9. MAGDALEN
9
MAGDALEN
The hot candle wax hardens over my finger and I envision casting it over my open eyes as Anika talks. Maybe I’ve gotten too used to being by myself at university. No one cares if you lock the door and don’t talk for six days. When Emily met Cal, the flat was empty most of term.
‘Do you want to meet the boys at the club, Mag? Or go on a gelato run? What was the gelato like in England? Awful, I bet. But, anyway, Fiore is still trying to fuck me believe it or not, so I would rather we steer clear of there, if I’m being honest. Or we could smoke, because clearly, I can see what a weed-head you’ve become at Oxford. I mean you’re practically foaming at the mouth for a hit. It’s a shame,’ she continues, rambling, not needing me to speak at all to carry out the conversation. ‘You used to be so pure. It’s always the ones you least expect.’
‘Whatever you want, Anika. Although the club is a little far, right? I’m pretty tired.’ This is a lie; it’s the club’s grimy dancing and tennis playing that I’m trying to avoid. Between the drunk grinding and swinging rackets, gambling and cannonballs in the pool, I can confidently say it’s where I feel most out of place. It’s the closest thing Chivasso has to nightlife, yes, but for my first night back, it seems Anika is trying to make me miss England.
‘It’s okay, I’ll drive. I don’t mind!’ She’s so excited. I suppress a groan, not wanting to be the one to disappoint her. Without me here, Anika’s outgoing personality has been wasted on strangers at the museum, where she works as a tour guide, and coffee dates with Dante, so I guess I can give her this.
‘Alright, alright, but I’ll drive back. Don’t really feel like dying tonight,’ I snub, unable to hold back my annoyance.
Anika is oblivious. ‘Oh, fuck off. You don’t even have your licence. And, I would like to add, I would never put your life in danger, Mag. Especially not when I just got you back.’
Her honesty stings. It’s been a year , I want to say. I’ve come back for holidays! At least it hasn’t been seven! But I haven’t called. Hadn’t written a postcard like I’d promised. She wrote me one email and I took four weeks to reply. Am I a good person? Or do I only do good when someone is close to seeing I’m not?
‘Fine, fine. And I told you not to bring up my licence. You know I’m working on it.’
‘You’ve been saying that for five years, Mag. It’s time to let it go. It’s also time for you to put a bra on,’ she giggles.
I sigh and glance at the end of the table where our parents are huddled, smoking their cigarettes and laughing raucously over silly nothings. Dexter smacks the table loudly, causing everyone to gasp. My mother’s hand stays glued to my father’s forearm on the kitchen table, and his hand rests on top of hers. They are teenagers.
Why does it make me angry to see them like this? If anything, I should be happy they’re having fun. With no way of explaining it, sometimes I feel like they’ve stolen my adolescent angst and I’ve skipped to being a bitter and reclusive old woman. They don’t turn around when we get up, they don’t ask us where we are headed off to at midnight; they just keep laughing among the smoke, and I stand up, waving at no one. Maybe I do need a drink.
I decided to ignore the bra mandate. I tie my hair up with a satin ribbon and spread a thick layer of strawberry-flavoured lip-gloss across my lips. I feel Anika will appreciate this effort. I pace my driveway waiting for her car to pull up. The night air is cool, with silken moonlight lapping over my skin. Hydrangeas in full bloom, the wind guides their honey scent towards me, and I feel happy in a sad way. I close my eyes and absorb these few minutes alone and secretly wish the sound of her tires on the gravel will never come. Maybe she’s passed out or the engine broke down; perhaps there’s been an alien attack on Chivasso. But, when I look up, her car is in front of me, engine off, and Anika is staring at me through the open window, tapping the steering wheel impatiently. She reminds me so much of Emily when she looks at me like that. It’s worry and love and knowing you can’t do anything but observe from a distance.
‘Maggie, let’s go. We’ve surpassed being fashionably late.’
‘Okay. But, just to let you know, I’ve set my tits free. They will not be imprisoned.’
‘Shocker.’
‘ Questa una festa ! ’ shouts Anika as the engine shuts off in the parking lot of Tirumapifort. This is a party!
The red gravel reminds me of a space-themed restaurant in Torino, where my father used to take me as a child, called Marte 2121. Tonight, we dance on Mars.
‘I’m going to make someone want to fuck me tonight, and then spit on them!’ Anika jumps out of the car and starts dancing in the parking lot as we hear the dull bop of disco through the speaker.
‘You are so weird, Anika.’
‘Then, I’ll force you to dance with someone.’
‘You will not.’
‘With those tits out? Honey, I’m going to have to barricade you from all the boys and girls.’
‘Anika,’ I groan, regretting my liberated chest. ‘Give me your bra.’
‘No way! My girls don’t float.’
‘Shit.’ I cross my arms as we walk inside. ‘This is what I get for rebelling against you.’
Everything is the same as I remember; the heat of the pool has created a mist around the entire outside perimeter, giving the club a haunted atmosphere. There are teens floating in the water and old men gambling behind beaded curtains in the lounge. Matilde comes forward, like a statue carved of hard marble.
‘Maggie , tesoro ! ’ She waddles towards us. ‘ Vieni, vieni, vieni! Both of you back! What a treat.’ Does she mean Theo? I reach into my waistband to grab the money I’ve stashed but Matilde puts her hand out, stopping me. ‘ Stasera, i fantasmi ballano liberi ! ’ Tonight, ghosts dance free!
I frown at her. ‘What?’
‘My ghosts dance for free tonight.’
I try to smile but feel oddly exposed. Ghost? My skin prickles. Has Matilde become the guard between life and death? If I touch her, do I become transparent, forced to dance for ever at Tirumapifort ?
I grab her hand and squeeze, ‘ Grazie mille , Matilde. I missed you, too.’
My hand subconsciously reaches for my neck, feeling for a pulse. Okay, still alive. Still pumping blood. My dancing will have a curfew tonight, Matilde!
‘You’ve become so beautiful,’ she calls out as we pass her. It is always the same reaction when people call me beautiful. An internal flinch of muscle. The rational part of me understands how silly being pretty is. How quickly it fades.
But the other part, the part of my brain dusted with cobwebs and self-doubt, wants to believe someone thinks I am.
‘ Grazie , Matilde. I’ll dance for you tonight.’