The Book of Human Skin Read online

  PENGUIN CANADA

  THE BOOK OF HUMAN SKIN

  MICHELLE LOVRIC is the author of three novels—Carnevale, The Floating Book (winner of a London Arts Award and chosen as a WH Smith Read of the Week) and The Remedy (longlisted for the 2005 Orange Prize for Fiction)—as well as two children’s novels, The Undrowned Child and The Mourning Emporium. She combines her fiction work with editing, designing and producing literary anthologies including her own translations of Latin and Italian poetry. Her book Love Letters was a New York Times bestseller.

  Lovric divides her times between London and Venice, and holds workshops in both places with published writers of poetry and prose, fiction and memoir.

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  NOVELS

  Carnevale

  The Floating Book

  The Remedy

  NOVELS FOR CHILDREN

  The Undrowned Child

  The Mourning Emporium

  THE BOOK OF

  HUMAN SKIN

  MICHELLE LOVRIC

  PENGUIN CANADA

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in Great Britain by Bloomsbury Publishing, 36 Soho Square, London W1D 3QY, 2010 Published in Canada by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc.

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  Copyright © Michelle Lovric, 2010

  The extract from Holy Feast and Holy Fast:The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women by Caroline Walker Bynum, published by University of California Press, copyright © 1987 by the Regents of the University of California, is reprinted by permission of the publishers.

  All rights reserved.Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s note:This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Manufactured in Canada.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Lovric, Michelle

  The book of human skin / Michelle Lovric.

  ISBN 978-0-14-317726-5

  I. Title.

  PR6112.O83B66 2010 823’.92 C2010-901654-8

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication data available.

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  Vile and contemptible is the book which every body likes.

  Thomas Spooner of Lemon Street,

  A Compendious Treatise of the Diseases of the Skin,

  from the Slightest Itching Humour in Particular Parts

  only, to the most Inveterate Itch, 1724

  Part One

  Gianni delle Boccole

  I want to tell ye the story of Marcella Fasan, someone have got to do it.

  Ye wunt believe it.

  Ye’ll say, ‘No girl were ever so sinned agin, tis like Job in a dress. Tis a dirty lie, Gianni. Ye have took me for a fool.’

  And I would say, Listen.

  This is going to be a little uncomfortable.

  Minguillo Fasan

  If you ever see a portrait of a nun, you should know she was a dead woman when it was painted. Nuns may not have their portraits painted while they are alive, a nun’s face being nobody’s business, not even her own, not even her brother’s.

  If I had known that fact when I set out to discover what had happened to my sister, I would have saved myself a voyage and a disease, and I might never have laid a hand upon a fatal book of human skin, making cannibals of my nine remaining fingers.

  Now it takes very little to disgust the Adorable Reader, so I’ll not stay dwelling on all the unpleasantness of things for a small while yet, or after the very first chapter I’ll risk having to open letters adrip with indignation along the lines of ‘What a thing to say and me with a mouthful of hot wine and the wall just recently distempered white!’

  And of course the first thing that the Dearly Beloved Reader asks Himself when He opens a book, and lets a voice have at Him, is – ‘Do I wish to go on a long walk in the dark with this person?’ He has a choice. So I (Minguillo Fasan, enchanted etcetera) shall be making every effort not to irk but to beguile.And to be mindful of my duty to give pleasure even in the recounting of disgustful memories.To smuggle in the sinewy meat, as it were, under the light, sweet pastry.

  In this spirit, let us go back to the wishbone, to the clean fork of the beginning of things, when there are certain items that the Enquiring Reader really needs to know in order to dine well on the said meat of this story. The Dull Reader may at this point betake His stupid rectum to His preferred armchair in the Coffee House, and pick up His penny journal, satisfied in knowing that there is nothing between these covers for Him. So.

  To begin with the fascinations.

  The portrait of my sister Marcella arrived unexpectedly in Venice, having travelled by donkey down the scarcely credible slopes of El Misti in Peru, whence it was taken by boat to Valparaiso (of incomparably lush memory), where it was impounded for three days in a damp customs house. By the time her face was released from imprisonment, my sister’s skin had pocked. Flakes had fallen even from the pupils of her eyes, leaving numerous tiny white highlights that gave the erroneous impression that she was not only living, but lively in the flesh.

  My sister was never a lively girl. I saw to that. Marcella always looked like tuppence worth of dead, even when she was alive. Not at all the kind of thing I went for, myself.

  What is that?

  What?

  The Reader has a wonderful story that the whole world would love to hear?

  La-di-da, etcetera and so forth. I know what.The Reader should scratch His scribbling itch and tell His tale by all means.And I’ll just have a little nap.

  A wonderful story? The whole world?

  Mine is much better.

  And I am not even born yet.

  The two wretches who shall beget me are fumbling towards my conception, none too fast. They’ve already made a mistake: a girl called Riva.

  And as for Marcella, the object and heroine of this entire tale? Well, for her the Eager Reader must wait even longer, but we’ll find ways to fill up the time, eh?

  Gianni delle Boccole

  Ile regret it till my
dying day if I live that long that I niver knowed to write a direy when I were young. Now I must remember myself of evry thing peace by peace, God-on-a-stick!

  I were nothin more than a kitchen lad, borned under the kitchen table as it appened, for my Ma were a cook at the Palazzo Espagnol. My father were a itinnyant pedlar who wernt seen agin in these parts after he shone my Ma his wares, as ye mite say. Our kind Master Fernando Fasan hallowed her to keep me, e’en tho twere her second offents for I alredy had a half-sister Cristina by a passin coalman.

  My crib were set below that kitchen table, so in my first years I saw mostly the broad bords of its underside insted o the sky. I have two memmaries, the one o my Ma’s lovin face peepin under the cloth to kiss me reglar. And t’other of her tortellini in brodo that were a wonder prazed upndown the Grand Canal.

  Our Ma were carrid oft by the Small-Pox when I had jist six years. That could of been very poor for me n my sister. Yet by the kindness of my Master Fernando Fasan, Cristina n I was not turned out nor yet sent to the nuns.

  ‘But you are one of us, young chap!’ that’s what my Master sayed seriusly oer his spectickles to sixyearold me. ‘How could we do without you, Gianni?’

  We was set to makin ourselfs youthful by turning the spit on the fire and runnin for kindling.

  Cristina doated on me, and all t’other laydies o the house were that kind too, especially the maid called Anna what were jist three years older n myself and were little, pretty, proper n fine.

  By that time my Master Fernando Fasan ud took himself a andsome fat wife with a towering hairdo. My Master hisself were freakwently way in Peru, where he done his busyness. But all were did proper in his absents. There was the grate bankwets for t’other nobbles, balls in season, card tornyments and so on.

  Like all laydies of her stashon, my Mistress Donata tookt an assistant husband what kindly presided when my Master were way, and een sumtimes when he come back, seein as how the assistant husband Piero Zen and the marrid husband Fernando Fasan was like the lovingest pare of brothers ye ever seen. The very walls thesselves was warm in them days with their feckshonit laffs n shouts, Sweet Little God!

  A little daughter, Riva, were borned to my Master and Mistress. There was more bankwets, and grate snootfuls of wine for the servants too. My sister Cristina were straitway pointed number four nussmaid and twere a pleasure for her, for ye could hear the little one chucklin in her crib all hours o the day. In onour of the new babe, my Master Fernando had a garden o roses n lilacks planted in our courtyard. He leaved a space, sayin summing Ile not soon forgit, ‘There will be more children, and more flowers for us.’

  Swear I got more sweet memmaries from those times than ye got hairs. In retrospecked, twere as if we was makin o the Palazzo Espagnol a perfeck bower, a vegetable paradise on earth, for Marcella Fasan to be borned into.

  We was more than sorry each time my Master Fernando had to sail agin for Peru. Twas vilent times in that far place. There was stories comin out o there to make yer hairs turn white n curl up yer toes.

  Sor Loreta

  I was warned against writing this.

  I ask all you who read it not to think badly of me because I had the bold presumption to set down this text, given that I am utterly ignorant and without graces.

  Should any Christian cast his eyes on this work, he must understand that it is not my own arrogance but the will of the Lord God that flows down upon the page through these worthless fingers. He should take sustenance from my words as he might swallow the Blessed Eucharist.

  That same good Christian should naturally look on the testimony of the Venetian Cripple and her friends as the saliva of the Devil turned to ink and spat upon paper.

  I shall start with the first of my significant memories. That was the long death of Tupac Amaru II. It lasted from ten in the morning till five in the afternoon, which thoroughly pleased all devout persons. It happened in Cuzco, Peru, where I was born. It was 1781, and I had twelve years.

  Tupac Amaru had revolted against the Spanish rulers and the Holy Mother Church of Peru. This peasant defied even the Inca nobility, who denounced him for an upstart. With his murderous campaigns Tupac Amaru had denuded whole Spanish towns of the servants of God. So now they made a holy example of him.

  He was made to watch his wife, his eldest son, his uncle and his brother-inlaw all tortured to death in the Plaza de Armas, a worse insult on account of that it was once the sacred square of the Incas themselves. Then the soldiers brought Tupac Amaru himself to the front of the wooden platform. The crowd roared, and me with them. A little Indian boy in front of us muttered, ‘Chapetones pezuñentos!’

  Stink-hoofed Spaniards, is what the brat said. For those who are in league with the Devil often use his filthy epithets upon the Holy Innocent.

  First they cut out Tupac Amaru’s tongue.

  I clapped my hands when I saw that. I had so many feelings crowding my breast that I cannot write them all down. For even then I knew that whoever suffers the greatest pain feels God’s sweetness the most. Deo gratias.

  Then they harnessed four horses, one to each of Tupac Amaru’s limbs. The horses failed to pull him apart, so the soldiers hanged, drew and quartered him instead. Afterwards they cut off his head. This inspired intense prayers and much shouting. I myself did both things, kneeling upon the ground and crossing myself. My father looked away. My mother covered her eyes, and in that moment I suspected a horrid thing: that there might be a trickle of Indian blood in her veins. Her dark beauty was so different from my own sore thing of a face.

  From that time, I had no mother. Once I began to doubt her limpieza de sangre I could no longer look into her eyes or accept her caresses.

  Parts of Tupac Amaru were strung up as a warning to anyone else who might have thought of freeing the sambos and rousing up the Indians. His head was sent to Tinta, where he was born, and given its own private hanging. Then it was impaled upon a stake. His traitor arms and legs were sent to four different towns for the same treatment. Deo gratias.

  Gianni delle Boccole

  Scuse me but I am slightly on one this evenin, Chicken-shitting God!

  Ask pardon, ask pardon, sirs, madams. I am playing the thing dredful fine. I know ye’ll think me wanting in the head.

  Ye see. Twere one on them skinny slivers o Tupac Amaru as reached Venice all them years later wernt it? But by that time it had got isself bound round a book. Twere nowise one as would of been much injoyed by the original owner o the binding, savin his grease.

  A filthy thing. That book were all kinds o evil. Ye wunt want it in the ouse. But my young Master Minguillo Fasan, with his bad blood and his desiccrating heart, he would jist love that book, wunt he? And he would get a feroshus plan for it and lead us all to Hell.

  Yet back then in 1781 we still had a few good times left. Venice haint niver heared o Napoleon Bonypart, and Napoleon Bonypart haint yet dreamt o crushing ancient empires under his little foot. Kings’ and Doges’ heads was still resting stoutly on there shoulders without the least thought o falling blades.

  The reverlushon in Peru were at last bloodily finishing and the Fasan silver mines was safe again, and the Fasan warehouse in Arequipa too. Here in Venice, the Palazzo Espagnol were tethert to the water like twernt going anywheres, but the sad truth were that a bad sea were arising.

  From the inside.

  Some few men like my old Master Fernando Fasan was still big on trade. But they had to float all the branchlets o there famlies with small doles n grate big partments. Whole hants-huncles-cuzzinsnevvies was borned, growed up n died, doing nought but stork the unearned ducat. Them parasites niver bethought thereselves on taking care o the partments what they had acquired without a drop o swet on there own part. No more than a tapeworm thinks o sprucing up its humane host. I had nightshirts with more backbone n sents of duty than them relatives o my Master Fernando Fasan.

  So een at our Palazzo Espagnol, specious rooms that was onct proud n painted slowly by slowly slid into dismal gro
ttoes. When a room finely died in blaze o mould, them nobble bedbugs jist shutted the door on it. More doors shut, intire floors was handed oer to the umidity. And so our whole city lay a-rutting, cankered with meanness and indolents.

  We dint know it, only because we choosed not to know it.

  There were no star to warn us; no signs nor wonders in the air to say: ‘Watch out, things is going to the bad on a buggy.’

  To say, ‘Nothin, not happyness nor Venice, is for ever.’

  The only thing we knowed were that my Mistress Donata Fasan were onct more with child and that her skin were irrupted with weals n wens like ye wunt believe. Swear it were the miserablest pregnancy. And Anna told us the strangest thing: the babe inside my Mistress were kickin that hard n cruel that her belly were black with bruises.

  Doctor Santo Aldobrandini

  The book of human skin is a large volume with many pages of villainy writ upon it.

  There are people who are a disease, you know.

  As I go my rounds, I still hear it said – even by their victims – that there are no truly evil persons born in the world: just misunderstood unfortunates. Some wrong done in early life has monstered such creatures quite against their will.

  While I dress stab-wounds or roll poultices on beaten wives, I often wonder – why are we so lenient towards abominable human beings, yet we declare unequivocally against Cancer, for example, or the Small-Pox? If we put out an illness, we rejoice. There is no lyric moment of regret for its passing.

  Now your human villain stalks the world much the way the Small-Pox roams the blood and wrecks the body’s integument. He hurts. He disfigures. He kills. He’ll do it again, if not stopped. So why do we hesitate to ‘cure’ his evil? Do we try to understand the feelings of the Small-Pox scab? Do we perfume the stink of the Small-Pox pustule with excuses?