‘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.’
‘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.