Lina disbelieved in God, on the grounds that there was so much evil in this world that should He exist He must be evil. When they discussed the matter, Rossetti said: I believe in the kingdom of heaven, but when I consider your cat, who seems mostly so, well, self-constricted and unhappy, I sometimes wonder whether God might be some horrible wooden thing Whose purpose is to constrict us. On the other hand . . .
He was allergic to cats, even though he was made of bronze. Whenever he visited, poor Giulia had to stay outside the bedroom (as for the bulldog, he slept downstairs). She then scuttered up and down the hallway for much of the night, so that finally, with Lina’s permission, he closed the door against her in hopes of getting some sleep—for he never slept when he was standing on his plinth; only when pressing himself against a woman’s body (preferably her backside) could he refresh himself with that fleshly treat called oblivion. So Giulia had to go. Later he heard the poor creature thudding against the door, and felt guilty and sorry. Each morning he found her curled up on the carpet outside the bedroom, in a wretched little ball of greyness. She could have been dead.
When she did die, she became a timid ghost. Because most cats never become Christians, the best place to seek them after their lives end is Limbo, where they and the pagan philosophers entertain one another. Round the corner from Our Lady’s statue was another way to hell, a well covered over with flowers, whose diverse beauties increased each time she brushed against them en route to helping another soul. Through those depths Our Lady now flew, her alabaster face downcast, her lips parted as if she might even breathe, and amidst shiny ebony snails and pale green night-leaves she found both Lilith, who had been stalking a child’s nine-hundred-year-old beetle-sized ghost, and Giulia, who was cowering in a temporarily vacant vampire hole. Gathering them both up into her arms, so that they nearly warmed the still Christ child she also carried, the Madonna ascended three hundred and thirty-two flights of stairs, each step paler and less nitrous than the last, and thus reached the realm of mummies, where triangles, ankhs, scales and herbs are carved into the lintels of false doors; after one more flight she came into the marble-boned place beneath Leonor Fini’s easel where the milk-nude women and pastel-tendoned grotesqueries dwell forever. Here there were also cats, and as many saucers of fish and of cream as they could well desire; but when Our Lady set down the two new arrivals, they hid. Knowing that they would come around in their own good time, she ascended through the easel to pay a visit on Leonor, who although she could never face the death of her own cats agreed to give Giulia and Lilith the most dazzling double funeral. By then Our Lady had even rescued Silvia, who was standing in the queue of terrified new souls to be burned forever, all of them as silent as the pigeons in the shady sandy piazza between the Museo Civico and the Instituto Nautico; plucking that lucky woman out of hell for the second time, Our Lady established her in a gilded cloud-boat on heaven’s endless seas. Then she flew home, loving Trieste’s long white descent from the karst to the pine trees behind it—so it seems when one approaches the city from the west, and it appears to underline a narrowing blue cape. She flew lower, and within an orange slit of light, a woman extended her stockinged leg as she smoked a cigarette; she was the clerk of a lingerie store. Our Lady overflew her, overseeing everything like the white sun pouring warmth through the cloud-lace above the massive shuttered edifice-islands whose top stories were so often painted yellow or pink; and for a space she hovered over the milky blue of cigarette smoke below the egg-yolk-hued streetlights; Leonor Fini was down there with her man-woman friend Arturo Nathan; the Madonna blew them both a kiss, so that for a moment the breeze smelled like oranges.
5
Rossetti was at Lina’s the next time that Leonor came promenading by. As it happened, she loved to take note of his absences, having caught him on several nightwalking errands, the last time being seven winters ago, when she, with her wolfskin cape over her shoulders and her fingernails painted dark, approached her rendezvous with a certain dilettantish Count, while as for Rossetti, a thespian female had lately attracted him by means of a dark cloak ribbed with decorations and a feathered beaver hat; she was smooth, lovely, opulent and plump; she was positively swanskinned; so he was just descending from his plinth when Leonor shrieked out, just to torment him: Police, police! Rossetti’s deserted his post!
Please, cara, be discreet!
Leonor coldly informed him: I hate discretion. I hate hidden tricks.
Having heard about the time she screamed down Mussolini’s mistress in Milan, he tried to brush past her in silence, so she spat in his face. After that he despised her, of course, whereas from Leonor’s point of view it could have been over; not only did she forgive him but he interested her (if he but knew it) as a physical form—because Leonor, who during her self-apprenticeship used to visit the morgue ever so often, had long since lost interest in cadavers, admiring mummies for their sculptural qualities, and preferring above all the perfection of that relic which deteriorates the least: the skeleton. Who could be more bone-durable than a bronze man? Of course she never mentioned this to him, not wishing to turn his head.
This morning Giovanna occupied the master’s place; having amassed confidence in the course of this last summer, she had slowly become the sort of apple-breasted woman who likes to stand nude on a plinth, with a bronze apple in her hand. And perhaps the kindly Madonna made her appear especially enticing to Leonor on that morning. Right away she craved to paint her nude, maybe holding out a tray of sweets, and definitely doing something with that adorable palm leaf; on second thought, maybe the sweet creature ought to forgo the tray and raise the palm leaf over her head as if she were an Amazon with a sword.
Rossetti, she said, I like you much better as a woman.
I am a woman, said Giovanna shyly.
But you look so mannish! Don’t lie to me or I’ll spit on you again.
You see, I’ve studied under him. Usually I stand down there. I try to act as he does, because—
Listen, baby, why don’t you run away from here and come to my cat funeral?
Oh, no, signora! I—
Is that man telling you what to do? Listen, precious. Come with me. If he says an unkind word to you, my friends and I will come here with blowtorches. Do you or don’t you like cats?
I—
Then come. Right now, sweetheart. I dislike the deference with which your Rossetti’s been treated. Oh, what nice breasts you have. I’ll make it worth your while.
Since Giovanna, like Silvia, could not say no, she let Leonor take her hand, and stepped shyly off the plinth, with her bronze heart clanging rapidly within her hollow bosom. Although in her time she had certainly seen things even more exciting than two white-wimpled farmwomen flirting with a young shepherd (for many things do happen in a park), she wondered what she might have missed. For instance, no one had ever held her hand before. Leonor, who knew how to pick up a cat such that even though its hind legs dangled it took no fright, led Giovanna with kindred gentleness into the stinging white sun, which had been doubled and half-melted amidst the oily brown rainbows of the Canal Grande. It seemed as if the curtain of water had already begun to part, and the white clouds crawling beside this splendid gash could have been the cigarette smoke of spectators at an orgy. Giovanna began to feel warm and limber. Now they turned down apartment-shaded stairs and through an arch where Leonor had once met a sweet Bohemian vampire named Milena; and presently Leonor unlocked a door in the wall, led her upstairs and unlocked another door. They were greeted by a wide-eyed, high-eared cat, who kept bristling out his whiskers. Then came three more cats, all coffee-colored like the reflections on the dark reddish-brown floor of the Caffè San Marco. Leonor was already kissing a kitten as sleek as the longhaired thespian who played Salome a century ago.
So this is my place, said her hostess unnecessarily. Later I’ll take you beneath the easel, because I’m going to paint you as a nude cat goddess. You see,
we’re going to have a funeral for Giulia and Lilith. Now, these are more of my cats. I’ll introduce you later. Time to get ready. Here. What’s your name?
Giovanna.
Giovanna, take this atomizer and spray perfume on all those heaps of catshit, so our killjoys won’t dare complain. Oh, mama, there you are! I have a cat mask for you! Did you hear there’s going to be a double funeral? Giovanna, this is my mama, Malvina. She’s my best friend. Mama, this girl’s in love with Rossetti, the one in the Giardino Pubblico.
Well, well, said Leonor’s mama, smiling and fanning herself. Rossetti, of all people!
What do you see in him, anyway?
You see, Leonor, he’s like my father.
Does that mean you want to fuck him? Yes or no? Anyway, don’t let that man dominate the situation. Mama, darling, entertain this little girl while I change.
Malvina Fini stood in her sweeping black dress, smiling appraisingly at Giovanna as if at a suitor. She said: Are you interested in my daughter?
God forbid, signora!
The guests were already beginning to come. The sentimental ones wore black, the sluts wore leopardskins, and there were any number of pseudo- and quasi-feline poseurs. Knowing what was expected, Leonor’s mama led Giovanna down through the easel into the place where the niches were inset with frozen faded figures as in old churches, the atmosphere thick with silence. Self-absorbed pale women were wading naked in dark water with their hair like veils. Giovanna loved it. She had never felt so free.
For this latest saturnalia, Leonor now dressed herself in the coarse gauzelike covering of a Roman mummy, painted with ocher figures of cats and high-breasted girls in profile.— Splendid! cried Giovanna.
Thanks, cara.
But where are all the men?
The men around me are dead, her hostess explained. They’re too limited in understanding, too brutal to survive. Well, except for Arturo, of course. Arturo, caro! You look fabulous in that pink dress! I mean to paint you with a tropical bird perched on your finger. Oh, and you brought cake! Is the Prince going to be late again? Do cut Giovanna a piece, and spoon-feed it to her, for the poor girl’s made of bronze. Now here come some men. I’ll make them entertain you; they’ll love it.
And Giovanna, who had never eaten or drunk anything before, sat behind a pastel cake as elaborate as a cathedral, hoping this would never end—for it was much superior to the eternity she knew at the Giardino Pubblico “M. Tommasini”—until Leonor laughed and said: Go ahead, cara! Don’t be a prude. Eat.
Do you like me?
That’s impertinent. No, don’t look at me like that! I prefer cats. They’re much wiser than we are. You wanted men, you said? All right, silly! They’re waiting for us in that room!— And opening a door, she showed the wide-eyed bronze girl a convocation of shining-eyed gymnasts whose chests gleamed with constellations of medals.— Fuck them all if you like; just don’t take orders. All right now. Come sit by me. The services are beginning.
Lilith and Giulia, the two most important cats of the hour, behaved very differently. Lilith stalked slowly about with her tail upraised, while Giulia was scarcely to be seen.
Here came the chief mourner, Leonor’s cat Sappho, who had a way of craning her head over her shoulder when she meowed for food, showing off her white breast; and when she raised her ears she was like an owl with round yellow-green eyes. Leonor opened her arms. Sappho came in, digging her claws into Leonor’s robe as she ascended. Giovanna did not know what to think. She had seen cats in the park before, but until now they had been nearly colorless to her; she never imagined that they could be so intriguing. Why they preoccupied her at Leonor’s can be explained from the simple fact that she had never been indoors before, nor had anyone treated her as a friend, although she remembered certain looks of Rossetti’s which she had, perhaps, overinterpreted; I suspect that almost anybody could have won her over. Wide-eyed, she watched all those nude women around her; they were as white together as all the skirts of a flock of nurses, titillating themselves for lustral purposes; and thirteen nude ballerinas danced in honor of the two dead cats while thirteen naked nuns sang feline cantatas. Beside Giovanna, applauding, sat a visitor from downstairs: a high-breasted mummy lady whose necklaces were faded in many colors and whose white belly was cracked right down to her mons veneris. With a sad fragrance of cypresses Our Lady now appeared to bless the funeral with tears which hardened into good luck pearls. She stretched out her hands, and Giulia crept into them unwilling-seeming, as if she could not help herself. Then the Madonna drew her in, cradling her against the Christ child’s cold stone head. Giulia began to purr. Then it was Lilith’s turn. So both were rewarded and consoled for being dead.
After the words of praise were sung, Leonor found Giovanna a gymnast with whom to waltz, but although she tried to dance, she was too stiff; Leonor laughed at her, saying she might as well have been a wooden skeleton made for processionals! Leonor was dancing with her mama and Arturo, giggling like a schoolgirl. Then she threw herself down by the shore of a bubbling black pool, her cat Salome lying across her lap with her white paws dangling, the claws flexing in harmony with her purrings.
Giovanna, she remarked, I feel quite sensual toward you—but you love Rossetti, so there’s good reason to keep my distance. Mama, should I teach her how women do it?
Lolo, you’re embarrassing her!
Am I? Arturo, let’s start drinking! Where’s that old man I like? You know, the one with the pet owl? Oh, and Gianluca arrives at last. How adorable he is!
Giovanna began to be homesick.
There was a certain lovely nineteenth-century Triestina in a high-collared white dress with a jungle of perfect leaves and flowers on her hat; she licked her lips at Giovanna, quite lustfully, but Giovanna was not interested. Leonor inquired reproachfully: Baby, wouldn’t you like to see femininity triumphing over a city? Play with us; don’t be a prude!
But before she could begin to bully the bronze woman, the Madonna said: Giovanna, everyone everywhere deserves happiness, even people in hell. Think of me as your mama who loves you. What would you like? Shall I ask Rossetti if he’s willing to be your husband?
I want love, mama, any kind of love! I don’t care anymore. And if he doesn’t love me . . .
Now Giulia came creeping toward Our Lady, craving to be petted by that loving stone woman with the bloodstained forehead, and Our Lady lifted her up, embraced her until the Christ child began to open his eyes, then gently handed her to Giovanna. The instant she began to hold the cat, Giovanna experienced a hot feeling both in her bronze heart and between her legs.
So that’s how it is, said the Madonna, smiling. Come downstairs with me. I’m going to introduce you to a lady who’s a seventh cousin of mine. Would you like to be a cat goddess?
Will you decide for me, mama?
Well, then I think it’s for the best. Leonor, darling . . .
But Leonor had already gone off to be pleasured by an ivory bird with a serpent’s head.
Our Lady held her hand as they began to descend the stairs, and Giovanna found herself loving the dead cats more and more, not to mention the live ones; at the first landing she felt joyful tenderness for a certain woman’s mummy which rested there upon her painted semblance within the white coffin; and the breath began to hiss within Giovanna’s bronze windpipe because she lusted to know all the Egyptian cat-women who folded their arms across their animal-painted wooden breasts; smiling, upraising her lapis-bangled arms, a snake in a headdress lifted her golden head to bless Giovanna, and Our Lady said: Do you see?
6
One morning Lina (who never had any more cats, because they made her bulldog jealous) said to Rossetti: Marry me or make an end of it.— So he went back to his plinth, only to discover that Giovanna had abandoned it. That was when he comprehended that she was the one he should have loved.— Lina’s heart was broken, naturally, so Our Lady w
ept for her; the grey-green tear-streams flowed through the gutters and temporarily quenched the flames of hell. Meanwhile Octavian had already deserted his plinth; Maria Theresa had run away with an Austrian mountaineer; Massimiliano had strayed several times to give himself to pretty Croatian tourists; even marbleskinned Winckelmann had eloped with the bellboy of the Hotel Brulefer, so that Trieste’s pantheon of park-heroes had begun evermore to resemble a fading fresco of apostles on the ceiling of a village church, the sky tarnishing toward a wintry blue-grey.
Entering the Caffè San Marco, whose twin brass coatracks might have been the skeletons of immense wine bottles, Rossetti rejoined the shadows of shutters and window-lines projected on the floor like eagles whose ribs were lyres. He wished to ascend the wide white steps of the Politeama with Giovanna at his side, although he might have wanted Giovanna solely because he did not know what else to want. At least his choices were as distinct to him as the opposing armies of spools and knobheaded cones in the ancient Egyptian senet game. Far away, across the length of the café, beneath the ceiling’s breasty light globes, stood a mirror in which he could see himself and the old waiter below the reflections of the bridal-lace curtains. Rossetti sat down in the corner, and the waiter brought him three grappas. Just then, in one of the narrow silver-frosted panes—a rectangle of real life—he saw Giovanna, or someone much like her, but taller and stiffer, promenading hand in hand with Leonor Fini.
Last Stories and Other Stories (9780698135482) Page 21
