One of the men, Gianfranco, suddenly reaches down to the floor and saying, 'Hey, Salvatore,' lifts a small spindly dog up onto his lap. The camera focuses on its pointed face, all blunted yellow teeth and stringy hair. It is obviously old. Its eyes closed to slits, weeping at the corners; its nose dry and scabbed; its tongue a dripping slab of pink-grey flesh lolling out of the left side of its mouth. Gianfranco starts feeding it scraps from his plate which it sniffs at suspiciously and swallows feebly.
In the background two children run in, at first unseen by the camera but clearly heard, Salvatore, Salvatore! The general chatter subsides into a smattering of patronising comments and chuckles of the kind generally reserved for children. They approach the table, coming into view, a perfectly matched pair of sisters aged, I would guess, about nine and six. Straight dark hair, big chocolate eyes, smooth round faces set in identically serious expressions. Dresses of thin green cotton hang loosely from their shoulders. The elder walks up to Gianfranco's chair and thrusts out her palms accusingly at him. His expression seems to be confused between amusement and consternation, as he places the dog in her arms. She clutches the animal to her body and then turns her face to the camera. Her gaze is directed straight into the lens and is sullen and petulant, and irrationally or not I cannot help but feel it as threatening, carrying a degree of malevolence. Quietly but clearly I hear Rose's voice, apologetic, Oh, I'm sorry. The disk ends.
I dig out some coins to pay for the coffee and splash them into the saucer provided. The waiter comes as I stand up to go and lifting the saucer, stares at the pattern of currency like a haruspex. I wonder what omens he sees there. He scoops the coins fluidly into his pouch, bestowing on me a look which I cannot decipher but which feels most like sympathy, before retreating inside. I follow the assured path of the river back to my hotel.
~
I spend the rest of the day back in that room shuttered tight against the hard light, thinking about Rose and the fourth disk until evening. This one is a mystery, a confused montage of disconnected shots that make no sense. There is no label and no commentary as such, and there was no usual letter with it when it arrived, which was about a week after I last heard from her. Nothing to confirm that she sent it at all in fact. Nevertheless I know it was from her. I have only once viewed it all the way through.
A change of light. The noise of conversation drifting up from the street below and then passing by. It is enough to break my lethargy, forcing me to replay the final disk.
~
It is dark, quiet. I can hear echoes of footsteps as if in a tunnel. The view emerges into a wide courtyard, lit only intermittently by the stars in the heavily clouded sky above. A hulking building dominates the courtyard but it cannot be made out in detail. I can hear the crunch of gravel beneath feet. There is movement in the shadows ahead and the view approaches the building.
A wall of tiles. Smooth and shiny, the designs on them are hard to make out at first, but a break in the clouds shows them to be bright and colourful although crudely rendered; and it seems, all different. A voice, low and indistinct causes the view to turn sharply and look along the wall. A figure in shadow beckons and the words Come, come. This way, can be heard clearly spoken in English but thick with accent. Somewhere, a dog begins to bark.
An arched doorway, plain and unembossed. A large wooden door which in this light has a greenish tint and a sheen of slickness, stands ajar. A hand reaches forward and pushes it open. The view enters slowly. Darkness. Somewhere behind something is said of which the only word which can be heard is Pazzi. The translator provides an interpretation: pazzi = mad, insane (m/f. pl.)
The interior is almost entirely dark. The floor is flagstoned but that is all that can be seen. There is a very dim light which has no apparent point of origin. The view appears to be moving in a straight line but there is no indication of passage of time other than the movement over the cracks in the stone floor. There is no sound whatsoever. Eventually, a dark and heavy curtain. Pause. It is drawn quickly aside.
Flash. After straining to make out detail in the previous darkness, the sudden brightness makes me blink painfully. It lasts only an instant and my eyes have difficulty adjusting to the picture again. At first it seems that the scene is the same, but as my eyes begin to make out the details once more I realise we are now in a darkened room. Two figures lie in a bed, one is asleep. His companion lies still watching him, her cheeks glistening. This scene is only on the screen for a few seconds and I am unable to recognise them.
Flash. Walking up an aisle between the seats on an aeroplane. The plane is large and half of the seats are empty. The view moves up the aisle looking at the backs of the passengers' heads, alternating smoothly from side to side as if looking for someone in particular. There. Eight or nine rows ahead, on the left by the window. The top of a woman's head, curls of dark hair, staring out of the window which is streaked with rain. As the view approaches, the head starts to turn.
Flash. A piece of dusty, rubble-strewn waste ground. The view starts close up on a stringy piece of rotting meat lying on the ground and then draws out. Two skinny dogs, horribly thin, approach from different directions and sniff around the piece of carcass, pawing it and eying each other with suspicion. Suddenly they erupt into a fit of snarling and fighting, dragging the meat around, pulling it to bits.
Flash. A deeply shadowed tropical forest glade, an explosion of green. As the view moves through it, branches, lianas and broad leaves are pushed out of the way. The view tilts upwards into the high canopy of the trees and only feet away on a broad branch is a bird to which I cannot put a name, but is of such exquisite beauty that it makes me gasp. Its long elegant feathers, all colours, trail from the branch and the glorious comb on its head shimmers and waves as it cocks its head inquisitively in my direction. Without warning as if in reaction to some noise, it is gone in a rainbow cloud of feathers, leaving only the gently waving branch.
Flash. A fountain in a meticulously tended garden. The centrepiece of the fountain is vague but appears to be serpentine in form. A fine mist hangs in the air. The view turns away from the fountain and approaches an arbour. Trees and trailing plants grow thickly providing almost complete shade although a few stray beams of sunlight do manage to get through to illuminate a life sized statue of a boy. Getting closer it turns out to be beautifully rendered in white marble, its head to one side, arms outstretched in a gesture that conveys both release and welcoming in equal parts. The gently curved face emphasises this with an expression which could be profound sadness or sublime happiness. The eyes cry hard mossy tears.
Flash. Grey gravel at the base of the tiled wall, a different section of the exterior. The view focuses on one tile in particular. It looks like a bird. The soundtrack has suddenly returned. I can hear a bell tolling loudly and continuously nearby, and beneath it the sound of a woman sobbing.
Static.
~
Sunset is a transition of hot fluidity bathing the city in a slow wave of deepening light; a laval wash changing the cadence of life. I stand on the Ponte Santa Trinita feeling as much as watching the flow of the carmine tinted waters beneath my feet, as relentless and single-purposed as blood. Carrying over the water, sounds of conversation, laughter, music weave through the still warm air, heralding the awakening of the city's nightlife. Street lights are flickering on as a group approach the bridge from the shadowed streets to my left. There are six or seven of them, loud and garrulous. The city is a bright theatre for those who know how to use it but I can only stand in the shadows and observe. Soon others pass me in small groups, twos and threes, becoming a flow, a river, kinetic and purposeful. I am caught between these two streams, the calm at the centre of the turbulence. Between the inevitable progress of the waters and the life-force of the people of the city, I am becalmed. I cannot remember my purpose.
I came here charged with determination following Rose's last letter, the one in which she drew a red line under our stuttering relationship. My imagination
dwelled on moments, words, expressions, inflamed them with suspicion. I arrived here, when it was too late, knowing that she would change her mind when she saw me face to face. I have become a master of the art of self-delusion.
Bestilled here I see some of the truth reflected around me in the faces and the wetly lapping waves, but still I continue to hope. Since my arrival I have been putting off the inevitable, going to the Galleria, torn between the need to see her and the dread of seeing her with someone else. Still unresolved, I let the flow of life sweep me into the lights of the city.
~
I approach the large doors of the Galleria with a half-felt relief that it has closed to the public for the evening. I should have realised it would be. There are one or two lighted windows, however, high in the marbled facade. Perhaps people working late. Maybe one of them is Rose. I force myself up the steps and find the heavy doors unlocked. Inside, a mosaic floor leads away down an echoing hallway, plaster walls studded with dark wooden doors. At the end a staircase rises into shadow. To my left a neat little man regards me from behind a desk.
"Hello." His accent is soupy but his intonation is clear. It is not a question, not 'Can I help you?' or 'What are you doing here?', just a casual greeting. He peers at me with needle-sharp eyes, light from his desk lamp glinting off the half lenses of his steel-rimmed glasses and the silver buttons of his precise grey uniform. His expression is inscrutable amid the leathery mapwork of his face.
"I am looking for Rose Christie," I begin, a little unsettled. "She works here." He continues to look at me, not speaking, so that I begin to wonder whether he has understood despite his initial greeting. As I open my mouth to repeat myself, he finally speaks.
"Si, Rosa." His voice has a swimming, hypnotic effect so that I have to concentrate hard on what he is saying to make the words register in my mind. "Not here. What you seek, not here. La Cappella dei Pazzi." He gets up out of his seat and leads the way towards the exit, "Come. With me, come." I am transfixed with astonishment both at his reaction to my request and at his use of the word 'pazzi' in connection with Rose. At the doors he turns. His face shows a measure of concern.
"Come, now. Please." Entranced, I follow him out into the street. At first I have to run to catch up with him, as he bustles quickly around a corner. I am still amazed at him. Is he going to take me to Rose rather than give directions to a foreigner with no knowledge of the labyrinthine innards of the city? Struggling to keep up with him I try to find out more but his only reply is to urge me ever onwards. We scuttle along streets and narrow alleys which suddenly open out into broad piazzas, up and down short winding flights of steps. As we penetrate deeper into the heart of the city, the sounds of living are pushed into the background until we are left with only the clacking of our own feet on the stony ground.
Turning sharply to the left we enter an arched tunnel mouth, almost completely dark, and I can barely make out the grey figure of the porter ahead of me. We pass through in what seems like minutes, but as we emerge into the gravelled courtyard beyond I am amazed to see that though we had entered the tunnel maybe an hour after sunset, the sun is already high in the sky causing the tiles on the walls of the church building directly ahead to shimmer like molten glass. La Cappella dei Pazzi.
At the porter's beckoning I approach. Up close the tiles are dazzling, beautiful and garish; simplistic, each conveying its own definitive message; and in concert an overall feeling of vital translucency. Looking at individual designs I can see dogs, cats, buildings, stick men, women and children, families, houses, crosses, stars, flowers and trees, the moon in a hundred phases, the sun also, eclipses and novae. The colours are bold and primary. The variations are limitless and the tiles cover the entire exterior of the chapel, even the roof and spire. There are no windows. Reaching out my hand I find that the tiles are warm to the touch.
"Micheli. Hurry, please." The porter is beckoning again, this time towards the doorway of the chapel. The plain arch frames a wooden door, shiny with green paint, which stands ajar. He motions for me to enter. "Now you will see." As I penetrate the cool dark and the door swings behind me I wonder: Micheli? How did he know my name?
~
The flagstones stretch out in front of me, flat and hard beneath my feet. The temperature is much lower than outside and I fail to suppress a shiver as I walk forward. There is no sound, neither of my breathing nor of my footfalls, as I progress down what I assume to be an aisle although I cannot see anything to the sides. I continue walking, one foot after the other and time passes.
Eventually the curtain I have been expecting comes into view and I stop before it. It is of a thick velvety material the colour of old wine. I grasp the edge, feeling the ancient cloth luxuriant in my fingers, and pull it aside.
Flash. A wide lawn stretches in front of a large house, paving winds from the door of the house down past a stately pond. The lawn is surrounded by beautiful borders of carefully nurtured bedding plants and shrubs, a number of small fruit trees provide shade. A man comes out of the house and surveys the scene, happy, obviously pleased with his garden. As he walks down the path everything behind him withers and decays, weeds run rampant over the lawn, the fruit falls rotten to the ground before the trees themselves crack and topple. The man walks on oblivious. The weeds have choked the lawn completely and large patches of brown earth appear, the pond grows still and stagnates, a miasmal scum spreading over the surface. Only when the man reaches the end of the path does he turn.
Flash. A coal fire blazes in a grate. An old ornate fireplace surrounds it, the mantel littered with ornaments and objects: a glass carriage clock, a set of tiny nested Russian dolls, a pile of bills and a brass letter opener, a crystal vase holding a few ageing daffodils, and a scattered pile of Polaroid photographs. In each of the shots a man is positioned as if with another person who has vanished from the frame. As if in slow motion the pictures topple from the mantel and float onto the fire. They buckle and blister before being consumed.
Flash. A brass birdcage on a high stand, covered by a torn cloth, thin with age. A group of men stand beneath it craning their necks to see inside. Through the rents in the cloth tantalising glimpses are had of bright plumage, and a crested silhouette is discernable. A breath of wind tugs the cloth away to reveal the exotic bird which I recognise from Rose's fourth disk. The cage door is opened and the bird flies gracefully out of the window.
Flash. There is a flat rock at the place where two wide rivers meet and then diverge again. One of the rivers is slow but forceful, its waters dark and calming. The other is a bright torrent, teeming with fish, dragonflies swooping gracefully through clouds of midges. Birds wade in its less turbulent shallows amid a swathe of reeds and river flowers. An otter drags itself onto the flat rock. It has been swimming for a while along the edge of the slow river and it is weary. It must decide whether to brave the tiring, busy waters to its left or to return to the calm and gentle repose of the river to the right. Understanding, I will its choice, and it dives under, flicking its tail as it goes. A few drops of sparkling liquid hang like crystals in the air.
Flash. Lying on the ground I can feel gravel pressing into my face. I raise my head slowly to face the wall of tiles. The glare hurts my eyes until I get used to it and here I see them. Two tiles. One depicts an exquisite bird in flight. The other, a stylised otter, a smudge of brown with black dots for eyes, swimming in a scintillating azure stream.
~
Madness can be a small thing, a cobweb veil obscuring what we know to be right. In the Cappella dei Pazzi we were allowed for a time to lift the veil. To see clearly. When Rose moved here I cursed the distance, but the distance was there long before she set foot on Italian soil. I remain a master of the art of self-delusion but at least, deep down, I know I am doing it.
~
Most of my stories are set in Scotland or elsewhere in the UK, and I really wanted to set a story somewhere more exotic. So I chose Florence, where I'd never been. The rest of the story grew o
ut of the alienness of the setting, and I think my lack of familiarity with the place probably heightened that feeling (without, hopefully, getting anything wrong). I've still never been to Florence to find out.
Softly Under Glass
The Grace-girl's portfolio lay open on the table between their espresso cups.
"So am I right or am I right?" Maria was saying. Hugo wasn't sure. Personally he found the images rather bleak and disturbing, although he could not say why since they were somewhat indistinct in this reduced format. He realised that he could not even tell what medium had been used to create them.
"I don't know, Maria." He flicked through the folio. "I'd have to see the originals under decent light. How were these done? Some kind of photo-montage? Or is it a computer thing." The way he sneered this made obvious his views of the role of electronic media in the world of art.
"None of the above," said Maria. "Or maybe all of the above. I don't know. The artist is vague about her techniques. She says they are paintings but I've seen the originals and I'll be damned if I can see any brush strokes." She sipped her coffee and watched for his reaction. Hugo turned the pages again, pretending to consider. He didn't like these pictures; they were odd, they made him feel uncomfortable. All the same, personal tastes notwithstanding, he was in the business of giving the public what they wanted; or more exactly, what people like Maria and himself persuaded them that they wanted. Maria had a good sense of the mood of the art world and a knack of discovering just the right person for the times. As an agent she was prolific, and as a barometer she was rarely wrong. Maybe this girl's work did have that shock/sadness quality that was currently in vogue. Hugo knew that if he passed up this offer, someone else would be given the option.
"You'd better arrange a meeting then," he said as casually as he could manage.
"Fine. Friday at eleven." Maria's smile was enigmatic. It smacked of manipulation.
The Ephemera Page 10
