by Mavis Cheek
‘The Italian’s gone to get you a drink of water. Personally I’d have thought grappa was a safer bet but we can get that later. Feeling better?’
‘No,’ I said, for shame and humiliation suddenly arrived, ‘I feel like a prat.’
For once Brando was kind. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Those boys grabbed your hand inside the opening and you fainted. I should think your heart must be in excellent shape. If you didn’t die from it then, you probably never will. Whereas I and my Italian friend were very much in danger of shuffling off the mortal. Fortunately you didn’t hit your head as you went down because he grabbed you and saved you. All very romantic, it was, swooning and then being carried by a gallant Italian to a Venetian resting place. It looked exactly like something out of a Victorian melodrama.’
‘How did the boys … ?’
‘It’s the wall behind the box. They’ve reopened the hole. That, apparently, in years gone by was how they made the mouth work – if they wanted it to work. It had been bricked up but the boys opened it again. Maybe it’s where they keep their pornography, away from the searching eyes of their Italian mama. It was all quite funny really – you being so bold and then that happening – we both –’
‘You both laughed. Yes, I heard you. Thanks.’
I sat up. The boys were peering round the far corner of the square and immediately vanished when they saw me looking at them. ‘Little bastards,’ I said. ‘They should be locked up.’
‘Hardly,’ said Brando, the voice of reason. ‘They were only playing around. They weren’t to know you would pass out with fear. Boys will be boys,’ said Brando, rather too happily.
Of course he was right. It was the sort of trick you’d read about in a William Brown book and chuckle over. But I had been so scared. If adrenalin is said to be good for the system I was, as Brando said, due to live for a very long time. I relaxed my head back into his hand, still feeling swimmy. ‘And if they come anywhere near me they’ll find out that girls will be girls, too,’ I muttered.
I raised my throbbing hand. My wedding ring was badly mangled – it was Robert’s grandmother’s ring originally and was already thin when we were given it – and the finger was red and swollen. I rubbed it. Somehow it seemed as if I had been given a lesson in something, only I didn’t know what. I certainly didn’t feel brave and daredevil any more. And I blushed to remember what I had been thinking when those little demons struck. ‘Oh dear,’ I said feebly and out loud. I suddenly felt exhausted with it all. Brando misunderstood and said, ‘Yes, sorry about that. We had to extricate your hand once the boys ran off. You were away to the woods and I pulled it a bit hard. The gap isn’t that big, and according to our Italian friend, part of the devilment of the box was that you could slide your hand in quite easily, but because of the way the knuckles are set, it’s much harder to get it out again. Hence the myth of the captive hand of deceit, I guess, even without them hiding on the other side. But you’re all in one piece – and so is the ring.’
He looked at me quite hard when he said this last so I sat up a little more and looked about me. Running footsteps clattered through the square and out of a little side turning came the Italian. He held a bottle of San Pellegrino and what looked like a coffee cup, over which he held the palm of his hand.
‘Ah,’ he said when he arrived at the bench, ‘you are back with us. Good.’ And he held out the bottle of water, unscrewing the cap with a slight fizz as he did so, and manoeuvring himself nearer to me than Brando. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Like a fool,’ I said, taking the bottle. ‘A very big fool. And one with a bruised ego as well as bruised knuckles.’ He took my hand with his free one and ran the ball of his thumb very lightly over the grazing. It felt a little too pleasant, too familiar, but I let him.
‘Not at all, not at all,’ he said, ‘It was very frightening to have those boys hold you like that – I, too, would have fainted, I am sure.’
Well, it was nice of him to say so but I didn’t feel like smiling very much. After all, it was his silly storytelling that made me so nervous in the first place. First law of recovery – find someone else to blame. I handed him the bottle and sat up a little straighter. ‘What’s in the cup?’
‘Grappa,’ he said.
Brando said, ‘Ah good,’ and reached for it, but the Italian moved his hand away and offered it to me. Since it was somewhere between him and too much of the red stuff as to what had caused me most pain, I declined. I sat up completely and handed the jacket back to its owner. Brando took both cup and garment, drained the first and stood up to put the other back on. The Italian renegotiated my hand and took it in his own. He studied the swollen finger and touched the wedding ring in its newly mauled shape. I withdrew my hand quickly.
‘I am sorry you were hurt,’ he said. ‘But I know someone who can make the ring look like new again. If that is what you want?’
Without looking away from the finger, I said, ‘No – I’ll keep it as a reminder.’
‘Of what?’ he asked.
‘Of what can happen to an Englishwoman in Venice when she gets her knickers in a twist.’
The Italian looked puzzled.
‘A metaphorical term,’ I said. ‘For getting a bee in my bonnet. Being carried away for a moment …’ He looked even more puzzled. ‘I thought you loved the richness of English?’ I wasn’t being very nice but I didn’t feel very nice. ‘Or you could say what can happen to an Englishwoman when she gets on her high horse …’
I smiled, showing all my teeth. So did he. ‘Bees,’ he said. ‘Knickers. Horses. I think you are delirious.’ At which we both smiled, understanding each other completely. The moment had passed. I felt him ease his grip on my hand. Brando muttered something further about the eternal treasure chest of the English language, and handed the cup back to the Italian who slipped it into his pocket. Then, still smiling with those white, white teeth, he also stood up, leaned down with his arm crooked, and indicated for me to take it. I saw that the top of his hair was thinning and that he had more jowls than I had noticed before in the piazza. Good. The days of Free Love and bare feet floated out of my mind and I was left only with even more of a feeling of foolishness. Had I really contemplated …? Did I really … ? I looked at him. He wasn’t even, really, attractive. Well, not as attractive as Robert. Robert. Why wasn’t he here with me? And then – in the city of water – I began to cry. Great big tears and shaking shoulders and quite unable to stop. Reaction, I suppose. Both men were instantly thrown into confusion – and between being patted and squeezed and cajoled and having the bloody jacket thrown back around my shoulders and patted some more, it felt like taking part in flyweight boxing.
‘I think I’d just like to get back to the hotel, if that’s all right,’ I said, the tears refusing to stop. Brando produced a huge pink handkerchief, so big that it made me feel little and Alice-like and even more vulnerable – and the tears increased. Both men had a wild look about them now, especially as one or two windows were opening discreetly and Venetian eyes were sizing up the situation.
‘The hotel? Certainly,’ said the Italian briskly.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a grappa first?’ said Brando wistfully.
‘Certain,’ I said. ‘Just the hotel and my bed.’
‘Of course,’ said Brando with relief. Glad to be shot of me. And off with me they marched. Behind us the boys made their tribal noises of joy at their victory and cycled around the square – the cats joined in, while the sound of the windows and shutters opening and occupants shouting and then the banging of them closing again and being bolted against the night were the only sounds to rise above my sobs.
The concierge looked at me in dismay and the Italian explained to her that there had been an accident to my hand. She immediately suggested a doctor, to which I shook my head. She then offered to get some warm water and a sponge but I was past accepting kindnesses. I just wanted the fussing to stop and to be left alone. To anyone who has ever contemplated
stepping off the straight and narrow of their marriage and having a fling, let this be a warning. All I wanted, all the way back to La Calcina, was my husband’s arm around me, not Brando’s, and my hand in his, and not loosely held by a stranger. I wanted the comfort of Robert’s familiarity as I made my way up the stairs and opened my door, and I vowed that if I had to tell lies in future in order to have those twin connections, then lie I would. A bedroom had never felt lonelier to me, a bed more empty, a city less of a place I wanted to be. But adrenalin from fear, and its aftermath, will always produce sleep – we are but animals after all – and I did fall asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. The last thought I had was of how much pain and upset I had caused everyone and I wondered if it had really and truly been worth it. I decided that it had not. Machiavelli was probably right. The last image I saw before sleep descended was of Winston Churchill in a tank. And fortunately I was well away in the land of nod before I had to think about it any further. One thing was absolutely certain: truth was dangerous.
Thirteen
Forswart: exhausted by heat.
Reverend John Boag’s Imperial Lexicon, c.1850
I WAS WOKEN the next morning by the ringing of my mobile phone. I’d been drifting in and out of sleep as you sometimes do with a bit of a hangover and after a shock. The room was filled with sunshine and for a moment I thought I was still dreaming, but no – it was probably Brando with orders for the passing of my time usefully. I welcomed the idea. Anything to get through this day and then I would be setting off for home.
I grabbed the phone, threw open the doors of the small balcony and leaned out over the Zattere as I answered. But it was not Brando – it was Tassie.
‘Mum? I’m going to book my flight home,’ she said. ‘I’ll confirm it with you but I’ll probably be coming into City airport via Schiphol on Sunday at about six in the morning. It’s the cheapest flight I can get.’
‘Well, that’s great, Tass,’ I said, not thinking it through.
She sounded stony. ‘No it isn’t,’ she said. ‘I’m coming back to save your marriage.’
All my resolution of the night before melted away in the morning mist. Had I meant my undertaking to re-embrace equivocation and untruth in the cause of human harmony, this was the moment. I would have said that I was sorry I’d been such a twerp and that it was all going to be fine, now. But there was just something in the way Tassie said ‘Save Your Marriage’ that made me furious.
Youth has a way, wonderful really, of persuading itself that Age is mentally retarded. The perceived role of one’s children in the great rolling world of books and film and television and stage is to be wise where we are foolish, sage where we are ignorant, benign where we are full of evil intent. Children, even very young ones, are no longer seen as cute and whimsical – or naughty and worse – they now represent fresh pages on which to write experience – they are now the gods of enlightenment. Where once, in To Kill a Mockingbird, Atticus Finch was the moral hero and the daughter, Scout, learned truth through observing him and others, now it would be Scout who would give Atticus the big truth. And where once Young Raleigh would have sat at the knee of a knowing sailor to learn his experienced ways, now the knowing sailor would find wisdom issuing from the Young Raleigh’s mouth. It is called middle-class fear of one’s children. And unfortunately, Tassie – and very probably Johnno (though it was extremely hard to gauge from his grunts what our son thought) – was of this frame of mind. Tassie alone, it seemed, knew the secrets of the world and how to behave as an adult – and – yes – we had indulged her in her conviction. Middle-class parents are indisputably afraid of their children. Johnno? Well, Johnno was a boy-bloke. He simply had contempt for everyone he considered old unless they drove a very new, very fast, very big BMW. While at the same time wearing a T-shirt saying ‘Save the Planet’.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said in a new and excitingly firm voice. ‘There’s nothing wrong with our marriage. Stay where you are. Please.’
‘Why – don’t you want to see me?’
Youth also has a way of making you feel a shit whichever way you deal with things. I couldn’t lie. I’d come this far. ‘Of course I want to see you. But you don’t need to come back early for our sake. We’ll be fine. Really.’ At that moment I made up my mind that no matter what, we would be fine.
And then one of the gondoliers called out in unmistakable dialect: ‘Gondola, gondola!’ And Tassie said suspiciously, ‘Who was that? Where are you?’
Quick thinking amazed me given that I felt rather unwell and I said truthfully, ‘Just doing a bit of research for Brando.’
‘But it’s eight o’clock in the morning.’
I stepped back into the room and closed the long windows. ‘I know,’ I said happily, for this was truth. ‘He’s a real slave-driver.’ She did not ask where I was. I didn’t give her a chance. At this point she would probably regard a trip to Venice as mother enjoying herself while father languished in solo Floridan misery. ‘Now look, Tassie,’ I said, in a tone of voice I had never used with her and which had the effect of shutting her up. ‘Now just look here …’
After some persuading, our disapproving daughter agreed not to book the flight until she had heard from both of us once Robert was home. And after I pressed the phone’s off button I felt deeply ashamed. How could being truthful hurt so much? And why, fool, did I ever think it was going to be easy. I then tried Robert’s phone. Zilch. It was 2 a.m. in Florida. Where was he? Usually when he was away from home he kept his mobile on all the time. Well, at least he would know I had tried, again. A bubble of resentment rose above the longing and remained long enough to register. Then it was gone. I couldn’t think of a message that didn’t sound either pathetic or reproachful so I didn’t leave one. It would be all right, surely, once he was back. It would have to be. Together, I thought as I studied my unattractive tongue in the mirror, together we go forth into the light. I remembered my mother, too. How was I going to face her ever again? I would change my flight and go home today. This city of deceits was too disturbing for an already disturbed mind. Much better to surround myself with the ordinariness of home. I rang the airline. Once the flight was settled I felt much better. Certain that this was the right way. I rang Brando and left a message about the change of plan. Then I had the swiftest shower possible, washed away both the real and the metaphorical dirt, donned cool clothing and a large hat, kissed my poor bruised finger, and went out, blinking in the sharp morning light, before I could think about the decision any further.
On the vaporetto the phone rang. I hoped it was Robert but it was Brando saying that if I hadn’t changed my flight he was going to suggest that I did. ‘You are all over the place, Nina,’ he said. ‘Your mind is elsewhere. Best you go home and get things sorted out.’ This was marvellously understanding of him.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Don’t mention it. Oh – and our Italian friend has just rung – unearthly hour – to ask how you are. How are you?’
‘Extremely well,’ I said, for I suddenly felt it. ‘Do you want to meet? I’m on the vaporetto going towards San Marco.’
‘Well, meet me at the stop for the Giardini as soon as you can. There’s a house of ill repute there with lewd carvings on the loggia – they apparently denote the worst kind of excess. Our Italian friend told me about it as penance for causing you so much pain. I said it was nothing at all. Was I wrong?’
‘No,’ I said, clear as a bell. How beautiful the world looked.
‘Good, because I told him you were flying home early this afternoon.’
‘My flight’s this evening.’
‘Your point?’
‘I’ll wait at the stop.’
Oh Venice, I thought as we chugged along, with your blue sky and your sun on the water, how could you be so bad?
Sant’Elena looked beautifully cool and empty of people though the day promised to be another hot one. The vaporetto was crowded and I kept seeing, perhaps like a guilty ch
imera, the Italian’s smiling face. I was relieved to get off the boat and wait for Brando who was unusually prompt. Human vileness seemed to stir his stumps like nothing else. We walked from the vaporetto stop in silence, Brando following his map and humming the tune from the night before, ‘Eleanor Rigby’. Very irritating. But it was best to keep the day harmonious after what we’d both been through. There was no knowing what Brando would come out with if I spoke too sharply. So I smiled at the day around me and steeled myself for whatever it was we were about to discover. What was it about sex, religion and money that created such unpleasant reactions in all societies? I have no answer, but so they do, all over the world. And what is our fascination with them? There but for fortune …? Witness poor Caterina’s story, our own dear burned bishops, the tortured concubines of Peking, the suttee of Calcutta and the cheering, blood-soaked crowds of eighteenth-century Paris. Venice, like her sister cities, was no slouch in matters of pleasure, pain and cruelty. Yet we love her. Nota bene: being nice doesn’t necessarily get you admired.
As we walked I asked why a house of ill repute should be interesting enough for Brando’s book. Surely there were hundreds of the places here, there and everywhere – oldest profession, that sort of thing. He was wearing a very large hat himself, straw, broad-brimmed, with a pink-and-green bandeau. Beneath it his eyes gleamed and his face was all smiles. ‘We have to include one in each city, I think. And this one is little known and will – so I’m told – provide some interesting pictures.’ He tapped his camera and looked pleased. I cheered up. Home tonight.
The building was tucked away to the north of the city in an area without canals and mostly residential. An unremarkable place. I suppose that makes good sense, to put a remarkable house of ill repute in an unremarkable place. And perhaps when it was founded the whole area had been very different.
‘That looks like it. Sticks out like a sore –’