Skin Deep

by Liz Nugent

  I wondered what I could possibly do to make enough money to pay for the operation I needed so badly.

  In desperation, I telephoned Raoul, begging him for news of any work he might know of. He said there was nothing, but I think I was on his conscience, because a few days later he rang to say I should go and meet his nephew Christian, in a shop a few streets away from my flat. It gave me comfort to think that Raoul had not forgotten me.

  Christian was younger than me, maybe twenty-two, but boyish. He was nothing special to look at. His face was thin and his shoulders sloped but his eyes were warm. He ran a gift shop that sold Niçoise souvenirs, rugs, ceramics, soaps, candles and tablecloths to tourists. It was not a shop that would ever make a lot of money, so my thoughts of stealing the takings were immediately redundant. He gestured towards things in the shop. My French was pretty good by now, after six months of total immersion, but within minutes it became clear why I was doing all the talking. Christian had a noticeable lisp. He spoke when he absolutely had to. Customers laughed at him sometimes, and I wondered if Raoul had put us together deliberately, thinking that we might be good for each other with my disfigurement and his speech impediment. Damaged goods selling fancy goods.

  My job was to unpack the products and to go from the shop to the lock-up with a trolley cart to replenish stock whenever required. I could also serve and gift-wrap for customers, but I was not to handle bank lodgements. The pay was not much better than it had been in Raoul’s restaurant, but the work was easier. In February, there was little or no business but we were open all day. Christian would disappear for hours at a time without explanation. He had several visitors who came to the shop regularly, older men in leather jackets. Often, Raoul was among them.

  Initially, I would be sent to the lock-up during these visits, but as time went on I was allowed to stay. Some of the men spoke in a language I did not understand. They did not notice me. Packages and cash changed hands, and I understood quickly that the shop was a front for something else. I kept my head down, my face averted, and did not ask questions. I assumed it was drugs. I was surprised that Raoul was involved in such an enterprise. He had seemed so dedicated to his restaurant, but then I recalled his Ferrari. His pride and joy, parked beside the restaurant for all to admire. He had let tourists sit inside it and take photos of each other. I thought it was just a restaurant gimmick, but for Raoul it was the ultimate status symbol. So, there was money running through this place. I just had to bide my time. Watch and learn. It might take a while to gain their trust, but I reckoned this was no small-time enterprise, not with so many people involved.

  Christian and I eased into a comfortable non-verbal friendship. He did not appear to have a wife or children. Sometimes I made him sandwiches at home and brought them in. He was surprised and grateful. Sometimes he would open a bottle of wine at the end of the day, and I would sip from a can of Coke in companionable silence. He took a pack of cards from the shelf one day and we began to teach each other the card games from our childhood, and then he showed me poker. We played for cigarettes. We were both good bluffers, as it turned out, and were evenly matched.

  I had grown my hair long and managed to wear it forward over the bad side of my face, but I couldn’t glue my hair into place, so inevitably the scarring was visible. By September 1992, eighteen months after the fire, my face was as healed as it was ever going to be. From a distance you would not notice anything wrong, but anybody within ten feet would see the rippled skin and the turned-down mouth, my right eyelid hooded more than my left. My smile, which had been my greatest asset, was uneven. It was hideous to me, though Christian insisted it was not so bad.

  Christian began to speak a little more to me. I learned that his friends were Corsican. He said that they were just using his warehouse, a different place from the lock-up, as temporary storage from time to time, and that it supplemented his income. I did not ask any questions, and I think he knew by my silence that I did not believe him. ‘You think it’s drugs, don’t you?’ he said, confirming my suspicions. Christian was not smart.

  I watched the money and the drugs from behind my hair as they passed from hand to hand, stuffed into envelopes or well-sealed parcels.

  ‘I trust you, Cordelia,’ said Christian one day, as he leaned over and kissed the corner of my mouth. The ugly side. He withdrew quickly, embarrassed, and his inexperience with women became obvious. In the old days I would have slapped him away, but now I wondered how my lifestyle might improve if I were a gangster’s moll. His self-esteem must be pretty low if I was the person he chose to kiss. Christian started to buy me gifts: ostentatious jewellery, designer watches, oversized bunches of flowers. He gave me a pay rise, took me to dinner. I knew I could use him.

  In the new year we finally slept together and then, inevitably, he began to spill the beans. The Corsicans were bringing in drugs from Morocco to Marseilles. From there, they were delivered to Christian’s warehouse somewhere outside Nice, hermetically sealed within stacks of rugs or ceramics or whatever other tat we were selling. Business was never conducted at the warehouse because the gendarmes would periodically check storage units with sniffer dogs and some of the Corsicans’ distributors at the port of Marseilles were on an Interpol watch list. Christian’s little shop had become the business hub, but in reality Christian worked for Raoul, who laundered the money through the restaurant in Villefranche. It all made good business sense and my respect for Raoul increased, but Raoul was wary of me. He felt sorry for me but he did not trust me.

  He did not like the fact that Christian and I were close. He warned me not to hurt Christian, said that he was a good boy. ‘You are the one who puts him at risk,’ I said, and I could see he was furious to realize that I knew exactly what was going on in his businesses. In public I taunted Raoul, being overly affectionate towards Christian, playing up our new romance. In private I kept Christian at a certain remove. He wanted me to come live with him and I was tempted. His flat was bigger than mine. You could see the sea from his bedroom. But I liked being on my own. I even liked Madame Marzikova. I secured my privacy by claiming to be religious. Indeed, I did spend a lot of time going in and out of the magnificent churches that were dotted all over the city, not to pray, but for peace and privacy, and because I could wear a mantilla and feel like everybody else with an unblemished face.

  In the shop one day, Raoul sent Christian on an errand while the Corsicans counted cash in the back room. He beckoned me to come join him on the bench outside. ‘Cordelia. He is just a boy. Do not use him for entertainment.’

  I laid my head on Raoul’s shoulder and put my hand on his knee. ‘You have nothing to worry about. I am totally devoted to your nephew,’ I lied.

  He flinched away from my touch. ‘Don’t play games. You have been warned.’ He jerked his thumb towards the back room.

  The Corsicans were dangerous and ruthless. Christian had told me stories of former accomplices who had had their throats cut, and occasionally I would see two of the men who came to the shop around the town, these middle-aged men, accompanied by impossibly young girls. Prostitutes, I assumed. Certainly underage. When I remarked on this to Christian, he agreed that it was terrible how they treated people, but Raoul needed these men and we had to keep on their right side. When they were around, I kept my mouth shut and my head down.

  24

  One night in September 1993, over a year after Christian and I had started a relationship, I came home from work to find Harry standing outside my building. It was a Wednesday, my half-day in the shop. It had been ten years since I’d seen him, but he was immediately recognizable, even though he was flabby around the middle and his face was bloated. The familiar broad grin appeared when he saw me. ‘Delia!’

  Nobody in France knew me by that name. The last time I had seen him, he had refused to talk to me, and that was before I had married his brother.

  ‘Harry, what are you doing here?’

  ‘My God, where did you get that accent?’

&nbs
p; I said nothing.

  He moved forward to embrace me and I could smell alcohol on his breath. ‘Jesus, you are still beautiful, you really are. The scarring isn’t half as –’

  ‘Harry –’

  ‘Do you know how many hoops I had to jump through to find you? I tracked you –’

  ‘Harry, let’s go and get a coffee, OK?’

  ‘Sure. Can I leave my bag in your place?’ He was carrying a rucksack.

  ‘Wait here.’ I took his rucksack and opened the door and went inside.

  What was he doing here? He couldn’t have come here just to see me, could he? Or had something happened to Peter? Or James? I no sooner asked myself the question than I realized I didn’t want to know about them. Outside again, I led the way to the promenade. Harry kept up a light chat all the way, as if we were old friends. I suppose we were old friends.

  ‘God, it’s beautiful here! So warm compared to home. One of Mum’s friends from the golf club has an apartment somewhere round here I think, or maybe it’s in Cannes, I can’t remember. Look at the colour of the sea!’

  We went down the steps to one of the beach clubs. I ordered an espresso. Harry ordered a glass of rosé. ‘When in Rome!’ he said. He stared out at the sea. Facing him now, I could see his eyes were glassy – from drink or exhaustion, I couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Harry, why have you come here?’

  ‘Jesus, are you going to keep up that accent? Can you not talk in your normal voice? You were only in London for what, seven years?’

  ‘It is the way I talk. I can’t help it.’

  ‘You must be fluent in French now too?’

  ‘Oui.’

  He looked at me. ‘You are still a stunner, you know?’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘Am I boring you? Do you have anything you want to ask me? About Moira or Alan? About your husband or your son?’

  I lit a cigarette. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to tell you anyway. Moira is fine, still living in the house. Her eyesight is bad though. Alan … well, Alan is a lost soul. After they split up – you know they split up, right? Nobody could believe it. He lives in a cottage way outside the town. He built an enormous crucifix and stuck it on top and calls it his church. He’s just a sad old lad now. Lives like a hermit. Talks to no one.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Are you? Really? Moira says you hardly ever write to her. That’s pretty bad manners, Delia, you know? They brought you up. You owe them some loyalty. It costs nothing but the price of a stamp to stay in touch.’

  His eyes were dancing and his mood was a little manic. When the waiter came around again, he ordered a bottle of wine and two glasses, despite my protestations. I did not touch my glass of wine.

  ‘Harry, I don’t need to hear any of this.’

  ‘Yes, you do, you do. You need to hear everything. Your son lives with my mum, did you know that?’

  I got up to leave, but he grabbed me and held me sharply by the wrist. ‘Sit the fuck down and listen to me. We’re only scratching the surface.’ People at other tables looked over. I smiled to reassure them. I did not want a scene.

  ‘Let’s go back to my flat,’ I said. ‘If I have to hear all this, let’s do it in private.’

  His grin returned.

  On the way, I picked up some bread and cheese, and Harry bought wine.

  In the flat, I persuaded him to have a coffee and to eat something. He looked around.

  ‘Is this all you can afford? I thought my brother was supporting you financially.’

  ‘He “maintains” me. I work to earn my living.’

  ‘Oh yeah, what do you do?’

  I shook my head, unprepared to tell him anything.

  ‘Why don’t you trust me, Delia? What did I ever do to you? Did I cheat on you, lie to you, marry your brother, burn his house down, abandon my child?’

  ‘I did not abandon my child!’

  ‘But you never fought to keep him. From what I hear, you never gave a shit about him. Is that true?’

  ‘Harry, stop! Why are you here? It’s been ten years. Why now?’

  ‘Because I’ve gotten to know your son. I have to admit, in the beginning it was hard to look at him. He was so badly disfigured in the fire, and you got away so lightly.’

  ‘No, I didn’t!’ I pulled my hair back so that Harry could see the full extent of my wounds.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, that’s nothing! You’d barely notice it. You can still walk the streets without people staring. You can live a completely normal life. Your son is only just out of hospital for the fifth time. Peter couldn’t work and take care of him at the same time, so James is home, living in Westport with my mum and dad. It’s a miserable existence for him. Living with a grandfather who can barely look at him. Mum tries her best. He started school a few weeks ago in the town. Nobody wanted to sit beside him. Can you imagine what that’s like? He’s nine years old. Did you know he lost most of the fingers on one hand?’

  I started to hum inside my head to block out this noise. I opened the window to the street. I opened the bottle of wine. Maybe if Harry drank more, he would pass out and I could have him removed.

  ‘Oh, Delia, did you ever care about any of us? Moira and Alan? Peter or me? Do you carry on as if we never existed? Here’s some truth for you, OK? You think you’re so bloody clever, but you’re not. You thought you were going to end up living the high life, but look at this place.’

  I refilled his glass.

  ‘Why won’t you drink with me? You needn’t pretend you’re so pure. You got what you wanted, Delia. You wanted to abort him, didn’t you? I know it was my dad’s idea, but you were prepared to go along with it. He told me.’ He took an extra glass from the shelf, filled it and pushed it towards me. ‘Drink it. You never wanted that child. I used to believe it was because you wanted my child, and not Peter’s. I was sure that you would write to me from London, to explain, to apologize. I was so sure he had forced himself on you. So sure.’

  His eyes filled with tears. I had never seen him cry before.

  ‘You would have preferred it if I’d been raped?’

  ‘Yes.’ He whispered it.

  ‘I think you should leave now.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ His eyes drifted away again. He could not focus on one subject at a time. ‘Your son is a good boy, you know? He lives in constant pain. More and more operations. Peter plans to move back to Westport next year. He’s going to open a factory. Computers or something like that. He comes back every other weekend to see James.’

  ‘Are you and Peter … are you …?’

  ‘What do you think, Delia? How could I ever look up to that bastard ever again? He was my brother.’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault –’

  ‘Don’t say that, don’t tell me that!’ He reached across the table and lifted the right side of my lip so that it matched the good side.

  ‘That’s better. That’s how I remember you.’

  I pushed his hand away. ‘Have you come all the way to France to tell me that my son is miserable? Is that why you came? How did you find me anyway?’

  ‘I sort of broke into Peter’s house the day before yesterday. Mum has a key. It was easy. I found a file containing your bank account details and your address. I came because I wanted to know if you ever cared about me, but I already have my answer. It’s been what, nearly two hours now? And you haven’t asked a single question about me.’

  He drained his glass and then reached for the one I hadn’t touched. He slurped from it and leaned back in the chair, his hands behind his head.

  ‘How are you, Harry?’

  ‘Well, let’s see. The hotel is long gone, along with my future. I guess I can’t blame you for that, though Dad does. I’d never have guessed in a million years that Peter would turn out to be an embezzler, but I suppose a man who can cheat on his own brother is capable of anything.’ There was so much bitterness in his voice.

  ‘I neve
r went to college, because I was expected to take over the hotel and learn on the job, so I’m qualified for nothing. I give piano lessons from time to time. I got some bar work in a few of the pubs, but none of those jobs worked out. I’m on the dole. That’s it, that’s my life.’ His words were slurred now.

  ‘Don’t you have a girlfriend, Harry? Didn’t you want to get married, have children?’

  ‘Yes. With you. I still do.’

  ‘Harry –’

  ‘I’ve been out with every girl in Westport who’d have me. None of them are you, Delia. None of them can hold a candle to you.’

  I looked at this man who I’d been going to voluntarily marry at one stage and felt nothing but disgust. He lurched forward in his chair and tried to hug me.

  ‘No, Harry, stop. Get off me!’

  ‘Come on, Delia. You know we were meant to be. We can forget everyone else. I’ve come all this way to be with you. We can live here, just the two of us, as if nothing ever happened.’

  His mouth was on mine, his grip tight around my waist.

  The buzzer of my flat sounded. Harry was momentarily disorientated, long enough for me to escape his clutches and press the access button. I opened the door. I knew it was Christian.

  ‘Who’s coming?’ said Harry.

  ‘My boyfriend.’

  His mouth hung open, as if it had never occurred to him that I might have a relationship with anybody else. Had he assumed that after the fire I had hidden myself away, done penance, lived like a nun? I was furious.

  Christian took one look at the scene. ‘Who is this?’ he demanded in French. Before I could answer, Harry took a swing at Christian and missed, landing on the floor on one knee. Christian grabbed him roughly by the neck. Christian was six inches shorter than Harry, but he had the advantage of being sober. ‘Who is he?’