Infrared (17 page)

Silence between the two of them. The sun is at its zenith. Its golden rays pour down over the church steeple, warming the wall behind them. This moment she does
not
photograph—but it, too, fades and vanishes. She’ll remember the stuffed kitten for the rest of her life and forget the church wall, warm and luminous.

Here they are in the Piazza della Santissima Annunziata, and once again—there’s nothing for it—Rena seethes inwardly with rage.

Most Holy Annunciation, my eye! My ass! Mary didn’t get knocked up by a whispered word from the angel Gabriel, she got knocked up by some guy’s tool. Same goes for your mom—and yours—and yours!

Oh! Shocking! Subra laughs.

Enough already! When will we finally cut the bullshit? When will we stop propagating the ridiculously immature fairytale of immaculate conception, invented by Neolithic human males? Like all mothers, Mary got herself shtupped. Whether she was well or badly shtupped, whether her deflowerer was a brute or a delicate lover no one knows for sure; what we
do
know for sure is that a man came along and ploughed her furrows, so when oh
when
will we put an end to all this nonsense about virgin mothers? That’s where East meets West. Pornographers want eroticism without procreation,
Talibans want procreation without eroticism; the idea of orgasmic moms is unbearable to everyone.

She hesitates. Decides to ask a passer-by.

‘Excuse me, is this the Archaeological Museum?’

‘No,’ he says, ‘this is the Hospital of the Innocents.’

‘I see…’

Scratching her head, she checks it out in the guidebook.

Not half bad, either. Also designed by Brunelleschi. Painting gallery, arcades, Della Robbia medallions. Suddenly she feels dizzy. Why go here rather than there, visit this rather than that, guzzle down these facts rather than those? What is it we are hoping to see? What are we looking for in this city—and, more generally, in life?

At the thought of giving in to indifference and starting to flounder through the same fuzzy, amorphous time as Simon and Ingrid, Rena begins to panic. She clings desperately to their ‘plan’ (devised a mere three minutes ago) to visit the Archaeological Museum. Bravely following the passer-by’s directions, they strike off down the Via della Colonna. As usual, the footpaths are too narrow for them to talk or walk together, and trucks and buses keep thundering past. As usual, her father finds any number of things worth paying attention to along the way. As usual, Rena takes the lead, walks too quickly, and has to stop every few yards to wait for them. Seeing an Italian flag up ahead, she tells herself it probably marks the museum entrance. Oh, but it’s hopelessly far away, we’ll never get there, ever. Might as well turn around and go back right now—first to the hotel, then to our respective countries—this whole trip is one enormous mistake…

Her mobile rings. It’s Thierno.

‘Hey, kid.’

‘Hi, how’s it going?’

‘Good!’

Incredible, Rena thinks, to have this sort of laconic
exchange—’How’s it going?’ ‘Good!’—with a person who once lived inside you and whose development you supervised for twenty years, a person you taught to speak, to whom you read a thousand bedtime stories, for whom you cooked countless meals, whose homework you helped with and whose ill health you nursed, whose problems you listened to and whose friends you welcomed into your home. Incredible to end up exchanging platitudes with your own children.

Yes, says Subra. Don’t forget, though: you were terse over the phone with your own folks, when you were a teenager.

‘Where are you?’ she asks Thierno. (This, too, she has learned to say.)

‘Still in Dakar. Quick, remind me—what are the rules for three-man crib?’

‘Well, there are two schools of thought. Either you deal five cards to each player plus one to the crib and each player puts a card in the crib, or else you deal six cards like in the regular game—in which case the dealer puts two cards in his crib and the others put one in the crib and another on the bottom of the pack.’

‘Which way’s the most authentic?’

‘The first. Your dad and I invented the other one. Generally speaking, it results in superior hands and inferior cribs.’

‘Got it. Thanks, Ma. Take care.’

‘Bye, my love.’

By the time Rena has finished shaking her head at the idea that this card game, originally a pastime for idle Victorian ladies, has spread all the way to Senegal via Australia, Canada and France, they find themselves at the ticket desk of the Archaeological Museum.

The minute they enter the first room, though, she feels like turning around and walking out again. Damn it all to hell, what are they doing in ancient Egypt? They’ve come here to see Tuscany, not ancient Egypt. They can see ancient Egypt any old day, in Boston, New York or Paris, whereas Tuscany…

Whereas Tuscany
what?
Subra queries. What would seeing Tuscany be like?

Well…I suppose we might as well take a look, since we’re here.

Gold, planished 5600 years ago. One display case after another of precious stones—necklaces, bracelets, earrings—a bedazzlement. As they move through the cool calm rooms, Ingrid’s voice drones on and on about Rotterdam yesterday and today, the harshness of the post-war years…
Stop it!
Rena refrains from screaming at her. What have you come here for? Do you want to see these wonders or don’t you? Look—right there, before your very eyes—planished gold and precious stones from ancient Egypt! Enjoy them or I’ll kill you!

Swallowing down her annoyance, she says nothing. After all, she tells herself, the Theban courtesans who wore those jewels were probably chatterboxes, too.

Yes, Subra murmurs. And moreover, they had slaves.

On the second floor, her father suddenly tugs at her sleeve. ‘Rena, look!’

She glances impatiently at what he’s pointing to—a block of pink granite with a fragment of bas-relief representing a child and an animal—fine.

‘What do you think that’s about?’

‘Frankly, Dad,’ she says with condescending kindness, ‘I wouldn’t presume to have an opinion on the matter. Egyptologists, historians, and archaeologists have been studying these objects for centuries. They
know
the answer, so there’s no point in our guessing at it. Just a sec.’

Grabbing the sheet of plasticised cardboard listing the objects in the room, she finds the granite block and reads aloud, rather haughtily: ‘An extremely rare representation of the cow Hathor suckling Horemheb, the Pharaoh who came to power after Tutankhamun’s death (fourteenth century B.C.).’ You see, Dad? she natters on, though not out loud. No point in our having an opinion.

My own periods of lactation, she continues in an aside to Subra—and to a lesser extent, my pregnancies—were the only times I ever had breasts worthy of the name. Such an insanely erotic experience, those first months of motherhood. Deep sweet perpetual inner climax. Sheer joy of being so passionately desired and caressed, and fulfilling someone’s needs so utterly. Exhilaration of having another person’s body, first nestled inside your own, then perfectly fed by it: the baby’s lips tugging away at one nipple while its tiny fingers play with the other, making it stiffen in pleasure. In Renaissance paintings you sometimes see baby Jesus playing with his mom’s breast that way…

Yeah, Subra says, but the Madonna never seems turned on by it.

Women are right to hide that pleasure from men, Rena laughs. They’d have good reason to be jealous. Poor guys—forever at a distance, dry, tense, nervous, on their guard, never entirely convinced that they’re loved, wanted, needed…

‘Even so,’ Simon insists, not offended by her peremptory tone of voice, ‘doesn’t it remind you of something?’

‘What do you mean, something? Frankly, there’s not much point in our…in our…Wait a minute.’

At last Rena looks. Really looks. That’s all her father has been asking her to do.

A two-ton block of pink granite brought back from Egypt by the Romans…The Romans, when? Why?
Look.
Look at what the bas-relief is about: a beast suckling a boy.

Suddenly it’s obvious. Blindingly clear. No doubt about it, Rena tells herself. My father is right and the specialists are a bunch of nincompoops. If the Romans dragged this monumental sculpture all the way from Egypt to Italy in the third century A.D. (and just think what that entailed: the weight…the distance…in the boats they had back then…and no Suez Canal!), it was because it spoke to them of themselves. Yes: in Horemheb they recognised Romulus; and in Hathor, the She-wolf.

One point for you, Dad.

Horemheb suckled at Hathor’s breast…Romulus at the She-wolf’s… Jesus at Mary’s…Pico at Giulia Boiardo’s…How about you, Dad? Whose nipples would you have needed to drink from, in order to become immortal?

Granny Rena’s two children were born in the sinister 1930s. Years of painful exile for her, persecution and terror for all the Jews of Europe. If she nursed her children, they can only have drunk down anxiety and bitterness along with their breastmilk…

That’s how destinies get forged, Subra says philosophically.

Rowan and I were Lisa’s Romulus and Remus, I know that. Remus was an afterthought, a usurper, an impostor, I know that. In the first sculptures of the She-Wolf that symbolises Rome, only Romulus crouches beneath her, sucking at her teat, I know that…
Yes, I’m familiar with that scene now. Rowan told me about it last summer—first laughing, then in tears.

Tell me,
Subra says.

I’d gone to Vancouver to help him celebrate his forty-ninth birthday. He didn’t want to make a big deal about his fiftieth like everybody else—’Why do people always celebrate round figures?’ he asked me over the phone. ‘I mean, it’s completely arbitrary, isn’t it? I’ve never liked round figures and I see no reason to celebrate them. My own lucky number has always been seven, so I’ve decided to throw a big party for my seven-times-seventh birthday. Please try to come, Rena…’ So I made the trip.

It’s about eight thousand kilometres from Paris to Vancouver. I flew all that distance just to see my big brother’s eyes light up—those beautiful green eyes we both inherited from our Australian mom. Some fifty friends of his—musicians and actors of both sexes, mainly gays and lesbians—had converged for the celebration, which was heavily laced with gin, cocaine and a number of other magic potions. When we finally found ourselves alone together at around three in the morning, Rowan suggested we go on celebrating for a while and I said yes, I said yes, I’ve always said yes to my older brother. ‘For me it’s already twelve noon,’ I told him. ‘I can’t possibly be tired.’ Rowan laughed. So we talked for another three hours—or rather, since gin loosens his tongue, Rowan talked for another three hours, and by the time dawn started whitening the sky he was telling me about my arrival in his life when he was four.

‘You took Lisa away from me,’ he said. ‘One day, I remember, she was nursing you and I tried to drink from the other breast but she pushed me away. She had eyes only for you. I wanted to kill you, you know? I mean, it wasn’t personal or anything,’ he added, laughing. ‘I had nothing against you personally. I just wanted you to disappear and for things to go back to the way they were before. Was
that too much to ask—that things should go back to the way they were before? I think it was a completely reasonable thing to ask. The idea was to do it very gently. No bloodshed or anything. Just to keep you from breathing, so you’d go back to wherever you came from.’ Again he laughed. ‘So first I held a pillow over your face while you were asleep, but you woke up and started crying and Mommy ran in looking horrified. “What’s the matter? Rowan, what’s the matter? What’s that pillow doing in Rena’s crib? I told you babies slept without pillows, didn’t I?” “Yes.” “No pillows for babies. Right?” “Yes.” “Will you be sure to remember that next time?” “Yes.” “Rena doesn’t like sleeping with a pillow, she’s not big enough yet. For you it’s different, you’re a big boy. Do you understand?” “Yes…” So I went on to my second plan—strangulation. I fetched a scarf, slipped it around your neck, tied the two ends together and pulled with all my might…But again Mommy woke up. And what happened next was awful.’

Tears were reddening his eyes now, his cheeks were grey with stubble and his features were twisted into a grimace of pain; my usually handsome brother looked ugly at that moment, exhausted, inebriated and ugly in the pallid light of dawn. ‘I’ll…never…I can’t ever, ever forget it. How Lisa’s face came right up close to mine. Scarlet with rage. Deformed by hatred. Her mouth open, and her lips—those sensual lips I so loved to kiss—all sort of stiff and square. She was screaming at me. “Ro-o-o-o-wa-a-a-a-a-a-an! How could you do-o-o such a thing? Do you reali-i-i-i-ise, Rowan? Rowan, you almost killed your little sii-i-i-ister!” I couldn’t stand it, so I turned off the sound. I could tell she was still screaming from the way her mouth was moving but I couldn’t hear her anymore…and then…in that silence…she started strangling
me…
She probably did it…so… so…so I’d realise what I had done…so I’d see what it felt like not to be able to breathe…“But Mommy,” I wanted to say to her…“But
Mommy, it’s just because I love you so much!” What could I do to make her love me again? “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, it’s because I love you, Mommy! I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”’

Rowan was sobbing softly, his head on the counter. I came and put an arm around his shoulders. Does he strangle his lovers, too? I wondered. Or ask them to strangle him? I’d be moved but not surprised if the answer was yes…‘Hey, bro’. It’s all over now…Listen, it’s getting late, I’m going to put you to bed.’

At least Lisa nursed you, Subra points out.

Yeah, I was glad to learn that, says Rena. It’s something, anyway, isn’t it?

They move together into the hall of mummies.

Penumbra. They’re all alone in the enormous room. (The conformist crowds can
keep
the Duomo and the Uffizi!) Profound, disturbing mystery of the swaddled dead.