Clowns At Midnight Read online

  I sat trying to think of what to say next. Thankfully, Raina came to my aid.

  ‘Carlo, you must let David concentrate. He has the names to remember.’

  Carlo reacted like a cartoon villain, all mock-chagrin as if a plan had been exposed. ‘Raina, you have seen through my schemes again! Scusi, David. I meant to go beyond host’s duty and slip you an extra glass of wine. But we shall talk, and you will listen and memorise the names. For all our sakes, you must succeed. Remember the Cannonau!’

  And with that, the talk resumed. I had to smile. I really was meant to fulfil their request, learn the names and recite them. Without saying anything further, I set to it.

  Through the eating and drinking, through Carlo’s run of stories and constant bonhomie, I’d more than once found myself studying the girl at the end of the table furthest from the kitchen. She seemed nice enough if hardly a beauty. Her name was Gemma, if I wasn’t mistaken; that’s what someone else had called her, and hers was one of the broader Australian accents I’d been hearing. Hers, too, the distinctive bray of a laugh.

  During lulls in conversation, I found myself looking at her, trying to figure out why I was. Perhaps it was simply that she seemed to be here without a partner. It was crazy. She was slim and tall, in her late twenties, early thirties, had a nice enough body, close-cropped blonde hair and a pleasant face, but really wasn’t my type, certainly not worth the complications of getting involved. I put it down to being on the rebound from Julia, and to something I called the Nelson Syndrome.

  When I was seventeen I’d gone to a friend’s backyard party, a small affair, only fifteen or so people, with only two girls to dance and flirt with. One was my friend’s shrewish sister, the other a plain looker I normally wouldn’t have given a second glance. But she was the only one available and, as the evening progressed, my two friends and I found ourselves competing for her favours in the most blatant and inexplicable fashion, no doubt to her bewilderment, since the attentions vanished as miraculously after that evening. It was like that now. Needing connection, approval across the full spectrum of bereft masculinity, I sought it wherever it was offered.

  I decided to get on with the name learning business before the Italian and Australian wines made it impossible. I hadn’t been paying enough attention, hadn’t even noticed till now that someone had drawn the curtains over the windows. My mind had been wandering.

  I made much of announcing that I was ready to begin. Starting from Raina, I began working my way around the table, first meeting Carlo’s uncle, Tomaso Risi, a widower in his seventies who lived close by and also ran a piggery with two of his sons. Tomaso was politeness itself though his English wasn’t good. Normally his three sons and their families would be here, he managed to convey with words, nods and smiles and with Raina helping, but, while it was school holidays and a Saturday, there were young ones unwell and always things to be done when you worked on the land.

  Then there were the Kesbys, John and Pat, an Australian couple in their forties, who were absolutely determined that I win Carlo’s contest. The imported Cannonau had to be quite something. I spent quite a while with them, and they took me through the names of everyone at the table, making me recite them again and again so I could practise before actually quizzing them myself. If it was against Carlo’s rules, he didn’t seem to mind.

  The Tramontes were next, Nestore and Lucia, Italians who had ended up in the same region. Then there were the Bittis, Paolo and Katerina, and there was a lot of laughter across the table as the Kesbys nodded yes-no as I backtracked over the names I already had. They were followed by the Luhrs, Helmut and Gerta, with their houseguest, Klaus, then two librarians from Lismore, Danny and Connie Lambert. It was starting to blur by then. But the Kesbys were urging me on, saying there were so few to go.

  Luigi and Angelina Pascari were next. Like the Kesbys, they were determined to help, and recited the litany of guests’ names, eliciting theatrical bows and toasts from the Germans, nods and gleeful little close-handed rounds of applause from the Bittis, cries of mock-indignation from Carlo at this betrayal of his trust, cries of support from Raina, with fond urgings that Carlo be understanding this one time. How could anyone not resort to desperate measures when the Cannonau was at stake?

  I had reached Gemma, but deliberately went to the couple beyond: the Pellegrinis, Vanni and Isabella (Bella, she insisted! I had to say Bella when the time came). Then I turned back to Gemma. The Nelson Syndrome was prevailing, and she was meant to notice my passing her up, then returning like this. It was intended to be the lightest of overtures, but who knew how it came across? I’d drunk more than I thought.

  ‘This is an official visit, if I can manage it,’ I said. ‘Your name please?’

  ‘Gemma Ewins,’ she said. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes twinkled with merriment as she enunciated the words slowly and carefully, as if to a child. Like the rest of the gathering, with the possible exception of the Luhrs’ houseguest, Klaus, Gemma Ewins had obviously played Carlo’s game before.

  We shook hands as I had with the others. It was a good handshake, firm and well intended. I proceeded, with nerves tingling. The wine, I told myself. The wine.

  ‘So, Gemma Ewins, Gemma Ewins, Gemma Ewins, tell me about yourself.’

  She gave the most wonderful smile, clearly enjoying my conscientiousness and applauding my readiness to earn us all the whatever-it-was wines.

  ‘Well, David Leeton, David Leeton, David Leeton, I live out along Edenville Road with my folks and brother. I do bar work at the Exchange in Kyogle and sometimes at the Commonwealth in Casino. I’m twenty-nine and still studying to be a graphic designer.’

  ‘Still studying? There’s a story there.’

  ‘Not much of one. Works better as a tease than telling it. The old story of what comes from helping on the land, trying this and that.’

  ‘Is there more, Gemma Ewins?’

  ‘Of course. But I know Carlo’s imported wines. You get the rest when you’ve won us the Cannonau. It’ll be your reward.’

  Which was another tease, with a wonderful smile to add an unexpected charge. The Nelson Syndrome was in full swing.

  I turned back to Carlo and announced that I was ready. There was no point in delaying.

  ‘Ready!’ Carlo cried, feigning disbelief. ‘You come in here, feed up on my wife’s inconceivably wonderful pasta, drink our deadliest wines, and so casually pronounce yourself ready! David Leeton, you and I have to talk. Please, a word outside before the contest reaches its final stages.’

  ‘Don’t go!’ John Kesby cried. ‘He means to distract you! Name the names now, then go outside!’

  ‘Not fair, Carlo!’ Helmut Luhr called. ‘Say them now, David!’

  But Carlo was determined. ‘Host’s right!’ he called. ‘He deserves to see the famous Risi garden first!’

  I had no choice but to follow, waving to John Kesby when he called after me: ‘Ignore everything he says, David! Keep going through the names!’

  Carlo led the way down a short side passage and out onto a terrace, switching on some outdoor lights as he did so.

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Before us was a large hedge-maze. Much of it was in darkness, but enough lanes and turnings were visible in the light from the terrace for me to appreciate both its size and quality.

  ‘Carlo, this is wonderful,’ I said. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘I knew you would like it. You will have to visit in daylight and try your luck. It isn’t too formidable. Not in daylight. You’re enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s a marvellous evening. I’m not sure how I’ll do with the names but –’

  Carlo slapped me on the arm. ‘You’ll do as well as you can do. I saw you leave Gemma till last. You like her?’

  ‘Of course. She seems very nice. I hope I’m not–’

  ‘I interrupt again. Scusi. You’re relaxing. That’s good. And you like the maze.’

  ‘I do. From your Italian heritage, Carlo?’<
br />
  ‘Not Italian, David. Sardinian. We’re Sards, Raina and me. Tomaso, the Bittis, other families around here. From that hot little island across the Tyrrhenian Sea from Naples. You know it?’

  ‘Of it, Carlo. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No matter. No matter. Full of stony hillsides, crags and lonely villages even today. Opened up by tourism, yes—developed, as they say—but a hard desolate place. Someday you will see. It is a land of shepherds, miners and charcoal burners, with drought and poor soil, thick forests, difficult mountains. An awful, wonderful place, full of history. Other people’s history too, but its own—you will see.’

  Part of me was still matching faces to names, just in case this was to distract me. Another part wanted to learn more about this man, wanted to create the moment when I could ask about the tower and the bottle-trees. I had to work to recall his final words.

  ‘But changing surely. Improving.’ I didn’t know what else to say. He seemed to want to talk about his original homeland.

  Carlo Risi frowned as if at some significant recollection. ‘You can say. On the coast at Cagliari and Oristano, at Olbia and Sassari, Porto Torres in the north; those perfect but soulless resorts on the Costa Smeralda. Not all for the good. Arzachena—spoiled! So many places, spoiled! But inland, in the Barbagia, up in the Supramonte wilderness and the Gennargentu ranges, little really changes.’

  ‘An old land,’ I said. ‘Like Australia.’

  The comment seemed to please him. He looked at me intently, appraisingly, with his deep-set dark eyes, then nodded and grinned. ‘For us Sardinia is still a forgotten centre of the world. You know what your D.H. Lawrence said about Sardinia.’

  I could only laugh. He was so animated, so full of bit and pieces. ‘I don’t. Sorry.’

  ‘Sea and Sardinia, no?’

  ‘Sorry. Just one line about masks someone told me. But I haven’t read it.’

  ‘A good door in for you. A small door, incomplete but very good. Let me quote him to you. I have learned it by heart. “Sardinia, which is like nowhere. Sardinia, which has no history, no date, no race, no offering. Let it be Sardinia. They say neither Romans nor Phoenicians, Greeks nor Arabs ever subdued Sardinia. It lies outside; outside the circuit of civilisation. Like the Basque lands. Sure enough, it is Italian now, with its railways and its motor-omnibuses. But there is an uncaptured Sardinia still. It lies within the net of this European civilisation, but it isn’t landed yet.” You like that? Not landed yet! He wrote that in 1921.’

  ‘It’s very good. It makes it sound fascinating.’

  ‘That is the word. There’s more, David. He also said that it is “lost between Europe and Africa and belonging to nowhere. Belonging to nowhere, never having belonged to anywhere. To Spain and the Arabs and the Phoenicians most. But as if it had never really had a fate. No fate. Left outside of time and history.” What do you think?’

  ‘That can’t be true. Surely it was caught up in all sorts of invasions and colonisations.’

  ‘True. But that was other people’s history, brought in from outside. Your D.H. Lawrence sensed the quality of the place. He got near to something most others never see. It is the great worth of his book. He saw it in the people. “The peculiar ancient loneliness of the Sardinian hills clings to them, and something stiff, static, pre-world.” You like that: pre-world? That’s what he said.’

  My D.H. Lawrence. ‘You make me want to go there and see it for myself.’ I could have mentioned orientalism: the traveller’s inevitable projection of qualities yearned for onto his destination; the gifted, smitten Mr Lawrence projecting his passionate English sensibilities onto this exotic other. But Carlo deserved to be allowed his own passion. ‘Where did your people come from?’

  ‘Inland. From outside Mamoiada in the Barbagia, below the central ranges. The real Sardinia. So cold in winter. So hot and dry in the summer. A terrible, wonderful place, like I say.’

  ‘What made you leave?’ I was trying to anticipate Carlo’s line of thought. It seemed the appropriate question.

  ‘Leave Mamoiada? My father saw what was happening. He brought the family here in 1952.’

  Saw what was happening. A political issue or perhaps deep resentment of encroaching exploitation from outside. ‘It must have been hard for them.’

  ‘Sì. Some things are very hard. David, how strong are you?’

  What did he mean? Physically? Emotionally? Strong in character? In resolve?

  ‘Strong? Strong enough, Carlo.’ I almost said: strong enough to remember twenty names, but was glad I didn’t. It wasn’t what he meant.

  ‘Well, you will understand. Something had to be done then. Sometimes something has to be done. They were sorry to leave but glad also. They liked it here. Mama died in 1981, Papa in ’89. Raina and I have stayed. Our children, our families, have their lives here.’

  We were silent for a moment, Carlo lost in reflection, me out of genuine respect for the hard choices that had made these lives what they now were.

  It wasn’t a silence that could be left too long. This was still my best chance, and it would seem that I was changing the subject out of courtesy. ‘Carlo, I meant to ask. There’s a tower over on your southern boundary. Up on the hill.’

  Carlo gave an expressive shrug, as if to confirm that it didn’t amount to much: it was just one more out-of-the-way, abandoned building like the countless thousands scattered across rural Australia.

  ‘Ah, that. Who knows what it was originally? An old silo or something, from before the properties were divided. It was there when Papa bought the place in the fifties. Too far away for storage. Too much trouble to take down, though the stone is good.’

  ‘You’ve been inside?’

  ‘Me? Yes, of course. A few times as a boy, with Papa and Tomaso when we first moved here. I don’t remember much. It was empty inside, all rotted and fallen. Now the lock has rusted. The key has been lost.’

  ‘Could we go see it sometime?’

  Carlo gave his marvellous smile. ‘But of course. That’s a fine idea! We’ll all go, make a picnic of it while you are here. Raina can prepare abbacchio, her specialty. One taste makes you a Sard forever. And speaking of your transformation, we must play fair and join the others. I have the fine Cannonau for you to try, if you can win it for us. All the way from Nuoro, opened tonight to honour your visit. Failing that, there’s a good Vermentino. We are determined to make you one of us.’

  And that was it, no cause to feel cheated or put off. Carlo was generosity itself, though I suspected that the picnic would never happen. I was being humoured, deflected, and with more natural charm than I could recall in anyone I’d met in the past ten years.

  We went inside again and Carlo switched off the terrace lights after us. I hadn’t mentioned the bottle-trees; I’d wanted to see if he would when I spoke of the tower. Now I’d lost my chance, though Carlo Risi liked being in charge of things. Perhaps he’d surprise me.

  He did, but in a wholly unexpected way.

  Back at the table, Carlo had me stand before the assembled guests and announced that the naming contest was to begin. Everyone cheered, applauded, urged me on.

  Grinning foolishly, I steadied myself against the back of my chair and did the rounds of the guests, missing only two names—the Pellegrinis—out of the twenty.

  ‘Close enough! Close enough!’ Carlo announced in his rich baritone. There were more cheers and general applause, cries of ‘Bravo, David!’ and ‘Well done!’

  I was proud of myself; I felt I had done very well considering, and I was especially glad to see Gemma looking delighted. I took my seat amid shouted congratulations.

  But no sooner had Carlo opened his two bottles of prized Cannonau and poured glasses for everyone, than he stood behind his chair and addressed the gathering.

  ‘Dear friends, before we have our toast, I wish to make a special announcement. David is here under the most trying circumstances. He will not want you to know this; he certainly will not want me to tell you,
but he has a deep and lifelong fear of clowns and masked figures. I thought that it was important that you should know.’

  CHAPTER 3

  I sat dumbfounded, unable to believe what I was hearing. How could he—why had he—?

  Carlo hurried on, his manner both solemn and respectful. ‘I will ask that you consider this in all your dealings with him, just as I asked him to humour me with the naming just now. He truly did have to win us the Cannonau, as you well know.’ He turned to me and raised his glass in a salute. ‘David, you truly did.’

  I sat frozen with a silly smirk on my face, staring at my own glass of precious Sardinian red, not knowing what to say or how to react. It was such a shock; I wasn’t sure what I felt: something of fear, rage, overwhelming dismay, acute self-consciousness. I just stared at the raw bleeding light of the wine and felt that the world had tipped askew.

  Carlo’s voice remained part of that dislocation.

  ‘Because he has honoured us with his presence this evening, I mention this to honour him in turn. David, you must know. We put things away for tonight; one thing in particular. The others noticed it was missing and had asked. I did not tell them the reason. I said to wait until you had arrived and were introduced. Now I ask for your forbearance at my gracelessness. It seemed best.’

  ‘You have done so well,’ Raina added. ‘Bravo, David!’

  ‘Thank you, Carlo. Thank you, Raina.’

  It was absurd. I was thanking them! And, hiding feelings of betrayal, embarrassment, fury at being ambushed like this, I found myself wondering just what had been put away, sitting out of sight in drawers and cupboards until I was gone.

  How strong are you? Carlo had asked. It had all been planned.

  I raised my glass of Cannonau to the company. ‘Here’s to clowns!’

  ‘To clowns! And to us all!’ Carlo said, and drank. We all did.