4
SANE DREAMS

It was, without any doubt, the saddest story. A story from another genre, another way of doing things. Social realism had failed to hold. And what was the form of words?

The child was conceived in May, 1944. And for all but the first and last few days of her pregnancy Adriano’s mother was in prison. The crime she was guilty of was being married to her husband. Luchino had been drafted into what they were calling the New Army, Mussolini’s New Army; and Luchino evaded it, this draft, with his wife’s blessing; they both feared, with good reason (according to Whittaker), that Luchino would sooner or later be trucked off to a labour camp in the Reich. Lucia was adamant, said Luchino. We knew—everyone knew—that the worst possible prison was less lethal than the best possible camp. What we didn’t know was that Adriano was alive inside her. Tybalt was born in 1950. And Lucia died in 1957, when Adriano was twelve.

So Keith was sad about that. To give him some credit (which he will soon be needing), I can say that Keith was duly harrowed by his imaginings of the enwombed Adriano. Fully fifteen years later, in 1984, when he saw his first child on the paediatrician’s monitor, delightedly busying itself like a newt in a millpond, all ashiver with festive and apparently humorous curiosity, Keith’s first thought was of Adriano and his hunger: the hunger of the enwombed Adriano. The tiny ghost and his face of pain. And this pain would clothe him for the rest of his life. Four foot ten. Five foot six could make a semi-educated guess at four foot ten. And how near the war was …

So Keith understood why the girls cried. But now the rules had been rewritten, and the generic proprieties no longer obtained. The question had to be asked again. What were heroines allowed to do?

You’re very gloomy. Come on, you should be happy to oblige.”

With gloomy couples, in gloomy weather, whole days pass like this. With gaps, mugs of coffee, silences, brief disappearances, cups of tea, yawns, vacancies … Later on, Lily and Keith would have to go down to the village and represent the castello: Oona had signed them up for some ceremonial jumble sale at Santa Maria.

“I don’t mind that,” he said. “Except it means going to church. No, I’m depressed about Tom Thumb.”

“Don’t call him Tom Thumb.”

“Okay. I’m depressed about Adriano. Were you expecting his dad to be a—to be a bit on the short side?”

“I expected, I don’t know, someone below average. A titch. Like you. Not a giant. And then the giant brother. That’s when she melted. You know how soft-hearted she is.”

Like a dream, said Whittaker. All this is like a dream. He said, “Will she, d’you think?”

“Well. Two birds with one stone. A lovely boost for him, and it’ll stop her being desperate. She’ll feel her way into it.”

Keith lay on the bed—he lay on the bed with Emma. Lily was undressing for the shower: not a lengthy operation. She leant towards him and slid down her bikini bottoms with her thumbs. Over the weeks, the parent star was daubing Lily to its taste, the flesh browner, the hair blonder, the teeth whiter, the eyes bluer. She kicked off her flip-flops and said abruptly,

“Who fucks Fanny?”

“What? No one fucks Fanny.” They were resuming their discussion of Mansfield Park. Keith tried to concentrate—to concentrate on the world he knew. With a show of liveliness (talking was better than thinking), he said, “She’s a heroine, Lily, and heroines aren’t allowed to do that. Anyway. Who’d want to fuck Fanny?”

“The hero. Edmund.”

“Well, Edmund, I suppose. He marries her, after all. I suppose he gets round to it in the end. He is the hero.”

In her green satin housecoat, Lily sat herself at the dressing table with her back to the three mirrors. She took up a cardboard nail file and said, “So you don’t fancy Fanny.”

“No. Mary Crawford’s more the thing. She’s a goer too.”

“How can you tell?”

“There are ways, Lily. Mary’s talking about admirals, and she makes a joke about vices and rears. In Jane Austen … But Mansfield Park’s not like the others. The villains are Visions and the goodies are Duds. Resurgence of old values. Jane becomes anti-charm. It’s a very confused novel.”

“And there aren’t any fucks.”

“No. There are. Mansfield Park’s got two fucks. Henry Crawford fucks Maria Bertram. And Mr. Yates fucks her sister Julia. And he’s an Honourable.”

“What were they drugged with?”

“That’s a good question. I don’t know. Unloving parents. Boredom.”

“Scheherazade’s drugging herself with pity.”

He thought this was true. The Adriano project had become a form of social work or community service. “Sex as a good deed. Yeah. Tell that to Jane Austen.”

“She thinks about him growing up with Tybalt. And then Tybalt overtaking him. Tybalt growing. Swelling into this great towering god. She wishes …”

In fact they could hear her in the intervening bathroom—the taps, the quick tread.

“If only she’d met Tybalt first. She could fuck him. But she can’t. She’s got to fuck Tom Thumb instead. And she thinks she’s found a way.”

So Lily whispered, and stared. And was gone, out of the door and down the steps in her robe.

And Keith attempted to return to Emma, and Miss Bates, and the life-altering picnic on Box Hill.

“You know what they looked like?” said Lily, reappearing with one towel swathed around her and another twirled up in a cone on her head. “Tybalt and Adriano? When they stood there at the bar side by side? They looked like a bottle of Scotch and a miniature. The same brand and the same label. The bottle and the miniature.”

Lily was now getting dressed. All was familiar to him. Familiar, and irrational, like the thoughts that bracket sleep. Was her flesh just the clothing of her blood, her bones? Then she sat at the table before the three mirrors, to dress her face, the eyes in violet, the cheeks in rouge, the lips in pink. He said,

“Should you tong your hair when it’s wet? Are you sure? … Tybalt would be six foot six, wouldn’t he. Not five foot eleven or anything like that.”

“Actually I admire Scheherazade’s attitude. She’s trying her best to be positive. She thinks she can see her way to some sort of dirty weekend. The kind where you never go out. Or even get up. So they’re never perpendicular at the same time.”

“All right, Lily. Describe the horizontal weekend.”

Keith listened with a wandering mind … Adriano would drive her to the capital and park near—or preferably under—one of its premier hotels; adducing discretion, Scheherazade would proceed alone to the booked suite; there she would bathe, and perfume and moisten herself, and lay her long body, coated in some deliquescent negligee, on the white sheets—for him! for Adriano! The man himself would then dramatically appear; standing before the bed, perhaps, he would reach with lingering fingers for the furled bow that secured his white slacks, and, with a stern smile …

“After that,” said Lily, “you just use room service. Nothing in public, where they’re both standing up. It’s that that makes her die of self-consciousness. She’s ashamed of herself, but there it is. She keeps thinking about what he’s thinking about. And she gets the creeps.”

Keith agreed that it wouldn’t be any good if she got the creeps.

“Her attitude’s this. If she fancies Tybalt so much, then she must fancy Adriano. Sort of. And anyway. She’s getting more and more desperate.” Lily rose to her feet and smoothed her hands floorward. “Come on. It’s time.”

And he thought suddenly, This is the world I know, this is my place, among the wide-awake—with her. He rolled off the bed saying, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. You look really lovely, Lily. And we won’t break up. We’ll stay together. You and me.”

“Mm. Mm. I suppose you’re in love with her now.”

“Who?”

“Emma.”

“Oh, definitely. She’s a bit flash, Emma, but I fancy her, I admit. Clever, handsome, and rich. It’s a start.”

“Ah, but has she got big tits? … Does Jane Austen say if they’ve got big tits?”

“Not in so many words. Or not yet. Any moment now she’ll probably say, Emma Woodhouse had big tits. But not yet.”

“You said, you said Lydia Bennet had big tits. The one that runs off with the soldier.”

“Well she has. Or a big arse anyway. Catherine Morland has big tits. Jane Austen more or less tells you that. It’s in code. See, Lydia’s the tallest and youngest sister—and she’s stout. That’s code for a big arse.”

“And what’s code for big tits?”

“Consequence. When Catherine’s growing up she gets plumper and her figure gains consequence. Consequence—that’s code for big tits.”

“Maybe it’s simpler than that. The code. Maybe plump is tits and stout is arse.”

Keith said that she could very well be right.

“So Scheherazade’s plump, and Gloria’s stout. But you wouldn’t call Junglebum stout exactly, would you.”

“Junglebum? No. But words change, Lily. Arses change.”

“Listen to him. First it was all moral patterning. And felt life. Then it was all drugs and fucks. Now it’s all tits and arses. Hang on. I’ve got one. Hysterical Sex and the Single Girl. With Natalie Wood. That’s a proper one.”

“No, Lily. That’s not a proper one.” He thought for a moment and said, “Hysterical Sex Story. With Ali MacGraw. That’s a proper one.”

“But she died. And anyway, we hated it.”

“I know we hated it. Is Tom Thumb coming to dinner?”

“Don’t call him that. Yes. By helicopter.”

“Christ, I’m going to talk to him about this. The sheep are just about halfway back to normal.”

“Talk to Scheherazade. She says she loves to think of Adriano flying free …”

Keith said, “You know, I reckon that’s how he pulls, Adriano. If four foot ten doesn’t do it on its own, he takes them to his dad’s and wheels out Tybalt.”

“… 1945’s the key. The war’s the key. Then she can tell herself she’s doing it for the troops.”

“For the troops?” he said with a crack in his voice. “But he was on the wrong side!”

“What?”

“Italy was an Axis power. So Tom Thumb was a fascist.” Keith went on to impart the two remaining facts in his possession about Italy and the Second World War. “Mussolini introduced the goose step. And when they finally strung him up, he was in a German uniform. Nazi to the last.”

“Calm down … And don’t tell Scheherazade all that.”

The evening began noisily enough. First, the grinding turmoil of Adriano’s rotors. And then they were all heckled and barracked off the west terrace, in the rosy dusk, by the screams of the sheep. But dinner was in fact strangely quiet—or did he mean quietly strange? Whittaker, Gloria, and Keith, facing Lily, Adriano, and Scheherazade. Adriano, then, was not at the head of the table, but he seemed to lead the talk, with his sense of entitlement fully refreshed, saying,

“We clinched the championship with a bitterly fought victory in Foggio. Yet more silverware for our trophy room! Now soon we face the rigours of pre-season training. I’m chafing to begin.”

Keith, again, happened to know that Scheherazade had instructed Adriano to stop talking about love, which Adriano, ominously, had at once agreed to do. On the other hand, this left him short of conversation. So he spoke, at perhaps exorbitant length, about his rugby team, I Furiosi, and its reputation, in what was already the harshest of leagues, for exceptionally uncompromising play.

“Where do you go, Adriano? On the field.”

This was Scheherazade, who wore a new smile on her face. Meek, sorrowful, all-comprehending, all-forgiving. Keith listened on.

“Ah. My position. In the very centre of the fray.”

Adriano was the hooker, and did his work in the fulcrum of the pack. How he especially relished it, he said, at the commencement of a scrum, when the six heads came smashing together! It was normally the hooker’s job, Keith knew, to backheel the ball into the tread of the ten-legged melee that strained at his rear. But it was a different story, apparently, with I Furiosi: as the clash began, Adriano simply raised and crossed his little legs, so that the men behind him (the second row) could rake their studs down the knees and shins of the opposing front line. He said,

“Most effective. Oh, I can promise you. Most effective.”

“… But doesn’t anyone put a stop to it?” said Scheherazade. “And don’t they take their revenge?”

“Ah, but we are equally famed for our indifference to injury. I am the only Furiosi forward with an unbroken nose. The lock is blind in one eye. And neither prop has a tooth in his head. Also, both my ears still hold their shape. Not yet even calcified. Which, again, makes me stick out as a sore thumb from my confrères.”

“And after the match, Adriano?” said Lily.

“We celebrate our victory. And in no uncertain fashion, rest assured. Or, once in a blue moon, we are consigned … to drown our sorrows. All night—always. There is much broken glass. We are veritable lords of misrule!”

“… Who was it who said,” said Whittaker, “that rugby is a game for hooligans played by gentlemen?”

And Keith said, “Yes, I’ve heard that. And football is a game for gentlemen played by hooligans.”

“I lived in Glasgow till the age of ten.”

This was Gloria, and they all turned to her because she so seldom spoke. Meeting no one’s eye, she said,

“One thing is clear. Football is a game watched by hooligans … When Celtic play Rangers it’s a war of religion. Unbelievable. They should go in the army. Adriano. You should go in the army.”

“Oh, Gloria, don’t think I didn’t try! But there are certain restrictions and, alas …”

Falling silent, he bunched the white napkin in his bronzed fists. And for five minutes the room silently churned. Then Adriano straightened his back and said,

“A game for hooligans? How wrong you are, Whittaker. How very wrong you are.”

And Adriano proceeded to assure the gathering, with possibly excessive chapter and verse, that I Furiosi were all of gentle birth, belonging to exclusive sports clubs that charged very high entrance fees; when they drove to their away fixtures, he said, why, they did so in a fleet of Lamborghinis and Bugattis; he even took the trouble to note the deluxe, five-star quality of the hotels they despoiled and the restaurants they wrecked. Adriano sat back, his point made.

They then sat through the gradual formation of a hopeless vacuum. Lily’s stare implored him, and so Keith said,

“Uh, I used to be just like you, Adriano. I was mad about rugby until I was thirteen. Then one day …” There was the usual maul. Exactly the sort of thing he used to love diving into and coming out of covered in blood. “And I …”

“You lost your nerve,” said Adriano understandingly, and even reached out and patted Keith’s hand. “Oh, my friend, it happens!”

“Yeah. I lost my nerve.” But there was another thought in his mind, on the significant Saturday morning—and a thought behind that, and a thought behind that. He said to himself, in 1963: From now on, nothing is renewed. You will be needing everything. You will be needing everything. For the girls. “So I stopped diving in. People noticed. I was dropped.”

Adriano said, “But Kev. How did you tolerate the shame? And the universal contempt?”

Lily said, “I think that’s very funny, Adriano. If I may say so.”

“How did I tolerate it? I told everyone I did it for my sister.” Violet was eight, nine; she used to get upset when he came home covered in welts. I’ll give it up because of you, Vi … This was true, in a sense. He did it for the girls. “Anyway. She was very grateful.”

“It’s straightforward,” said Scheherazade, folding her mat. “You didn’t want to be hurt any more.”

Adriano stayed in his seat as the table cleared around him, to be rejoined, in due course, by Scheherazade.

He sank back, his fraternal duty done. Lily said,

“That was fantastic.”

“Wasn’t it. Stunning. Will it be like that every night?”

“Impossible. We’ll all die or go mad. I kept pinching myself. Not to stay awake. To make sure I wasn’t asleep. And dreaming.”

“You don’t get dreams as mad as that.”

He lay there, and ran an errand of love—but for the last time. For the last time he conjured Scheherazade and imagined that all his thoughts were her thoughts and that all her feelings were his feelings. But as love said its farewells, lingering, kissing its fingertips, it told him that someone as solid, someone as broadly convincing as Scheherazade would not, could not, entwine herself with someone as unbelievable—and obscurely fraudulent—as Adriano. While Lily wafted off in search of sane dreams, Keith hoped and believed that Adriano too would waft off, would melt as the dawn melts the stars, and that Scheherazade would go on being more and more desperate.

But it was the war that presided over his insomnia. For the first time in his life, perhaps, he felt its size and weight. That was not a war in heaven. It was a war of the world.

How near the war was, and how vast.

The war was so near to them and they never really thought about it—the six-year earthquake that killed a million a month (and took Italy, and ground and pestled its mountains against one another).

The war had made its application to the courage of their mothers and fathers, and they were all its children, its tiny ghosts, like the enwombed Adriano.

The war was so near to them and it was not a shadow. It was a light. The colour of the light was a fecal brown.