A Nathan Sutherland short story for Christmas
Lucia Frigo and Gramsci stared across my desk with the same look in their eyes.
They both wanted something.
In Gramsci’s case, the problem could be solved by accessing the box of kitty biscuits securely closed away in the highest cupboard in the kitchen; a space that – until now, at least – had proved beyond his ability to open. Not that he hadn’t tried.
Lucia, in black leather jacket and Iron Maiden T-shirt, and spiky-haired and Siouxsie-like as ever, was harder to read. She was one of the few living beings with whom Gramsci had found any sort of affinity, and the thought of the two of them making alliance against me was troubling.
‘So, how’ve you been doing, Englishman?’
I sighed. ‘Do we have to do the whole “Englishman” thing?’
‘Is “Mister Consul” better?’
‘A bit. Which is not to say that I like it. Why don’t you call me, oh I don’t know, “Nathan” or “Nat” and in return I’ll call you Lucia instead of “Siouxsie”?’
Her face fell. ‘But I like the whole “Siouxsie” thing.’ Then she smiled. ‘But okay, Nathan it is. So. As I said. How have things been since we last met?’
I picked up my desk diary and pretended to leaf through it. ‘Well now. When was that?’ I tapped at a page. ‘Ah, yes. Just over a month ago now. I helped you drag a refrigerator out of a waterlogged shop. And shortly afterwards a man called Matthew Blake blew his brains out in front of me. Strange days, eh?’
‘They certainly were Mister Consul – I mean, Nathan.’
I smiled. ‘Anyway, it’s good to see you again Lucia. How have you been?’
‘Good, I guess. The city seems almost back to normal now, doesn’t it? And it’ll soon be Christmas. That’s nice. I like Christmas.’ I must have looked a little startled. ‘Oh, don’t be fooled by the whole Goth thing. Even Siouxsie did a Christmas song.’
‘Two, I think.’
‘One of them’s a cover, though. Anyway, as I was saying, things are pretty good. Especially since all the press coverage stopped. The whole “Mud Angels” thing.’ She shook her head. ‘Never liked all that.’
‘But that was a great thing you did. Helping the city getting back on its feet after the flood. That was a fine thing, a kind thing.’
‘We just did it because it was the right thing to do. We never did it to get on TV or in the papers. And we sure as hell weren’t angels.’
‘Whatever. I made it into the papers for failing to stop a man shooting himself in the face. I think your way was better. And I think you should be proud of yourself.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘Is that your “Stop being my dad” expression?’
She nodded.
‘Sorry.’
‘So, if I could maybe get to why I’m here?’
’Sure.’
‘Now, do you promise not to overreact?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s just that Christmas is coming up and and some of us thought that, well, it’s going to be a pretty tough one for a lot of people. You know, all those businesses that still aren’t back on their feet?’
‘Sure, I understand. I mean if you’re selling raffle tickets, by all means put me down for a few.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Donation, then? That’s fine, too.’
‘Not that either. It’s me and the band. We’re doing a charity concert.’
‘You what???’
‘You said you wouldn’t overreact!’
‘I’m not overreacting. I’m completely calm.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Is this your death metal band? Toxic Disposition?”
‘No, it’s my classical flute quartet. Of course it’s Toxic Disposition. And don’t do that.’
‘Do what?’
‘You were going to put your head in your hands.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘You were.’
‘Okay. I was. Look, erm, well Federica and I both went to see you once before and, well, – ‘
‘You hated it.’
‘We didn’t hate it so much as think that it wasn’t perhaps quite our thing, and so – ‘
‘You don’t want to come?’
‘It’s not so much that we don’t want to come – ‘
‘So you do want to? Brilliant! I knew you wouldn’t let us down.’ Gramsci hopped up onto the desk and purred. ’See. Even your nice cat approves.’
‘It seems he does.’ I sighed. ‘Okay then. Tell me more.’
‘It’s on December 20th. Campo San Giacomo dell’Orio. Where your pal Dario lives. Bring him along as well.’
‘Oh, I will. He’ll be thrilled.’
‘There’s going to be a few bands on. Not just us. It was kind of difficult to find a space, but Rocco – that’s my dad – used to help organise the old Communist Party festival in the square, you remember?’
‘Oh yes. Dario look me there to see a Genesis covers band one year. They were quite good. Whatever happened to it?’
‘The Genesis covers band?’
‘No, the festival.’
She shrugged. ‘My dad said they were running out of communists. Something like that. Anyway, he was really excited to be doing something in the square again.’
‘“A Christmas Evening with Toxic Disposition”. That sort of thing?’
‘Exactly. Well done, Mister Consul. We’ll see you there.’
And with that, she was gone, leaving me faced with a hungry cat and a difficult explanation.
———-
‘So, would you like to tell me all about it?’, said Fede, after I kissed her on the cheek.
‘About what?’
‘You’ve got your “I’ve done something wrong” face on.’
‘I’ve got one of those?’
‘Mm-hmm. I can tell. It’s my secret weapon.’
‘Damn. I never knew. Well, Lucia was round here earlier. You remember Lucia Frigo?’
‘Looks like Siouxsie, organised the Mud Angels, helped you solve a murder?’
‘That’s her.’
‘Plays guitar in a really terrible band?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s her.’
Fede’s eyes narrowed. ‘What have you done?’
‘Well, her band are organising another charity gig. And this time it’s in San Giacomo dell’Orio, just before Christmas and so I thought…’ My voice tailed off.
‘You thought “Nothing says Christmas quite like an outdoor concert by Toxic Disposition, Venice’s only death metal band”?’
‘Well, yes. But you remembered the name. They must have made an impression.’
‘Oh, they did. It’s not a name I’m likely to forget.’
‘Come on, it’s Christmas, it’s for a good cause, it’ll be outside in the square.’
‘So, like last time, only colder?’
I nodded.
She sighed. ‘Okay. It’s a nice thing to do. And I suppose I’ve got a few more black clothes I can dig out. Are they expecting a big turnout for this?’
‘Dunno. I imagine they’re banking on the whole “Season of Goodwill” thing dragging people along.’
‘Well, you must know a few people you can call on.’
‘I suppose so. Dario, of course. Which means Vally and Emily as well.’
‘You’re going to ask them to bring a five-year-old to a death metal concert?’
‘All part of the Magic of Christmas, isn’t it? Then there’s Father Michael.’
‘You’re going to ask a priest to a death metal concert?’
‘Okay, okay, I can see the way this is going. Sergio and Lorenzo, then? A comradely Christmas festival, it should be right up their street.’
‘Combined age of about 150?’
‘I’m going to ask them to come along in the spirit of solidarity, and make a suitably comradely gesture to help those in need. I’m not going to ask them to join us in the mosh pit.’ I checked my watch. ‘Maybe I’ll head over there now. It’s been a fortnight since they last stole money off me at scopa…’
———-
Sergio’s face turned an all-too-familiar shade of purple.
‘Did I say something wrong?’
He said nothing, but the level of purpleness continued to increase.
‘I mean,’ I continued, ‘I know the music might not be your thing , but it’s in a good cause and, hey – ‘ I made a little thumbs-up sign and gave a cheery smile – ‘it’s all the comrades together, eh?’
From the expression on his face, I could tell that the situation had not improved.
Lorenzo coughed, gently. ‘I think Sergio’s problem here might be that we’re talking about the wrong sort of comrades.’
‘Traditori di tutti, ‘ muttered Sergio.
‘Oh, I see. The wrong communists?’
‘Exactly. You see Nathan, the trouble is that the event in San Giacomo dell’Orio was historically organised by the Communist Party of Italy.’
‘Er, right.’
‘And we – Sergio and I, that is – are the Italian Communist Party.’
‘What, all of them?’
Lorenzo sighed. ‘That’s not so wide of the mark, sadly.’
‘And so you can’t just let bygones be bygones?’
‘Nathan, there’s a Communist bar in Castello where they built a partition wall and knocked through a separate entrance in order that members of rival parties wouldn’t have to speak to each other.’
‘Wow.’
‘We did explain this to you before, as I remember.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I’d have to answer questions on it three years later.’ I turned to Sergio. ‘Come on, Sergio. It’s in a good cause. Even Marx celebrated Christmas.’
‘Only because Engels was a bad influence. We’re not going and that’s an end to it.’
There was silence around the table, and then Lorenzo cleared his throat. ‘What’s this we Sergio?’
Sergio looked as surprised as I felt. ‘Lorenzo?’
‘I think perhaps I might go along. Thank you for the invitation, Nathan.’
‘Lorenzo? Are you crazy?’ He took a notebook from his jacket and flicked through it. ‘We haven’t spoken to Rocco Frigo since 1992.’
‘You keep a dossier?’, I said.
’Sure I do. Hard to keep track of things otherwise. Lorenzo, we haven’t spoken to Frigo in twenty-seven years.’
Lorenzo shrugged. ‘Then perhaps it’s time we did. We’ve spent so long waiting for the New Jerusalem to arrive. I must confess, I’m starting to wonder that it might not arrive quite in time for me to see it. So, in the meantime, if somebody wants to do something that seems fundamentally harmless and nice, then I think I’d like to go along. No matter what their father may or may not have done back in 1992.’
Sergio shook his head. ‘Et tu, Lorenzo’ he muttered.
‘Come on, Sergio,’ I said. ‘This is a Christmas charity concert. It’s not the Sino-Soviet Schism. Isn’t this a bit, well, pathetic?’
Lorenzo winced.
Sergio glowered at me and I tried to backtrack. ‘Well, I say pathetic. What I mean, really, is silly. Just a bit silly. That’s all. Nothing more than that.’
‘Silly, is it? Pathetic, is it?’ He took a deep breath. ‘So that’s the way it is.’ He laid his notebook on the table, and then patted his pockets. ‘Damn. Have you got a pen?’
‘Er, yes. Just a moment.’ I took one from my jacket, and passed it to him.
‘Thanks.’ He scribbled away. ‘Nathan – sorry, how do you spell your last name?’
‘Sutherland. S-U-T-H-E-R-L-A-N-D.’
‘Mm-hmm. Difficult for us Italians. There we go.’ He held the book up with a flourish. ‘Nathan Sutherland. December 18th, 2019.’
‘I’m in the dossier? You put me in your dossier for suggesting you come to a charity concert?’ I laughed, and then wished I hadn’t.
‘Oh, that’s funny as well is it? Well, maybe this is funny, too?’ He pulled out his wallet, extracting the notes that he’d won from me at scopa only minutes ago, and thumped them onto the table. ‘I don’t want your thirty pieces of silver, Englishman.’
He turned, and stormed from the bar, slamming the door behind him. Then he returned, and placed a few notes upon the bar. ‘I think it was my round,’ he said, before leaving once more.
I stared at Lorenzo. ‘What just happened there?’
The old man took off his glasses, and polished them on his sleeve. ‘Old grudges die hard with Sergio, Nathan. He’ll come round, eventually.’
‘Yeah, but when?’
‘Possibly around May.’
———-
‘No luck?’, said Fede.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve called twice this morning. The first time I just got a No. The second time he’d worked himself up to Giuda Iscariota.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, me too. Stupid of me to have asked him. I should have thought more about it.’
‘I don’t think you can be blamed about not knowing all the intricacies of the history of the Italian Communist Party in the 1990s, caro.’
‘Or even the Communist Party of Italy.’ I shook my head. ‘I rang Lorenzo as well. Sergio’s not been to the bar since we had the argument.’
‘Wow. Has that ever happened before?’
‘June the seventh, 2003. He had a doctor’s appointment. Lorenzo wrote it down.’
‘So what does this mean?’
‘Lorenzo’s playing a lot of solitaire, I guess.’
Fede frowned. ‘I’m being serious. How long have they been friends?’
‘I don’t know, but I imagine Sergio has records. And anyway, how about me? I’ve only known him five years, and his main presence in my life has been to steal money off me at cards every other Thursday afternoon but still I’d, well, I’d miss the old bugger.’
‘Give him time. He’ll come round.’
‘I hope so. I haven’t got so many friends in the city that I can afford to lose one just because I know the wrong type of communist.’ I sighed. ‘Christmas, eh? You try to do a good thing and someone gets the wrong end of the stick and, well, it all ends in tears.’
‘Oh dear. Are you going to get morose?’
‘Just a bit. I mean, I’ve never been in a dossier before. I’ve never been denounced before. It feels significant, somehow, and not in a good way.’
‘Okay, this is obviously more serious than I thought. Negroni time?’
‘Oh, I think so.’
‘Good. Come on, then. And don’t worry about Sergio. It’ll sort itself out.’
I nodded, but wasn’t convinced that a man who had grudges dating back over a quarter of a century was likely to change his mind any time soon.
———-
The lights twinkled down on Campo San Giacomo dell’Orio, on a crisp and clear winter’s night. A temporary bar had been set up next to the church, selling mulled wine, whilst a street vendor sold roasted chestnuts fresh from the brazier; the aroma making my stomach rumble in happy anticipation.
I’d been expecting a modest crowd, at best, but Venice had turned out for Lucia Frigo. True, the event might not have been Gabrieli or Monteverdi under the glow of the mosaics in St Mark’s. It might not even have been Nine Lessons and Carols from St George’s English church. But it had been a tough year, and it was nearly Christmas, and people were going to have a good time. As much as she might have hated the description, they were going to celebrate together with their Mud Angel.
Families and friends snuggled together for warmth on benches, some of them casting envious glances towards the warm lights of restaurant windows, as Toxic Disposition brought their own special brand of Christmas magic to the sestiere of Santa Croce.
‘Thank you, Venice. Buona Notte, Buon Natale.’ Lucia held her guitar above her head, and smiled down at us.
We applauded as hard as we could, but I doubted the band could hear us if the ringing in their ears was anything like mine.
‘So what do you think?’, said Fede.
I looked at my watch. ‘About half past nine,’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll go to the bar while I’m waiting for my senses to return to normal. ‘Vin brulè ?’
‘I think so. What’s the alternative?’
‘Hot Aperol spritzes. That seems to be a thing now.’
I shuddered. ‘Vin brulè, then. Definitely vin brulè.’
The band, if truth be told, in hadn’t been all that bad. Viewed through slightly boozy, pre-Christmas lenses they had actually verged on quite fun and if Venice hadn’t known that what it really needed was a thrash metal version of I wish it could be Christmas every day, well, it certainly knew now.
Fede returned with a brace of drinks and pressed one into my hand; and I sighed happily as I felt the warmth spreading through my fingers.
‘Dario and Rocco seem to be getting on well,’ she said.
‘They are. He may be the wrong type of communist, but he certainly knows a lot about progressive rock. The last time I passed by, they were discussing whether the last great Genesis album really was The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway or if you could make a case for Wind and Wuthering.’
‘How were they managing to do that?’
‘Via mime, for the most part.’
Lorenzo came and sat down, a little unsteadily. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘some of this has got quite a good beat.’
‘You’re having a good time, Lorenzo?’
‘I am. At least, I think I am.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Any news from you-know-who?’
Lorenzo’s face clouded. ‘Sergio? Not a word. Between you and me, Nathan, I think he’s becoming decidedly grumpy in middle-age.’
A cough came from behind me. ‘Are you taking my name in vain, Lorenzo?’
I turned around. ‘Sergio?’
He nodded. ‘Just don’t say anything, all right?’
‘Look, about the other day, I just want to say – ‘
He shook his head. ‘Not now.’ He made his way over to where Rocco was sitting with Dario.
He held out an awkward hand, and Rocco, a little uncertainly at first, got to his feet. Then the two men shook hands, albeit briefly, and Rocco sat back down again. Sergio nodded, as if his work was done, and gave him a half pat on the back.
‘What just happened there?’, said Dario.
‘I think Father Michael might just call it a little Christmas miracle,’ I said.
‘Like that time at Live 8. You know, when Roger Waters and David Gilmour hugged each other?’
I winced. ‘Yeah, and look how that worked out.’ I looked over at Sergio. ‘So, erm, what happened?’
He sighed. ‘I had this strange dream, Sutherland. The ghost of Antonio Gramsci himself stood at the end of my bed and showed me my own past, present and future. And I decided, well, perhaps I had time to change.’
‘Wow. Really?’
‘Don’t be stupid, of course not.’ He sighed again. ‘I just thought maybe I’m not so young any more and I don’t have so many friends I can afford to lose the ones I have. And also, well, your wife phoned me and told me not to be pathetic.’
I looked over to where Fede was pretending to be looking at something on the other side of the square. ‘Hang on, I told you not to be pathetic and you put me in the dossier!’
‘I know. But she also said she’d kick my arse if I didn’t turn up this evening. It’s kind of the difference between the British and the Italians.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘Anyway. I’m glad she did, you know?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘There was quite a lot of talk about something called Tough Love. Whatever that is. And she also said it was a Christmas present. You’re a lucky man. I hope you know that.’
‘I know. I know. Smiling and saying yes has got me through much of married life. It’s why my arse remains unkicked for the most part.’
Sergio turned back to Rocco. ‘It’s quite good to be here.’
Rocco smiled. ‘It’s quite good to see you too, Sergio.’
‘But that band is really terrible you know?’
Rocco looked first left and then right and then mouthed the words I know once he’d assured himself that Lucia was nowhere to be seen.
‘That time in 1992. When I called you a Capitalist Running Dog. I – well – I’m sorry.’
‘Thanks. I’m sorry I called you a Useful Idiot.’
‘Are we good then?’
‘I think we are.’
Sergio turned to me and cleared his throat. ‘I was thinking about the other day. And, well, I don’t really do Christmas presents. Fact is, I don’t really do Christmas. Never been very good at being told to have a good time, I suppose. Anyway, I got you something.’
He passed me a small parcel, wrapped in the awkward way that only the single male can manage.
‘Sergio. I don’t know what to say.’
I made to put it away, but he shook his head. ‘No, I think you should open it now.
‘Sure.’ I slid my finger under the paper, and tore it open.
It was his notebook.
‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘that perhaps I don’t need this any more.’
‘Wow.’
I got to my feet but he waved a finger at me. ‘That still doesn’t mean I do the hugging thing, Sutherland.’
‘No. Of course not. I’m sorry Sergio, I haven’t got you anything.’
He shook his head. ‘You don’t need to.’ Then he grinned. ‘But you can at least give me those thirty euros you owe me from scopa.’
The End
Wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas and a peaceful New Year.
And for those who are interested, A Shocking Red December is a literal translation of the Italian title of Nicolas Roeg’s Don’t Look Now.
Philip Gwynne Jones 