Ever Dundas: Goblin

‘I’m glad,’ he says. ‘Tell me about your happiness.’

Venice, 1968

On the day of the 1968 Biennale opening, police ran through Piazzo San Marco. I was fascinated by the sight of these quasi-military men in the square. It looked like theatre. I took photos and stopped one of the men, asking in broken Italian what was happening but he raised his hand dismissively and continued running. I followed and caught up with them as they were dragging protesters away from a Biennale pavilion. I knew David would be disgusted by the police and their use of force, so I documented it with my camera; I was a witness and I’d tell this story. I captured the moment a policeman tore a banner – ‘Biennale of capitalists, we’ll burn your pavilions!’ – from a protestor’s hands. I took a photo of the banner as it lay crumpled on the ground, the protestor being hauled away in the background.

I walked over to the policeman, taking more photos as he carried off the girl.

‘Ehi, ma io ti conosco!’ she said to me.

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know you,’ I said, and was about to reply in Italian when she said in English, ‘Yes, I’ve seen you, every night, drinking and writing. I’ll meet you there. Tonight, tomorrow, who knows? As soon as I’m free.’

She winked at me. I stood staring after her and as she disappeared I heard her yell, ‘Le foto! Keep taking photos!’

I did as instructed, speaking to the protestors, a mix of students, intellectuals, artists. ‘We’re protesting the commodification of art. It’s no longer about expression, no longer about experimentation, no longer about the art itself. It’s all about money, the rich pigs buying culture and killing it.’

I took photos as artists covered or turned over their own work in support of the protest. By the end of the day all the protestors had been removed and the Biennale opened. I went home and developed the photos. I contacted the UK broadsheet that had published my circus article and was paid a decent sum for the photographs and a first person account. I felt guilty, making money from an anti-capitalist protest, but it all went towards looking after my ever-expanding family.

I woke up the next morning on the couch, covered in dogs and cats. I slithered my way out from under them and fixed myself a coffee, thinking of the girl. I had seen her before, at Gio’s bar in the evenings. She’d meet her friends there. I liked listening to them, their raucous conversations and loud laughter. But they were background, merely a familiar comfort, and they seemed so wrapped up in themselves that I was surprised she had noticed me.

That evening I went to Gio’s, waiting for her, but she didn’t show. I wondered if I should go to the police, find out if she was in prison, but I didn’t know her name. I went to the bar the next night, and the next. On the third night she turned up, sitting next to me, putting her hand on mine like we were friends or lovers.

‘Sorry I took so long, those pigs kept me locked up.’

‘They’re not pigs.’

‘No? You on their side?’

‘No. I like pigs.’

‘Aaah, yes, I’ve heard about you – the crazy woman who collects animals. La Pazza dei Piccioni.’

‘You’ve been talking to Gio about me.’

‘I have. I know all about you.’

‘You know everything about me?’

She smiled.

‘I will soon. Drink?’

We ordered wine and properly introduced ourselves. Juliana told me she was an artist and she worked at Ca’ Pesaro, the gallery of modern art, to bring in more money.

‘They weren’t happy when I got arrested. I am lucky to still have my job but I charmed them and all is well.’

She raised her wine glass in a toast. I followed suit and said, ‘To your charm.’

She laughed, a deep belly laugh that caused everyone to turn and look.

‘To my charm,’ she said, clinking glasses, ‘may it forever get me what I want.’

She winked at me and finished off her wine.

‘I like pigeons too, you know,’ she said.

‘You do?’

She nodded. ‘Birds are my favourite animal.’

‘Even pigeons? Most people hate them.’

‘People are stupid. I like your tattoos,’ she said, looking at my arms and chest.

‘I travelled a lot,’ I said. ‘I’d get tattoos wherever I went.’

‘But where are you from? Where were you born?’

‘London.’

‘I was born there too,’ she said. ‘My father was born in Venice but moved to London to study and met my mother at university.’

She was interrupted by Gio who hugged her like they were old friends. He greeted me and squeezed my shoulder as he chatted to Juliana. I couldn’t follow their rapid-fire Italian so I sat and watched her. I watched her laugh that mischievous laugh, her whole face lighting up. Her long dark brown hair was tied messily up in a bun with strands falling about her face, stroking her brown skin. As she talked with Gio she poured us more wine and suddenly turned back to me, not missing a beat.

‘We moved back to Venice when I was three,’ she said. ‘We would go to London for holidays and to see my grandparents and I stayed with them when I studied art history there, so I grew up knowing it well.’

I didn’t want her to ask me about my time living in London so I told her of the years travelling with the circus. I painted a romantic picture.

‘So I’ve fallen for a clown?’ she said. ‘You couldn’t be more perfect.’

‘Fallen?’ I said, but she didn’t hear me. Her friends had arrived and she disappeared in a flurry of hugs, laughter and overlapping voices, all discussing the protest and arrests. I drank my wine and watched them together, catching parts of their conversation. Juliana turned to me, pointing, her friends all looking me over. I turned away, pretending to write but trying to listen to what they were saying.

‘Did you miss me?’ she said as she hugged me from behind, her arm across my chest, her head leaning gently on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen them all since the protest. I was telling them about my Goblin-clown.’

‘Yours?’

‘I’m hoping my charm will get me what I want.’

She leaned in and kissed me fleetingly on the mouth and said, ‘Tomorrow, you and I. Dinner.’

‘A date?’

‘Of course a date.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-four. Why?’

‘I’m older. A lot older.’

‘I’ve dated older women.’

She ran her fingers through my hair, tucking it behind my ear.

‘What does it matter? You’re my Goblin-clown and I’m your criminal artist. We’re meant to be.’

‘Are we?’

‘I feel it,’ she said, placing her hand on her chest.

‘Dinner,’ I said, nodding. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘I’ll meet you here at seven.’

She kissed me again and I held her this time.

Venice, 1960s/1970s

I fell in love with Juliana.

We went for dinner that night, talking for hours. Walking tipsily back to her flat, she whispered in my ear a mixture of English and Italian, telling me what she wanted to do to me before throwing her head back and laughing that raucous laugh. Her flat was a mess of paintings and art materials and I negotiated my way through the flotsam, following her to the kitchen. I stripped for her as she poured us prosecco. She held the glasses awkwardly in one hand, spilling some as she led me through to the bedroom. I fell onto her bed and she poured her drink across my breasts and belly. I laughed as the cold hit my skin, as it rolled onto the sheet in rivulets, as it fizzed and pooled in the concave of my stomach. She parted my legs, kissed my cunt and licked from my belly to my breasts, her tongue flicking at my nipples. We kissed, her fingers massaging my inner thighs, moving to my clit and making me moan and then she was gone and I blinked up at her as she stood over me, removing her clothes. I pressed my hand between my legs as she slowly peeled the clothes from her body. Watching her, I came. She finished the prosecco as I knelt on the bed, my arm around her waist, pulling her to me. I kissed her stomach, breathing in her smell as her fingers threaded through my hair. I pulled her down. I kissed and bit her thighs as she put her legs over my shoulders. I tongued at her clit, tasting her, listening to her, feeling her body shake as she came.