Mysterious is the Heart
Amneris Di Cesare
Translated by Rosemary Dawn Allison
“Mysterious is the Heart”
Written By Amneris Di Cesare
Copyright © 2017 Amneris Di Cesare
All rights reserved
Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.
www.babelcube.com
Translated by Rosemary Dawn Allison
Cover Design © 2017 Adc/Pixabay
“Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Mysterious is | the heart | by | Amneris Di Cesare
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Mysterious is
the heart
by
Amneris Di Cesare
Translated by
Rosemary Dawn Allison
1.
“My name is Orlando Cimarosa, Father D’Auria is expecting me...”
Once again he was late. He didn’t know how to explain this change in his habits, his behavior. His punctuality had always been proverbial. Yet a few months ago he had found he was no longer able to keep up with the frantic pace of life. It was as if everything had suddenly become faster and he no longer knew how to keep up. A few nights before he had arrived late at the reception held by Countess Marcheselli in his honor, today he had shown up a good half hour later than the time set for this mysterious appointment. The Countess had appreciated his entrance like a prima donna, by which time all the guests were present and waiting impatiently. An artist is forgiven for his recklessness and lack of respect for regulations. But would it be the same with Father D’Auria?
“Father-Affonso-is-now-saying-mass-at-the-alter-of-Saint-Bernardino,” answered the young African at the Concierge automatically, paying no attention to his breathless air mixed with embarrassment, “bottom-right-church-please...”
Assuming that he was there for spiritual reasons he had performed his very private litany of information without even looking up from the switchboard, and he in return, had not found it necessary to explain anything about the real reason for his visit. He had been invited to a private meeting in a letter that had arrived in the mail from a friar he had known for years, but had not seen for some time. What he had found intriguing at the same time caused him deep unease. The monk had not explained anything at all in the letter about what he wanted.
Some artistic advice?
Or rather an interrogation?
He had become suspicious: a discreet but relentless fear assailed him about being subject to one of the usual sermons that priests are wont to give to anyone, and the idea of being called “My Son”, he a fifty year-old unrepentant, was a subtle source of irritation. He consoled himself with the thought of crossing the aisles of the austere cloister leading from one side of the church, to the convent on the other side, and of having the option, reserved for very few strangers to that place of seclusion, to observe (for him it would be impossible not to, hungry as he was for all that was beautiful) medieval frescoes painted on the great vaults of the forecourt; the sharp scent of incense mixed with consumed wax candles assailed his nostrils as soon as he entered the church, however, he frowned. There was nothing more to do than go towards the reason for his appointment. Shrugging, he advanced almost warily as he left the nave of the basilica. The large crucifix on the altar seemed to observe him with stern disapproval, oppressing him. He felt someone looking at him which now returned him to an era buried in the dust of memory, deliberately forgotten with much effort; catechism classes after the mandatory Sunday Masses, running wildly after a ball in the oratory courtyards, being slapped on the fingers for failing to memorize and acts of contrition and requiem eternam. He could still see Don Mario the pastor’s long shadow, up to his dusty boots, and that sharp face looking sideways, silently imposing pious genuflections and contrite behavior when advancing towards the altar with the offertory gifts. Still, today, he intimately and vehemently rebelled. He flattened himself, therefore, along the sidewall of the corridor, where the minor aisles could be seen enclosed by brass railings and where the immaculate altars and admirably worked frescoes could be seen. The sound of heels on marble accompanied his awkward steps, he felt bewildered. He tried to look at the precious friezes of some frescoes by simulating professional interest. A Gregorian chant slid sinuously from one aisle away invading the silence of that austere place.
No, please, not the mass. He wouldn’t do that to me, would he? ... he thought with a gesture of annoyance. Religious issues gave him goose bumps, and Father Alfonso knew it. At one time they had met assiduously, had established a sort of close and almost complicit friendship. Happy outings and great drinking... he smiled, remembering. Father Alfonso knew about his thoughts concerning faith, church and the clergy. It was impossible that he had made him go there, now, just to hear the mass. He brightened. He would know how to keep a safe distance as he had always done. No one had ever managed to catechize him not even that singular and stubborn monk would have been able to. He would not permit it. Besides being secular and almost atheist, Orlando Cimarosa was very proud.
2.
“In the Name of the Father...” Elvira responded obediently to the sign of the cross, and immediately knelt, preparing to follow the afternoon mass in the tiny chapel. She had gone there by chance that afternoon and had thought of visiting Father Alfonso for an impromptu greeting, she had found him dressed in his vestments to say mass. He had greeted her with cheerful and willing warmth.
“Welcome to my humble abode, dearest daughter!” and he hadn’t given her time to explain why she was there, but quickly invited her to stay to attend his daily celebration. The only soul to attend one of the most important moments during a monk’s day. It was a privilege reserved for the few, to witness that rite that is so intimate and special. Almost an intrinsically psychic meaning. She found herself experiencing those moments in a deeply contemplative vortex despite the vigor. Concentrated, taken up by what she was feeling, she didn’t notice she was no longer alone in the small chapel. A shadow behind her watched everything with detached respect. For a moment Elvira seemed to see the face of Father Alfonso smile but it vanished quickly hidden by more serious contemplation; Elvi then imagined that it was only celebratory enthusiasm for the rite that Father Alfonso loved more than all others: the raising of the Chalice.
3.
“Orlando Cimarosa, let me introduce Elvira Martinelli, Elvi, to her friends.” Still confused by the emotions she had just been feeling, she jumped slightly at the sight of the austere presence behind her: an imposing gentleman with glasses and hair already peppered with white waited motionless, very serious. Instead Father Alfonso almost seemed to be wanting to introduce them, his face lit up with happiness, the large black cloak seemed like wings.
“You know Orlando, Elvi, is the reason why I called you...” he began to tell him naturally while Elvira felt herself sway off balance for a moment: the reason for this meeting? She shouldn’t have been there that afternoon! It had been a random impulse, a decision taken at the last moment, and only thanks to the hypnotic sweetness of the elder monk, had she then resolved to stay longer and to hear his solitary mass. Was it possible that this meeting had been planned?
“Follow me guys I’ll explain everything,” he treated them as though they were you
ng teenagers; it was his way of being, accustomed indiscriminately caring for adults and children. Father Alfonso was a special shepherd of souls with a particular philosophy of following his ‘Sheep’, often at odds with the tradition required by those pastors with a more somber and aloof attitude. He loved to go out without his habit and meet people dressed in civilian clothes. So many of his friends treated him with confidence and familiarity calling him by name, giving him the informal ‘tu’, and his dinner guest book was always full. He favored friendship with everyone without preference for one or another social class. Among his friends were those of all political beliefs and all religions, some of his closest and most affectionate were even raging atheists. And he loved to be in their company, mostly, not to convert them, but only as a friend. He loved art, since he had come from the art world, having been an actor in the theater, before being attracted by the vocation. And most of all, above all else, he loved God. As one loves a loved one, a boyfriend, a lover. Every word was a declaration of boundless love, simple, sincere to the Most High. And every action, whatever it was, however extravagant, was directed to prove his deep love.
“Orlando, I called you because you have to paint me a portrait...”
4.
Orlando had never studied at any academic school; his scholastic origins were scientific in nature. He had graduated in astronomy, and had worked with several companies producing precision instruments. He once had a decent career in that field, so much as to have aroused a lot of rivalry and faint envy among colleagues, with whom he had never been able to become completely involved. He, Orlando Cimarosa, was a very loyal, professional, but detached. A detachment that arose out of not feeling he was in the right place, in the right role... at the right time. After years of reflection, thinking about the likely causes for this alienation, on a morning like any other, in a week full of commitments and responsibilities, he went to the president’s office and handed the secretary a white envelope, with no letterhead, who of course, would never have allowed him to speak directly with the ‘big boss’ without a prior appointment. It was his letter of resignation. They had called him almost immediately to state, incredulously that such efficiency and professionalism were suddenly thrown to the wind, but he had been adamant. He had decided to leave that world, to devote himself to painting. It had been an unstoppable unconscious impulse. He had never picked up a brush or spatula before then. And yet he had done just that. Without ever regretting it. And now he looked on that period with much nostalgia: he had been so free and independent! He had reclaimed his youth that he had been unable to enjoy before; the pursuit of economic stability, the thought of having a safe place and arranging for his elderly parents’ tranquility, had stolen much of the flavor the unknown imparts to a strong young man who is gifted with a certain exuberance, exhausting much of his enthusiasms. But in that moment, feeling that state of absolute insecurity for the first time, he had retrieved the thrill of adventure, the wide-open horizon before him. Today, remembering those years gone by, melancholy tugged deeply within him: now more than fifty years old, all that future had mostly been designed. Nothing inspired him anymore, gave him chills and expectations. He felt he had seen it all; enthusiastically he had tried every form of creativity. And time was flying by, he could no longer keep up with it, grasp it. How could he stop it? A final painting. Here, perhaps he could, with a final burst of exuberance and ecstasy. He often thought, asking Art to fulfill his last wish, since he didn’t have the Faith to ask God, Orlando Cimarosa, the singular artist.
5.
Elvira did not like her name. And how could she? An ancient name, often used to make fun of certain elder women who were a little bitter, had made her recall her great-grandmother who no one in the family remembered having known. Her only portrait was a miniature, in a nineteenth century medallion. Every so often, when she was feeling particularly sad, she opened the locket and looked at the portrait of the woman she assumed she was to feel close to, because she was the mother of her grandmother, but perhaps she blamed her for a name that weighed heavily on her. Yet she was beautiful and somehow resembled her. She was not smiling in the portrait; as for the rest she smiled very little, always looking wistful, her eyes slightly frowning. But her open beautiful face, straight black hair that framed her very pale complexion inspired serenity. Elvi had discovered this serenity only after meeting him. They had been introduced one evening at the pub. It had been an evening with friends, a sandwich a beer, many cigarettes and a guitar to sing out-of-tune. It was her return to life after a recent stormy past. Slowly, without much hope, she was re-embracing her youth. Maybe it was only she who wanted to believe in the possibility of a new future, something that still had to be there for her. And hiding in the clouds of smoke between one cigarette and another, watching those unconcerned familiar faces, friends old and new in a whirlwind of eyes, lips, cheekbones relaxing into smiles and happiness. That night one of them was impatient, he was apprehensively looking at his watch, and at every opening of the bar door, never failed to study the newcomer. He was waiting for someone. Then she saw him open up with a wide smile, light up with joy. Elvira knew, then, that the object of so much anxiety had finally arrived. It was a man, she could not see his face, because it was hidden by a large, wide-brimmed hat, and a black cloak, he wrapped around a stocky build, but she saw he was tall, imposing. Approaching the table, she saw that he limped, perhaps from the weight of his exuberant volume, but as soon as he was in the middle of the group, everyone got up, and gave him obsequious homage.
“Alfonso, it is an honor!” exclaimed the anxious boy, “It’s been years now that you’ve not paid a visit to our dive! ...”
“Biagio, I have to look after souls, I no longer have time for drinking and songs...” and it was in that moment that the strange man’s gaze, imbued with so much enthusiasm was transmitted across the room, to cross with that of Elvi. She would never forget that feeling, an electric shock ran through her from top to toe. She had felt almost transfixed by that glance: severe and sweet at the same time, profound even though imperceptible. In the coming years it would always be associated with him, like a sting. Penetrating, inexorable, arriving to touch her deeply. Hers was not a gasp of love. But there was something, although she didn’t yet know the man, she had however already perceived him to be concerned about the transcendental.
Father Alfonso had a special charisma.
“Father...” every now and then, she had the desire to speak to him in this way, but now, Father Alfonso, looked at her with laughing eyes that pierced her at the same time, and he replied,
“Just call me Alfonso...” a privilege, this confidential tone, was reserved for very few. But it had been immediately granted to her, since that night, from the first pleasantries.
6.
“Well, now I’ll explain everything...” Father Alfonso sat cautiously on a small chair. He had brought them into a cramped little room, generally used for private family visits with the friars of the monastery, but he used it for personal meetings with those who wanted to confess in a more open and intimate way.
“I need a picture of the Blessed Virgin, and I want you, Orlando, to paint it for me...”
Orlando did not move a muscle, but his eyebrows could not help but raise, “And the hint, the inspiration for the wonderful and sweet face of Mary, you can take from Elvi’s beautiful face...”
Elvi blushed violently, and not being able to express her wonder and her embarrassment, she could only direct a pleading look at the friar. The impertinent glance amused the priest, he left no room for an afterthought when something got into his head, there was no way to change Father Alfonso’s mind. Elvi knew that look. “It’s a painting commissioned by us friars to celebrate Pentecost. Every year, a painter, chosen by me, must create a work with a religious background, which will be donated to the Holy Father. And I thought of you two. A lovely couple, don’t you think so too?” and smiling with half-closed eyes, he leaned back in his minute chair, seeming a
lmost to fall asleep.
7.
Entering Orlando Cimarosa’s studio, it was like retracing old childhood memories. Her father, a collector of works of art, took her with him into the dusty attics where his favorite artists were working. They were rooms filled with light that filtered through broken windows, but looked over the roofs of the city. She remembered the smoking chimneys and red tiles well that paved “The sidewalks of the sky”, as she had once called them. She could still smell the scent of acid and turpentine that permeated every corner of those attics. And pictures, the figures that stood out from the canvases as if they were alive. Often it was she who chose the work to buy, each time it was the most precious, the only one the artist did not want to part with. At first, Cimarosa’s studio surprised her. It was a normal shop, with windows appropriately darkened with white paint, strictly anonymous to the outside viewer. Upon entering, an office with a desk, a telephone and a small Rococo sofa, at one time the gem of a proud housewife, now a crumpled and forgotten object probably saved from the dusty basement of a junk store.
One entered the painter’s laboratory by going down a spiral staircase. A dark and dimly lit cellar. But the smell of paint told her all she needed to know about its tenant. A subtle, persistent disorder existed in every corner; everywhere was filled with paintings now stacked, now leaning against the walls in confused randomness. Only this confirmed similarities with her memories. He had proved to be kind and patient; he had shown his works, from its beginnings, to the latest, most daring, the most modern, with great politeness and a wealth of details related to inspiration and workmanship on each canvas. While listening to him speak, seeking to demonstrate attentiveness and interest, she found her mind fantasizing. She was a child again, in front of a painting that the artist did not want to show. And she wanted just that one, because it was the most beautiful. Orlando had done the same. Casually he showed her two pictures, almost laughing,
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