at one point Byron asked him below in the turmoil of another storm for a game of cards
as the sea storm & night got further out of hand
everything & everyone went everywhere
Byron staggered back to the table before anyone else had worked out where they were
he gestured to our farouche captain to reshuffle & deal
con piacere signore growled the dogged Venetian
eliciting a wink & a punch on the arm he can still feel from Childe Harolde
2
as night fell & sky thickened around our tilting fairground shed I saw every gilded stitch & satin panel on the sailor's faded clothes which suddenly became the absence of all ambition fetid groping raddled posturing glowing myth
I'd already sailed away with ghosts
Shelley washed up
9½ stone of crab bait
we'll go no more a floating
yet we got no nearer Leghorn the currents of the night undid the western evening breezes we stayed in sight of Nice for three whole days until a terrifying Alpine northerly plunged into the ship & all its rigging shuddered the captain ordered too much sail which dragged us drenched & shaken at an unholy angle to the choking waves but Italy bound
3
churning into the Gulf of Spezia at midnight the storm impossibly worsened & tried to tear us from the world
Byron's skipper gripped a soaking rail & swore through his teeth at this suicidal captain slapped against the helm & fifteen sails still set in the black imploding heart of the tempest
suddenly a great gust stamped on the ship & nearly plunged her under our hearts & tongues capsized as the captain sprawled & flailed under stampeding herds of barrels
at that moment Byron's skipper grabbed the wheel himself ordering the crew through the storm to stop pestering God & the Madonna take in the screaming sails & release the throbbing tensions from the ship which straight away stood up & eased the barging winds out through its rigging
so we dragged into Livorno harbour like a dog with a broken back leg a mad wind still singing through one snotty sail
we stowed ourselves in the Black Eagle inn wet & cumbersome luggage dead weight
passport control Villa Medici Cafe Greco put them in order of vacant squalor as your starter for 10
4
when in Rome why not do as I did pace fret & moan & go to Florence to wait for the French post
yet when it finally arrived it fisted a cheap corkscrew into my heart Madame Moke announces the engagement of Camille to Mr Pleyel the toxic French ink swam in my eyes with Florentine light
ah the mad Renaissance clarity
I would kill them all then end it all & drain the mucky lake for good
5
my intention gift-wrapped I plunged into the French milliners overlooking the steady flow of the Arno & in front of the owner's expressionless eyes began some serious post-revolutionary retail therapy
she promised faithfully that by the time the mail coach left for France at 6 o'clock I would have my dress my hat & veil in deep green a maid's outfit to be proud of
I recrossed the unaffected Arno in a fit of personal climate change en route to the Hotel des Quatre Nations & completed my deranged free-range arrangements noting on the score of the Ball Scene from the Symphonie fantastique this is unfinished
6
if you perform it in my absence just double the flute passage with clarinets & horns an octave lower when the theme returns for the last time then let the full orchestra have the final chords as at least some kind of ending
I closed the annotated score packed a few clothes loaded two double-barrelled pistols & packed my little bottles of laudanum & strychnine then wandered twitching through the gorgeous Tuscan afternoon like a cocky dog with rabies
7
at 5 o'clock I went back to the shop to try on the frock what a perfect fit you can't beat the French for hang & cut
the till girl tried to tell me I'd overpaid the owner quickly stuffed the extra notes into the drawer & was very sincere
ah sir you are charm itself your performance will bring the house down
8
I caught the coach & swayed northwards in silence my mouth stone-dry & closed
the coachman had sensibly unloaded & hidden my pistols in case we were attacked
but as we entered Genoa the urchins fishing with chicken-foot bait & pungent urban folksong the awful realisation docked at the weathered wall of my consciousness: I'd lost my disguise we'd changed coaches at Pietra Santa & my avenging angel kit was still stowed aboard the first carriage
9
more shopping in the first four dress shops they threw up their hands at the monstrous demand: an appropriate ensemble in less than six hours in green sir you joke but the fifth nodded sagely & mobilised a crack platoon of Ligurian seamstresses again game on
