Mimi's Ghost
ALSO BY TIM PARKS
Fiction
Tongues of Flame
Loving Roger
Home Thoughts
Family Planning
Goodness
Juggling the Stars
Shear
Europa
Destiny
Nonfiction
Italian Neighbors
An Italian Education
Adultery and Other Diversions
Copyright © 1995, 2011 by Tim Parks
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
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First published in Great Britain by Secker & Warburg
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Arcade Publishing® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-61145-558-8
âThe realms of thought, philosophy
and the spirit break up and shatter
against the unnameable, myself.'
Max Stirner,
The Unique and his Property
Part One
1
Morris ran soft fingertips along the silk finish of coffee-coloured tiles designed by Valentino. It was almost the only room in the flat he felt unreservedly happy about. The polished walnut fittings were particularly attractive, he thought, holding here a fleshy beige soap dish, there the thick white towels that made such a change from the skin-scraping variety he had grown up with. What's more, the babble of radios, televisions and raised voices from the other households in the condominium rarely penetrated this sanctum - some trick of modern construction methods, some unplanned relief. So that here one could shave in peace, admire the clean line of one's jaw, the perfect complexion of two cheeks exactly poised between youth and maturity, the neat cut of still-thick hair above clear blue eyes . . . and dream of a life in which one had made different decisions.
For Paola had been a mistake of course.
Having straightened his tie beneath the freshly pink chin, this successful property owner walked around his sunken bath to a window tastefully double-glazed in a frame of orange pine. Enjoying the simple movements, the feel of the brushed steel handle, the still-new smell of resiny wood and paint, he pulled open the window, and unlatched the shutter. But there was rust on the black varnished metalwork here; that was something he would have to talk to the builder about. Morris scratched with manicured nails at a series of blisterings. Sometimes it seemed you had hardly settled down to enjoy some luxury detail of the place before you were finding a fault, a blemish, some niggling little thing that made you feel you couldn't settle down and relax. Morris examined. Clearly the builder had been accepting junk from cheap suppliers and banking on the fact that the purchaser couldn't possibly notice everything in the couple of quick inspections he'd be granted before being told that if he didn't pay up (in cash!) then someone else was more than willing to. No, he had been taken for a ride there. Taken for a ride by a provincial, tax-evading shark. And the thing about being taken for a ride of course was to face up to it, admit it, take it square on the chin. Never, never tell yourself things were all right when they weren't.
Things were definitely not all right with Paola.
Pushing back the shutter revealed an oppressively grey winter dawn, hatching out the uninspired silhouette of the next luxury' condo the same builder was now throwing up on an area of land that only six months ago he had promised would be forever part of their beautiful cross-country view. Morris shivered in the cold air but forced himself to look, to savour this little defeat, so eloquent of his failure to really grasp the Italian character. For it was not enough to have got hold of a fortune, one would have to learn how to defend it. It occurred to him how smug that man must feel every time their cars crossed along the avenue, how confident of Morris's humiliation!
Still, it was fitting weather for the Day of the Dead: icy, a touch of fog. Good. There would be the dressing up, which he always enjoyed, the family gathering, the procession of cars to the cemetery, the flowers, the poignancy of seeing Massimina's photograph by the family tomb. Morris liked these traditions. He liked the way they framed your experience and gave it rhythm. Certainly Father had never visited the rose tree where Mother's ashes were deposited. Next time he went home he must make a point of getting out there to show the man what civilisation and respect were all about.
Having closed the window, Morris again stopped and gazed in the mirror: the Armani cardigan, the Versace tie, the shirt by Gianfranco Ferre - there could be no denying the elegance of all this. Just that now one had it, one realised it wasn't enough. One wanted more. One wanted art and culture and dignity and one wanted to live with people who appreciated such values and cultivated them. Which was why his marriage had been such a tragic, such a stupid mistake. If there was time this afternoon he would visit Forbes . . .
âPaola!' Morris stepped out into the corridor. âPaola, it's past eight-thirty!' There was no reply. He looked into the bedroom. His wife was luxuriously sprawled under the goosedown quilt. Expensively permed chestnut hair bubbled over pink pillows. But there wasn't that girlishness, the radiant innocence and ingenuousness her sister Massimina had had. What's more, Massimina, in the brief halcyon month of their elopement, had always been up and about at a decent hour.
He sat down at the bedside and stared at the creature he had so hastily joined his life to. At some point or other he was going to have to impose himself. Otherwise one would find oneself just another weak husband providing the wherewithal for a simpering woman to waste her time exactly as she wished. Eventually, without opening her eyes, Paola enquired: âHow come you're not off to work this morning, Mo?'
He disliked being called Mo.
âSono i morti,'
he said. The Dead.'
âGiusto.
Why did you get up then? We don't have to be at the cem till elevenish. Come back to bed and play.'
Morris said stiffly: âThere are the flowers to collect for Massimina. Anyway I thought you had your big exam tomorrow.'
âOh, what a bore! Come to bed, Mo, come on, do what you did last night. I can't wait.' She groaned and made a rude gesture.
Trying to put kindness and encouragement into his voice, he said: âEvery hour counts the day before an exam, you'll regret it tomorrow.'
The young woman sat up sharply in a night-dress of such creamily thin silk her nipples beneath seemed Cadbury's chocolate buttons Mother had tucked in his Christmas stocking twenty years before. She had smaller breasts than Massimina, but more pert and, he was aware, fashionable. Pouting, she reached across the bed, found a pack of Rothmans and lit up with a lighter, apparently of brushed silver. Along with the discothéques, the punkishly showy clothes in the poorest taste and the moronic if locally well-placed circle of friends, this smoking of hers was another habit which Morris now realised was out of line with the vision of a better life that had always been his inspiration.
Anyway, his father had smoked Rothmans.
âWell?'
âOh, I don't think I'm going to do it.?
He opened his mouth to object. Was she going to throw away the possibility of a career, he protested, just for fear of the very last exam?
âWell, you know, Mo, I was thinking, what I really want with a degree in architecture in the end? Do you see what I mean?' She cocked her head to one side. The fact is we've already got money. Another couple of months and Mamma will be joining Mimi under the old angel anyway. You get to run the company and it's plain sailing.'
The angel was a reference to the somewhat pompous monument that topped the family tomb.
Wincing at the crudity of this, Morris observed that quite apart from the money, which was always a plus, a career in architecture would offer her a path to self-realisation.
âOh, Morris, you're such a bore!' She laughed out loud, her husky, patronising laugh, and as she did so he reflected that it wasn't so much the fact that she smoked that bothered him, but the way she did it: with the brash confidence, he thought, the particularly unpleasant arrogance of stylish young women in films. Was this why his father had been so appreciative during their visit to England? He hoped he himself would never be guilty of radiating intimidation in this way.
âI told you before,' she continued, âthe only reason I went to university in the first place was to get out of that stuffy house and as far away as possible from Mamma and that reek of mothballs and polished furniture. And the only reason I did architecture was because they don't have it at Verona, so I had to go to Padua four days a week and there was the chance of having some fun. Now come on, take those silly clothes off and get back In the sack.'
Again Morris suffered from the crudity of all this, though he had heard a lot worse of late. When they made love, for example, which he still rather enjoyed, and surprised himself by being so good at (though there was always that feeling of repulsion afterwards that would send him hurrying to the shower) - yes, when they made love she would come out with the most amazing stream of obscenities, things he had never imagined anybody could want to say to anybody. He protested: âBut, Paola, my love' - he enjoyed hearing himself say âmy love' - âyou always seemed so happy at home; I mean, when I visited that first time and you and Antonella were complaining about how badly Massimina was doing at school.'