Read by Sophie Cartman
From a seam of molten gold, on the wounded bed of the Adriatic Sea, a curl of magma, drawn from the earth on a serpentine current, was warped into a bottom-heavy S-shape. It hardened as it cooled on a rising stream of bubbles; breaking the surface a few minutes after it formed, where it assumed the bobbing silhouette of a swan in profile. By late afternoon it had entered the Venetian lagoon, nudging itself unnoticed along the battered walls of the interior canals that reflected murky cross-sections of buildings, garnished with Christmas lights.
A pair of large hands, the colour of mahogany, the flesh welted with buried shrapnel, reached down, raising it from the channel, water pouring from the honeycombed rock.
The man's name was Melko. The object that he held was called a lava swan. He had lived in the city long enough to know that the people considered them lucky and displayed them in the windows of their homes and businesses. He left it leaning upright against the green door of Della Cava, a seaport vintner that traded medicinal wine, made from salt grape. Wiping his scarred palms on his trousers, he ambled across the plaza towards a pair of towering double doors made from dulled, embossed metal, with a smaller wicket gate for pedestrians inset at the bottom.
At night the atmosphere inside was subdued; the illumination dimmed; the delivery trolleys pushed together. A yellow oblong of light filled the doorway to the communal bathroom. The majority of the porters were African immigrants. A few had remained after work to eat together and play dominoes.
“Here comes the sweeper,” said Bashiir, as Melko entered.
He was standing with some other men beside a wheeled noticeboard. A thumb-tacked map of Venice had the words 'Nitrates proven' scrawled across the top in red pen. Red lines marked stretches of canals that had been closed for cleaning.
An arbitrary space near the centre of the enormous hall was furnished like a living room with rugs, comfortable chairs and a tall brass lampstand. Axlam sat there in her recliner, the stump of her upper right leg protruding from her baggy shorts. A needle made from a curved thorn was skewering a cloud of woolly white fibre, erupting from a branch of sheep bramble, drawing the coarse threads across a yawning hole in the heel of a black dress sock.
“I have lots of work for you this evening,” she croaked sleepily.
She retired her mending to the floor and retrieved a clipboard containing the list of missing luggage.
“Priority is in red. Christmas presents in gold wrapping. The client is a British actress. Deliver before midnight. They want to go to bed when it is still Christmas Eve. Don't bring back here. Take directly to the address.”
“Where and when did the gifts go missing?”
“Silk district this afternoon."
“Who was the porter responsible?”
“Nadifa. He says he never had the presents.” She snorted her disbelief.
“Then it is Elijah's doing,” said Melko. “He takes from the younger men. They are inexperienced and they are not planning to stay here long, so it is easy for them to acquiesce.”
“You can negotiate?”
“Yes, it is possible.”
There is some extra money if you can recover. Also there is money for expenses.”
He waved away the euros that she offered him.
“If we give him money it will make him bold.”
Axlam nodded and folded the notes away.
“Better to approach by water,” she said.
*
He made the journey by coffin barge. The rectangular craft resembled a box wardrobe turned on its back. It moved at a sluggish pace along the backstreet canals. Floral perfume cascaded into the water from stone wall outlets carved into the shapes of flowers. The scent of hyacinth clashing with rose-petal at a junction. He navigated the liquefied garden with his eyes closed, relying on his sense of smell.
As he drew within reach of his destination, he leaned-in hard on the tiller. Beneath the surface, he felt the push-rudder press hard against raw brickwork. The boat turned tightly towards a low, brightly-lit archway. He ducked as he passed underneath. Inside there were men loitering on a landing stage. Faarax and two others.
“I am here to see Elijah,” he declared.
“On what business?”
“Missing property.”
They were already patting him down as he stepped out of the swaying boat.
He was led up three flights of stairs to a large drawing room, decorated with faux renaissance plasterwork, that had once been part of a hotel. In one corner some young men were playing a violent videogame on a big screen television, their faces bathed in a shifting blue glow. The Christmas presents were grouped together on top of an antique dining room table, amidst separate piles of stolen property. The gold foil wrapping paper absorbed the overhead light from an electric chandelier, casting formless molten reflections.
Elijah was smoking a water-pipe. He beamed blearily at his visitor.
“My friend! Have you to come to work for me at last?”
Melko motioned towards the table.
“I have come for the gifts you have taken. With the gold paper.”
“Did you not hear? They fell into the canal and were lost.”
Melko slowly shook his head.
“No, I did not hear.”
“You are thinking this is all grabby-beg and take,” said Elijah. He waved his hand at the treasure trove on the table. “This is commerce in action. Anyone who brings goods through my territory must pay a tribute, so I can afford to protect them from thieves. Tonight is Christmas Eve so they must pay a present tax.”
“You are the main thief here. The police will not tolerate your behaviour.”
The gangster flashed two perfect rows of yellowing teeth.
“The police can fuck themselves. They have never met a man like me.”
“Axlam will make notification in the morning, if you do not return what is taken.”
Their eyes locked for a moment, then the hookah-stupor appeared to regain its hold upon Elijah and his gaze dulled.
“I AM FEELING GENEROUS!” he announced to the room, his voice cracking from the smoke. The boys crowded around the television ignored him. “You may take out of here whatever you can carry. Anything that falls, you must leave behind. And you must walk. No boats.”
Melko approached the table. He stacked the four box-shaped gifts on top of each other. The final present was baggy and shapeless. He balanced it on top. As he lifted and turned, Elijah took hold of his forearm.
“If you did this to me in my home nation, I would feed you to the dogs.”
“We are no longer in our home nations.”
The gangster's smile faded. He let go roughly, causing the topmost gift to slide off the pile. It struck the floor with a muffled slap. Melko ignored it. He walked towards the exit.
“Nobody help him with the door,” shouted Elijah. “If my men see you again before the new year they will gladly kill you.”
Faarax grinned. He lifted his polo shirt, showing-off the gun in his waistband. Melko freed one hand from the bottom of the present stack and pushed down on the door handle.
*
The address he had been given faced onto a secluded garden courtyard. It was a tall, cream-coloured house. Terracotta quoining scaled the corner walls. The button for the bell was made from bone china, veined internally with a pattern of leafy blue tendrils. An attractive young woman with long dark hair answered the door. She regarded the taciturn figure who stood before her and then the column of presents at his feet.
“You found them,” she said.
Behind her a Christmas tree blazed with yellow lights, reflecting in the warped metallic surfaces of the shiny baubles. Melko felt an interior warmth bleeding out a few feet beyond the doorstep before it dispersed into the cold night. He could see the foot of a staircase and white-painted banisters that curled round at the bottom. Out of sight he could hear the sound of tiny feet scampering on carpet.
The voice of a little girl called out: “It's Santa Claus!”
“The woman turned her head towards the stairs.
“Go back up please, Martha.”
“I want to see.”
“I thought you were in bed. Graham, can you...?"
“Daddy, it's Santa. He's here!” cried the girl.
“You already met him,” reasoned the woman. “Do you remember, in London? He's very busy tonight. He has lots of presents to deliver.”
A man's voice, an American, said, “C'mon squirt. I'm going to fly you all the way back to bed.”
The girl yelped loudly.
“Here I come ... GOT YOU!”
The girl's high pitched screams of delight faded into the house as she was carried away.
“Sorry about that,” said the woman.
“There is one gift missing.”
“When will we get that?”
“It is not possible to get it.”
She looked him in the eyes, studying him.
“I understand. Thank you. Actually I think that one was for Graham. I don't expect he would have worn it anyway. I'd invite you in, but it's late and Martha thinks you're Father Christmas.”
A smile crossed her face, as if an idea had suddenly taken root.
“As honorary Father Christmas, I don't suppose you would like a glass of milk and a mince pie?”
She retrieved both items from the foot of the tree where they were anchoring a sheet of paper decorated with glitter and a child's wayward handwriting.
“The pie is home-made. Do I tip you?
“No.”
She manoeuvred the presents just inside the lobby.
“Okay, well, goodnight. Happy Christmas. Just leave the glass on the step when you're finished.”
After she had closed the door he stood in the cold air, sipping from the glass, staring at some silver tinsel stars that were displayed in the upper windows of the building opposite. The mince pie, warmed by the tree lights, was beginning to crumble. He cupped it in his palm and pushed it into his mouth. He gulped down the last of the milk and placed the glass next to the doorstep.
The back-canals were fogbound and desolate. Their stillness broken once by a trio of men dressed as Persian kings, in fake beards and bright-coloured satin, wearing camel costumes around their waists. They stampeded in procession over the silhouette of an arched bridge that spanned the vista ahead, as if they were late for an appointment elsewhere, the trailing, dull-tin clatter of their bells merging with the darkness.
(c) Mark Sadler, 2018
A Rose Bruford College graduate, Sophie studied American Theatre Arts. Her theatre credits include appearances at Soho, ADC, Arcola theatres,The Crucible at Buxton Opera House and The Secret Life of Sissy Tancock at Hackney Empire. Her TV/Film/Radio credits include Monster 1983 - an audible play, Evil Never Dies appearing alongside Tony Scannell, Suspicion on Discovery ID, A Tokyo Drama, BBC Radio 4 play, and Twirlywoos on CBeebies.
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