Water Theatre

by Lindsay Clarke

  Over the years I had evolved various strategies to deal with such approaches, and could slip into whichever mode seemed likeliest to impress or deter, silence or seduce the questioner. But what I’d seen in Equatoria had left me finally sickened by all of them. I made evasive noises. She pressed me to say more. The Italian light dissolved around me, I frowned down into the dark of memory. The stench of the death pits hit my nose again, and I was speaking about people driven to a frenzy by forces beyond their understanding and control, about the grief-crazed women and silent children; tormented and tormentors alike unprotected by ease and privilege, by the glib, talking-head culture that distances us from raw suffering and depletes us of an immediate sense of what is real on the earth. Mentally I ran through footage that would never be screened, the literally obscene out-takes which cannot be erased from the observer’s mind, yet slink out of history unshown. I told her about them as plainly as I could. If you want to know what I do, I was saying, this is the bleak news I have to bring you on this bright afternoon. It left me feeling ashen inside, as though a once ardent heat of moral passion had burnt itself out some time before, almost without my noticing.

  She was not looking at me directly when she said at last, “I believe there are more than fifty wars happening right now. Can you tell me why it is men love war so much?”

  “I’ve seen more of it than most people,” I answered, surprised to find her so well informed, “and I can think of nothing loveable about it.”

  “Then I wonder why you return to it so often?”

  I remembered the despair with which Gail had put the same question only a few weeks earlier. Even then I had not believed my answer. I had no better one now, for the truth was that on each return I’d found it harder to cleanse my thoughts, to be simply present anywhere, least of all inside the care of touch. Out of her rage and hurt, Gail had branded me a war-zone addict, accused me of infatuation with the evil in the world, of eye-fucking its horrors with such lust that nothing could ever hope to match the intensity of its hold on me. Under Gabriella’s patient scrutiny now, watching the dazzle from the water drift along a line of cypresses, I saw that I might already have passed beyond such virile craziness into a still more frightening condition.

  When I did not speak for some time, she said, “The question disturbs you?”

  “Not really. I’ve lived with it far too long for that.”

  “Of course,” she nodded. “And when a man is carrying the troubles of all the world, the taking care of his own soul does not seem so important?”

  “I wouldn’t say that either.”

  “Then what would you say?”

  “That there must be better things to talk about on a hot afternoon.”

  Gabriella shook her head in mild exasperation. “You are such bewildering creatures.”

  “Do you mean foreign correspondents in general,” I smiled, “or men in particular?”

  “Men,” she answered. “Men! Yes, men. Men!”

  “Spoken with true feeling. So tell me about the Count. I’ve been wondering where he can be?”

  She considered me a moment, aware of the deflection. Very well, she too could be frugal with confession. “My husband lives much of the time in Geneva. He performs work for the United Nations there.”

  “A good man then.” Invited to pursue the intimacies of her life no further, I sought a light way out of the corner in which I had left myself. “And does he also believe in oracles?”

  “Of course. He too is an Umbrian.”

  “That makes a difference?”

  “Sometimes I think that in Umbria even those who believe in nothing else believe in signs and portents.” She turned her gaze to where the mountains floated in the haze. “It is our custom. Ever since we learnt to read the fortunes of men in the flight of birds. Perhaps long before that time.”

  “I’ve always thought bird-watching harmless enough.”

  “Now I think you are making mockery of me! However, if you keep your eyes wide, there is meaning to be found everywhere – not only in the birds, but in the murmur of trees, in the pictures made in fire or water. Even a voice heard in a crowd may say something that can change us. As with the radio, there are many places to listen. It all depends how you are tuned – yes?”

  “Or which kind of universe you think you live in?”

  “Exactly so. I know how it is not respectable now to believe in such a spirited conference of things. But the ancients were wiser. They had great respect for our Umbrian soothsayers.” She glanced away, pointing down the slope of the garden beyond a dusky clump of ilex trees. “For example, there was a powerful oracle at the springs of Clitumnus down there on the plain beneath us. And not far away,” she lifted her gaze to the horizon, “in those mountains, is the cave of the Sibilla cumana. From Virgil? You understand?”

  “The Cumaean Sibyl? I thought she lived near Naples.”

  “Yes. But they say that when Christianity came there, she moved north, to Umbria, to the Monti Sibillini. Regrettably, la grotta della Sibilla was closed with stones, a long time ago, by men who did not understand the true nature of her negromanzia.”

  “Black magic?”

  “Of course that is what they thought. That is why they exploded the entrance to her cave with dynamite. But it was not like that. There are many stories.”

  “Tell me some.”

  “So that you may scorn them?”

  “Because I like stories.”

  Gabriella studied me. “In that case, I will tell you about Guerino il Meschino. You make me think about him a little. Meschino means… how shall I put it into English? A poor fellow, a man who has something perhaps a little disgraceful about him?”

  “A tramp?” I suggested.

  Dubiously she shook her head, fluttering the fingers of one hand.

  “A rogue then? A rascal?” Her shrug was unconvinced. “How about a wretch?”

  “Yes, a wretch. A wretch will do very well.”

  “And he reminds you of me? Perhaps I don’t like this story after all.”

  “But he too has ardimento. And a cunning mind. A mind for opportunities. I think you will like him. Anyway he comes to Norcia in search of his lost father…”

  I flashed involuntarily on the image of my own father as I’d seen him in the dream. Thunder rolled inside me. Truffles are the fruit of lightning, I thought in swift recoil. And then: the world is full of signs and portents.

  “…and in a pass through the mountains he meets his Excellency the Devil, who says to Guerino that if he wants to know who is his true father then he must consult the fata who lives in a cave nearby.” Gabriella gave me an interrogative frown. “You understand this word fata?”

  “Fate? Fortune-teller?”

  “No, perhaps not fate.” She frowned again, then found the word she wanted. “Fairy – yes, fairy. The Devil says, ‘There is a fairy who lives in a cave in these mountains. Her name is Sibilla. Enter her cave and you will come to a country where the trees give fruit and flowers at the same time, where there is no pain or sorrow, where no one grows old and everything gives pleasure to the senses.’ So Guerino, of course, asks the Devil to tell him the way to this cave of marvels. ‘But you must take care,’ the Devil warns him, ‘because the cave is guarded by a terrible serpent called Macco, who was once a man but has been enchanted by Sibilla and is now become a snake.’”

  Gabriella paused there to sip her San Pellegrino, then put on her sunglasses and moved to the edge of the pool, where she sat in the light, dangling her legs in the water.

  I said, “I’m wondering which side the Devil is on in this story.”

  “I am telling you the story as it was told to me when I was a child,” she reproved me. “I too had questions. I was told not to interrupt. So – Guerino has no fear. When he comes to the cave, he walks the serpent under his feet and goes into the underworld looking for the fata. And it is just as the Devil has promised – not dark, but a bright garden of figs and apricots and pomegra
nates. There are orange groves and lemon groves filled with singing birds, and the air is still fresh with flowers of spring. As for Sibilla herself – she is a woman of great beauty who welcomes Guerino with sweet words. Yes, she says to him, she will reveal who is his father, but first he must taste all the pleasures of her paradise, where the banquet lasts for ever and the music does not grow tedious, and no one gets sick or feels bad from drinking too much, and time itself stands still so that no one grows old. And then, when they have become lovers, she and he, she will tell him everything he wants to know.”

  Gabriella turned her head to glance at me briefly through the dark glasses that concealed her eyes. “But Guerino is not a fool. Even as he tastes the pleasures of her cave, his clever mind asks questions. He learns from her servants that she is the famous Sibilla cumana who had prophesied the birth of a Saviour from a Virgin. But she had believed that she herself was the chosen one, that God would enter as flesh inside her virgin womb, and she was so filled with grief when Santa Maria was chosen in her place that she has come to this garden beneath the earth, where she will live till the end of time. Now Guerino is excited very much by her soft voice and eyes that speak of bedtime, by her white skin as she lies down beside him. But he resists the desire to make love with her, and the story says that he is glad he did so, for a day comes when he peeps his eyes through the drapes of Sibilla’s boudoir and sees that, beneath their skirts, the legs of her servants are… squamose? Scaly, yes, like those of reptiles. So he thinks that Sibilla too must be a serpent, and when she next comes to make love with him, he rejects her. She pours her fury and venom on him, but he runs away, back into the upper world. Once there he finds that a whole year has passed. Because he is a good Christian he goes to Rome to give thanks for his salvation, and the Holy Father absolves him for the time he has spent in Sibilla’s company.” Gabriella glanced my way and took off her sunglasses. “So what do you think of my story?”

  “I expected Sibilla to get a better press.” Smiling at her puzzled frown, I added, “I thought your story would speak well of her.”

  “You think it does not?”

  “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever been keen on scaly legs!”

  Gabriella gave a little laugh. “There, did I not say you were like Guerino? You see only from his point of view.”

  “But that’s how you told it.”

  “That was how you chose to hear it.”

  “Didn’t I hear you say the Devil was behind it all?”

  “He too has his work to do. And did he not speak the truth?”

  “That Sibilla had turned some poor soul into a snake?”

  “Have you not heard of the wisdom of the serpent?”

  “Now you’re trying to have it both ways,” I protested. “And either way Sibilla doesn’t come through for him. Guerino didn’t find out who his father was.”

  “But was he prepared to pay her price?”

  Looking away, I said, “I suppose you can read it any way you like.”

  “Ah! Now you are thinking that it is just a story.”

  “But if it’s any consolation, I prefer it to the stories I report out in the real world.”

  “And of course such stories are more real than mine?”

  “Bullets are real,” I said. “Cutlass blades are real. Nobody would want to argue with their reality.”

  Gabriella sighed, got up and came back to the table, suddenly businesslike. “Tell me,” – a hint of challenge sharpened her tone – “what do you want with Adam and Marina?”

  I said, “I’m not sure that’s any of your concern.”

  She tapped the table briskly with one finger. “They are my friends. I love them and care for them. I know they feel they have good reason not to trust you.”

  “So you have been talking to them? Now, I mean, since I came?”

  “Marina knows you are here, yes.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Not far away.”

  “Is she here, in the house?”

  “You may be a good journalist, Mr Crowther, but you are also a guest in my home. I do not care to be interrogated by my guests.”

  I said, “I’ve come a long way to see them. I also have a life of my own to live and I’d like to get back to it. So forgive me if I seem impatient. What about Adam – have you spoken to him?”

  “No. He is not… available.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Precisely what I said.”

  “And Marina won’t see me?”

  When she did not answer, I got up, stared back at the villa with its many shuttered windows. “Look, I knew she wouldn’t be exactly thrilled that I’d come, but… It was all so long ago…” I turned and saw Gabriella, upright in her chair, observing me, with both hands resting at the stem of her glass on the marble tabletop. “She must know I wouldn’t have come near her if it wasn’t important.”

  “Important to whom?” Gabriella answered quietly.

  “More important to her than to me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “But have you not thought that Marina might have other important matters to attend to at this time? Matters that are none of your concern.”

  This did not surprise me. Once I’d learnt that Gabriella had discussed my arrival with Marina, I expected reticence, hostility even. So realizing that my frustration stemmed as much from gloomy predictions fulfilled as from the actual obstruction, I changed register. “I wanted to speak to Marina because there are all kinds of sensitivities in what I have to say. I wanted to be sure she got the message clearly. I even hoped she might take it more seriously precisely because I’d chosen to bring the message myself.” I caught the dubious tilt to her gaze. “But perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it’s better if it comes from someone else.”

  Gabriella nodded thoughtfully. “It seems you must decide whether to trust me.” Then, with a soft winsome twist to her lips, she added, “You have seen, I think, that my legs are free from scales!”

  It was impossible to resist the smile.

  Imagine it then, I thought, the uncovered underworld realm, inverse of all dark expectations, sunlight radiant where only igneous gloom should be, the globes of oranges, sharp lemon waxiness, ripe figs, unseasonable flowering and plenty. No sorrow, no war, no famine, illness, death. No reports to file, no tyranny of deadlines, no news at all, just permanent sensuality and peace.

  “Fortunately,” I said, “it’s not my father who’s in question here.”

  “Then… Marina’s father?” Her face clouded at once with the realization.

  “Yes. Adam and Marina’s father.”

  “Ah! Hal has asked you to come?”

  “He very much wants to see them again. Both of them.”

  “I think that may be difficult.” She turned away from my gaze, frowning, uncomfortable. “I think it’s impossible. I think he has given you the trouble of a wasted journey.” I studied her expression, puzzling again over her relationship to Adam and Marina, sensing a close collusion that passed beyond mere friendship. Her voice pushed on hesitantly into the space I’d left. “Marina… her feelings in this matter…” Gravely she shook her head.

  “I know,” I said, “but things can change, can’t they? Everything has changed for Hal. He’s very frail. I don’t think he can have much longer to live.”

  “And now, after all that has happened, he wants to see his children again?”

  “Is that so terrible?”

  “No. It would be moving – and pathetic even – were it not for the terrible things that drove them apart.”

  “A very long time ago.”

  “Yes, but… some wounds do not heal.”

  “Especially if we decide to keep them open,” I said.

  “Sometimes such things cannot be decided.”

  “No,” I shook my head, “we have to live by our choices.”

  “So you want me to tell Marina that her father wishes a reconciliation?”

  “That’s not quite how I’d pu
t it. I think I’d say he’s looking for forgiveness.” Again I read only doubt in her face. “But then perhaps I do need to say it to her myself after all. I made Hal a promise that I mean to keep, and it’s not that I don’t trust you, but… I’m wondering why you feel you have to protect Marina from me?”

  Averting her eyes, as if making further space for calculation, she gave a brisk, decisive sigh. “It is not Marina I have been trying to protect.” For an instant I thought she meant Adam, but then I saw my mistake. “Please,” she said and raised a hand to prevent me speaking. “This is embarrassing to me. The truth is that Marina entertains a great scorn for you.” She opened her hand, disclaiming responsibility for a judgement against which no appeal was likely to be heard. “However, if you insist to see her, I will try to speak with her once more.”

  “It would save time if you took me to her.”

  “Perhaps, but something else might be lost.”

  I saw there would be no budging her. A few moments later she excused herself and went into the pool house to change back into her clothes. I sat, staring into the water, thinking about what she’d said, unsurprised by it.

  When she reappeared, offering to drive me back to the cottage, I said, “If Marina is here, in the house, I think she should come out.”

  “Do you think she is hiding from you?” Gabriella snorted. “Then you know her less well than you think. Marina does not hide. Not from anything. You may search the house, if you wish.” When I made no move, she said, “I think you do not trust very much, Mr Crowther. But now you must trust me or go home.”

  She turned, led the way back up the damp stone stairs, and said nothing as we drove back at speed. I tried to end the silence by saying quietly, “I know Marina better than you think. She meant a great deal to me once.” But Gabriella chose not to reply as she drove on across the humpbacked bridge, back towards the town.

  Having dropped me off at the junction by the wayside shrine, she told me to wait at the cottage. She would be in touch again as soon as she had word. When I gave her my mobile number, she took the card with pursed lips, her mind elsewhere.