St. Paul's Street

The house was fascinating - like no other I’d ever seen. Tall and thin, it stood next to a seminary in a dusty, narrow street. The shadows cast across the cobblestones from the tall buildings either side made no difference to the searing heat on that island. It was only once you went inside that you could get relief of any kind. Through the imposing front door, you found yourself in a shady courtyard – it was bizarrely unexpected. There was a small round pond in the centre, and a couple of trees, and an open air shower in one corner. It made a little oasis of cool in the hot dusty city.

I hardly had time to notice any of that when I first arrived though. I was too busy trying not to be sick before I got to the bathroom. What an entrance I made; I was so embarrassed. I think my great aunt must have started regretting her invitation to me about three minutes into my six-week stay. She was so sweet about it though, that tiny bird-like woman with bright sparkly eyes. She never uttered a word of disapproval, just bustled around fetching clean towels and glasses of water. In between throwing up I apologised over and over and she told me not to worry about it.

We hardly knew each other. I had only met her once or twice in England. She lived on the big island separated only by a short stretch of water from the one I’d been to the year before to Joel’s villa. In London I was fading away. I was painfully thin and I was so tired all the time. I had got it fixed in my head that I ought to somehow live for the two of us and that wasn’t exactly compatible with taking things easy like I’d been told to do by my doctors, and so the theory was that I might get better if I were somewhere other than London. I didn’t really care where I was. The only place I wanted to be was with Joel and I knew that was never going to happen again, so nothing else mattered.

The island was where my mother’s family had originally come from, and there were still a few of them who lived there. Being Catholic they all had large families, so there were plenty of cousins my age, but it was thought best if I stayed with my great aunt who lived alone as it would be quieter.

She was never alone for long. Her family came almost every day, and she would make the most elaborate meals, even when it was just the two of us. The lunches were the worst. It would be at least a hundred degrees outside and I’d have to spend an hour every day sitting in a big formal dining room, being scolded, only semi-affectionately, for not being able to manage to get though four courses; more if there were guests.

Those meals were such a nightmare for me. The food wasn’t horrible or anything, but in London I lived on apples mostly. At one o’clock each day, in the sweltering heat, I would sit there and wrestle with a combination of good manners and my complete inability to do more than push food around my plate. I often felt like punching the air when finally they ended and I could leave the table.

That house was such an odd mixture. It was partly exotic with the strange little inner courtyard and partly solid English middle class, the rooms crammed with old lady things – silver photo frames – there must have been hundreds, on almost every surface. Family groups, weddings, various other ceremonies, new babies in far off places, university graduations – all of life’s defining events – they were there in abundance.

All the wood was dark and highly polished, much of it covered with lace. There were more china ornaments than anyone ought to have. Surprisingly, there were almost no books. She was an educated woman – her husband had been a judge I think. Maybe she threw them all out when he died.

I wilt in houses with no books, and all I had there to fall back on were endless copies of the Reader’s Digest. It made me sad. Have you ever read that magazine? I can’t imagine anyone actually buying it. It is truly dire. The only other literature was a selection of little booklets and pamphlets written to persuade people back into the catholic faith. Occasionally I would find one discreetly placed on my bedside table. She never said a word, and neither did I. I think it was a kind of unspoken agreement. She had done her job by leaving them there, and I, in turn, always ignored them.

It’s odd how I can remember the only two books I had brought with me. They were “Brave New World” which I was reading for the first time, and loved, and a really funny one called “Hugger Mugger in the Louvre”, by Elliot Paul. I don’t think I’d ever stayed in a house without shelves I could pick from so it had never occurred to me to bring any others.

In those days I never went anywhere without paper and pencils. I had a plan when I arrived, to draw them all as a thank you for having me. I’m not sure if they enjoyed the experience as much as I did – I made them sit still for hours – but I think they were kind of pleased with the results and I found it fascinating. I love faces and I had such a stunning range there to work from – my youngest model was a cousin was only five and spoke no English. Poor little thing, she sat there mournfully, kicking the edge of the sofa she’d been perched on, saying “andiamo subito?” from time to time.

Another great aunt came to stay. She was the sister of my grandfather and was a nun in the Vatican. When she arrived I couldn’t understand why they all called her Tia Maria – I only knew the drink – I had no idea it meant aunt. She was brilliant – my best model ever. She sat there peacefully, hands folded neatly in her lap, her face framed by her habit and veil. She must have been in her late seventies but her skin was very white and curiously unlined, which contrasted so oddly with her bright brown sparkling eyes that brought the only colour and life to her face.

While I drew her, she told me about how they had sheltered partisans in their convent during the war, and how nowadays they would take wheelchair bound invalids to Lourdes on pilgrimage, smuggling contraband under the blankets that covered their legs. She made me laugh at the thought of all those nuns sailing through customs with their innocent faces.

I think it was her I overheard telling some others about my grandmother doing cocaine at parties before the war. Every discussion in that house seemed to be held in three languages at once, at top volume, with a lot of hand gestures. It was quite overwhelming to me, and I was glad of the excuse of drawing to let me off being expected to join in. Each time a new relative arrived; my face would be singled out for scrutiny and a loud discussion would take place as to which family member I resembled most.

It was a tall narrow house, like I said, and the very best part was the topmost floor. I think the roof and walls were mostly glass. There were french windows, from which you could walk out onto a roof terrace that overlooked the busy harbour. I spent hours up there, gazing at the blue Mediterranean, watching the ships coming and going, listening to sad songs on my walkman, and sunbathing. When my great aunt noticed my bikini, she created a little screen with sheets and things, so the priests next door wouldn’t be offended at the sight of me.

Walking back into the room from the roof terrace was the strangest experience. There was nothing on that whole floor, except tomato plants growing in pots along the glass walls, and a better collection of Greek, Roman and Byzantine antiquities than the British Museum. I’m not exaggerating. It was quite extraordinary. The pieces were stunning. The bigger statues were displayed on special plinths and the other things were on tables and shelves scattered all over.

There were entire statues - all limbs present and correct – the most beautiful I’ve seen from that period. Some I could even recognise. I remember the Emperor Augustus quite clearly and Julius Caesar too. I’d just finished Robert Graves’ “I Claudius” books and I knew what they were meant to look like.

There was a wonderful black vase with handles, decorated with dancing girls all the way around. Not one chip to be seen. It looked more Greek than Roman, but I could only guess from the costumes of the dancers. There were also smaller things; jewellery, coins, little knives, and the most beautiful miniature triptych that I thought might be from the Byzantine era.

I loved that place. It was so wonderful to have it all to myself. I could wander around, stroking the cold stone and the smooth pottery, running a finger down those wonderful sculpted faces, exploring their features, and feeling the weight of the coins until they grew warm in my hand. Nothing was under glass. No custodians watching from the corner – it was all mine to play with. I took my sketchbooks up with me, sat on the floor, and drew everything I could see. It almost made up for the lack of books.

There was a nice reason for them all being there too. My great aunt told me her Father had been a doctor – it must have been during the latter half of the nineteenth century. There was no free healthcare, but the local people knew he was a keen collector of antiquities. That country had been invaded by almost every civilisation you could think of over the centuries, and they’d all left their mark. The local farmers were forever digging things out of their fields, and whenever someone was sick, they would offer the doctor a statue, or a vase in lieu of payment. I think both parties must have been equally happy with the arrangement.

It’s all gone now. My great aunt died only recently – she was over a hundred, and the big house was divided up. Several cousins live there now. I expect all those beautiful things went to a museum, where I suppose it’s fairer because everyone can enjoy them. No one will be lucky enough to get to know them like I did all those years ago.