How to Paint a Dead Man (3 page)

He pulls the chain on the cistern and water dumps down into the bowl. It should be another rule–a good image should tip you off your comfortable perch, stir up your notions of safety, and make you dizzy. Like vertigo. Like Rothko! He’ll have to remember to tell the kids that one. He’ll have to write these rules down or something, for posterity. It’s useful information after all. He can hear Lydia calling ‘Peter, Peter, are you…’ as he pads down the hallway to the top of the stairs. Below is a strange scene. Danny is naked and curled against the bottom step, having made it no further than a few feet from his berth. His skin is glistening wet, his eyes behind his eyelids flickering. Probably still dreaming of that rave in the old art-deco hotel down the coast (hey, maybe he should pilfer some of Dando’s little dove pills and give them a whirl, quid pro quo et cetera). His sister is standing over him with a primed watering can, looking lethal.

In the cool back room of her mother’s house Annette measures rose stalks with her forearm. The stems must be kept long, the length from her fingertip to her elbow. They must be trimmed under running water to prevent their white heads drooping, like nuns in prayer. She snips the stalks, one by one, then turns off the tap, closes and locks the blades and places the shears to one side. She arranges the roses in a pottery urn and takes it across the courtyard, careful not to trip on the uneven stones. She puts the spray into the back of the van, next to the freesias and the gaggles of narcissi, and closes the double doors with a
gong-gong.

Maurizio is sitting in the driver’s seat, eating a pomegranate for breakfast. Annette climbs into the cabin next to him. He sips noisily at the slippery fruit. ‘You don’t love me,’ he says. ‘If you loved me you would have given me a rose to wear behind my ear.’ Annette smiles and tucks her chin on to her chest. Her older brother is a tease. He is always telling her she does not love him, when he knows very well she does. At the front door of Castrabecco their mother stands in her long shawl and a dark dress. She holds a crucifix between her fingers and rubs it from side to side along its chain. Under his breath Maurizio says, ‘She will start a fire with that thing one day. Then she’ll go up in flames.’

‘Is Mamma waiting for us?’ Annette asks.

‘No,’ he replies, then quite casually he says, ‘I stabbed her and left all the pieces in the bathtub. What a mess. You’re going to have to clear it up later, Netta. Then we’ll run away.’ His sister laughs, even though she knows it is a wicked thing for him to say. But Maurizio is a boy, and the rules are different. He is allowed to watch American films on Saturday night, and he is allowed to say wicked things, so long as he provides enough charm afterwards to make up for it. ‘Is Mamma waving to us?’ she asks. Maurizio turns the key in the ignition and the van shudders. ‘Yes, with her bloody stump!’

The drive to the market only takes a few minutes and the streets are clear. A tide of mist has rolled up from the lake and lingers around the steps of the old town. Maurizio leans out of the window and folds the side mirror in with a squeak and a click as they pass through the narrow citadel and into the summer theatre. He calls out to the men at the pork stand. ‘Too early! Too early, fatso!’ Already there is the smell of
porchetta
and charcoal burning. The other vendors are busy preparing their pitches. Annette can hear chatter and gossip, the slamming of doors and the scraping of crates. From the back of the van, Maurizio takes out the containers of flowers. He bolts together the canvas awning of the stall, tightens the screws, and then puts a wooden stool underneath it. ‘Your throne. Well, goodbye now. You will never see me again. Don’t be ashamed that you did not love me enough to make me stay.’ He puts his hands around her waist, lifts her and spins her round, six or seven times perhaps, but she loses count. The air rushes past. There is laughter close by, and she can feel her skirt billowing. When Mauri puts her down again she is unsteady on her feet. She reaches out and takes hold of the stool for support. ‘Mauri?’ He is gone. The gears grind as the old Lancia rumbles away. Elemme calls over from the thrift stall. ‘Hey. Your brother is very good-looking. He looks like Mastroianni. He’s got the chin.’

Annette arranges the bouquets so that the roses are at the front of the display. Today they are perfect. By tomorrow they will already have begun to fade. She must try hard to sell them. Her mother says the power of roses is that they make men who pass by want to propose marriage to their girlfriends. She says roses spread virtue. Annette bends down to neaten the posture of the little romantics. She is careful not to squeeze too hard, which could distress the silken petals and leave a grey mark. The roses contain a perfume that is almost too extreme for such slender creations, she thinks, as if it has been manufactured artificially and sprayed on to them. Her uncle Marcello could probably explain why, if she were to ask him. He understands aromatics. As well as growing the flowers for the stall, and the vegetables, he extracts oil from lavender and sells it to perfumeries in Parma. The soul of a flower is not its shape or its colour, but its fragrance, he often says.

Soon it is warm and the mist evaporates. A breeze comes intermittently through the market entrances, bringing with it the memory of wild herbs, lake rushes and cattle. At the café opposite chairs are scraped out from under tables and tablecloths snapped. Saucers chink as they are set down. At some stalls the haggling has already begun. The hotel kitchen boys are scouting for sweet onions to caramelise, good meat, and imported octopus to scare, once, twice, in the boiling pots, before it is submerged. Glass lids tinkle as they are raised to investigate spice; paper cracks like lightning hitting the surface of water as it is folded around ham and smoked fish. Voices crest and roll down the alleyways, there is rustling and gossiping. She can hear the tottering clogs of old women as they pass by and the narrow rasping heels of young wives. Someone is crunching a fruit rind. A loose tablecloth flutters. The summer theatre is open for business.

If Annette did not know what people looked like, if she had not ever seen them before, she would think they were fantastical compositions–part-insect, part-crockery, with wings made of gossamer or tin, with whiskers, hooves, and clicking lobster tails-so unlike tidy, soft-skinned creations do they sound. The heavy cassock of the priest brushes past like the stiff feathers of a giant bird. The tinkling of Elemme’s earrings and bangles is an exotic percussion. At home, when her mother brushes her hair into the classic chignon, the bristles sound like a licking cat’s tongue.

Often Annette wonders about Him. He is not a human. He is not made of hair and skin. But what does he look like? Does he have horns and a snout, the tusks of a boar, or the scales of a snake? Are his eyes out on stalks? Do his knees bend in reverse like a crane’s, their hinges worn shiny as old leather? And is there a sharp grey tail, like pencil lead, like the severed re-growing tails of lizards? Perhaps in his mouth is broken glass, or two rows of teeth, with which he devours his meals? But what does he eat? She tries, but she cannot remember the image she once saw, and her mother will not answer questions about the Bestia. She snatches air through her nose and leaves the room when she is asked, and Annette hears her sibilant sleeve as she crosses herself, twice, even three times. Only when the headaches come, or the moods of passion, will her mother talk about his cloak of buzzing flies and his long red shadow. The fatal shadow that was cast over Annette’s father as he died.

Annette knows he is there in the altarpiece of the church of San Lorenzo. In the painting is a vision of him that was said to have sent the illustrator mad, trying to tear his own eyes out, after its completion. ‘I have opened the gate of Hell’, he wept to the doctors. ‘I have brought something unspeakable back with me.’ How it struck fear into her when she was young, this haunted picture. In the dark varnish Christ was lifted tenderly from the cross by the faithful, and behind him was a terrible unholy face, a face that would not truly come into focus, but warped, as if pulled through water, as if the smudges of paint could never dry, as if the image were washing forever in torment. The demonic face was too terrible for her to look upon, even while she was able to look at the deep wounds of Sebastian mounted on the wall opposite, and at the intestines of the medieval martyr being wound on to a wheel by his persecutors. She knows he is still there in the church, leering at her as she kneels, and she cannot concentrate on her prayers. He is alive inside the ornate frame, alive and looking at her.

Here in the busy market, there are times she feels it too, a terrible gaze settling upon her, coming from a place at the very edge, by the furthest wall. It is as if the Bestia has stepped from behind the torrid robes and clay body of Christ and has walked from the scene of the Deposition into the street, into the summer theatre, looking for her. He stands watching, his mouth open and shining with its teeth in many rows, his inhuman eyes, and the meat of his forehead cast in primitive lumps. Then a cold wind passes, and he is gone, and the feeling is forgotten.

A man lingers beside her stall and asks the price of the white roses. He moves on without purchasing any, leaving only the drift of cologne. She can tell from the slowing of shoes and the speeding of shoes how people react to her prospect; who is interested in posies, and who only has money for the evening’s meal. Like the other vendors she could call out, solicitous, inviting, and say that so many of the flowers at her feet are useful; that marigold is Roman saffron-each perfect golden bowl holding seasoning and dye enough for rice, cake and marzipan. That plum blossom can be made into tea. That rose petals dissolve so delicately on the tongue and can flavour gelato. But she does not call out.

In the school nearby a bell sounds. The Montessori children skitter up the steps like calves on a ramp. Her youngest brother is among them, learning to read, learning to write. How will they learn today, she wonders? Will it be a song, or a game of some description? What will Tommaso come home reciting and will their mother approve of his advancement or think it frivolous? She remembers when she attended school. She remembers Signora Russo, who was the headmistress, and Signor Giorgio, who visited the class and taught them to paint and was always kind to her.

There are casual heel-clicks making their way through the stalls, pausing at the cheese counter with its loamy globes, at the bead-maker, and at the bric-a-brac. A little distance away, footsteps follow, cautious, flat-soled. A lady is being followed by a shy admirer. He does not have the courage to approach her. The woman passes by; she has browsed, and made a purchase, and the package creaks inside her straw bag. There is the tonk of bottles. She has wine. They could share it at a table and talk to each other of how long they have wanted to meet. Annette reaches down and lifts a stem gently with two fingers under the petal bonnet. He approaches. She holds out the rose and it is taken from her hands, humbly, wordlessly, as if taken by a spectre. Now he begins to walk quickly, and now he runs. There is a small cry of surprise, and delight, and laughter. The footsteps together disappear.

In the late morning it thunders. Rain patters on the awning, plops into the puddles by her feet. It is like the sound Tommaso has learned to make with his lips, which irritates their mother. Annette pulls the buckets of flowers close under the shelter, rolls down the canvas sides. Uncle Marcello once told her in the greenhouses that when it thunders myrtle has been axed in half, and is protesting. When the sun comes out it is because two myrtle strips have been brought back together again. He is full of such lore. Her mother often thinks it inappropriate, and a contradiction to the supreme laws of God, but she is also very superstitious. She is superstitious about salt and numbers and animals. She does and does not approve of the little spirit-stopper Uncle Marcello has made for Annette to wear around her neck. Inside the pretty green vial there is concentration of rosemary. Rosemary: strongest of the charms against demons, holiest of the aromatics.

You’ve been trying to cope, for the sake of your parents. For the sake of your involuntary breath, and your heart, which bangs on without consent. To all intents and purposes, and to all appearances, you are functioning adequately. You get up in the morning, wash yourself, walk to the gallery, and work. You are not lying in your own faeces, howling at strangers in the street. You are accepting things. You even bought a book on bereavement. You found yourself in the self-help section of Waterstone’s last week, pulling a pale pink volume off the shelf. The next thing you knew the salesgirl was running it through the till, taking your card, asking you to check the amount and type in your PIN. Maybe you thought this would provide the key to recovery. Maybe you thought it would give you a step-by-step approach to grieving, a register delicate enough to describe the qualities of your grief. It wasn’t much use. None of it rang true. None of it made sense. The words passed in front of your eyes and failed to describe your position. So you got rid of it-gave it away to the Oxfam on the heath. What were you thinking? That you could study death as if it was a pregnancy, or a carpentry course? That you could find the ‘lost fraternal twin’ chapter and make notes in the margin? That it would actually help?

You want to be helped. You want to experience your life. You want to feel yourself again; the owner not just of muscles, connective tissues, nerve endings and senses, but of a soul, and a familiar personality. You want to feel inhabited. In lieu of this you’ll take any transaction: pain, discomfort, cold, upset anything. You’ve been trying to jumpstart your atoms; shock them into life again. It’s what they do in hospitals after all-the gelid paddles on the chest, and then lightning shot into the unresponsive core. You’ve pinched your skin red. You’ve skipped meals, whole days without food, until you are starving. Only then would you eat; blue cheese, raw fish: anything with a strong taste. You’ve begun to eat meat again after a decade of being vegetarian. You eat it rare, savouring the wet iron on your tongue. Venison. Liver. In the grocery store your eye lingers over the stocky red slabs, bound with rind, vacuum-packed in white trays. When you arrive home, there they are at the bottom of your shopping bag, weeping pinkly against the plastic pane.

You’ve tried to provoke emotion. You’ve said cruel things to people you know-Angela, your colleague at work, and your partner Nathan-as if wanting a fight. You’ve seen the startled looks on their faces. Their expressions turning to pity. They hug you, and apologise, as if responsible for your outburst, as if excusing your behaviour.
You’re hurting, aren’t you,
they say.
You’re missing him.

You were offered time off from the gallery after the accident, which was kind of Angela, but you haven’t taken it. Instead you’ve been erratic, not turning up, or giving short notice for impromptu trips back up north. And you’ve let your photography slide too: lucrative commissions remain unfinished, your Leica and the pricey digital sit in the kit bag in the spare room; you’ve lost money on the unused studio, and your films are tucked away at the back of the refrigerator behind the butter and bacon. There is enough art-world gossip for people to know what has occurred to your family, for them to extend consideration. Recently, Nathan told you that you’d woken up in the night crying, and hitting him, but you didn’t remember doing it. The patience granted in the wake of Danny’s death has been nothing if not remarkable.

You don’t deserve it. You’ve behaved worse than this. You’ve found that there is something that can make you feel, and make you feel present: sex. Not the routine, dusk-and-dawn sex of a trusted, established relationship, but illicit, dangerous sex. Sex that is novel and leaves you sore; that is experienced in the gaps between your mundane, moral life; that is strange and breathless and addictive.

You have been seeing someone else. You’ve discovered this man is capable of creating that hot primary yearning from the cervix down. There have been several indiscretions to date. You want there to be more. You want the skin and the smell and the taste and the movement of him. His beautiful mouth, his top lip shaped like a bird in flight. The anise of his fluids. Him made hard and pushed inside you. You understand the risks, the damages, but they seem irrelevant. This is right for you; he lets you remember what it is to be human.

You and your partner Nathan have been together for six years. There are days you are sure you love him, and days you are indifferent towards him. Oddly, the moments of desire you have experienced with this other man are the moments in which you feel the most tenderness and compassion towards Nathan. As if only by hurting him do you make him relevant.

He loves you. He has not stopped loving you since you first got together. In the last few weeks he’s been trying gently to manage you, trying to corral your grief, and provide support. He speaks quietly, as if not to spook you. He calls you regularly throughout the day, brings home flowers, cleans the house, cooks. He has not pushed you on any of the issues that must seem alarming to him as an informed observer. The meat-eating. The bitchery. The hours spent at the gallery in the evening when you should be home. The times you’ve gone running so hard on the heath you’ve made yourself vomit. He’s worried, of course he is, about your health, your state of mind, the way your brother’s accident has stripped you of your usual spirit. He’s worried about the disappearance of the woman he knows. He doesn’t say,
Darling, why don’t you see someone about being depressed,
or,
Really, you should finish the work for the Trust,
or,
Susan, please come back to me.
Nor does he cry in front of you, though you know he loved your brother too, and misses the times they stayed up late drinking whisky and playing cards, or watching Bond reruns, the times they biked the trails, or walked either side of you up the fells. He has not unpacked his grief.

You exist just outside the life you have with Nathan. It isn’t your life any more. Within is the choreography of eating and sleeping and paying bills, the mechanics of being together in a relationship, which has nothing to do with who you are. The man you live with is a kind stranger.

If Danny were told about all this, if by some miraculous paradox Danny could be drawn from the dark ether into which he has been vented and rearranged around his old anatomy and then told about your response to his death, he would get it. He would smile in that broad, puerile way of his, or laugh, or put his arm around you and say,
Lighthouse extinguished, Captain. The rocks! The rocks!
or something equally endearing and childish. The awful irony is that he’d be the one person to truly sympathise. By which you don’t mean just accept poor old you, having it hard, missing him and messing up your life. No. Danny would have an exact perspective, a clear understanding of how it is to
be
you. If Danny were alive, he wouldn’t need to be told what was wrong. He would simply know. Your little brother was cleverer than anyone gave him credit for. He didn’t exhibit those unhealthy verbal symptoms or throw fits about swapping milk beakers. He didn’t have to see Dr Dixon for any sessions. He was the quiet one, the dummy, ‘the secondary’ in a way, he held all the power.

It’s hard to explain this connection. Kids at school would ask you to read each other’s minds.
What’s Danny thinking, Suze? What colour are your sister’s knickers, Dando? Woooh, can you levitate this pencil case between you? Can you feel her bits?
As if the two of you were holding private séances.

Maybe it’s best described like this. You have always liked fire. In the cottage where you were brought up you were the one who kept watch over the hearth, clearing the grate in the morning, stoking the coals before dinner, and smooring the embers at night. You hated anyone else poking it, which your dad often did, as dads often do. He would tell you off as a kid for building the fire too high, being wasteful with the wood and coal, which he had to shovel, chop and stack.
You’ll start a chimney blaze and kipper me paintings, Suze!
You weren’t a pyromaniac; it wasn’t about the thrill of conjuring up that thin, vigorous spirit and unleashing its ravenous appetite. It was the history you’d had with it.

You were never afraid, not since the moment you crawled over to the pretty sparking hearth when the guard was down, put one chubby fist in towards the flames and removed a burning stick by its un-charred end. You were still holding it a minute later when your mum arrived and dropped her washing basket.
Oh poppet, poppet, be careful,
she said, walking with soft haste towards you. As your head turned towards her the torch drooped and touched your leg. Then you understood what that red synaptic bloom was. It was pain, seen. It was how pain looked outside the body. There’s still a scar, silky and white, like a spider’s nest, above your kneecap.

It was your brother who cried the loudest and made the most fuss though. He squalled and wrung out his eyes in the next room, blind to the events but no less invested in the trauma.
Bur bur bur,
he yelled.
Suzeeeee.
He screamed and bawled and rubbed the wound until your mum went to him, lifted him up, and doused his knee with cold water. That was the first time there was clear evidence.

Afterwards, Danny was nervous. Any time a spark cracked in the fire and missiled out on to the rug, or later when a hot rock fell from a joint into his lap, he would stamp and flap and batter until the tiny smut went out. In contrast, you picked shooters up between your thumb and forefinger and flicked them back over the grate. At teenage parties you would pass your hand through a candle flame at the exact possible slowness for it not to burn you, while Danny panicked and clattered the wax stem to the floor. He was anxious, but giddy around fire. He loved it when you lit the whin bushes on the moor, or made bonfires, or held a lighter to the straw scarecrow belonging to the farm next door. He liked watching you lay fires in the cottage, aiding the draw with a sheet of newspaper, the orange eye brightening behind the events of the world. When the newsprint turned brown and flamed to life, you punched the paper up the chimney, and Danny blinked and blinked, and left the room, and then came back in.

Now he is gone, and you are here, trying to find yourself in the mess, trying to locate the intimate filaments of which you are comprised. So that from this chaos order is achieved. So that you might be restored. To summarise: you are, or were, a twin. You like fire, veal, the seagull-shaped mouth of the man you are fucking when it dips below your navel and preens in the emulsion of you. You don’t find comfort in books. Your name is known in the art world, because you are relatively talented, and because you are your father’s daughter. You have your mother’s teeth, her black and topaz moles. You were the embryo on the left side of her uterus, the embryo fate was kind to. Your brother rode his mountain bike the wrong way up the motorway one night and was killed. You are alive, somehow, continuing to pulse, continuing to breathe.