Miss Garnet's Angel

by Salley Vickers

  And there was another thing: he had a dog with him. Among our people dogs are disdained: A dog will return to his vomit, my mother used to say when a person she disapproved of persisted in bad ways. Yet from the start it was different with this dog of Azarias’s.

  For one thing he had a spotted coat—quite unlike the rough yellow dogs which roamed in packs on the edges of Nineveh. The coat on this dog was smooth and dappled—like sunlight through foliage. Queerer still, he had two spots over his eyes, which gave him the appearance of having four—‘Four-eyes’ I found myself calling him affectionately, and patted his flank. And he seemed to enjoy the joke in his doggish way, for there and then, in the marketplace, the dog seemed to choose to go with me, and Azarias never gave any sign that he minded this piece of canine dereliction. You soon learned that Azarias was not a man who ‘minded’.

  When I took him and Kish home there was a great to-do about Azarias’s provenance at first. (I think my father felt he must make up for the ease with which he accepted Kish—and, you know, it is a fact that Kish seemed to know where any difficulty in his being accepted might lie, for his first act on entering our courtyard was to make for my father’s seat beneath the wall and put his long nose into my father’s hand.) Father wanted to know what tribe Azarias was from. You must understand that, with our people so scattered in exile, the tribes were of the greatest importance especially to my father! But Azarias smiled again, that smile he had smiled at me in the marketplace, and although there was no way my father could see him smile it was as if his cares became piffle before the wind.

  ‘So, is it a tribe you seek, or merely a hired man to go with your son?’ Azarias asked. (And although his tone was respectful, yet somehow you understood the question made a humorous comment on my father.) Then he seemed to relent and told my father who his own father was.

  My father, for the first time since I remember him, dropped his high tone. ‘I knew Ananias,’ he said, referring to the name Azarias had mentioned. ‘We sacrificed together at the Temple, long ago,’ and his eyes became rheumy and I was afraid he might begin to weep. (I was also curious because it was the first time I had heard of anyone else going with him to the great Temple of the Wise—from the way he had always been telling us he had made that journey alone.)

  It was my mother who was most suspicious of Azarias. For some reason she took against him but she was too respectful of my father to make any open opposition. I heard her muttering as she prepared our food for travel: ox-blood sausage, white sheep’s cheese wrapped in bay leaves, and goatskins to fill with water. ‘Blessed fellow, who does he think he is? Thinks he’s above us all, I dare say!’

  When we made to depart, though, it was not my mother who was the first to weep. My father stood with tears running from his sightless eyes, grasping the sleeve of Azarias’s gown (which I never saw him take off—as if he wished to hide something within its wide folds). Azarias just stood with my father clutching like a child at his sleeve, resting his gaze so lightly upon my father, and a fugitive thought entered my mind: in all the days since he came from his own land this is the first man whom my father has ever let help him (other than my cousin who did it so that his own name should escape tarnish). At that thought I began weeping too, which got my mother going, until soon all three of us were wailing like goats going to slaughter.

  Vera’s letter was a shock.

  Ted died suddenly last week. We were all so upset. No flowers (needless to say!) but there was a collection for cancer. I sent a contribution in your name. Hope you don’t mind?

  Julia looked at the pot of marigolds she had carried out onto the balcony, along with the post, on the tray of tea-things. She had bought the flowers as a gesture of defiance against the withered remembrance of Carlo, which still lay enshrined in the drawer beside her bed. She had not yet brought herself to throw it away. ‘Needless to say’ indeed! She did ‘mind’. She was not at all sure that she wished to contribute to a ‘collection for cancer’ which when you thought about it might as well, from Vera’s representation of it, be a fund for promoting the illness. Julia’s father had died of cancer. Who was to say that cancer was not sometimes a necessary end? And in any case, why should Vera take it on herself to offer a contribution on another’s behalf? Had she, Julia, wanted to remember Ted in that way the collection would have been no poorer for waiting for a genuine contribution from her own pocket. There was something deplorably controlling about Vera’s generosity.

  She put aside the letter, using it to mark the place in her notebook, and thought about Ted. A red-faced man with an acute mind, he should have lectured in politics at the LSE. Instead he had spent his working life fighting the cause of the unions and Communism. Where was he now? Julia wondered, for she no longer felt certain that the complex interrelationship which makes up a man could pass out of life and come to nothing. She wished she had been there to defy the injunction on flowers. Ted might have liked flowers—he was a man who responded to colour (hadn’t he once paid her a compliment on a scarlet scarf of Harriet’s she had borrowed for a march?). Maybe the marigolds would do?

  Looking at the letter again she saw she had missed a PTO. Turning the page she read—P.S. Inspired by your example I am coming to Venice over the bank holiday weekend. With a WEA party.

  Julia Garnet was no stranger to rage—she was aware that it had made up too much of her final dealings with her father—but she was unused to experiencing it with such immediacy. How dare Vera! How dare she track her down, copy her even (for the idea of visiting Venice would never have occurred to Vera without her own example), and with so little sensibility, too, to appreciate the place. Julia had not forgotten that she herself had once possessed a limited sensibility. But the idea that Vera might undergo an alteration like her own in the same environment did not cross her mind and had it done so she would have found no relief in the thought. Indeed the idea of Vera sharing her experiences in Venice appalled her. She stared again at the postscript as if by way of frowning concentration she could erase the offending words.

  There was some comfort to be found in the fact it was a WEA affair. That would at least mean Vera would be in a group and somewhat corralled by the timetable of the organisers. And her stay would be thankfully short. But how in the name of all that was serious was she going to deal with Vera’s relentless expression of her ‘common sense’?

  Harriet, who taught infant school, had once remarked that she noticed ‘her children’ were least tolerant of the stage they had just grown out of. Girls who had barely learned to read scorned as ‘babyish’ those of their peers who were still fumbling confusedly with their letters. ‘I expect we’re no different, either,’ Harriet had characteristically suggested, and Julia, who enjoyed her own indifference to such matters as ‘child development’, had made dismissive noises.

  Had Harriet been around, she might, in turn, have enjoyed the observation that the prospect of Vera’s atheism, formerly such a bulwark of her relationship with Julia and their occasional visits to various cheap Eastern European resorts, now filled Julia Garnet with something like alarm.

  What could possibly be done about the proposed invasion? She supposed by ‘the bank holiday’ Vera intended the first weekend in May. The beginning of the final third of her tenancy in Signora Mignelli’s apartment. What Julia was to do when the month of June had expired was a matter she had held off contemplating. She was aware that the cost of the rental soared once the high season arrived. Signora Mignelli had hinted at the special terms she was enjoying, a consequence of her six-month tenancy. And now here was Vera, with her heavy-footed, all-too-common sense, forcing her to consider the future betimes. She began to wonder if she dared to go away for the period of Vera’s proposed visit—claiming a pre-arranged trip of her own, say, to the mountains? But there was no guarantee Vera would not follow her there! (For she felt certain that the WEA expedition was a mere cover for Vera’s curiosity.)

  And in any case, she thought, abandoning the idea, I do not want
to miss a minute of my remaining stay. ‘I do not want to miss a minute,’ she repeated aloud, fiercely to the marigolds.

  The post had brought two other items: a letter from her solicitors and a postcard. Not recognising the writing she turned over to see a picture of Vermont. It was from the Cutforths.

  Sorry to miss you before we left. But this is to say we are back in Venice at the end of May and are following your example and taking an apartment again for the summer. Hope very much to see you then—Cynthia and Charles

  The Cutforths too! She had become almost a trailblazer. The idea amused her and drew something of the sting of Vera’s proposed visit. Unlike Vera it would be pleasant to see Cynthia and Charles again. They had called, she had learned, while she was ill and had been sent away by Signora Mignelli. Later a basket of fruit and some flowers had arrived. The flowers had been the source of some distress, for at first she had believed they had come from Carlo—they were just the magnificent kind he would send, tall, pink curvaceous lilies and abundant white roses. When she saw she had misread the name, she had thrust the ribboned bouquet from her—and had manufactured an allergy to the lilies’ scent. Signora Mignelli had taken the flowers finally to her own home. Nor, Julia now remembered to her shame, had she even written to the Gritti to thank the Cutforths.

  Opening the blue-marbled notebook she had brought out with the post she wrote: Hurt makes us self-centred.

  The insight made her feel more charitable towards Vera. Maybe Vera was lonely? Her friends were probably few and no doubt she could ill spare the loss of even one. Maybe, too, some use might be made of Vera’s arrival. There were things Julia wanted: a book, in particular, on the Apocrypha. Vera would enjoy the opportunity of being put to trouble.

  It was a fine April day; the sky was the improbable blue of a Tiepolo ceiling and the brickwork of the Chiesa dell’Angelo Raffaele glowed coral in the late morning sun. Across the campo a slight, boyish shape approached and Julia called out, ‘Sarah! Sarah! Hello!’

  ‘Can I come up?’ But the girl was with her before Julia could answer.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ For Sarah was looking agitated. Her long fair hair had escaped its pony-tail and she was raking her fingers wildly through it.

  ‘Julia, oh my God, Julia!’

  ‘What is it? Is it Toby?’ Had the unpromising lover caused some further harm?

  ‘He’s gone!’

  ‘But where, Sarah? Won’t he return?’ Surely this was a little melodramatic.

  ‘It’s the panel. He’s taken the panel, I think. It’s gone too! Oh, Julia, Julia.’ Noisily, Sarah began to weep.

  ‘Sarah, calm down!’

  Inside the kitchen Julia Garnet poured brandy and brought it onto the balcony. She was concerned to see a collection of children, eager to learn the cause of the noise, gathering below. ‘Look, hadn’t we better come inside?’ Sarah allowed herself to be led into the living room. ‘There. It’s more private here. Now, tell me.’

  From the sofa, intermittently weeping, Sarah explained she had woken the previous day to find Toby gone. Julia, who had not considered the twins’ living arrangements, found herself wondering about them. She had never asked which part of Venice they were staying in. ‘He wasn’t there, but that isn’t unusual. He often sleeps in the chapel.’

  Julia nodded. With the bats. An image of the boy, his long, fair eyelashes drawn like fringed curtains, formed in her mind. ‘And he’s not there?’

  Sarah told how she had gone to the chapel and not finding Toby had at first assumed some whim or errand. She had worked, increasingly worried, until evening and had returned to their apartment hoping to find him there.

  ‘And the painting?’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was gone until this morning. It was only when I was looking and saw Tobes had taken his tools. Then I saw the panel was gone too.’

  ‘I wondered before if it was quite safe.’ And it was true she had been bothered at the casual way the painting had been left in the damp chapel with nothing but its grey blanket to protect it.

  ‘There’s always one of us there—or the chapel’s locked,’ Sarah explained. ‘Only one of us can get in there.’ She clenched her forehead. ‘Shit! (Sorry, Julia) I blame myself. I should have guessed something was going to happen. He’s been so weird lately!’

  Julia saw the pale blue eyes of Toby staring at her the day he showed her the angel. ‘Perhaps he’s gone to England. Taken the panel with him. Could he be going to get an expert opinion on it?’ The boy did not seem to her like a thief. But how was she to tell? She had mistaken a paedophile’s affection for a young boy, taking it to herself for her own.

  ‘I thought of that, too. I’ve left messages on his mobile but he’s not answering. I don’t know what to do. I should tell someone but then that’ll mean the police.’

  ‘But you say only the two of you can get inside the chapel? Was there any sign of a break-in?’ Instinctively, Julia rejected the notion of the police.

  Sarah shook her head; she had on her forlorn-child look which meant Julia had to fight exasperation.

  ‘Where does the girl live? Can you ring her?’

  But Sarah didn’t know the address of Toby’s unresponsive lover. She sat on Signora Mignelli’s sofa, cradling the brandy.

  Julia said, as gently as she could manage, ‘I wouldn’t bring the police in, you know. Not for family. Wait a bit, I would, and see. You can always say you didn’t notice the painting was gone.’

  ‘Only you know about it, actually.’ Sarah’s voice brightened.

  ‘Only me? Surely not!’ Julia felt a stab of anxiety for the fragile wooden piece with its blue-winged angel. The Cutforths’ card had brought the story of the missing Bellini to her mind.

  ‘We’d only come across it the day you visited us. It’s not listed with all the stuff which got stored years ago before any restoration work started. I checked.’

  Julia wondering, Did Carlo know about it—he visited the chapel?—said aloud, ‘I can’t believe I am the only other person who knew it was there. But if I am, then surely there is no need to inform the authorities—at least until you have a better idea of what has happened.’ She couldn’t bring herself to ask Sarah if she had ever mentioned the panel to Carlo.

  * * *

  Dear Vera, Julia wrote, I wonder if I might trouble you to bring over a book I need. She crossed out ‘need’ and substituted ‘want’. It is not in print but I have telephoned the London Library so if you could manage to collect it for me I will write and reserve it with them. I enclose a note to say you have my permission to collect. You will need this, I think, as they have begun to be particular. After reading this through she added, It will be very good to see you and to catch up. She found this last sentence difficult to write and hesitated, wondering if she could cross out the ‘very’. But it was not all untrue. She was fond of Vera. Unable to find anything else to say she concluded the letter abruptly, Love Julia.

  At least she had managed ‘love’—even if, she suspected, it was not wholly sincere.

  But what ‘love’ is wholly sincere? she pondered to herself, simmering tomatoes for her supper. Was it ‘love’ which had driven the boy Toby from his sister and the bat-filled chapel to his unknown destination? And had he taken with him, for companion, the long-footed angel? Nothing had been heard of either of them. Did Toby ‘love’ his girl and had, perhaps, that love deranged him? Certainly she herself had suffered such a derangement. And was it this, she wondered—chopping basil into the simmering sauce, to which she had added (learning from Signora Mignelli’s instruction) just a dash of vinegar, a pinch of sugar—that had brought about the acute and astonishing experience as she had walked out of the chapel that day into the sunlight? The sight itself—of this she was wholly sure—was not the stuff of madness. But maybe a kind of madness had been necessary to pull apart her faculties of perception.

  To let the light in, she concluded, pouring steaming scarlet sauce over green ribbons of pasta.

 
2

  I never asked how Azarias came by Kish. The first stage of our journey was along the eastern bank of the Tigris—the great grey-green river which flows from Nimrod down to Nineveh and thence to the far coast where traders come who bring the dyes. (My mother loved those dyes in the days when she could afford fine cloth.) Kish liked to run on ahead, sniffing out water rats, but when Azarias decided we should stop for the night Kish always met us round the next bend, panting. So it was he, often, who chose finally the place we should halt. They were like-minded, Azarias and Kish.

  The first night we set up the tent and Azarias looked at my feet which had swelled up and sent me off to the river to bathe them (I was unused to walking and felt laggardly besides his swift strides). The water was reedy but quite clear and I was lowering myself in when a great perturbation set up and something grabbed at my foot. Whatever it was was sharp-toothed and I was about to yell out when I felt myself slipping under the water. I was struggling for breath and I must have lost consciousness because all at once there was a blazing light in my head and I half thought, half felt, ‘I must not die!’

  I came up thrashing, and Azarias was there hauling me onto the bank with Kish yapping beside him. I lay on the bank for a bit gasping and when I got up Azarias was above me, a huge grin on his face. Feeling a fool I said, ‘What’s there to grin about?’ and he pointed and said, ‘You’ve caught us our dinner, I see!’ And there at my feet lay the biggest fish I had ever seen!

  We roasted and ate the fish—I say ‘we’ but I never saw Azarias eat a thing: strong as he was, it was as if he lived on desert wind—by the fire which we lit to keep the wild dogs at bay. Azarias salted the remainder down. (I think had my mother seen the skill with which he did it, she might have softened in her distrust.) And then Azarias did a strange thing: he did not throw out the belly-guts of the fish: the liver, or the heart or the gall. We must keep these, he told me: they are medicaments, powerful cures; and he wrapped them in leaves and made me stow them away in the leather pouch I carried at my belt. Although he was the hired hand and I the master, I did as he instructed. He had a way with him which made you do as he said. But I began to wonder, as I drifted off to sleep, Kish beside me, Azarias keeping silent watch, who he was, and why he had undertaken this journey with me.