I said to myself: You see the invisible because you need to dream.
And yet someone was speaking to me. They were saying: Something will happen soon, you must protect yourself. Tonight you must sleep with a small stone held tight in your hand. You will find it resting on the third step.
As we returned to the hotel, I saw a star become a river.
As I went back to the room, I saw a small stone resting on the third step.
I picked it up. My husband said: “It’s dirty, it’s covered with germs, throw it away.”
I did not reply.
“I told you to throw it away. It’s dirty, throw it away.”
“My darling, don’t worry, soon it won’t be here anymore.”
“You’re lying, you always lie. You’re a whore. Admit it. How many times have you been unfaithful to me, and with whom? Are they men I know? Tell me. If you don’t tell me, I will strangle you. Answer me, Desdemona. I want to know the truth.”
“My darling, I have never been unfaithful to you. You know that, I love you.”
“You’re a liar, you have the devil in your blood. You disgust me.”
I did not reply. I was hungry.
We made love. My husband was grunting like a pig.
I counted. 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110. I knew that when I got to 150 I would feel his semen enter my blood.
150: I felt his semen enter my blood.
340: I fell asleep, holding the small stone tight in my hand.
In the morning the Stevenson family arrived at the Grand Hotel Bellosguardo.
I heard their voices.
They opened the door of room number 6.
My husband and I had breakfast wearing large dark glasses. The Stevenson family sat down at the table next to us.
Mr. Stevenson was wearing a black jacket. A horizontal scar adorned his left cheek.
Mrs. Stevenson was wearing a provocative dress. It revealed a glimpse of her nipples.
There was a five-year-old girl with them. Emily.
My husband was looking at Mrs. Stevenson’s nipples.
I was looking at Emily’s mouth. It looked like a rotting strawberry.
I knew, my hands were trembling.
A voice fell from the ceiling and landed in my glass. I watched it floating there. It was saying: “Desdemona Undicesima, go now to your room, take your journal, and cut your daughter Cassandra in half.”
I got up. My husband was devouring Mrs. Stevenson’s breasts with his eyes. Mrs. Stevenson was aroused.
“My dear, where are you going?”
I did not reply.
I could see my body passing through time. I could see it becoming the hand of a porcelain clock.
Are you still listening to me? Come with me. I do not want to be left alone. Read these words carefully: You are a murderer. Do you know why? Because you have become my name. You are Desdemona Undicesima now.
How are you, Desdemona Undicesima? Do you know what you are doing? You are taking my journal in your hand, you are looking through the pages for my daughter, and you are killing her.
I watch you. Cassandra is five years old, she has perfumed hair and a mouth full of kisses. You kill her with a golden paper knife, you tell me to be quiet, not to cry out.
I watch you as you cut her throat, and do you know what I do? I laugh at you.
The reader, the celebrated reader, or rather the person who reads. The writer, the celebrated writer, or rather the person who writes.
I was the writer, you were the reader. I am no longer the writer. You are no longer the reader. Now we are all Desdemona Undicesima.
Tell me. Tell me who you are or I will strangle you. Tell me: I am Desdemona Undicesima and I have killed my daughter.
The mind, an incomprehensible and grotesque landscape.
There are no cities. We live in our mind.
Now you are writing with my hands, and you are reading with my eyes. And now I am writing with your hands, and I am reading with your eyes.
We love each other, because it is impossible not to love oneself.
Listen to me.
Mrs. Stevenson used to sing in the morning. It was her childish and frail voice that I had heard as I traveled to Venice, looking at the shiny tree trunks in the rain.
At night, she and her husband would grunt like pigs.
How much loneliness there is in sex. Sex: a cage with a crying pig inside it.
I remember vividly the seventh day in Venice.
Ludovico, the gondolier, was smoking. He was saying: “Piazza San Marco is as beautiful as you are, madam.”
My husband had lifted up my skirt. He had done it because he was in love with Mrs. Stevenson, and he wanted me to be unfaithful too.
My husband said: “Ludovico, do you like my wife? If you want, you can kiss her.”
I was lying among the sounds of the water. Ludovico kissed me. He had his hands under my skirt.
I do not remember for how many hours I remained motionless. Then it was evening.
My husband said: “Goodbye, Ludovico.”
It was difficult walking. How much pain, I thought. How much pain there is here. I am the stomach of a pregnant pain, I thought, inside me is the infinite.
My stockings were ripped, I went into the bathroom, I waited for my husband to fall asleep.
When you achieve your dreams, they vanish. I had dreamed of Venice for so long, and Venice was no longer there.
I was looking at the darkness of the night from the window, I was thinking about dahlias, about when they bloom under the light. It seems like their petals are reaching out for caresses, and then the wind blows. I was thinking about the beauty of leaves, about when they fall from the branches and fly away like plucked feathers. And I was thinking about myself, about when I was small and I knew nothing of sin.
I was looking at the darkness of the night from the window, and then, once again, I saw them rise from the water, as stately as empresses.
They were three long violet shadows, they seemed like bodies that pass through time, the hands of a ceramic clock.
I put on my cloak and went out.
I sat down in front of the canal. A stone bench.
The shadows were dancing, stirring up the mist. I called to them. I said: “Come to me, talk to me, don’t be afraid, and I will not be afraid of you.”
The music, it was very loud. It started at that instant, as a rat was running through the dark, and its luminescent whiskers were squeaking like chalk on a slate.
“Come to me, talk to me, don’t be afraid, and I will not be afraid of you.”
I repeated this as I watched them dance, and I still did not know that I was about to meet my past.
“Desdemona Undicesima, do you remember us?”
“Yes, I remember you.”
“Desdemona Undicesima, do you know why you are here?”
“Yes, now I know.”
“Desdemona Undicesima, answer us: Why are you here?”
“I am here because there are three fates, and when the last one arrives, the perfume begins.”
II
Nothing that happens is important. The importance of what should happen lies in what doesn’t happen. But once what should happen has happened, what is left? Wind, just wind.
And it is because of this that living has no meaning. Because living is happening continually.
Similarly love, and dreams. What is left of them when they have happened? Wind, just wind.
What point is there in someone knowing now who those violet shadows were who rose from the water like stately empresses. What is the point of me explaining why by meeting them I met my past? And what is the point of me revealing why they asked me: “Do you know why you are here?”
And what is the point of me revealing why I answered: “Yes, now I know.”
I could do it, I could explain everything, reveal everything. But what would be left? Wind, just wind.
I was in Venice, and Venice was no long
er there. This is all I will say.
The Stevenson family was there: the Stevenson family had become Venice; later, my eyes would become Venice.
I made friends with Mrs. Stevenson on October 16 at eight thirty p.m.
“A pleasure, I am Odette Stevenson. This is my daughter Emily. The gentleman at the table is my husband Robert. I wanted to say that we would like it very much if we could spend some time with you and your husband. Tonight we are going to take a little trip in a gondola. Would you like to come with us? Our daughter will stay in the room, she goes to sleep at ten o’clock. We don’t. We need adventures. We are a daring couple. Have you noticed how erotic Venice is? It would be a pity not to take advantage of it. My husband and I are electrified, almost as if we’re reliving the early days of our romance. I am sure you know what happens in the early days of a romance, when two people still don’t know each other well and they need to find out about each other. That indescribable thrill and bodies seeking each other out. Do you remember the caresses? I do. When my husband used to caress me I would turn to fire … Emily, don’t listen. You’re too young, go to your father, ignore me … Emily, why aren’t you going? You know, I hate you. You are insufferable and ugly, I am ashamed to be your mother. Your mouth looks like a rotting strawberry. You disgust me, Emily, go to your father, forget about me.”
III
The Stevensons were coming into our room like cobras. I could hear Emily crying in her sleep.
They were falling onto our bodies, and the room was beginning to shake.
I could see the chair moving, brushing against the curtains, then the violet shadows were coming in to watch us.
Only I was aware of their presence. Dark forces were everywhere. Only I knew. Wind, only wind.
While everyone was grunting like pigs, voices were falling from the ceiling, filling my mouth. They were saying to me: “Enter your mind and travel across it. Do not stop, do not turn around. Go forward until you reach the gate. You will see Cassandra’s hands opening like dahlias under the light.”
I entered, and her hands were there. They were caressing me, and then the fog was descending.
Are you listening to me? You are still here, I know. You too have seen. What do you feel for me now that you are me? You are afraid, I know. You feel dread, because understanding is dread. The light is the darkness. The light does not exist, it is an invention of the darkness, a clever lie of the darkness. Good is evil. Good does not exist, it is an invention of evil, a clever lie of evil.
Life is death. Life does not exist, it is an invention of death, a clever lie of death.
Listen to me.
Twenty nights, twenty nights with the Stevensons. Odette’s arms were scratched, there were cuts on her thighs, saliva trickled from her mouth. She reached orgasm as she gripped my head. My husband was saying to her: “I love you, Odette.”
All the while I could hear Emily crying in her sleep.
When everyone was falling asleep, I was going out. I was sitting in front of the canal. Among the shadows.
I was watching the sky, and the stars were becoming rivers.
I was wondering: How much more time will it take before it appears?
The shadows were answering: “You must decide that.”
I was returning to the room, I saw my husband entwined with Odette and Robert, then the fog was descending.
Listen to me.
I was a happy child, but when I was five they stole my happiness, and I knew nothing more of it.
I was playing with a shell. I was putting my ear to it, and I could hear the sea.
I had short hair, large eyes, I do not remember anything more. Perhaps I remember my dreams, they were vast.
I was alone in the house, they opened the door, they looked at me, they said, “Come with us,” then the fog descended.
It was raining, the tree trunks were shiny, someone was singing. A childish voice, frail.
The following day my happiness had vanished.
Years passed without any memories. So many nameless years. I no longer knew anything about myself, I had vanished along with my happiness.
However, something was left, my vast dreams, they survived even without me, and they looked for me ceaselessly.
When they found me I said: “All right, I will return, but promise me you will stop loving me so, you unnerve me.”
Listen to me.
I was twenty-three, it was October 2, 1905. It was eight o’clock, it was Wednesday, I met my husband.
He said to me: “What is your name? You look sad.”
I replied: “My name is Desdemona Undicesima, call me Desdemona.”
He asked me: “And why are you so sad?”
I replied: “Because you never came.”
The early days of our romance, when he used to caress me, I would turn to fire. It was so nice to love each other, to become butterflies in a sugar sky. And our hands, a blaze that rose up into the air, like a stately empress.
I loved my husband’s strength. He seemed indestructible. So different from me. But his hands frightened me, they seemed to belong to another man, a man who had killed without shedding a tear.
We used to kiss each other; he would say to me: “I love you, Desdemona.”
Then the memories came, and then I began to want a daughter.
I called her Cassandra.
I would daydream about holding her in my arms. I could sense her smell.
I bought three dolls, and then a teddy bear, and lots of strawberry sweets.
I would picture her cradle with little hearts embroidered on the pillow.
One day I said to my husband: “Why doesn’t she come?”
He replied: “It is your fault, you are too sad.”
He had started to be unfaithful. I discovered it on November 5, 1906.
In his jacket pocket I found a note, on it was written: My love, I love you as I have never loved another man. Come back to me soon. You are wonderful, you have the sun inside you.
For a few minutes I was unable to move.
I was wearing a purple dress and pale velvet slippers. The rest was silence.
I went into the bathroom, I masturbated slowly. I could see myself reflected in the washbasin tap, I was pathetic. I could see a woman caressing herself, it was me. I wondered: Who is that woman? She must be an unhappy woman; she has graveyards and festivals in her eyes. This is what I thought.
Love is a surgical operation without anaesthetic.
Love is a deep pain.
Cut me. Tell me that you love me. Do you love me? Don’t be sad, I am not suffering anymore.
Death is warm.
Death is a noise that ends.
Do you know what happens? You see a sunset on your arms, and nothing deserts you, no one deserts you, because at last you are alone, forever.
You don’t have to wait for anyone, because no one will arrive, and no one will go away, because at last you are alone, forever.
There are no more lies, because in death there is truth.
Listen to me.
When my husband started to be unfaithful, I began to draw my daughter.
I drew her on the last page of my journal. Every day I perfected her. Cassandra had become resplendent.
One afternoon I opened a book; Venice was in the book, and she was so beautiful that my face was stained with tears. I saw Ophelia painted by Millais when I looked at her. That is what I saw, and I wanted to reach her, to lie down beside her, with the sun in my eyes.
I said to Cassandra: “When you are five, I will take you to Venice.”
She smiled, and she was so beautiful that my face was stained with tears.
My daughter, you killed her. Do you remember? You cut her throat, and I laughed at you. And do you know why I laughed at you? Because I hated her.
I never hated anyone so much.
I never hated anyone so much.
I never hated anyone so much.
I never hated anyone so much.
I never hated anyone so much.
I never hated anyone so much.
I never hated anyone so much.
I never hated anyone so much.
I never hated anyone so much.
I never hated anyone so much.
Do you understand?
I never hated anyone so much.
Every day she looked at me with unbearable eyes. She asked me for help. She said to me: “Please don’t hurt me.” She said to me: “I am only a child.” She said to me: “Let me play with the shell.” She said to me: “I don’t want them to open the door.” She said to me: “I don’t want my happiness to vanish. Keep me safe.”
Every day I said to Cassandra: “When you are five I will take you to Venice.”
Every day I said to my husband: “My darling, take me to Venice.”
He would reply: “Venice is duller than you.” Or he would reply: “Venice is foggier than you.” Or he would reply: “Venice is gloomier than you.” Or he would reply: “You are Venice; look at yourself in the mirror and you will see her.”
The long walks in my mind. I have only ever walked in my mind. I used to leave in the morning, and sometimes I would not return. I would stay closeted inside her for days. I would walk continuously; it was almost never-ending.
A labyrinth of bones.
My husband did not hate me; he did not understand me. Incomprehension is more unbearable than hate, because it does not exist.
I know, you want to go. You can’t. Do you remember the numbers?
The first was number 5, the second was number 13, the third was number 7.
You have said them, you have to stay.
I’m sorry, you will descend with me. Hell is waiting for us. Do you prefer heaven?
You should know that heaven does not exist. Heaven is an invention of hell, a clever lie of hell.
Listen to me.
I lied for years, but it wasn’t my fault. It was my dreams that forced me to, if I didn’t they would vanish. Dreams need lies to continue to exist.
If your dreams vanish, what is left? Your memories remain, and my memories will kill any dream.
I started to lie when my memories returned. They said to me: “We are here, now we will enter inside you, but you mustn’t let on, pretend you don’t know us, lie, only by doing this will you be able to stay alive.”
My dreams then said: “Follow the advice that your memories gave you, otherwise we will vanish, and you will die.”
Venice Noir Page 12
