The Skin Room Read online

  The boat rocked and we wavered on our feet.

  “You want to sit down?” he asked.

  “Thanks.”

  We sat on some sort of bench. It was white wood, slightly damp. I could see the purple skies going black, hear frenetic seagulls, smell the salty breeze.

  “How about I ask you a question, Alex?” He spat another nutshell and shuffled the fresh victims in his palm.

  “Go ahead.”

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “The truth?”

  He shrugged.

  “I had to get away,” I said.

  “From what?”

  “I needed a change of scene, that’s all.”

  He showed off another of his well-prepared smiles. I could see how Sonia might make the mistake of liking him. I imagined he knew how to talk to women. His main asset was his aura of casual power. It was as though he knew exactly how to lead people into making the mistake of trusting him.

  “I hope you’re not in any trouble? We don’t need that around here. Everything has to be smooth, Alex.” He bit into another nut and chewed the contents, working his back teeth repetitively, as though it calmed his nerves. “Very smooth.”

  “Nobody knows I’m here.”

  “I hope not.” He stood up and planted his boot on the lowest line of white ropes. He turned back. “So, Alex, what the fuck do you want from me?”

  “A ride.”

  He opened his hand. “You’ve got that.”

  I looked down and thought about Sonia, and about him, and about the two of them together.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “There is something, I mean, somebody, on my mind.”

  He stepped forward and put his hand on my shoulder. Up close, for some reason, he really stank of old milk. “I know. You came looking for Sonia, right?”

  “I’m … worried. Is she OK? I tried calling her but…”

  I heard footsteps crunching behind us.

  “I brought the ice.”

  “Not for me, you idiot. And why did you bring it in my champagne bucket? What’s he meant to do? Shove his face where I shove my magnums? Go get a plastic bag.”

  Insect Boy turned away.

  “Not bad service around here,” I said.

  Carlo gave a light, nervous chuckle. He smiled at me again. He could appear amiable when he wanted something, but I also remembered that he was responsible for dragging my sister even further into the darkness, plying her with drugs and bad dreams. He had trapped her on this boat for long periods, treated her like a servant, a whore. Was this man really going to help me?

  “I’m worried about Sonia,” I said. “Is she around?”

  He wrapped his arm round my shoulder. “It’s complicated.”

  Insect Boy returned with the ice in a bag.

  “Good,” said Carlo, looking up. He took the bag and tossed it over to me.

  I pressed the ice pack to my eye and gasped as my brain started to throb.

  “You see, we wanted to look after her.” Carlo stared across the waves. “She seemed happy here, with us.”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. How could anyone be happy with this? Living on a mobile home, shipping, hiding, selling. I think she stayed for the drugs: at least they were free. I doubt it was love. With Carlo, it couldn’t be love. Affection, maybe, a needy kind of symbiosis. I’ll live off you, if you’ll live off me. Two pieces of a puzzle joined together at interlocking angles.

  “She went away,” he said.

  “Where?”

  He shrugged. “Back home. On her own.”

  “Luxembourg?”

  He nodded.

  This was good news. It sounded as though she had escaped him at last. It was only right to want out after a certain limit was passed. Once the darkness became too dark, perhaps.

  “Why did she leave?” I asked.

  “That’s why it’s complicated. I’m afraid I can’t say.”

  “Won’t say?”

  He joined his hands together, his fat fingers twined like sausages.

  “She opted out, shall we say. Decided that she wanted … a quieter life.”

  I nodded.

  “There,” he smiled. “I think I have said enough.”

  I thought she had done the right thing, for once. I wasn’t going to tell Carlo that. He still had my stuff.

  “You said you might need my help,” I said.

  He placed his hand on my shoulder again. He liked physical contact, seemed to require it. “Not right now. Maybe later. Come on, how about some dinner? You must be hungry.”

  I removed the ice bag from my eye. The left side of my skull was burning.

  “Looking better,” he said. “Keep the ice on, and the swelling will go down.”

  We stood up and ambled across deck. He tossed the remaining nuts overboard and rubbed his hands.

  “One more thing.” I stared into his oversunned face.

  “Yes?”

  “Aren’t you worried Sonia might...?”

  “What?”

  “Talk.”

  “I’m not worried about that. Besides, it wouldn’t be in her interest.”

  “No?”

  “Just like it wouldn’t be in yours.”

  “Right.”

  “Damn right.” He opened his hands, and made an odd shape with his mouth that might have been another smile. “Besides, I’m an entrepreneur. What is there to hide? Nothing. I buy, I sell, I even pay my taxes.” He tested that light, nervous chuckle again. He could probably get away with a lot of stuff because Sicily was always Sicily, and he was quite the magician. At least, for Sonia, his spell had now been broken.

  They locked me in a different room. At least I had a bed and a pillow where I could lay my bruised head. There was even a shower cubicle. I threw down my clothes and stepped beneath the shower to wash away the smells of sea, dirt and vomit. The water was cold and I had no soap but it was better than nothing. I hopped out of the shower, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floor, and sat down on the bed and shivered without a towel. I looked at my dirty clothes on the floor and was loath to pick them up. I was tempted to wash my pants and shirt under the shower and put them on wet, but I couldn’t go around in soaked garments. I climbed back into my clothes, winced, shut my eyes, refusing to acknowledge the scuffs and stains. I tried not to smell myself. Jesus.

  There were papers on the shelves. I decided to nose around, just to kill some travel time. Perhaps I would find some information about Sonia or this strange cargo? The sheets of paper smelled of coffee and cigars. It looked like amateur accountancy: rows of columns, cash figures, all set down like a game of Snakes and Ladders. I found nothing useful or engaging, just some official statements regarding a company called Androstar S.A., of which Carlo Riccio, I learned, was the beneficial owner.

  There was a knock on the door. A rap-tat-rap.

  “Come on out. Dinner time.”

  I went to the door and it opened by itself. Insect Boy was standing there. He gave me a cool smile. When he spoke I saw dark gaps between his yellowed teeth. “This way.” He wore a sky-blue Napoli football shirt with grubby marks and looked as though he’d just been repairing an oily motorbike. His hair was a series of greasy curls that reminded me of licorice wheels.

  I almost wanted to start a conversation with him, just to feel normal again. “So, Giorgio?” I asked. “Is that your name?”

  He frowned and gave me a quick nod. Maybe small talk was banned.

  “Is that your team?” I pointed at this chest, searching for something to say.

  “My family is from Napoli,” he said with a hint of pride in his eyes.

  “So what brings you down here?”

  He spoke, hardly moving his lips. “Work.”

  I followed his mucky jeans and gray canvas shoes along the corridor and felt the constant vibration of the boat’s engines under my feet. My ears were plagued by the constant drone. We turned left then right along the low-ceilin
ged, diesel-smelling corridors.

  “So this is your job?” I asked. “A kind of bodyguard, or something.”

  He stopped and turned. “What the fuck d’you know about it?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “I work for Carlo. At least it’s work.”

  “And how old are you? I mean, you look young to me.”

  “I’m twenty-one, not that it’s any of your fuckin’ business. Now keep moving.” He pushed me in the shoulder and then pulled me along by the arm, as though unable to decide on the best method of dragging me forwards. His fishy stench was strong, up close. I tried not to retch again.

  “It must be difficult these days, finding work. A young man like you.” I looked across at him and wondered why I had bothered to start any kind of conversation. I could see he was rude and unschooled, probably from a very tough background. Maybe I felt sorry for him in a way.

  “You’ve no idea,” he said.

  “Meaning?”

  He stopped in his tracks and sighed. He even let go of me. Maybe I had hit the spot.

  He opened his hands. “Italy today…”

  “Yes?”

  “…Is a total fucking nightmare.”

  “I see.”

  “My brother is out of work, and most of my cousins too, back home. This country has no respect for young people. There is no future.”

  I saw a sort of hopelessness in his eyes. Maybe this really was the best kind of work he could find.

  “So any job is the right one? Even if it’s this one?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  “Even if it’s … tough.”

  “Right.” He nodded, and his greasy curls swished across his face. “Now get a move on, Carlo is waiting.”

  We entered a large room with a table and four chairs. Carlo was already sitting down, smoking a pre-dinner cigar. The room was full of smoke.

  “Please sit down, Alex.” Carlo pointed his cigar at the empty chair. “We have prepared a little meal. Nothing special.”

  A large dish of orecchiette, pasta shaped like little ears, with pesto sauce and grated Parmesan, lay on the table. I felt an involuntary movement in my stomach. My sickness had not yet abated.

  “Maybe,” I said, “just a tiny portion.”

  We sat down and they ate and I pretended to eat. Even Giorgio and Silver Eyes were present at the table. It was a real family get-together. I took a sip of the dense red wine, with its taste of blackcurrant and juniper—a Negroamaro from Salento. I speared a forkful of pasta and chewed the food many times. I even tricked myself into swallowing some, too.

  All spaces were reduced on the boat, and it felt as though we were living in a miniature world. The ceiling closed in on us. Our conversation echoed off the wooden panels.

  “Beautiful girl, your sister,” said Carlo. He took his glass, swished the dark wine around, tracing falling arcs. “A pity she could not be here with us tonight.”

  “My sister,” I said, “is never here. She is always elsewhere, even when she is here.”

  Giorgio gave me a glazed look, and chewed without saying a word.

  “It’s probably the drugs,” I said, looking down at my plate. The boat rocked gently and we all swayed like pirates without a song.

  “She can go to extremes,” said Carlo, waving a fork smeared with overcooked broccoli.

  I felt like the protective brother who has failed. The shelter blown down by the wind, or torn down by wolves.

  “It’s not about the drugs,” said Carlo, chewing as he spoke. “She’s a special girl, always been a touch … distant.”

  Silver Eyes nodded. “To me she always seemed kind of sad.”

  “She’s got nothing to be sad about,” I said.

  “Well, I don’t know…” said Carlo.

  “Nonsense,” I said. “It’s self-destruction, that’s all.”

  I was in a tender zone and chewed some food to stop myself from talking.

  Giorgio, who had said nothing all this time, looked up. “She was sad.”

  We all stopped eating. There was just the clinking of my fork as it scraped across the plate. I sank my head, not wanting any of them to see my end-of-hope expression.

  “Here,” said Carlo. “Drink some more wine. Your glass is empty.”

  I raised my glass and Carlo poured in the heavy liquid, almost to the rim. I drank some more and felt less seasick.

  After dinner, Carlo dragged his chair closer to mine and lit another cigar, although his first one was only half smoked. I saw the little craters in his cheeks, the bumps on his skin caused by a childhood illness or some chance disfigurement.

  He slapped me on the back with false bonhomie. “Please, drink.” he said, sliding the bottle of Negroamaro across the table.

  “No, thanks.” I raised my hand. “It’s been a long day. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hit the sack.”

  I slept badly—the boat thrumming in my ears—and woke up feeling worse. I kept shivering all over as though succumbing to a wintry fever. I worried about my missing sister, and worried even more about what I might have to do to appease Carlo and get back my belongings.

  It was daytime when I heard footsteps outside the door. Looking out through the tiny porthole, I saw the sun lying like a sliced segment of orange on a blue tablecloth. The boat cut through the waves.

  My door was unlocked. Schlick.

  “Come on,” said Silver Eyes. He yawned as though in need of coffee.

  I tramped through the low-ceilinged cabins of the boat and followed the dirty black shoes of Silver Eyes. Up on deck, I was surprised to see a gray stripe on the horizon: dry land.

  I was being taken up to see the Carlo once more. He sat in a Buddha pose on the prow of the ship, his long dark hair fluttering around his neck.

  “So, Alex. Ready for some work today?”

  I nodded and was relieved to see the approaching coastline, already anticipating a certain freedom. These guys would let me go, eventually, wouldn’t they?

  Carlo picked up my passport and waved it in the air. Something prickled at the back of my neck. I think it was fear, I cannot be sure.

  “Alex Melville,” he said.

  I said nothing.

  “Now is the time.” He angled his head to one side.

  I opened my mouth but no sound came out. I closed it again like a fish: the “O” of fecklessness.

  He pointed a crooked thumb over his shoulder. “Marseilles.” He stood up and approached. “You been before?”

  I shook my head. “Never.”

  He pulled me to the side of the boat, and I saw the town flickering at the farthest edge of the lightning-blue waters.

  “This is where I was born, comrade, not in Sicily. My mother,” he stabbed his chest with his thumb, “was born in Marseilles. You could say I’m a Frenchman but don’t repeat it to strangers.” He moved closer until we stood shoulder to shoulder. I disliked his air of camaraderie; it probably meant he wanted something more from me.

  He shook his head, and said, “Your sister…”

  “What about her?”

  “There’s been some news, I’m afraid. She’s … a difficult case. Some trouble with the police?”

  I tried not to show him that this news affected me strongly, and yet I felt a tautness in my throat and looked down, feeling mildly alarmed.

  “I am glad to say,” he patted me on the back, “we have the matter in hand.”

  I shut my eyes and felt sick again, this time from sheer fright. I didn’t like the idea of Sonia, the beautiful black sheep of the family, being in the hands of these mobsters, or the cops for that matter.

  “Should I worry?” I asked.

  “You needn’t,” he said, smiling, “as long as you do exactly what I say.”

  5

  My sister always referred to taking drugs as “getting happy.” She would cut a line of white powder and look up at me with fiendish eyes.

  “Let’s get h
appy.”

  I shook my head. I nearly always shook my head. I liked the tremor, the initial burn, the feeling of frazzled circuits followed by the eye-popping calm. But I couldn’t go there more than once or twice a year. In truth, I did not like to lose control. Sonia was the control-relinquisher, not me.

  She would roll on the floor, eyes as red as poppies, her feet twitching. To witness the process of her going—let me rephrase that—to watch her go, was heart-burning.

  I could see the upcoming absence in her eyes as she flicked open the white bag and spooned out the intoxicating sugar.

  Her smile to me was like a goodbye. I’m leaving now, she would say with her eyes. Let’s get happy.

  I’m rewriting Sonia. I’m getting to know her again with the aid of hindsight. I have a sniper’s patience and resolve.

  I remember watching Sonia brush her hair. She would sit on the windowsill with her legs folded beneath her and the sun would shine through her blonde locks as she brushed and brushed and brushed. A lengthening and shortening of her arm. An arc. The entire process repeated over and over again as though time had ceased to matter. It was like watching sunlight diverted through a prism. Everything around her reverberated in rainbow colors. She was the vector of light, the incandescence.

  Even if we didn’t realize it, our lives revolved around hers. She pushed us away or drew us in, depending on her moods. She added gravity to the household, dragged us down with her on the blackest days, or sent us all riding high during her manic, excitable hours.

  She was the moodswinger of the house.

  I used to enjoy cutting her nails. I would sit at her feet and snip off bright scarlet chunks and strips. Her dashes and crescents piled up in my bags. She didn’t know I kept them. Just as my mother didn’t know I kept hers. I was the nail gardener. If they found it strange at first, they soon got used to my requests and ended up taking it as a guaranteed service, so that my mother or my sister would walk often into my room and say absentmindedly, reaching out their hands, ‘‘Alex, can you do my nails?’’

  What a bounty I gathered. Such human treasure.

  What are nails, anyway? Skin hardened, fossilized. Ancient claws. Proof that we were once animals. People ignore nails or are annoyed by them. They don’t appreciate the Darwinian significance. How wonderful to know that we once scavenged, that we were just savage beasts surviving on instinct. All this before the brain took over and made us monsters capable of reflection. Animals with a head, and a heart.