Touchy Subjects: Stories

  The letter didn't reach me for months, because by then Di was off in Tibet and the others at the Welcome claimed to have mislaid my new address. I finally read it the day after Christmas, sitting on a park bench in the college grounds.

  If I say hi, this is John, you won't know who I mean, will you? I used to think if anybody found me out, it would be you, Luce. Sometimes you used to look at me so intensely, like there was something on the tip of your tongue, I thought maybe you knew. But I was probably just kidding myself so I'd feel less guilty about bullshitting you all.

  They said the hormones would be hard. But what I've found much worse is not quite belonging anywhere and having to lie all the time. Not that I ever had to actually claim to be a woman, because none of you ever asked.

  And I am one, you know. Inside. Not where people usually mean by inside, but farther inside than that. I've known since I was four years old. I'm not John anymore, except on my birth certificate; I don't think I ever really was. I've been JJ for a long time now. That's why it wasn't exactly a lie, what I let you all think. To have said "Hi, my name is John" would have been the biggest lie.

  But the body I've got is mostly wrong, still, and the doctors won't give me the operation because they say I'm not serious enough about wanting it. According to their classifications, I should wear makeup and tights and get a boyfriend. I have to keep telling them that's not the kind of woman I am. I spent too many years pretending already, to want to start all over again.

  I did like living in the co-op, more than I showed, probably. Most days I was able to forget about the whole man/ woman business and just be one of the girls. I'm sorry I cocked it all up in the end (no pun intended).

  I just wanted to tell you something, Luce, that's why I'm writing. I just wanted to say (here goes), if I had the right body—if I had any kind of body I was wanting to show or share, or if I could feel much of anything these days—then it would be you I'd want to do it with. You'd be welcome. That's all. I just thought I'd tell you that, because what the hell.

  It all happened years ago. I wouldn't believe how many years, except for the date on the letter, which I keep folded up small in a sandalwood box with a couple of other important things, like my grandfather's pipe and an iris from the bouquet Di chucked me at her and Theo's wedding.

  These days I have a very normal happy life, in a two-dykes-and-their-dogs-and-their-mortgage kind of way. I'm not quite so picky anymore, and I don't let myself correct people's grammar, at least out loud. Last I heard, the Welcome was still going, though I don't know anyone who lives there. I wonder are the potatoes still sprouting down the back of the garden, the ones I watered with JJ? I thought I saw her at Pride one year—or the back of her neck, anyway—but I might have been imagining it.

  In case this sounds like some kind of doomed first-love story, I should admit that I was grateful there was no return address on that letter. I was young, that summer—younger than I knew, it occurs to me now. JJ must have known that I wouldn't have been able to write back; that I'd have had no idea what to say.

  Her letter has gone all shiny at the folds. I don't read it for nostalgia; I prefer not to read it at all. It brings back that bruised, shivery feeling of being in love and making one mistake after another, of waking up to find myself in the wrong story. I keep the letter in my box for anytime I catch myself thinking I know the first thing about anything.

  DEATH

  The Dormition of the Virgin

  Fiorenze (Florence), Stazione Rifredi, Monday, Day 1. Caffé Latte.

  George had a brown leather notebook to record his impressions so that he could tell his friends at college exactly what Italy was like, rather than blabbing on vaguely. The caffè latte was much weaker than in the college café in Loughborough, but subtler, more authentic. He was killing half an hour in Stazione Rifredi, which had turned out not to be the main Florence station; because it had said FIORENZE on the sign, he'd leapt off the train like a twat, so now he had to wait for a local train to take him south to Stazione di Santa Maria Novella, which was the real one. He thought the Italians should label things more clearly.

  They eat and drink standing up at the counter, very odd—meant to be laid-back Mediterranean people?

  People kept leaving the door of the buffet open and the February air skated in. But the guidebook said you really had to come off-season if you wanted to see the art without peering over stinky hordes.

  As soon as he got to Florence proper, George went into Santa Maria Novella, the first church on his list.

  Said to be finest Gothic church in Tuscany. Stripy b/w facade, not at all like Gothic at home.

  The wheels of his suitcase squeaked embarrassingly on the church's flagstones. It was hard to see in the chapels, but he'd brought his small torch, as the guidebook had suggested. He leaned against the wall and penciled in some notes.

  Lots of martyrdoms (St. Lawrence on his griddle, St. Catherine? with breasts on plate, St. Sebastian stuck with arrows) and a raising of Drusiana, who she?

  George had picked out the Hotel Annunziata because the guidebook said it was cheap, five minutes from Ponte Vecchio, and had lashings of atmosphere. It was three floors up over a posh wineshop. The Signora who ran the place could have been anything between sixty and ninety; despite his Linguaphone course, he couldn't understand a word she said, and he thought she must be speaking some kind of heavy Tuscan dialect. She uncurled a hand at the frescoes in the lounge, then led him down a skinny corridor to indicate the toilet and the shower. The Signora took George's passport away to her own apartment for a few minutes, leaving him standing round gazing at the frescoes, and then she came back with a police form for him to sign. He wondered whether all tourists had to do that or just young guys, potential troublemakers.

  Unpacking in his bare square room, it occurred to George that he might be the only person staying there. He hadn't heard any voices, but maybe the others would come in later. This place was like something from another century—the pensione from A Room with a View.

  No view but what can expect for €49 a night? What's that in sterling?—must check. Hallway's got stucco putti, I think probably real. For lunch had pasta in gritty squid ink (not good), outside became there was a bit of sun but pretty cold.

  George had been planning this trip ever since he was seven and saw a film about the Medicis. He was doing social studies at Loughborough but was thinking of changing to art history. His Florence itinerary was only provisional; he knew he probably wouldn't get to all these churches and museums, but he meant to try, because for all he knew he'd never be here again. (His aunt had always wanted to go to Bali, but now she had emphysema.) If he started to flag, he could always have an espresso.

  George knew the statues outside Orsanmichele were nearly all copies, but he had decided that looking at the full-size copies in their original setting was actually more authentic than looking at the originals (brought inside to escape the acid rain) in the museum, and besides, the museum was shut on Mondays.

  The guidebook says most tourists rush right past Orsanmichele wh. is prob. single most important series of early Renaissance statues. I know I'm one too (a tourist) but they repel me (tourists, not statues). E.g. trying to soak up ancient atmosphere in this little piazza Santa something-or-other but scooters keep roaring by and there's two girls at the next table with Liverpool accents.

  The guidebook said the closed museum also had an excellent Transition of the Virgin.

  There's just as much art about Mary as about JC, really, they're like his 'n her deities. What was she transitioning from, I wonder? Sounds like a sex change.

  George just wanted to know, so that the art would make sense; he wasn't into any of that stuff personally. He'd stopped going to church when he was thirteen, and his parents hadn't seemed bothered.

  In the Baptistery he craned up at the ancient mosaics. There was Jesus, twenty feet high, with under him all the sarcophagi opening and the dead crawling out, the ones on the left being escort
ed away to heaven by huge trumpeting angels,

  and the poor buggers on the right being grabbed by devils like something out o/Star Trek, leathery bat wings, and enormous Satan munching them two at a time!

  The Baptistery doors were those famous ones Ghiberti had won the competition for in 1401, and George stood with his arms folded and tried to examine the panels closely, but tourists kept pushing past him to get in and out.

  In a tiny osteria he ordered pasta e fagioli, thinking it was pasta with beans, but it turned out to be a bean soup with a few bits of pasta in it, and he was still hungry afterwards. He read his guidebook in bed and thought of asking the Signora for another pillow. There was a bell beside the door to her private apartment, but he didn't want to hassle her; she was probably down on her arthritic knees saying the rosary or something (though, actually, her radio was on). His phrase book didn't have pillow in it; he would have to mime the concept, or bring along the one pillow he had and point to it, and then she might think he was allergic to it. Never mind, he could sit cross-legged and lean back against the wall.

  Tuesday, Day 2.1 know it sounds pretentious, but this isn't a holiday—it's a pilgrimage.

  George stood flinching under the shower, fiddling to try to find something between scalding and icy. His hair was still wet as he hurried past the Duomo. He felt like Michelangelo, on his way to choose a block of perfect translucent Carrara marble by the dawn light. Passing a tour party who were emitting the usually clicking and whirring sounds as they squinted up at Brunelleschi's orange dome, George was gratified that he'd decided to leave his camera in his room in Loughborough. This way he would really see things and really remember.

  Standing in Piazza della Signoria beside gigantic statues, e.g. Donatello's Judith cutting off the head of Holofernes, noticed I was standing on a purple circle which turned out to be a disc of porphyry to mark where Savonarola (the hellfre-spouting, bonfire of the vanities priest) got burnt alive on 23 May 1498. Fuck!

  Every inch of Florence meant something; there were no blank bits. It was slightly exhausting.

  At the Uffizi he saw a Greek statue which had once been known as The Knife Grinder, but scholars had now established that it was a Scythian preparing his blade in order to flay Marsyas. There was another statue of a man hanging upside down and laughing, only he wasn't laughing, he was howling, and that was Marsyas again. Gladiator was nothing to this, George thought queasily. But he definitely preferred art in which something was happening: a fight or a miracle or a death or something. He was already bored with all those pictures of the Madonna tickling the Bambino under his chin.

  When he's got his crown of thorns on it's called Ecce Homo, then the Deposition is when his friends lift him down off the cross (NB you never see them taking the nails out with pliers, maybe it would look too undignified). A Lamentation can also be called Dead Christ or Pieta (he's not always on Mary's lap, sometimes just propped up by angels, looking sick or hungover rather than actually dead, hard to tell).

  Back at the Annunziata, his bed had not been made; maybe that was the difference between a pensione and a hotel? Anyway, he liked the privacy; he wouldn't fancy the Signora shuffling round pawing through his stuff. She seemed to keep the radio on all the time; it was a bit sad. George stared at the picture over his bed, the one that looked like two wrestlers going in for a clinch. After he'd taken it down and cleaned the glass on the bedspread, it turned out to be a Visitation of Mary and Elizabeth; they were touching each other's pregnant stomachs. He was starting to recognize all the scenes, now; it was like a code, and he was cracking it.

  Wednesday, Day 3. Never never go on holiday with only one pair of shoes if they're suede. Pissing down all day and I'm soaked to the ankles, my feet feel like dead fish.

  George sat in a cafeteria eating a calzone out of a napkin. He was tempted to go back to the counter and complain that it was cold in the middle, but he'd left his phrase book in his room. He flicked through his notes, trying to figure out whether the Virgin Mary had died or not. In several churches he'd seen paintings called The Death of the Virgin, where she was lying there like a normal dying person with grieving relatives (including Jesus holding a baby—maybe his childhood self?). There were other pictures called the "Transition" or "Assumption," which showed Mary floating up to Heaven, looking pretty alive. As far as George could tell, Jesus "ascended" (actively) whereas Mary "was assumed," but what was the difference, apart from grammar? Could you say God assumed her? No, that sounded like he took her for granted. Maybe JC flew up by his own will, whereas Mary was sort of sucked up as if by aliens?

  George hadn't time to obsess over these arcane details; he was two-thirds of a day behind on his itinerary. Reckless, he crossed off all the Baroque churches—the Renaissance was more than enough to be going on with—and squelched off to Santa Spirito, which bore a huge, crass sign proclaiming that its restoration was being funded by Gucci. The Church of the Ognissanti meant the "Church of All the Saints"; that was a good way to hedge your bets, George thought a little cynically. He saw a postcard of a painting that used to be there but was now in Berlin: a Giotto from 1310 called The Dormition of the Virgin.

  Now what the hell's a dormition? Abstract word for sleep?Mary looks comatose in the picture (and about eight feet long), people are standing beside her bed, one guy is hugging her, but you can't tell if her eyes are open.

  All the saints died, and so did Jesus (even if he rose again), so if Mary hadn't actually died, that would make her the only human being ever who had avoided it. Not that any of this stuff was actually true, George had to remind himself.

  Some gravestones say "fell asleep" meaning died, but it's a stupid phrase, I bet they're totally different feelings. Unless you happen to die in your sleep, which a lot of people claim they'd like, but I think it's cowardly, I'd rather be hit by a lorry and look it in the face. The thing is, whatever's happening, to be totally AWARE and AWAKE.

  He was starting to shake with cold; he'd have to go back for dry socks. Passing a bookshop, he had a brain wave. In the English section he found a dictionary of religious terms and looked up dormition. He turned away so the girl at the counter wouldn't see him taking notes and scribbled in his leather journal.

  Turns out Mary died in the ordinary way, then three days later Archangel Michael brought her soul back down to reunite it with her body, Jesus and everybody was clapping, then she got assumed into heaven again!

  It was very satisfying to sort out the full story.

  At the Annunziata, George was suddenly knackered and let himself get under the sheets. He wished the Signora would turn her radio off the odd time; all that Western stuff wrecked the atmosphere. Well, of course, Italy was the West, but they could still do better than Eminem.

  When he woke up after an hour, he wanted to borrow an iron, so he looked it up in his phrase book and knocked on the Signora's door, but she didn't answer; maybe she'd gone out in the rain. George decided to wear his crumpled jacket for dinner; who'd be looking at him, anyway?

  Thursday, Day 4. My last day, arghhhhh!

  George almost ran from church to church that morning, ticking them off on his list. He had to fend off dozens of leather-jacket salesmen to get into San Lorenzo. Donatello's late-period pulpit was the grimmest George had seen, even the Ascension panel, with a wrecked-looking Jesus trying to float off into the sky, but sinking back down.

  So many of these guys seemed to start out all idealistic but got burnt out. Suppose life in Cinquecento would do that—plagues, revolutions, etc. Whereas now everything's easy and comfortable, no mysteries left, life comes prepackaged by Disney or the Gap, we just drift along and nothing ever really happens compared with back then.

  In a café, flicking through his highlights of the Uffizi book, he came across a little panel by Fra Filippo Lippi called Predella of the Barbadori: Announcement of the Death of the Virgin. He didn't know how he could have missed it when he'd done the Uffizi; maybe because it was so small.

  It looks
like an Annunciation at first, because she's standing up (not old or anything), and the angel's handing her something like a magic wand, or a tall gold candle. Wow. Imagine if we all got told when we were about to snuff it—like an e-mail, on the day, telling you to pack your bags.

  Speaking of which, time to go. George headed reluctantly back to the Hotel Annunziata via a cash machine.

  When he'd zipped up his case, he went to the door of the Signora's apartment and knocked a few times, quite loudly. Her radio was playing "Nights in White Satín"; she had to be a bit deaf, he thought, though she hadn't seemed it on Monday. "Bon giomo?" he called a few times, then, almost shouting, "Signora?" She knew he'd be checking out this afternoon, didn't she?

  George was beginning to panic about missing his train. He tried the door handle and walked down the narrow hall. "Signora?" There was an armchair with an ancient-looking radio playing beside it, and an empty espresso cup. He felt it, in case she'd just popped out, but it was cold. He wanted to turn the music down—something old of Sheryl Crow's—but he didn't dare. He got out his wad of cash and counted it, €196; that way he could wave it at her if she appeared, so she'd see why he'd barged in on her.