by Penny Feeny
In two strides, Father Leone was beside her, taking her hand between his. She held his gaze. ‘It’s possible, wouldn’t you say, Father, for a bad person to do good things?’
‘Who is this bad person?’
‘Me. I’m talking about myself. I’m trying to explain that even if I’m the self-absorbed gold-digging all-round bad influence that you think I am, I can do the odd good deed without needing to be bullied or cajoled or made to feel guilty.’
‘Gina…’
‘I’m the opposite of you, that’s all. As a good person, I mean, who did a bad thing.’ She regretted the words as soon as she’d spoken them. It was an intrusion. She wasn’t supposed to know about the priest’s past; Felix shouldn’t have told her.
A movement from the bedroom made them both turn. A shuffling in the doorway, a voice croaking: ‘I was promised a frullata.’
His breakfast was still sitting in the liquidiser, a brown crust forming on its surface.
‘We thought you’d gone back to sleep.’
He was leaning on a cane. His other arm was outstretched, the white suit flapping across it like a ghost. ‘Something must have woken me. Morning, Father.’
‘Good morning, Felix.’
‘God, I’m sorry about this.’ Gina waved at the shards of glass scattered on the floor. ‘I’ll sweep them up.’
‘Oh,’ he said, without much interest. ‘The Twombly. You really should control your temper, darling. That could be your nest egg.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Carefully she rescued the precious drawing and stored it inside the trunk for safety.
Father Leone said, ‘I came to bring you some music, Felix, and to give you my blessing. I have to leave now, but I wish you both well for today.’ Turning to Gina, he said with a faint smile, ‘It’s not a question of good deeds or bad deeds. It’s about forgiveness. Absolution. This is the problem for you non-Catholics. You have to learn to forgive yourselves.’
15
Two Years Earlier: 2003
Large black ants were scurrying through the cracks in the paving. Lanterns swinging between the potted shrubs caught their movements as they transported tiny morsels of food with a rhythm and dedication that was awe-inspiring. Felix had been watching them for some time, surprised to see them so active at night. They put him in mind of the myeloma cells twitching and dividing inside his bone marrow. Treatable, but incurable, he’d been told. Like the ants. They could be kept at bay with powder or insecticide, but they’d always come back.
He was waiting for Gina. They’d planned to arrive together, but she was working late at the studio and had urged him to go on ahead. She had been wearing him down – at first in regard to the flat, pointing out repeatedly that his second bedroom was unoccupied, that he was in need of TLC, that they could be good for each other. And then she’d insisted he set up this meeting with David Farnon. It was David who suggested they got together for a drink in the Club Salamander, which had sprung up in a converted warehouse in Ostiense.
Felix sat in the courtyard looking out for her; the ants at his feet, a canopy of starlight above his head, the ice melting in his drink. Below, in the belly of the club, the cellar vaults churned with music and sleek, barely dressed bodies. The upper levels – the lounge, the cocktail bar, the silvery circular tables in the courtyard – accommodated those who couldn’t keep up with the frenetic pace of the dance floor.
A few years ago he would have sweltered with the rest of them. Now he felt distaste for the salty slick of sweat collecting between shoulder blades, the reek of crotch and underarm. His energy, his appetites, were reduced. His love of collecting had been a driving force but there was no magic in it any more. He could no longer go to a new exhibition and pick out the most likely success story. He could no longer find those rare and precious items that multiplied in value simply by sitting on his chiffonier. He’d lost his touch.
When he’d first come out to Rome as a young man he’d been full of enthusiasm, undeterred by having to start from scratch. An interest in metaphysical poetry and beautiful boys, a doctorate in the work of John Donne were his credentials. He’d begun by teaching English privately, then in institutions, until he finally acquired tenure at the university. Expatriate life agreed with him, enhanced his standing and gave allure to what could have seemed mere drudgery in England. And when both his parents had died, leaving him a small legacy, he’d been able to indulge his passions, now evaporated.
A man dressed in a collarless shirt and combat trousers brushed against his table. Pausing to steady himself, he smiled and raised his brows in query. Felix shook his head and turned away. He moved his chair further back into the shadows. Behind him came the rustle of glossy green leaves, the scent of blossom lightly disturbed. He took his phone out of his pocket and cradled it in his palm warily as if it might erupt. Gadget-loving Italians had more mobiles per head than any other nation, but he struggled to master the functions; he found texting particularly difficult. He scrolled through his contacts and rang Gina. ‘Are you still coming?’
‘Of course I am! There was just this tiny delay…’
‘So why didn’t you call me?’ He couldn’t help sounding petulant.
‘Because I thought you’d be downstairs where there’s no signal and you probably wouldn’t hear anything anyway.’
‘Look, I’m not in a club mood. I’m thinking of leaving.’
‘But I’m on my way. Isn’t David with you?’
People were flowing in and out of the various doorways. Music accompanied them fitfully. ‘He’s prowling around somewhere.’
‘Then do hang on for me. Please.’
She gave him no chance to argue. Felix stared at his silent phone. Really, he was a dinosaur. One might think that part of the charm of Rome was being surrounded by ruins and relics far more ancient than oneself, but the locals – the real, living inhabitants – embraced modernity. In the English department, they were addicted to their computers. They admired Felix’s fine calligraphy but they laughed at his adherence to books and print.
He tried not to think about the department, about the office, the desk and chair that were no longer his. The chair had started it all – suffering from lower back pain, he’d hoped to persuade Administration to provide one that was more ergonomic. Such a simple request, leading to blood tests and then diagnosis. His ability to teach wasn’t impaired, but his need to take time off was deemed unfair on the students. Plenty of other aspects of university tuition were unfair on the students, who were fodder for an institution obliged to maintain its intake at all costs: insufficient resources and reading materials; over-crowded lecture theatres; ingrained nepotism, but these were troublesome to address. Easing out a foreign employee in poor health, whose original mentor had retired, was altogether simpler. When September came he found his name omitted from the timetable and staff lists, his classes taken over. The shape of his days – once he might have enjoyed the freedom to do nothing – imploded. In private he clung to the idea that one day he might go back. In public he didn’t mention it.
Some twenty minutes later Gina materialised. ‘Why, darling, you’re all alone! What happened to David?’
‘Pickling himself at the bar.’
‘What? Is that a good idea?’
‘Somewhat inevitable, as you’re over an hour late. I would have thought, if you ask me for a favour, the least you could do is turn up on time.’
‘Don’t be so priggish. I’ve arrived, haven’t I? And I could really do with a drink.’
‘Right then. Let’s move.’ He rose slowly, coughing a little, feeling the ache in his bones. Gina reached out to pat his back, her hand suspended. He straightened up and she slipped her arm through his in a fluid movement as if that was what she had planned all along.
On a stool at the far corner of the bar sat a man with startling white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. From a distance he appeared youthful and languid; on closer view he was not as young as he looked. He was accompanied by a tall gl
ass of bourbon on the rocks and a boy with a fuzz of hair as dark and velvety as moleskin. ‘A recent acquisition,’ murmured Felix. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest, whether these are the best conditions for you to meet him.’
‘Let’s just see how it goes.’
David raised his glass as soon as he saw Felix approaching. ‘I thought we’d laaaast you,’ he proclaimed, the drink drawing out his vowels.
‘I was waiting for my guest. And here she is.’
‘Sooo, this is your new roommate?’
Felix winced a little. ‘We’ve come to an arrangement,’ he said. ‘Of mutual convenience.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Gina.
David lifted her hand and affected to kiss it. ‘Good evening, Empress.’
Felix noticed that she looked irritated. ‘I think he means it as a compliment,’ he said. ‘Because the Empress Eugenie was famous for her dress sense; she was a fashion icon really.’
She withdrew her hand. ‘Actually I hate the name Eugenie. Beaten only by Phoebe in the sick-making stakes. I think my mother was out for revenge. Please call me Gina.’
‘Well then, Gina, what would you like to drink?’
‘White wine, please.’
‘Felix?’
‘I’ll have another whisky sour.’
David relayed the order to the bartender and squeezed his companion’s slender thigh. He’d introduced him so perfunctorily neither Felix nor Gina caught his name. When the drinks were poured he didn’t suggest moving to another table, so Gina perched on a stool and Felix leaned against the marble counter. He preferred to stand. Brass fans like propellers stirred the air above their heads; the walls were painted in the deep moody colours of Rothko abstracts: aubergine, mulberry and plum. Their reflections were distorted in the mirror behind the banks of bottles. The light was dim.
After an awkward pause, Gina said with a wide red-lipped smile, ‘I’ve heard that you’re opening a gallery.’
David swallowed his bourbon; he moved his hand further up his companion’s leg. ‘Well, if you’re gonna have a dream…’ he said, and hummed a few bars from South Pacific.
Gina looked disappointed. ‘Is it only a dream? I thought…’
‘What?’
‘Well, um… that if you’d got to the stage of considering work to exhibit, you might be interested in seeing some of mine.’
‘You’re an artist?’ mused David in a tone that might have been ironic.
‘An artist-photographer, yes.’ When he made no response she began another tack. ‘Felix has such an amazing collection, don’t you think?’
‘Collection’s too grand a word for it,’ Felix protested, though he was proud of his eye. There was kudos in being a talent-spotter. ‘You make me sound like a Guggenheim.’
‘Of course you’ve had some lucky breaks.’
‘Skill, darling. The trick is to get in at the beginning, before anyone else cottons on. I can’t afford not to buy early. Then, if a work becomes so popular it destroys your pleasure in it, you can sell at a profit and move on to something new. Also, I happen to believe in being a patron to the living. Money’s no good to the deceased.’
‘Hey man,’ said David. ‘You ever want to sell your Cy Twombly you let me know.’
Gina put her head on one side as if conjuring up the drawing. ‘I don’t really get it. I can’t see beyond the squiggles.’
‘Because you’ve yet to look at it thoroughly,’ Felix said. ‘That’s why Twombly’s work is so interesting, there’s so much depth to it. He doesn’t deal in superficial images. If you think about it, letters, hieroglyphs, marks on paper – they all require interpretation. You can’t just give them a quick once-over – although the general effect is superbly melancholic.’ He added, ‘I know it’s only a small sketch on paper but one doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’
David became more alert. ‘A gift? Not from the artist?’
‘No, from a generous old friend. No longer with us. He knew I was an admirer.’
‘However you came by it,’ said David, ‘it’s your hedge against the world. Isn’t art sublime! Nothing compares. Still, I’m aiming to be more than a collector. I plan to be a king-maker.’
Gina broke in. ‘So maybe you would like to see some of my stuff? Can I give you my card?’
He snatched it from her, borrowed Felix’s pen, and scrawled ‘Empress’ across the back.
‘The way I see it,’ said Felix, wondering how long it would take him to catch up with David and stop feeling so damn sober, ‘I’m just a curator anyway. A temporary guardian. Good art should have – will have – a life of its own, beyond me.’
A gaggle of young men had collected at the bar. They were all wearing low-slung trousers, vests clinging to their pectorals and belts like charm bracelets festooned with keys, lighters, phones and fobs. They snapped their fingers, calling for drinks, a sheen of moisture on their upper lips, their cheekbones, the bulging curves of their muscles. David’s companion gazed at them through his feathery lashes. He drew a cigarette from the pack of Marlboro Lights lying between their glasses on the bar, rolling it, tapping it and sniffing it, as if he were a connoisseur of the finest Cuban cigars. David adjusted the position of his stool to form a protective barrier against the crush. ‘If you’re feeling kinda low, Felix,’ he said, ‘my suggestion to you is to try one of these.’
‘One of what?’
He ruffled the soft pelt on the youth’s scalp. ‘My Iranian.’ He bared his white, evenly capped teeth, a tribute to advanced American dentistry. The Iranian didn’t seem to want to expose his own in comparison. He inserted the Marlboro, unlit, into his mouth and tugged at the row of small hoops that ringed the outer rim of his ear
‘Does he understand anything you’re saying?’
‘Not if it’s in English. He’s got a bit of Italian though. E un culo magnifico.’ The boy smiled, leaning forward to reach for his cigarette lighter in a movement which lifted his magnificent arse from his seat. ‘You know,’ David carried on, ‘that could be a neat number for you if you’re at a loose end. Teaching a little English could get you a long way. Know what I’m saying?’
‘English Lit,’ said Felix. ‘Not, what-is-way-to-station-please.’
‘So sooorry, professore.’
Gina cut in unexpectedly. ‘Don’t be such a snob, Felix. You’ve done it before and you’re very good at it.’
‘Gratitude,’ said David, ‘will be your reward.’ He leant forward and planted a lascivious kiss on the Iranian’s lips.
Gina bent to Felix’s ear. ‘He’s completely trashed. This isn’t going to get us anywhere.’
He shrugged. ‘I said you’d be better off visiting him at the gallery.’
‘But you also told me he hasn’t found the right premises.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘So what was I supposed to do?’
‘Well, you could have tried a little patience,’ Felix pointed out. ‘A few months further down the line, I could have asked him over to dinner. By then he might have got around to signing a lease and you could have shown him your portfolio. Or you could have got here on time tonight.’
‘I knew this was coming! I knew it would somehow end up being all because of me that your Yankee Doodle Dandy with more money than wit was out of his head.’
‘Darling, he’s not out of his head and there’s nothing wrong with his hearing. Try and keep your voice down.’
David’s face set like a sulky child’s, with the lower lip pushed out. Then he glimpsed Felix’s reflection in the mirror, and winked. ‘I don’t generally like women who come over strong,’ he said. ‘You want me to make an exception?’
Gina put down her glass. She shook her head at the suggestion of a refill. ‘I guess there’s no point in staying,’ she said. ‘I’ve blown it, haven’t I?’
‘So what’s new?’
‘You don’t want to come home with me?’
Felix felt entitled to be annoyed. ‘Probably not.’
David swayed a little, dropped his foot onto the floor to steady himself. ‘You run along there, Empress,’ he said dismissively. ‘We’ll look after your friend. Come on back downstairs, Felix, and we’ll see what we can find for you.’
This was not a good idea. After a handful of abortive encounters and several more drinks he recognised that his evening was disintegrating. David and his protégé were still dancing, but Felix felt a sudden urge for solitude. Without saying goodbye, he left the Salamander, staggering a little as he turned the corner away from the club. Behind him were vibrant lights and throbbing music; ahead lay shadows. He’d intended to call up a taxi – Gina had programmed the number for him – but he felt the need, initially, for a walk in fresh air.
It only takes one wrong turning for a less-than-sober person to become disorientated. Felix appeared to be walking through a channel with high oppressive walls on either side and no clues as to where he might end up. A car swished past him, its headlights flashed and dipped from view. The stars blurred alarmingly when he looked up at them; the moon sagged, yellow and heavy, as if exhausted. He decided to concentrate on his feet, on putting one shoe in front of the other, keeping parallel to the wall. Eventually, this corridor would open into a piazza or turn into a junction of some sort. He’d be able to see a sign or a landmark, chart his way back to civilisation.
This was not the first time Felix had wandered through the city at night. One never knew who one might meet when the clubs disgorged. A brisk unbuttoning, a meaty cock, a brief but satisfying fumble in the arch of a doorway – eye contact avoided – offered a particular pleasure of its own. He enjoyed the attention of the crowd when he was holding forth, but he was a solitary hunter. As a rule, being alone didn’t frighten him. He’d recovered from the occasional mugging and worn his scars with pride. But being ill brings with it a new kind of vulnerability.
Finally the long street segued into another. Shabby shops had their iron shutters pulled down; the apartments above showed no light at their windows, played no music, everyone was sleeping. A barren swathe of scrubland occupied the corner. Perhaps by day it was a park or a playground; he could only make out a few ungainly shapes. Another high wall – maybe a school or a cemetery – was sprayed with an unreadable scrawl; he felt there was something menacing in the arrangement of loops and jagged shapes.
