Wine Before a Duel
November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
6:15 pm CEST
He can almost hear the Joni Mitchell song. Loche imagines Samuel Lifeson sitting at the bar smoking, drinking and singing along with Joni’s haunting refrain. He can see Felix Wishfeill’s head bulging in a plastic bag—a doubled plastic bag.
George sips his wine. Maria sets the bottle in front of Loche.
“You were here before?” George asks.
“I was.”
George nods. “Stupid crazy, yes?”
Loche smiles sadly. “Rearden used to have a saying about crazy.”
“Rearden is crazy,” George says.
“Yes,” Loche agrees. “He used to say that every psychologist faces three fears at some point in their career. He called them his Three Heavy What Ifs: What if I can’t help them? What if I can’t handle it? What if I go in with them?”
“Okay…” George says questioningly.
Loche stares into his glass. “I’m going in with them…”
“Good,” George says. “So I go with you.” He raises his glass. “Here’s to crazy.”
“Stupid crazy,” Loche adds.
They drink.
“I love a sip of wine before a duel,” George says. “It makes me think of joys we protect.”
Sweet Sixteen
November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
7:10 pm CEST
The female vocalist’s voice she knows, without a doubt, but she struggles to place her. Astrid Finnley stands near the bandstand beside the high, gothic-arched entry watching and listening to a quartet of musicians as they perform a version of Led Zeppelin’s “Rain Song.” Even with the mask, she knows the guitarist is Jimmy Page. His movements are as familiar as his guitar stylings. Sharing the stage with him is a percussionist behind a small glittery gold trap kit, a thick-fingered bassist playing an old and weathered upright, and a short, voluptuous siren with long dark hair and a voice like a rock goddess.
For the last hour Astrid has alternated her position between the gothic doors and the balustrade overlooking the canal, watching masked guests present their invitations at the dock and again at the stairwell. Out on the water flash a hundred or more media cameras. The flickering lights remind Astrid of distant lightening.
Marcel is cloaked all in purple and gold. His mask is deep green. His red hair is tucked back into his hood. A few curls straggle out and hang to his shoulders. He does not take his eyes off her, and when she moves, he moves, staying just apart enough to appear as if they are not together. Having him near and watchful eases her anxiety.
But it is the woman’s voice that comforts her the most. Or perhaps it is the mere distraction of trying to figure out how she knows the voice. Its timbre resounds from out of her youth—her teenage years.
“What a show,” she hears someone say as they pass. Their companion replies, “Oh just wait—Ravistelle will deliver.”
How could one not get caught up in the thrill of this moment? Astrid looks down at her gown that spills across her shape like a burgundy gloss. A cloak with a long, airy cape is tied at her throat. Her hair is up, coiled and woven into the shape of a flower—and her mask is a deep brown encrusted with red rubies like droplets of wine. Men notice her standing alone. Their white teeth smile under their masks. Their eyes scan her body. She exchanges her empty champagne flute for a full one as a waiter passes.
Art, music, wine and song in Venice—elegance, glamor and danger. She is high. She is terrified.
The song ends. The vocalist thanks the audience for their applause—and it is when she speaks that Astrid recognizes her. She says to herself, “Ann Wilson. It’s Ann Wilson from Heart.” Immediately the opening riff of “Crazy On You” explodes into her internal playlist. But only for a moment.
Ann Wilson announces, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please join us in welcoming our host, Mr. Albion Ravistelle…”
Lights swing to another stage at the back of the hall. Applause begins as Albion appears from a dark corner. He wears a simple tuxedo. A cape is clasped at his throat and thrown back over his shoulders. His mask is the one Fausto had labored over. It is magnificent, simple and exuding decadence with its white jewels, gold highlights and solemn countenance.
“And here we go,” a woman nearby says to her friend. “This is going to be great.” She lifts her phone and frames the immortal in the screen.
Albion steps to the microphone. “It appears that my identity is now known, for I stand before you as Albion Ravistelle.” He bows. There is friendly applause. Albion’s lips smile below his mask. “I recognize no one and I know you all. How wonderful and exciting that we are gathered here. Welcome to Venice. Welcome to my house. Welcome to the beginning of a New Earth.” He reaches into his suit coat and produces an envelope. From it he unfolds a handwritten letter. “Before we begin, a word from my sixteen-year-old daughter, Crystal. I received her letter this morning and I feel compelled to share it with you.” He lowers the letter to his side as if he is struck with a sudden thought. “To think,” he lilts, “what the world will be like for my daughter—for my daughter—your daughters and your sons—all of our children—and our children’s children—when they inherit the work we have gathered here to begin.” He pauses. His thoughtful tone then picks up, “When I was Crystal’s age, what a time it was. A very different time indeed.” He shakes his head. “It seems like centuries ago.” He raises the letter, “And still we live in a world ruled by constructs that deplete our delicate and finite home. Tonight, esteemed guests, we will rewrite history so we might create a future free from our repeated mistakes.”
“‘Papa,’ she writes.” Albion grins into the paper. “‘In the days since I left you, Dr. Bonin and I have traveled through parts of the Eastern Europe, the Middle East and Africa. So much pain. So much suffering. What would happen if we loved others like we loved our own children? Why can’t that happen.’” Albion raises his face to the audience. His mask covers what Astrid imagines is an expression that likely mirrors hers: a kind of patient humoring of a naive notion. “‘You’ve told me that things like tribalism and nationalism blind the world to love’s potential —but the children know nothing about those things. You’ve said many times that the world economy, in order to survive, must always be growing—and that growth does not support love. In order for it to grow there must be want—there must be scarcity. But the children know nothing about those things. We have seen war-torn cities and villages. We have heard stories of genocide and killing—all in the name of God, country and money. Papa, what do the children know of these things? What lessons are the right lessons, Papa? I have so many more questions—I cannot wait to talk with you when I come home. I miss you. Your loving daughter, Crystal.’”
As Albion folds the letter and slips it into the envelope, he says, “You may say I’m a dreamer.” Albion speaks the words, yet Astrid imagines she hears John Lennon’s melody. “But I’m not the only one. I hope someday you will join us. And the world will be as one.” He lightly chuckles.
“Ah, to be sixteen again. How is it that we,” he gestures to the room of leaders, politicians, CEOs and dignitaries, “have not yet looked back into history and made judgements on our choices—what was backward, naive, corrupt, wrong? War? Famine? Illness? Last year, suicide claimed more lives than war and crime-related deaths combined. And those three figures together are just slightly less than the people killed by sugar diabetes. Many of your constituents prefer economic growth over ecological or social health. Much of the world’s population cannot envision a world without the mortared constructs that have been nurtured by power hungry governing bodies.” He laughs cheerfully, “It is a wonder we’ve come this far.”
“But, my dear ladies and gentlemen, by some miracle, we have come far. Though war, illness and famine still exist, they are becoming unprofitable and obsolete. For the first time in the history of humankind, a light is shinning at the e
nd of a long, dark tunnel. All of us can see it. That light—that pinprick in the black, like a single star, is guiding us to the next few baby steps in our evolution. We trundle toward a New Earth. We leave behind a past once full of meaning. Those gods and religions, messiahs and dollars, countries and anthems—those old fears will fall into the history books as the humanchild’s bad choices.
“What did we seek when we were sixteen?” His eyes scan out from his mask. “What did we believe? My lovely daughter believes she is immortal. She believes in love. And she believes that if she could get everyone to see as she does, we will all become gods. Is that not the definition of youth?
“But then we come along, we the dignified, the powerful, the respected. We teach history. We teach the limitations of love. We teach war, pain, political economy, racism, sexism, fear—need I go on?
“Ah to be sixteen again. Close your eyes and think of it—Put aside the idealism or pure intentions of the mind—but think of the body. The body, for a limited time, immortal. Think of the power, the energy, the youth of that long gone sixteen-year-old body of yours. I know many of you still feel as if you’re sixteen —but the flesh has sloughed that former coil off. Remember its vitality? Its ability to move? Your prime self?” Albion opens his arms and spreads them wide, “Your prime self can return. Death is no longer a mystery. It is a poor part of human design. It is simply something to correct. A problem with a solution.
“But first, the mind must rekindle its true calling, its compassion, its empathy, its belief in love paramount. And this is why we gather here tonight, ladies and gentlemen, to look upon the paintings of Basil Pirrip Fenn.
“Surrounding us in this hall, now shrouded in their own masks, are works that will once and for all illuminate you to your place in existence. By your will and your witness, you will assist in taking control over what has always been beyond the reach of humankind—true free will. Our eyes are our weapons. The afterlife of myth, whatever gods that rule beyond—we are no longer their servants, their entertainment nor their concern. Tonight we will take the communion that will establish a New Earth, and by doing so, we shall abolish the old powers and engineer Paradise, here. On behalf of The Board, and myself, join us.”
There is delighted applause. The lights dim deeper. Beaming spotlights slash through the darkness and point the revelers to the shrouded easels. From the performance stage an entrancing orchestral tone bleeds from Jimmy Page’s guitar, both ominous and inviting. The spider web of cables vibrates as each shroud begins to rise into the air like a sable phantom. Astrid overhears a woman say to her group, “What drama…” Another replies, “I love it. What a presentation.”
Astrid watches Albion descend from his riser. He is joined by three attendants and they escort him toward an exit at the rear of the hall. Before he reaches the door, the lights in the room shift. It is suddenly a little brighter. All of the spotlights go out. The shrouds freeze, their hems resting just above the bottom edges of the framed paintings. Albion stops and turns.
A single spot light slashes to the center of the audience. It illuminates what at first appears to be another shrouded painting. But the covered frame has legs. Legs and high boots. Beside the frame, a stout woman with thick curls of red hair bursting out from either side of her mask shouts out, “My Lord, Albion. Please, stay.”
Some of the crowd applaud at this theatrical turn. Smiles shine below masked eyes. Giggles can be heard. The woman beside Astrid says, “You see. I told you they wouldn’t easily let us see the artist’s work.”
“My Lord,” the woman’s spirited voice shouts. “Come, come. Before we present the work of Mr. Basil Fenn, I have for you a gift. A gift that this time you will not lose.”
Albion quickly steps back up to his riser. Another spotlight flashes onto him. The heads of the crowd swivel to Albion as if perfectly choreographed.
Despite his mask, Albion does not appear surprised. “Why, Olivia Langley,” he says. He waits. He watches her. “I did not think you would accept my invitation.”
“I booked my flight as soon as I read it. I was so excited! I am so excited!” The crowd gives a chuckle to her so excited delivery. Olivia’s joy is contagious.
“Well,” Albion says, almost as if he had rehearsed, “I, too, am excited you have come—for I have made a great many arrangements for you and those that have joined you.”
“Oh, my dear Albion, how very thoughtful of you.” Olivia moves around the man holding the frame covered by a shroud, her blue eyes never leaving Albion. With one hand she leisurely gestures for the onlookers to form a wide circle. “Before we get to our receiving committee, won’t you permit me to offer you a gift.”
Albion lays the palms of his hands upon the podium. “Of course, my dear.”
“Behold, the prices we pay for paradise!” Olivia takes hold of the shroud and snaps it to the side and down. People jockey for a view of the work. Astrid, too, moves to the side and forward to see the work.
It is a portrait in oil of a man with shoulder length brown hair, an attractive face, hazel eyes and an expression that is both questioning and sure at the same time. After a moment of studying the work, Astrid looks back to Albion. His expression, even with a mask, appears sorrowful and troubled.
“Know you this man, my Lord?” Olivia asks.
Albion stares at the portrait. He does not answer.
“My Lord, know you this fellow?”
“Gavress,” Albion replies. “Gavress, Olivia.”
“Rest in peace?” Olivia says. “No such thing for us, my Lord. Do I sense some remorse? Longing? Regret?”
“You would be a fool to believe otherwise, Olivia.”
“Well then,” she says turning to the painting, “this gift shall in some way assuage those awful burdens.”
Olivia places both hands on either side of the large painting, lowers it to the floor and moves it to the side. The man holding the work is now visible. His face is covered by a mask of leaves and branches molded out of leather. Around his throat is a woven wool scarf dangling down well below his knees. The hood of his cloak is thrown back revealing long locks of brown hair. He removes his mask. It is the man in the painting.
“Ithic veli agtig, my friend,” he says.
The eyelets in Albion’s mask fill with two full irises.
A firm hand grips Astrid’s upper arm. Her head jerks to see a figure wearing a black tuxedo and cloak, but his mask is white and droops down over his cheeks. Rearden’s hiss is unmistakable. “Your expertise is now required, Professor. A reading, I beg.” As he pulls her back into the dark and toward a far door, she can still see Marcel. He is transfixed by the drama unfolding beneath the spotlights.
What Is Written there?
November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
7:21 pm CEST
Astrid is shoved along the corridor. If she does not walk fast enough he grips the back of her upper arm and push-pulls her along. She does not cooperate with the pace. Her heels do not cooperate with the pace. “Take it easy! Where are you taking me?” Rearden is silent. She recognizes the last few turns and the final staircase. Through an archway the doors to the infirmary and Dr. Catena’s laboratory appear. She shivers at the thought of Graham being hurt again—tortured.
Silhouetted down the hallway to the right are two security guards. The body of a third guard is on the floor. Astrid can smell tin and bitter smoke. At her feet are empty ammunition casings.
The guards turn to Rearden. Rearden says, “It has begun?”
The guard replies, “Yes.”
“Good,” Rearden says.
He shoves Astrid through the door. The ward is abandoned. As they pass room 10, Graham’s room, Astrid sees the door is ajar. Within, the bed is empty. Rearden does not notice. At the furthest door from the nurses station, room 17, Rearden twists the knob, and pushes her inside. Before she is shut in, she cranes back hoping to see Marcel haunting their steps. He is not there.
The patient m
onitor lights the space in neon, save for a single lamp near the bathroom. Along the far wall is a bed and upon it, asleep or drugged, is Yafarra. Her hair is draped back and arranged above her head like a fountain of gold. In a chair beside her is a figure in black. He wears a hood and cloak. There is another visitor’s chair at the end of the bed. Rearden lets go of Astrid’s arm and points to it, “Sit.”
She glares at him. “Sit,” he says again.
She obeys.
Rearden reaches beneath his cloak and produces the Red Notebook. He sets it onto Astrid’s lap. “Read,” he commands.
Her face drops to the worn cover. “Fuck you,” Astrid says. God, she pleads in her mind, where is Marcel?
“Read,” he says again. His voice struggling against rage.
“Rearden, no. You have no idea what you’re toying with.”
The figure sitting beside the bed slips a long bladed knife out from under his cape.
“Ag, Astrid. Ag!” The sound of Yafarra’s voice snaps Astrid’s attention to the bed. Yafarra’s eyes are horror wide. “Ag!”
Rearden sighs. “The only word she’s said since her arrival here. No. No. No. I’m weary of no.”
Yafarra looks to the hooded man beside her, to the knife and then back to Astrid. “Ag!”
“It was my hope that Yafarra had read the work—after all, it has been in her possession for some time. But she is reticent to my demands. When I introduced my colleague here, Mr. Nicholas Cythe, Her Majesty became downright combative. But no has remained her chosen theme and fixed response.” Rearden’s teeth glow green in the electronic light. “Nicolas and Yafarra go way back. Way, way back.”
Nicholas turns his face to her. Two swirling pools of green glitter coil in the sockets of his eyes. He tilts his face slightly. Astrid feels cold. Her skin crawls.
The Shape of Rain Page 41
