by Jayne Joso
Now all he had to do was figure out how to give this vaguely-confused-bereaved… and possibly ‘coming-onto-him’ kind of woman a pair of rose-coloured pyjamas. – Suddenly he wasn’t sure this was such a great idea. Um…. He’d think it over. He removed all the packaging and shook out the pyjamas, yeah, good choice, should suit her nice. A bit brighter than her misery-jamas at any rate. Poor Charles! No wonder they never had any little ones. Always wondered, she’s an attractive woman when all’s said and done, in an ordinary sort of way, but wholesome enough, bit small round the hips maybe but alright mostly. Rose, no rose was definitely better than grey, if they insist on wearing something in bed. Nothing so off-putting as pond-water-grey – but should he really be giving her a gift at all?
Finally, his altruism got the better of him. He’d do it alright, he’d give her the rosy-jamas. But first he hid them in his locker at work, allowing himself a day or two to work out how to do it. The right way to do it. He was, however, starting to realise that this spontaneous act of kindness might get him into all kinds of trouble if he didn’t handle it – just right.
As was often the case, Tom had grossly underestimated Cara, who kept a holy-watch over her scratch card investments. He didn’t know it yet, but boy he had it coming to him.
Next morning, he was to deliver a letter of condolence from Italian architect Alessandro Cannizzaro. Cute stamps, fancy handwriting, another artist-type he assumed. The envelope had come undone. Tom had never done this before, though often tempted; he knew it was illegal, he could lose his job and more, but somehow – this time, the letter slipped from its wrapping and found itself laid open between his thick thumbs and itching fingers. Rain began to drum on the back of his cap in fat droplets, the adrenalin kicked in. He leant under the Construct’s overhang to protect the ink and hand-made paper.
Letter: From Italy
Alessandro Cannizzaro to Gaia
Dear Mrs Ore,
Please forgive me for not writing to you sooner, but perhaps you have already been drowning in letters of sorrow, and I would rather try to raise the spirit. Of course in the first place I give you my deepest sympathy. Charles Ore is also a very great loss to the world of architecture, and as one of his contemporaries I have to say he had many qualities to admire, perhaps even to envy. What can I say, he even beat me to the design of a great museum in my own country! What a man! And I will say – though as a competitor you will appreciate that it is painful to do so – that his design was truly remarkable.
I’m looking at a photograph of each of you in a magazine – I never had the opportunity to meet with either of you, and that I deeply regret.
Forgive me if this disturbs you in any way, but I hope not, and please – if you need some time in a completely different atmosphere, different surroundings, know that I would feel so honoured if you would visit Italy. If you needed to be alone, I would arrange that, and if not, I hope you would allow me to be your host. Take your time to decide, the offer will always remain open.
Yours
Alessandro
Wow! What a nice guy, what a nice friend to have. The man hadn’t even met the widow. Tom felt overcome. That someone could show so much emotion and damned kindness to another someone that they hadn’t even met, that was too nice. He wiped away an escaping tear, and then panicked as he noticed that he’d now added a dirty thumbprint to the edge of the page. Quickly he folded it up and put it back in the envelope. He took out his notepad and copied down the name and address of the sender printed at the edge. Right now he wasn’t sure why he did this, but he felt he needed to keep open the possibility of something, just in case. Just in case what? Well, just in case. Then taking a moment to compose himself, he pushed Alessandro through Gaia’s door along with the phone bill and her share of junk mail.
Tom finished off his round and wended his way back through grey streets and greyer rain. He fell into one of his TV career fantasises, this particular one was his meteorological fantasy – Tom Bradshaw, Weather Man. Rain had got big and fat of late and way-heavy, and way-torrential. He loved how the real TV guy had taken to calling it the Metropolitan Monsoon. He was a cool guy, Tom used him as his weatherman-role model. Monsooooon, achew! He sneezed his Metropolitan mailbag along with his Metropolitan self, back to home base, and his locker. Without having given conscious thought to it – Eureka! – he’d suddenly worked out how to give Gaia the rosy-jamas. That was it, he’d wait a while, couple of weeks or so, wrap ’em up nice, and send them from the nice guy, from Alessandro, hell, that’s exactly the sort of thing a sweet guy like that would do. He smiled, big.
Back at home, scratch-card-queen Cara is missing a scratch card. She isn’t smiling, big or otherwise, she isn’t happy. When she finds out who’s taken her scratch card, she’s gonna mince ’em. If she finds out it was a winning card, she’ll mince ’em real good. If she finds out it was a winning card and the money’s gone, well then… she’ll mince ’em, fry ’em and eat ’em!
Chapter Nine
Alessandro Cannizzaro
Alessandro Cannizzaro was one of those enviable characters who despite appearing to bear all the traits of a thoroughly nauseating egomaniac, was somehow almost completely adorable. His vanity, whilst gargantuan, contained elements of humour that allowed many to forgive him; and beyond that he was amongst other things, a great physical beauty. What the Greeks had attributed their gods, the gods themselves bestowed aplenty on the Italian, Alessandro. That was in itself reason enough for other men to resent, even despise him, but then he was also a star in the world of architecture, a star, and a shining one.
As a child Alessandro quickly realised how much he could get away with.
“Who did it, who did it?” the four-year-old’s mother screamed. She had been baking half the night, since before the warm morning sun had even thought to rouse itself. The whole family were coming, the uncles, the aunts, cousins, second and third cousins; Maria had a feast to prepare, and someone had stolen half her bounty. Home-made breads were her speciality. She ran about the streets scolding the children of friends and neighbours, the lazy husband of a former friend, the sky, the stars and heaven above. Meanwhile, a little boy was piling up the baking treasure in his ‘materials box’, ordering the breads by size, shape and weight. Some, he had already begun to cut and carve into shape in preparation for assembly, but before that he needed to work out the proportions of flour to water with which to cement the parts together. The results from the practice batch were fairly brittle, but if handled carefully, the main structures might last out the summer. From the attic, he could hear his mother’s screeching as it swirled around the house, the streets, through open windows, under the doors, and quavering through the hairs on the dog’s back. The dog, Corbusier, twitched his ears and shoulders trying to shake the sound away. To Alessandro, the words were a blur, simply jolting into one another, linked only by the consistent howl of a frantic mother. Why it hadn’t occurred to her to look closer to home for the culprit could not be understood, her husband speculated that she enjoyed the excuse to rant at various neighbours and particular friends, and that she needed the exercise, physically, vocally and emotionally. He never took Maria’s outbursts too seriously, and was never surprised that little Alessandro was usually the cause. Whatever was behind Alessandro’s mischief usually entertained his father quite well. He had noticed something special in the boy from the moment of his birth. An energy. A vitality. Something otherworldly. Something he hadn’t seen in any of the others. Alessandro had two elder sisters, and three moody, hapless elder brothers. Little Alessandro was sure his three brothers were connected at the hips, and were not really human but some fantastic Greek mythological creature yet to be named.
Later, aged five, he decided that the brothers were a blend of the three basic forms of classical Greek architecture, Doric, Corinthian and Ionic, and that as one mythological creature they combined to be known as: Dorkion, th
us he addressed each of them, whether in the plural or singular from then on. He did think the eldest to be the ugliest and most horrid and therefore he must surely be the Corinthian, that being the most ornate and in Alessandro’s estimation, the most hateful.
When Bread City was discovered several hours later, mother Maria was quite overcome. Everyone was summoned. The brothers rolled their evil eyes, awaiting Alessandro’s comeuppance. “Come and look, Papa,” Maria called down to her husband, “Look what he has done! Oh Alessandro, you beautiful, beautiful boy! You love your mama’s cooking so much, you build your own little world from it! Look at these towers, these walls, oh my darling darling boy! Our very own Giotto!” She smothered him with kisses as the brothers gritted their teeth, meanly slitting their eyes, ever amazed at how much the small demon could get away with.
Inhabiting Alessandro’s model world in bread, were penguins, tiny, wooden, hand-carved penguins. For penguins were funny, and penguins appeared, perhaps more than many creatures, humans in particular, to walk at exactly the right pace, in step with their world. Not too fast, nor too slow. He had no idea that this would later flower into theories of harmonious dwelling, but so it was.
Alessandro’s gathering intelligence did not play shadow to his good looks for long, and anything his looks alone did not elicit, his intellect, talent and childlike humour surely did. Ebullient human notes combined in wild rhythms. Alessandro, an intoxicating spirit of passions.
As a student of architecture, one of his professors – and indeed, lovers – was to remark, “Alessandro, you’re one hell of a human cocktail.” The American professor was called Simone, Simone Divine, a name that made Alessandro swoon – irreverently. He nicknamed her: The Divine. “Never take a woman too seriously – that I learned from my father – it always keeps them on their toes, their tip-tippy-toes, where they should be, like ballerinas, suffering whilst elegantly reaching up for your attention, trying to hold on to some semblance of serenity.” Their paths crossed by chance some years later when Alessandro’s works were winning ever more prestigious competitions. They shared a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc – “The French, they have a talent for quite a few things, ah!” – he began to update the Divine on how it is to be Italy’s finest. He would have taken her again to bed, but for what? She had nurtured many grand ideas in that regard, and how much had she missed him, but for Alessandro, that had run its course. There was nothing further to be experienced with her.
Alessandro had never meant to snub those he had loved… but after a time there were simply too many. Men also adored him sexually, but only ever from a distance, his insatiability was for women, and many a young man had wept.
When the time came, Alessandro would clearly be delighted to compete in a competition to design for the ethereal and enigmatic Gaia. An architect’s clients are many things, but rarely so subtly enchanting.
Letter: In Recovery
Gaia to Selené
Dear Selené,
I hardly knew how to reply to you, and that is the reason for the delay. Your last letter, though frightening almost, was exactly the one needed. It can’t have been easy for you, and I have to remember that you are also bereaved. I have a deep respect for you, and thank you for not abandoning me. Enough, I must not stray into yet more sentimentality.
I wanted to tell you about something curious that happened recently, I expect you might find it amusing, but I’m still not sure what to make of it myself. Some weeks ago I received a letter of sympathy from another of Charles’ peers in the ranks of the architectural elite, one Alessandro Cannizzaro. I am certain you will have heard of him. The letter went on to invite me to Italy though he’s never met either Charles or myself. I longed to move to Italy when Charles won the museum commission, but Italy and Italians were never really Charles’ taste. The invitation isn’t the most shocking part. Three weeks later I received a parcel from him, though not exactly from Italy, as the gift was from this country and the stamps and postal marks were missing, but he’d sent me pyjamas! Rose-pink pyjamas! Now what do you make of that? Is that not completely eccentric, mad even? It makes me laugh, but isn’t it strange? What’s more, they fit! I ought not to complain, even our local mailman commented on my ‘rosy-jamas’ as he called them (I opened the door to him in them one morning, I needed to thank him for his kindness when I first lost Charles and to apologise for having accidentally scratched him – don’t ask, it’s too embarrassing, sometimes I think bereavement is a form of insanity.) Anyway, the mailman said that the pink pyjamas made me look more cheerful, and that he was sure that would be what Charles wanted. I still find it rather peculiar. Any ideas, oh wise one?
Very much love
Gaia
Alessandro soon received a letter of thanks for the pyjamas which Gaia shyly described as ‘the gift’. He paced up and down, her letter in one hand, a cigarette in the other, trying to make sense of the widow’s words, trying to imagine the voice that belonged to the beguiling picture of her in the magazine. Gucci shirt, simple and sexy – but really she would look gorgeous in anything. The article, a full length feature on:
The late Charles Ore, his Work and his Life
Alessandro looked again at the magazine, the page, her picture, he smiled. With such a woman in your life it should at least have been titled:
The Architect, his Work and his ‘Wife’!
In the magazine Charles exudes smug self-approval surrounded by his plans, whilst Gaia looks elegant… but lost. Alessandro wished she looked less nervous, less lonely, and he thinks frivolously that perhaps he would make her a better husband.
In an attempt to feel closer to the widow, he switches to thinking, for the moment, in English, drops the magazine and takes up the letter again, waltzing about the room alone, somewhat seduced by what he imagines her to be.
These foreigners can be quite funny, why does she thank me for a gift? Did I send something to her? No. I think she is English, and they can be quite strange, I’ve noticed that before. – How cute, all I have sent her is a letter, just a little letter, but for her it is a ‘gift’. Quite modest, quite sweet, but woman, it was just a letter. Yet if I have given her so much pleasure from almost nothing, well, that makes me a very happy man. And she, so grateful, so quick to take pleasure in such a very small thing, well I think she must be a woman of open and warm heart, maybe she is something like myself? Who knows, anyway, that’s nice, really nice. But no mention of a visit, it is too early yet for such things. Of course. Maybe… I wait a little while, and ask her again.
Letter: From the Lifeline
Selené to Gaia
Dear sweet Gaia,
I can feel a kind of gaiety arising in you, how heartening. And whatever you do, do not stray into feelings of guilt. It is very good progress to sense in you, what shall I call it? A sign, yes a sign that you will certainly recover. It won’t be quick, it is barely six months, and at times you must expect to fall back, in fact I am sure you will, but expect it and do not be afraid. It seems you might well be over the worst. What a wonderful spirit you have. I believe yours is a healing spirit, and a healing spirit is also one easily healed, my dear.
Now then, the Italian, yes I have indeed heard of him. A very great rival of Charles’, somewhat younger than him; certainly of the same order and calibre if such is possible. He’s sent you pyjamas! Marvellous! Men, such funny things.
It seems rather inappropriate at present, and so I cannot allow myself to tell you of my most recent lover. Perhaps another time.
Write soon, eat well, and take care of your health, I must get on just now.
My love to you
Selené
Letter: To one too Old
Gaia to Selené
Dear Selené,
Your letter really made me laugh, you speak of having a lover! I looked back at one of the last three letters you sent to my dear Cha
rles, one in which you actually talk of taking a new lover, and mention how freshly cut grass arouses you more than the scent of any man! I realise now, that you often speak in codes, and just as the little ones were not children but your spaniels, lover is obviously code for something else. I’m no good at puzzles, so you must forgive me as I cannot make it out. Hilarious though to imagine a misanthropic intellectual over seventy with a troop of King Charles spaniels, taking lovers! How mad! Forgive me. Anyway, I hope you will enlighten.
Then I have to complain a little as you barely commented at all on the Italian having sent me a gift. I did write to thank him.
Do you think we could meet? I would so love to meet you, I don’t have any false hopes of replacing Charles in your affection, but feel the closeness you so generously spoke of in our early correspondence.
My very best wishes and love
Gaia
Gaia could not work out why this should be, but Selené took six full weeks to reply, giving in only after Gaia had sent a further three notes begging to know what was amiss, enquiring after Selené’s health and finally the health of six King Charles spaniels.
Letter: To the Ignorant
Selené to Gaia
Dear Gaia,
The dogs’ and my health are all fine, thank you.
Little fool you, insolent little fool! Your letter did rile me I can tell you. Still, it is interesting for me to learn more of your character, and goodness me, girl, how have you lasted this long in the world quite that naïve? Beyond me!
