Jazz Age Cthulhu Page 8
With my newfound resources, I dined al fresco under the shadow of the Castle Aragonese—an ancient fortress and medieval nunnery perched atop a massive, sea-split butte erupting from the sea. A causeway connects the butte to Pomptinia. My hotel lay across the causeway, opposite the castle. I planned on finishing my delightful meal early so I could sort out my room, but no sooner had I paid the waiter when I saw that cur Giovanni scuttle across the causeway. Although the sky threatened rain, I had an hour or so to explore before any real chance of getting wet. And explore is what I did, for I saw an interesting church on my perambulation, which I would much rather see than Giovanni. A strange church this Lacrima: an ancient domed, cruciform structure hewn from the greenish tufa unique to the Tyrrhenian. A terrace in the steep slope that runs down to the seaside shops formed the Lacrima’s foundation. The church’s red brick dome was topped with a listing cross on the verge of toppling into the street. This decrepitude didn’t make it strange, only forlorn. It was its place near the sea, the open doors inviting the waters hither to rest deep within the apse.
Entering it was entering a dream: The priest is cancrine and aged, a human barnacle clinging to the stones of the Lacrima. When I enter, he looks up from whatever he was doing at the altar, eyes gleaming in the candlelight. He scuttles down the aisle, both arms outstretched, grinning like a street vendor.
“Ah, you have come.”
He hugs me and kisses both my cheeks. His breath reeks of stale sacrament. I push him away, gently.
“Father, I think you mistake me.”
He rests his hands on my shoulders.
“No, I think not. You’re here for carnival.”
He looks troubled for a moment then releases me. “But no matter. All are welcome here.”
His response unnerves me. His senility, perhaps, for what is more unnerving than the loss of self?
“Professor Francesco di Milano, at your service. I was just strolling when I came up the church. I find it—”
“Alluring.”
I intended to say ‘interesting,’ but alluring was the exact word. He sits in a pew and gestures for me to join him. He takes a silver flask from his pocket and unscrews the cap. His expression becomes conspiratorial again.
“For some people, the right people, Professore, there are places on this island which are most alluring. This church, a few gardens, the castle.”
He proffers the flask. I decline. He shrugs and takes a deep swallow. There is something repulsive about this crabbed priest. His casual decadence despoils the island’s beauty, as if he believes he were fit for a grander parish than the most beautiful place on earth. “The eyes want always more,” he says, winking at me as if he’s about to slip a pornographic photo from a Psalter. Oh, yes, we’re such good chums you know what I’m thinking.
I don’t play his game.
“The Lacrima is short for something? Tears of Mary, or Christ, perhaps?”
“Oh, dear, no. What do they have to cry about, at peace among the Heavenly Host?” He pulls from the flask again, long and deep. “Many great beings have tears, Professor. Many great things know woe. Quo maior venter, eo fames.”
The greater the belly, the greater the hunger. My palms sweat. My hands tremble at my sides. I want to smash this little man. He fills me with cockroach loathing and terror. His sour-wine stink. His leer.
“There you are, John. Have you forgotten our date?” A sweet voice calls from the entrance. Saved by the bella. She is tall, thin, her features hidden in shadow by the light from the doors. The wind carries her jasmine perfume.
“Kate,” I say, “you found me at last. I must take my leave, father.”
He chuckles. “As you wish, John Professore Francesco di Milano.”
But then he looks sad, confused. His voice cracks.
“I don’t know you, do I? Are you here for carnival?”
I shake my head. He mutters, “My eyes are a vessel.”
I move to the entrance, but the woman is gone, leaving the faintest trace of honey in the air. I leave the priest to his bibulous natterings.
***
Outside, the bruised sky matched the white-capped sea. The wind flung warm sea spray over the causeway as I crossed. The hotel rose up the crag, rectangular buildings each five or six stories tall set inside the rocks like ancient pueblos of the American west. Walkways, catwalks and stairs connected the buildings. I was too exhausted to admire the cunning design, wanting only sleep as I walked up the whitewashed steps leading to the lobby. Yet, I needed to consider the next phase for improving my impoverishment. I forced myself to make a brief appearance in the main hall before retiring. On the balcony, I smoked a pipe I found in my jacket. Small talk with small minds. Pomptinia Porto lay dark now, but lamps, like a thousand yellow eyes, revealed the contours of buildings. Hmm. Strange turn of phrase, that. Some things just pop into the mind.
***
The rains came in that night, hot and sooty. The street hissed under the downpour. Downstairs, the drummer kicked a 5/4 rhythm and the saxophonist floated over the beat. The rain drowned out the other instruments, so I constructed the melody from the lacuna like an epigrapher musing over a burnt papyrus, creating a story from shredded passages. So it was I took stock and planned my mark.
I am now Professor—a title that admits me to the upper echelons without requiring I wear anything fancier than outdated suits to dinner and comical safari outfits as I roam the island “examining” the flora and fauna. I have dropped hints as to the exact nature of my profession, leaving the questions to be answered, for now, by my audience’s imagination. Is he a botanist, a philologist, a chemist? Certainly not an engineer. I want them to think me intelligent, but impractical, and somewhat bemused by life. An unimportant thinker—competent but harmless. Tomorrow will come the dinner invitations, the polite social tentacles reaching out to test me. Am I important? Should I be known? Who exactly is this Professore in Room 2B? But tonight is for sleeping. Let Nyx soothe my cares into slumber.
YOU HAVE TAKEN MY MEAL
The chancer closed the diary and turned the light down. He lay in bed for a time, but couldn’t sleep. He walked to the window, drawn by the rain and the rush of the rising waves. What a storm. The beach was engulfed. Waves exploded against the quay in spume. And beyond all this, rising against the horizon, stood the black weight of Castle Aragonese. In that fortress a single light shown. The chancer watched that light, hypnotized by its winking. Someone paced the room, periodically blocking the light. But really, how could he see a person from here? The fierce storm, the distance—at least a quarter mile—the darkness. Yet, his eyes saw the shadow eclipse the light in the window. He didn’t drink much. Bad for business. He could nurse a whiskey sour for an hour and make it seem like he was keeping up with the boys. But now he thirsted.
There was a complimentary—Ha! Nothing in this world is complementary—bottle of table wine on the nightstand. He popped the cork and filled a glass. For a time, he listened to the party below and considered going back to the diary, but he returned to the window. And there—yes, there—that vexing light and the figure crossing it.
Now he paced the room and wondered if his own movements were seen, in turn, by the figure above. Would it, too, wonder why it could see with such clarity? Did its pacing create a cryptic communication: flash, dark, long flash? He drank from the bottle now. What was he doing here, the whole country about to explode? He felt coerced, railroaded by Mussolini; by Fate; by the empty, cackling throng of humanity; by all those trillions of atoms, and, as Lucretius put, their capricious swerves. But there were riches here, too. Fat poltroons to be feasted on, where Mussolini’s tentacles didn’t reach, yet. The bottle empty. His mouth sour. Back at the window, the light still shone. Then dimmed. The figure had stopped and now stood at the window. Again, the chancer felt seen in turn. Before the castle, the lightning flashed once and the Aragonese crag shone pale as the moon. In that moment, the figure leapt from the window and fell into the ocean below.
Jigsaw images: the marble stairs, the open door, the wind and rain pelting his face, sloughing off his jacket and shoes, the sand sucking at his feet, sea water in his mouth. The water lifted him toward the crag as he paddled. His arms burned even through the gauze of alcohol. Beneath the window, he treaded water, thrashing whenever the swell brought him too close to the rocks. There was nothing there. Fool. Idiot. His strength ebbed as the ocean cold seeped in his bones.
There.
A dark X floating on the surface. He swam for it. The waves pushed him back. He swam again, swearing, spluttering, straining. He grabbed for it. The body lay face down, clothed in a black dress that spread in diaphanous fillets. He turned it over. A woman’s face, soft and bronze. Her eyes were closed. Her lips dark and sealed. A nun’s habit concealed her hair. He slid his arms under her shoulders and kicked towards the causeway. The water flung them into a narrow niche between two granite slabs. He wedged her upright, his own back pressed against a slab. Her flesh rubbery but still warm. He spat salt water and squeezed her jaw to pry open her lips. He sucked in a deep breath and put his lips to hers. His mouth closed on bone and rotten gums. The cloying, sweet stench of rancid meat filled his lungs. Her flesh melted away. The nun’s eyes were black holes filled with squirming worms. A bloated maggot wriggled into his mouth. He jerked back, tearing his lower lip on her teeth and bashing his head into the rock. Acidic vomit gushed from his mouth and nose. White prickles. Endless nausea. And as the chancer’s mind slumped into unconsciousness, a voice as deep as the Adriatic trench vibrated his bones: YOU HAVE TAKEN MY MEAL.
Diario Di Leiano
Whatever befell me last night has caused me great embarrassment. I must now play the bumbler—that type of professor. The innkeeper found me clutching the side of the causeway, mumbling in fevered delirium. I convalesced the whole day and my fever broke this evening. At least I’m blessed with physical fortitude. Fortunately, I kept the exact nature of my delusion to myself. The staff and, perhaps, the guests only know I attempted to rescue someone I thought was drowning. The hallucinations of bone and rot are for me alone. They look on me as a bibulous buffoon, but, and this is most important, a courageous buffoon. Something that I can play to my advantage. So now, I am the professor, the drunk, the selfless do-gooder. A mixture that excites both pity and (a little) admiration.
I am not, of course, and never have been a do-gooder. It bothers me equally that I should have such a hallucination and that I would heed it. I might save a friend but a suicidal stranger? No. That is not my wont. I could blame the wine. But I know the vision came before Bacchus. No matter. Now that I have my role, I can proceed in fleecing these golden lambs. I shall make a meal of them.
WINK. WINK. A SECOND CHANCER
In this hall of fetid corpses, I learned one thing. No one is what they seem.
***
The dining hall had ten round tables, a long bar, a dance floor, and a raised stage where a quintet warmed up. Lazy ceiling fans stirred the smoke rising from the barflies. The men at the tables, all older and rich as Croesus, wore dark suits and hats. The ones who pretended coolness wore pinstripes or jazz suits. The women wore evening gowns in dark-greens or black. Younger men hung around the bar and had the look of muscle, or maybe they were just the locals. They nursed wine and eyed the tables with watchful disdain. The chancer noted a few movers in industry, mostly Italian but, here and there, Germans, French and English. The English were a good mark with their love of antiquities, especially ones not their own. Yet, he felt a pull toward playing the botanist, his first opportunity. And then there was the art professor. Everyone loved, or loved to hate, the artist. Pleasure rippled along his spine. The world lay wide open. A few looked up to him when he entered. Ah, the story has spread. A Belgian diplomat stood when he arrived and clapped.
“The flounder hero,” he said, then smiled. “Come, a drink.”
The chancer let himself redden with good-natured embarrassment. He walked toward the man, planning to play the kind, bewildered Don Quixote. Well, I couldn’t be sure what I saw. But if I were right and someone were drowning, well, what choice did I have? Anyone would have done the same.
A woman in a black wrap, with her arm draped around a squat, heavy-set man in a wide, light suit, stepped in his path. She whispered something in the man’s ear and giggled. Her hair was black, short, American flapper style. Her almond-shaped eyes enhanced with liner. Around her neck, a choker with a teardrop amethyst, which her index finger caressed as she laughed. It niggled him that he hadn’t noticed them before. He must be more diligent. The fat man was ripe for plucking.
She unwrapped her arm from the shoulder of the pork-faced man. She offered it with a bend at the wrist. The chancer held it by the fingers. For a moment, he forgot he played the bungling professor and gave her a most alluring smile and bow of the head.
“Charmed, I’m sure, Miss—”
“Hey, Vick, the flounder is short two fingers of hooch,” she called to the bartender, before facing the chancer. “Rocks or neat, honey? You look like a neat sort of fellow.”
She winked. “Neat, Vick.”
She snapped her fingers and the bartender poured a single malt. “Now that I’m buying you a drink, how about a real moniker? Unless you want to be Dudley Flounder, or the indelible Mr. Shrimp, or … Sir Ravenous Shark?”
“The humble Francesco di Milano at your service, but truly, like everyone, I am no one.”
“You’re a real charmer, aren’t you?” She kissed her companion on a jowly cheek and in false sotto voce, said, “Run along now, Matteo, and keep our seats warm.”
The man frowned at the chancer, but obeyed nonetheless. As he walked away, her fingers drew a wallet from the man’s coat, slipping it into a pearl-studded clutch so smoothly the chancer wasn’t sure if he was meant to see it.
She nodded towards the bar. “All right, Like Everyone. Let’s see if you know how to treat a lady.”
The five-piece lit into Jumping Jelly Jazz. There was fine scotch in his hand, trouble with a Mona Lisa smile in front of him, and a world away, the Blackshirts roamed. Life was interesting. Let there be revelry.
Diario Di Leiano
Her name is Katarina Kullak, but she prefers Kate, for it is less “stuffy.”
When I saw her, I thought her Cleopatra. Is she the Kate I named in the Lacrima? Vincenzo, Kate’s “Vick,” poured a deliciously strong whiskey, but I exhibited self-control while plotting my next move. One was sufficient and no one noticed when I refreshed my glass with just enough water so the casual observer would think I drank a second or third round. One must keep up with the Joneses. Kate, however, is not a casual observer. She is far too astute, for at one point, she leaned over and said, “Have you sold Houdini that bottomless glass trick?”
Indeed, who is this Kate? In a crowd, she speaks like a gold-digger; to me, like one professional to another. But I overheard her speaking flawless French to an ambassador from Brussels. With me, always English. This is strange since I have spoken nothing but Italian to anyone on the island—with native fluency, I might add. Who knows? Perhaps I am Italian. Kate is overfamiliar, presumptuous and flirtatious, yet she cannot see through to the real me. How can she know what doesn’t exist? No, she has constructed an identity for me that matches my purposes—that is, she knows I’m a chancer. From this, she has cobbled together the persona for herself she presumes I most want to see, that of comrade in arms. Look, I, too, am a clever fleecer, therefore we must be friends. Wink. Wink.
For now, let that presumption play out. She has informed Colonel Matteo Balistreri that I am a botanist from Pisa. The audacity! She susses out one of my possible personas and clothes me with it before I can say otherwise. I, of course, wouldn’t have it and told the colonel she was mistaken. I am, in fact, a professor of classical antiquity with an interest in botany. This is difficult. Now I must brush up on the local lore, for Kate promised the guests I would give an impromptu lecture on Pomptinia’s Greek settlemen
ts. I am not stupid. I read the brochure about the island on the ferry. I said I would gladly speak about Nestor’s Cup, which a shepherd found in the Lacco Ameno community on the south side of the island. Kate stuck her lower lip out and frowned. Just for a moment. Only I saw it. She thought she could catch me out so easily. The Colonel was delighted, as I knew he would be, for Homer was the only poet who, “understood the glory of war.”
I agreed and mentioned, in an offhand way, the trouble the department was having with funding an expedition to Troy. He said we would talk after my lecture. Let the man dream of Achilles; I am Jason. Tomorrow, the three of us—myself, the drunken Colonel Balistreri, and Kate—will explore the Pithecusaeian Gardens and look for the rare, golden Puppet Cornel blooming this time of year. I shall apply some gentle persuasion. Ah, the prestige of sponsorship, dear Colonel. Isn’t it true great men leave their legacy in art and science? After a successful expedition to Troy, why not a wing in the Pisa academy with the name Balistreri? Has quite a ring, doesn’t it?
I pray I sleep well tonight. The rain patters the cobblestones and a gentle breeze lifts the curtains, but when I close my eyes, I see that horrid skull, taste those rotten lips, hear that awful voice. Life away from the mainland rapidly becomes strange.
THE PUPPET CORNEL
In the morning, Kate walked over to the chancer’s table while he sipped coffee. She was dressed for hiking in a white shirt and Jodhpurs that were tucked into knee-high boots. She looked over her shoulder, scanning the dining room before glaring at him. A busboy in perpetual Quasimodo stoop moved from table to table, raking in dishes.
“Listen. I’ve been buttering up that colonel for a week. You lay off your poor professor shtick or find a different mark.”
“Funny, but I remember you introducing me to him.”
“Yes, indeedy, I was staking my claim and showing you that I was smart. I thought you were, too. I even gave you an out. That ambassador from Brussels is a flower fanatic. I handed him to you with the botanist play.”