In the Skin of a Lion - Michael Ondaatje [68]
– Do you have any children?
– I have a son. He comes up with my husband in a day or so. I have a brother who doesn’t speak. This is his shirt. He hasn’t spoken for years.
Caravaggio lies on the carpet. He had, when there was light earlier, been looking up at the tongue and groove, theorizing how one removed such floors. She continues talking.
– In a few days all the husbands come to the lake. A strange custom. I’ve been so happy these last three weeks. Listen … no sound. In the boathouse there is always the noise of the lake. I feel bereaved when the lake is still, mute.
There is now a silence in the room. He stands up.
– I should go.
– You can sleep on the sofa.
– No. I should go.
– You can sleep here. I’m going up to bed.
– I’m a thief, Anne, un ladro.
– That’s right. You broke out of jail.
He sees her clearly on the other side of the unlit lamp, her chin on her clenched fist.
– I have literally fallen in love with the lake. I dread the day I will have to leave it. Tonight I was writing the first love poem I have written in years and the lover was the sound of lakewater.
– I’ve always had a fear of water creatures.
– But water is benign …
– Yes, I know. Goodbye, Anne.
* * *
After his marriage to Giannetta, Caravaggio had one pit to fall into before his career as a thief became successful – he was overwhelmed suddenly by a self-consciousness. He broke into houses and became certain there was a plot concocted to snare him. Giannetta could not stand it. She did not wish to live with a well-trained thief who feared going out.
– Get a partner!
– I can never work with someone else, you know that!
– Then get a dog!
He stole a dark-red fox terrier and named it August. A summer robbery. The dog was his salvation. He had a quick bark, like an exclamation – one announcement, take it or leave it – enough warning for his master as far as the dog was concerned.
On a job they behaved like strangers – Caravaggio strolling along one side of the street and August aimless on the other. When he entered a house the dog sat on the lawn. If the owners returned early the dog would stand up and give one clear bark. Moments later a figure would leap from a window with a carpet or a suitcase in his arms.
* * *
Now he pours milk into the tall glass and drinks as he walks through his brother-in-law’s house, the coolness of milk filling him on this hot Toronto night. He is seated on the stairs, facing the door. He hears the dog’s one clear bark and her laugh as she approaches the front door.
In the dark hall the whiteness of the milk disappears into his body. Her shoulders nestle against his hands. The home of the other. Touching her, a wetness passed from her lip to him, his hands in her dark hair. She moves within the shadow of his shoulder.
She steps into the half-lit kitchen and her bare arms pick up light. He catches the blink of her earrings. Removing one, she drops it to the floor. Her hands go up to the other ear – unscrewing the second pin of gold. Her laughter with her breast in his mouth.
He breaks the necklace and pearls fall around them. He can smell soaps in her hair. Her wrist moves up his arm riding on the sweat. Her cheek against the warm tile. Her other hand, sweeping out, touches the loose jewel.
Giannetta feels the scar on his throat. Her soft kiss across it. He carries her, still in her, holding up each thigh, her eyes wide open, crockery behind her crashing from shelf to shelf, as she nudges the corner cupboard. Blue plates bounce and come through the lower panes like water and smash on the floor.
With each step her bare foot on a pearl or a fragment of plate. She opens the fridge door. In its light she pulls her foot up to her stomach and examines it, brushing something away. He lies back and she sits over him, swallowing the cold wine. He traces the path down her body at the speed he imagines liquid takes.
Her chin on her knee. Planting her foot on his shoulder she leaves blood when she moves it. When she opens her eyes wide he sees