How to Paint a Dead Man (15 page)

When the blindness came it was not unexpected. Dottor Florio had outlined the disease. Also there had been a series of unfortunate events and Annette felt she was simply the next in line, like a domino toppling over because the one before it had toppled. First Signor Giorgio had died. He had not come to the school for many weeks. Signora Russo had told them that he was in grave health, and that they should pray for him to recover. They were to continue sketching, of course, and improving their skills. She herself would take the lessons, she said. She placed apples in front of them, and pieces of earthenware. They were to attempt to replicate the sheen and the depth. Once she sat in a chair at the front of the classroom and invited them to attempt a portrait, but there was too much laughter and nonsense, and after ten minutes Signora Russo stood up and invited them to paint their own hands instead.

Not long afterwards she announced at the end of class one day that Signor Giorgio had passed away. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed at the corners of her eyes and then she sneezed. ‘Children,’ she said, ‘we should not ever forget we were lucky to have received his wisdom. The rest of Italy has not understood Signor Giorgio well. Here, we might have turned our back on such a man. But he was, nevertheless, our comrade. Let us all remember how he graciously shared with us his time and his knowledge. Let us not be too sad.’ She blew her nose loudly. When she had recovered she folded her handkerchief into her blouse sleeve, and said there would soon be a museum dedicated to him in the city of Bologna, where he had once studied. When they were older they might like to visit it and admire some of his paintings and read about his life. He had survived very turbulent times, she said. She said those who thought he should not have received the Grand Prize were foolish. She drew out her handkerchief and blew her nose again. Then they sang the anthem, with Signora Russo conducting, and class was dismissed.

As Annette walked home an odd thought occurred to her. She wondered what had happened to Signor Giorgio’s big spectacles. Perhaps he’d had them on when he died, because sometimes death came right in the middle of what a person was doing, as it had come to her papa. Perhaps Signor Giorgio had died without his spectacles. Perhaps he had taken them off before he slept and he had died in his sleep. Annette often forgot to take off her glasses when she climbed into bed, and then she would wake up and the frames would have slipped and gored into her nose. If he had died without his spectacles, would he be able to see in heaven? Perhaps in heaven his eyesight would be perfect. She also wondered what he had heard and what he had seen when he died. A red field or the citrine wolf’s eye? Bluebottles buzzing? The keys of an old Olivetti striking against its ribbon? Perhaps a firework wailing? She wondered if in any way the Bestia had been involved.

Next there was a disaster at the greenhouses. A mysterious blight had arrived in one of the beds and quickly spread to others. Textbooks were consulted. Vincenzo, Maurizio and Uncle Marcello raked and pruned, uprooted bulbs, and burned piles of leaves. Dark grey, musty-smelling smoke rose from the gardens. The panes of the glasshouses were disinfected with vinegar and newspaper. But the blight continued. In the evenings Uncle Marcello would place a black-spotted leaf next to him on the table and he would study it while eating, sometimes turning it over by its stem, as if it might reveal to him its sinister properties and its transmission code. He telephoned the London botanical gardens and had a difficult conversation in broken English. Afterwards he looked at them and shrugged. After three weeks, he said there would be no profit that year. They would have to rely on the lavenders, the olive oil and the vegetables. Annette’s mother said it was a bad omen.

Perhaps it was, because then Vincenzo announced that he was going to South America. Their mother cried for a week, and said she had suffered enough humiliation and desertion already. She accused her son of keeping a whore, of stealing money from the family, of corruption and the abandonment of Italy. But the ticket was already bought and the suitcase packed. He shook hands with his brothers, kissed Annette and baby Tommaso, and unhooked Rosaria Tambroni’s clawed fingers from his wrists. ‘I will write,’ he said. He picked up his suitcase, put on his hat, and walked to the station.

Castrabecco fell into despair afterwards. For days nobody spoke. Nobody dared to sit at Vincenzo’s place–a black shawl was folded neatly on his chair, and the chair was turned to face away from the table. Even Mauri’s teasing and tickling and playfulness was suspended. Their mother lay in her room with the door locked. Twice there was the sound of violent weeping and something smashing. The family waited in abeyance. Finally it was Tommaso who broke the spell. He pulled himself up off the floor while no one was watching and pushed the mourning chair like a barrow around the room, making the noise of a purring, spluttering engine. He pushed it down the steps and out the door of Castrabecco into the courtyard, where it was left overnight in the rain. Annette retrieved the damp shawl and Uncle Marcello broke up the chair legs and tossed the pieces on to the smouldering bonfires of blighted leaves.

Then it was Annette’s turn. It began as a tickle at the back of her throat, as if a tiny funnel spider were spinning a web between her tonsils. When she swallowed, she could not get rid of the spider or its weaving. Other children were sick at the school. There was talk on the radio of a pandemic in the region, and the school was swiftly closed. It was too late. Annette’s temperature rose. Dottor Florio was called and he confirmed that a virus was in her system. ‘It’s in the glands, so we must watch her closely,’ he told her mother. ‘This could trigger the degeneration. I think you’d better prepare yourself, Rosaria.’

Annette was sent to bed to rest. It was hard to sleep, and then it was too easy to sleep and she slept for hours and hours. Once she woke and thought it was the middle of the night, but outside the shutters the sun was very bright. She got up confused. Her face, when she located it in the mirror of the bathroom, was strung with pink and white blotches. She looked like a wedding garland. Her hair was wet, as if she had just washed her face, and she felt very cold. The spider had completed its work. Her throat was closed up, full of silk threads, and she had to suck hard at the air. There was a deep tenderness under her arms, as if she had been rubbed with a leather shaving-strop right down to her ribcage.

She went to the kitchen. She wanted to sit by the warm fire, and explain about the spider living in her mouth. Her mother was speaking with Uncle Marcello, who was scrubbing his nails in the sink with a stiff brush. Tommaso was sitting on the floor at their feet. ‘She’s the only one in the family to be born with such a weakness,’ her mother was saying. ‘I don’t know where it comes from. Perhaps she remained in the womb too long. I don’t like to speculate, but you see pictures of those little animals from the forest with eyes like moons that only come out at night and cannot bear the daylight. Who do they remind you of?’ Uncle Marcello scrubbed harder at the dark red clay lodged under his nails. ‘Yes, she might be from another world, I suppose.’ Her mother sighed and then leant out of the shutters and shouted to Mauri to come in and eat. ‘Do I see cigarette smoke! Do I smell cigarette smoke? Come in immediately!’

Annette sat beside Tommaso. She was feeling very unwell. Her head ached and shivers kept flurrying through her heart. The floor was unsteady beneath her, as if it contained many new slopes and rises, as if all the tiles were tilting and tipping. ‘I see you are up, Netta. We should probably have kept you and Tommaso separate, but now it’s too late. Will you try to eat something with us?’

Over dinner there was a discussion about transplanting specimens. Uncle Marcello was convinced his plan to bring in new varieties would be a success. ‘If the Duke of Tuscany can collect jasmine from China, then I am certain Marcello Tambroni can grow the plain English daffodil for Easter and encourage a few orchids next to the oven.’ His voice rose over the clinking of spoons in the tureen. Annette’s mother disagreed. ‘How are you going to pay for these imports? It’s a ridiculous plan-nobody will buy such a thing. Besides, the soil is too bitter here. They’ll die. We’ll go broke. This is a traditional business. Joseph would never have attempted something so risky.’ ‘But Joseph is not here, much as we all wish he still were.’ There was a pause. Her mother changed the subject. ‘This is not the issue. The issue is that the van will not start, again. We need to buy a reliable one. Andrea could order it from the factory-at trade price.’ Uncle Marcello made a snorting noise through his nose. ‘And we’ll pay for it with what? There is only blight in the bank account!’ Tommaso was stirring the sauce on his plate with a finger, and Mauri was catapulting pellets of cheese rind out of the window with a fork. There was a ping every time the metal handle recoiled.

Annette did not feel like eating. Very quietly, very softly, snow was beginning to fall in front of her eyes. She was sure it was only spring, but snowflakes were spiralling down. The green of her vest began to blanch. The golden spools of the lustreware began to fade. In her uncle’s wiry hair and along her mother’s cowled neckline delicate bolsters were forming, and on the table around the oil and the pepper pot white drifts were beginning to collect. ‘Is it wintertime already?’ she asked. Her voice sounded very far away. They all turned to her. ‘Annette looks like an icicle,’ said Mauri. ‘Oh, God! The child looks appalling!’ exclaimed Uncle Marcello. ‘Shall we call the doctor again?’ Annette did not hear anyone reply yes or no. The whiteness was now blowing fast and swirling around her. She was freezing one second, and too hot the next. Suddenly she slid sideways from her chair on to Mauri’s lap.

That night she dreamt vivid, elaborate dreams. She was searching the Alpine glaciers for cups and saucers. Then white petals were falling from the sky. So many came down that she had to climb through them and lift her face upwards to find air to breathe. She was running. She was standing still. She was surrounded by huge flowers with long, curving thorns. They moved in towards her. Their spurs were pressed into her as if someone were wrapping her tightly into a bouquet. Thorns cut into her ribs, into her face and legs. The dreams went on, delirious and exhausting.

For three days Annette did not get out of bed. The optical snowstorm continued. She trembled under the covers and the covers slipped to the floor. Saint Catherine of Sienna visited her, and Saint Cosmos with his stethoscope. They conferred in Latin. They tangoed, like her parents in the photograph. Her mother brought up broth and held her upright and tried to encourage her to drink. ‘I am in your arrangements, Mamma,’ she muttered, ‘with the roses. Don’t sell me at the market. Signor Giorgio can see.’ Her mother’s voice was perplexed. ‘What is this gibberish? Oh! This is an outrage. When will they decide to vaccinate! Please, Annette. Please try not to dribble. You’ve got to eat.’

Uncle Marcello brought in a bough of honeysuckle and draped it along the low beam above her bed. Its pale yellow sweetness filled the room and her sleep became more settled. He sat with her and took hold of her arm. He kissed the inside of her wrist. When she stretched out her other hand to him, she felt Mauri’s sleek hair resting on the bed and the plump lobe of his ear.

On the morning of the fourth day, Annette woke up. Her nightgown was rumpled and damp about her stomach, but the squall inside her head had ended. The room was beautifully still. She reached for her glasses and put them on. She blinked, and blinked again. She rubbed her eyes. But there was nothing to see at all.

Dottor Florio confirmed the damage. He sat on the edge of Annette’s bed and shone red lights down the tunnels of her eyes and blew puffs of air on to the corneas with a pair of clinical bellows. He pushed gently at the opaque surfaces with a fingertip. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘The nerves are dead.’ She heard her mother choke. ‘You’ve been a very brave girl, Annette,’ said the doctor, ‘very brave. And we knew, didn’t we, what to expect? We were all prepared.’ Her mother began to weep. ‘But can’t she have an operation to restore things? What kind of life is this going to be?’ There was fear in her voice, the same high note of fear that sounded whenever she spoke of the tragic incident at the gardens.

Annette reached out and found the ripple of her mother’s long mourning dress. She held it to her face and smelled her mother’s scent, the scent of heavy nylon and rose. ‘It will be an adjusted life,’ said the doctor, ‘but still a life worth living.’ His tone was not sharp but his tongue sounded uncomfortable, as if it had too little space between his teeth to move. ‘It’s not the Middle Ages. There’s Braille. There is a facility in the city-very respected–a special school. I can give you the name. But my recommendation is to keep things normal, keep them the same. Annette will cope better in a place of familiarity. I will speak to Signora Russo. After all, there is no reason why this development cannot be accommodated. We will persevere, will we not?’

If she had imagined a pitch-black terror, like being lost in the mines of Massa, or trapped in the excavated tunnels of the Metropolitana, if she had thought her blindness would be like living in the dark, cracked varnish of the Deposition in the church of San Lorenzo, it was not so. After they had gone, Annette got out of bed and wobbled for a moment, then found her balance. She stood upright and held her arms out. There was still a little weakness from her fever and a salty taste in her mouth, but her head felt clear. She was neither too hot, nor too cold, just hungry. She knelt down on the floor. She said a small prayer to St Francis. Though her eyes were blind, inside a compartment of her head she could still see. She could imagine the room exactly as it had been before the sickness; her dresser with its beaded cloth, the washstand, and the low beam in the ceiling from which Uncle Marcello had strung the honeysuckle. She could imagine her shoes arranged neatly, side by side, their laces tucked inside the leather openings, and, on the window seat, the pot of marigolds peeking out from their green hoods.