by Cave, Hugh
How many hours passed he did not know. Hours were eternities. When at last he heard slow footsteps approaching from the labyrinthine passage of the cellar, he groped erect and stood swaying, his hands clenched desperately. Must he face once more the taunts and jeers of the man who had imprisoned him?
But when the footsteps ceased near the barrier, the voice that came through the iron portal was dispassionate, seemingly empty of gloating. It was Luigi's voice.
"I have brought you food and candles. Tomorrow I shall bring you something to keep you company during the long days that confront you."
There was a sound, then, of metal scratching on metal at the base of the door. A thin shaft of light leaped into the room as the small block of iron swung outward, leaving a square aperture barely large enough for Luigi's hand to reach through.
The hand held two white candles and an uncovered aluminum pot from which rose an aroma of warm stew. That aroma, assailing Mario's nostrils, gave him strength to stumble forward. But the hand—leaving the pot—was gone before his clutching fingers could grasp it.
On hands and knees he clawed at the unyielding barrier, pleading again for mercy. No answer came, except the sound of receding footsteps.
Frantically Mario hammered upon the door, screamed:
"Give me matches, Luigi. I have none, and if the candles burn out while I sleep—"
The footsteps paused. The voice of Luigi answered calmly: "I shall give you no matches. The darkness is your enemy, not mine. You have candles and a flame; see that you keep the flame alive. If it dies, I shall bring no other."
But not until Luigi's footsteps had once more died in the distance, leaving a death-like silence in their wake, did the doomed man realize the full horror of what had been so calmly said to him.
Candles he had, and a single flickering flame which must be guarded against expiration. Perhaps Luigi would bring more candles on the morrow; perhaps not. That was Luigi's secret and a part of his sinister program of torment.
But now, when Mario slept, the precious flame must be left burning, eating away those inches of white wax which meant more than gold! And if he slept too long, allowing that solitary flame to expire before he awoke, he would be doomed to eternal darkness—to a cold, damp darkness as of death.
Mario pondered these things as he stood staring with enormous eyes at the door which barred his way to freedom. Then, sobbing anew, he sat on the floor and dragged the aluminum pot of stew toward him. With the wooden ladle which lay therein, he ate ravenously and noisily, in an effort to stuff strength into his trembling body, in an effort to fight the madness slowly creeping into his soul.
From then on he slept not at all, but remained awake and watched the ocher flame as it sank lower and lower on its small stump of dripping wax. Long before it was in danger of dying, he went to it and stood over it, holding in his fist one of the new candles Luigi had supplied him.
And when at last it was time to light a fresh cylinder, he did so with shaking fingers, while a convulsive sob racked his quivering body.
After that, he again lay on the damp floor and dozed. But his slumber, now, was filled with fitful visions of the candle-flame wavering in a dance of death, so that each time he awoke he lunged erect and stumbled wildly toward the niche, shrieking prayers to a merciful God to save him from dreadful darkness.
In time the candle did burn itself out, but not before he had transferred the flame to the last remaining stick. And he wondered, as he peered with gaunt eyes at that precious finger of flame, if Luigi would come again before the flame died. He wondered, too, what manner of thing Luigi was bringing to "keep him company."
Hours passed, however, before the husband of Angelina came again with food and candles. And when he did come, Mario knew it not. Sunk deep in a sleep of utter exhaustion, the prisoner lay full length on the floor at the far end of the vault, head curled in the hook of his arm, mouth agape and full of a sound of hoarse breathing. He had awaited his captor's coming until nerves and body could stand the strain no longer.
He knew it not when Luigi came at last, stumbling and staggering through the maze of passages, and stood without the vault door, holding in his arms a tall, stiff object wrapped around with a winding-sheet of white linen. Resting this burden on the floor, Luigi pressed close to the door and listened. Then he spoke aloud, in a whisper, the name of the man within. But there was no reply.
There was no reply . . . and Luigi, smiling a thin smile of satisfaction, removed the massive padlock. Slowly, very slowly, he inched the iron door open. Pausing on the threshold, he stared silently at the contorted sleeping form of his victim.
Making no more noise than a velvet-pawed cat, he gathered up the thing he had brought to keep Mario company, and carried it into the vault. And as he went quietly away from the prison-room, he wore that lingering smile born of a nether-most hell; a leer which clung to his face as if molded there in cold wax, to remain forever.
But still Mario Cellanti slept. He awoke hours later, to peer through bloodshot eyes at the flickering flame of the niched candle, and at the strange, tall object which stood propped against the wall near the door.
How had that come there? And what was it? Mario frowned his bewilderment and knew only that in some unholy manner this was but another of Luigi's fiendish torments. He stood erect and moved slowly forward—only to stand rigid as the irony of its presence struck him.
Luigi had brought this thing—this corpse-like thing wrapped in its white winding-sheet! Luigi had opened the door and carried this thing over the threshold, then had crept from the room and re-locked the barrier after him. And he, Mario, had slept through that opportunity to escape!
A sob shuddered from his pale lips; he groaned aloud in mortal anguish. The chance to escape had come and he had missed it. There might never be another.
Tears came to his eyes and he rocked back and forth on his aching legs, moaning dully. Still moaning, he stared again at the linen-wrapped shape before him. He even took a faltering step toward it.
The thing was tall, shaped like a human being. It was stiff and cold, and at the hesitant touch of his hands it swayed as if in danger of falling. Was it a corpse? Was it the corpse of Luigi's lovely wife?
Beads of sweat gleamed on Mario's high forehead as his trembling hands unwound the endless strip of white cloth. Then he stood back and stared. For the thing before him was neither a corpse nor a living being, but an object fashioned of delicately tinted wax. The ocher glow of unsteady candle-light imbued that waxen form with such false reality that Mario's eyes widened with amazement and his arms went half out to embrace it.
This—this was Angelina! Not the warm, clinging woman to whom he had made ardent love, but a waxen image so near to perfection that his lips opened to voice a gasp of admiration. None but a master craftsman could have conceived such an image! None but a master artist could have endowed that unclad form with such lifelike color!
Stark naked and darkly beautiful, the image stood before him, returning his rapt gaze. And only after he had caressed that strange form with his trembling hands, and pressed his quivering lips to it, sobbing with unsuppressed emotion, did he stand back and narrow his eyes and begin to think.
He thought: "Luigi brought this, intending to drive me mad with it. I love her; he knows it; he has given her to me in mockery. But he has defeated his own purpose! This is Angelina. I can make myself believe it is really she. I can kiss her and caress her and talk to her. Luigi thought to drive me mad, but instead he has saved me from madness!"
A strange comfort came to him in these thoughts. And the comfort lingered with him for many hours, while he sat at the waxen feet of his new-found companion and gazed passionately at the pale loveliness of her nude body. In the niche, the last remaining candle burned lower . . . lower . . . and tiny stalagmites of grey wax formed on the stone shelf.
And then he realized, and lurched to his feet, reviling his tormentor. When this candle burned itself to a black stump, the tomb
would be in darkness! No longer would he be able to feast his eyes upon the form of his loved one. Blackness would take her from him!
Luigi had known that. Luigi would bring no more candles.
Staggering in his rage, Mario went to the door and hammered upon it, screaming words of abuse. Blindly he lurched to the niche and stood there, gripping the tiny ledge with his thin fingers while his frantic gaze clung to the pale flame which so soon would die and take from him the thing Luigi had so cunningly, so fiendishly brought.
Then, whimpering and sobbing, he returned to the waxen image, flung himself down beside it, clung to its naked thighs, pressed his tear-wet face against its cold body. And while he moaned there in torment, a sound of footsteps came to him from the labyrinthine tunnels of the cellar . . . and the footsteps slowly approached the door and there came to a halt.
Wide-eyed, Mario stared past the image of Angelina and groped to his knees. In the base of the barrier the tiny square door opened. A hand and arm appeared, thrusting into the tomb a pair of white candles, a tin plate filled with meat and cooked greens, a tin cup filled with liquid. Quickly the door closed again, and again came a scraping sound of slow footsteps, this time going away.
On his feet, Mario staggered to the door and clung there, shouting in a cracked voice for the maker of the footsteps to stop and listen. When he had ceased screaming and pounding, the receding foot beats were still audible. Fainter they grew, in another instant were lost altogether. And again he was alone.
Yet he had food and drink and candles—and the woman he loved. Surely, if Luigi intended to kill him, the deed would have been done before now!
"He is merely making me suffer," Mario said aloud in a faltering whisper.
"That is it. He wishes me to suffer for my sin. When I have endured sufficient torment to satisfy him, he will release me. Surely that is it."
Yes . . . surely that was it. There could be no other answer.
But he was not sure. In a little while, as he sat cross-legged on the stone floor holding the tin plate of food on his lap, he gazed again into the waxen face of the woman above him and wondered what diabolical scheme Luigi would next think of. Surely Luigi had not fashioned that strange image merely as a gesture of friendship. There would be some subtle motive . . .
"He thinks I shall go mad," Mario mumbled, "having her so near to me and yet so terribly far away. But in that he is wrong. I am an artist; I have imagination. I can bring myself to believe that this is really she, and in believing that, I shall find comfort!"
For hours he sat at the feet of his loved one, leaned his head against her thighs, stroked that strangely naked body with his fingers, all the while murmuring soft words of endearment. And before many hours had passed, he found himself talking to her as if in truth she could hear the words that spilled from his lips.
"How long do you think he will keep us here, my beloved? A few days more, perhaps. Yes, only a few days more. After all, he must know that you can never love him, therefore why should he destroy me? Despising him as you do, you would be certain in the end to turn to some other love. What difference whether you turn to me or to another? You are lost to him, in any case."
Gazing at her body, he found it beautiful. And it was as if the very caress of his sensitive fingers imbued her waxen flesh with a lifelike warmth. Hour by hour she became more alive, more real, so that when he slept at last, after a prolonged conversation with her, he was strangely content with his lot, found himself less in dread of his predicament than at any previous time.
While he slept, curled there on the stone floor with his head resting on the warm bare feet of his beloved, Luigi came again with food and candles.
Many times Luigi came after that, as hours lengthened into days. Never a word passed his lips in answer to the hoarse demands of his prisoner. Never once did he reply to the question, "When may I go free, Luigi?" Yet Mario was less terrified than before, despite this new silence. Surely if Luigi intended to murder him, that deed would have been done before now!
"I am less a fool than he thinks," Mario said, smiling into the face of his loved one. "I shall not go mad, nor shall I let the passing of time affect me. In time he will tire of this child's play and release me, and when I walk through that door, my dearest, I shall be no nearer madness than I am now! You and I together, we shall fool him!"
Then one day he frowned and said aloud: "But how long have we been here, my sweet? I should have kept count of the days. When Luigi comes again I shall ask him, and thereafter make a mark on the wall for every passing day. It is not good for us to lose all track of time."
But when he asked the question of Luigi, growling his demand through the iron portal while Luigi stood without, no answer came. There came only a sound of receding foot beats.
"So we are to suffer the torments of silence," Mario smiled. "Truly, my dear, this fat-bellied husband of yours is a mere child in his methods. He has no imagination. Were I in his place and he in mine, I should devise far better methods of inflicting torture. Silence is a terrible thing, to be sure; but he forgets that I have you to talk to." And he took her unclad body in his arms and pressed his lips against hers.
Days passed and became weeks, and Mario lived in silence and solitude with the strange woman who listened so attentively to the sound of his voice. Uncomplaining she was, even when he stood before her with bloated chest and made fists of his pale hands and snarled denunciations upon the soul of her large-bellied husband. And if, when his fits of rage died and he made ardent love to her, she seemed vaguely to smile with delight—was that any sign that his mind was slowly beginning to break under the strain of confinement?
Certainly not. "No, certainly not!" Mario declared, grinning at her. "You may smile all you wish, my dear. You may even scowl at me when I am morose and unpleasant. For know this: without you I should perhaps have gone mad long ago. Were it not for your nearness and your understanding, and the loveliness of your pale body, time would hang heavy as lead on my hands!"
One day a square of paper lay folded in the handle of the tin cup that Luigi pushed through the small opening in the door. Unfolding the paper, Mario read the letters that marched across it. And the message said simply: "The end draws near, my friend."
"Now what does he mean by that?" Mario scowled. "See this, Angelina." And he held the paper so that those sightless eyes might gaze upon it. " 'The end draws near,' he says. Does that mean he is tired of his little game and will soon release us?"
He wondered, thought of many things that the message might mean. Gazing at his beloved, he said scowling: "Perhaps he intends to separate us, taking you away and leaving me here alone. If he does that, I shall go mad. Or perhaps he will offer to let me go free, leaving you here alone. But have no fear. I should refuse such an offer. My love for you is greater than that."
So he talked to her, coming at last to a philosophical frame of mind that made him indifferent to Luigi's veiled threat, made him tear the offending paper into bits. After which he curled up at the feet of his loved one and slept.
But the next time he awoke, it was to a strange feeling of uneasiness, a knowledge that something was not as it had been in the room around him.
Narrowing his eyes in perplexity, he Sat up and peered into all corners of the cell, but saw no change. A candle still burned in the niche, casting uncertain light over floor and walls and ceiling. The iron door and its infant aperture were still closed. The waxen image of his beloved stood undisturbed.
Yet something was changed. And a subtle dread crept into Mario's mind, so that he stood erect while his eyes widened with apprehension. Stumbling to the side of his silent companion, he put an arm about her and stared anxiously into every corner.
"What is it?" he muttered. "What has happened?"
Then he knew, and breathed a sigh of relief. For the thing was neither ominous nor evil, but was indeed a change for the better. The room was merely less cold and damp than before.
"Luigi fears that the contin
ued dampness might make us ill unto death," he said, pursing his lips to a smile. "Should we die, he would be blamed and punished. He is but attending to his own safety."
Yet the words were lighter than his heart, and he went slowly about the room, peering into every corner, examining every inch of wall. Where was this sudden warmth coming from? Had Luigi built a fire in some furnace in the main cellar, piped the fire's heat into this cell through some small opening in floor or wall?
For an hour he searched and found nothing. At the end, perspiration had dampened his body, beads of moisture gleamed on his forehead.
And then he stood very still, hearing a sound of foot beats in the maze of corridors beyond the door.
Without haste the foot beats came nearer, as they had done many times before. Outside, they stopped. And Mario, stumbling forward, clawed at the door with his sweat-wet hands, crying loudly: "Luigi! Luigi! What new torment is this?"
His own voice echoed hollowly through the room behind him, and another voice came softly in answer. "Torment, my friend? Do you not enjoy the comfort of being warm?"
"But it grows too warm, Luigi! Merciful God, I'll suffocate! There's no outlet here for such warmth!"
"You have not suffocated in days gone by," Luigi replied quietly. "Why should you begin now?"
Then he laughed and was silent. Nor did Mario's frantic pounding on the door bring even a murmur of response. So that in the end, after the receding footsteps had again announced Luigi's departure, Mario stumbled back from the barrier, to stand wide-legged in the center of the room, gazing about him with enormous eyes.
It was true; he had not yet suffocated. But why? No less than a hundred times he had explored every tiniest section of this narrow cell, and had discovered no aperture. How then had the foul air of his own breathing escaped, unless through some hidden opening above the reach of his hands?
He did then what he had not thought to do before. Lifting the candle from its niche, he held it high above him and, craning his neck to look up, made a silent tour of the chamber. And in doing this he discovered what might perhaps have been the secret of the vault's ventilation. For the upflung light of the candle revealed a narrow, almost invisible shadow where the stone walls formed an angle with the ceiling.
