveness either, certainly not that.
I can see her now, with no photographs around me; needing them no longer, I’ve filed them away – under A for America. She had two smiles, you know: one carefully-curved and fixed for the camera, the other wide and silly, showing her gums. That was the real smile, the Annie Cvach smile, that swung above a barred gate; or delighted her father across the ring, as the animals were prodded into order to display their valuable meat. It was a lovely, loving smile, as open and vulnerable as a sea-creature’s underbelly. And lovable. Maybe nobody saw it but me – that Annelisa demanded love. That, of course, is the other reason for making pilgrimages. Even the unbeliever can reach the place for the first time, and be surprised by love.
She is sitting huddled, knees drawn up to her chin, watching the fireworks. Her hysteria over now, she is breathing free. By chance a stray pinpoint of light from a roman candle lands near her, and she looks at it, eyes widening as the small spark lies there in the grass, like a firefly. It reminds me of a pantomime they took me to as a child, when Tinkerbell, the bad fairy, the wicked little siren who loved Peter Pan too jealously, was fading and fading, her brightness dying – only to be revived if the children shouted loud enough that they believed in fairies.
“Do you believe in fairies?”
“Yes!”
“I can’t hear you, children, shout louder. Do you believe in fairies?”
“YES!”
I folded my arms tightly. My father looked sideways at me. “You’re not shouting, Barbara,” he whispered, disappointed. Why should I? I thought, keeping my mouth tightly closed, eyes fixed in fascination on that tiny light on the stage. And, as the children shouted even more loudly, it grew stronger and brighter – though still nothing to do with me.
I would shout for it today.
But the small, brief incandescence in the grass is extinguished now. No matter, for Annelisa has thrown back her head and is gazing at the sky. All around her the flowers of light are bursting: great extravagant starbursts of red and green and gold in the black sky – falling to earth. All the little stars falling to earth, to die, like Tinkerbell on the ground.
But not yet. Annelisa’s face is golden; her lips are parted with wonder as the space above and all around her sparkles and crackles. Flames catch the red wig, lick along the exquisite line of her shoulders, kindling her dress and her flesh. The silicone breasts melt and dissolve, her eyes liquify into gold, her whole body ignites, rushing outwards in rivulets of molten metal – blinding in white heat.
Aj, já divka Pan.
Behold the Handmaid of the Lord.
As I watch I am transported back from that garden in New Jersey to the pantomime theatre, warm and red and dark and close, like my darkroom, like my mother’s womb. And I feel it is not too late … for the first time I will give – shouting “YES! YES!” in love and faith, pleasing my poor father at last. And all that Tinkerbell might live.
It works. For Annelisa Kaye is still sitting there in the queer light, voices blurring behind her, hearing the slow sea that licks the sand over and over again, before the harsh crackle in the sky all around. She is still there, waiting helplessly for the next burst of beauty around her – for the moment of destruction that will release a shower of stars.
It was I who saw her waiting.
That was on the Fourth of July. On Independence Day.
A Note on the Author
Bel Mooney (born 1946) is an English journalist and broadcaster. She was born in Liverpool, and spent her earliest years on a council estate; in 1969 Mooney became a journalist, and later went on to write for the New Statesman, the Daily Telegraph Magazine, Cosmopolitan and many others. She was also a columnist on the Daily Mirror, The Times and The Sunday Times.
Having made her name as a journalist, columnist, and broadcaster, Mooney turned her hand to writing fiction for adults and children. She has published 26 books for children and young people, and her fiction (adults and children) has been translated into eleven languages. Her children’s novel The Voices of Silence won a New York Public Library citation and was shortlisted for a Gold Medal in the State of California.
Discover books by Bel Mooney published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/BelMooney
Bel Mooney’s Somerset
Lost Footsteps
The Anderson Question
The Fourth of July
The Windsurf Boy
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain
references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 1988 by Hamilton
Copyright © 1988 Bel Mooney
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eISBN: 9781448210909
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