In the Skin of a Lion - Michael Ondaatje [65]
– Please, tomorrow bring me something to eat.
– Perchè?
– I’m a thief. I’ve broken my ankle.
She bent down and put her hand out.
– Tartufi? What are you stealing? Mushrooms?
Her hands were on his foot, felt the ankle strapped up, and believed everything, knowing already he was gentle by his laugh.
– I broke it a mile or two from here. I’m very hungry. Please bring me some chicken tomorrow.
He could not see her face at all just the hem of the skirt at her knees where the light bounced as she crouched. Now all he could know of her was a voice, confident, laughing with him.
– Come si chiama?
– Giannetta.
– I’m Caravaggio.
– A thief.
– Sicuro.
– I’ll bring you some chicken tomorrow. And a bible.
– Let me see your face.
– Basta! Ha visto abbastanza.
She patted his foot.
– Do you need anything else?
– Ask what I should do about my ankle.
There was darkness again and he yearned for light. The thin beam from her helmet, the delicate ribs as she reached up for the blouse, her shadow overcoming his memory so he had to begin the scene again, a small loop of film, seven or eight seconds, until she reached for the lamp and put herself in darkness. He repeated it again and again and then turned to her voice. Strange how he wanted chicken above all else. It was that useless chase in the yard across the road, itching in his memory.
The next morning she arrived and asked him to turn his head while she changed. She told him how each of the workers chose a room or one corner for changing into and out of their overalls. She unwrapped a large cloth and gave him the food. Chicken and some salad and milk and banana cake. It was the worst banana cake he had eaten up to that point in his life.
– Devo partire. Ritornerò.
In the afternoon Giannetta and three other women workers came by to have a look at him. There were the expected jokes, but he enjoyed the company after so much solitude. When they left, noisily, she put her hand out. She touched his mouth gently. Then she brought out bandages and restrapped his ankle.
– Cosí va meglio.
– When can I get out of here?
– We’ve planned something for you.
– Bene. Let me see your face.
Her lamp remained still at his foot. So he reached back for his foreman’s helmet and shone it on her. She remained looking down. He realized his right hand was still holding her ankle from when she had removed the electrical tape off him painfully.
– Thank you for helping me.
– I am sorry I kicked you so hard.
The next day Giannetta crouched beside him, smiling.
– We must shave off your moustache. Only women work here.
– Mannaggia!
– We have to get you out as a woman.
He reached out his hand and put his fingers into her hair, into that darkness.
– Giannetta.
– You have to put your arm down.
Her hand rested at his shoulder, holding onto the straight razor. He would not let her go.
Their faces darkened as they leaned forward, her lamp shining past his head. He could smell her skin.
– Here comes the first kiss, she whispered.
She handed him the dress.
– Non guardare, please. Don’t look.
He realized he was standing exactly where she had been a few days earlier. He switched on his lamp so it beamed onto her, then began to take off his shirt, paused, but she kept looking at him. He saw his own shadow on the wall. She came forward, smiling, calming his balance as he stood on his good foot.
– Here, I’ll show you how to put on a dress. Unbutton this first.
She held the cloth bunched over his nakedness.
– Ahh Caravaggio, shall we tell our children how we met?
* * *
This time he did not take the canoe. He had already walked the shoreline before dusk, remembering the swamp patches. Now, dressed in dark clothes, he traced his path towards the compound belonging