Читать книгу Aphrodite’s Hat - Salley Vickers - Страница 8

‘Will you take me to see the dragon’s bones? – I want to see the dragon’s bones,’ she said. They were staying in a pensione on the waterfront in Venice. A modest enough place, but expensive, as is anywhere in Venice which commands a prospect of sun and water. The room was sparely furnished but not uncomfortable: the looking-glass before which she undressed was framed in old gilt – the real kind not paint; and the bed, from where he watched her nightly ritual of disrobing, was a proper double and not two twins pushed together. ‘Good,’ she had said, patting the heavy old-fashioned mattress approvingly, ‘we shan’t have to bridge the gap.’ He was pleased that it seemed to matter to her that during the hours of darkness they should not be separated. Certainly to him it was important that her head lay against his shoulder through the anxious nights.

The truth was, the pensione was more than he could easily reach to, but to tell her was one of the many things he could not afford. The cost of the tiny cups of coffee and trays of daintily dressed snacks and drinks, which she ordered with charming ease, accumulated at the back of his thoughts, like dust in an over-used vacuum-cleaner bag, waiting to burst and pollute the pure sea air which smacked their faces heartily each morning.

To be fair, she was not aware that he was stretched. It was innocently that she executed her costly little commands. ‘Shall we have a drink?’ Or ‘I’m starving, let’s send down for one of their cheese-and-ham thingies, shall we?’ The steady traffic of hotel platters filled him with a terrified unease: he was far from certain that the credit on his card was going to meet the bill at the end of their stay.

And it had been his idea to come – he who had carried her off here with such promise and aplomb; she had not angled for it – there was no question of her throwing herself at his head; so that he could not now say, ‘Go easy’ or even suggest a picnic in the Giardini Pubblici, where they had passed old men muffled up in scarves, and whores in leather coats relaxing in the brilliant winter sun. One of the whores had caught his eye and he had been worried that the girl had noticed. It was lucky, he reflected – feeling guilty at the thought – that she watched her weight, for otherwise she might have demanded some grand repast as recompense. His happiness in her company was daily compromised by the fear that she might suddenly suggest dinner at one of those frighteningly grand hotels – the Danieli or, please God not, the Cipriani.

So that when, lying on her stomach on the bed, her legs crossed and swinging back and forth over her bottom like a much younger girl – his kid sister, for example, as he remembered her before their mother died – she had found, in the pages of the guidebook, a reference to some bones in the old church of Murano, the island where they blew glass, it was the greatest relief to him. Here was an opportunity for benevolence which could cost no more than a boat-ride. And he so longed to indulge her.

‘A princess should see a dragon, of course!’ He was a little in love with his own humorous riposte.

The refracted light from the water, as they waited for the vaporetto, settled on her like a blessing or a prayer. She stood, perched on her high-heeled boots, like some exotic teetering crane bird. The big coat she was wrapped in contributed to the sense of feathers. She had been wearing it, the pale grey coat, that day he had seen her first – in the park, sitting on a bench reading, where he had stopped to sit too, drawn by her grave absorption in what she read. There had been a stillness about her, he remembered now.

He compressed his eyes against the sun to observe her better. She was watching for the boat. There was something childlike about her imperious wish that each of the craft which called at the landing-stage be theirs; so that when at last theirs did arrive, he felt sufficiently free of the constraining worry to be able to tease her just a little, once they had found their way aboard, and to tuck safe in under her hat a fair strand of hair which the salt wind was whipping about. It was good to take charge.

They sat at the nose of the boat where the wind flirtatiously competed with her over the hat.

‘Take it off,’ he suggested; and she did, so that later, she remarked, stepping out on to the landing-stage at Murano, that the wind must have left her looking ‘like a witch’ and, clearly, that must have been his intention – so that no one else would look at her but him.

He had to fight off a certain surliness descending at this, for somewhere in his mind there was, indeed, the thought that he wanted her to himself; wanted to be rid of the calculating glances of men who appraised her young body. His own body was far from young.

Passing a trattoria on the fondamenta, where a waiter was already laying out the tables – securing paper cloths at the corners with steel clips against the wind – he imagined, as he steered her through the narrow gap, the waiter’s cynical black eyes following them and determined they would not go back there for lunch.

The church was old, twelfth century the guidebook said. It quoted Ruskin and he took a certain pride in knowing who Ruskin was and why his opinion was worth hearing. ‘Ruskin praised it,’ he explained to her, ‘but then it was restored later on in the nineteenth century,’ and she gave a slight shudder as if to reassure him that she knew that such barbarous practices were to be deplored.

But restoration or no they agreed it was undeniably beautiful – the old mellow brick church.

Inside, they stood, slightly awed, together on the threshold of the ancient billowing floor. Before them, in the dim curve of the apse above the altar, there hovered an elongated figure.

Set in an unadorned vista of scintillating gold, the young mother of God held up her palms in an attitude of naked supplication, as if, surprised by some interloper, she were protecting her modesty. Instinctively, he crossed himself, and genuflected, making the gesture of obeisance.

‘You’re not Catholic!’ she exclaimed.

He had never said – why should he? He no longer practised; but there was something exasperating in the way she had spoken.

He felt intruded upon, and bundled away the feeling with an attempt at casualness. ‘Not now. But it sort of sticks.’

His wife’s face, puckered in angry astonishment the day he had told her he was leaving, interposed itself between the vision of the blue-gowned Virgin in her gold-tasselled stole.

‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘I like it that you are,’ and he felt annoyed with himself for feeling grateful. The marriage vows were for life – his wife had sent fat, voluble Father Michael to remind him.

‘It is a mortal sin you are committing, Joseph, to leave your lawful married wife, now. One that the Holy Father in His blessedness, mind, can never forgive.’

A bleak ember of anger began to smoulder again, threatening to break into that consuming flame. She came across and put her arm in his. ‘You can show me, then,’ she suggested, ‘all the churchy bits I don’t understand.’

But most of the church was a puzzle to him too, hardly like the churches he knew from home at all. Those were modern, with coloured paper flowers on the altar, and new pine, waxy and yellow. This one seemed a kind of emporium of pagan imports – on the worn marble floor peacocks picked at grain, a fox was unfathomably strung between two roosters; and the leaf-scrolled capitals crowning the grey-granite columns seemed to belong more in a pagan temple than a church. Only the slight young woman, in the background of soaring gold, with the still more golden halo round her chaste head, was familiar to him.

‘I expect they took half this stuff over from earlier times,’ she said, comfortingly. ‘Anyway, it’s all worship, isn’t it?’

They stood before a bank of glimmering candles, the long youthful Virgin above them. From the guidebook he read aloud, ‘The relics of St Donato are in the church; also, the relics of the dragon he killed may be seen behind the high altar.’

‘There!’ she pointed. Four lanky ribs hung incongruously suspended beneath the Virgin, who rested lightly, on one foot, on her cushion above. ‘See, the dragon!’

‘It must be a bull or an ox or something, I suppose,’ he mused.

‘No, it’s a dragon. It says so.’ She was prettily defiant.

‘Yes,’ he said, prepared to be amused, ‘of course it is a dragon.’

‘You don’t believe it?’

‘Well …’ he was at a loss, not knowing what she wanted. He had tried to play the game: ‘Not really, but …’

‘But you believe in the Holy Ghost – Spirit – whatever you call it. Why not dragons?’

He didn’t know that he did believe in the Holy Spirit: fat Father Michael had spoken of eternal damnation. ‘It is hell now you are looking to spend your unnatural days in, Joseph.’

‘Dragons are legend.’ His voice in the huge church sounded squeaky and insignificant. To his alarm he heard a crack in it – it would be terrible if he were to cry in front of her. ‘The Holy Spirit’s different.’ He pressed his voice into a cheerful certainty he was hardly equal to feeling.

‘Why? Why is it different?’ She was frowning now. A group of people had come into the church. A guide, a woman, was pointing with an unfurled umbrella at the all-comprehending Virgin. ‘Isn’t your religion all legend too? You believe that she,’ her rising voice made the underlining, ‘was fucked by God, don’t you?’

The candid eyes of the blue-robed Virgin, whose hands seemed so uncompromisingly to ward off evil, gazed down upon them. He had lied to his wife – pretended that there was no one he was leaving for. ‘We were married too young, Josie,’ he had said, trying desperately to staunch her weeping furious questions. Had it made any difference that they had, both of them, almost the same name? Maybe it prevented him from seeing Josie as she was – different from him. But that wasn’t true either. Once, if you had asked him, he would have said he would have died for his young bride. People where he came from didn’t ask such things – but there was no one he would have died for since as he would have done for Josie.

‘Yes, but …’ The truth was he was shocked. How did you explain the Immaculate Conception?

‘I don’t rubbish your beliefs – you shouldn’t mine.’

It was the picture of her, in her grey fluffy coat bent over her book, for which he had left Josie; his daughter now would not even let him visit his grandchildren. He felt the back of his throat prick again. ‘I wasn’t rubbishing …’ He knew she knew that he wasn’t. This was one of those inexplicable, unpredictable things which women did to you – pretended you were treating them badly when all the time they must know how hard you were trying. He had been so pleased to take her to see the dragon’s bones. And Josie – there was no help for it. In his heart he knew he had treated her badly.

The girl turned away and stalked down the side aisle towards the door. She no longer looked like a bird – unless it were something wild and dangerous which might flash suddenly at you with its beak and cut your flesh to the bone. To his horror he saw she was about to address the guide of the party. In this mood she might say anything.

Hurrying after her he understood suddenly, why, in the days before he left, Josie had gone about the house without a bra. Her nipples protruding through her cardigan had startled, then revolted him. He had backed away from the thought of it. Now, in a flash, he saw that she had been trying – poor Josie – to rekindle his interest in her.

He caught up with the girl and grabbed her arm just as he heard her say, ‘Excuse me, the dragon …?’

‘Si, signora?’ The guide, a short stocky woman with a white face and a faint trace of moustache, stared at them with a tincture of insolence. It must have been obvious they were having a row.

‘We were wondering – St Donato killed it … when?’

‘It was eight, nine century, signora.’

‘And was it why he was made a saint?’

Looking down at the intricate marble patterns of the floor he was conscious of the Virgin’s measureless blue gaze above.

‘Si, signora. He kill the dragon which make all the people afraid.’

‘You see,’ she said, triumphant, disengaging his grip from her arm and placing her own under his, ‘even your stupid old Church believed in it!’

She was smiling again, and in a rush of joy that the matter of the dragon had been settled – slaughtered for good, he hoped – and that she was back with him again, he was about to propose lunch in the trattoria they had passed when she continued:

‘Where shall we go for lunch?’ – and before he could answer – ‘Or, let’s just have a snack now, shall we? Then we can eat properly for once tonight. At the Danieli, or that one I read about, where the film-stars go, the Cipriani. We can, now, can’t we …?’