Ever Dundas: Goblin

‘How do you know I need fattened?’

‘Anyone who sits on the phone all night talking to some old woman doesn’t know how to cook themselves a proper meal.’

‘He really does look like David,’ I said, ‘but older, olive-skinned, and in colour.’

‘You can have the picture,’ she said. ‘Maybe you’ll have more luck finding him if you have a more up to date photograph.’

‘But it’s not him,’ I said. ‘It’s not up to date. It’s someone else.’

‘It could be him, and what does that matter? If it helps you find him?’

I posted photos of her son all across Venice: ‘Have you seen this man?’

When Antonio came home that summer, we got phonecall after phonecall. ‘I’ve seen this man, I’ve seen him.’

‘It’s not him,’ I’d have to say, ‘it’s not him.’

I took an even more up to date photo, but didn’t post it up, waiting patiently until Antonio left so we didn’t get pointless phone calls from people telling us they’d found the man sitting right next to us.

Antonio took us out in the evenings and Maria would say to everyone, ‘Have you seen this man? No, not him, not him exactly , stupid! Why would I be asking, when he’s right here? Someone like him. My son is just like him, you see, but more up to date.’

I sat across from Antonio, watching him eating and drinking and talking. He looked just like David. His skin, his hair, his cheekbones, the shape of his nose. Even the same brown eyes, so dark they looked black. But his manner was different and it shattered the illusion, it ruined his face. You’re not doing it right. You’re not moving your lips the way you should. You’re not smiling the way you should. You’re not raising your eyebrow and giving me that look the way you should. You used to touch your lips, when you were thinking. You’d rub your fingers across your lips but now you pull at your ear, or tap your fingers. You’ve changed too much. If this was you, would you have changed this much? When I find you will I not know you?

‘She really was beautiful.’

‘Who?’

‘Maria.’

Antonio didn’t respond. He poured himself more coffee, stood up and gestured at me, to stay, to wait. He came through with her photo album.

‘I’ve seen it so many times,’ I said. ‘She likes reliving her glory days.’

He opened the album and slid it over to me, pointing to a group photo. I’d seen this photo countless times, yet I still felt warmth when I saw her luminous smile, her delicate fingers curled round a glass, her husband’s arm around her shoulder. I smiled. ‘It’s a beautiful photograph.’

I looked up at him and my smile froze.

‘Look again,’ he said.

I looked.

‘This is Maria,’ he said, drumming his finger on the woman she had said was her sister. ‘This.’

I looked at the mousey girl, the one who stood slightly off, away from the others. I scanned across and my gaze fell upon the glittering centre of attention; she was pretty, she glowed. I traced a line between them.

‘You didn’t have to,’ I said. ‘You didn’t have to tell me.’

‘It’s a fantasy. She has never been able to let her sister go.’

‘It’s her story. Let her be who she wants to be.’

‘Don’t you mind being lied to?’

‘It’s her story.’

‘You’re encouraging her to live in the past.’

‘I’m her friend. I look after her.’

‘If you want her money you won’t get it.’

‘Why would I want her money? She’s helping me find David.’

‘She said I look like him.’

‘You do, but in colour.’

‘Don’t you have any friends? Move on with your life. I wonder, what makes you think he’s here?’

‘Where else would he be? There’s nowhere else on earth. Only here.’

‘You’re both fantasists. Why don’t you live your life?’

‘I loved you,’ I said. ‘I loved David. Old-ma and old-da loved him but they didn’t love me because I was Goblin-runt born blue.’

‘Move on,’ he said. ‘Live your life,’ he said.

He closed the album.

Maria, Antonio, Juliana and I walked to a restaurant in the early evening. Maria and Antonio walked ahead of us, arm in arm. They stopped, the way blocked. I heard some heated words; Maria didn’t take well to having her routine disrupted.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

‘They’re filming,’ said Antonio, ‘we have to go round.’

‘What is it? What are they filming?’

I moved closer and saw the film crew and the cast.

‘They’re not even working!’ said Maria. ‘Just standing around, causing us trouble.’

‘They’re working,’ said the man who was blocking our way. ‘You’ll have to go round.’

Maria let out a grunt of dissatisfaction and turned dramatically, pulling her son. As they walked back, I hovered.

‘Is that Dirk Bogarde?’

‘Who?’ said Juliana.

‘You’ll have to go round,’ said the man.

‘What are you filming?’

‘Visconti’s Death in Venice .’

‘That’s Bogarde. I know him from the Doctor films in the fifties. He was a star,’ I said, turning to Juliana. ‘Before your time, he was a star.’

‘Please go round.’

I lingered for a moment, watching Bogarde talk with Visconti. I knew Bogarde had been a soldier in the war, though it wasn’t until later I found out he had witnessed the horrors at Belsen before being stationed in the Far East.

‘He served in the war,’ I said quietly, to no one in particular.

‘Round,’ the man said, raising his eyebrows and making a circle in the air with his finger. ‘Go round.’

Juliana took my hand.

‘We better go,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to lose them.’

‘It was Dirk Bogarde,’ I said when we caught up to them. ‘That star from the fifties. They’re filming Death In Venice .’

Antonio eyed me and said, ‘I know that story, about an old man who can’t let go of an illusion.’

I pretended not to hear and looked at Maria.

‘Do you know him, Maria? Bogarde? He was a dream.’

We sat at a table outside the restaurant, waiting for our food. Maria and Antonio were talking and Juliana and I held hands and drank our wine, watching people come and go. I removed my cardigan.

‘Why do you have those?’ Maria said, abruptly breaking away from her conversation with Antonio. She stared at me.

‘What? Why do I have what?’

‘Those tattoos. Why do you have them? How do you expect to find a husband with your body all ruined like that?’

Juliana made an exasperated huffing noise. I stared at Maria, dumbstruck, before laughing and shaking my head.

‘I don’t want a husband,’ I said. ‘And I wouldn’t marry anyone who didn’t like my tattoos, so what does it matter?’

‘You’ll never find anyone respectable looking like that,’ she said, ignoring me. ‘You should cover them up.’

‘Maria, you old witch. Sometimes you don’t know when to hold that tongue of yours. You know I have someone.’

Antonio squeezed Maria’s arm as she was about to reply.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Juliana.

‘I just want you to be happy,’ Maria said, brushing Antonio’s hand off. ‘You need a husband to look after you.’

Juliana let loose on Maria, a volley of Italian I struggled to follow. Maria blushed and laughed and said, ‘Nevermind, eh? I’m just old fashioned. To me, a tattooed woman is a loose woman who will never make a good life for herself. I just worry for you.’

‘I know, Maria. I know you do, but I’m happy.’

‘You can’t be that happy if you can’t let go of the past,’ said Antonio.