Jazz Age Cthulhu Read online

  “No matter. There must be plenty of meat on the Colonel’s bones. Besides, do you think a broken chalice with a nearly forgotten Greek’s name trumps the flesh of the here and now?”

  “The Flesh? Do you think I’m going to rut with that pig?” She lowered her face within an inch of the chancer’s. “Do you think I’m going to screw him, you bastard? I’m his goddamn long-lost third cousin.”

  Last night, she’d giggled, laughed, touched her hair, and let her fingers trace her décolletage. He never got the idea she was playing the relative card with Matteo. “Ah, that is a problem. The relative versus the hobby. You should have gone with a closer relative—perhaps a niece—or you should have just gone for the pants.”

  He savored an orange slice for a moment. “Third cousin ... not much pull, I’m afraid. A few good meals. A little money for school. You could visit him in Rome, maybe?”

  “Maybe I could have his chums in Rome break your legs and leave you in a ditch.”

  There was something about that phrase, “chums in Rome,” that sent prickles along his arms. He’d come to get away from Rome, from the malignant growth of men like the Colonel Balistreri. Memories of his life there were already just a dream and the Blackshirts never came to Pomptinia.

  She was all smiles, looking over the chancer’s shoulder. “Matteo, we were just finishing breakfast.”

  The Colonel heaved into view and plunked himself at the table. “I’m famished.”

  He ordered kippers, coffee and a basket of cornetti, and didn’t speak until he wiped his face with his napkin. “Before you engage in any great foray, make sure you are well-fortified. We have quite a climb ahead of us to get to the gardens.”

  He stood and dusted the crumbs from his trousers. “I took the liberty of ordering the kitchen to prepare us a lunch we can take. Shall we? I can’t wait to hear about the Cup of Nestor from an expert. I’ve been thinking about it all morning. Do you mind talking shop, Professor?”

  “I welcome the opportunity, Colonel.”

  “Splendid. Kate, be a dear and get the basket from the kitchen, would you?”

  The chancer grinned at Kate—toodaloo. She clenched her teeth and stomped off.

  “What’s eating her, Professor?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  The busboy arrived and began clearing the chancer’s plate. The man turned to him and winked. The tyrant Giovanni.

  “Everything to your liking?” he asked the Colonel.

  “The espresso was a bit overdone, but the kippers—”

  “Everything was fine, young man. Now leave us until we are finished,” the chancer said.

  “Until you’re finished, then,” Giovanni said and strode off without another word.

  The chancer hid his hands under the table. They were shaking.

  ***

  The day was still young when the chancer, Kate and the Colonel left the hotel for the gardens. They walked along narrow roads with high stone shoulders that dripped purple wisteria flowers. They climbed past terraced vineyards until Porto dwindled to a cluster of white-washed boxes along a sparkling blue sea. The Castle Aragonese rose in the sea on its island.

  A few switchbacks below them, two men in gray suits and matching fedoras wended up the trail. One was ox-sized, the other lean and smoking. They had the look of authority from the mainland. One thing was for sure—farmers they were not. They took a branch off the main trail that led to a two-story farm house.

  “Good eating at those farms. For a few notes, you can dine on braised rabbit, or, if you’re lucky, wild boar,” the Colonel said. His stomach growled.

  “Don’t worry, fellas. I have you covered.”

  Kate patted the wicker basket. “I had the kitchen add a little something special for my boys.”

  A gate in a crumbling stone wall marked the opening to the garden. On either side of the gate, bronze statues of Pan played silent flutes. The garden was with thick with foliage and the scent of lemons. Several dirt paths twisted into the bushes. Birds filled the air with their calls, rustling the leaves as they flew from tree to tree. Kate picked a path at random and disappeared down its shadowy gullet.

  The chancer and the Colonel struggled to catch her. They chased her shadow, swatting at branches whose nettles clung to their clothes and stung their flesh. Poison left swollen welts on their hands and cheeks. “Kate. Wait for us,” the chancer said. No answer. They took another fork. Then another. Each path narrower, veins to capillaries. His pulse throbbed in the welts.

  “Kate.”

  Matteo began wheezing, stopped in front of the chancer, and leaned over with his hands on his knees. “Kate!” His shout sent unseen animals skittering through the woods. The Colonel faced him. The man’s head was swelling. The skin on his face blistered then split into a raw red mass that splattered to the earth like wet cottage cheese. In his mouth his tongue blackened, grew, wriggled. His jaw cracked away. The freed tongue fell on the ground, rolling a moment before worming its way into the foliage. The chancer closed his eyes. Spider webs, brittle glass snowflakes, cartwheeled across a dark red sea. “You’re melting, Professor.”

  Icy razor blades shredded his guts, clawed up his throat, down his bowls, ripping toward his anus. He writhed. Hands clawed. Toes gouged the earth. Face against the ground, biting the black dirt, swallowed by the underbrush.

  In the shade of a flowering oleander, four succulent, golden petals spread, opening, closing like a starfish. The Puppet Cornel. He was vomiting.

  Heavy hands grabbed his shoulders.

  THE FAIRY MOST GREEN

  A soldier. His Commander. A marble table. Espresso.

  “God, is it really a person?”

  “We’ve taught it so much. Yes. Why not?”

  “Why not? Because … Because underneath it’s … I remember that stench.”

  “It doesn’t smell, anymore. It looks quite handsome for bait.”

  “Jesus, it looks just like a person.”

  “Just like everyone else on the island. Watch it drink. Damn, it’s still using that appendage.”

  It was the best espresso I ever tasted.

  Diario Di Leiano

  I awoke with an oceanic thirst, my body sweat-glued to the mattress; no water could fill this void. I downed warm water from the washbasin, drenching my chest, feeling the tissue in my mouth unglue and grow plump. Yesterday’s jaunt seemed as brittle as events I don’t recall from childhood, but were told until they became real. No, that’s just so you can understand. I have no memories from childhood; told to me or otherwise. Aside from the thirst, I felt fine, refreshed, my body hale, except for a bruise or two. Poison. Refuge of the weak, the cowardly, but also the intelligent. We must have been poisoned. The list of suspects is small: Kate, who has her mark, and Giovanni, who nurses his wounded pride. Did we eat the lunch? I can’t recall. Perhaps poison also explains my hallucination of the falling nun. Poisoned from the beginning. If that’s the case, the list of suspects narrows to one. One more thing, who carried us home? I need to put events together.

  ***

  Kate has absconded with my colonel; I waited at the breakfast table for them in vain. As my espresso grew cold, I overheard the Belgian delegate remarking that the Colonel and his cousin—he sneered the word—were off on a tour of taverne that dot the shores of the nearby islands. I greeted the man on my way out.

  Bonjour, good fellow. Yes, that was a fine rag we heard last night. I am quite recovered from my swim, thank you. Yes, I’ll be more careful and lay off the booze. I agree it is unbecoming. Excuse me, did you drop your wallet? Let me pick that up for you.

  I left for the docks at once. On the way out, I passed a prominent notice: LECTURE TONIGHT. THE MYTHS OF ANCIENT POMPTINIA BY PROFESSORE FRANCESCO DI MILANO.

  Curse Kate.

  ***

  So many eyes. One mind.

  ***

  It is strange, this feeling of pursuit; the eyes of the islanders upon me at every turn. The shepherd’s bov
ine gaze idly watching me stroll past his flock, the leers of some workers fixing a trellis that came down in the storm. Shopkeepers and stall vendors, too, all stared. I am new, a tourist, and presumably wealthy as the other denizens of the hotel, but this was an intrusion on my well-being. Where does the discomfort come from, me or them? I must still be worried about that pesky Giovanni, the horrors I witnessed. Giovanni. Did he poison me? My mind was on fire. I should take the money I have and leave on the next ferry. But—there is always a but; must I be of two minds about everything? If only there were two, it is more a myriad of choices that ensnare me—but there is the fat score.

  The money for the non-existent Classics department—enough for an expedition, for a building! O, Colonel Balistreri, sirens come in every form, even nobodies from nowhere.

  The boatman accepted franks readily. I unfolded bills from a roll slowly, dangling each one a moment between my thumb and fingers before handing it to the salivating swain. Thus, a lady removes her garments, enticing and promising more. He rented me a power boat. I told him I was interested in the quaint taverns fishermen use. He gave me directions to the closest one, the Sunken Grotto. I passed him another bill, wicked flirt that I am.

  By the by, did you happen to rent to a short, middle-aged man and a young woman? Yes, she is lovely, isn’t she? And their boat? Hera. Fitting, indeed, isn’t it? And now, one more of these lovelies for you. Call it papier mâché, to seal your lips.

  ***

  The engine buzzed and belched its oily stink. The prow lifted over the gentle waves and the dock shrank away like a fall in a dream. He approached a bone-colored, round-topped island that mushroomed from the shallows. A rickety pier, like a skeletal tongue, led to a small grotto. Inside stood a tavern with a short bar and four tables behind a knee-high railing. The wind wafted the scent of grilled sardines and garlic across the shimmering blue water. Already, there were boats gently bobbing in the waters at the pier—a fisherman’s day is done early; a rich man’s feast begins at dawn. He didn’t see the Hera. He swung the boat for another pass. There. Huddled at a small table, Kate and the Colonel with—what?— Giovanni and the priest.

  He brought the boat in hard, smacking against the pier and cracking a board in a rowboat. In a bound, he was on the pier, shoving past a bald waiter, tipping a tray of gnocchi. He stood before them, gripping the table, shaking it, spilling water glasses. The colonel looked up, calamari dangling from his mouth. The chancer’s pulse throbbed in his ears. He released the table. Clenched his fists. The priest hunched over, fearful. Then he straightened, wearing a mask of practiced indifference. Kate rose, holding a glass of prosecco with strawberries, losing not a single drop. A cigarette drooped from her lips.

  “Well who wudda thunk that a bloodhound could drive a boat?” She sipped the prosecco.

  “Sleep well?” Giovanni asked.

  The priest cackled.

  “How long have you been together? What are you playing at?” The chancer’s cheeks burned.

  The priest said, “Just chatting about the carnival. We were—”

  Kate waved him to be quiet.

  “Playing at? Together?” She grinned. “Brother, we’ve been together a long, long time.”

  She dropped her glass. It shattered into a thousand stars. Then she pushed past the chancer. She flicked her cigarette into the water and leapt onto the railing. She turned back, smiled. “Viva il carnevale, Leiano.”

  She stood for moment, arms stretched above her head, then dove into the sea. The chancer threw off his coat. He was at the railing looking down, but Kate was far out in water, a nearly invisible dot on the horizon trailing foam in a long, inverted V.

  ***

  Colonel Balistreri was slapping him. “Get him some water, damn it.”

  More slapping. “Professor, are you all right?”

  He was slumped in a chair, face clammy with cold sweat. The bald waiter with a sauce-stained apron stood by Balistreri, shaking his head. A gaunt waitress cleaned broken dishes scattered around an overturned table. Someone handed him a grappa. It stripped the lining from his esophagus like turpentine stripping paint.

  “How did she swim like that?”

  “Who?” Balistreri ruffled his hair like he was a boy. “It’s all right, now.”

  “Kate.”

  “Kate? I haven’t seen her since the party.”

  “You mean our walk.”

  “We never went for a walk. You canceled as I recall.” He pursed his lips. “At least, I think you did.”

  The gentle slap, slap of waves echoed through the grotto.

  His breathing eased. His heart slowed. The chancer saw the concern in the Colonel’s face. He’d seen the look before. He’d given it a thousand times. It meant, “Pity” and “I want to keep away from you.”

  It meant, “You’ll never see a dime if you don’t pull yourself together.”

  Confession time. And now he’d have to play the alcoholic.

  “Sorry, Colonel. As you can see, I have a problem. Bacchus, I’m afraid, has cursed me, like many scholars, poets, and artists with his divine attention.”

  The man frowned, his jowls drooping. It wasn’t enough. Colonel Balistreri was used to many a drop, many a cigar. He wallowed in the gentle-but-perpetual buzz of the affluent.

  “And … and the fairy most green.”

  “I’m beginning to think that Pisa is not a safe place for my legacy, Professor.”

  “I assure you, it is. Don’t let my peccadilloes dissuade you from the good you will bring to our country. The more we know of Rome, the quicker we can return to her glory.”

  The Colonel’s face softened, gazing in reverie, some glorious battle from the days of Caesar. “I’m sympathetic, but ….”

  “No. I understand. You have seen me at my worst. You deserve to see me at my best. Don’t decide until after my lecture this evening.”

  Agree, you swollen ass. Agree.

  Balistreri nodded.

  ***

  As he left the Sunken Grotto, the weight of the witnesses’ eyes prickled at his nape. Yet another scandal for the Professor. Was it the third? No, the second? The second, if his journey to the garden had been a fever dream. So, was it last night he’d tried to rescue the drowning nun? He drove past a motorboat heading to the grotto. Two men in suits were aboard. The same two he’d seen on the switchback road on his way to the garden. The thin one watched him as he passed. How many days had he been here?

  THE INTELLIGENT ORDER OF ALL EXISTENCE

  Same soldiers. Same table.

  “Damn thing’ll need looking after. At least ‘til feeding time.”

  “Send the Stone to keep an eye on our investment. And someone else too. Someone who can say more than three words.”

  “At least ‘til feeding time.”

  Diario Di Leiano

  The museum’s grimy hopper windows shed dim light through dust-mote air. Nestor’s Cup resides in a dingy glass case that serves also as a sepulcher for swollen bottle flies. The cup is the most pristine piece amongst potsherds and wood scraps that may or may not be handles, oars, or ship pieces. The immaculate vacuum was disturbed only by myself and the curator, Monte Pecoraro, who wore a uniform one size too small, though pressed and flawless. He opened the case for a pack of Lucky Strikes. There is a feeling one can get for an object’s value only through tactile examination. My fingers traced the Greek inscription, searching for its maker: a sailor who watched Troy burn, or a third-century peasant driven by wishful thinking, or a chancer. Even ancient objects have no core. Monte expected something from me. I ran my finger around the odd, grooved lip, playing my role: nodding, umming, occasionally tisking until I allowed a smile to spread across my face. It was hard not to wrinkle my nose. The jar—or the cabinet, maybe—had a feculent odor. A dead mouse somewhere nearby.

  “See here.”

  I pointed to a hairline crack along the length of a running, black figure. “This is genuine. We can never know if Nestor drank from this vesse
l, but, by God, it’s as old as Achilles. And so, Monte, let me ask what you know about the cup’s history. I’ve always found insightful locals often know more than what I’ve read in moldy old manuscripts.”

  Monte, beaming with pride, clapped my back and offered me one of my own cigarettes. He spoke of Typhon cast into the Tyrrhenian by Zeus, of brave Ulysses, of the Roman Republic when Marius fled here from the bloody Sulla, of Tiberius’s pleasure palace on nearby Capri. Here, he studied my face and I detected the man’s resentment for the new authority in Rome. He spat the name ‘Tiberius.’ I committed everything to memory, excising the obvious tripe. I decided to press the advantage.

  “When I publish, you can rest assured, Monte, that you’ll get the credit for showing me the exact crack on the cup that proves its origin.”

  There was no reason for this display, but one must immerse oneself in the role. Kate might stop by, just to see if I’d been here. Monte frowned a little, and pulled on his cigarette. “You are a genuine fellow, Professor. How long will you be staying with us?”

  “Oh, quite some time, perhaps much of the August holiday. The carnival beckons.”

  “No. Spend your time in Naples. Pomptinia is too hot and everything will be closed in a few days.”

  “The island agrees with me. A man can say whatever he wishes here, without the Blackshirts taking notes. I can breathe. This is the best place in all the world: sun, water, carnival.”

  I took a chance on the man’s sympathies for the opportunity to flatter his home. Flatter the land; flatter the man. But Monte shook his head. “There is not much here. After a few days of sun and water, you’ll want to return to the mainland.”

  “Well, perhaps you’re right.”

  I know when not to push an issue. Bend and agree is a commandment in the trade.

  He placed his hand on mine, a surprisingly intimate gesture. “Professor, this island has eyes, too. A thousand hungry eyes.”

  He removed his hand, laughed a little. “Just don’t get involved in any local dramas.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  A thousand hungry eyes, a phrase that brought that decayed face filled with worms to mind. However, what could he mean by it but that the locals envy the tourists? I won’t begrudge them their envy of those swollen ticks that live in the hotel. I’m here for the same reason. Still, something about that phrase sounded a warning deep in my guts. I set the cup back in its case—ugh, the smell—and noticed a black-and-white print on the adjacent wall: Pomptinia in the style of Piranesi’s Roman etchings. Gone were the 20th century buildings—whole neighborhoods vanished. The cozy communities near the sea, various ruins dotting the idyllic landscape, only the Lacrima and the castle remained. People wandered the countryside, so cunningly etched that with the aid of magnifying glass, I was sure to see their faces. The print included various Renaissance flourishes: in the corners Zephyr, Notus, Boreas, and Eurus drawn as puffy-cheeked clouds blowing across the island. Finally, under the water in the bay, lay a massive, sleeping face with chalky-gray lips, pursed and swollen charcoal cheeks. Words cleverly written in the foam read: SUPER FRONTEM EX FRONTE. Upon its brow, from its brow.