A CATALOGUE OF SALVATORE’S FAVOURITE NOSES
– taken from his notebooks

THE “PINNOCHIO”

Archie’s parting gift. Nearly six months ago he had stated (quite forcibly), “I’m leaving the Peninsula and you’ll never see me again.” He wouldn’t tell me what he was planning to do and I still don’t know where he is. But a week after his departure, a thin parcel dropped through my letter-box one morning. I tore the brown paper off, opened the box and found a nose resting on black velvet. It had been carved in the distinctive shape of a twig, it even sprouted leaves; it collapsed and extended like an old radio antenna. The parcel contained nothing else (apart from an old receipt signed with a heavy hand: “ARCHIE”).

Despite the lack of instruction, I figured the nose out quickly enough. In its usual passive state it’s only the length of my forefinger, but if I tell a lie, the nose extends itself segment by segment. I can only counteract this growth by telling a truth. I hadn’t realised how many minor untruths I must subconsciously tell myself: when I tried it out for the first time, the nose grew so long I could barely turn my head and I wondered if I might be trapped in the room forever. It began scraping the plaster off my walls. I had to repeat “MY NAME IS SALVATORE MY NAME IS SALVATORE” until the nose registered this thought as a truth (even that took a while) and began to retreat within itself once more.

SUMMARY: too inconvenient to wear in public, but good to entertain guests with / use as a prop for “yes|no.” Still one of my favourite noses despite my reluctance to actually have it on my face.

THE RUNCIBLE NOSE

My old friend Ren Tou Ma was fascinated by my constant desire and need for new noses. He fancies himself an entrepreneurial scientist (hence his supermarket-value carburetors + instruction manual and his Brick Bank) and so he decided to draft me a runcible nose. He says this is a nose combined with anything I can imagine and eventually, he’ll start working toward trickier marriages, e.g., nose + scarab beetle / nose + moonlight / nose + reckless automobile. But for now, his basic prototype will be nose + eye (and by eye, he means video camera). Already he’s created a beautiful silicon outer shell and even painted a token pupil across the bridge. When I last spoke to him, he’d ordered the necessary electronic equipment from Iceland and assured me it will all be on the next ship over.

SUMMARY: I don’t really need another eye, though it might be useful when I’m asleep (or even just pretending). I’m only excited by the thought of potentially pioneering a scientific prototype.

THE PEARL

I never wear this. Not unless I want to cry.

SUMMARY: unwelcome, but the sentimental value it still holds sadly places The Pearl in “favourite noses” by default.

—

He’d magnetised the raw surface—the exposed cavity, cartilage, and skin—with the same paste he’d spread over  every nose in the cabinet. Copper was good (nice and light) but Salvatore knew it could turn a skull green if worn for too long. Gold was heavy, silver was heavy; that sort of material would make his nasal passages ache and eventually whistle like a shell in the wind. But this was inconsequential because Salvatore would only wear his most frivolous prosthetics indoors and so he could take them off whenever he chose.

He had a large collection of silicon noses designed to convince and they all had their different uses. Salvatore had a particularly bland face that would be completely unmemorable without his mustache, and he hadn’t taken this into account before he’d removed the original nose.

At first he’d been aghast at himself, but later realised this meant his face could be easily transformed.

—

“It’s strange. I thought you’d contact me immediately afterwards, you seemed so earnest when really you didn’t have to be.” Marianne was working at the café again. Though she wasn’t angry, she’d taken on a wry expression that agitated Salvatore because he hadn’t seen it before.

Somehow he made her laugh, her eyes creasing effortlessly as if he’d pressed a butterfly wing between his forefinger and thumb. But she was still determined to keep her face cynical. He was wearing a more boyish nose today: he felt inexplicably apologetic (and also slightly dapper). He ordered a Fernet Branca, sat at the steel table and drank it in the sun, making sure he smiled at Marianne every time she stalked past in her black skirt and blouse. Eventually she seemed amused and so he rose, leaving a large tip and murmuring “goodbye” in her ear while she took drink orders from table nine.

He turned right and began walking toward the city centre, along the little dirt track.

Yet the skyscrapers ahead seemed to be shifting farther away the closer he got. It was as if the entire city was on a string. And though the day was pleasantly hot, the sun was beginning to feel electric, searing white as tungsten.

He shut his eyes and told himself, “I’m meant to be feeling boyish today so get hopeful,” and then he had to wonder why the nose wasn’t working. But perhaps that was the problem. He took a box from his pocket and exchanged his current nose for a larger appendage (Romanesque #7). The nostrils flared as the replacement locked itself into place; the skyline began to settle and finally, remained still.

Salvatore felt his wrists: the pulse points were slowing, they were being sponged down with ice water. Perhaps it was Marianne from a distance (or even Therese). People could be so good to him.

Someone somewhere spread muslin sheets over the sun.

—

Salvatore lay on his sofa, eyes crossed and a small carousel balancing on the golden tip of his nose. He’d had to wind it up for five minutes so it would play music and rotate, but now it would function for at least half an hour. A horse went past, sedately rising and falling on its pole. Then a girl on a swing made of real wood and rope. Then a helicopter. An elephant. A champagne glass the size of an acorn (Salvatore filled this up with Cava). And then the rising horse again.

—

Boyish #1 went back to its own spectrum in the cabinet. This was a particularly useful set and it went all the way up to Boyish #8: it worked best on shop assistants and girls (mostly girls). This surprised Salvatore at first – he’d made the assumption that a powerful nose would yield the best results and so he’d had one cast in the style of Julius Caesar. Caeneezer #1 wasn’t exactly unsuccessful, but it hadn’t been spectacular. No: so long as Salvatore maintained his quietly confident demeanor and gave off the impression that he knew exactly what he was doing, Boyish would always succeed. It was irresistibly endearing, especially on a man in a Tom Ford suit. An upturned nose would appear to undermine him while secretly giving him charm. Always begin with Boyish.

If he didn’t like the girl, Salvatore would then move between his collection: he’d go from Boyish to the sterner Romanesque. Then perhaps he’d swoop in with the Hooked, the Straight, the Drunkard, and maybe even the Bulbous. He’d use the Snub carefully (this was always cutting). His cunning streak usually wanted to confuse the girl with a Hepburn or a Gainsbourg, though he almost always finished on the Caligula. But a girl like Therese had only ever seen him in Boyish. She’d even seen him with his nose off. Admittedly this had been an accident on his part, but nonetheless, it had happened.

Soon after this incident, she’d presented him with a silk-bound box containing a nose made entirely from the best pearls, gold and cream all over (#Therese).

—

And yet, Salvatore had come back to the apartment one day to find Therese hugging her knees on the sofa and watching television. Her dark hair was frayed at the ends; perhaps she needed a cut. But no, she’d been chewing at it.

“Salvatore, Salvatore,” she’d said, “you know how in some regimes governments cut the noses off their citizens as a form of punishment?” Salvatore said he’d been aware of this, yes, but never researched it in full. He was about to exchange Business #13 with Boyish #1 (he sensed he might need it) when he heard the front door close.

Therese was no longer there and the television was still playing, the camera panning across a whole cell full of noseless faces, mainly female. Later, he checked the bedroom and went through her drawers. She had apparently packed a small suitcase in advance.

—

Salvatore took a walk at sunset (Flaneur #2), making sure he passed the café. It was busy, but Marianne seemed to have disappeared. The other girls said she’d left with a man who had been blessed with “the most striking face we’ve ever seen on a customer!” but they couldn’t provide him with any more detail than that.

Salvatore suddenly wanted nothing more in the world than Marianne, though he hadn’t been especially bothered until now. Marianne with her deft, suspicious eyes and light step. He remembered that she had walked up to his apartment like a gazelle, her feet testing the staircase. But he also knew that this impulse would pass and so he carried on strolling.

He circled a playground where a young girl was on a swing (a bit like the swing on his carousel, in fact) and this thought held him until he realised he was walking in the direction of Archie’s old apartment. Except Archie didn’t live there anymore. He stopped and sat on the curb. A white peacock came out from behind a parked car.

This was not so unusual: Salvatore was passing through a wealthy neighbourhood. One family even kept caged tigers and bears in their back garden—they owned a successful circus chain. The peacock set off down the street and Salvatore followed the bird.

The outspread tail seemed particularly white, each feather so clean and milky against the dark. He enjoyed this effect and began to wonder if he should commission a similarly leucistic nose. Perhaps it might conceal a tail which would only unfold—glowing and pure—when a rope was pulled. But he knew this would never come about: he hadn’t been able to design anything since Therese left. He’d had ideas, yes, but no one to approve them anymore and he really needed both. Maybe she would have tired of the subject anyway. There was very little that could be done to her nose since she insisted on keeping the original. Only he was up for alteration.

—

Salvatore continued to stroll behind the peacock as it made left turns and passed over bridges, the white tail bending slightly under its own bleached weight. Whenever it dipped its beak to drink from a puddle or stream, Salvatore would do the same. They reached the palace gardens, surrounded by dense hedge. The peacock investigated the topiary, collapsed its tail and then squeezed through an impossible opening. The bay leaves swallowed the feathers whole. But Salvatore was wearing the Flaneur #2 and strolling didn’t involve hedge cutting or crawling, so he turned around and sauntered on.

Story by Annabella Massey
Photography by Agnes Samour