ALL ABOUT CREATIVITY

1

On winter evenings Sasha often plays billiards. He plays like an Englishman and swears like a German. Some think him vulgar, others dismal, still others whom he has wrestled to the floor when the balls are moving against him consider him sideways. So when Maria came to play that evening there was much talk and even greater expectation. Her English was better than her German but neither said much, letting the game speak. Two hours later with the match drawn she gave him her card. 

Come, she said in English. Come visit me. You will like it.

            The following summer he does. 

Despite my protestations I’m sent to collect him from the station. 

He will not be expecting me, I plead.

Then he will be pleased.

He does not know who I am.

Say you are my lover.

I most definitely will not. 

(Do I blush? I hope not.)

Say then you are my assistant. 

This is true. She’s writing a book about the Etruscans and I’m doing the research, sifting through her papers, transcribing her notes and, most importantly, deflecting unwelcome visitors. The book’s due with the publishers by October when she returns to the university and we are barely past a rough first draft. She claims she’s ‘stuck’ but the truth, which I’m keeping to myself, is her memory is failing. She can’t concentrate for long, and when she does has trouble recalling details that only a year or so ago would have come in a moment. She needs peace and quiet with the minimum of distractions. That’s why I’m shocked and annoyed when she tells me the Hun-a-moon, as she calls him, is coming to stay. 

How long? I ask.

Who knows? He says he’s retired.

A week? Two?

You’re such a tosser, she says. I need company, I need fun.

He will distract you.

I need distraction. The Etruscans are a bore. No wonder they were crushed by Rome. They had no joie de vie.

            I collect Sasha. He’s large and fleshy and sweaty. The train from London has not been pleasant, the air-conditioning having failed somewhere between Paris and Berlin, while the toilets malfunctioned outside Milan on the run to Perugia. He fills the vehicle with odour so strong I almost retch. 

Is it always this hot? he asks.

It’s summer.

In England it rains.

This is Italy.

You speak English well, he says.

That’s because I am English. 

I’m in no mood for small talk, least of all with this mountainous pile of fat who so weighs down the little car I have difficulty making the necessary acceleration for the ascent to the city. Not only that but he’s keeping me from my responsibility to the professor who, even now I guess, is ensuring the white wine is chilling nicely. I see the afternoon ahead as vividly as from the corner of my eye I see the sweat drip from his several chins on to that capacious lap. There will be no work done and tomorrow she will complain of a headache and ask me to close all the blinds and bring her coffee at 11, 1 and 3. 

Sasha, however, rises early and is in the kitchen before me.

Do you have tea? he asks.

            I also have a headache, unusual for me but the previous night had been, to say the least, unusual. Maria had clearly had some to drink before we arrived and, pretending otherwise, greeted the visitor as if he were an intimate. I should have seen the signs: the way she kissed him full on the lips when he entered; the way she took him to the terrace overlooking the valley and insisted he hold her close pretending it was chilly; how she spoke in that spectacular English like she was disappointed no one else can speak English like her; and how I poured more and more drinks, for all of us, without realising the consequences. This had never happened before. What, I thought later, had happened? 

Tea?

Try the drawer near the cooker, I suggest.

Are you? he asks. You and her. Are you?

I draw some water. It’s ice cold and, as the wine the night before but with opposite effect, it galvanises me momentarily. I recall seeing her take his plump arm and direct him to her bedroom. 

I believe you know the answer to that, I reply.

2

Maria told him everything. It was evening and she was wearing dark glasses. She complained of an ulcer, wanted nothing to eat and demanded soda water. This was nothing unusual and, in any case, I was still feeling jaded after the night before and wanted the same diet. Only Sasha was ebullient, talking and talking and talking about nothing in particular. I’d quickly developed a pathological dislike of him and was working out in my mind how I could terminate his visit. Poisoning?  Drastic but it had the virtue of being rapid as long as the correct dose was administered. How much did he weigh? A lot I calculated quickly. However, like a bull, if the math was incorrect he might become vicious and retaliate with fury. No. I needed to be more devious. This was all fantasy. I’m not a murderer. I’m a research assistant to one Maria Scarlati, professor of archaeology at the university, who even now is telling the same to our visitor.

…therefore, she continues, he is not my lover and there is no question of you and him fighting over my fancy.

            Sasha beams. 

I did not think he was your sort of man, he says. With apologies, he adds in my direction. I love archaeology. It is so romantic.

It is nothing of the sort. It’s graft that’s all it is. 

You are out of sorts, he says tenderly. Tomorrow you will be better and then we will talk.

            Tomorrow, I think, if I have anything to do with it you will be on the train out of here.  

I have never been so wrong. 

It is now a week and he has taken root. Every time I set foot in the kitchen he’s there, boiling an egg, buttering toast, frying sausages or sitting at the table with the newspaper spread all over trying to make sense of the stories and asking me to translate. I don’t have time, I keep telling him, and he keeps insisting, tapping his finger on a headline and pleading, yes pleading with me, to tell him what it says.

War announced with Germany, I say, my patience drawn. All Germans to be thrown out of Italy.

He laughs and says that doesn’t concern him as he’s British too. 

Over dinner that night he says to Maria: War has been declared.

War? Where? How? When? Do we need to flee? Robert, what is this war?

I shake my head in exasperation.

Only Germans, explains Sasha and winks. 

I don’t know whether he really didn’t understand how much I hate him or if he’s deliberately playing me along, draining my capacity to undermine his developing friendship with Maria. 

She’s already taken him sightseeing, with me as chauffeur, a role that’s loosely in my job description but only so far as it concerns her trips to the campus or to inspect museums and ancient sites. I’m not a hired hand, a walk-behind-me-at-a-discreet-distance factotum ready to be called to attend to this and that and sit at a far table while the pair of them take lunch, to pick up the bill and collect forgotten belongings.

You and the Hun had a good night? I ask. 

I’d heard them along the passageway from my bedroom, giggling like a pair of teenagers, the soft click of a door being shut, then my imagination decided to exit the scene. Not that this performance has never occurred before. Maria sometimes returns during semester with a swarthy postgraduate. At least the Hun is more her age. 

Are you jealous? she asks.

I decline to answer. 

You are! How sweet. Don’t you think we make a lovely couple? 

I snort.

Come on Robert. It’s nothing. 

She comes to where I’m sitting, leafing through some papers of hers I’m trying to decide if anything can be salvaged for the book. She puts her hands on my shoulders.

Let’s have a party. 

What?

A party. Ring around. See who’s available. 

You want to have a party?

Why not? Invite everyone. 

Even…

Even the American? Why not? Let’s see how he and Sasha hit it off.

3

Maria’s parties are gay affairs attracting both the respectable and more bohemian members of our community, a blend if you will of the glitterati and literati, or what Maria calls the ‘glit-lits’, less charitably, ‘the ponces and dunces’. She’s liberal in her invitations not out of a spirit of munificence but because she is drawn to observing people, commenting on their behaviours, their changing moods, likening the scene presented as her own theatre.

Over the course of many years I’ve developed a well-rehearsed plan that brings all the elements together with minimum effort: a phone call to my acquaintance at the municipality, followed by the transfer of money and a chunky bonus, in dollars. Except I’m told the house band is unavailable, illness having consigned their drummer and singer to a week of bedrest, or so the story goes. 

            There’s no alternative but to outsource to a four-piece unknown to me and no way I can hear them play. Their name should have caused alarm however: Shark Attack.

In the meantime I’m in touch with the American or, to give him a name, Thomas S. Sharp III. Sharp is a model American, soft spoken, mild in manner and physique, morally righteous. In other words, nothing like Sasha. He’s also exceptionally wealthy, underwriting Maria’s bank account, neither strutting nor wallowing. He knows when and why to keep his distance and is content too, rare, in my opinion, of one from that country. 

Tom, I say on the phone.

Yes Bob. What’s got your gander today?

This party…

Sure. It sounds like a hoot.

It’s not. The band has pulled out.

You got another?

It’s not just that.

Speak man.

She wants you to meet him.

Who?

You know.

I don’t Bob. You’re speaking in those English riddles again. Tell me straight.

The German.

The Hun?

Yes.

Why, he’s no bother. You know her Bob. Another of her trifles.

This seems different.

In what way?

I can’t explain until you’ve met him.

So I’m hearing, Bob. He’s an imposter, up to no good, on the make. One of those. Again?

No, it’s different this time.

What way?

He’s got purchase.

What the hell you talking about Bob! Speak to me.

            I freeze for a moment, enough for Tom to ask if I’m myself.

It’s been a tough few days. Trouble is, I think she likes him.

So what. She likes anyone who’s a novelty. She’s into anything different. You know that better than anyone. See you at the party.

4

It descended into chaos, though not in any orgiastic or bacchanalian way. Anna left after the first set though I didn’t notice her gone until perhaps an hour later when the band took a break. Not seeing her anywhere I sought out Tom who said he’d last seen her with Sasha and, he was slightly drunk, would I like to meet Beatrice who was serving but was actually a poet? 

Tom, I said, Tom, not now. 

            I found them in the study once I’d fended off the last of the guests asking, Why isn’t there more food? Is it vegan? Are the ingredients locally sourced? Who is this band and why are they here and not the others? Where is the host? Where is Sasha? Why are we here at all? 

            She was siting head on her knees, hands covering her ears.

Is it the band? I asked. 

            Sasha, who was at her side in his shirt sleeves, moping his brow with a damp handkerchief, looked at me anxiously.         

There’s a noise I my head, she moaned, and it won’t stop….I feel I’m going to explode. 

I went to fetch a doctor, there were several there that night. The first, having taken her pulse, said an aspirin was all that was needed; the second suggested a walk outside in the fresh air, ‘cures anything’; the third, a cautious man, thin and upright, ordered her to attend hospital immediately. Maria chose a couple of tablets and a stroll. I was on her right, Sasha on her left, supporting her as she leant against him. The night was clear, in the distance village lights, overhead a multitude of stars. We walked away from the house, the sound of laughter coming through open windows. She pulled up at a bench seat and we sat the three of us squashed together, me half on and half off as Sasha, from his end, pushed for more room.

I think I’m losing everything I’ve ever thought, Maria howled.  She looked around as if scanning for something or someone. We can’t sit here for ever. We each have much to do. You do. I do. We all do. Nothing is completed. What am I meant to do. Can you say? What is your gratification Robert? Before I could think of anything she continued: I was too much busy for anything other than acquaintance. It was all a blur.  Don’t call him that. He doesn’t like to be reminded of that side of his family. His father was someone not to be remembered. He did unmentionables.

            I looked at Sasha. He was almost in tears and I felt contempt for the man. He could go home any time. I was obliged to stay, work through this breakdown, spin a story to the guests who, even now, were chanting Shark Attack, as the band tuned up for their second set. Maria grabbed my arm, starred at me like it was the most important thing she had ever done, or was about to do.

Robert, know this of me before it’s too late. I’m not losing my mind. No, yes?

Yes…No I mean. The party was not a good idea.

Fuck the party. 

Where’s Sasha? for I noticed he had gone.

Fuck him too. I don’t trust him. Tell me, quickly, how did we come to be so alone?

Look around, see who’s come tonight, I replied.

            But I knew what she meant.

Perhaps we should return? I suggested as she remained locked in position with a fixed gaze. I stood up hoping this might act as a prompt, was still standing when Tom appeared pulling Beatrice in his wake.

Heh ho, who do we have here? he shouted, waving his free hand holding an empty champagne flute in the air. Why, Maria, what ever’s the matter? Seen a ghost? No reason to be glum tonight, isn’t that so my muse?

            He swung round to the young woman whose face shone in the house lights. 

I went up to Tom,  Did you see a fat man in shirt sleeves on your way?

Fat and sweating? Yeah. I saw. That’s Sasha? 

            I nodded. 

Pigs don’t run that fast Bob.

            Maria yawned. 

Get the car Robert. Let’s leave.

Why ever not, said Tom. Let’s all get out of here. You on Beatrice?

5

I park, turn off the engine and look in the rear-view mirror. Tom’s asleep, Beatrice too, her head against his shoulder, her left hand pressed against his thigh.

What are we waiting for?

I can’t drive any further. We’re low on petrol.

Then let’s walk.

            The city’s warm and still, not even a dog barks, and I think maybe it’s because everyone’s at the party, which is true if one thinks only of the wealthy and powerful, those with influence and those circling its clawing mould. Yet what of the others whose voices find no reception, pass as ghosts through life, names unremembered? They sleep.

I let her go ahead, let her choose the direction, stop when she does, unable to hear what she mutters. Emerging from an alley on to one of those small, cobbled squares that, however one knows the topography, never fail to delight: a small fountain off-centre, carved wooden doors of a chapel behind. She halts and starts to cry. She holds out her hands and I take them, startled at how cold they are like she’s died.

6

When autumn came I returned to England, went to live with my widowed sister. One day she asked if I’d been in love with Maria. I thought her question preposterous and told her so. She knew I was lying.

            A few years later when I went to sort through her papers I found this note tucked among them. 

This German comes here to seduce me. The fool. Does he think I have money? Robert can’t stand him. Then Robert can’t really stand anyone in his tight English manner. Sharp gets that. Not that I give in to his advances either. Blooody American, thinks he owns every woman he sees. They all think, these men, I’m a slut who’ll lie with anyone. It’s only Robert who gets it, in his tight way. Hah! I can never imagine him lying with or to anyone. He doesn’t know how attractive he is. 

copyright John Pitt 2025 ©