The room was small and modestly furnished. The heavy black curtains were parted, and the soft silvery moonlight fell onto the books on the shelves opposite the door, making their covers gleam and illuminating the gilded titles on some of them. Camus; Sartre; Heidegger; Nietsche; Jung; books in Latin which must have been first issued in the Middle Ages. Near the shelves, there stood an armchair, lined with some velvety fabric of a deep midnight blue. On its back hung a pair of black jeans, a black woolen polo-neck sweater, and a black shirt. The clothes were full of dust, and so worn they had nearly lost their original black color, which had faded into a grayish hue. On the floor stood a pair of battered black combat boots.
The room would have had a certain coziness of its own, if it were not for the grayish layer of dust that covered everything in it, and made it look abandoned. Clean, impersonal scents were suspended in the air, - those of dust, old paper, wool and imitation leather, - that did not hint at any human presence. It was as though nobody had been there at all.
On the wall opposite the window was a large painting. A great old tree stood alone amidst a deserted landscape, having been battered by harsh winds until it had bent to the ground, and twisted into a phantasmagorical shape. Thick gray clouds billowed behind it, but the tree itself was illuminated from an odd angle by a stray patch of light that had escaped from the clouds just before the storm struck - or after it had just finished, who knew. The light contrasted sharply with the clouds, and made them seem nearly black and all the more threatening. The branches of the tree were gnarled and crooked; the crude, dark brown bark had fallen off, and only a few remaining patches of it still clung to the trunk. And from the cracks in the dry bronzy body of the tree, droplets of golden juice were appearing and dripped slowly down, like tears, glowing as they were caught in the golden rays that came from above.
January, San Gimignano
Francesco
It had been snowing, and there were still islets of slushy white on the wet gray pavement. There was a thick mist, and the countours of the towers and tall stone walls were obscure, and seemed to have lost their solidity in the milky whiteness, which shone with a blinding silver here and there when it caught the light of the lamps.
The sights were much the same wherever I went. The same suffocating, drab gray; the houses like shapeless, gigantic gray beasts that towered above me, ready to devour me, their many tiny, shining eyes staring straight through me; the black, crooked hands of the trees here and there, reaching out towards me as though to catch me and hold me back. And the same stars cast their shrill, cold light from above. I was a stranger to the very earth which I walked on, and to which I was bound. It was a wonder how it would still hold such a burden as me, and would not open up beneath my feet and swallow me whole.
I was a being whose body was something made of stone, - cold and hard, and becoming harder with time, - and, like stone, it had no soul within. A fire of hatred had raged in me once; now I was burnt black from inside, and only gray cinders remained from whatever that had been there before. I did not hurt. Nothing would stir in me even when I tried to remember her, my wife; though I would not have God or His world without her, and had willingly left Him because He had taken her from me. That He, too, did not want me now, I was sure. What happened to me after her passing was good proof of that. Now I merely existed, without life, - because this could not be called "life", - condemned to drift in some sort of limbo until the end of time, and could not even end this existence at will.
It was all fair in the end. I had shaken a fist at Heaven, and Heaven had responded accordingly. I only got what I deserved.
When I had come to a dark corridor between two buildings, I heard unsteady footfalls on the stone. They were coming towards me, and I stopped. The man emerged from the mouth of the corridor in a couple of minutes; he was a drunken thug, very muscular and large, swaying and stumbling from time to time as he walked. He wore a black leather jacket, and a black shirt and pants. The reek of strong spirits was thick in the air, and I felt it even before I saw him clearly, though he was no nearer than several yards away.
I needed to replace my clothes, so he came at the right time. He was somewhat too short, but the size would be just right. I would not have bothered with it altogether, but my shirt was torn at the shoulder and elbows, and would begin to fall off me soon.
When he saw me, the man stopped and started, having sensed something he could not entirely comprehend. I let my eyes latch onto his.
"Come closer."
His face was flushed, and he stared at me in a hazy, bewildered manner, trying to understand what was happening. I made the few footsteps that separated him from me.
"You - you dare to..." he was so inebriated that his tongue would not obey him. He raised his fist, as if to strike.
I caught both his wrists. Bringing his hand down somewhat, I squeezed it - just a little, so that he knew what may happen to him if he did not do as I told him. My grip tightened and the man became more and more still, his eyes widening as he continued to stare at me. He was sobering up with dramatic speed.
I released his hands, and he lowered his arm, very slowly, like a waxen doll does after someone had moved its limb, while his eyes were still locked to mine. I silently stretched my hand out towards him, palm upwards.
"Your jacket. Now."
Clumsily, he pulled off his jacket and handed it over to me. I received it and threw it over my other arm, and then stretched out my hand again in the same way.
"Your shirt."
He took off that as well, and gave it to me. He had begun to tremble, perhaps half-unconsciously, in a way that made me instantly disgusted. Weakling. It is true that bodily strength and an intimidating appearance do not yet make a man. I took off my old shirt and, having tossed it at his feet, turned away from him.
"Be glad that you have been spared", I said through clenched teeth. Or that I have not left you here in your underwear.
The stench coming from his clothes was overpowering, - a mixture of alcohol, and the sickeningly sweet, pungent scent of a human body that had not been washed for many days. But then the one who took them was more vile than this man could have ever imagined. So that it served me right. And the stench would wear off in a few nights' time.
I walked on through the silent town. It did not matter where I went, - just as long as the moon shines, and I see the gray sidewalk before me, and the water splashes and wets my creased, worn black boots. Nothing mattered.
3 January, Florence
Francesco
I leaned on the stone railing. Beneath me, the city was stretched out, with its clusters of chilly yellow lights between the dreary buildings, and the black cypresses standing out starkly against the night sky. The wind made the cypresses thrash and sigh, now and then, and brought to me the sounds of traffic and shuffling feet and voices from below.
I wondered what had brought me back here. This city was no less ugly than any other I had ever been to. It was not all concrete boxes that looked exactly the same, but only that. And then, once.... But none of that was here anymore. I would wonder sometimes if any of it had happened at all. Once I had dreamed of some other, different life; the dream had long dissolved, and only shreds of it were still with me. Sometimes, I could just barely picture what used to be dearest in it, - the bright black eyes, the tanned face, the black hair in a long thick braid, - which came to me dimly, through some glowing mist. But this was long gone. I had woken alone in the night, with a hollow inside where human feelings had been. Only the golden wedding band on my finger reminded me that it all had really been true.
I walked through the park, along Via Guicciardini, over Ponte Vecchio and into the city center. The same. Everywhere, the same. The buildings like enormous entities colored in dirty browns and ochres and yellows, their cold yellow eyes winking at me or closing for a long time; sounds cutting through my ears, too loud and chaotic, - grains of sand crunching under boots, chatter, motor scooters whizzing by. There were many people, in spite of the hour, and when someone touched me inadvertently I felt some threat, - vague, but still strong, - and withdrew abruptly.
It was there, near the Santa Maria del Fiore cathedral, that I saw her.
Her dark eyes sparkled, and waves of pure and almost reckless joy radiated from her. She was humming something happily to herself as she walked, and swinging her small black leather briefcase a little. Her long black coat was unbuttoned, revealing an ankle-length black skirt, black vest and simple white shirt. She had a huge bunch of white lilies, and through their heavy, inebriating scent I sensed another one that made me shudder, - sour-sweet, like the light of a candle seen through quivering layers of transparent pink water, and making one"s head spin just as much as that of the flowers she was carrying. Rose oil.
It was not the same face, of course. But it was similar to the one I had known once, - too similar, - and I felt a sharp stab of pain. Suddenly, the world swam. Something had broken in me, or around me, who knew, and I understood nothing would be the same again.
She stopped and looked straight into my eyes, and I studied her, - stunned, feeling something I had altogether no name for. It must have lasted only a split second, but it seemed much longer to me. Then she hurried on. I turned to the wall and pressed myself to it, hard, wishing I could disappear, or merge with the very stone.
There were hardly any thoughts, only a growing torment I could not entirely define. The world was not the same one which I had seen only minutes ago. The dreary buildings were different, and the overwhelming sounds; even the cold wind blew in some new way now. It was irreversible, this shift that had just occurred, and could only deepen with time; and I could never return to that little universe of comforting dullness in which I had been shut for so long.
I slowly made my way back through the city, across the river and onto the other side, to the apartment I had made my dwelling. There was a silent twilight in the room, and specks of dust twirled in a silvery beam. I touched the wick of the candle that stood on the window-sill with my two fingers, and it lit, casting uncertain, wavering shadows onto the walls and floor.
I sat down. Sights were surfacing, catching up with me, having come from that distant dream. I put my hands to my face. When I removed them, there were living crimson streaks on them; and one thick red trail crossed the gold of the engraved ring. I was crying, perhaps for the first time in centuries.
"Francesco, dear...would you like me to tell you something?"
She was sitting on the edge of the bed. The flames crackled cheerfully in the open hearth, so that light danced on the black velvet of the luxurious canopy, and the golden embroidery on it and the heavy tassels hanging from the edges glistened. There was the same sweet, intoxicating scent in the air, - that of rose water mixed with musk and fragrant herbs.
Her black eyes were bright, as always, but now they were turned inwards as though she was aware of some great warm mystery hidden inside her. Her smile, too, was enigmatic, an outward expression of that mystery which others could see. She spoke again, - slowly, cautiously honing out every word as though a single syllable said the wrong way would destroy that which she spoke about.
"I think I am with child."
"What?" I asked quietly. I too was afraid to talk of it aloud, for fear that if I did, the miracle would be gone and I would wake and realize it had been a mere figment of my imagination. "Are you sure, Bice?"
A great throbbing joy was rising in me. It broke through some barrier inside, and I realized there was something joining me to her, to the rest of the world, much more deeply and firmly than before. And, at that moment, I knew that the nightmare I had been through when I was a boy had retreated and would never have any power over us again. All would finally be well, and well, and well.
...
She was lying motionless on the same bed. Her face was dark, disfigured because of the swollen glands behind her ears and under her chin, and a trickle of black blood had oozed out of her mouth. I knelt beside her, embracing her, and wished dearly that I too would contract the disease and be together with her, wherever she was now. I had lived her life; now that she was no more, there was nothing left for me here. I would never be able to start again and build everythig back from scratch.
...
That evening, she wore a very dark emerald green dress, with a high waist and full bell sleeves that were caught at the forearms with elastic bands, so that they formed two puffy balls around the shoulders. The velvet was embroidered with golden blossoming plants that had tall, slender stalks which twined with each other and stretched upwards, and upwards. She was standing by the window, and the setting sun gave a lustre to the soft, matte green, and made the embroidery glow. She had placed her hands on her belly, which just barely showed through the rich, loose folds, and was stroking it, tenderly; and her eyes were turned inwards again as she listened to the new life that was beginning in her. I was looking at her and thinking, - no, there cannot be a joy greater than this, - and all was dipped in the sun, and the world stood still.
...There was only pain, shapeless and without boundaries; and as I started to realize what was happening to me, it became stronger and stronger still, until it was overwhelming.
With it, the fount of black, bitter waters that had been buried beneath the ashes was spurting out again, and I felt them flooding me. I had thought all that time that it had dried up. How mistaken I had been. It was there, I knew that much, and I knew I would never be able to forgive the one who had brought it up once more.