Sarah Hall - How to Paint a Dead Man

Yes, yes, they say, and they turn to personal matters. What then of the Madonna and her tradition? The holy mother of us all, with a dead child in her arms? What of your wife?

They expect confession. They sense the frailty of old age. What might I say in the end that they do not already know? That no one believed the race manifesto. That Colonel Segre shot himself with his service pistol. That Dina sang ‘Giovinezza’ and gave away her wedding ring. That she donated once to the Zionist cause, and was born in the Jewish ghetto. That she had no baptismal certificate but was a patriot, loving Italy as I loved Italy. That I returned one day to find her missing, and neither the popular rejection nor the fifty kilograms of gold could save her. That our trains used to travel slowly north, and at the junctions they altered their courses.

In Il Libro dell’Arte , Cennini teaches us how to paint wounds, using unalloyed vermilion as the base, and lac resin applied sparingly, so the blood continues to shine. To look inside those red windows at the Uffizi today is to witness five-hundred-year-old pain as if it were a harm committed today. In these preparatory passages there is also a section on how to paint a dead man. I have often wondered if the condition of death is perhaps less grave to the human anatomy than physical injuries. For in death there is release from suffering. Sadly, the master craftsman is unable to instruct us in the healing of wounds.

Here it comes again. The fire in his calf muscle, the hot instrument being pushed up his femur, through the sinew, up into his scrotum, up into his abdomen. The searing makes him clench and unclench his fists, clutch the boulders and lean away from the vice of stone as if away from the pain itself. He grinds his teeth, counts through it. One, two. Threefourfive. Six. Seven. Breathe. Breathe, Peter. Come on, get the air down. Eight, nine. Breathe, you fucker. Pant as if in childbirth, lion-inhale like Lydia does in yoga. It’ll pass. It’ll pass as it did before, a minute ago.

Already it’s going, see, already those burning lances are being withdrawn slowly down the leg, retracted back into the ankle. The pain is going, and with it the internal wildness, the violent mania, the desire to demonically vomit. OK, then. Good. Good. Calm. Better. Now he can think again. Now he can focus.

How long has he been here, pinned like this? Maybe forty-five minutes now? An hour? It’s hard to say. It feels like longer, though the lurid intensity hasn’t waned. Maybe less time then — twenty minutes? The light has gone from the top of the ravine wall and the floor of the gulley is in shadow. The blue of the sky has graduated from navy at its highest point to palest blue on the horizon. If he twists round to face the flatter side of the cutting — not too far round or the leg will start up again — he can see one or two stars, just the faintest glimmer. One is moving-a comet, or a plane perhaps-and beyond it, acres of freedom.

It’s difficult to get comfortable. The stuck leg has thrown him into an awkward angle. The foot’s not quite down on the ground, at least he doesn’t think it’s touching, but he doesn’t want to try moving it again: it’s too fragile. The other leg is having to compensate, bent up on the boulder or set down in the trench behind the other, though neither position is helpful. At best he can only lean against the rocks, taking his weight on to one buttock. He can’t sit properly or alter the bend of the trapped knee. And he can’t get a clear view of the point of imprisonment; he can’t really assess the damage. The withers of the boulders are in the way, the light is fading quickly and it’s too dark down there.

Not that he really wants to see the injury — the thought of it is enough to make him feel queasy, and make his mind start running crazy. Is it a break? Crush injury or open fracture? Oh Christ, is it a partial fucking amputation? Is the foot dangling loose on just a thread or two of skin, like an uncooked sausage, the tendon severed and recoiling up the back of his leg? Oh fuck! Is he going to lose it and be a cripple? He’ll have to get a prosthetic for the stump. He’ll have to use a wheelchair. No more running. No more climbing, or even bloody walking properly. How many operations? He hates hospitals. All that suffering and hopelessness. His mum in her incontinent dementia. His dad coughing up black chunks into a kidney dish, rotting inside like an old log.

Knock it off, Peter! Don’t think like that. Don’t rush to the worst conclusion. Be sensible. It’ll be a broken bone, clean and simple. Well, maybe not clean, but mendable. It’ll be ten weeks in plaster with a pair of nifty crutches and a bolted joint, and a very good excuse to drink shinny by the fire all day. Soon he’ll be telling war stories in the pub, and showing off a magnificent, grinning scar. He’ll be embellishing the tale for Susan and Danny — how he hopped all the way round the gorge to the car (a good mile), how it was very lucky the car only had one forward gear so he didn’t have to keep using the clutch, destiny some might say, blah blah. Now. He’s got to think. He should try shouting again. ‘Helllooooo? Heeellllllllooooo?’ His voice booms and echoes in the ravine. Someone will hear that, they’re bound to. This isn’t the Langdales or the Scottish Highlands. It’s not Snow-bloody-donia. He isn’t miles from civilisation, even though the population round here is sparse. Kids out roaming about. A man walking his dog before bed. A farmer on a quad bike. Someone will hear.

The wind lilts softly between the walls. It is cool down in the dark cleft of the gorge. A lapwing calls from its nest on the moorland beyond. Peter concentrates, collects himself. He turns his upper body clockwise and puts his palms against the boulder that originally moved, the smaller of the two collaborators. He braces the free leg on the ground and bends. The sketchpad under his shirt sticks into his ribs, so he retrieves it, places it to the side, and sets himself up again. He heaves. He gives it everything he’s got. The veins on his forehead begin to bulge. Then, half a roar, the involuntary product of his vocal cords. Come on. Move. Roll. Roll it over, Sisyphus.

But it’s useless. The rock will not shift. He can’t get a good enough position to throw his full weight into the move. He relaxes, breathes out, looks down at the grey, lumpen back. It’s big. Must weigh two hundred pounds at least? OK. OK then. Lateral thinking, inverse physics. He will have to try pulling.

He looks at his palms, anaemic from the pressure of pushing, and flaps blood back into his hands. He turns his body anticlockwise, redistributes his free leg, and slips his fingers into the depressions of the rock. He gathers his energy. But then, oh hell, it’s starting up again — that gory pain. He straightens, stays still, swallows a mouthful of bile. His ankle is on fire. Some fucker is scraping a knife up the bone, beginning to drive it higher into the kneecap. Please, he whispers, please, no. No! It’s much worse this time. Like gunpowder lit in a wound. Like electricity passing through a bullet hole. Oh God. Please make it stop. It is appalling. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Why is he apologising?

He feels suddenly a desperate urge to piss. He scrambles a hand to his fly but it meets with thick, impenetrable material. No way in, he’s in his overalls. He will have to unclip the fastening on his shoulders, and quickly. The clasps jam. He tugs them open, shrugs the denim down around his hips. He grasps his cock, and aims away over the litter of stones. Thank God. Better. The leg begins to fade. It feels like he’s pissing out the pain. The stream of warm urine splatters on the top of the rocks. He hoses them down. Fuck you, you bastards.