Anniversary by Phil Berry
Shortlisted for the first Lunate 500 competition
“To fully appreciate Anniversary, you will first need to unpick its devilish chronology. Read, re-read. Repeat. Eventually, its component parts seperate and the story almost re-assembles itself, and what might at first appear to be an abstract fever dream, assumes form. There is so much to admire here: the poetry and precision of the prose; the powerful sense of place; the emotional tenor of the piece, understated but quietly devastating. Above all, Anniversary succeeds as a near-miraculous piece of storytelling: a challenging and, for the committed reader, hugely rewarding narrative sleight of hand.”
Lunate editors
***
Her mouth is a haze of movement, as though the painter could not commit to a specific pose. I turn away from the cool column of justification. She is not untouched, and looks upwards periodically to let the line of moisture along her lower lids sink back in. Then, the canvas seat empties with a swish of summer cotton and the flight of a hand.
I stare at the space.
Which one are you, my love?
”Come on Stephen! It closes soon…”
Were you leaving me?
Our waiter hides beneath a scalloped awning. The midday sun keeps him caged in vertical bars of heat. There is confusion in his eyes. Then comprehension. It’s common, this kind of thing. I feign composure.
“Don’t worry, he’ll keep our table…” she cries.
She is halfway across the square to the basilica. She could never resist a view.
A thumb’s half-print fades on the polished steel of a knife blade, where she twirled it, preparing for the final cut. Her final breath shrinks inwardly on the curve of a wine glass. Through this fluid lens she accuses.
I chose this place, for its perfection.
I look for her. A strong Achilles tendon flashes once through the crowd. It reaches the south-eastern corner, then is hidden. I do not join her. I’m not sure she really wants me there.
My world shifts violently. Hot cheek pressed to stone. Buildings extend laterally, dusty soles sticking to ancient walls. The waiter is quickly at my shoulder, tactile. I study my knuckles, push myself up. He straightens my cutlery but leaves the second set alone. The metal is cursed.
“Why didn’t you go with her?” he asks. Did he ask? He wasn’t here, then. He doesn’t know me.
I prise the crust from a warm roll, bring its under-flesh to a flat and lifeless mouth that no longer recognises the eating reflex. If she didn’t hear me, she must have known, during her final flight, that the chair would always be empty.
I remember thinking (I was angry) - if it collapsed now, would I run towards the ruin, inhaling particles through a mask of fingers? If she were there, at the centre, would I gravitate towards danger? How brave am I? Any one of us?
A thought experiment.
Food for one arrives. The waiter knows it will go uneaten. I face away from the basilica. You can see the new stone in the south-eastern corner. It is paler, cleaner. Untouched by history. By terror.
I leave double the money, stagger backwards, nudge tables, spill water, splash wine, place raw hands on clean plates without apology.
I weave through chunks of marble and trample fractured frescoes. I stoop beneath angled girders, still hot from the fire. I look for shoes that only I know. My lips are caked in a bitter mix of tears and dust. I savour each atom of every pulverised error.
I chose this place.