In the Skin of a Lion - Michael Ondaatje [67]
He was anonymous, with never a stillness in his life like this woman’s. He stood on the roof outside, an outline of a bear in her subconscious, and she quarried past it to another secret, one of her own, articulated wet and black on the page. The houses in Toronto he had helped build or paint or break into were unmarked. He would never leave his name where his skill had been. He was one of those who have a fury or a sadness of only being described by someone else. A tarrer of roads, a house-builder, a painter, a thief – yet he was invisible to all around him.
He leapt through darkness onto the summer grass and then walked up to the main building. Without turning on lights he found the telephone in the kitchen and phoned his wife in Toronto.
– Well I got out.
– Lo so.
– How?
– The police were here. Scomparso. Not that you escaped but that you disappeared.
– When did they come there?
– Last week. A couple of days after you got away.
– How’s August?
– He’s with me. He misses his night walks.
She began to talk about her brother-in-law’s house, which she had moved into. This time through a darkness which was distance.
– I’ll be back when I can, Giannetta.
– Be careful.
She was standing in the centre of the living room in the darkness as he came away from the phone. His ear had been focused to Giannetta’s voice, nothing else. His head imagining her – the alabaster face, the raven head.
– Non riuscivo a trovarti.
– Speak English.
– I couldn’t find you to ask.
– You found the cottage, you found the phone, you could have found me.
– I could have. It’s a habit … usually I don’t ask.
– I’m going to light a lamp.
– Yes, that’s always safer.
She lifted the glass chimney and held the match to the wick. It lit up the skirt and shirt and her red hair. She moved away from it and leaned against the back of the sofa.
– Where were you calling?
– Toronto. My wife.
– I see.
– I’ll pay for it.
She waved the suggestion away.
– Is that your husband’s shirt?
– No. My husband’s shirts are here, though. You want them?
He shook his head, looking around the room. A fireplace, a straight staircase, bedrooms upstairs.
– What do you want? You are a thief, right?
– With cottages all you can steal is the space or the people. I needed to use your phone.
– I’m going to eat something. Do you want some food?
– Thank you.
He followed her into the kitchen feeling relaxed with her – as if this was a continuation of his conversation with Giannetta.
– Tell me …
– David.
– David, why I am not scared of you?
– Because you’ve come back from someplace.… You got something there. Or you’re still there.
– What are you talking about?
– I was on the roof of the boathouse. I did find you.
– I thought there was a bear around tonight.
She sits across from him laughing at the story of his escape, not fully believing it. A fairy tale. She cups her hand over the glass chimney and blows the lamp out. Two in the morning. As they go into darkness his mind holds onto the image of her slightness, the poreless skin, the bright hair leaning into the light. The startling colours of her strange beauty.
– I can’t stand any more light, she says.
– Yes, this is the night. Allow the darkness in.
– I had to stay in a dark room once … with measles.
Her voice is exact, crystal clear. He has his eyes closed, listening to her.
– I was a kid. My uncle – he’s a famous doctor – came to see me. In my room, all the blinds were down, the lights drowned. So I could do nothing. I wasn’t allowed to read. He said I’ve brought you earrings. They are special earrings. He pulled out some cherries. Two, joined by their stalks, and he hung them over one ear and took out another pair and hung them over the other ear. That kept me going for days. I couldn’t lie down at night without