Ever Dundas - Goblin

‘I’ll find you, David,’ I whispered to the sea.

Tim had given me my circus earnings to get myself settled and I got by for a couple of months. I bought some language books and tapes, teaching myself some basic Italian, embarrassing myself at the local market as I stumbled through fragmented sentences. The stall holders would laugh and shake their heads at me, replying to me in Italian that was too fast to follow. I was tempted to forgo these regular humiliations and shop exclusively at the supermarkets, but I always went back. After almost three months, the stallholders would greet me warmly and they were soon helping me, teaching me new words. One of the fish merchants, Benito, could speak English all along.

‘What’s Italian for “asshole”?’ I said.

He smiled, raised his hands in supplication. ‘I was helping you,’ he said.

‘You enjoyed laughing at me.’

My Italian was hesitant and fragmented for the first few months and while I was able to make myself understood I found it hard to follow replies and couldn’t hold a conversation. My circus earnings were running out and I wasn’t able to get a regular job with my poor Italian, so I started busking as a clown. Our circus acts were all developed for a group, so I had to adjust to being solo, adapting some of Horatiu’s mime work. I kept up with my writing, but my pitches for articles on everyday life in Venice were rejected by UK newspapers and magazines and I had little success with short stories. I was still running short, so I asked Benito to help me write a poster advertising myself as a dog walker. This was a real success and I was soon breaking even.

I had my routine. I had coffee at home then picked up the dogs I was looking after. As I walked them I put up ‘missing’ posters of David, layer upon layer as previous posters were defaced, torn, weather-beaten.

I was soon picking up strays and injured pigeons and my apartment quickly filled with dogs and cats and birds. The first dog I rescued, Montgomery, was the only one I named. I said to the others, ‘You can have your own names that only you know.’ It was partly to keep me from becoming too attached – I couldn’t afford to keep them all and there was always more to pick up. Monty stayed with me but I tried to find homes for the others, so there was a constant stream of animals coming and going. A number of the animals were rejected several times – too small, too big, too old, not the right colour, too much work, too ugly, too ill. I liked to think it was us who rejected them; I vetted the potential people thoroughly and anyone who wasn’t suitable was promptly ejected, often followed by a stream of my well-practiced Venetian swearing: ‘Chi ta cagà! Col casso. Ti xe via de testa. Va a cagar sule ortighe! Ma va’ in mona.’

In the evening I’d go to a local bar, where I’d write. Gio, the owner, would come in now and again, checking in with the manager, ordering a drink and talking with the regulars. His English was basic, but much better than my Italian, which was still fragmented. He was small, corpulent, with a genuine warmth and a mischievous curl of the lip. Gio soon learned of my collection of animals and my love for pigeons. When I told him my name he looked disgusted and said, ‘What kind of name is Folletto?’

‘Folletto?’

‘Si, Folletto – Goblin.’

‘Ah, what’s wrong with it?’

‘A folletto is an evil thing.’

‘Maybe I’m evil.’

He shook his head, ‘No, you’re no folletto. La Pazza dei Piccioni is what you are.’

I looked at him blankly and he said, ‘Crazy Pigeon Woman.’

I laughed and almost cried as I hugged him. He looked disgruntled and said, ‘I don’t know why you’re happy – that name’s no good. Pigeons are horrible dirty things.’

But he smiled, pleased I liked the name, and a couple of weeks later he brought me an injured pigeon.

‘I should have left the dirty thing where it was, but I didn’t want to be cursed by an evil folletto,’ he said, handing over the bird.

I needed to earn more to feed the animals and for vet bills, so I read books, studying the history of Venice and set up my own business, running macabre history tours for the tourists. I cut back on dog walking, as the tours paid better and between that and looking after the strays I didn’t have as much time. Gio supported me, putting up adverts in the bar for my tours, telling everyone I was the one to go to. I’d lead the tourists through the labyrinthian streets and scare them with tales of Biagio Cargnio and the cursed Ca Dario.

London, 5 December 2011

I return from seeing Detective Curtis to find Tim and Ben waiting for me, sitting at the kitchen table. I look at them, suspicious of their ease with each other.

‘How’d it go?’ asks Tim.

I shrug and shake my head.

‘I don’t know why he wanted to see me,’ I say, bending down to greet Sam and Mahler. ‘Mac had already told him everything.’

‘And what’s that then?’ says Ben.

‘Don’t you start in on me too,’ I say, ruffling Mahler’s ears. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘You might find it easier talking to us than the detective or reporters,’ says Tim. ‘You need to talk about it eventually.’

‘Don’t tell me what I need.’

‘We’re here, that’s all.’

I glance at them, annoyed by the look of concern on their faces.

‘I’m just tired, okay?’

Tim gets up and hugs me. I lay my head on his chest.

‘I’m writing about it,’ I say, listening to his heart. ‘I’m still writing about the past. I think I’ll be able to talk about it soon.’

‘I just want you to be okay.’

He runs his fingers through my hair.

‘I know.’

‘Sit down and relax. I’ve made dinner. I’ll get the wine.’

I slump into the chair and watch spectre-Monsta’s tentacles come over the top of the table, followed by the shrew head. Monsta settles, looking at me with those beautiful dark eyes. Tim comes back through, hands Ben a beer and pours me some red wine. I sip it and feel myself unwind.

We have dinner together and tell Ben about the circus. When dinner’s over Ben takes Mahler and Sam for a walk and Tim and I continue talking. He pours me another glass of wine, spilling some on the table as he tells me what happened to our friends after the circus ended. Monsta kerlumpscratches across the table, crouches down and licks up the wine. I smile, watching. A tipsy Monsta would be an entertaining Monsta. I tune back into what Tim is saying, feeling the warmth of the wine in my belly.

‘Ariadne and Adeline had found it hard to get any work after the circus ended,’ he says.

I nod as Monsta stands and sways before kerlumpscratching back to me.

‘They appeared in a few B-movies and did stints in various striptease clubs. I was doing well so I’d send them money when I could. Ariadne got married but it only lasted a few months and I’m pretty sure they only did it for the publicity. They had to make a living.’

‘It’s hard,’ I say. ‘Trying to find your place in the world after you leave the circus. It must have been even harder for them. At least I could disappear into the crowd if I wanted to. What happened?’

‘They gave up showbiz in the end and worked in a newsagent in Brighton. Ariadne died from heart failure in ’89. Adeline followed her two days later.’

I wish I’d kept in touch, wish I’d brought them to Venice. We could have worked together. They could’ve helped with the tours. Could’ve, should’ve.

‘Don’t you have any happily ever after stories?’ I say after a while. ‘Don’t you have any of those?’

‘Does happily ever after exist?’

‘I was happy once.’