Meatloaf in Manhattan (16 page)

‘While father was away on business,' the son says. ‘It happened while father was away on business.'

Sometimes this is all. Monsignor Di Vincente might wake, or move on to another dream. At other times, the dream continues, the tidal wave rolls in from the expanse of the ocean, the earthquake tears and dissects the town square in two. His wife and children tumble from the balcony, with the pots of geraniums, the basket of washing, crashing, careering, to the heaving ground below.

Over the days following his visit to Gypsy Rose Lee the images shadow him through his waking hours. He might be sitting drinking coffee at a roadside cafe, when suddenly the street fills with water, the pallid bodies of his wife and children floating lifelessly past him. Or else there is the clatter of a dustbin lid, the pavement splits asunder, and he sees his baby daughter falling from a ledge overhead. ‘While father was away on business,' the billboards and news hoardings proclaim to a disapproving public. ‘Earthquake and tidal wave hit South Sea island,' chant the paper boys on street corners. ‘Monsignor Di Vincente's family perishes, while he was away on business. Read all about it.'

Then an unquenchable sadness descends over his blackening heart. Monsignor Di Vincente loses his fascination and inquisitiveness for life. He feels trapped and lost all at the same time, and his soul shrinks to a pea. But time has taught him that any action is better than none. So, the next night, the full moon hanging over the town like a pendulum, the demons waiting at the end of his bed, he takes out his book of maps and plans a trip. He consults his diary, clips the calling card from the Heartmaker to the pages for the following week, and scores ‘vacation' through the next seven days. Writing a note to the hotel manager to keep his room reserved and aired until he returns, Monsignor Di Vincente leaves the hotel and is down at the river-landing before the dawn arrives.

Watching the kingfisher skirt the riverbank, tasting a sense of serenity, Monsignor Di Vincente sings softly to himself and to the unfolding day.

‘Early one morning, just as the sun is rising, I heard a young maid singing in the va-lley below,

Oh don't deceive me, oh never leave me, how could you use a po-or maiden so.'

Some little time must have passed, because the song has left his head and the smell of the morning fills the air. Monsignor Di Vincente sighs deeper than he thinks he has breath and weeps a tear into the river for his lost children and darling wife. Then, as if to remind him today is all he has or can ever expect, the droning horn of the steamer announces that it, like the vagaries of the day, will shortly reveal itself.

Around the bend in the river the huge steamer appears, the enormous paddle churning up the water, the steam billowing from its single funnel. Lined along the upper deck are mustachioed men in blazers and boaters, women in full white frocks with wide-brimmed hats or parasols to shade them from the sun. All wave gleaming white handkerchiefs to welcome Monsignor Di Vincente, who stands alone and expectant on the short landing-stage jutting out into the reddened waters of the fast flowing river. Monsignor Di Vincente pauses midway along the gangplank that has been lowered to lead him from the jetty to the deck of the boat. He looks around, savouring the moment of being suspended between the air and the water.

After he settles into his cabin, Monsignor Di Vincente dresses himself in his new deck shoes, his navy blazer with the gold buttons embossed with anchors and his white flannel trousers. On his head he wears the boater given to him after the regatta at Henley, in honour of his unique, and now famous, contribution to the centenary celebrations. On deck he sits down on a lounger, with his face to the growing warmth of the sun, and listens to the rhythmic pattern of the water being pushed through the huge paddle propelling the steamer along the deep central channel of the river.

As the day wears on the waterway narrows and each bank fills with a dense profusion of bushes and trees. Observing the scenery, Monsignor Di Vincente is sure he spots a man peering from a branch some twenty feet off the ground. Then later he thinks he hears whispers and messages being passed through the forest as the steamer makes its way upstream.

The day and night, the flow of the current and the ever-changing riverbank, soothe the mind and soul of Monsignor Di Vincente. By day he reads a book on the flora and fauna of the region and makes sketches of the waterway. At night he dines with his fellow guests and joins in the revelry and pantomime. He plays charades and bridge and one night he bedazzles the crowd with magic tricks. One late afternoon he joins a card game in the lounge. Gazing through the open window, the sun warming his cheek, he is the only one on board to see the Blackfoot brave stalking the boat along the river's edge. The only one to catch the flash of the pearl of the handle of the warrior's tomahawk. He feels no fear, though the signs and sounds from the riverbank are clearly ominous. Yet there is more to the movement in the trees than the shadowy trail of the Blackfoot brave.

Monsignor Di Vincente is also the only one onboard to notice the bird of paradise return to her nest with a croup full of grubs for her fledglings. Something of note on the forest floor, something in the upper branches. It is Monsignor Di Vincente alone, the other voyagers all so unaware, who sees the poised figure of the Blackfoot brave, the yellow and red paint of his face still wet and menacing. Monsignor Di Vincente is about to play his hand of cards: the pair of aces (spades and diamonds) and the knaves (clubs and hearts) set to clean out the bank. Holding high his cards Monsignor Di Vincente is the only one on the boat to notice the first arrow quiver and slice through the air. He watches its release from the bow, of exquisite wood, lovingly carved by the brave from a poplar branch. He follows its flight as it twists and whistles through the space between there and here. He hears the sudden gasp and surprise as it slices through the throat of the ship's cook, who is frying a pan of snapper fish and humming an old sea shanty.

By the time they reach the small river town of Padua Saint Christos it is daybreak. Despite the early hour, the square of the Blessed Virgin is full, the crowd is buzzing. But, most unlike any other day, the townspeople are not interested in the bedraggled troupe snaking its way from the quayside, looking for comfort and ears to hear its tale of ambush and drama. In fact, the new arrivals are barely acknowledged, hardly noticed. Only a few heads turns momentarily in their direction.

There is a more pressing drama for the town to attend to. The previous night, to be discovered with horror this morning, someone had smashed the heads of the mother and child. There for all to see is the doubly decapitated statue, standing (as it has done for five centuries) in the centre of the square. The priest is on his knees, wringing his hands above his head. He throws himself prostrate to the ground, grappling with the dust, uttering shrieks to the heavens, as if it has been his very own wife and child defiled and mutilated. All around the crowd is milling to and fro, arguing and remonstrating, pointing to this one and that one, hurling abusive accusations at neighbours and kin alike. In their hearts, many of the townsfolk have thought of it, as children, as wild adolescents. To smash the statue in the square, the ultimate act, fit for a vandal. To rebel, to make a mark. So in their accusations of each other, they all share a portion of the blame of guilt.

All the while the ragged river-boat party stands in stunned silence, their sundry belongings gathered at their feet, each mesmerised into inertia, unsure where to move next. Each survivor locked into their own version of events, their own set of images. The marauding braves. The suddenness of the violence. Their hasty retreat and escape by canoe. All deep in a shocked reflection. All except Monsignor Di Vincente. Realising none of this is any of his business, nor any of his responsibility, he sets off to find a pony and trap for hire to take him back to town in time for his rendezous of the next day. His visit to the Heartmaker.

Back in his hotel room, fresh flowers on the small table by the window, Monsignor Di Vincente feels contented. He peels an orange from the hand-painted bowl and opens up his newspaper. He is in the habit of reading the obituaries on the inside back page. A whole life in a single column. Today's obituary is of a man who, for fifty years, made cathedrals and castles out of countless matchsticks. All the little details of a life.

Monsignor Di Vincente likes taking off his leather boots at the end of the day. The creaking noise. The pulling. The yielding and giving. The release, like a childbirth of sorts: the boot wrinkled like a newborn baby. Last thing at night, before he goes to bed, he reads the weather forecast in the newspaper. He notes well the isobars and the wind speeds. He checks the temperature readings of his favourite cities: Vienna, Saint Petersburg, Bogota, Zagreb, Cairo, Palermo and Chicago. He looks out for the hint of storms, for the coming of the next full moon. He picks up the calling card from the bedside table where he had placed it. He runs his fingertips over the lettering as if it were Braille. As if he was blind. He closes his eyes. ‘Maker of hearts,' he recites. ‘Maker of hearts.'

They always come in that way, furtively. As if the error is all theirs. Another wrong turn, another mistaken identity. The Heartmaker doesn't look around, but carries on busying himself with the task at hand. The shaping, this tricky business. Perched on his stool, he continues as he always does, seemingly oblivious (at least to the visitor at the door) to the lift of the latch, the creek of the hinge. He had intended to stop after shaping and hanging this one up to dry. This last heart of the afternoon. He is thirsty and in need of a cup of something. Lemon barley or orange squash, maybe a ginger biscuit or two. The sun had gone down a while back. He can hear the clatter and wheeling of the market traders pushing their stalls along the cobbled street outside the small window of his workroom.

So that's how Monsignor Di Vincente first glimpses him, hard at work and concentrating. He pops his head around the door, one foot, in fact both, still in the street. Monsignor Di Vincente drops the letter on the coconut mat in the doorway, just as the Heartmaker turns on the wireless and tunes the cat's whisker to the cricket scores.

Next day the Heartmaker sits at the dinner table in the parlour at the back of the house. His wife is busy putting the finishing touches to supper, wiping her hands in a worried manner on the blue and white apron she has tied around her waist. She hears the sound of her husband tapping his fingers on the soft wooden table as he is prone to do when deep in thought.

‘What is it?' implores his wife, for she hates to see him distracted so. ‘What is the tune you are playing?'

He is staring through the small latticed window into the alleyway that runs along the backs of the houses. A small robin is doing her best to tug a worm from the gap between the cobblestones, laid two centuries earlier. His wife places a plate of freshly steamed vegetables on the table in front of him: the deep green of the broccoli, the polished red of the peppers, sit on the plate like a picture. Lovingly she kisses her husband on the nape of his neck, trying once more to elicit a response.

‘So tell me, what is it that preys on your mind, my dear?' Her impatience finds expression in the apron strings she twines as she speaks.

‘Nought but a customer,' he replies at last, blowing gently on his food, watching the steam changing direction. ‘Nothing of great concern, my sweetness,' he continues. ‘Merely a customer who doesn't speak to me, but tells me of his need by letter and by the longing expression of his eyes.'

He spears a branch of broccoli and holds it before him on the tip of his fork.

‘A soul assured, but lacking. Afraid to speak in case someone listens and begins to understand. That's why he has come to me for a new heart. In the hope he will find expression and openness. That is all that is on my mind,' he says. Then with a lilt of mischievousness in his voice adds, ‘but what is on my plate? Heavenliness,' he whoops, swallowing the broccoli, taking a slice of roasted pepper between his fingers, dropping it in his mouth. Then he leaps up, takes his ladylove, his sweetheart, by the hand and dances her around the room.

‘You be my honey, honeysuckle, I'll be your bee,' he sings into her ear as they dance across the floor. She smiles, letting out a gentle loving sigh of contentment, assured as she is that no one could ever love her more than this man and there is no more happiness to be had. As she thinks these thoughts, twirling slowing to the honeyed hum of his voice, slowly she lets her apron strings drop.

Lying in the gutter can offer a glimpse at the stars, thinks Monsignor Di Vincente, on his way home from the theatre. He tucks the ticket stub between his palm and his glove (as a memento) and runs his willow cane against the whitewashed picket fence. He takes a bite from the cream cake he has saved from the interval. The cane clatters against the slats of the fence, alerting dogs and cats in the neighbourhood of his approach. He reaches into his waistcoat pocket and taps the copy of the letter he left with the Heartmaker. The letter explaining all. His sadness. His loss. His needs. His hopes of change and reparation. ‘It's getting closer,' he says to himself and the empty street. ‘My new heart is taking shape.'

Monsignor Di Vincente is never one to idle away the hours. He knows his heart will come when it is ready and no waiting nor watching out for the postman will hurry its course. So, since returning home from his travels, each day he makes a plan. To water and prune the roses. To clear the gutters. To bake a cherry pie. To write letters to godchildren and aged aunts. At night he builds a fire in the grate from the twigs and kindling collected from the copse beyond the orchard. Sitting in his old armchair he plays the violin whilst watching the flames leap and twist from wood to air.

Then, the very next Thursday the package comes. The postman leaves it on the doorstep as Monsignor Di Vincente is already out on his morning stroll. Turning the corner at the end of the lane, tapping his cane on the silver birch tree (as is his wont), Monsignor Di Vincente has a feeling in his bones today will be the day. The sun has shone since dawn. He spent the time walking by the riverbank, searching out a sprig of holly to decorate his mantelpiece. When he sees the parcel he is barely surprised, but his soul lights up.