Torn, thin dark clouds were drifting very swiftly overhead, and the moon would shine through them sometimes, as through wreathes of smoke. They would come suddenly, and it seemed that some black shadow was sweeping over the sky, obscuring the stars, so that something in me sank, in spite of myself. Large, cool drops would begin to tap on the leaves, bouncing off the gravel of the paths, until they became one solid wall of water. But in a matter of minutes, the moon would burst out of its black shrouding, and bathe the hills in a joyful radiance. The outlines of things would suddenly stand out, unbearably sharp; and as I watched the moist green of the grass and leaves move softly, washed by the silvery waves, everything within me sang, and the sickness and shortness of breath just did not seem to matter.
A strong cold wind was blowing, - or more likely it felt cold to me because of my condition, - sometimes becoming so strong it took the last of my breath away, and making me shiver in spite of having a thick velveteen suit on. There was a sense of something menacing that was just about to happen, though one would not know what it was. The clouds brought worry, and tension; but an odd, secret excitement came with the light, - it was like being born into something intriguing and thoroughly new, and going out eagerly into it.
I went down the stone steps into the garden. It was large, encircled with a low wall, the top of which was laid with slightly slanted brown tiles, some of them cracked or broken. Beyond, one could see a few old fruit trees, with their branches bending over it, and, further away, the cypresses standing in a crowd on the sloping hill. In the distance, just barely visible through a milky, bluish mist, there was Florence, its buildings looking like white and beige boxes, so miniature that they seemed unreal.
In the middle of the garden, there was a large granite basin, with several deep, long cracks running along its sides, and a column in the middle. It had apparently been a fountain once, but hadn"t been used for a very long time, so that the granite had become covered here and there with brilliant green patches of algae. The basin was empty, and only the dark puddles of rainwater glistened at its very bottom. The shrubs around it were neatly trimmed, but tiny green stalks were pushing through the gravel that surrounded it, and the rest of the garden also had a curiously ancient, abandoned look.
Francesco was sitting by the wall in a remote corner of the garden, in the shadow of a great cherry tree. When I came closer, I noticed how drawn he was; his features looked especially stark because of the sunken cheeks, and his skin had become darker than it had been before. He wore shiny black Doc Martens, with the long laces wrapped several times around their tops, and brand new black denims - a shirt and fairly loose pants with big rectangular pockets just above the knee. His black leather jacket lay beside him in the grass.
The modest modern clothes suited him perfectly, and the fact that they were new gave him an an unexpectedly youthful and casual look. One could think he was just an ordinary young man gone out for a breath of fresh air, and not the timeless creature I had seen first at the hotel, and had been meeting since, - a creature who had lived through centuries without changing, and was completely oblivious to the things surrounding him which never stayed the same for an instant. To him, it had not mattered whether he was dusty, or whether his clothes were torn and worn down, and he was indifferent to snow, rain or winds. He was too distant from that. This new Francesco who sat before me was much simpler, somehow, and more approachable. But there was also a weariness about him, deeper than it had ever been before; and the suddenly very noticeable blackness of his outfit, with its solemn meaning, made it even greater.
Whom is he mourning most of all now, I thought. His wife, and those others that are dear to him? Or maybe, himself?
Francesco stood up when he saw me, and went towards me. We embraced and held each other, simply glad that we were together again. He drew away first and looked very intently into my eyes, as if trying to find an answer to some question that was plaguing him, or begging me about that which could not be said in mere words, before he spoke about something else.
"Come," he said, and motioned me to sit down beside him. "I shall bring you over to the other shore."
I settled onto the damp grass next to him, and watched him undo the shiny steel buckle on the black leather pouch that he wore over his shoulder. From there, he produced a rectangular case, which, when opened, turned out to contain a small glass syringe, two needles in protective caps, and two vials of clear, colorless liquid.
"I paid a visit to a former follower of mine, nowadays a microbiologist. I had him take from me that which makes me what I am, and prepare it, so that I could give it to you. This is why I took so long. It did not work at once, and when it finally did, he needed time for his proceedures."
Francesco removed the cap from one of the needles, attached it to the syringe and penetrated the rubber top of one vial. He filled the syringe, and, pointing the needle upwards, tested it, so that a tiny fountain of sparkling droplets spurted out.
"It is mine. It was made to multiply in special conditions, and cleansed, but it comes only from me."
Technically, it did not matter where it came from. The bacterium was the same everywhere, and only swapped hosts. I could have ended up taking a lab culture of it, which had existed in a test tube for years; or, had I lived in the Stone Age, I could have wandered right into one of those underground lakes in a cave, where they say the bacterium may have been present, and successfully caught it directly from the environment.
But to me, this was a sweet thought, - that if I had to become this being, it was to be by Francesco, by that which came only from his own body. It was like a way of saying that I was his, and I felt that, if it would be be only he who brought me over into his sort of existence, and I was changed solely through him, it would serve to reinforce the bond between us.
True, it made for a great responsibility on his part, and I often thought how he would bear it; all the time, I could feel how hurt he was, and how he regretted what he had done to me, even when he said nothing about it. But I was ultimately glad that I was what I was, I believed it was the way things had to be, and I wanted him to know this.
Francesco took my hand, unbuttoned the cuff of my jacket, and rolled back the soft midnight blue fabric. Then he did the same with the white shirt underneath, so that my arm was left bare up to the elbow.
"I am not asking you if you are coming with me, though I should have," his voice was stiff with a hidden sadness. "I did this to you once against your will, and had not asked you. It cannot be undone now. I can only finish what I have begun. But I want to ask you this - "
Still holding my hand in his, he lowered it and looked at me. There was a green sea in his eyes, seemingly tranquil, but turbulent somewhere in its deepest depths, and I understood what he wanted to say even before he did.
"Forgive me."
For an answer, I put my arm round his shoulders and held him close.
"I"m not angry with you, you know that," I told him quietly. "What"s gone, is gone. And you know I"ve accepted this willingly."
Francesco took my arm. I felt the tiny pinprick as the needle went into my vein. A strong gust of wind made the trees whisper to each other in an urgent, worried way, and again I shivered helplessly in my warm clothes. The moon had sailed out from the shabby clouds once more, and everything was sinking in a joyous silver light. I watched the sparkling of the transparent fluid in the syringe, and the steely shine of the needle, - my impending death, and the new, strange life that was to begin beyond it. I was standing on the very brink of it. I was overcome by the significance of the moment, and by an acute sense of finality; this can be only once, I thought, and then it is going to be for all time. Things are never going to be the same again, and what waits for me on the other side is an endless journey through an uncharted land. A thrilled tension began within me, mounting until it was intolerable.
There, this is the threshold; step over it.
The scent of my perfume mingled with the cool dampness of the summer night. It was Versace"s "Crystal Noir", which Francesco had given me as a gift a couple weeks ago. Sour-sweet, it reminded me of grape juice, but there was also a thicker musky, tarry sweetness showing through it, especially when the fragrance would start to dissipate, as well as a distant tinge of something woody and almost disturbing. It was exuberant scent which made me think of young green leaves swimming in sunlight, but there was something darker to it, too. Each time I felt it, it would make hold my breath, as though it had brought to mind some mystery which was just about to unfold before me, yet which I couldn"t find a name for. It always reminded me of Francesco, and I felt I should wear it tonight, important as it would be for both of us. Now the odd titillation the scent gave me added to the sense of how special this moment was, its weight as it were.
Something hit me softly on the head, and it suddenly began spinning, as it does when you drink too much strong spirits at a go. I swayed a little and leaned on the wall for support, closing my eyes for a couple of seconds, and opening them again after I appeared to regain some sense of what my surroundings were. I was much more sick then before, and the dizziness was growing on me with every coming moment. As I watched Francesco fill the syringe again and give me another injection, things became more and more distant, receding into an inebriated haze where nothing mattered too much.
Francesco took his leather jacket, which was so large it looked like an overcoat on me, and wrapped me up comfortably in it. I lay back in his arms.
"It is going to hurt," he said very quietly. "A great deal. Brace yourself."
I am ready, and I have no fear, I thought. Francesco was right, - there was no other way left to go but forwards, through this, as soon as possible. I found myself facing the boundary before me, and preparing to cross it with a desperate daring and abandon. Forwards, only forwards, and no thinking; be what may. I only prayed to God that He would see me through it.
Through the daze, there came the first surge of pain. Red-hot iron flowed rapidly through my veins, it seemed, and a sudden weakness shot through my body. I tensed myself against it as much as possible, hoping this would make it more bearable, biting back an involuntary moan. I was no longer short of breath, but suffocating, and I moved in Francesco"s arms in an attempt to find a position in which I would get more air. Each cell of me was longing, begging for oxygen, and I expected to lose consciousness any moment from lack of it, but I didn"t, and stayed fully awake, thrashing, trying and unable to draw a full, satisfying breath.
The pain came again, and again, until it had gone too deep into me, and I no longer moved and lay very still. There was no me anymore; there was nothing but that paralyzing, formless pain and the craving to breathe, and this was all that had ever been, or would be.
...
I realized that the pain no longer filled the whole world, and there was also room for thought, and movement; and, at that same moment, I became aware of myself again.
I could breathe, and it was the greatest blessing ever granted to me. I was lying with my eyes closed, and the wind was brushing my face and bringing to me the ceaseless chirping of crickets, and the scents of cypress sap, wet grass, and cool, clean water. I was still shivering somewhat from the last of the chill, but clothes I was wrapped in made me feel comfortable, cozy in my soft, heavy cocoon. For what I took to be a very long time, I lay quiet, simply glad to feel the pain gradually draining away from me and giving way to a blissful exhaustion. I did not want to stir lest by some chance it should come back.
I opened my eyes, smiling, and looked up at Francesco. His face looked listless, but his cheeks were covered in caked blood, and dark ruby droplets were still rolling down them one by one. The stark green of his eyes was obscured by a ruby film which would swell now and then, and overflow in a few more droplets, and they found their way down and left fresh shiny stains on the bronzy-brown skin, and on the old dark crust of the dried tears.
I wanted to say something reassuring to him, to tell him of that immense gratitude, - I wished to explain to him how great it was just to be able to breathe, and what a wonder it was, the cheerful chirping of the crickets in the darkness laden with sweet, cool scents, and the trees and grass a green blaze lighting up the night. I knew he also had to feel this, but I wanted to tell him about it, to hone it out in simple, understandable words. He must not cry; it is not the right time for that. It is all past me by now, and I am no longer in pain, and everything is going to be just fine.
"It seems the worst bit is over," I smiled at him, reaching out to run my fingers along a loose gray strand, and tuck it carefully behind his ear. "I"ve made it across the stormy seas.....and have been washed back on shore."
"Yes," he said gently, cradling me in his arms, one of his hands stroking my hair. The tears had stopped rolling down his cheeks, and only a dreamy, wistful expression was left in his eyes. But there was so much sadness in that one word that all his tears may well have gone into it.
I closed my eyes. There was so much I wanted to tell him, but the languor of exhaustion was creeping deeper and deeper into me, and all I really wanted was to give in to it, and let myself sink into oblivion.
"Sleep," I heard Francesco"s voice from far away. "Do not worry. I will take care of you."
"No, no."
I opened my eyes with an effort, and hurriedly sat up. The temptation let go of everything and just sleep was great, but with Francesco so stricken, I could not just leave him like this and not try to console him. I wanted so much to see him happy. After all, it was because of me that he felt this way. I did not want to lose the time I could spend with him, either, - looking at him, talking to him. Who knew when we would be able to meet next.
"I"m okay," I smiled. "Just a bit tired, but I think I can manage without dozing off. Wait a little, - I"ll be right back."
I got up, took off Francesco"s jacket and went through the grass to the old fountain. The moon had sailed out again, and it was strange to see the garden sinking in fluid silver, brighter and more joyful, it seemed, than it had been before, while the sky above it was an inky black, as if a storm was about to break out at any moment.
I was very weak and could scarce walk, but I was also strangely weightless, and I wouldn"t have been surprised if it turned out that my feet weren"t bruising and bending the grass like they normally would, or even touching the ground. I stopped at the granite basin; there were a few tissues in my pocket, and I bent over and dipped them into one of those dark glimmering puddles.
I went back to Francesco and helped him rub off all the traces of blood from his face. Then I sat down at his side, and he threw his jacket over my shoulders again. The balmy darkness was all the deeper, now that the moon hid and the whole sky was covered with clouds; it throbbed with the triumphant hymn of the crickets, and, immersed in it, we sat silent.
"Everything should have been so different," Francesco spoke quietly, as if thinking aloud. There was a violent reproach hidden just beneath the surface of his words, and it was directed inwards, at himself. "I should not have had to do this to you at all. You just cannot comprehend what I had gotten you into."
"I do," I replied. "I"ve said that already, and I"ll repeat it once more: this is behind us. So let us leave it where it belongs, and go on. Don"t dwell on it. Yes, you....you made a mistake. But you were not the man that you are now. And I also think.....if I ended up becoming what I am, then maybe it was meant to be that way. So things have only turned out as they should have."
The silence was much longer this time, until at last, Francesco spoke with a thoughtful sadness. I remembered the green sea and the turbulence in its depth, the whirlpool that would draw in and crush anything that happened to be in it.
"I have been wondering," he said, "about the two of us. I was looking at you, changing here in my arms, and thinking how much you have given up. No, not just now. You were giving something up little by little, every day, since we met. And for whom - for me?" He made a lengthy pause. "I am worse than nothing."
His voice had become heavy and final, filled with the same reproach towards his own self which needed some outlet, and had none. He was gazing into the distance, lost in his memories.
"If you only knew how many lives; how many crippled and lost. If you had seen that child Benedetto pound his fists bloody on the bars, and scream night after night, you would have understood. Those rosy tears of agony from him are alone worth too much. There is nothing that can atone for them."
I shuddered. By silent consent, we never spoke of Silvia, because this was too painful for both of us. But now I knew that he was thinking of her, too. There was another long silence.
"And look what I did to you. I am not worthy of you. I owe you too much; and there is no way I could pay it back."
I put my arm around him.
"That was not you, Francesco," I said. "Not the you who sits beside me now. It was some other man, and he"s no more. It was you who tore him away from yourself and destroyed him, and you didn"t even realize this. So leave that man of old be; let him decompose and crumble to dust. You only do yourself wrong by bringing him out into the open like this."
I was silent and pressed my face to the black denim on his forearm, stroking his chest.
"It was not you - not the true you - who changed me the first time around. Or who did those ugly things and earned himself the name Black Legend of Italy. That man is gone, and he won"t come back. This is all that matters."
I felt Francesco"s heavy, big hand on my shoulder, and we stayed huddled together, comforting one another without words, each helping the other through the pain. When I raised my head, after what felt like ages, I noticed, as if for the first time, Francesco"s tired, drawn looks. Dear me, he must have given a great deal of his blood, and we are just sitting here talking as if nothing had happened.
"You need to eat, Francesco," I said. "Why don"t we come inside? I"ll make us something. Tiziana and her friend won"t be back until tomorrow evening. They left me here all on my own, so we have this night to ourselves."