Day 24 - Only Laugh - Chapter 24 (1876 words)

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ONLY LAUGH WHEN IT HURTS

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 24

From his rooftop Tony could see the square, even though technically it was not a square at all. More like an elongated trapezoid or scalene or... he gave up trying to define it's real shape long ago. It was THE square, plain and simple, and that's where the centre of life in village was.

It was not always busy, but it always flowed through with people. Like blood pumping through the heart, in one end and out the other. Stopping at the various shops and food places that lined the walls of the square. The mayors office at one end with whatever passed for municipal buildings and at the opposite end the church, spired roof and vaulted doors, presiding over two separate entries, or exits, to the centre.

Tony had a residence above his café, it rose 2 storeys above the 2 storeys of the cafe, the second storey though barely if ever used was a private space that could be booked out under the previous owners and something Tony had never advertised as such. That floor was furnished, though covered in clothes and only occasionally dusted out. It was a barrier, between his private life and his public one, though he was hardly the sharing type even at ground level. The further you rose up in Tony's building, which he owned outright, the further you got from him as a real person. The buffer zone on level 2, was an echo chamber in his strata. The main level of living and sleeping was on the third, and above that was his office and a rooftop garden.

In the house level, he rarely had visitors, though Aida and her children had been there, it was not conducive to family life, so it was more of a tour and less of a stay in his home. No one but him had been to the office and the garden was untended, it had the purpose of a garden but not the function of one. There was a false grass flooring that suffered all weathers, and there were planters, pots and trellises but they were in an eternal winter. A few seats for the gardener to enjoy, and a bench and table that could not be seen from the square below, but with a few steps and leaning on the fence around the roofs edge and he had an uninterrupted view into the heart of things.

His office as on this level, and it was here that he conducted any affairs that involved his former self, the one he did no know, and did not want people to know. His stage name was just that, not really his, and he had changed his surname of record to his mothers maiden name. Since he had dropped out, people did know enough about him to make that connection between his stage, his real and his adopted name but he had effectively disappeared and left people in no doubt that he wanted to be left to himself. The money, the business and the fellowships in various names to support arts and artists were enough to make people think he really had left it all behind. Every now and then there was a need to sign or check an annual return with his business manager, more of a servant than an autonomous interest working on his behalf. This was the way he wanted it.

No detail of who he had been made it down the stairs beyond that top level. Even with the occasional flash of something, vague and undefined, still no real memory of who he was made it down those stairs even inside of him. The legacy of that performer was overwhelming to him, it was incomprehensible nonsense that it was entertainment to anyone. He did not get it, and never wanted to get it. If he did one day understand it then it had the chance of coming back, and he did not want it to take over his life. There was almost no escaping it at first and he had to work hard to convince so many people to leave him alone, to believe that it was not an act. Why would anyone fake that? Walk away from a successful money spinning, popular persona, adored by millions of people around the world? That made no sense. But then again neither did any of the films and clips he saw of himself, he may as well have been watching an alien invasion of replicants posing as people. Zero connection.

Things with Aida had been coming along so well, pretty quickly for a widow of over a decade and a man with only 3 years of usable memory. He had not told anyone locally who he was or the past he had left behind, many had of course pressed him for answers, but all they got was silence. People tried anger, cajoling, bribery and tears to break him down, even the offers of sexual favours, fantasy and wish after wish to be granted, but it made no dent. The same answer came back to them all, silence. You can't argue with it.

They gave up, despite being a village run on gossip, they did not life to pry to much into the private lives of people. They liked to know and they certainly liked to talk about it between themselves, but the did not press people who did not want to be pressed. There are limits to any society, and especially in such a small town as this.

It had been several months now that he Aida had started seeing each other, never formally recognised between the two, just casually entered into and accepted. No acknowledgement ever given to the gossip once people caught on that they were being seen at each others place at times that were not coincidental any longer. He had let things slide along as gracefully as he could and she never asked him any questions. He never questioned her about her late husband, though her children were much more inquisitive and open about what they knew or remembered. With Oriana all she remembered were stories others told about him, Vittorio had actual memories, glazed as they were by rose tinted time and the recollections of undisappointed youth.

Aida started telling him bits about her old life and what she had lost, though distant she felt t necessary to put those feelings in their place, and to show Tony where he stood in relation to them. She didn't share a lot, and he never asked for more but she did open up after about four or five months. It had been longer than he realised when he got an email from his business manager asking for a signature of property transfer in one of the trusts. They had power of attorney on any transaction up to a million dollars, anything over that he was supposed to be notified about. He cared less and less about any of it, his business here was self sustaining as he had no mortgage or investors to worry about and the locals spent enough money, and the tourists tipped well.

He looked at the annual report figures, checked the details of the transfer in cursory terms, signing off before he had even read half of it and then scanned and returned the signed copy. When he filed it away he saw that this was the fourth one in his filing cabinet. His archives were elsewhere, in a storage facility in Rome, his base before he had visited Florence and settled in one of the outlying villages, one on the quietest rail line. Four copies, four years.

Had it been that long? He still had PR people on retainer, it cost him much less than he expected as he the money was no longer generated by his legacy, but by the investment that years of saving and being careful with risks had brought him. He had taken massive liberties with his personal safety and had physically and mentally damaged himself for a massive amount of fame, money and weird admiration and worship. Then he had turned 180 degrees, unintended he has to assume but maybe his amnesia was self protection after all? That turn put away risk embraced the steady, the dully reliable and slightest of returns that would keep things turning over. A good strategy during years of recessions and one that slowly but surely proved that once again the tortoise beat the hare.

Four years in hiding, the last six months he had been almost happy, even the dreams of flood waters, drownings and downpours had evaporated recently. He had not had a nightmare as bad as his most visceral in years, the one where he was washed away in a torrent. That had been like a watershed, that storm in his dreams had thundered and lightninged its way through his dream surely, but blew itself out and left him alone, to sleep easy since then.

Maybe it was time to tell Aida something, maybe not it all but something, a token. There would be a tricky element to this, once it was known who he was, his real identity then he knew she would piece most of it together. They had been talking one night at her house. Vito was watching television and a piece about Tony had come on. He looked and sounded so different now, not one person even thought that the man in the TV was in the room with them. That had been terrifying and been worse than his dreams of suffocation and drowning. He was right there looking at himself, he did not even notice he was on the TV at first, Vitorrio had called out to him and said “Hey you should check this out, is so funny!” He turned from his conversation and saw that it was him, the old Tony. He froze and then Aida had told Vitorrio to please turn the sound down, they were talking and did not want to watch some idiot comedian who is not even funny.

So he said nothing, no one looked at his goatee and well kept facial hair and wondered what was behind it, they could not have been more like chalk and cheese. Had his voice changed that much though? People never really recognise the sound of their voices, until the get older and can hear themselves more. Even so it was so different?

Then he knew, he had been here so long he had not noticed that he was speaking in Italian. Not he the man here, he had not spoken sustained English in over three years, that was normal. The him that was, the him on the TV was speaking in Italian. He had been dubbed.

He was not offended that it was not his voice, he was relieved. He felt no ownership of that voice, he felt hounded by it.

That had been several weeks ago and since then he came back to that night in his mind and thought long about when was a good time to reveal who he was, once that wall had a chink it it, the dam would burst and it would all come out.