|
In the cellar, it was bright and still. Noises from the chicken run filled the afternoon outside. Someone had thrown scraps
over the wall and scratchings and gobbling of turkeys, the soft flutter of feathers as hens scrambled and fought for food,
gave the garden and vineyard a sunny domestic feeling. Gregory put aside his lazy wish to simply lie in the sun listening
to his fowl and concentrated on the task to hand. He had the old doctor at his heels, and could hear a slight wheezing coming
from the mans chest. He looked sprightly this morning, with hair well slicked back as usual and sharp creases in his trousers.
Patricia was calm, almost purred like a cat in the sun. Her eyes were bright and she anticipated the work in the cellar
with cheery alacrity.
The three entered the large room, intent on getting the bomblu open.
'We still have all our
tools laid out here,' said the writer, indicating the sheet of canvas with its odd assortment of knives and utensils.
Patricia handed the knife to Fin. 'This is the knife we used before. I wonder whether this clay jar is full of oil or wine.'
'Or water,' answered the old doctor. He turned a bit pale, the heat making his top lip glisten slightly only seconds
after he replaced the handkerchief in his pocket.
'Now,'started Gregory, 'If we ...'
'Like this,'the doctor interrupted.
'Like we did the first time.' He was already wresting the knife back and forth forcibly, trying to edge it underneath the
wax seal and cork together. The effort gave no result. The wax seemed to have hardened, fused into the porous clay surface
of the jar neck. 'Like this!' the older man repeated, words coming out in a grunt through clenched teeth.
Gregory gently
took the knife from his hand when he looked up, sweat standing out in beads on his forehead. Fins skin looked blanched, pale.
Gregory tried himself, levering the blade at a different angle, cautiously forcing it with both hands. He did not want to
risk a cut.
'Shall I try the other side, opposite to you, with another knife?' asked Patricia. She sensed the doctor's
impatience, and was now full of it herself. She hopped from one foot to the other like a child.
'Here, here...' The doctor
reached nervously for the knife she handed him, then dropped it suddenly. The clatter was muted on the rammed earth floor.
He was muttering under his breath.
Gregory had managed to insert the point of his knife under the wax rim. He needed
something to hold the handle with. It was going to require precise movements. Patricia looked as if she was thinking of some
other method to remove the wax plug from the jar mouth. The writer had already thought of melting the wax by some means. He
looked at her as she gripped the earthenware rim thoughtfully. The silence in the cellar was broken only by rustles from the
garden and the audible breathing of the doctor. Out of the corner of his eye, a sudden movement made the writer straighten
up from where he was bent over the tools.
It was the doctor. He brushed past him to grab the mallet abruptly, very abruptly,
his arm flashing. His audible breathing filled the cellar. His arm was waving, gesturing with the mallet.
The movement
nudged the writer, who moved quickly out of the way. What the...? But he was too slow.
Patricia stood where she was,
watching in disbelief as the doctor strode quickly with the mallet up to the clay jar. Almost immediately, she and Gregory
were by the doctors side, but it was already too late. With one massive lunge, Fin swung the mallet round sideways at waist
level, bringing its impact to the broadest curve on the bomblu's side.
The jar smashed, a cry from Patricia accompanying
the crashing sound made by the fragments of earthenware and the sudden copious flow of vinegar that splashed out, soaking
the three of them from the knees down.
'Good grief!' Gregory was too startled to say anything else. He looked at his
friend, expecting an explanation, or an exclamation at least. He did not get one.
As if in slow motion, Phineas Micallef
wheeled around on his heels, raising his hands to his head, the mallet falling with hardly a sound to the ground. His face
was ashen, his teeth gritted underneath stretched lips. For a moment, it seemed as if only the whites of his eyes were visible,
rolling in their sockets.
Patricia stood immobile, the expression on her face frozen. 'What on earth did you do that
for?' she muttered hoarsely.
Gregory watched the doctor squeeze his head between his hands, then lengthen the movement,
sweeping and scraping his hair back. There was no sound from the old mans lips. His eyes seemed to glaze over when he turned,
as if looking for something or someone. He looked at the broken pieces of clay at his feet, appeared startled to see them
and the vinegar that pooled on the ground and drenched his trouser legs and shoes. 'Is it blood?' he asked dully. 'It's blood,'
he said, seemingly unaware of anyone else around him. Then he lurched, lumbered two steps and suddenly took off in a lop-sided
run, out of the cellar door, up the stone steps and away from where the writer and the young woman stood.
'Blood?' Patricia
looked at Gregory. 'Why did he say that? Why did he smash the jar?' Her face was a picture of incredulity.
'I don't know.
What a mess,' said Gregory blankly. He seemed dazed. 'It was as if he couldn't bear to wait any longer.'
'We all waited
a week for this,' Patricia gestured, indicating the wreckage about their feet.'He seemed to check there was nothing there,
on the floor, before he left,' she continued, baffled. 'He said blood. Why did he say that?'
'Oh - I don't know,' answered
Gregory, resigned to the mystery about the doctor's confusion. 'All our eyes were on the jar. We were all looking to see if
there was anything there. Well there isn't. All there is is vinegar. Just vinegar.'
Patricia started to flick ineffectually
at her jeans.
Gregory could not tell whether she was disappointed or glad they had not discovered anything more gruesome
than several litres of acetic wine. He realised he did not initially register surprise at finding nothing in the liquid. But
he was surprised.
He fully expected to see a sodden bundle of clothes and flesh, a little parcel; the remnants of a
life, virtually pickled in rancid wine. He lay awake at night when Patricia was in Sicily, picturing what they would see if
they peered inside the emptied bomblu; grey fabric in colourless tatters preserved by the wine; gruesome and troubling visions
of grey skin angled over bone; the skull rounded and turned forward, over a small caved-in chest. He was surprised it was
not there.
'You had imagined it...' Patricia did not finish. She looked at the writer's eyes.
Gregory raised a
hand and shielded his eyes from her. She knew him too well, too soon. His feet had still not moved from the puddle of dark
vinegar. 'I - yes,' he said finally, accepting the scrutiny. 'I imagined more than just the words, you see,' he said softly.
She came round to him and touched his arm. 'I know.'
How could she possibly know? He turned to look at her, perplexed,
a touch annoyed. He was still not completely accustomed to the way she would never chastise him for having feelings or imaginings,
for pre-empting things, for having a totally separate world in his head. He was silent for a long time, allowing her the closeness.
'But there's nothing there,' he said finally.
'Nothing there,' she repeated.
**
|
