Flavio Soriga
Come loose your dogs
To Donatella, Antoine, Federica, Carlotta,
to those mad as hatters,
to their light steps.
He walks through the city fighting mutely against the March cold, he’s tall
and thin, with wide cheekbones and deep-set eyes, people stop to look
at him, he’s handsome and knows it, his name is Elias and at eighteen he
fled from an island in the South and, today, his father called him for the
first time in years, after a century of silence between them, and hatred
from the boy for that man who one September evening, wounded him
forever, he fled from a land of sunshine and now he battles with seven
million souls in a metropolis-world.
He’s been to see a Mexican film in the little cinema at the Angel, a story
of dogs and betting and life which scratches and makes you bleed, a
story of people as desperate as he was when he arrived here, in a dirty
wicked city the likes of which he’d never seen before, nor imagined - You
can’t catch me - he says to his father in his thoughts - I’m not yours any
more, I’m nobody’s - he’s twenty-three and it seems a lot to him, he’s
got a weekend job and a bed-sit on the border between the bohemian
quarter and the tower block suburbs bursting with Turkish and Indian and
Pakistani families - I’m coming to see you, I’m coming tomorrow - his
father had said on the phone, Elias draws tight his coat, lifting the lapel
to cover his ears, he likes the restaurants on this street and the Arsenal
flags outside the old pubs that never change, he’s learnt to be alone as
you can only be when home is at the other end of the continent and your
cousin lent you the money to escape and your father gave you up for
dead, he’s learnt to die of exercises and gizmos and runs and stretches
in the gym and he’s studied twice as much as the others and got better
grades than anyone and worked night and day and shared rooms with
four others, he’s learnt not to think of the people he left behind and to
forget his city of sunshine facing Africa, the summer mornings on the
virgin beaches of his land, he walks in the March frost and doesn’t even
feel the rain which, at the beginning, used to drive him mad, made him
scream, die, the greyness of the sky and the absence of stars, he likes the
smell of a hundred kitchens of the hundred countries at this crossroads of
restaurants and cafés and the burble of languages at his school, he likes
greeting the ticket collectors in their tatty jumpers with a nod of the head,
he’s learnt their English, the language of raw immigrants and of silent
curses against the British and their fucking money, he walks down Upper
Street and he knows this place is everything, it’s the whole world, fun
and sweat, the exploited and the millionaires, just like thousands of other
streets in this city, in this whole Kingdom.
- I am master of my pain - the words of a song heard a thousand times
and seemingly written for him - I am master of my own memories - he
thinks of his father, of their voices on the phone, aged, broken up, at
how confused he always feels at the start of difficult conversations - I’d
like to see you, Elias, really, I’d like to see you and talk to you - and
he hadn’t been able to say anything, his strength seemingly gone, a
captain without control, his memories thrusting to come out - I’m coming
tomorrow, we’ll talk a bit, alright? - and he hadn’t said anything, and now
it’s evening and he’s alone, sitting at a corner table in a French café done
up in warm wood, leafing through a magazine for health addicts in love
with the Mediterranean and olive oil, a friendly café where he sometimes
takes refuge from the shopping frenzy outdoors, to calm his thoughts or
escape from the cold of the streets, it’s evening and he’s alone and orders
fruit juice and croissant, the owner comes to serve him, she’s a blonde
divorcee with big eyes and a fine voice and she likes to talk, they’ve
looked at each other and spoken a few times, in the evening, always of
an evening, before closing time, when the place is almost empty and she
has the time to sit with him, as she’s doing now, she’s good company
and has nice legs, she has something to drink too, fizzy wine, they talk
of poverty and new social classes, of art and how it should be brought
to the suburbs, of Béjart and Almodovar, the woman smiles, she fidgets
constantly with her hair, suggests he drop by at her place, after closing,
they might watch a film, he accepts - You shouldn’t be coming - he tells
his father into the cold night, he walks fast up the avenue looking for
tobacco and cigarette papers.
Often he kills time in the evenings wandering where his feet take him,
one hour of pool with the Stoke Newington Turks, a few hands of cards
with the Neapolitans at the Circolo Vesuvio, rootless types like him who
haven’t learnt to cancel out their old life, to forget the voices and the
faces - I am master of my own pain - Elias bears the weight of distance
without complaining, thoughts of the future are enough for him, the
knowledge that one day he will make a great ballet dancer, that the future
will redeem everything, he thinks of the day to come and of the train to
the airport, at what they might say to each other, he and that stranger who
gave him his name, he thinks of the day to come and of their eyes and
hands, an embrace which might cancel everything out, which might not
change anything - You shouldn’t be coming - he thinks - You should’ve
forgotten me, just as I have you- he’s forgotten, cancelled out, mastered
the memories that scratched away inside and hurt him badly, so badly,
every day, every evening, every hour, he’s gone beyond the borderline, it
seems to him he’s managed it, at least it’s as if he’d never lived that other
distant life.
The last April of that life, a century ago, it’s hot on the island, the kids skip
class to run around in the parks, along the long and still deserted beach,
Elias is eighteen and about to take his exams, then the holidays, real
summer, the end of school, high school, the train to catch each morning,
it’s April and they’re lying on the sand, they’re alone on that stretch of
beach and his cousin embraces him kissing his neck - What will you do
now? - he doesn’t know how to respond, he doesn’t want to think about
what’s next for him, about university, choices to make, he’d like to enjoy
the sun and these shy furtive kisses - I don’t know, I’m going to Rome for
an audition, a good school, in London - his cousin looks at him and says
nothing, he knows Elias has no money, that his father will never agree, he
says nothing, goes on kissing him, stroking his arms, whispering in his ear
- I care about you - he says.
- I’ve cancelled it all out - thinks Elias - It took me years and now he’s
coming and making it all come true again, painful and close again -
they’re on a rug he reckons is Indian, worth a couple of months’ rent
to him, they’ve got no clothes on and this blonde is smiling at him and
stroking his hair - You’re so handsome - she tells him, and repeats it
and sighs, they’ve made love and Camden Town is a riot of noises and
faces beyond the windows of the big shadowy living-room, she looks at
him and smiles, she asks him to tell her about his country, his sea, about
how it felt at the start in this city - It must have been tough - she says
- But also wonderful, I guess, to live like that, like a bet, with no money,
without anyone, only ballet and art, in some ways you’re lucky - Elias
doesn’t answer, he’s lost in the pictures and the African masks on the
walls, Oriental ceramics and Mexican tapestries, he’d like to talk to her
about his school, about the company which will take him on some day,
he’ll be the best of the lot, the best looking, he’d like to tell her about his
classmates and the rivalries that destroy every hint of friendship, of the
choreographers who invite you to dinner and you can’t say no, of the
primi ballerini who keep going on coke and alcohol, anorexics with broken
mucous membranes and frayed nerves, he isn’t able to talk about all this,
of these years and what they’ve cost him - No, it wasn’t really too tough
- he thinks of his father and what they will say to each other, of how it will
be.
What saved him when he first came to the city was a walkman, the
dark voice of Nick Cave, Italian films behind Leicester Square in the
afternoons, when he first arrived in the city he found a room-share for four
in the middle of nowhere, two tube lines to take every morning, whole
days spent seeking work, hours and mornings and afternoons walking
through the greyest suburbs, miles of identical terraced houses, gardens
ranked onto the street, reggae music played to the max and the Arab and
African faces cooked by far-away suns, when he came to the city he met
some guys from his country on the Jubilee line, on their way back from
the usual round of interviews and CVs stopping off at caffs and pubs,
five boys from his island who invited him to their house, pizza-boys and
barmen and an assistant chef with a huge house in Kilburn, evenings off
blown on electronic games, on rented videos, evenings off lost in getting
drunk on gin sitting around the rug, nostalgic chats about the island and
plans for mad home-comings, off-road jeeps and designer clothes to
amaze relations and friends, he hasn’t got anyone to go back to, nobody
to amaze, he’s cancelled it all out, for him there was nothing before this
city, before today.
His mother strokes his hair singing a song that only she knows - My
little boy, my little boy - she whispers in his ear, he’s not a little boy, he’s
sixteen with long strong legs, he cries hiding his head in the pillow, his
mother has long blonde hair and the sad face of a woman who knows her
son is growing up and is no longer hers, but belongs to the world and to
life and to new and painful loves, if his father were to see them, him cryng
and her comforting, he’d get angry and rant about balls needing to drop,
about what a man must be and what he can’t do, his father is good but
he never cries, his father tells him he doesn’t look like a man with those
skinny legs, shaved chest and light movements, as if undecided, as if
dancing, his father yells when Elias doesn’t want to eat meat - Who’s
ever heard of anyone upset by steak, who thinks blood’s disgusting, and
what’s in our veins if not blood, and haven’t we always eaten meat? - he
yells when he hears talk of theatre and poetry, his father works hard and
goes out to the bar every evening, he’d die for his wife and the family, he
says so all the time, he doesn’t talk to his son, he says he’s unable to, that
he doesn’t understand him, that they’re too different, his mother listens
to the secrets, his tangled love affairs and bitter boy’s betrayals and she
strokes his hair and calls him little boy, my little boy.
When he first arrived in the city he learnt not to ask himself questions, to
sleep as little as possible and stay alert, to talk little and to cancel out his
father and that evening in September, to seek out a woman who might
love him without asking for anything, he found and lost these women,
one a month, one a day, he found men from countries further South than
his own, loaded Orientals and Caribbeans with infinitely long legs, in the
hours wasted with the guys from home he studied their love for the black
nights in the furthest suburbs, he saw them leaving home lightly made up,
laughing from garage to garage until late morning, one tab and a shot of
rum, a wrap passed from hand to hand, snort and pass it on, snort and
pass it on, wraps bought in bulk with a month’s money, he’s changed
room and home a thousand times, after furious rows for reasons which
make him laugh to remember, and maybe it was always just the burden
he’d brought with him from the Island, an inability to talk to anyone, an
inability to find anything to talk about, only dance and pounds sterling,
nothing else.
He was alone for weeks and months, music on the walkman and lessons
and heavy rain, a starless sky and some dark verses to keep him
company - My God - he said to himself a thousand times in front of the
mirror - I don’t want anything except to exist and to dance, to move my
arms to the music and invent steps for the stage and make the audience
mine - and every time the mirror showed him the face of a boy who was
slimmer and more handsome, quicker and livelier and more alone, far
from the beaches and sunsets over the port, a man with neither mother
nor father, without women who know how to love him for more than one
night, dreams and rage, his heart harder every evening, the border behind
him, far away.
- Stay over - says the woman, she holds him tight by the shoulders, her
mouth on his neck, he frees himself slowly, doesn’t kiss her or look at
her -Come on, stay over, stay here - he doesn’t kiss her or look at her, he
writes his mobile number on a piece of paper, leaves it there on the rug,
under her knickers, goes to the bathroom, washes, thinks of a plane from
the Island and the stranger it will bring, returns to the living room, looks at
her, she seems to be sleeping - You’re sad, my love, too sad for your age
- she’s talking to him but as if in her sleep, as if lost in her thoughts - Stay
with me tonight, you’re too sad, you can’t manage, not on your own, so
young, how old are you? - Elias says nothing, he goes out into the street
breathing hard, it’s raining, he pulls up his coat to cover his head but gets
wet all the same - I’m not sad - he tells himself - I’m alone and I’m fine the
way I am, I’m not sad.
His mother knows his secrets and his loves but she doesn’t have the
strength to defend him against his father, against his fury at the gossip
about his son, the titters which reach his ears in the village bars, his
mother seems suddenly older, she doesn’t stroke his hair and talk to him
any more, she asks him what he wants to do when he leaves school and
why he goes into town every night, he doesn’t tell her about the lessons
or his cousin, he feels she wouldn’t understand, that his choices bring
pain he can’t share, that he must keep to himself, to protect his mother
and this father who doesn’t understand, his mother pledges her love but
she doesn’t want to lose him - What do you want to study, Elias? - he
doesn’t reply, it doesn’t seem important to him.
It wasn’t just the beginning that was tough, it was always tough, at every
moment, because of money and time, school which enslaves you, six
seven eight hours of lessons and tests, every day Monday-Friday, even
Saturdays sometimes, Sundays dying on an easy chair in front of the TV,
lying on the floor staring at the wall and gathering strength, it’s always
been tough, Elias is at school one evening, everyone’s left, he’s the only
one there, two hours more than the others of stretches and exercises,
trying out some steps from a piece he’s got in his head - Come loose
your dogs - he’d like to call it, like a snatch from his night-time singer
- Come loose your dogs upon me- goes the song - And let you hair hang
down, you are a little mystery to me, every time you come around- the
boy imagines the music and plays out love and jealousy in front of the
mirror, he works hard, happy to tire himself out, he showers and changes,
has a sandwich with Max, the night watchman, two metres of muscle and
tattoos - But you - he says to the boy - You’re foreign, what do you do in
the evening? - and he talks about his nights as a teenager in discos and
clubs, about his new love, of how he doesn’t feel like going out now, of a
low-cost home at the North end of town and of mortgages and banks, ten
and twenty year plans, Elias finishes his sandwich without a word, says
goodbye to his friend of one evening - We’re the same age, me and you
- says Max with a smile, he nods.
It’s his last September in his country, the last day of that life, night is
falling, his cousin’s apartment is small and bare, big rain-clouds race
across the sky, they’ve eaten and smoked, they’re wearing boxers and
T-shirts, it’s hot in the living room, Indian music on the stereo, they look
out of the window, the bay and the lagoon, the sea is dark already, only
the lighthouse pierces the blackness, they are clasped in an embrace
they can’t control, maybe they don’t want to, his cousin is called Fabio
and has a job and is ten years older than him, Elias likes his face and his
hands but all this has like a bitter taste, he doesn’t understand why but
he feels it, in his mouth and in himself, Fabio kisses his ears and his neck,
claws at his skin clasping him tighter and tighter, it feels sweet, though,
this strength - I love you - he says softly, Elias doesn’t know what to say,
he lets himself be kissed.
He answers the phone, the woman asks him what he’s doing, if he wants
to see her, he says yes, he suggests she come with him to the airport, if
she has the time and feels like meeting a plane arriving from across the
border with a piece of his past on board - Maybe I’ll explain later, if I’m up
to explaining anything - she doesn’t understand but accepts, they meet
in Camden, in a café near her house - Let’s grab something to eat at my
place, is there time? - Elias nods, orders some wine, looks at her: she’s
beautiful, always smiling without ever seeming vacant - Why did you call
me? - he asks kissing her, the woman squeezes his hands in hers, looks
in his eyes, dark as if from barely held back tears, she tells him he seems
so young, that he’s just a boy, he’s quiet, tracing his memories.
The night is warm and it’s raining, Fabio is holding his cousin in a mute
embrace - Don’t cry - he tells him - Please don’t cry - Elias’s lips are split,
bleeding, one of his legs is half-broken, sore bones and swollen eyes
black with bruising, he’s crying and clenching his fists in rage and fear, he
hears Fabio telling him again to calm down, to stop crying, to stop being
afraid, he feels his gentle hug and his kisses on his closed eyelids, light
so as not to hurt him, caresses on his cheekbones and his cheeks - It’s
over - says Fabio trying to smile, he dabs at his bruises with ice cubes,
disinfects his wounds with cotton wool and antiseptic, gently, so gently
- It’s over, it’s all over, don’t think, don’t cry, forget, right away, now, as
if it never happened, forget and flee - Elias can’t stop sobbing, he hurts
everywhere, inside, deep down, aching eyes and pulsating head, he can’t
move without nausea and stabbing pain - I’ll sort it out - Fabio whispers
in his ear, like a murmur - You have to go away, cancel out tonight, what’s
happened - I’ll give you the money for the journey, I’ll give you whatever
you want, leave and start again, go far away and forget your father and
me too - and he kisses and caresses him, he holds his hands and swears
his love, he blesses him and forgives him, he calls him my little one, my
dear heart, my great love, my impossible love.
He’s no good at letting go, at explaining and remembering, for years he’s
killed his memories and now suddenly it seems important to him to go
back, to reckon up and really understand - My father shouldn’t come -
he can’t say anything else, he doesn’t know how to speak of his mother
and of her phone calls, of having sensed her age and suffer more each
time, year after year, Christmas after Christmas - When you’ve crossed
a border you should never go back - he has thoughts like these but he
doesn’t know how to explain, they’re in her living-room again, he loses
himself in the Mexican tapestries again, he looks at this woman whom
he hardly knows and he’s happy to have her by him, he’d like to tell it
all, to free himself, to reckon up with her help - My mother left him, she
went off, she ran away from my father, she left him alone and lost, I never
believed it possible, that’s how it goes - he’s telling it, at last, he holds
her, lets himself be held - He became another man, in the bar till late or in
front of the TV, evening after evening, as if she wasn’t there, and I know
that it happened because of me, in some way, because of that night
when he followed me and found me there, in a dark room with a guy who
was my relative, naked and alone together, I know it wasn’t my father
who beat me, who wounded me for ever, it was the man who has to do
certain things, who won’t allow everything, the man with rules, I know
that night’s over, for me with them and for him with her, I know he never
forgave her for giving me money, for still calling me and for still loving me,
I know I hated him to death, not for the hurt, but for what he broke, for the
humiliation without hope, I don’t know what’ll happen now, what might
happen, I don’t know if we’ll be able to embrace, if we’ll manage to be
something better than just two losers who hate each other, I don’t know
why he’s decided to come, to make me cross the border once more, to
take me back - he goes silent, lets himself be kissed, whispers in her ear
- Don’t leave me, whoever you are, when you take me to him, hold me
close, hold my hand.
They’re walking in silence and it’s raining, the grey rain of every afternoon,
on March days in his country the pretty girls show off their legs at the
tables in the centre of town, German tourists trudge up the narrow lanes
of the Medieval quarter, emerging onto Piazza del Bastione blinded by the
light and beauty, the sea sparkles like it’s summer and the sun doesn’t
give a damn about the time of year, strong and arrogant like a needy
youth, in his country you wait months for rain, then it beats down hard,
flooding the fields and painting the sky coal black, dark powerful rattling
water, relentless gunfire from the clouds, it makes you throb and feel alive,
the rain of this city seems dirty and dead, they wait for the train to the
airport, the boy walks back and forth, nervous, agitated, afraid the border
will trap him again – How’re you doing? - the woman asks him, he looks
at her, she’s beautiful, slim and all in black, they hold hands and look into
each other’s eyes - Everything’s fine - answers Elias, his voice trembling a
little.