How to Paint a Dead Man (22 page)

Her head begins to ache a little. This is the real problem. What if the people in the television were watching other people on television, who were in turn watching televisions? How many television worlds could there be? Could the worlds of television be endless, like the windows in the Dutch paintings, revealing places with yet more windows? Could there be a long glass hole in the universe consisting entirely of television screens?

Elemme returns with the Coca-Colas, which are so cold she cannot hold the bottles. ‘Quick, take it! My fingers are stuck!’ The two drink their drinks under the flower-stall awning. Sweetness explodes in Annette’s mouth, it fizzes and stings her sinuses. Elemme pats Annette on the shoulder. ‘Listen, we should untie your hair. It’s so pretty. It’s a shame always to have it in braids or hidden under a scarf. Here. I’ll arrange it for you.’ She unties the fastenings and gently begins to unravel the long, crimped strands. ‘Do you have a television at home?’ Annette asks as she has her hair combed. Elemme grunts. ‘No, angel, we cannot afford it. And if we could I would prefer a dishwasher. That would be the very best thing. There are too many men renting our house. Not one of them knows how to turn on the kitchen tap.’ She tucks a strand of hair behind Annette’s ear. ‘There! Tomorrow I will bring a little conditioning oil and we’ll shine it. Maybe I’ll even open a styling shop, since no one is buying my buttons.’

As Annette finishes her cola, she imagines herself trapped in the static factory of the television. Inside it is not like a womb. It is not like a wardrobe. It is claustrophobic, even though Annette is shrunken. It smells of nothing, or perhaps it smells of singed flex and burning dust, like the iron when it gets too hot. She gropes for a trapdoor, a window, or a loose seam, but there is no way out. If Elemme were inside a television set she would surely be able to find a doorway or a plastic chute next to the wires at the back, and open it, and slip out. She would immediately know where she was and how to get her bearings. She is practical like that. In the un-drying paint of the Deposition, the Bestia also knows how to work the release mechanism. He pours out of the composition and emerges bright and terrible, his horror bleeding everywhere.

The most frightening thought of all is that she, Annette, would not even realise her position if she were stuck in the oubliette of the television, and then she would be forgotten. She would not be the real Annette. Once this thought has occurred to her, she finds it very hard to cast aside.

When Mauri collects her in the afternoon his mood has improved considerably. He calls to her. ‘Rapunzel! Rapunzel! I am here to rescue you!’ He climbs out of the van giggling like a schoolboy, and scoops up Annette’s loose hair between his fingers. He bends her backwards in a dancing dip. Elemme calls over from the thrifts, ‘Hey, Annette, I think your brother is drunk.’ The stall is carelessly packed away, flower stalks are snapped, and Mauri drives very slowly and very badly to the greenhouses. Occasionally there are small swerves, as if he is avoiding objects in the road. ‘Is something wrong with the van?’ Annette asks. ‘Yes, it’s not a Ferrari! It’s not a Mercedes!’ He dissolves into laughter again and she begins to think he has been drinking as Elemme suggested.

At the entrance to the gardens he stops the van and leans over and puts his arm around Annette. ‘Did you take your hair down just for me? You do love me after all. I’m sorry I was angry. Give me a kiss. Everyone else is at it.’ She turns her face to kiss his cheek, but finds his mouth waiting instead, like a supple wet fruit. His lips are damp and loose as they press hers. Up close there is a bittersweet fragrance to his shirt, a scent with notes of almond and detergent. For a moment she feels a slight flush of dizziness. Is this how a real kiss feels? Mauri releases her. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘No touching tongues at the greenhouses. Not unless we want a visit from you-know-who!’ His tone is neither playful nor serious. He is not tormenting her, but Annette is not certain he is joking.

The van recommences its weaving journey and brakes suddenly outside the little brick office and the engine stalls. Mauri opens his door and jumps out, his boots thudding on the ground. Annette’s door is opened by Uncle Marcello, who takes her hand and helps her down. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let him drive. But look at you, with your radiant golden hair. Are you going to photosynthesise our plants?’ Annette takes hold of her uncle’s elbow. ‘I think Mauri might be unwell.’ Uncle Marcello sighs. ‘No. Unfortunately, your brother has become stupid with toxic vapour. It’s on his sleeve but he won’t change his shirt. He’s such a clumsy fool. He spilled chloroform everywhere. Now he is killing his brain and he thinks it’s hilarious.’ Her uncle sighs again then calls over to Maurizio, who’s humming a waltz and shuffling his feet by the pomegranate tree. ‘Go and walk around, idiot boy! Get some air into that stupid brain! Go and dig or do military jumps, I don’t care!’

When she was seven, Annette was given gas at the dentist for the extraction of four back teeth. The dentist placed a mask on her face and the gas made it impossible to feel anything inside her mouth or to be sensible. The procedure seemed only to take a few seconds, though her mother said it had been longer. The gas had bent time. When she came round she was violently sick into a bowl that her mother held. ‘Will Mauri be OK?’ she asks. Uncle Marcello places a hand on the back of her head and strokes her hair. ‘Yes, princess, but he’s going to have a very bad headache. And you? Did you feel all right this morning, after your restless night? I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’

They proceed into the office. Annette can feel the breeze passing through–the two tin-framed windows have been wound open as far as they will wind. She can smell the bitter-sweetness again, a smell that gets into her throat and pads it out with cotton. Under this is the smell of soil, worms, and fertiliser. She hears a metal bottle cap being screwed, the quick wash of liquid as it is upended against the neck. ‘I’d better put this somewhere safe where your brother can’t get at it.’ The wind in the cabin flutters the papers stuck to the wall. Annette wonders if the little English fairies on the postcards are drowsy too.

The battle against the greenfly has been a success, her uncle tells her. The ones in the trays have been destroyed, and their larvae poisoned. But they will have to wait to see whether the flowers can withstand such a harsh measure. Her uncle gently takes hold of her face and kisses her, once on each cheek. He sighs. ‘It’s a difficult balance between salvation and harm,’ he says. ‘We should always try to move forward, but sometimes that upsets everyone! I just hope we’ve done the right thing, Netta.’

As predicted, there has been much commotion today. I have three nurses and they do not accede on matters of care. Theresa believes most ardently in the restorative power of soup; Florio, rest. Antonio sees that I wish to work and tries to defend my position, but the other two have interpreted his motivation as financially beneficial to himself, taking, as he does, a percentage of any sales. They do not mean to be unkind. It is simply the tension of the situation. Finally they have all agreed on the virtue of fresh air. They have moved an armchair into a square of sunlight on the veranda. I have been here all morning with a blanket on my knees though it is still very warm. The radio sits on a small table nearby and a bowl of fruit and my cigarettes. There are sunshades clipped to my spectacles. From here I can see the mountains. I have my tobacco and some books and it is quite a haven, or it would be if it weren’t for the continual disturbance.

Theresa visits my little oasis every fifteen minutes, as if it is a watchtower. You are missing your holster and your pistol, I say to her. Why don’t you go and patrol the garden? She fusses. She adjusts the blanket. She brings more soup and suggests I take a nap. I do not want to sleep through midday, I tell her each time. I am not a Spanish restaurateur. Antonio has gone into town to make some telephone calls. I suspect he is escaping the relentless dominion of Theresa. Florio is adjusting the pressure of the oxygen tank. The intention was to bring the device here twice a week for treatment, but the struggle to get it up the hill was so great that the doctor is leaving it at Serra Partucci for the duration of my illness. Perhaps I should rephrase–the duration of my life. Poor Florio. He does not have the waist of a young man any more. He brought the tank on an upright barrow, but the wheels ground into the path and we could hear him cursing and kicking the frame on the ascent. Antonio went to assist. When they arrived Florio was purple in the face and mopping his brow. He could not speak but bent over and flailed one hand until Theresa provided him with a glass of water. I thought he would have a stroke and expire at my feet.

I took some oxygen. It made me very light-headed for a while. There is a triangular mask that fits over the face and is secured with a band. The valves hiss when they are open. I am uncertain of the benefits. The cancer is inoperable and it is simply a matter of time. But Florio insists it will prolong things and grant me some relief. Theresa, though, is now convinced of my dementia. The initial flow of gas was too great. After inhaling it, I believed I saw Benicio lazing in the garden, his head on his paws. He turned and bit his tail as if biting fleas. I was overjoyed to see my old dog and I called out to him. Theresa crossed herself and then put a hand on my forehead. Florio is making sure the gas exits the tank more slowly in future.

They believe me to be optimistic in my outlook. And I am content, except for the fuss. The discomfort is permanent, and the symptoms are invariable. I cough. I wheeze. I move as if lamed and cannot clear my throat satisfactorily. I lie through the night, awake. But it is tolerable. My mind is a little looser I suppose, as befits such a condition. This world is coming to a close. Perhaps, after all, it was Benicio’s phantom I saw. He was always the best of guardians.

I have crept away and closed the door of the bedroom, saying I will rest for two hours, but truthfully I want to try to work. It is my habit to wait until the last possible moment before applying paint to the canvas, and I know that this period of meditation is long, often taking weeks, but then the image is always quick to produce. I am a little impatient now for the commencement. Even when commissioned I have never felt myself to be limited in this way. My thoughts are elsewhere. She is in my mind so often. There will be two interviews this week. Antonio is keen not to exhaust me, so he has selected the most reputable journalists and then I will be left alone. We all understand the significance. I know they will ask me about my life and the meaning of my work. I know they will ask if there are regrets, and I do not know what I will tell them.

Dina wore a white lace corset for our marriage, the waist of it drawn tight enough to grind pepper. Lace from the South, with its pauper’s history, its deliberation of stitches. This is a country of bitter and lovely traditions. She was veiled and underneath her hair was like burnt vines. I mourned for Christ on behalf of the congregation and asked for our union officially. I was ten years her senior but I felt young. Her smallness beside me in the church was startling. I imagined she was standing barefoot, her toes on the cold stones, as if in crisis. It was in 1934 and Fascism was noble and Mussolini had not yet told us anti-Semitism did not exist in our country. We were married in the Catholic tradition. She was among the faithful and gave up her ring to the Fatherland after ten months.

She thought me romantic for eventually confessing to her that I prayed every day for the jewel in her hair to fall into my wine, so that I might have had reason to solicit her attention. I told her I had longed to place it back in its dark setting. She thought me avant-garde because I was a target for much debate in the café, but it was not truly so, nor was it my ambition. In one journal I was called the Italian Le Corbusier, and she asked me about this and whether she might visit my studio in the Accademia. I was nervous for her to see the work, but she was kind and not disappointed. When she first sat with me, it was the moment I knew myself to be visible to all the eyes of the world. Her perfume was violet. She was too beautiful. I could not hold her gaze. Instead, I studied the pattern of the tablecloth, the red and blue squares. It was she who courted me and I who was ridiculous.

Our first apartment was in Bologna, close to the stadium, and I was teaching etching. My income was not high. The apartment had two rooms and loud pipes, and the bathroom was communal with no lock, so at first we were too afraid to use it. We would make sure to wake before all the other residents and then turn on the taps and sing while we bathed. We felt like operatic fugitives. There was no room to paint as well as cook, so I worked in the bedroom. After a successful exhibition, there were several patrons. I was able to sell more work and we moved to a better apartment on the Via Fondazza. But I remember her laughter in the old place and the beautiful sound of her singing and the dripping of the taps. I remember the sighs of our lovemaking against the roaring of the crowds in the stadium when the ball was taken towards the opposition. By then ill feelings were beginning to come into the country, but we paid them no heed.

Perhaps I was sombre in my middle years. I was so earnest about my work and could not express myself. How must I have appeared to her? Perhaps not fully developed, but solvable, so she would try all the time to make me smile. I could not convince her of my happiness though I felt it daily. I felt it in the strands of her hair left on the basin, which I jealously collected so that our fellow bathers would not wind them around their fingers. It was my wife’s habit to imitate those in power and the police captains, and often she would dress up in my hats and pencil a moustache, and this theatre brought us much amusement. I look back on this and it was harmless. Yet Europe’s terrible legacy has left traces of paranoia in my mind. Perhaps we were too casual. Perhaps oblivious to the dangers.

Sometimes Dina would try to unlock me. She would deprive me of sleep, sitting for hours at the window in her nightdress, asking questions, and imagining ways to cure me of the reticence from which she felt I suffered. Once she told me that my silence was able to break the spirit of all the things around me, the spirits of the fireplace, the washstand, the bowl of almonds and the photographic album, even the spirit of the womb. I do not know if she truly believed me capable of this. I blamed my age for our childlessness, but after seven years our daughter was finally conceived. Her name was Elizabeta. Because of the misalignment in her mother’s pelvis the delivery was difficult and she was born with broken bones. From birth she had no appetite and gained no weight, though she lay perfectly against the blanket. She lasted five weeks in this world.

I seldom dream. I would gladly accept dreams of my daughter or my wife. I would buy them if I knew the currency with which to do so. Perhaps dreams are the bonds of a frugal God. Or perhaps they are mirages that the thirsty soul falls upon. But I would walk each desert of the world to see Elizabeta. I would not hesitate to give my own life in exchange for Dina’s. I would have given up my country’s patronage and its protection in those dark years, if it meant she could have been saved. I have thought this too many times to count.

No sun was brighter than the love Dina possessed for our child. Even the surgeon’s prediction did not convince her that her maternal involvement would be temporary. After the birth we sat together outside the hospital looking at the designs of Erba, and those carved angels seemed vile to me. Their eyes were deeply recessed and empty where the chisel had struck down, deep holes, which were the lair only of the stone-worm. We took Elizabeta home, though it was not recommended.

After the baby died a mania came to Dina. She went from room to room looking for her. She lifted the tablecloth. She opened bulbs of fennel. She was alert to any possible hiding place. At night she heard noises in the alleyways like the mewling of a newborn, but it was only stray cats singing to each other across the roofs. Once she broke the bones of her hand looking for her small bundle in the awnings of the café. She was as lean and hungry as the wolves on the lakes of ice, scratching at the doorway of another world.

She visited the new synagogue on the Via dei Gombruti in the years that followed, until it was damaged in the bombing, but she seemed to find no comfort there. During the war there was much fear and suspicion. The prayer rooms in the Jewish ghetto were often closed, and the faith could not be practised openly, but it was only when a Jewish man was shot on the Via dell’Inferno that Bologna the Learned began to take the threat of intolerance seriously. Perhaps it was Dina’s faith that exposed her during the occupation. She was a proud woman. The Resistenza was fierce in our city, and I have no doubt that she knew many members, but we were careful and our friends were loyal, and the priests and servicemen did their best to offer shelter. Nevertheless, one night I came back from the Accademia and the doorway of the apartment was standing open. A neighbour told me that the building had been searched, and the old medieval heart of the city had been raided and cleared. I ran from room to room but Dina was gone.

I had sold paintings to a man in office at the time. I contacted him and begged him to help. He made an appeal to the German security police, but there was little else he could do. Later, he found her name in the transport records. I remember sitting with him in an empty café in the district of the Two Towers, where Dina had been a child, as he gave me this, the only available proof. I remember him taking hold of my sleeve as I stood up to leave. This is not our great system, he said, this is not what we conceived. And I said to him, no, but neither will we be forgiven.

After she was taken, I understood how it felt to reject what is known to be true. I understood Dina’s desperation on those nights when she had heard our baby crying in the alleys. I understood sorrow, sorrow that is inestimable and unfinished. I should have walked with her when she scoured the streets looking for Elizabeta. I should have picked up a rifle.

In the last few years the money offered to Antonio for my self-portraits has tripled. They are rare, and they are felt to be the best clues to the enigma of identity. I have outlived tragedy; that is all. Much has been made of the descriptive accuracy in the paintings, the facial expressions, and how unlike the still-lifes they are. The last self-portrait was completed over twenty years ago, the year the war ended. It is not heroic.

As if to cheer me from my sad memories this afternoon, a postcard from Peter has arrived. He is in America, and has a wife! Here is such joyful symmetry. We should not look for signs, and yet how often they present themselves. Peter describes the Pacific as ‘terrifying’. It is so vast. The policemen ride horses as large as the Elgin marbles, he writes. He has spent five nights in a terrible hotel with torn sheets and bodies sprawled in the corridors. He has seen the Pan-American Unity mural. It is all a great adventure. It is ‘mind-opening’.

I am fortunate to receive correspondence from friends in all the countries of the globe. Though my life is one of reclusion, I have received many exotic gifts over the years. A tsuba from Japan, black pumice from the Antipodes. Antonio once sent me some antique woodcuts from Bavaria. In truth, I had hoped Peter might choose to come to Italy, to tour Florence and make notes on Fra Angelico, and perhaps even visit me in these humble hills. With what great enthusiasm we would have shaken hands! I would have enjoyed making him some coffee and showing him the objects in the studio. Here is also a lesson in today, in now, such as that found in the Odes of the Augustan poet. Last year, I was sent a gift of coffee from Louisiana. There are still a few black grains, enough spoonfuls left in the tin to filter. It is blended with chicory leaf; the taste is sour and interesting, and I have been saving it for no reason. We will have the last of it today when Antonio returns from the town.