by Jaxx Summers
Stefano felt a tingly sensation as her hair brushed against his face. Each time he inhaled he savored her sweetness. Her thin frame nestled against his chest. The heaving, as breath flowed in and out of her body, reassured him that their love would live on. It reminded him that life held promise and purpose.
Anastasia promised to meet Stefano a week from that day. They planned an excursion away from this world. For Stefano, he considered it as more than an interlude.
*****
For the following week, the bewitched lover revived. Stefano praised everyone and everything. He openly adored his mother as she pranced around, her wide hips swaying like drapes blowing in the wind. He remarked on her beauty, although he thought her plain. His brother was in the process of taking on a wife. Stefano studied the couple. His sister, who was also spoken for, was spoiled like never before. In them he saw hope, a future quite similar to what he planned for himself. And as he organized to leave for his fated get away, he clenched to his household.
“I love you, Mama . . . Papi.” Stefano found it difficult to maintain eye contact.
“Will you come with us to the theater?” His mother looped her arm around him, proudly swaying alongside her youngest son.
“I will meet you there. The night is splendid, I’d rather enjoy walking.”
They parted ways. He was left home, by his lonesome. A leather-bound brown travel satchel awaited him. It contained very little, perhaps about two days’ worth of attire. He hadn’t planned beyond that. Didn’t believe he needed to. The only definite thing Stefano believed he needed was his perfect Anastasia.
*****
Stefano slipped away from home, the luggage in tow. The pavements were filled with many people. With everyone caught up in the madness of carnival, Stefano was able to blend in. He wore an elaborate gold and black costume, complete with shiny bauta mask. He initially carried a tricorno hat to match, until it became too complicated to manage without damaging. His golden mask was secure, reinforced about his ponytail.
The closer he drew to the meeting point, the quicker his pace. As their dock came into view, a large streetlamp shone down, drawing attention to how remarkably beautiful Anastasia was.
Stefano’s breath hitched.
He clutched his chest.
No more than several kilometers away stood his blessed lover. Her attire consisted of tons of cloth, but he could recognize her anywhere. Though she wore gold and red eye coverings, perfect pink lips puckered. Several rings of curls fluttered over bare shoulders, nestling on pale skin. Everyone else disappeared from sight. Stefano wanted to drop to his knees and worship at her feet. From this moment on, he had no intention of leaving Anastasia’s side.
“What do you carry, Stefano?”
“Enough attire to carry me through,” he responded. Glancing to her left and right, he was perplexed. “Should I fetch your luggage?”
Anastasia uncomfortably shifted from leg to leg, her frock lazily swung. Stefano’s heart sank.
“I cannot . . .” she cowardly responded. “Such a big decision . . . not at this time.” Her head dashed from side to side.
“You are choosing him instead of me?” His voice cracked.
“No, Stefano. We will wait.” She moved to him with only two full strides. “We can sail on the canal. We won’t be recognized.”
Stefano stepped back, refusing to be influenced. He felt betrayed by the one woman to whom he had given his heart. He flung down his parcel and began pacing at the canal’s edge. There were a series of voices passing by, minding their own affairs. He briefly turned to see pairs of lovers, flaunting their happiness. When he faced his own prospective lover, she drew into him, shamefully pressing against his chest. She easily bewitched him again. There was no more fight as they made way to a nearby gondola.
While they sailed about the canal, the waters sang a lovely tune of promise. Anastasia began humming aloud. It was the first sound to come alive from either of the two. Stefano’s heart weakened as the oar became burdensome in his hands. Nestling it securely across the tip, he allowed the vessel to drift, with only the mild declarations of fated love spewing from Anastasia’s lips.
She’d removed her mask. Her expressions floated across the space between them, the light wind from the waves brushed fresh perfume to the sides of Stefano’s face. His eyelids lowered. As usual, he was in a trance. The boat rocked, forming a natural lullaby.
“We can leave now, mio amore!” Stefano spoke and bore deep into her eyes.
Initially, Anastasia only continued singing. She turned away, as much as possible, considering her dress was highly restrictive.
“By the time they notice our disappearance, it will be too late to stop us,” Stefano encouraged.
And still, Anastasia pretended as if his words held little meaning. Her own ceased, replaced by taunting hums. Stefano’s heartbeat sped up; this time for all the wrong reasons. He took hold of the oar once more and begun moving wildly. With little direction and intent, the gondola spun with and against the current.
After about five minutes of Anastasia’s insensitive murmurs and Stefano’s own frustration, they somehow landed by the Ponte del Diavolo. He stopped moving the wooden oar as before. His guest finally stopped humming.
“Stefano, I will always love you, but we must move on—”
“Never!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. Waves of echoes reflected back.
His lover gasped. “Take me back . . . now, Stefano.” Her fingers spanned across her upper arms. Though her dress’s heavy material was restrictive, she continued to squeeze.
“Do not be afraid, amore. Forgive me. I only want to love you.” He paused, lowering his eyes to stare into her face. It was difficult in the darkness, but he had mastered the art of seeking out her sky-colored irises from any angle. And when she didn’t respond or relax, he moved to be at her side. But it was a fruitless attempt because they only rocked, nearly toppling over.
Anastasia became frenzied. She began waving her arms and twisting away from Stefano’s advances, the gondola started rocking even more so than before. This did not deter Stefano, as he now knelt before her, pressing down on the lower portions of her gown, cutting off the flow of her blood.
“You were born for me,” Stefano pleaded. He rested his head in her lap. “You are mine.”
“I am afraid . . .” Anastasia was barely able to speak. Her dress constricted her circulation. She gasped, but Stefano would not withdraw. He remained kneeling at her lap.
As the moon evaded their surroundings and darkness threatened their emotions, the silence was torturous. Anastasia’s pupils reached wildly for a nearby escape, while Stefano reckoned to remain forever. His fingers reached upward to caress her chin. She pulled away. Her hands clasped, removing any further hope of advancement.
“Take me back!” she commanded. This time her words were quick and rang through the air.
Stefano shook his head. He could not believe that she really wanted to be taken back, returned to a life of sacrifice. For Stefano, love meant everything . . . family meant nothing again.
“No . . . no . . .” He wanted her to believe that their lives would be forever intertwined. He resolved in his mind that tonight would be their flight. She had promised always; he had promised forever. Tonight would begin their always and forever.
“Get away from me, Stefano. I want to go home!”
As her body shook, he only clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Quick sounds that were meant to settle his intended ran against the waves. Beyond the docks, dim reminders of carnival’s festivities carried on the night’s air. But the square was too far away and the participants were perhaps too far-gone to recognize the difference between a woman’s joy and poor Anastasia’s pleas.
“I will scream,” she calmly warned.
“For what reason would you? We are lovers.” Stefano knew that she could not possibly want to ward him off. He only needed to reassure her that he was capable of being her every
thing.
He drew closer. His chest tipped fully onto her lap. She wiggled unsuccessfully. Her feet wailed beneath her dress.
She spat at his mask.
He removed it.
There was not a trace of anger on his face, and certainly not in his words.
“I love you,” Stefano announced. His lips touched her nose, sank down to her lips and reached over to a cheek. “I’m the only one to love you, Anastasia. I’ve sampled your delicacies. I’ve cherished you from birth. And now, I will make you happy for eternity.”
She shook wildly. “You’re a madman! I no longer want this. I no longer want you. I am getting married to Anto—”
“No!” His chest pounded again. Not for love this time, but for anger. For whatever reason, Anastasia was trying to upset him. He couldn’t understand why. They had come together, practically unified as husband and wife. And now she was speaking of another man? “No!”
“I do love you, Stefano, but I have accepted my fate. My future does not lie with you.” With each word, she grew stronger. Her expression became firmer than before. Her position turned upright. She no longer cowered away from him. Instead, she pressed against him. “I enjoyed making love with you. I will never forget all that we have experienced together. You must understand, however, I am not yours—”
“No, Anastasia. You promised me forever.” He could not believe what she said. The woman he’d cherished from birth was dismissing him. “This is not possible. You said for always.”
“I am sorry, Stefano. You will meet another woman. You will fall in love again. You will have—”
“I will never love another woman.”
“You will. And you will treasure her the same.”
“I will hate all other women!” He was now sobbing, leaning into her lap. His mumblings died at her skirt. Life meant nothing without this woman. Pain and disdain bubbled deep within. “I will never love again.” He raised his head at this promise. Sparkles of light from beyond the dock reminded him that this should be a happy time. But he simply couldn’t see it that way.
“I will never forget you, Stefano. Now you must take me back.”
“You’ll understand, Anastasia. You love me . . . yes.” His head moved up and down. “We’ll remain together. You will not ever regret it.”
He would never take her back. She would eventually be thankful he’d kept her there. Reasoning could not convince Stefano otherwise.
*****
The Awakening
After Stefano was thrust back into the mortal world, he went in search of his family home. Inside he found his mother burning candles and chanting along with her friends. The room was otherwise dark. Five of them sat about a tiny circular table that was covered with a black skirt. Each woman was covered in matching mourning shades. Their fingers clung desperately at each other. Mrs. Bonaro’s voice rose well beyond the others. The ritual halted after twelve minutes.
“Is he here?” one of the ladies asked.
“Can you feel him?” another inquired.
“Stefano was my son, I always sense his presence.” Mama Bonaro was irate. Her actions were sharp.
“One year, my friend . . . you've journeyed into this darkness for one year. When will you stop?” A friend mumbled from across the table. “We know nothing of spirits and traveling the realms, only what has been discovered this year.”
The woman to Mrs. Bonaro’s right released her grip. “We have called up Stefano’s spirit countless times. He has not come to us. Perhaps he is not dead.”
“Anastasia’s body was found wrapped in his coat—”
“He was never found—”
“Let it go, please?”
“My son is buried in the waters. I need to know his soul is at peace.” Mrs. Bonaro’s strength was waning. “He would never leave me. My son fell into the arms of that harlot. He is gone because of her.”
No! Stefano cried out. Anastasia would never hurt me. I am the murderer!
“I only wish that I could bring her back to life, so that I could kill her as well,” his mother declared. She pulled out a lock of hair, wrapped it in cloth and allowed the parcel to singe to nothingness. “I hate the entire Soranzo family! May their souls not rest until I see my dear son again. I curse their lives and their generations to come.”
Stefano paced.
He fretted.
He stomped.
Rage made him a viable threat. The angrier he became, the more his abilities came alive. Upon feeling his vibrations, Stefano paused. The room became silent. He started moving once again. Nothing . . .
Mrs. Bonaro looked around, her eyes briefly settling across the room. She stared down her co-conspirators.
“I curse the spirit of Anastasia Soranzo, until my son is found and his soul is at rest.”
Stefano wailed. He began tossing aside every object that he could grasp: lamps, cups, figurines. With each step, Stefano was able to incite fear in the inhabitants, except for his mother. The other women cowered together, slowly backing away from the fluttering candle.
To this madman’s dismay, Mrs. Bonaro continued on. Each declaration she made cut through her son’s heart. She shred and tormented, unaware of what was at stake. While the four women stood clear across the room, his mother sat at the table with her back facing him. Stefano lunged for her. His fingers pressed down into her shoulders. As he sunk into the silky fabric of her dress, he felt empowered. With little fight, Stefano managed to elevate her. The other women raced from the room. They knocked into one another on the way out. Mrs. Bonaro swiped at her neck, screaming as loudly as possible. Stefano’s fingers tightened around her neck. She dangled from his grip, swatting at her invisible tormentor. The more she fought, the weaker she became. Life faded, overcome by darkness.
“Why do you make me hurt you, Mama?” Stefano shouted. “Mama . . . Mama.” His words were swarmed with guttural sobs. He felt her limbs weaken, and turned her around to lift her chin.
“Stefano?”
His finger moved.
“Mama? Do you see me?” He withdrew his hands. It was too easy to manipulate her body. He tried to hear a sound or sense some type of movement.
But it was too late and she could not respond.
*****
Stefano’s mother’s death did not affect him as much as losing Anastasia. But this was a pivotal point in his afterlife. Killing Mrs. Bonaro made him realize that as a soul crossed over from life to death, it was capable of connecting with immortal beings.
When he left his home, Stefano wandered through the town. His head hung low, the outside world had little effect on him. With nightlife came added tourists and increased frustrations. Stefano wanted to trample into everyone, show them all that he existed. But they were too caught up in enjoying life.
Stefano strolled through his beautiful city. He stood in the center of St. Mark’s Square, remembering the Ascension Day ceremony his family had attended with Anastasia’s family. Stefano thought back to Venezia’s marriage to the Adriatic Sea. This not only symbolized their country’s union, to Stefano it also solidified the union between the Bonaro and Soranzo families.
“Why?” Stefano shouted to the sky, sobbing as he repeated this question again and again. He finally dropped onto the ground and remained there. As the ceremonies came to an end, Stefano faded back to nothingness.
*****
Twentieth Century (Late Seventies)
Since that first day, when he awoke face down in the water, he returned to the scene every year on carnival until it was banned just before the turn of the century. When the festivities began once more, Stefano was awoken by its sounds as before. As the visitors and locals readied themselves, he was brought back from hell. Made to suffer without his one true love. Initially, Stefano could not understand why his soul could not remain damned in the pit. The first awakening was the most difficult. It was as though he were called back from the dead, but only his spirit responded. But as the years progressed, he learned to accept his
time on earth.
Stefano was slowly being depleted. Though he was not a huge fan of carnival, he still became violently jealous of the men that walked around, flaunting lavish gold and black suits. He even despised their majestic capes in tow. And he only continued to wither away in the dingy clothing of his death.
Stefano passed through alliances, angered at their happiness. He strolled through the streets and buildings, longing for true human interaction.
No one even noticed when he paused beside the gamblers and onlookers at play. Although he made it a point to mark everyone, they easily dismissed the unknown. He moved with ease and displayed the right type of manners. Yet whereas they all sought total enjoyment from the merriment, he had a different kind of need.
Stefano needed reminders of his human life. Seeing everyone’s joy only added to his frustration. Friends complimenting one other . . . toasting rounds of potent spirits . . . exaggerated laughter. The display was torturous to say the least. And although he wanted them all to pay for his misfortunes, the jealousy that had infested his soul over these years made him feel relevant. So Stefano fed it during these public events. Whether sneering at the crowds in St. Mark’s Square, the Bridge of Sighs or throughout the many alleyways, Stefano had no choice but to be content in his eternal chamber.
As he turned to exit from another location, there she stood. A mortal angel. She was a fixture amongst the bustling carnival goers. Whereas many of the other women were plastered across winged chairs, some piled on one another in overly jubilant displays, this beauty remained friendless. As some women basked in the companionship of their men; not due to a lack of appeal, she stood alone. Her sole companion was a bright red flower that was easily distinguishable.
Stefano stood in front of her, determined to be her unseen escort. His fingers caressed her face, though she felt naught. He sniffed what little of her golden locks he could, as her tresses were secure in a bun. Very little of her bustling figure was exposed, though her pointed chin and firm upper neck led him to believe that she was young and prized. He wondered if she was amongst the common residents. No one could know, since there were no class restrictions during carnival. Many blended easily and were unafraid to wear the garb of all things immoral. Yet she only continued to silently study the rooms.
