Reykjavík Grapevine - 27.06.2003, Page 9

- the reykjavík grapevine -8 june 27th - july 10th, 2003 - the reykjavík grapevine - 9june 27th - july 10th, 2003
‘Sylvie, there’s a medium I’ve heard
about.’
‘I don’t believe in all that stuff.’
‘Come this once.’
‘We’ll only be lining the pockets of
some charlatan.’
Sylvie’s son had been killed two
years before and Maggie, her
husband’s sister, had visited her
most days since.
‘If you had evidence that Frank’s
spirit lived on, that one day you’d be
together again, would it help?’
‘Probably, but he’s dead and I’m not
going to pretend otherwise.’
‘You’re probably right. I mean, with
a name like Antonio Mazotta, he’s
bound to be some creepy, bum-
pinching Italian conman.’
‘Antonio?’
‘Yeah, Antonio Mazotta.’
‘I bet he’s a has-been gigolo selling
comfort rather than sex to a bevy of
desperate women with more money
than sense. He’s probably got a
pasta-middle-aged-spread and a
backside full of dimples.’
‘Yuck! You’re right. Forget it.’
That evening Sylvie phoned her
sister-in-law. ‘Let’s give Antonio
Mazotta a hard time.’
‘Why?’
‘It’ll pass an hour.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah! But we’ll not help him out. He
can sweat for his money.’
‘If he can afford to live here he’s
doing well’, Sylvie said, two days
later, knocking on the door of a luxury
apartment.
The door opened on a young, good-
looking man in his mid-thirties. He was
adorned in smart casual clothes and
smiled warmly as he held out his hand.
‘Cold hands, warm heart’ he said, before
leading them inside.
That was trite, even if his Latin voice
had reshaped the words, Sylvie thought.
But his honeyed intonation was already
curling its way into her soul. His
apartment oozed style and smelt of
mimosa. His person oozed charm and
smelt expensive. He took their coats,
seated them together on a comfortable
couch and sat down in a chair opposite
them.
‘To business’ he said.
‘First of all, please answer only yes or
no, otherwise later you will think I am a
charlatan.’
The two women raised their eyebrows
a smidgen.
‘There is a young male standing at your
side’ Antonio said, looking at Sylvie. ‘He
says his name is Frank. Do you know a
Frank who has passed over?’
‘Yes’.
‘He was only twenty when he passed two
years ago. He’s showing me a damaged
motorbike. Was he killed in a motorbike
accident?’
‘Yes.’
‘He says you didn’t want him to have a
motorbike. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are his mother?’
Sylvie nodded.
‘He says his father’s name is Jack and
that it makes him sad to see you both
so unhappy.’
She closed her eyes to hide the pain.
‘He says to acknowledge someone
whose name begins with P. I think it’s
Paddy?’
‘Patty.’
‘He’s glad she wasn’t badly hurt in the
accident. He wants you to tell her to
have a good life.’
On and on he continued.
An hour later, seated in a restaurant
having coffee, Maggie listened to the
words that flowed towards her in an
unstoppable stream of thanksgiving,
before at last they slowed down.
‘I’m so pleased I went. Do you know what
made me change my mind?’
‘You fancied seeing a bit of Italian gone
to seed.’
‘No’ Sylvie laughed. It was the name. I
knew an Antonio once. I met him years
ago on holiday in Italy.’
‘Before you met Jack?’
‘Not exactly, but before Jack and I
became serious.’
‘Did Jack know about him?’
‘I didn’t tell him. We wrote to each other
a few times but I suppose it was going
nowhere and he stopped writing. My
mother liked Jack. Said he was real,
not some dream boy. I still have his
photograph tucked away somewhere.’
She had returned to Jack and Antonio
had been relegated to the back of her
mind, a beautiful memory, until two years
ago when her son’s death had finally
blotted him out.
‘My God! You didn’t think it could be
him?’
‘No, of course not, my Antonio’s name
wasn’t Mazzotta, it was Berjoni. But I
thought it was like a sign. If I was ever
going to give a medium a try, this was
it. Mind you, I didn’t expect anything to
come of it. And I was determined not to
give anything away. I didn’t, did I?’
‘No, you didn’t.’
Sylvie reached across to Maggie. ‘Thank
you so much for making me go.’
‘I didn’t make you.’
‘Well then, for your suggestion.’
‘I just want you and Jack to be happy
again. To be free of torment. I know
you’ve lost your son but you’ve years
ahead of you. They can either be good
or bad. I was beginning to fear you’d end
up doing something stupid.’
‘I might have. I won’t say I hadn’t thought
of it. Today doesn’t bring him back but
at least I know he still exists, that he’s
watching over us and we’ll be together
again one day. Now I want him to see his
father and me happy again.’
‘Good.’
After lunch, a travel shop window caught
Sylvie’s attention. Maggie encouraged
her inside. Later, her credit card dented;
there was some serious shopping to do.
They found Jack dozing in a chair.
‘Did you buy something nice the pair of
you?’ he asked.
‘Wait and see’ Sylvie said hugging him
as she pushed a Greek holiday into his
hands. ‘Look at that while I put the kettle
on.’
‘No. I’ll make tea, you put on your new
gear and give Jack a twirl’ Maggie said.
As Sylvie disappeared up the stairs with
her purchases, Maggie embraced her
brother.
‘Daniel played his part well. I’d say he
was worth every penny.’
‘Thanks sis’ he whispered. ‘I knew the
name Antonio would get her there.’
MEDIUM RARE
S H O R T S T O R Y
TERESA
DAVEY
BYstory
Teresa is half Irish and half English who now lives
with her Irish husband at the foot of the beautiful
Mountains of Mourne in Northern Ireland. She
has also lived in England, Germany and Libya.
When the weather is dry she loves to walk in the
mountains with her labrador dog Charly. She has
also run in the Boston and London Marathons. She
has just finished her first novel and is looking for a
publisher.