Doc, this reader owes you an apology. Reading the first section of this, he thought he was going to have to chew on you a little. The last story you offered was an excellent piece, so you were being held to a high standard. As this reader thought your story was reaching its conclusion in the first third (as opposed to the reality of it having two other parts) he was sharpening his teeth- maybe the good Doctor needed a good nip to wake up! But he did not. The story kept going. It all made sense at the end of section two/start of section three. And you delivered. This really is such a good story. It even had room for a little bit of the good ol’Doc Love signature hanky panky.
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Fog came upon the city sneakily, as it always did. In seconds, all the shop windows along Via Sant'Andrea abandoned their brightness, becoming instead distantly dim. The moist air hang on the street lights like a blurry curtain.
Gianluca had lived all of his life in Milan, and knew the fog was imminent the minute the southerly breeze died down just before sunset. He rarely used it as an excuse to close the shop early, but business was always slow on Wednesdays, and tonight was a special evening anyway. Thirty years had gone since he married his beloved Silvia. Gianluca was a romantic, and he never let such occasions pass unmarked.
Gianluca mistrusted lifts and always took the stairs up to his flat. He believed it kept him healthy. Well, healthier than he would have been if he didn't climb up four flights every evening. And anyway, the blasted thing got stuck more often than it arrived anywhere. Fine way to spend one's wedding anniversary - stuck in a metal cage between floors!
To Gianluca, there were always two worlds. The one outside his home, and the one inside. Outside was noisy and dizzying. At home it was always quiet, and shielded by thick purple curtains. Sounds at home didn't have to be loud. They didn't have to be at all. Quiet stillness reigned, and memories could climb to the surface of his mind unobstructed.
He sat in his armchair (starting to smell a bit musty, he thought - cover could do with a dry clean) and raised his glass of chianti to Silvia's photograph, always smiling at him from the mantlepiece. That smile. That huge explosion of happiness that came to her face whenever he told her he loved her. The fragility of her hands. Her neck, silken even when she had passed sixty, her eyes bright blue and amazingly sparkling even as she refused to let the pain of her disease make her wince.
"Well, my dear," he began addressing her, but then stopped. "No. Not ready yet. Excuse me."
In the bedroom, he changed into a fresh pair of trousers and a white shirt. He thought about putting on a bowtie, then decided against it. Then he changed his mind and put one on, red polka dots.
Back in the armchair, he resumed talking to Silvia's image. "Well, here we are. Thirty years. Not bad, eh? Salute!"
He brought the glass to his lips with a shaking hand. He gulped thirstily. The chianti hit his throat like a medicine, soothing a spasm of sorrow that was beginning to attack his diaphragm. He needed his wine more than he enjoyed it since Silvia's death. He was aware of it and knew it was bad for him. The temporary calm he gained from it in the evenings had to be repaid with morning headaches, some times even nausea.
"I owe so much to you, my darling," he continued. "While you lived you made me the happiest man in the world. But with the words you told me on the night you left me, you taught me patience and gave me a strength I had not known before. You will be waiting, you said. You will be waiting. No rush. And knowing you will wait helps me get up in the morning, and go cut hair, and go to the grocery store, and go to church on Sunday mornings. It helps me talk to people and smile at them and not shun them. Because you said you will be waiting. That is what you said to me, my sweet."
Gianluca emptied his glass.
"That is what you said."
The telephone rang.
"Daddy? "
Gianluca composed himself as well as he could. "My sweet Francesca! Where are you?"
"London. I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No, my butterfly. I was... I'm just in from work. Catching up on the news."
"How are you, dad?"
"Eh? Oh, fine. As well as I can be at my age. Not complaining, you know? How long are you in London for?"
"I'm flying back to Edinburgh tomorrow, but I'll do Saturday's flight, too. I'm off next week, though."
"Good. Good. Make sure you get some rest, my angel."
"Daddy? Happy anniversary."
"Anniversary, my darling?" Gianluca's chest tightened with his effort to suppress a sob that had been lingering for some minutes now. He managed to drown it. He was getting good at this. "Oh! Oh, you mean, me and mama? Goodness, you're right! It's today!"
"Yes. Today. You forgot?"
"Well, you know how it is at my age, I - "
"I don't believe you dad."
"Francesca - "
"You're just not sharing with me anymore."
"Sharing what, my angel?"
"Your feelings. Ah, well. It doesn't matter. Have it your way. I just want you to know I care about you, that's all."
"I share with you. I share everything with you. What are you talking about."
"Fine, dad. Fine."
A short silence ensued. During this particular short silence Gianluca fully realized his isolation. His daughter was right. He wasn't sharing anymore. Not with anyone. Not even with her.
"Are you coming to Milan for Christmas?"
"I'm flying on Christmas day and on the 28th, but I'll try to be there for new year's eve."
"That is good, my angel. I can't wait to see you."
"I'll try, Dad. Can't promise. Okay?"
"Of course. If you can."
"Goodnight, dad. Take care, ok?"
"I will, my heart. You too."
Gianluca had finished his second glass during the conversation. He duly refilled. He lay back in his armchair and drank, eyes closed. He had feared Francesca would call and disturb his evening with Silvia. Some things cannot be avoided, he thought, and sighed. Minor inconveniences. That's all. He would have to let a few minutes pass before he could resume talking to Silvia's photograph, just a little time to get back in the right frame of mind. Then he would be able to come back to their little anniversary celebration.
But Francesca's words had upset him more than he thought. He remained in his chair silent for another hour or so, until the bottle was empty. In silence he sat, quiet, numb. He fell asleep at some point, and woke up with a start about twenty minutes later. He glanced at the mantlepiece to make sure that Silvia was still there, still smiling.
"There you are," he said, the mere act of speaking making his headache worse.
Gianluca stood up. He was unsteady. He felt as though his body was fuzzy, semi-transparent. A ghost. Yes, that is what I am, he thought to himself. Silvia is not a ghost. Silvia is peacefully dead. I am not talking to a ghost. I am the ghost.
"I am the ghost," he mumbled as he steadied himself against the wall on the way to the bedroom. He slumped on the bed, polka-dot bowtie still on, and lay there with his eyes open for quite a while before passing out.
This first section concerns itself with the loneliness of Gianluca, a barber living in Milan. He comes home, takes the stairs up to his flat and drinks with/speaks to an old photograph of his deceased wife. His daughter calls- in this call, the reader begins to understand the depths of Gianluca’s loneliness, closed off from even his children. There are stylistic choices that emphasize loneliness/disconnection, such as fog and darkness, etc.
This is the weak leg of a great story though. For some reason the narrator really likes Gianluca- enough to keep adding commentary where there should be exposition! Certainly, there’s a similar tone throughout the whole piece, and it carries the thing (especially the second part) along really well. But take, for instance, the phone call from Francesca. That might be the penultimate event of this section. We’re about to discover the depths of Gianluca’s loneliness. This is what we are given:
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A short silence ensued. During this particular short silence Gianluca fully realized his isolation. His daughter was right. He wasn't sharing anymore. Not with anyone. Not even with her.
That’s a clean bite o’porridge. But the reader can’t see this! Where are the descriptors? What does it mean to full realize isolation? What does Gianluca look like when he does, and how can you give this to us more powerfully, as opposed to just ‘telling’? This is such an important part of the scene, Doc!
So, in that way (and in that part, especially), the narrator is a little too active in section one.
But part one serves a certain role quite effectively. It’s as though it’s a kind of set up. What a sharp contrast this will be to the second section, about Gianluca’s daughter Francesca and her sexual conquest. This first section is bittersweet and lonely. The second section is on fire and finds its loneliness in the ashes that come after. And a memory.
They’re so different that the contrasts between these two sections seem to make yet another statement about loneliness and its various forms.
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Francesca disliked the new shuttles because of two reasons: firstly, because the drink holder on the captain's seat was too wide to hold a cup steady in turbulence. Secondly, because there was a known issue with the engine 2 alerts which gave false alarms during take-off. It only happened once in every twenty or thirty flights and it was well-documented, but Francesca still found it unnerving. Some pilots ignored them. She didn't.
"Breaking and reverse thrust, and abort." The first officer (whose name she kept forgetting) executed her command impeccably. The aircraft shuddered to a halt a couple of hundred yards before the end of the runway.
"Speedbird Papa Niner Tango aborted due to alert, will give it another go. Request taxi back to threshold."
"Speedbird Papa Niner Tango, taxi back to threshold using taxi way 11, R11."
"Taxi back using taxi way 11, R11, Speedbird Papa Niner Tango, thanks GC." Francesca looked at her cup of tea. Very little liquid remained inside it, the rest having been spilt all over the engine 1 controls by the powerful inertia. "Take her back to the threshold, please," she ordered the youngster beside her. He released the breaks and started forward gently, smoothly steering the plane into the exit and along the taxi way. Francesca had half-expected him to get ruffled over the rejected take-off, but he seemed well in control. Deep down she was a little impressed.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We had to reject take-off because of a small traffic-related issue. I do apologize about this and hope you were not alarmed. We are taxiing back to the start of the runway and should be airborne within the next three or four minutes. Thank you, enjoy your flight with us on this beautiful evening."
Francesca observed her first officer lining up the aircraft for another take-off attempt. His uniform was impeccable. The skin on his face, too, shaven deeply and cleanly with obvious care. All rookies looked like that. This one, however, had a promise of confidence beyond his years - and certainly above his seniority.
"Speedbird Papa Niner Tango ready for take-off, request permission."
"Speedbird Papa Niner Tango, you are clear for take-off. Maintain runway heading, climb and maintain four thousand."
He hadn't looked at her directly once. Not once. Few men could resist looking at Francesca even as she was approaching forty - no, few men could resist staring at her. It wasn't her fault they started oggling - it was her natural posture. Her style. Alright, perhaps it was her hair (long, black, perfectly straight, shiny like a river in the moonlight), her perfectly made up face, her almost rude lips, or the fact that trousers clung to her like a second skin. But she couldn't help any of that. Could she now.
And yet, he hadn't looked at her at all. She would have known. She knew when she was being looked at without having to check.
The cocky little siht.
"What's your name again?"
"My name is James, captain. James Conway."
"Take her up, James Conway. Flaps 10, full throttle."
As the aircraft's nose pulled up, the full moon came into view and brightened the cockpit. Francesca felt her heart skip, as it often did during take-off. But this time she was also aware of a persistent tickle inside her stomach, and moisture between her legs. "Dammit", she thought, "he's definitely one of those boys. Definitely."
British Airways hotel buses were few and far between after midnight, so James and Francesca took a cab to the Best Western. James suggested a quick drink at the bar, insisting that he wanted to thank her for his first rejected take-off. In her room, she grabbed his hair and pushed him against the wall, doing something to his face with her lips that resembled drinking more than kissing.
"On your knees, lad."
He acquiesced. She stood above him with her feet apart and shoved her pelvis on his face. He choked and coughed. She slapped his face forcefully.
"You cough again I'll beat you black and blue, you little brat," she panted, replacing his mouth where she wanted it.
When thinking about her and numerous adventures with men, Francesca would admit to herself that she didn't always enjoy being rough with them. She liked tender stuff as much as the next person. But tenderness only gave rise to expectations of the wrong kind. Roughness created expectations, too, but ones she could handle. At the same time, it was a lot more fun - for everyone involved, it seemed. They were always shocked at first. Puzzled. Then they gave in. Not one of them had ever objected strongly enough for her to stop.
"Your safe word is 'Red', little one. You say 'Red', and you can go to your room. In the meantime, go and sit in the bathtub. We must cleanse you."
"Yes, madam."
This time she slapped his other cheek. He gasped and coughed. "You only speak if you want to say 'Red'. Apart from this, you just obey. Or I swear to god I'll beat you black and blue, pretty boy."
She had wondered how much violence she could get away with, and how much humiliation she could impose on some of those subhuman beings called men without hearing the safe word. But no matter how many guys she abused and humiliated, each and every one of them only confirmed her hypothesis that men, unlike women, didn't mind being raped. They would go through anything to see her naked.
James shivered under the cold water, but his eyes and mouth were calmly half-open, and his penis was fully erect. Francesca undressed fully. "Touch yourself, boy. Show me what a pathetic little wanker you are."
She chose them carefully, of course. She had never been under the impression that all men would put up with her little fetishes. Picking them out from the crowd was part of her game - a part she particularly enjoyed. It involved spotting those boys who were trying to look self-assured and carrying it off quite well. The young, successful men who weren't too comfortable with their success just yet, but used it well to hide the fact they still miss their mums.
James was one of those boys. Definitely.
After he had gone, Francesca lay in bed and thought of her uncle Alberto, and how he used to examine her when she was a child. Uncle Alberto could touch her anywhere. Her father had said it was fine for him to do so, for he was a doctor. "Let me know when you feel something special," he once said, and then started rubbing her up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
When she orgasmed, fingers still wet, she picked up the phone and dialed her father's number. Sure, you expect fathers to catch on to stuff like that, especially when it happens again and again, sometimes inside their daughter's bedroom. Suspect. Do something. But men are far from gods. How could he ever have known. She bore no grudge against him.
"Daddy?"
And here you first show us that loneliness manifests itself in different ways. To what degree her history of sexual abuse has caused Francesca’s loneliness is debatable- couldn’t it equally be said that her assertion, her male-like dominance makes her lonely in regard to her being inherently female?
This section features a lot of power play. It could be that power is what makes her lonely. She exerts it on the young officer first in a professional capacity and then when they are in the hotel room together. The narration feels more appropriate for this section for some reason; this reader doesn’t know why. This middle section is the work horse of the piece- it carries its weight and picks up a bit of the slack from section one as well.
Maybe Francesca’s loneliness is based on the fact that she never told her father that her uncle abused her?
At any rate, remembering the name “James Conway” makes the next section very interesting…
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In his little cot adorned with charms and crucifixes, under the steady gaze of a Mother Mary and a smiling baby Jesus, tucked up caringly inside a foam-free, hypoalergenic blanket, little Jimmy slept. He dreamt of small, insignificant things, beautiful small insignificant things, like all seven-month old babies dream of. Colours. The sky. Spoons laden with warm, sweet paste.
In the midst of his small insignificant dream, little Jimmy could hear the voice of the woman whose heartbeat he sometimes missed. Like all seven-month old babies, he could only tell that his mother's voice was soft and smooth as always - and no more than that. He had no idea she was upset, for he couldn't yet quite understand language. Only tone. In his sleep, little Jimmy could hear his mother's voice and, for a second, got her confused (in the way babies get confused with such sweet innocence) with the lady with the baby above his cot.
"Ah, so he did check into the hotel. That's good to know. Thank you. Oh, if you could, that would be good. Tell him his wife called to say sweet dreams. No, please don't, he might be asleep. Just tell him when he checks out in the morning. Goodnight."
Little Jimmy's dream changed. He was now dreaming of another person who sometimes held him and kissed him. He usually did it together with the woman whose heartbeat he missed, but sometimes he did it on his own. This person smiled a lot, and showed him toys that were shiny and had long bits sticking out from either side. "Whhoooosh," that person would say, as he passed the toy in front of Jimmy's eyes. The toy was white with red and blue bits.
"Come, my angel," and little Jimmy's dream dispersed as he felt the woman's hands lifting him to her chest. "Sleepy boy," she said, and kissed him. He liked being kissed. He didn't mind being woken up by the woman with the sweet heartbeat, for she always kissed him like this when she woke him. She took him to the big bed, where sometimes they went and the man went, too. The three of them would play, and little Jimmy would laugh. The woman and the man would laugh too, and then he would laugh some more.
The woman brought out the spoon laden with sweet paste and fed him. She put things in her mouth too, small white things that looked like the dots on one of his blankets -- the red one. There were small white things in his sweet paste, too. He was a little surprised to be swallowing something that wasn't smooth and soft, but he didn't really mind, for the sweet paste tasted delicious as always, and the woman with the heartbeat kept kissing him between mouthfulls.
She said these words, of which little Jimmy understood not one: "You're my lovely boy. You're going with me. We're leaving your punk of a father behind. I always knew he was cheating on me. Even before we were married, he was cheating on my just like your grandpa cheated on your grandma. Of course, it's easy for someone to say I shouldn't have married him. But then, where would I be? I would be without you, without my beautiful boy. Well, now I have you. And I will have you for ever. And we will be happy together, for ever, my baby."
She then made a funny noise, like she was laughing, so little Jimmy thought it was time to play, and he laughed too. She kissed him once more, and he liked it so much that he wanted to laugh even louder. But he couldn't, because he suddenly felt so sleepy. It was okay to sleep. He was sure of that. He closed his eyes and felt the woman lift him up on her chest. It felt great there. He could hear her breathing and, of course, the heartbeat he loved so much. It got slower and slower. When it stopped, little Jimmy didn't mind.
He wasn't dreaming anymore, but he was sure it was okay not to dream.
Maybe you didn’t intend for this interpretation, but this reader thinks baby Jimmy and James Conway are the same character. In section two Francesca tracks how James is the kind of young man who still ‘misses his mum.’ (Have you been writing in British english the whole time? This reader has only recently picked up on your extraneous ‘u’s in words like ‘colour’ and ‘flavour’ etc.)
For that interpretation, the baby, Jimmy, would have had to survive the poisoning at the hands of his mother. The figurative language about her heartbeat was especially outstanding. This section, then, is about the start of Jimmy’s loneliness (upon the death of the heartbeat, his mother, that he will miss forever- it’s made him forever lonely)… as well as the loneliness/isolation of the mother herself, be it emotional or otherwise; she’s decided to take her own life and her baby’s, ostensibly just for revenge, but we know better than that.
Ultimately this is a great piece, woven like a tapestry, that shows three different incarnations of loneliness as they could exist in the world today- steadily and truly done. This is one of the best offerings to come down the pipeline lately!
J
