It was pouring. Through the window, I could see the nearly solid, whitish wall of rain, with the murky silver lights of the street lamps just barely breaking through it, and outlining the grayish contours of nearby buildings.
Jim was in the other room, reading. For the last hour or so, I had been able to hear the rustle of pages turning, once in a while; now the room had become completely quiet, and I realized he must have fallen asleep. The poor fellow, he didn"t get much sleep at all for the past week or so. Now he must have kept himself awake until I rose, and then he couldn"t handle it anymore and crashed.
I closed my eyes and listened for Francesco, the way I did every evening. Sure enough, he was there, a dark shielded presence some distance away. It occurred to me that he had to be very near, just a couple of blocks from where I was. I didn"t want to probe more strongly so that he didn"t become too aware of me, but I was sure that, if I needed to, I could find him even from this vague sense of his being there.
What if I go to him now, I thought. It wouldn"t take me more than half an hour, and I"d be back before Jim knew it. Maybe he wouldn"t even wake up before I came back. Nobody would notice me in such a downpour; and even if someone did happen to be out in the streets, and saw me, they"d hardly make out who I was. Immediately, there came the excuse I"d present to Jim when I came back: there was a small store nearby, and I"d tell him I had an urge to bake some buns, and just couldn"t wait, so I ran out to get some ready-made dough and didn"t wish to disturb him by waking him up and telling him where I was going.
I tiptoed to Jim"s room. The door stood ajar, and I peered inside. There he was indeed, sleeping in the armchair over his book. His small round John Lennon glasses glittered in the light of the lamp, and his soft face was even more serene than it usually was when he was awake. At the same time, it was suddenly weary, and he seemed much older than he really was. I stood for some time, looking at him and feeling, quite apart from sympathy, a sadness that I couldn"t exactly place, - sadness which was in some way connected not only to Silvia"s passing and everything that had followed, but also to myself, and which made me very uncomfortable about what I was.
Then I went to the kitchen. I wanted very much to bring Francesco some sort of treat, so I searched for something I could bring him. It was true that Francesco seemed past being able to feel joy altogether. But joy sometimes came from the most unexpected places, from all sorts of crannies and cracks which you would commonly overlook. So that, small thing that this was, it could still mean much. Maybe it would make him feel at least a little bit better.
I had some very sweet, delicious yellow grapes with no stones inside, so I took a small bunch. Then I remembered I had a cake made of rye flour; it looked just like brown bread, but it was much more tender, made with a lot of spices and soaked in fragrant liquid honey. I broke off half and hurriedly wrapped it up in a small plastic bag, and placed everything into the bigger bag which I was taking with me. I hadn"t thought about seeing Francesco tonight, but as soon as I made up my mind to go to him, my heart began to pound, and I couldn"t wait to finish the preparations and run out into the street.
I put on my long leather jacket which would offer at least some protection from the rain, and switched off my cellphone. Come what may. Cellphones do tend to discharge once in a while, and nobody said this couldn"t have happened his time as well. Besides, I wouldn"t be away for long at all.
I took one last glance at Jim, and left, closing the door as quietly as I could behind me. The water smashed into me, ran over my face, so that I had to blink all the time and could still see close to nothing; but the rain also hid me from any prying eyes. I ran through the streets, finding the shortest way blindly by relying on that sense of Francesco"s presence, until I saw the black silhouette against the thick grayish whiteness.
There was was that ominous, complete stillness again, which made him more like a stone statue than a breathing creature, - having only a shirt and thin jeans on, but still oblivious to the cold and the water that ran down him in streams, and not stirring a single bit. It was so unnatural that it made him seem totally alien, so out of this world that one could not help but fear him.
I approached him and placed my hand on his shoulder. He must have heard me coming, but as soon as I touched him, I sensed his body tensing up so suddenly that it felt almost like a shudder.
'Francesco,' I called quietly.
He turned round and fixed me with that piercing stare of his that eluded any description. A fleeting look passed over his face; it was as if he was only seeing me for the first time. For perhaps a minute or a bit more he kept me riveted to the spot.
'Come,' he said, and I followed him.
We found a canopy above the entrance into some large building where the rain wouldn"t be a problem.
'I didn"t call you.'
Underneath the seeming indifference, I could sense an intense inner strain in him, and it showed in his heavy, thick voice, too. It seemed he could hardly bear having me there with him.
There had always been something very tense about him, in spite of his being withdrawn and very rarely showing his real feelings; it was this tension that gave his voice most of that hidden undertone of menace, and it made him intimidating even when he stood still, and said nothing at all. "Don"t come too close", his whole being seemed to be saying without words, "I am a world unto myself and I will not bear anyone intrude into it". Now that feeling was especially strong.
'Do I have to come only when I have no other choice but do it? I simply wanted to spend a few minutes with you, Francesco. There, I"ve brought something for you. Take this.'
I smiled at him, reached into my bag, and gave him the grapes and cake. Thankfully, he didn"t refuse, though the strain intensified. I felt he had all but forgotten what such human things as eating ordinary food are like; but then, this was why I was bringing him this. He broke off little bits of the cake and took time with each of them; then he did the same with the grapes, slowly tearing off one berry after the other.
I felt a lingering gentleness towards him. I was simply glad to be with him, and to stand there silently, watching him eat and listening to the sound of the rain. And, as well as that, I felt a sharp sympathy that increased the more I looked at him. His long black hair with prominent gray streaks fell over the broad, stark-featured face. He was soaked wet, and his old black shirt stuck to his body and gathered into creases. On the knee of his jeans, there was a very noticeable tear, with long threads sticking out of its ragged edges. The soles of his boots had begun to come off. Somehow, it seemed especially noticeable now how tall and stocky he was, and this, along with the damp clothes and hair, and the solid black of his attire, made him look especially forlorn and out of place.
The strain in him seemed to be growing every minute. When he finished eating, he spoke, as heavily as before. And again, it sounded as if he was making a hidden threat, almost without wanting to, despite being perfectly calm.
'Think before you come to me like this. I do not quite see why you would want to. I am hated for a very good reason.'
'You are not as dark, or as terrifying, as you present yourself, Francesco. I have a feeling you"re trying to push everyone away by doing it, as much as you can manage, so that you"re left alone. But I - I don"t want to leave you. Yes, you.....you used to do things that frighten me, and would frighten anyone. But you"re not all like that. And you keep hiding that, and pushing those ugly things to the surface....as a shield of sorts, as it were.'
He didn"t reply. He was seeing something far ahead of him, and didn"t appear to hear or see me anymore, lost in something that only he knew.
Then came the images.
The chains are clanging as the children, - two small girls and an older boy, - cling to their parents and to the teenage youth who stands very close to them. Their eyes are wide with terror, and the blazing house still seems to be reflecting in them. The woman stretches out her manacled hands, the irons shining in the dim light of the torches, begging at least for the children to be spared. The two people on the pyre are tied to stakes with their backs to each other; the woman screams as she writhes in agony, but the man only moans, and blood trickles from his mouth and from the stumps where his hands once were. The two black hooded figures hold the boy of no more than twelve by the arms, one on each side of him, so that he could not run away or even shield his face with his hands from the sight. The tall youth is in the blaze, whispering prayers until the flames shoot up and obscure him entirely, and he only screams. We have taken mercy on you, Benedetto. You deserve to perish like the rest of your kin, but we have decided that you should be spared, and become one of us. Still, you have to have a severe trial first, and only then, if you survive it, you can become a new being. Black arms hold him fast, and he swallows several mouthfulls from the bleeding wrist that had been forced into his mouth, before he is shoved away and the black figures haul him out into the corridor. Pain and pain, and pain, red-hot iron running through the veins, and no thoughts, only hunger, and thirst, and the rage building up, all of it about to boil over at any moment. He batters his fists bloody against the iron bars of the dark earthen cell, screaming on one high-pitched note, breaking the scream only to gasp for air. The girl is about four years old, and dressed in rags that must have once been velvet; he doesn"t care who she is, doesn"t even see her, but she comes closer and touches his shoulder, and there is a blinding flash. A piercing shriek - Bianca, no!.. oh no!.. - more battering of the bars and screaming, and he falls onto the ground and beats at it with his fists, sobbing. This girl is somewhat older, perhaps seven or so, and also has velvet rags on, and this time, blind with the rage, he strikes out with one glowing hand as soon as he sees her. Felicia, he whispers, Felicia, and buries his face in his hands. No strength to stand up anymore, and he lays helplessly in a heap in the corner of the cell, breathing hard and shivering in that cold which he cannot ward off; he raises his head and I can see an emaciated, snowy-white face with large eyes, black pain splashing within them, about to spill over the brim. It is a weeping newborn baby that has been brought to him, and she lies there weeping, and the sound is unbearable and drills through his ears; after she is gone, he only laughs a soft, mad laughter, and places the scorched body carefully onto the ground, and sits back against the wall, and his head drops down, and his eyes have a strange dreamy expression. Nobody but his maker noticed when his human life was snuffed out; he, himself, did not realize for a few nights that the pain was gone, and the door of his cell had been flung open. We never take in novices until they are thoroughly tested. You have made it through the test; the life you"ve lived before has been all cleansed out of you, and you have earned your right to be one of us. You have truly died and risen from the grave. The name Benedetto no longer befits you - there is no benediction in the night, and you are lost to your old name even as you are lost to your former life, and you have to leave all of that behind for eternity. From now on, you are to be Modesto, - the self-effacing servant who always complies with what his master tells him to do. No will there, and nothing of his own, - only shreds of what he used to be, no, not even shreds, but dust which can never be put together into a coherent whole. He sticks to others, because he needs them to be a mirror which will tell him who he is; without them, he is something immaterial, like a ghost, and he would not know what to do with himself when he is on his own. Against the glittering rich green of the orange leaves, his face is starkly white, and the enormous eyes are empty and deep. One can drown in their light greenness, woven through with glowing streaks of gold, for hours, lost and never encountering anything to cling onto....
Tears were streaming down my cheeks. He hates himself, he does this to hate himself further, to know there is no return from where is.
Francesco was staring straight ahead of him; the green of his eyes had flared up, and the fierce light was noticeable even through the crimson blood that was gathering in them. His lips quivered with fury. He had raised his fists somewhat, and clenched them so hard that blood appeared from beneath the fingernails.
'This is what I am like,' he said through clenched teeth. 'In case that wasn"t obvious.'
'Francesco, what have you done to yourself,' I was choking on my sobs. I embraced him and buried my face on his chest, and his body became tense in my arms, like a taut string about to break. 'To him...to them...and to yourself, Francesco, to yourself. Do you know whom you were really murdering all along? It was you, Francesco...every single time....it was a bit of you that went with each of those you wronged...'
I hugged him tighter.
'But you didn"t manage to do it,' I was trying hard to calm down, but it was impossible to keep what I felt inside. 'Your candle is still lit....you couldn"t extinguish it, even though you have tried. You can be born once more, Francesco. What you have to do is only to blow it up, that light, make it bigger....and break the wall you"ve built around it, which hides it from everyone including yourself. But you can do it.'
'No, not after this,' his voice was trembling, and he was struggling to swallow back the tears of rage and disgust. He was still staring over my head. 'This can never be atoned for. And don"t you tell me your God will forgive it, ever.'
'Oh, Lord....'
I held him to myself and wept. There were no words, or thoughts. I ran my fingers through his half-gray hair, and over the wet, worn black fabric of his shirt. All I wished was that I could do something, anything for him. Anything at all.
I didn"t know how much time had passed. I drew back and looked up at him, stroking his shoulder gently. I still had one arm around his neck. His excellent self-control was coming back to him, and he looked composed and still again. But it made me shudder to think what he must be concealing inside.
'I have to go, Francesco,' I said softly. 'I need to be home soon, or they"ll turn half the city upside down searching for me. I promise I"ll come back whenever I can.'
I released him and looked at him one more time.
'As you wish,' he said flatly, as usual.
He appeared to be thoroughly examining the tips of his boots, and didn"t raise his head.
....
All I wanted was to curl up into a ball, right there on the sidewalk with the water streaming all over me, and cry bloody tears. Cry for the man who had buried himself. But I had to run again in the pouring rain, and go to the store and then back home, where I had the task of making up a believable excuse for my sudden disappearance, and of really baking these buns.
There was the store at last. Now I was almost safe; if someone happened to see me here, I"d say I had simply gone to buy some dough, and that was it. I looked at my watch. Just forty minutes; it wasn"t that bad. I"ll be back soon, and if Jim is still sleeping, most likely nobody would even suspect anything. Except for Lucio, but then Lucio was another matter altogether.
I shut the door behind me and leaned on the wall near the doorway. I closed my eyes. This is your burden, too, Ursula; and have to bear it, and you can"t share it with anyone, not even with Jim. But you have to live on with it, in some way or other, even alone as you are most of the time. So you"ll put a bright and a brave face on it, and you"ll go home and bake these buns, and make sure you behave as if nothing had happened. You have to.
'Signora, are you allright?'
Some elderly woman who was about to leave the store had noticed me.
'Yes....yes, please, don"t worry.'
I tried my best to smile, though the tears were constantly threatening to come up again, and I had to choke them back.
I bought enough dough to make buns for the whole bunch of us, and hurried home. It made me shudder a bit when I thought about how I"d open the door and meet face to face with a concerned Jim. Thankfully, I didn"t bump into anyone in the street, and as I neared home, every moment made things less risky for me and for Francesco. I ascended up to stairs without any problems, and opened the door of my apartment.
It was quiet inside. I went through the living room, expecting Jim to come out to greet me at any moment. But he didn"t, and when I looked into his room, I saw he was sleeping as soundly as he had when I was leaving. I sighed with relief. It appeared the riskiest part of it was over, now that I was back and nobody had noticed me gone. Except that there was nothing good about how I felt, or what I had seen just some minutes ago.
Jim woke only when I had heated the oven, prepared the mushrooms and cheese for the fillings, and had already put the first half of the buns inside.
'It seems I"ve nodded off,' he said softly in English and smiled at me. 'I"m so sorry. I was real drained.'
'It's fine. I'm glad you had a rest! Й wanted to make buns for us all, and as there was no dough I had to rush out to that store nearby, and buy some,' I exclaimed as cheerfully and quickly as possible, and smiled back at him. Better shock him with everything at once and be done with it, or else, the very tone of my voice will betray me.
He studied me calmly and intently, and I felt I couldn"t bear looking into his eyes. There, you"ve learned to be a double dealer, Ursula; you"ve learned to lie to this simple, open soul who would be loyal to you to his death, if need be. What will come next? He understands much more than he mentions to the others, of course; and now he understands much of what has happened, too, and you can"t even tell him about it.
'Is something the matter?' his voice was as calm as always, but he sounded concerned and sad.
'No, no Jim. I"m fine.'
"Fine" was everything that I wasn"t.
He hesitated a little, then walked up to me and placed his big hand on my shoulder.
'Friend,' he often called me that, as well as "sister". It was his uniform way of addressing everyone, but for some reason it was very touching when he used it while talking to me. 'Friend, I know this is no business of mine, and I have no right to get into it. I just wish you to know I"m there for you. I can"t pretend I will understand everything. Sometimes I feel I can"t understand any of what has happening round here at all. But - at least, I"ll try to. And if you ever need to talk about something, I"m there. Okies?'
He smiled his impossible radiant smile.
I can"t, I wanted to say. My life had branched out into two directions simultaneously; one part of it is for all of you, and the other is for Francesco. All that I have lived by before, and all that has been dear to me, is this side of Arno, and Francsco is on the other side. And I have to keep this other part secret, and nobody may know about it, even if I become raving mad and won"t be aware of what I am saying.
Later, when I had put in the other half of the buns, I went to the bathroom and locked myself inside. I picked a dark towel on which the stains of blood wouldn"t be noticeable, and which I could later hide and throw away anyhow, pressed it tight to my face, and gave way to the tears.