Midnight at the Tuscany Hotel

by James Markert

  “This hotel—the way it was—was once the envy of every hotel built before it and the goal of all that came after. But that was a fool’s dream, because this”—he gestured to the rooms and stones and sculptures all around the piazza—“cannot be duplicated. It was my Maggie that made this place tick. She was the one who inspired all of this artwork and inspired me to turn my Renaissance dreams into reality. I soon realized she was not only my muse, Vittorio, but everyone’s muse. Painters came to put color on these walls and ceilings, but none . . .”

  “None of them what?”

  “None of them could do what you could do. Not with the precision and detail and innate understanding of color that you were born with.”

  “You encouraged me to paint replicas because you’d once seen them in true color.”

  Robert nodded.

  “But you were married for years and years before I was born. Decades. Why did you wait so long?”

  Robert let out a chuckle that then settled as a deep, heavy sigh, and looked at Vitto with sad eyes filled with guilt. “You want the truth, Vitto?”

  Vitto nodded.

  “I never wanted a child.”

  Vitto waited for more of an explanation to help soften that blow, because the words had punched him hard. Had Magdalena fought Robert about that? Had she wanted a baby and he’d finally given in? Had they been trying for that long only to finally, miraculously, conceive? Was he an accident, unwanted by the both of them?

  “We were truly happy, Vitto. I was a god here—at least I felt like one. My dreams were being realized every day. And . . . the idea of a child felt like a threat. That sounds selfish, I know, but you have to understand what things were like back then. The tenuous nature of what your mother and I believed we’d been given—and not just given, but given back. Like we’d been given so much, and it could be taken back in a minute. And then there were all those stories your mother used to tell you at bedtime—those outlandish stories about sons overthrowing fathers, castrating them with sickles, the fathers eating their children.”

  “You feared the son.”

  “Yes. As foolish as it seems now, yes. But it wasn’t that I merely feared the son, Vittorio. I feared altering the life we had. What we thought was perfection.”

  “Your return to the Renaissance.”

  He smiled. “Our rebirth.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, we never stopped trying, even after your mother reached the age we assumed a child was unlikely.”

  “I assumed as much.”

  “Your mother was convinced that her purpose was to bring a child into this world. She prayed for a miracle, and I suppose you were that for her. It made the headlines, you know—everyone was astonished that a woman her age could bear a child. Although she didn’t look her age or act it. She was still vigorous and beautiful—not a hint of gray in that glorious hair. Maybe those years without memory protected her somehow, slowed her aging. Or”—he shrugged—“maybe it really was one of those miracles Father Embry likes to talk about.”

  “But my birth changed things for you, right?” Vitto didn’t really want to hear it, but somehow he needed to. “I was the crack in that seamless shell, wasn’t I?”

  Robert’s nod was slow, reluctant. “It didn’t happen right away, but over time it did. At first we held you with nothing but love and joy. How could we not? You were beautiful in every way. But you’re right—your birth changed things. Changed us.

  “Within months, colors became blurry to me. By the time you were walking, they were fading, as was your mother’s memory. She took to carrying her journal around with her again, jotting down things she feared she’d forget. Now that she had a child to take care of, she worried she’d forget to feed you, to do the daily things of comfort any right-minded parent should do. And as for me, by the time you showed me your first painting, I saw only grays and whites again. And I was bitter about that—I admit it. When everyone else looked upon your walls and ceilings and canvas frames with amazement and joy and disbelief, I saw only what I couldn’t see. What I’d had for a time but lost.

  “So I turned back to my work, except not with the joy I’d had during my golden age but with a newfound drive to create something so great that the gift of color would be returned to me, along with your mother’s memory. Some kind of offering—or maybe a bribe—to the gods who had wronged us.”

  He sighed. “It wasn’t a conscious thing, of course. At the time, I just felt compelled to work. But I can see it so clearly now, looking back. I spent your entire life trying to create that next sculpture, that next masterpiece, until I was consumed by it and suddenly you were off to war.”

  The words were on the tip of Vitto’s tongue, but he couldn’t say them, not with the ball of nausea wanting to emerge with them. I’m sorry. But it wasn’t his fault. He knew that. He’d somehow stolen his gifts from both mother and father; but he’d had no control over what was happening.

  Robert braced his arms on the edge of the fountain; they trembled as he pushed himself up to standing. He laid a large, bony hand on Vitto’s shoulder. “Don’t ever apologize, Vittorio. Don’t ever. I’ve come to realize things now.”

  “What could you possibly realize from this?”

  “That I wasn’t wronged by anyone or anything. I was righted, Vittorio; my ship in the water—it was made right. And now I’m thinking that perhaps your mother and I were given those gifts for a short time so we could pass them on to you, perfected. My only regret is that I didn’t see that earlier. And for that I’m sorry.”

  “No, I should—”

  “I told you.” His voice grew stern. “Don’t ever. Parents sacrifice for children. You’ve been given gifts. Use them.” He straightened slowly, and his shadow mingled with the shadow of Cronus. “Do you remember when I’d take you to the creek when you were a boy, and we’d float Mr. Carney’s wooden ships?”

  “Yes.”

  “You once asked why boats float.”

  “I remember. You said it was because they had to in order to get from here to there.”

  “But then I explained.”

  “An object will float if it weighs less than the water it displaces.”

  Robert smiled. “Our friend John is on to something. A barrel of sunshine or a barrel of stones, right? Be the sunlight, Vitto. Move in the water, but try to stay on top of it. Even the tiniest of stones can sink. The most massive of boats can float.” His smile simultaneously showed both life and a welcomed death. He turned, walked slowly away.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to bed, Vittorio, as should you.”

  Vitto watched him walk across the piazza, and just as he’d nearly disappeared into the shadows, he called out, “Dad.”

  Robert turned. “Yes.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, son.”

  Twenty-Eight

  The next morning Vitto rustled William awake, and, while Valerie slept, walked his son out into the sunlight. They found a table and shared pieces of sweet bread and glasses of milk.

  William wiped his mouth free of crumbs and asked, “What’re we gonna do next?”

  Smiling at the eagerness in the boy’s voice, Vitto leaned in close. “Do you know why boats float?”

  His son thought on it. “Because they’d sink if they didn’t?”

  “Correct.” It wasn’t the answer he was thinking about, but it made as much sense as any, and he didn’t feel the need to go any deeper. That wasn’t the point of his morning plan, the idea that had come to him during the night and kept him up until the sun rose. He’d begun to share stories with his son, but other than working together in the olive groves and vineyards, they’d yet to do anything that fathers and sons should. “Have I shown you all of Mr. Carney’s boats?”

  William shook his head no.

  “Then I haven’t been doing my job.” Vitto took William’s hand, both of them under the curious gaze of Robert, who had taken his usual spot acros
s the piazza, and led him up the spiral steps to the second floor, where all of Mr. Carney’s wooden ships awaited. Vitto, when he was holed up in that room, had taken the time to clean them all, so they now gleamed dust free—ancient ships of Greece and Rome and Vikings and pirates. Ships of exploration and ships of battle. After thirty minutes of perusing the shelves and tables, William selected the ancient Greek trireme, while Vitto grabbed the smaller Korean turtle ship, a boat he claimed had beat Valerie’s boat choices on many occasions when they were younger. They hurried with their boats back down the stairs, out the front of the hotel, and through the fields until they reached the creek and the one-lane bridge.

  Vitto was a little worried when they first got there. Every boat he’d ever sailed had meandered toward the monastery, so now that the creek had changed course, this outing would be uncharted waters for them both. They knelt in the grass and let loose their boats, and immediately the water swept them away. They gave chase, each cheering on his respective ship. After ten minutes of following the creek bed as it twisted and turned, they grew tired, and for the first time Vitto wondered how far the creek ran. They ducked under branches, stepped over brambles, walked through side streams, slipped in the mud and wet grass, laughing as they continued onward in pursuit of the fleeing ships that rocked, eddied, and nearly capsized on two different occasions before breaking free yet again.

  After thirty minutes the boats had sped out of their sight, but they followed the water until, an hour and a half later, they found both boats stuck in a small alcove and jetty that William swore looked like a palm of a hand, a tiny lake of calm as the rest of the creek sluiced by, both of their ships nosing the mud as if expertly docked.

  Their boats were not alone, as William was eager to point out. The ship Vitto had sailed upon their arrival months ago rested there, now muddied and torn by the weather, overturned against a muddy rock. Next to it lay the carnage of what could have been wood from boats of decades past. At least that’s how they described it to Valerie and Robert when they returned near sundown, muddy and sweaty and grass-stained. Valerie, who’d had no idea where they were and was beginning to worry—her “let kids run free at the hotel” attitude apparently had its limits—opened her mouth to scold them both until she saw the childlike smiles on both their faces. Then she relented with a smile of her own and a laugh-charged demand that they both go inside and clean up before nightfall.

  Which they did.

  And that night, at William’s urging, Vitto continued his story.

  “For the sake of the story, if it helps you to picture it, think of Cronus popping his children into his mouth like olives.”

  “All at once?” asked William.

  “No, but as soon as each new child was born, he’d pop them into his mouth to get rid of them. Remember his father’s prophecy—that he was destined to be overthrown by his own child.”

  “He chewed them up?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know for sure. But you’ll find out in a minute why I think he probably swallowed them whole.”

  “What were their names?”

  “Let’s see, there was Demeter, Hestia, Hera, Hades, Poseidon.”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “And Zeus.”

  “I’ve heard of him too.”

  “But Cronus didn’t eat Zeus.”

  “Why not? Was he too big for his mouth?”

  “No, Cronus’s wife Rhea tricked him.”

  “What was she the goddess of?”

  “Fertility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Having babies and stuff. So she was getting sick and tired of her husband eating all of their children right after they were born. So when Zeus was born, she swaddled up a rock instead.”

  “Rocks don’t look much like babies.”

  “No, they do not. But Cronus fell for it anyway. He swallowed down this rock, thinking he’d just eaten Zeus. That’s why I think he ate all his children whole.”

  “’Cause he would’ve cracked his teeth on the rock.”

  “Probably. And so Rhea hid Zeus in a cave on the island of Crete, where he was raised by a goat named Amalthea.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You believe he ate his kids whole, but you don’t believe in goats?”

  “Not talking goats.”

  “Who said it could talk?”

  “Figured it would have to if it raised Zeus.”

  “Well, you’re right. Amalthea was a kind of goddess-goat. But she must have done a good job, because Zeus grew up without being found and eaten, and later he even became his father’s cupbearer, and Cronus never even knew it was him. But Zeus knew his father had eaten his brothers and sisters and tried to eat him, and he wanted revenge. There was another Titan goddess named Metis who decided to help Zeus. She gave him a mixture of mustard and wine to put in Cronus’s cup.”

  “Ick.”

  “I agree. But Cronus drank it. And you know what happened?”

  “What happened?”

  “Cronus vomited up the children he’d swallowed one by one, setting them all free.”

  “And they were still alive?”

  “They’re gods. They can do just about anything.”

  “Like Grandpa Robert?”

  “Sure. Like Grandpa Robert.”

  “What’s wrong, Dad?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “So what did Zeus do next?”

  “He gathered up all his brothers and sisters and convinced them to start a rebellion against their father, Cronus. This is what started the Titanomachy.”

  “The what?”

  “The great war between the Olympians and the Titans.” He ruffled his son’s hair. “But we’ll save that for another night. Ticktock goes the clock, William.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Summer 1884

  Southern California

  Robert knelt in the grass, held out a hand to keep Magdalena from coming too close.

  Odd, how the stones were configured, most of them half-submerged in the mud and scattered haphazardly. Possibly fallen from the sky, as the locals insisted. Certainly not carefully placed. But they were smooth, as if they’d once been part of something now broken.

  Wind whipped across the cliff, the outcropping of land overlooking the ocean he’d seen in his dreams. Down below, hammering echoed. A monastery was being built for a cloistered gathering of monks.

  Robert ran his hand over one of the stones, wet from the water eerily bubbling up from the surface, the real reason he held Magdalena at bay. He sensed pressure beneath and feared it could erupt suddenly, like a geyser.

  Footsteps stole Robert’s attention. Juba approached from the east, having gone exploring close to an hour ago.

  “There’s a creek over the hill, with water that flows to a lake next to that place they’re building down that way. A small bridge could easily be constructed over it.”

  Robert nodded, smelled the air. He’d seen the creek in his dreams too. “This is the place.”

  “What place?” asked Magdalena, hugging her arms against the cool wind, her eyes on the water coming up from the ground.

  “I will build my hotel right here, Maggie. I will bring Tuscany back to you and the Renaissance back to the world.”

  “What is this place called? It’s like the edge of the world.”

  “California,” said Juba, turning slowly to take in fully the rolling hills and vast ocean.

  “I’ll name it the Tuscany Hotel.” Robert wondered if Juba was imagining the building as he now was. The sculptures he would create. The guests who would come.

  He focused again on the stones, like perfect teeth half-buried in gums of mud and grass. The bubbling water. He put his fingers in it, brought it to his lips. A memory flashed—of his adopted father, Cotton Gandy, cradling him in his arms seconds after he’d rescued him as an infant from the banks of the river.

  Magdalena’s orange hair rippled with the wind. Her face to him was stil
l the color of stone, but her eyes now showed olive green. The top of her right hand had begun to show a smooth tan, and her dress held hints of blue along with the yellow he’d seen on the ship.

  He dug out one of the stones, wiped the dirt and mud from it, and showed it to Magdalena and Juba. “We’ll use these to build a fountain. And around it a piazza . . .”

  Thirty

  March rolled in with a wave of late-spring heat, and by the ides, early blooms of gold and scarlet had emerged in the poppy field. The olive trees he had trimmed and tended on the terrace were already showing buds, and in the vineyards, the dried-out vines he’d pruned and watered showed signs of leafing out. Vitto had no idea how long it would take to regain the quality of oil and wine the hotel had once produced, but he was determined to get there again.

  In the weeks since he and Robert had sat talking by the fountain in the middle of the night, Robert had aged visibly; his hair thinner, veins and bones starkly visible beneath the pale skin on his arms, and his eyes retreating into deep sockets. While most others in the hotel—even Cowboy Cane—had smoothly transitioned into taking the lighter doses of water, falling into the pattern of lucidity and awareness during the morning and gradually becoming more confused in the evening, Robert had resisted all efforts to slow him down and continued to drink the water at will.

  “I don’t wish to spend even one more moment alone, Vitto,” he insisted.

  “You’re not alone.”

  “When the disease takes you, you’re never more alone.”

  He spent his days outside in the sunshine, not carving—he barely even stopped to look at the untouched slab of marble anymore—but shuffling slow and methodically around the piazza, smiling and mingling, telling stories of the hotel’s golden age to any guest who would listen. Often they’d find him gazing at various parts of the hotel grounds as if proudly overlooking his vast kingdom.