In the Skin of a Lion - Michael Ondaatje [62]
Three men who have evolved smug and without race slash out. “Hello wop.” And the man’s kick into his stomach lets free the singer again as if a Wurlitzer were nudged, fast and flat tones weaving through a two-step as the men begin to beat the blindfolded Caravaggio. What allies with Caravaggio is only the singer, otherwise his mind is still caught underwater. Then they let him go.
He stands there still blindfolded, his hands out. The caller in the cell opposite quietens knowing Caravaggio needs to listen within the silence for any clue as to where the men are. They are dumb beasts. He could steal the teeth out of their mouths. Everyone watches but him, eyes covered, hands out.
The homemade filed-down razor teeth swing in an arc to his throat, to the right of the ripped-open boot. He drops back against the limestone wall. The other leather boot releases its cup-like hold on the water as if a lung gives up. A vacuum of silence.
He realizes the men have gone. The witness, the caller from the upper level, begins to talk quietly to him. “They have cut your neck. Do you understand! They have cut your neck. You must staunch it till someone comes.” Then Patrick screams into the limestone darkness for help.
Caravaggio finds the bed. He gets to his knees on the mattress – head and elbows propping up his bruised body so nothing touches the pain. The blood flows along his chin into his mouth. He feels as if he has eaten the animal that attacked him and he spits out everything he can, old saliva, blood, spits again and again. Everything is escaping. His left hand touches his neck and it is not there.
* * *
The next morning Caravaggio explored the shoreline around the cottage in a canoe. He was out on the lake when a woman in another canoe emerged into the bay and hailed him. Red hair. The clear creamy skin of a witch. She wore a hat tied with a scarf and she waved to him in absolute confidence that if he was in a canoe on this lake he was acceptable and safe, even though every piece of clothing he wore was stolen from the blue bureau in the cottage. The lavender shirt, the white ducks, the tennis shoes. He stopped paddling. Performing intricate strokes she pulled up alongside him.
– You are staying with the Neals.
– How did you know?
She gestured to the canoe. Here people recognized canoes.
– Are they coming up for August?
– I think so. They were unsure.
– They always are. I’m Anne, a neighbour.
She pointed to the next property. She had on a bathing suit and a light skirt and was barefoot, the paddle resting on her shoulder.
– I’m David.
Drops of water slid along the brown wood and onto her skin. He looked at her stunningly poreless face that now and then revealed itself out from the shadow of her straw hat. He decided to be direct about his tentative status.
– I’m here to get my bearings.
– This is a good place for that.
He looked up at her again, differently now, past the white creamy face and bare arms.
– Why did you say it like that?
Her hand up to shield off the sun. A questioning look.
– What you just said …
– Just that I love this place. It can heal you if you are here alone. Are you an artist?
– What?
– You have aquamarine on your neck.
He smiled. He had spent so long calling it blue.
– I should go, he said.
She lifted her paddle forward so it was across her knees, nodding to herself, realizing a wall had just been placed between them. Their canoes banged together and she backpaddled. He had never heard anyone speak as generously as she had in that one sentence. This is a good place.
– Thank you.
She turned, puzzled.
– For pointing out the aquamarine.
– Well … enjoy the lake.
– I will.
She sensed his withdrawal. Alone, not having seen anyone for weeks, she