Banished from self
A story of mystery, lack of self-acceptance and how resilient our most creative, flamboyant sides can be, even when we refuse to accept them.
She entered the scene in a femme fatale black négligé, Egyptian bas-relief eyeliner and sculpted black hair. Her face glistened with glitter, and glitter framed her eyes. She sang a hypnotic rhythm against the backdrop of a slow saxophone:
‘Io sono diverso, lo sai
Sono libero
Sono libera
E questo ti turba…’
She strode across the stage, one measured high-heeled step after another, accenting the music with languorous movements of her gloved arms. She tilted her head to the side like to receive a kiss on the neck; she was batting her eyelashes at the angry audience. With a twirl, she avoided a bottle that crashed onto the stage, sending shards flying everywhere. And still, she sang:
‘Sono libero
Sono libera
Questo ti disturba...’
Viviana got up from her seat in the front row, sighed and walked out of the hall, heading for the dressing rooms. I have to convince him to leave, she thought, or he'll end up getting killed. At the entrance, Viviana hesitated for a second, wanting to prepare a convincing speech. Then she shook her head and pushed the door open.
He was already backstage, sitting on a stool, wearing a fluffy, peach-coloured dressing gown and a roll of tissues in his nose to stop the bleeding. Viviana stopped and looked at him before he saw her. He was looking down, checking the neckline of the dressing gown, where the blood had spread into a large dark stain.
For an instant, he seemed frail, perched on that stool like a peacock. A peacock who can’t help strutting his feathers, even though he knows he will be the main course at the next banquet.
The thought lasted only a second because Marcello looked up from his dressing gown, saw her and promptly got off the stool with a smile.
‘Vivi! So nice to see a friendly face. Have you seen my new number? Did you enjoy it?’
They hugged, and Viviana smiled.
‘I was going to say you killed it, but I guess they almost killed you.’
Marcello rolled his head back and laughed but stopped immediately, holding his nose with a grimace. Viviana led him to two chairs in front of the make-up mirrors and gestured for him to sit opposite her.
‘Marcello, we need to talk.’
He interrupted her, waving his hand as if chasing off a fly.
‘No Marcello. Today, I am Grace.’
‘All right, Grace. We need to talk.’
Grace sighed and sat down. She was now wearing slippers; she perched her feet on the stool’s step and wrapped her arms around her knees. She turned her head towards the mirror but kept casting glances at Viviana as if concerned she might get scolded.
‘I'm worried about you. These shows, your performances...’
‘They suck, is that it?’
‘No!’
Viviana felt the blood rise to her brain. He didn't want to understand.
‘Okay, okay, Vivi, don't get worked up. I was joking. Just to lighten the mood a bit.’
‘Even worse! How can you keep downplaying this?’
Viviana pointed at Grace's nose.
‘You're hurt! I saw bottles flying on stage. I'm scared for you, you know.’
Grace smiled, a smile that was a little smeared with dried blood.
‘And what would you have me do, Vivi?’
That's where their discussions always stalled. What did Viviana want, then? What was the point of her worrying? She could see it in his face every time. You are just one, Vivi, but what am I supposed to do? Resign me to being just one Marcello and throw Grace off a bridge? Yes, I know what you're thinking. That I'm a cliché. Maybe, but who cares? I'm Marcello. I'm Grace. And you can go full-on concerned middle-class mommy on me, but you can't do anything about it.
‘Vivi, I'm growing roots here. Unless you have an answer for me, I'll take a shower. I'm tired.’
Viviana stood up with a sigh.
‘Go on then. But you know that sooner or later, you will have to make a choice.’
Grace stood up too, and she stared into Viviana's eyes.
‘Maybe so. But for now, this is what I want.’
Grace opened her arms; Viviana hugged her. Suddenly, she burst into tears.
‘Hey, what's wrong with you? I'm the one who got hit by a bottle!’
Viviana entered the room with hesitant steps. Pitch darkness. It was never dark at Marcello's house. And the windows were never so closed shut like this, curtains and blinds drawn. Viviana felt oppressed. She hurried to the bed where she could barely make out a protruding shape, illuminated by a tiny sliver of light coming from the nearest window. Marcello was asleep, or at least his eyes were closed. Viviana sat on a chair next to him.
Only his head and hands were visible, but that was enough. Marcello's eyes were swollen shut, his nose supported by a whole scaffolding of gauze, splints and swabs, his cheeks overflowing from a bandage wrapped tightly around his face. Even his hands were covered. On the bedside table, Viviana saw a bottle of pills, sleeping pills. So Marcello really was asleep.
Viviana began to cry softly, trying to muffle her sobs, to hush her weeping. Marcello moved slightly with a moan but did not wake up. For a while, they stayed like that, Viviana crying and him in a chemical sleep, then she got up from the chair, and with a last sad look at the bed, she left the room.
Viviana waited on the windswept dock, clutching the edges of her collar with her hands, keeping her shoulders raised and hunched to shelter her neck as much as possible. The wind had risen during the night, an evil, sharp wind. With half an eye open, Viviana could see a silhouette approaching her. It was Grace. Her head down and hand holding her collar closed like Viviana, the other hand holding a suitcase. She reached Viviana and stopped. She was wearing a black coat, a black shawl around her head and thick black tights. Mourning Grace. She looked up at Viviana, eyes that had just begun to open again, her face still mottled yellow, red, purple.
‘I'm sorry, Vivi.’
Viviana hugged her gently so as not to hurt her.
‘Don't be sorry, Grace. You were the light of this place. Now it's all going to be depressing and grey.’
Grace showed the shadow of a smile.
‘Not you, Vivi.’
‘Are you kidding? Especially me.’
Grace was about to retort, but they were interrupted by the deep howl of a boat's siren. It had appeared next to the dock, a small blue and white ferry, the waves slapping its sides.
‘It seems my carriage has arrived. I must leave the party.’
Grace's smile turned bitter, then a shiver shook her and with a whisper, she asked:
‘Vivi, what do you think it's like on the other side?’
Viviana shuddered in turn, then pulled herself together.
‘I don't know, Grace. I hope for you there are plenty of stages and adoring crowds.’
‘Miss, excuse me...’
An officer had appeared behind Grace. He saluted by touching his hat and motioned to the ship.
‘Miss, your ride is waiting for you.’
Grace turned around and suddenly appeared transformed in front of Vivi's eyes. No longer mournful, beaten and defeated. Now she was the real Grace, straight as a spindle, head high on her shoulders, scarf flapping in the wind; with the poise of a lady at the ball, she took the officer's arm.
‘Accompany me, young man.’
They walked towards the ship. On the boarding ramp, Grace turned around, waved her hand towards Viviana and blew her a kiss. Viviana kissed back, even if she could now only see a blurry silhouette of Grace, through the tears. The ramp was lifted, and after a few minutes, the ship departed with a final howl. The wind seemed to be dying down already.
‘A tad dramatic, don’t you think?’
Viviana turned towards Marcello.
‘What can you do, Grace loves old movies.’
‘Loved.’ Marcello pointed out. ‘And anyway, I know. I love them too.’
Marcello smoked. Viviana looked at him. Even though she no longer had tears in her eyes, his figure still appeared blurry, thin. She smiled at him.
‘What will you do without her now?’
Marcello snorted.
‘What I should have done from the beginning. Live a normal life.’
‘It was you who sent her away.’
Now the wind had stopped completely. Viviana watched Marcello, her arms crossed. He smoked, feigning indifference, but his eyes were looking at the ground.
‘What did you expect, Vivi? That side of me wasn't manageable. It couldn't be integrated.’
‘So you tormented her until you managed to banish her.’
‘She should never have existed. It was for the best.’
Viviana shook her head.
‘You sent her to the other side. Poor Grace. Poor me, who always falls for it. And poor you, Marcello, the worst censor of yourself.’
Marcello laughed, a sarcastic, joyless laugh.
‘My dear, you’re in no position to blame anyone. You know what you stand for, don't you? With my mother's face and name, it's so obvious. You are my petty middle-class morals, my conventional pious feelings. You’re acting as if those performances didn’t shock you too. Don’t be a hypocrite. You caused all of this, you know. You were the one who told Grace to leave, weren't you? Do you genuinely think you did it to save her?’
Viviana sighed and walked away from the dock. Marcello kept smoking and looking at the sea, now as flat as a plank. There was no sign of the boat. Grace had moved on. Now only Marcello and Viviana remained.
‘She will come back.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Viviana was now on dry land. She turned to Marcello with a smile of pity.
‘She'll be back, Marcello. She always comes back. Stronger, every time. And every time, you are a meaner asshole, which is a real pain for me. But she always comes back. She'll come back. You, her, me, we forget every time. Only now do I realise. Grace will be back.’
Marcello gave no sign of having heard and kept looking towards the sea. The cigarette had reached the filter, but he continued to take one puff after another. Viviana disappeared.
Marcello woke up with his heart racing and the alarm clock pounding in his ears. He fumbled with it and lay there looking at the ceiling. Today was the day. He turned towards the bedside table to look at the sepia photograph of a woman with kind eyes.
‘Mama Vivi, give me strength.’
He jumped out of bed and found himself in front of the mirror door of the wardrobe. He examined himself with furrowed brows. He was wearing a black negligée. He pulled it off his head and threw it into an Ikea bag full of clothes and high-heeled shoes.
Out loud, he declared:
‘Today, I get rid of all this stuff. Today Grace is dead.’
A mocking laugh seemed to answer those words, a laugh from somewhere inside him. Marcello, annoyed and now in his underwear, grabbed a packet of cigarettes from the bedside table and headed to the kitchen for coffee.