Lizzi Bizzi and the Red Witch

by Stefano Pastor

  The few moments of tranquillity that comes after each rebirth were shorter, his body was weaker and sick, he struggled to concentrate, he stopped writing and even more he stopped experimenting. He only wanted to rest.

  The physical damage extended over his body and with it, pain. Death often took him from his bed as he was less likely to get up.

  It was during this period that his obsession was born.

  And if someone, in a good day, had found him in those conditions and, thinking he was dead as it was, had he be buried? He became more misanthropic, closed the door of his home to everyone and he began to get out more and more rarely, just to get food. He barricaded himself at home.

  One day, he had already lost count of how many times he had died, in autumn of 1927, a bizarre idea appears in Mr. Provera’s mind.

  He had to prepare his tomb.

  Since death for him would not have been the eternal sleep that was so intimidating to other humans, it was important that the place where, this supposed eternity, was spent comfortable. One thing he was clear: Soon, very soon, his body won’t be able to move nor be seen by anyone.

  He was deteriorating, it was a continuous progressive deterioration, and even though life refused to abandon him, it would be the same when reaching to the tomb.

  He put a lot of care in building it, designed it with the smallest details and ordered to be done. The funeral chapel was so big and full of wonders that everyone was amazed and vegan to say that he was building a monument to himself.

  Mr. Provera did not care about these tales. He gathered in the chapel the remains of those he had loved, of friends and relatives, and sculpted their faces, to have them always alongside him. On the tombstones he wrote his best poems, and adorned the walls with friezes and ornaments. He made the most beautiful tomb he had ever seen.

  Mr. Provera’s fear was that he could not finish it in time, with the risk of being discovered dead and inhumed in the cold earth. That is why his paranoia grew and covered the doors with chains and padlocks, so it was impossible to get into his home.

  The years passed by, one, two, he found himself at the threshold of 1930, and even if physically he was only eighty, his soul seemed to have already been a thousand years old. How many times has he died already? He could not have been able to say. Now his body was so debilitated that he rarely got up from the bed, and the deaths happened faster and faster, a few days apart. The risk was getting worse.

  Even his certainty of immortality had severely cracked. Soon the moment would come that the conscious part of his existence would have been less than the death periods. And if they had been shortened, as was expected to happen, in a good day he would not have been able to wake up. The thing is, deep down, he wasn’t scared anymore. His life, how it became, did not deserve to be lived.

  His fear had become a different one.

  What would his life been, waiting for oblivion, locked in a coffin? Because that is how it was, despite the beauties of his chapel, he would have had no way of enjoying it when he was dead.

  It was there that the idea made him famous in the years to come. It did not have to be buried.

  He built a large concrete chair, similar to a throne, where he could accommodate, and created a chain system that would keep him locked, preventing him from changing position. He tried it for a long time, to be sure it was perfect. Only then did he declare to everyone that he wanted to be buried like that.

  He could not see any other way: The chains would always keep his body right, even during death, and he would have been allowed to enjoy the sight of what was dear to him in wakefulness.

  He made sure this decision was enforced, and then Mr. Provera gave the date of his death to the small amount of friends and family that still remained. He specifically asked to be transferred to the chapel together with the unusual coffin he had chosen and to be locked up.

  He did not have a choice but to be sure that his wish was fulfilled, to find himself dead chained to that stone chair, and that the chains were so welded together that he could not be removed. Only then he had hope and they had to content him.

  On the 12th of April 1930 Mr. Provera lit a charcoal burner to warm himself up and sat for the last time in the chair. He fixed the chains as close as possible, and then set out to wait. Death would not take long, seen as he visited him more and more frequently. He was not in a hurry, he was willing to wait.

  That was how he was found in the morning of the 14th of April, and it was noticed that death arrived. Since the causes were certainly natural, despite the unusual place where it had been found, the death certificates were signed. Everyone was astonished at the foresight he had.

  At dawn the following day the funeral took place. The coffin was loaded onto a chariot and carried to the chapel. It was located right where he had pointed, in the exact centre, surrounded by the sculpted loved ones.

  It was a bizarre choice, which left everyone in embarrassment since never a deceased body was left on plain sight. For this they were quick to complete the ceremony and closed the chapel.

  Mr. Provera got back to live at sunset. He felt joy when he saw the place where he was, and he knew he had made the right choice. It was almost a pleasure not to be forced to move, nor to nourish. He loved that peace and company. He let himself be get consumed by the silence and slept in that quiet room. He did not even die until a day later.

  And since then he has died, died, died and has endowed an infinite numbers of times. Even today, looking inside the chapel, you can be surprised to see the state of conservation of his body, similar to a mummy yet unbroken, how can people laugh at the foolish rumours when so many have seen that mummy move over the years.

  And if one had enough time to lose and was willing to observe it for days and days, he might even notice a flicker of imperceptible life in that body, a lash of eyebrows, or a sigh. But you should be careful to perceive it, because it would take only a moment.

  February 2011

  TARTAN

  Translation by Cinzia Albanese

  When Terence died, they found a treasure in his house. They even resurrected me, after years in the darkness. The drawing that depicted me were put into famous museums and were part of the highly exclusive private collections, but I didn’t exist anymore. I wasn’t that.

  At thirty-five, with a hint of bacon and a peeling principle I didn’t have anything from that beautiful guy that he painted, shaking the whole world. I myself had removed those seven years of my existence, as if they had never existed. I kept modelling, but in different roles. They no longer called me for underwear services, but as the father of the family. I was, in the end, Anna is expecting for our second son.

  For years I was the mystery that had everyone fascinated: if I was or less Terence’s lover. I’ve always refused to talk about it. The strange relationship that united us was too personal.

  When they knew that these portraits called me. Terence’s didn’t leave the house for two years. He didn’t do any showings or sold any pictures. In that house, there was masterpieces of priceless value, one on top of the other, without importance. His study was a battlefield. When I arrived, they were still cataloguing.

  «What do you think?», Jack asked me, his agent, with shinning eyes with the idea of the money he would gain.

  I couldn’t breath, in front of a painting he was holding in his hands, I have never seen such beauty. The model was too, of course, but the paint was different, the colours shined as if they had their own life. It was something completely new. There was love.

  Yes, Terence infused in that painting all the love that he had. And it was a lot. I remained shocked, then I asked: «Who is that?».

  Jack grimaced. «I was hoping you could tell me. In the title he calls him Tartan, a nickname for sure».

  «I don’t follow that circle anymore», I had to admit. After Terence, I had never posed for any other painter.

  «His even better than you», he answered back, without fear of hurting my feelings
.

  I was. I have never seen a young man so beautiful. Golden hair, blue eyes, a perfect musculature, an enchanting smile. He was the absolute perfection. In most of the paintings he was naked and didn’t show any defect.

  «So, you can’t help us?».

  There was a strong delusion in his voice. I didn’t say anything.

  It wasn’t important who Tartan was. There were forty-seven portraits that depicted him. All painted in only two years. Terence painted sixty-eight of me, but he needed seven years. Wonderful paintings, marvellous, but missing love. I was only a body, the best body he had found.

  There was nothing between us, this is what I was trying to hide. I preferred being considered an ambiguous, rather than a manikin. Terence didn’t want me. If only he showed a little bit of interest I would have gone to him, even if it’s not in my nature. Terence was the genie, the most famous painter in the world. The crazy and most bizarre. The loneliest one. I would have done anything to please him.

  Tartan managed to. Love flowed in those paintings, it was impossible not the get addicted to it. It was incredible to think that someone could be loved this much. But it existed. A palpable desire, carnal, a total union of their spirits. The joy of not being alone anymore. I could see it and it made me suffer.

  I searched him for weeks and finally I found him. I received old friendships, I returned to the world of fashion, I found the most asked models, but nobody knew about him. At the end it was a friend, that didn’t know anything about fashion, who recognized him.

  «That one bangs», he said.

  I couldn’t believe it; Terence’s love couldn’t be an escort.

  «I promise, I’ve seen him. Of course, I don’t go to those kinds of types, but his always there when I go and meet Lara. He doesn’t do much, just lies on the porch showing off».

  There was a bad area, like in every city, where prostitutes and drug addicts frequent. He fell for an escort, and every week he would go and see her. Trying to buy her off and take her to the altar.

  I went too, to find him. As expected I found him showing off. On a porch, naked chest, sat on a seat. He couldn’t be older than twenty and he was the most beautiful man that I have ever saw. I was so fixated on him that he realised.

  He got up in such an elegant manner, muscles dancing for him. «Isn’t it majestic?», he asked me. «Wait until you see what’s under the trousers».

  I was shocked, I couldn’t speak. It was all there, Terence’s secret, a good body to shag?

  «Hundred euro for one hour. Five hundred for the entire night».

  I really couldn’t speak.

  «You are scared that it will misfire? I assure you it’s all real, you can check it. I can go for hours without getting tired».

  Terence couldn’t have got this low, it was impossible. If this is all he needed why he didn’t ask me?

  «Decide, I can’t wait».

  I did something crazy, I had to know why he was so special. It was for my own sanity. «One hour», I whispered.

  The boy started laughing. «You will enjoy it so much you would not want to stop».

  I followed him to the back of the house, with a knot on my throat. There were no beds in sight, he asked me to sit in the middle of the room. I was sure he was going to perform some sort of erotic show just for me, but he went to get what looked like some earphones.

  I got agitated. «What’s that?».

  «The Tartan», he answered. Then he busted out laughing. «I call it that, the complete name is too difficult to remember. It’s not easy to find you know? They made it illegal. Cost me a lot of money».

  I was gobsmacked. I remembered something about that device, old news from a few years ago. They demonized it on television. Nearly the plan of an evil man. Being found in the possession of one would mean immediate jail time, and he was putting it on me.

  He placed it in my hear hiding it with my hair. I felt a tingling sensation, while the cables were connecting to my cerebral cortex. A wink of the eye and I was there looking at my body sitting.

  «Everything ok?», he asked me.

  I was in his body. I became that beautiful man.

  I looked at those strong hands, the smooth and young skin. «Rent your body!», exclaimed.

  He looked suspicious. «What did you think?».

  I was embarrassed. «I thought it was about sex».

  «Of course it’s about sex, what else? You can do what you want with my body, fuck anyone you want. Men or women, it doesn’t matter, the body doesn’t remember and I will never know. Try not to exaggerate, but, make sure you bring it back».

  I kept fixating on him and he took it easy. «Not with me, forget it! There’s some filth that I don’t do. Look around you, there’s plenty of fresh meat».

  Poor Terence, was this his mystery? All that love for a rented body and for the spirit that possessed him. A spirited that he considered really good.

  He was deluded, but at the same time appeased. It was obvious he couldn’t compere, Terence always and only loved himself.

  Those pictures were nothing else put self-portraits.

  March2013

  LIGHT OF MY EYES

  Translation by Cinzia Albanese

  There was only darkness. An everlasting darkness, eternal, broken by noises. Strange noises, unknown. She had no way of identifying them, she was not capable.

  «Claudia, is that you?».

  «Of course, Giulia, who did you think it could be? There’s only us in this house».

  «I don’t know, your steps seemed… different. I didn’t recognize them».

  She heard the door shut, with a squeak, and the steps approached.

  «You need to get used to recognizing sounds. It’s already been four years». A long sigh. «And on top of it you always stay in that bed! There’s still days that you refuse to get up!

  «I know but, I…».

  «Giulia, losing your eyesight doesn’t mean to stop living. There must be a thousand things you could do, start going out, meet new people».

  «But I was a painter!».

  There was a point of commiseration in Claudia’s voice. «Giulia, you loved to paint, you were not a painted. Painters are the ones who sell the paintings, those who are able to keep up their art».

  Giulia bit her lip. «At some point I would have managed, I would have become famous».

  Another sigh, a bit longer. «What’s the point of talking about it now? It happened, it’s no one’s fault and some things can’t be changed».

  «Maybe one day, with a transplant…».

  Claudia tapped her watched with her nail as she usually did when something made her nervous.

  «We don’t have money for those kind of things, Giulia, you know it. Why do we have to always argue about this?».

  «Money, Money, Money! You don’t know how to talk about anything else! Every time we talk you throw the money subject!».

  Claudia’s voice got louder. «Don’t get me upset, Giulia, don’t make me say things that you don’t want to hear».

  «I’ve been surrounded in this darkness for four years. You can see, you can live! Think how I’m feeling!».

  «I live? Are you joking? I’m here being your nurse, for four years. I had to leave work and you don’t even try to get up from the bed! You are sick, everything was given to you. Sure, I had something on the side we managed to go forwards for a bit, but now we don’t have any money left. We have to find a solution».

  Giulia started crying. «You want to put me in a hospital. Is that, isn’t it? You want to get rid of me!».

  Claudia was walking around the room. She wasn’t doing anything to contain her anger. «So, you don’t want to understand! There’s no money. They have all gone. Stop. Do you know how much it would be to get you recovered? We can’t even afford that!».

  «So, what do you want to do with me, throw me in the bin? I certainly can’t start working. Take your place, I’m going to try and get ready».

  Claudia chugged.
«My place! Even if they retake me, something I doubt very much, the pay will only be enough to pay for the rent, what would we eat?».

  «Stop it, stop it, I’m not interested. Why do you want to scare me?».

  Claudia sat down. She was in front of her now. Lowing her voice.

  «It’s been two months since we last payed the rent. At any moment, the eviction will arrive».

  Giulia stopped sobbing. «We are already at that point?».

  Silence. Maybe Claudia nodded, but Giulia couldn’t see her.

  «Have you tried to search for a job?».

  «Giulia, I would even go to the street and prostitute myself if it helped, but do you think anyone would pay?».

  «Don’t say things like that, don’t even think about it!».

  It transfixed bitterness. «It’s good that you can’t see me, Giulia. You wouldn’t like how I’ve become. I’ve never been beautiful, not like you, at least, but now… It’s a despair, I look like a whale. I can’t stop eating, I just can’t».

  «Claudia…». Giulia found herself with tears in her eyes.

  «I’m not sorry for his death, there’s no reason to go forwards, no reason».

  «It’s my fault, I know, it’s my fault!».

  «No, Giulia, why would you say that…».

  There’s an ironic sound in Claudia’s words, couldn’t pretend not to notice.

  «It’s my fault, I know. If I didn’t come to visit… If he didn’t come to pick me up from the airport, he wouldn’t be dead and I wouldn’t be blind».

  «No, if anything it’s my fault. I was the one that was supposed to pick you up. He didn’t want to, I made him».

  «If you had come… I don’t even want to think what could have happened, if I lost you. What would have happened to me?».

  Claudia’s voice became firm. «If I came nothing would have happened, there wouldn’t have been an accident, I know».

  A long silence could be felt.

  «Claudia, what can we do now? What would we do if we get evicted?».

  «I don’t know Giulia, I really don’t know. I can live on the street, find something, but you…».

  «You would leave me somewhere, in some institute», insisted again Giulia.