Once Upon a Troubled Moon
Short Story
by Stephen Collicoat
'That's it!' Keith Remington exclaimed. He jabbed a stubby forefinger at an advertisement in the tourist guide. 'Listen to this.'Janet Frame quietly sighed and set aside her paperback novel.
''The Secret City'', Keith read, ''Let me show you a side of my city that will astonish and entertain you. Sights that are bizarre or beautiful. Sights that most residents, much less tourists, never see. The secret side of Padua is all around you. It lies beneath the cobbled streets you walk. I can open your eyes to this hidden world. "
''I am proficient in English and five other languages. I possess written testimonials from history professors and other distinguished academics from many parts of the world. All agree that my tour is the best they have joined. I offer a unique and exciting experience - one that will remain a highlight of your trip to Northern Italy. Reasonable fee. Half day, small group tours are now available. Don't delay! Ring etc.''
'Well, isn't that something?' Keith demanded.
Judith stifled a yawn. It wasn't that she wasn't passionate about Italy. Her Italy however wasn't the Italy of museums, galleries, formal gardens and great houses - the country to which Keith was so enthusiastically and exhaustingly attached.
Long ago, she had realised that her boyfriend belonged to that minority in almost every population who are not only interested in, but obsessed by Italy. Keith loved the Italy of the past. He reveled in accounts of the glories and treachery of the Renaissance. Everything in the modern age - his country, occupation, possibly even Janet herself was nothing, compared to his romantic dream of the past.
In contrast, Janet preferred modern Italy. One had to look behind the facade of the great, noisy cities to sense the true soul of the place. Italy, she decided, was a country of small, charming scenes. Men and women of all ages riding bikes, buzzing scooters, fashion plate police, tiny, grubby, three-wheeled trucks, stylish shops, elderly couple walking hand in hand, threading their way through the relentless traffic. A little girl chasing a red balloon as it bobbed across the piazza, a small boy squirting water from a fountain on his shrieking friends, dogs straining at leashes, yelping dogs roaming free, spoiled dogs being carried by their adoring owners: Pictures randomly drawn from a rich and vibrant culture.
Following Keith's lead - feeling guilty that her exploration of Italy wasn't as serious and meaningful as his - Janet had dutifully trudged hundreds of kilometers through churches, galleries and gardens, ticking off each day's list of significant sites. Now she felt deeply weary and distinctly rebellious.
'Yes, it sounds wonderful,' she agreed, struggling to add enthusiasm to her tone. 'But darling, why don't you go on the tour alone?'
Seeing his bewildered and hurt expression, she hurried on, 'I need some free time. I want to write some cards, take a bath, wash my hair, do some laundry and read some more of my book. I've read the same page over and over at least six times. You know I love Italy, but sometimes I need a holiday from our holiday. Go on without me. You'll enjoy it so much more by yourself.'
And so Keith Remington waited by himself the next day at a cafe for his Secret City guide, Signor Enzio Motti.Hearing a discreet cough, Keith put down his tiny cup of ristretto and looked up. His heart sank. Motti, a small, neatly dressed man in his sixties, carried about him the indefinable, yet unmistakable air of failure. Keith's gloom increased when he learned he was the only participant in the tour. He considered canceling, but Motti seemed touchingly grateful for his audience and was keen to begin.
Keith followed the guide out of the cafe and through the crowded streets. He remembered how keen Janet was to be by herself. The amount Motti charged seemed absurdly small. Even a poor guide, Keith told himself, may teach something of value. At worst, the man would take him to view several shabby, best overlooked sites. The tour would fill in several hours before lunch. He could then return to Janet, without admitting the morning had been a waste of time.
Keith was however surprised to find the Secret City Tour was just as remarkable as advertised.
They began at a pharmacy museum where poisons were once secretly concocted. Motti translated as a retired chemist described the ingredients and horrific effects of the poisons. Glass cases stored sets of poisoned gloves, a poison-tipped dagger, a poisoned undershirt and a ring with a large topaz stone in its setting. The stone swung back on tiny hinges, revealing a cavity that once held a poison powder.
Motti explained, 'This was probably used by a tyrant who would invite foes to a feast. When a rival was seated beside him, he would wait until the man's attention was distracted, then swiftly tip the powder into his wine. The poison was slow acting, so there was plenty of time for the unsuspecting victim to have long left his host's palace, so no blame could be fixed.'
In the oldest part of the city Motti and Remington visited a graveyard, marked by small tombstones.
'These are all the graves of babies,' Motti explained. 'We like to imagine every woman who becomes a nun does so because she feels called to this demanding vocation.'
'This is true of most, but in Medieval and Renaissance times, there were isolated examples where convents became little better than brothels and abortion clinics. Convents were used to imprison girls from rich families, sometimes only during pregnancy, at other times for life. This graveyard was discovered five years ago when workmen were excavating the site to lay sewer pipes. It's poignant to inspect the tiny necklaces, bracelets or charms hapless mothers left in their baby's coffins.'
Keith thought of the agony of the miserable girls and their babies, taken from their arms to be smothered and secretly buried in forlorn, unnamed graves. 'Horrible,' he shuddered.
The two men then walked on for several streets until they stopped outside a large house. Motti rang the front door buzzer and a woman let them into a first floor flat. She then shuffled back into her kitchen where a fat man in singlet and crumpled trousers sat, staring at a televised soccer match. Each time a goal was scored and the announcer's voice rose to a shriek of excitement, a child would wail in fear.
Motti closed the thick, wooden door to the flat and the roar of the television and the baby's cries subsided.
'This building was once the palace of a noted businessman,' he explained. It's now been divided into flats for working families. You probably think it just looks like thousands of similar buildings throughout Italy, but it has an unusual feature.'
Motti took Remington into the lounge room. He pressed a section of wooden paneling on the far side of the room. A hidden door slid back to reveal stone stairs. He led Keith down into a basement and walking through an archway, they entered a small chapel.
'In England,' Motti explained, 'there are a number of hidden chapels. They were built by Catholic aristocrats at a time when their religion was forbidden by Cromwell or Protestant Kings. Yet, here we have a hidden chapel in a Catholic country. Can you guess what religion was practiced?'
'Devil worship?' Keith suggested.
Enzio Motti nodded. 'Yes, this is a chapel devoted to the worship of the black arts. The merchant who owned this home would meet here with some close friends. The services were conducted by a disgraced bishop. Finally, they were all caught and after torture, were put to the stake.'
The two men examined the chapel frescos. They depicted scenes of the basest depravity.
When Keith had seen enough, Motti turned to him with a smiling shrug.
'Today, I have shown you much that is interesting, but ugly. Aspects of the worst side of human nature. Now, as the final sight on our Secret City Tour, I wish to show you something I find strangely beautiful.'
The two men caught a taxi which took them 60 kms from the city. They stopped at the iron gates of a country estate. Arranging with the taxi driver to pick them up in an hour, Motti led Keith up the weed-infested, gravel drive. They mounted a steep set of moss covered stone stairs and arrived at the front door of a neglected, three story villa, designed in the Palladian style.
Motti beat on the door knocker, which was in the shape of a snarling lion's head. After a long delay, they heard feet shuffling across the marble floor beyond the door. The great, wooden door was unbolted and creaked open to reveal a white haired, shriveled man, aged in his eighties. The man scowled at Motti. 'Oh, it's you,' he said in Italian. His bleary eyes traveled without interest over the guide, but started when he saw Keith.
'So,' he breathed slowly, 'You've come at last.' He began to laugh.
Cackling with glee, the caretaker led the two men into the villa.
'What's he mean?' Keith whispered uneasily.
Motti shrugged. 'Ignore him,' he advised. 'The old man is puzzo. You know, touched in the head. He's been caretaker here for longer than anyone wishes to remember. Probably, the isolation helped drive him mad. He's harmless enough.'
'What is this place?'
'The villa was built in Medieval times, then extended in Renaissance times.'
The caretaker led them along the hallway to a spacious drawing room. He then withdrew, cackling with triumph.
'Before we go further,' Motti said, 'You need to know that during the 17th. Century, a group of young noblemen, together with their wives or lovers stayed in this villa for six months. They came here to escape a plague which was raging through the region. Servants were instructed to shop in the local town and prepare meals which were left outside the Dining Room, which you will shortly see. The nobles would then serve themselves. By limiting their contact with others, they hoped to escape contagion. What went on among this group of high spirited, bored nobles we can only imagine. One supposes there was a great deal deal of drinking, gambling and probably group sex. What's interesting is that one of their number was a gifted painter who must have spent most of his exile here producing a life size portrait of the group. This is why I brought you here.'
Motti opened the door to reveal a huge room. The room was furnished with a dining table and at least 20 chairs, chests, buffets and smaller tables, yet the room was so vast that it almost appeared empty. One wall was covered in a profusion of arms - swords, axes, muskets as well as shields and armour. On another wall hung threadbare tapestries depicting hunting scenes. A wild boar was being torn apart by a pack of hunting dogs, a bear in a pit was being clubbed to death and much more. On the third wall were mounted various animal heads, including deer with nets of dusty antlers, snarling bears, and a boar with ferocious, yellowing tusks.
It was however the fourth wall of the room that caught and held Keith Remington's notice. It contained one vast painting. So realistic was the painting that it appeared like a doorway to a further room. Around a heavy oak table, lit from an unseen window, stood or sat a group of men and women, dressed in fine Renaissance costumes.
The depiction of these life-sized figures was astonishing. Every thread of hair, any blemish of the skin, the slow fire of light within rubies or emeralds set in rings or in the necklaces or earrings of the women, all the complex play of light modelling the planes of the face. Those lips: soft and slightly moist, surely they would, at any moment, part in jest or welcome. The light in the eyes, the soft shadow of hair drawn back from the forehead - it was an astonishingly realistic achievement. The young noblemen and women seemed frozen for a moment. It was as though the viewer had entered the room and briefly interrupted a lively conversation. One of their number, who appeared to be their leader, had just turned. A smile of recognition and mischievous pleasure was beginning to spread across his face.
Keith blinked. Impossible, he told himself. He stared again. There was no mistake. The painted figure carried his face.
'It's me,' he breathed.
Enzio Motti glanced at his client with surprise, then considered the painting.
'Perhaps there is some resemblance,' he ventured.
'Who are these people? What were their names?' Keith demanded, the roughness in his tone surprising himself. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, even a little angry.
Motti shrugged. 'It's a mystery. We know that they gathered here. The portraits seem realistic. As you can see, there's no attempt to idealize the subjects - one of them for example appears to be suffering from the effects of inherited venereal disease and another carries the scars of childhood smallpox - the pits in the skin are evident. Some of the women are plain or ugly. There's nothing of the delicate features so loved by Renaissance painters, but perhaps truth and realism have their own beauty.'
'It's odd, but we have no records of the group. The villa was rented. The nobles came with their servants late one night. Nor is there a record of what happened to them when their six month lease of the villa expired.'
Keith stared at the young man in the painting who smiled back. It was as though he looked into a mirror. The painted eyes seemed to hold a look of quiet and amused recognition. Keith stepped closer to examine the glass-like surface of the painting.'
'It's amazing,' he decided. 'I can't see a single brush stroke.'
'The painter must have mixed a great deal of oil with his paint.' Motti agreed. 'I've read that some painters were so determined to capture fine detail that they used a brush with only a single bristle. Still, I must admit this is the finest work I've seen.'
'It's strange we don't know who the artist was,' Keith mused, tearing his glance from the faintly mocking nobleman in the painting. 'You would think that his talent would have made the artist famous in his time and revered today.'
'Perhaps this was his best work. He may have been inspired to achieve this one incredible painting. Anyway,' Motti concluded, 'we'll never know.'
The Italian excused himself to find a toilet, leaving Keith lost in thought.
A moment later, Keith was startled by gentle tug on his sleeve. It was the old caretaker, whose manner had curiously shifted from that of a harmless lunatic to that of a calculating man.
'Signor,' he began in a low voice. 'There is little time before he returns. Take this card. I've written the address on it. Give the card to any taxi driver and he'll easily find his way.'
'Why on earth would I want to come back?' Keith asked in surprise.
The old man appeared disconcerted. 'But you must,' he insisted. 'They've asked for you.'
'Who?' Keith wondered.
'Come tonight. After ten. I'll leave the door open. I never sleep here. Come.'
The old man slid away as Motti approached.
'Has that old fool been pestering you? Should I say something?'
'No, leave him,' Keith decided, sliding the card unseen into a pocket of his windcheater.
An hour later, Keith returned to his hotel. Janet looked up from her book as he entered their room.
'Oh, there you are,' she greeted him. 'How was the Secret City Tour?'
Keith took two beers from the fridge, unscrewed the caps from both and offered her a bottle. He described the tour, but left out any reference to the villa or its painting.
They chatted for some time, then Janet dressed and they dined at a small cafe. Returning to the hotel. Keith showered. When he came out of the bathroom, drying his hair, he found she was already asleep. He felt unaccountably sad, as though the last minutes were ticking away between them. He sat on the bed, watching her for a long time. Around ten, he went down to the lobby and ordered a taxi.
The cab took him through the quiet streets of the town.
Is it too late?, he wondered. Even now, I could order the taxi driver to take me back to the hotel. Why am I going back to the villa?
Yet, despite his foreboding, Keith remained silent.
When they reached the villa, Keith paid off the driver, telling him he would call him from his mobile, if needed. Yet, the words sounded hollow to Keith's ears. He felt drawn to a place from which he would never return. Before entering the garden, he stood for a moment at the heavy iron gates and looked at the sky. Torn clouds swirled around a huge moon. The moon's normally benign expression seemed twisted into a sardonic smile. Keith shuddered and hurried up the path. The trees in the garden swayed violently as though in a great wind, yet he feel no breeze on his face.
He entered the house and groped his way across the entrance hall and down the dimly lit corridor. He found light switches, but nothing seemed to work. There was however sufficient moonlight to enable him to carefully cross the Drawing Room. He stood for a moment before the doors to the Dining Room, afraid to turn the handle. Then, taking a deep breath, he turned the handle, opened the door and stepped inside.
The painting, which he had expected would be hidden in the gloom, glowed as softly lit within. For a moment, the composition appeared normal and he let out a slow sigh of relief. Then, with lurching fear, he saw the group's leader was no longer in the painting. Keith could now see the part of the room formerly hidden by the man's body. As Keith gaped at the painting, a figure emerged from a shadowed corner of the Dining Room.
The next morning, Janet woke with a contented sigh.
'That was so good,' she yawned. 'The best sleep I've had since we came here. What are you doing?' He was sitting on the side of their bed, clicking swiftly back through the images on the screen of her digital camera. 'This is amazing,' he muttered. 'I must understand how this works.'
'I thought you hated my new fangled camera,' Janet laughed.
'That's wonderful,' he said, switching off the camera and closing the opened instruction book . 'So much to learn.'
'Now,' he said smiling as he turned his full attention to her, 'What shall we do today? I can hardly wait to begin. I want you to show me everything that you most like about Padua.'
'You want us to go around today?' she asked doubtfully. 'Won't you be bored?'
He leaned over and kissed her with unexpected passion. She stirred at his eager warmth.
'Bored?' he asked with a puzzled smile. 'Why would I be bored? There's a whole new world out there to explore.'
Once Upon a Troubled Moon© COPYRIGHT 2004 Stephen Collicoat.
Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author.
07/07/04
