might be his last. With these paintings he has finally confronted the heart of his carnal, lascivious work. A landscape of imaginary bodies, men and women obscenely linked by love and death. Arms and legs, loose and akimbo, initially together and then parcelled off like pieces of meat in a mad and murderous sequence. Not bad for someone who for years has only displayed children’s book illustrations in public. With painting after painting, Trevor has given life to a snuff movie of his very own, a defiant answer to all those who had accused him of no longer being alternative and cool.
For the time being, Trevor is satisfied. Tomorrow, he will have to decide what to do about his art and his own life. Right now, all he wants is a coffee and a cold shower. But first he must shave.
That beard was definitely not a good idea, even from a purely aesthetic point of view.
Trevor takes the razor and applies an abundant quantity of foam to his cheeks. With the beard on, he betrays his forty-odd years and how much he has grown older.
Trevor hates growing older. Or wiser.
In Toronto, Trevor works for a large publishing house, and enjoys a good professional reputation. But he no longer wishes to be involved in children’s books. Designing book covers is just a job, and it doesn’t make him feel much like an artist. On the contrary, the money has changed him; it makes him feel cheap, like a character in a B movie. He no longer wears the rough woollen sweaters he once liked so much, but a suit and tie, as they fit so much better into his new life. A life full of weaknesses and compromises. And it is all those compromises that he has made that now make him feel so old inside. The young kid who pretended to be Superman, has turned into an adult like Clark Kent, a tired Clark Kent. But if Clark Kent is none other than Superman with a pair of glasses, Trevor simply remains Trevor. With or without a beard. Which is why, today, with the help of a cheap disposable plastic razor bought at the nearest supermarket, he begins to shave with fast, steady strokes. And his old face emerges through the thick white foam, just like in that short film he recalls watching some years back [10]. In which a man kept on shaving his face and never stopping until his whole features became a mask of blood. Trevor slides the blade up and down, covering every square inch of his skin, but by the time he has finished, there is not even a scratch. Just his smooth, shiny face. How banal!
3
No one apologised to Mauro for the fire. Not his roommate who accidentally started it, or the British authorities who because of a series of legal mix-ups failed to initiate a proper enquiry.
As a matter of fact, Mauro reflected, the British bureaucracy turned out in the end to be no more efficient than the Italian one. A lot of talk, but there always appeared to be some obstacle when it came to move into action.
He’d gone to London in the hope of making it as a photographer and setting up his own studio, one with black and white walls, a magical space he could share with just his cat. But that pipe dream was now defunct.
“It’s because of the fire. It’s all because of that damn fire,” he kept on repeating between his clenched teeth.
At first, in London, Mauro had acted like a proper tourist: he’d visited the City, taken walks by the Thames and gotten drunk in almost every Covent Garden bar, effortlessly wasting his money. He had then decided to pack his bags and move outside the centre of town.
The area was nowhere as fascinating and cosmopolitan as the West End, but because of this, accommodation there was so much cheaper. In Holloway, Mauro rented a small flat which he shared with two other dreamers, a young man and young woman he had met during the course of his wanderings through Chelsea and Kensington. Solveig was Danish and very pretty. She was determined to become a model because someone in Denmark had once told her she was tall and thin enough to make a success of it. Solveig was 1 m 83, almost ten centimetres taller than Mauro and barely filled a B cup. Her skin was the colour of milk and the hair falling down across her shoulders was a stream of golden curls. A splendid porno amazon queen. Sadly, outside of the bedroom, Solveig didn’t make the grade. It was painful to watch the gawkiness of her movements. The lessons in deportment had come to nothing. Solveig was a perfect sack of potatoes made in Denmark.
Paul, on the other hand, was Irish and played guitar. Half Irish, to be precise. His father was in fact Scottish, but despite this cocktail of genes his hair was not red but jet black.
Paul was convinced he would become a rock star and, although his celebrity was all in his mind, he already adopted some of the lifestyle of the rich and famous, moving steadily from pot to cocaine and, whenever funds from his mother back home permitted, the cheapest heroin available.
Mauro loved his new companions in crime. They somehow made him feel wiser, a most rewarding feeling to have.
However, since he’d been in London he’d only sold a few photographs to a minor magazine, but he was still convinced he was on the right road. It was just a question of time; sooner or later everything would click. But now, following the fire, time had slowed down. And things seemed to be coming to an end.
It had been an accident. The police had no doubt about it. That evening, Mauro had been at a nearby pub with Solveig and another friend of hers, a rather attractive brunette, also a would be model. Paul had remained at the flat. He often stayed back, thinking of having a bath and relaxing a bit. He’d filled the tub with lukewarm water and fragrant foam, and as a final touch he’d lit some candles.
“They give the atmosphere such a pleasant feeling,” he’d told the police.
Damn candles, the fool had dozens of them, in all shapes and colours, not only around the bathroom but all across the flat. In the kitchen, his bedroom, even in the airing cupboard.
Why in hell should he have a peppermint green candle in the narrow airing cupboard? In the days following the fire, Mauro asked himself that over and over again, but could never fathom an answer. What then happened was so obvious. What occurred was bound to happen. Paul had lit the candles on the window sill. Maybe in his imagination they were like a lighthouse, a bright light that would lead his friends home. What a wonderful idea!
“The damn prick didn’t even think of pulling the curtains back,” Mauro cried out, talking aloud. And the old woman sitting next to him opened her eyes in response. Several of the passengers on the coach turned round to look at him, but Mauro didn’t take notice. He was still thinking of that evening. Of the polyester curtains catching fire. Of the smoke spreading across the rooms. He was thinking of the flames slowly moving like fiery snakes towards the dark room. Of the explosion that destroyed everything: furniture, clothes, all his photographic equipment.
In his mind, he could picture Paul naked and dripping with water, running out to the street below. The crowd surrounding him screaming in terror.
“It’s your stop,” the old woman said.
Mauro stared at her, still dazed.
“Via Alessandrini,” the elderly woman repeated, with a strong Bologna regional accent.
The coach braked suddenly. A fat, sweating man was holding on for dear life to the metal bar above his head.
