Mosquito (27 page)

T
HE FOLDS OF THE
I
TALIAN
A
LPS
appeared in the distance, creased like a silk handkerchief. Snow had come early and would stay late. As they flew towards it there were no clouds and the view was clear for miles. Below was the intense blue of the glacier lakes, the dark mountain rivers, the beginnings of Alpine forests. He had flown this route many times in years gone by. Now he was flying it again. The other passengers in the aircraft were restless. It had been a long flight.

‘Hello again, ladies and gentleman. If you look to the right of the aircraft you will see a clear view of the Alps. In about ten minutes we will begin our descent. The weather in Venice is exceptionally warm for this time of year. The earlier thunderstorms have passed, the air has cleared and we have made up the time we lost earlier. You should be able to get a good view of the city as we land. The local time is twelve minutes past four, if you want to adjust your watches. So sit back and relax, and enjoy the rest of the flight.’

They had been flying for nearly twelve hours. He had not slept.

Ten years, thought Theo. Ten years of longing and now she was somewhere below him in the very place he had wanted to take her to. Giulia’s letter was in his pocket. He unfolded it again and reread it although by now he knew every line off by heart.

‘
We have found you both again. What else is worth saying?
’ Rohan had written and then Giulia had continued, ‘
Come, Theo, please you must come. She has suffered enough. She wants to see you. If anything can bring you here it is this. That she has not once, not for one moment, forgotten you. Everything she has done, every way she has lived has been in the shadow of the loss of you. So come
.’

And here he was, flying, flying through the light, crossing oceans, leaving everything, walking out through the sea-blue gate, never looking back, unwavering as a seabird, rushing towards her, carrying in his hand luggage a tightly closed temple flower. It was as though he was a younger man. Over India he had flown, crossing the Middle East, uncaring of the meals they served, uncaring that they were flying over other war zones now. He had carried a war not of his making for so long, paid for it with the years of his life and the lives of others, that he could no longer carry anything more. Others would have to carry the burden. Again he took out the small cutting Rohan had sent him.

Nulani Mendis is a Sri Lankan artist who paints jewellike abstract paintings. Filled with the colours of her homeland, with luminescent blues, phosphorescent greens and hints of gold, they are paintings scarred by war. In one, a vague smudge suggests a figure under an electric light.
Above are marks that appear to be stitching. Faint lines reminiscent of a hangman’s noose hover overhead. The surface is slashed and broken, rivets of paint-smeared pain seem to hold another canvas together. Elsewhere, another painting, the only one with a title,
In the key of ‘E
’, has a small typewriter key drawn into the paint, embedded like cattle branding. Beautifully crafted, with slow delicate glazes, this particular canvas was instantly snapped up. When invited to speak about her work, Mendis merely smiled, saying only that she was pleased they had been so well received. But about the work itself she had nothing to say. The viewer is left with the conundrum: are these hauntingly beautiful paintings directly related to the troubles that have being going on in Sri Lanka, or a feminist statement perhaps? In the end, in the words of her dealer Alison Fielding, what does it matter? These are simply very, very good paintings.

There were two colour photographs of the paintings. That was all. Here it was then, this was how she had developed, he thought, staring at the cutting, reading and rereading the words tenderly as they flew over the Alps. His typewriter had always stuck on the letter ‘E’. He had forgotten how it had always infuriated him. Smiling, he stared out of the window, his heart brimming with gladness. She would have heard his annoyance. While she sat in the corner of the veranda, drawing him, she would have listened. Giulia had said she had wanted desperately to see him but that she was frightened. She had gone reluctantly to Venice, fearing, what?
She is frightened you won’t come
, Giulia had written,
she is frightened it isn’t true, that it is all a hoax and you are not really alive. She has believed for so long she would never see you again and now she is terrified. She
has dreamt of you for so many years, so hopelessly, that she can’t face a mistake. And she is afraid of all the time that has passed, afraid it has made her old! She is not old at all, Theo, she’s lovelier than we remember and full of a maturity that was not evident before
.

And, he thought with astonishment, what is she
like
now? How had those years been for her, when his self-pity had got the better of him? He felt small and ashamed beside the thought of her and her courage, in the way he once remembered she had made him feel; ashamed that it was only his terrible loss that filled his thoughts; his pain. It was he who was old now, thought Theo wryly, even older than when she first knew him. And damaged, he thought fearfully. In her last letter Giulia had laughed when he said this to her.
Nulani does not care, Theo; I don’t think you understand how she has longed for you. I don’t think you can imagine the woman she has become. Just come. See for yourself
.

So here he was, clutching his temple flower. The plane turned towards its final descent. While he had been thinking, the sea and the lagoon had come into view. Below was the shining dome of St Mark’s. The sound of the engine changed as it hurried on, swooping down towards Torcello with its Byzantine tower, its marshlands where once mosquitoes had flourished. And there beneath him, spread like a glorious painting itself, hanging like a Renaissance pendant, was the watery city. Happiness caught at his throat. This was not his home; why, then, did he feel he was coming home?

R
OHAN WATCHED THE PLANE COMING IN,
its wings tipped with the light from the sun. Graceful as a swan it descended towards the runway, growing larger as he watched. Steadily it dropped, swift as an arrow it flew, landing with a rush and thrust of tyres and airbrakes. For a moment he stood rooted to the spot, watching all the business of the gangway and luggage trolleys. He watched as the passengers began to pour out of the aircraft. Holidaymakers with their children, Italians, some coming home, others coming to visit the city, American tourists. And suddenly he saw him. The gaunt figure of a man in a light linen suit, still with the round-rimmed spectacles he remembered, only now his hair was white. He was walking slowly. As he came towards the airport building it was possible to see he had a slight limp that he was trying his best to hide. Swallowing, Rohan hurried towards the arrivals lounge.

‘So, you old bugger, you’ve managed to stay thin, unlike me!’ he said in English as they embraced and he felt the bones that jutted out from under his friend’s jacket. For a moment neither
of them could speak. Then Theo took off his glasses and wiped them.

‘How is she, Rohan?’ he asked helplessly,

‘I knew there was a woman behind this visit, men,’ joked Rohan, looking at the temple flower. Adding softly, ‘She’s fine. I left her with Giulia in the flat. I wanted to have a few minutes with you alone, knowing we’ll not see you once you set eyes on her!’

He took Theo’s luggage and guided him to the exit, hiding his shock.

‘I thought you might be tired so we’re going back in style, by water taxi,’ he said, waving his arm at Theo’s protest. ‘Hang the expense. It’s not every day you visit, men.’

And that was how they came into La Serenissima, by water, as people had done for centuries, past the small nameless islands, following the seabirds that nestled like white blossom among the reeds. Everywhere around him was the melodious sound of Italian. Theo had forgotten how he loved to listen to it, how like an opera it was here, just like a land of make-believe. And then they arrived at the Fondamenta Nuove and there was Giulia standing on the bridge and then hurrying towards them. And she was laughing and crying and wiping her eyes as she greeted him half in Italian and then in Singhalese and now in English. Just as he remembered.

‘Steady on, Giulia,’ said Rohan, smiling broadly. ‘Wars have been fought over this kind of language mix-up!’

‘She’s asleep,’ said Giulia, knowing what he wanted most to hear. ‘It is her first proper sleep since she heard, since she arrived.
Poverina
. She is exhausted with waiting.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘Yes, yes, now you are here she will be. Oh Theo, oh my dear, thank God. Thank God you came. I was so afraid you would not come.’

And she took his face in both her hands and kissed him, leading him towards the house where they rented a flat on the
piano nobile
. He handed Giulia the temple flower. It had travelled well and was now fully open.

‘I will put it in water,’ she said. ‘She’ll see it when she wakes. Now go. She’s in there,’ she whispered, pointing towards the door.

He opened the door slowly and went in. The room was L-shaped, and a large gilded mirror stood immediately before him. The glass was old and foxed and beautiful, and the light reflected in it was thin and dusty. It gave the half-shuttered room an air of unreality. He caught a glimpse of himself before he saw her. It felt as though he was looking at one of her paintings, softened and made remote by an invisible and intractable past. Only now it was he who observed her. All that had vanished, all those small memories he had carried unnoticed within him, the longings that even he had forgotten, now surfaced and fused. Shaken, for nothing could have prepared him for this moment, he stood looking at her through the glass. Astonished too, for he saw, as no photograph could ever have shown him, the promise of youth fulfilled at last.

It had been in this way that he had left her. Sleeping. Only then it had been with the moonlight on her face and the rustle of the sea close by. Now she slept fully dressed, lying across the bed with its washes of blue light. He stood looking at her reflection, silent, rooted to the spot. She slept quietly, her body rising and falling gently as she breathed. She was wearing a soft skirt of some grey fabric. Dimly, he could see the shadows marking her breasts through the thin white shirt. Her hair was cut short and its tendrils framed all the delicate bones of her face. Her dark lashes swept down over her closed eyes. He had forgotten how small she was, how fragile, how terribly lovely. Time, he
saw, had stolen clarity, blunted his memories. Time could not be trusted. What had seemed sharp and certain was in fact a pale shadow of the present.

The girl slept without moving, her brow clear and untroubled as a child, one arm raised above her head. But her wrists, he saw, were no longer the wrists of a child and peering at the glass he noticed her fingernails still had small slivers of paint under them. Seeing this, he felt his heart rise and break open with all the unspoken years between them. Softly, so as not to disturb her, he bent down and took his shoes off. His fingers trembled and as he straightened up he closed his eyes. When he opened them again he could see the reflection in the mirror had altered and the girl’s face was now beside his own. Staring uncomprehendingly he watched her for a moment longer, seeing her lips move. Unable to speak he watched her frightened eyes as she said his name again. Then helplessly, hardly aware of what he did, blindly, he turned towards her, resting his face against her hair, letting her cry, holding her as he once had done. Knowing instinctively she was not crying for the horror that had passed, or the years that could never be recovered, or Sugi, or her parents, or even the home she had loved and lost. He knew she was crying for something else, something deeper and more enduring than he had thought possible. Something that had not occurred to him until now. And in that instant he saw, in spite of what had happened, and all that had been lost for ever, what mattered was the thing that somehow had remained. Unharmed and indestructible. And as he held her sleep-warmed body against his, letting her cry, knowing what she was thinking, thinking it too, he breathed again the faint fragrance of her hair, from some other time and some other place of long ago.

Outside the evening was just beginning in Venice. The orchestra in St Mark’s square was playing again. Great seagulls
perched jauntily on the
briccole
dotted across the lagoon, watching as the fishermen brought in their catch. And all around, between sea and sky and land, was the gentle sound of lapping water as the sun, golden and full of autumn warmth, sank softly into the reeds.

Shortlisted for the Authors’ Club Best First Novel Award
and the Costa First Novel Award
Finalist for the Kiriyama Prize

“Heart-rending…Readers of this powerful novel cannot fail to be moved…but they will also realize that, as well as being a rebuke to indifference, the book is about hope and survival.”

—Christopher Ondaatje,
The Spectator
(UK)

“
Mosquito
lyrically captures a country drenched in both incomparable beauty and the stink of hatred.”

—
The Guardian

“Lovely, vividly described.”

—
The Times
(London)

“Tearne brings her skills as a painter to her writing, creating some extraordinarily lovely portraits of Sri Lankan land and seascapes, a stunning backdrop to the changing horrors of the country’s twenty-year civil war. Anyone who has visited, or has a passing interest in Sri Lanka, should read this beautiful novel.”

—
Sunday Telegraph

“A complex, ambitious book from a writer with a real talent for language. We will be hearing a great deal about Ms. Tearne in the future.”

—Lauren B. Davis, author of
The Stubborn Season
and
The Radiant City

“[Tearne] uses her keen eye to render details of place and character in a startling and original way.…Tearne does wonderfully what any novelist writing about modern Sri Lanka must do: capture a balance between its aching beauty and its horror.”

—Shyam Selvadurai,
The Globe and Mail

“
Mosquito
shimmers with evocative prose but it also resonates with the darkness of men’s cruelty.”

—
The Courier Mail
(Australia)

“A beautifully moving, suspense-filled story about unlikely lovers that’s gripping from start to finish…Tearne’s ethereal descriptions of the Sri Lankan coastline and the powerful accounts of a country ripped apart by violence make for an emotional and exceptional novel.”

—
Easy Living Magazine
(UK)

“Beautiful and evocative…The true horror and unreason of terrorism as depicted here speak to our own worst fears and remind us that terrorism has been with us in many guises and many places for a much longer time than we tend to remember…Gripping and original.”

—
The Sydney Morning Herald

“Tearne writes like a dream. Her observations and descriptions are exquisitely wrought and one delights that such an engrossing narrative can be illustrated by such clean, lyrical prose…
Mosquito
is a haunting and brilliant first novel.”

—
The Advertiser