The Marshal's Own Case (19 page)

His wig was damp and looked slightly askew. Above the bare legs and short skirt he was huddled as deeply as he could into an old windjammer.

‘Don’t you know who I am?’

‘Oh . . . It’s you.’ But he didn’t look the Marshal in the face. His glance strayed from left to right and back again anxiously, as if afraid that the Marshal’s presence might frighten away potential clients, though none of the passing cars showed any sign of slowing down. The Marshal knew he was blocking the boy from view but he stood where he was, looking down at the huddled, shivering figure, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

‘Your mother’s worried about you.’

The boy only shrugged, his eyes still swivelling. Could it be that he was expecting a pusher rather than a client?

‘You could just give her a call. There’s no need to give her your own number if you don’t want to.’

‘I haven’t even got a phone.’

‘Even so, you could—’

‘No! You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ He was staring straight up at the Marshal now. His painted face was grotesque, almost comic, but the eyes were desperate. ‘You can’t imagine—if she once gets me in her clutches again . . . It’s taken me so long to get free and now I’m staying away!’

‘Listen, your mother—maybe your mother can’t help being what she is—’

‘What do you mean by that? What do you mean— “what she is”? What do you know about it?’

‘I only meant—’

‘You’ve no right to say anything against her!’

‘I wasn’t—’

‘She’s my mother! You’ve no right . . .’ He subsided, hugging the old jacket to him tightly.

‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m only trying to say that I understand you wanting to be independent. She knows, anyway, that you’re alive and well. I’ve told her that. It was only natural that she should be worried. She hadn’t seen you since just after your accident.’

‘What accident?’

‘She told me you’d had a car accident, that you were in plaster last time you went home.’

‘There wasn’t any accident,’ the boy said sullenly. ‘I had to hide the operation, that’s why my chest was in plaster. I’d forgotten I’d said it was a road accident. I told her I’d broken a rib or some such story. It wasn’t even plaster, it was a sort of brace thing. I bought it.’

‘You mean—’

‘What do you think I mean? I don’t sit out here for my health, do I? Why don’t you just go away and leave me alone? I’ve got my living to earn.’

‘There are other ways of earning a living. Why don’t you get out before it’s too late? It’s dangerous, you know that by now, and it’s not too late for you.’

‘It is. It is too late, now. I’ve started some hormone treatment. Nobody wants transvestites any more, that’s why I had to get breasts done. I might as well go the whole hog. That way I can earn more and once I’ve got rid of my beard I’ll be able to afford to have my face done. Then I can make as much as they do.’ He glanced along the avenue where the queue of cars was moving slowly. ‘I might even be able to afford a flat of my own one day. That’s what I want.’

‘And you don’t want your mother taking money off you, is that it?’

‘No, it’s not! I’ll send her some money when I get on my feet, you can tell her that if you want. It’s not money, it’s . . . all of it. That life . . . She used to leave me with all the kids. Once, the littlest kid got sick. It was in the middle of the night. It was only a baby and it went all rigid and screaming and then it died. I was eight years old, for Christ’s sake, so what was I supposed to do? I tried to give it some water from a bottle but it screamed and screamed and then it died. When she came back she nearly killed me because I was asleep. What could I do if it was dead? I fell asleep . . . I decided then I’d get out as soon as I was old enough. I like my life the way it is now. Nobody expects anything off me except what they pay for and the rest of the time I don’t exist for anybody. I’m free.’

The Marshal stood a moment, immobile, hands still in his pockets, staring down at the puny legs, the scruffy high-heeled shoes. There was some sort of truth, some sort of half-baked logic in what the boy said. If you were neither male nor female, just a toy for rent at certain hours, you were indeed nobody and free of human responsibilities.

‘And what sort of freedom is it?’ he insisted. ‘The freedom to be chopped to bits by some crazy client, or catch Aids or die of an overdose? What sort of freedom?’

But the boy only stared hopefully at the passing headlights.

‘What does it matter?’ he said. ‘You have to die of something. In any case, when I’ve made enough money, I can always give it up. When I’m about thirty or something and my life’s over I’ll maybe give it up . . .’ He stiffened as a passing car slowed down, but the driver must have spotted the Marshal’s uniform and he didn’t stop. The boy went on staring hopefully down the long, lamplit avenue where reflected lights moved in an almost unbroken rhythm along the wet black road.

The Marshal got back in his car and drove home.

When he got there he braked as quietly as he could, avoiding a noisy spray of gravel. He switched off the engine and lights and sat there, shoulders hunched, staring out at the darkness. He was so still he might have been asleep. But he soon shook himself and got out of the car, shutting the door gently so as not to disturb the complete silence around him. His heavy footsteps crunched towards the doorway, then stopped. Why was it so unnaturally quiet? He had to think for a while before he realized what it was. It had stopped raining. He looked up. The sky was black and dotted with stars. It was colder, too. Tomorrow would be clear and sunny. Tomorrow was Thursday, his day off. His footsteps crunched on, a little bit lighter now. Tomorrow, after lunch he could take a walk through the Boboli Gardens with Totò. Not the whole family, just himself and Totò, and though he knew himself too well to think they would talk much, they might, if they walked near the fish pond, surprise the others by bringing home the little orange and white cat.

THE END