The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  Cato fumbled with his cigarettes, striking a light. He needed to calm down, needed to get a hold of himself. Agitation made him impulsive and dangerous. Corallina had often warned him of this.

  He cracked his window and exhaled a thin stream of smoke. Glancing toward the driver, he caught the man watching him in the rearview mirror.

  “Hey,” he said. “Hey, excuse me—sucsi.”

  “Yes?” Replied the Greek, not looking at Cato’s reflection any longer. “What you need?”

  “Where are we going?” Cato asked. “Where are you taking me?”

  “What I said,” grinned the Greek. “Breakfast.”

  “And he is going to be there?” Cato pressed. “Do you know who he is? Do you know him?”

  The Driver’s eyes shifted to the mirror again.

  “My English,” he said, flopping one wrist back and forth. “It’s no so good. You just sit. Breakfast soon, okay?”

  “I speak Italian,” Cato offered. “Does that work better for you?”

  Repeating his halfhearted hand gesture, the Greek smiled uneasily.

  “You sit,” he said again. “Breakfast soon.”

  Cato bit his lip and leaned back, an exasperated sigh slowly hissing between his teeth. He didn’t like this, not one bit. It was way too blind, way too mysterious. Back home, he never would have stood for this. But then again, he wasn’t back home. He was in Rome.

  Dragging on his cigarette, Cato reread the letter for the millionth time. When nothing new revealed itself, he stared out the window and watched monuments pass by like a flipbook of postcards. In the rearview mirror, the Greek was eyeing him again.

  Eventually, they came to the Tiber River, and crossed over it on a stone bridge. Disquieted by the river’s twisting, yellow waters, Cato shivered internally. As a boy, he had grown up in a place where water was always clean—grey, blue, or green. To see it so murky and full of hidden currents spoke volumes about his general feelings toward this day.

  At the wide Via di Conciliazione, Cato barely had a chance to glimpse Vatican City—waiting at the end of the road—before the Greek swung the car right and drove north along the river. After a few blocks, they turned again, only this time it was left, up a narrow side-street. Soon dead-ending, the street split off into two unnamed alleys, more foot paths than actual roadways.

  “Okay,” announced the Greek. “You go.”

  He pointed to a small café by the split. Cato looked at it and frowned. White painters cloth hung in every window and a hand-written sign was taped to the outside of the door.

  “There?”

  “Si,” the driver nodded. “You go.”

  Cato popped his door open and rose slowly into the crisp morning air. He assessed the scene, studying it like a puzzle.

  ‘Only fools rush in,’ Corallina had taught him. ‘Don’t be a fool, Cato.’

  “You go,” waved the Greek.

  With calm, if not, measured strides, Cato crossed the cobblestones and approached the café’s entrance. He tried the knob and found it unlocked. Tossing a glace back at the Bentley, he saw the driver grin and give him a meaty thumbs-up.

  Light filtered in through the painters cloth, becoming diffused and shallow. As if in preparation for a slaughter, the floor was covered in newspaper, and the tables were draped with black plastic. Overhead, the light fixtures had been removed so that their wires dangled in stringy noose-like clumps.

  Taking all of this in, Cato let the door swing shut behind him. The latch gave an audible click, and was instantly echoed by the snap of a Zippo lighter. Cato started with surprise and turned. In the far corner of the room, a candle had been lit, casting illumination upon a table laden with food. Already seated and waiting for him, a man in a three-piece chestnut suit smiled through the blue haze of his cigarette.

  Cato blinked, and a pair of golden-eyes blinked back at him. Like memory made manifest, the Benefactor’s unmistakable face came into view. Cato gaped.

  “But—but—you look—”

  Tapping his cigarette into an ashtray, the Benefactor held up a hand for silence. Cato faltered and the words died in his throat.

  “Before you finish that sentence,” spoke the Benefactor. “May I interject a simple request?”

  Physically shaken by the timbre of the Man’s voice, Cato did all that he could just to nod.

  “I can see that you are…disturbed by me, Cato—disturbed by what you see. Yet I beg of you, please refrain from uttering that which I have heard more times than I care to remember. Spare history the doom of repetition.”

  Hypnotized, Cato felt as if he couldn’t move, as if he almost couldn’t breath. Smiling, the Man gestured to an empty chair across the table from him.

  “Sit, please.”

  Cato tried to look away, tried to turn his head, but the Man had grown incandescent in the gloom. His eyes shone unnaturally, boring into Cato and compelling him to do as he was told.

  “I know you have many questions, my son,” said the Man. “But your breakfast is getting cold and I took some pains to prepare the way you like. Sit. Eat. Please.”

  Cato felt himself pulled forward, one foot shuffling in front of the other like a prisoner in a chain gang. He reached the table and grasped the back of his chair for support. Before him, a spread of soft-boiled eggs, toast, cheese, cured ham, and coffee, steamed enticingly.

  “Why—why haven’t you aged?” He whispered, glancing at the Man. “I mean—Jesus Christ, you look exactly the same.”

  Using the back of a butter knife, the Man cracked the top from his soft-boiled egg and laid bare the liquid yoke. He dipped a spear of toast into the creamy filling and stirred it.

  “Is that really the question you want to ask me?”

  Cato hovered, unsure how to answer.

  “Sit,” ordered the Man.

  Cato sat.

  “I can sympathize with what you are feeling,” said the Man. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen one another or even spoken. For that, I am sorry. Most are given time to get used to my condition, but unfortunately, time is not something you and I have an abundance of.”

  He bit into the toast and chewed.

  “Corallina tells me you are an apt pupil, but that you lack restraint. She says you are often on the wrong side of the law. Is that true?”

  Cato looked up sharply, caught off guard by the question.

  “Yes,” spoke the Man. “She keeps me informed of your situation. I like to know the dealings of all my Orphanus—all of my children.”

  “Is she—” Cato ventured. “Is she like me? Are you her Benefactor too?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when she was a kid, you looked the same as you do now?”

  “More or less.”

  “Fuck,” Cato breathed. “Then she wasn’t lying?”

  “No.”

  “How?”

  The Man returned to his breakfast.

  “The best mysteries are those that seemed to have no answer,” he said. “The same is true for me.”

  Left hand shaking unconsciously, Cato attempted to light himself another cigarette. He was rattled, twisted up, knotting like a panicking snake.

  “Who are you?” He asked.

  Smiling faintly, the Man held Cato’s gaze.

  “Who I am does not matter, Cato. Rome is all that matters.”

  VII

  When the church-bells of Santa Maria Maggiore began echoing their morning chimes, Louisa Anastasi was already out of bed. Sitting at the little kitchen table in her brother’s apartment, she drank strong, black espresso. In the sink, two days worth of dishes were mixed haphazardly with empty wine bottles.

  Setting the cup down, Louisa watched the orb of the sun break across the tiled rooftops outside. The wall clock read 6:03AM. Sooner or later, she was going to have to figure out what to do with herself. If she didn’t take Savino’s offer, she would surely be fired. Yet, if she did, she would never be able to forgive herself. Either way, her days as policewoman
were over.

  Savino was a crook—a wolf in Comandante’s clothing. His cloying advances had tested the very limits of her self-control. Every time he’d patted her ass in front of the other officers, or bent to smell her hair, she’d wanted to blow off his shriveled cock with her pistol. Why Niccolò even tolerated the man, let alone courted his friendship, Louisa could not comprehend.

  She gazed out the window, in the direction of the Tiber. Still fresh in her memory the scene from the river played out on an infinite loop. It was all too strange to ignore; too familiar to walk away from. There had to be a connection between the dead-girl and her brother. Louisa could feel it in her bones. Policewoman or not, she needed to know the truth.

  Rising, she went into the bedroom. On the nightstand, her cell phone rested beside her badge. For the last two days, the device had been shut off—dead to the world. Now, somewhat reluctantly, Louisa turned it back on. Appearing on the screen, nine missed calls from Niccolò, and a text from Giorgio greeted her. She ignored the calls from Niccolò, and opened Giorgio’s text.

  ‘Little Rabbit,’ it said. ‘What did you do? Call me.’

  Fingers tapping out a response, Louisa stopped herself from hitting send at the last second. Better to leave Giorgio out of this. She didn’t want Savino to go after him too.

  She closed the text window and pulled up Nunzio’s number instead.

  “Louisa?” He answered sleepily.

  “Ciao Nunzio. Did I wake you?”

  “I’m off today.”

  Louisa could hear the sleep in his voice. It made him sound slow and confused. She decided to take advantage of it.

  “Hey so—we got interrupted the other day. Sorry about that. Anyways, what’s new with that girl?”

  “What?”

  “The girl from the river—what did the autopsy turn up? Can I get a copy? Is there an evidence log—any personal effects? Actually, do you just want to meet me down at the morgue? We can take a look together. I’m free this afternoon, does that work for you?”

  Nunzio took a long time to answer but when he did, his tone had changed.

  “I—thought you were suspended.”

  Louisa mouthed a curse.

  “Who said that?”

  “My boss,” replied Nunzio, waking up more. “In fact, that guy Savino, your Comandante—he tried to get me suspended too—just for talking to you!”

  Louisa went back to the window and stared out at the morning sky. Tempering her approach, she put on more a vulnerable voice.

  “I need your help, Nunzio,” she spoke. “Please.”

  “You know,” said Nunzio flatly. “When you first asked me out, there were people in my office who warned me about you. They said you’ve done this before to other guys who work in the freezer.”

  “Other guy,” Louisa corrected. “And he was a security guard.”

  “So you don’t deny it, you’re just using me?”

  “It’s not that simple,” said Louisa. “Or maybe it is, but I can’t change that. I need your help, Nunzio—there it is. I won’t bother you anymore if you want it that way. I’ll leave you alone—just say so and I’ll find another source.”

  “Fuck,” muttered Nunzio. “I guess I’d rather try to change your mind than just walk away at this point. I’ve invested too much. Guys like me don’t get to go on dates with girls like you that often.”

  Pursing her lips, Louisa stifled a sigh. Nunzio was like a puppy, she could kick him, starve him, and leave him out in the rain, but he would still be there to wag his tail whenever she called his name. If he weren’t such an opportunistic jerk, she would feel bad for him.

  “Can you help me?” She asked again.

  Nunzio took a slow breath.

  “Look,” he said. “The autopsy didn’t turn up much. We’ve got no fingerprint match, no dental, and no DNA. All we know is that she died from swallowing a mouthful of molten silver. She did have some stuff on her though—a backpack and a few other things. But, I’m off today okay—I’m not going in.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. Some agent from America is coming to claim the body. From what I hear, the investigation is over.”

  Louisa tensed, her instincts prickling.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope,” Nunzio yawned. “My boss said the Americans were looking for that girl, like—she’s a terrorist or something I think. They sent a guy—an agent from one of their creepy spy agencies. He’ll be in tomorrow to collect her stuff then she’s getting shipped to the airport and going to America. The investigation is over.”

  Sitting on the windowsill, Louisa fought through a wave of déjà vu. It was Ferro’s case all over again.

  “What time is he coming?” She asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The American, Nunzio, what time is he going to be there tomorrow morning?”

  “Just morning sometime, Nine, Ten, you know, morning.”

  “Will you be working?”

  “Probably, why?”

  “What about your boss, will he be there?”

  “I don’t know maybe, it’s a Saturday though so maybe not. Why?”

  Louisa stared at her blue-grey uniform, folded over a chair, and began to form a plan.

  “Can you get me in before he arrives? She asked. “I just need a few minutes with her, and then I’ll never ask you for anything ever again. Please?”

  Nunzio sighed dramatically, but Louisa could tell what his answer would be.

  “I start at 8AM,” he said. “Be there at 7. And next time I call you for a date, you better pick up.”

  VIII

  Mr. Hannity stood in the downstairs hallway of Cosimo Bruno’s mansion, and leaned against the wall. Thrown wide, the library’s large double doors allowed the morning sunlight to pour into the corridor, making it glow brighter than fire.

  Feeling his mind buzz like the space between opposing forces, Hannity studied the four ghostly-pale figures seated within the library, and sighed. Were he a weaker man, he might have found his mental cross-chatter unbearable. Instead, it was merely and annoyance—like a radio tuned to the wrong frequency.

  “What are they up to?” Came Adalina’s voice from the end of the hall.

  Glancing in her direction, Hannity shrugged.

  “They’re reading.”

  “Still?” Smiled Adalina, carrying a tray of fresh pastries and coffee. “They must have read every volume in there at this point. Have they grown more?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I bet they’re hungry—what do you say?”

  Hannity shrugged his shoulders again and looked away.

  “Why don’t you come in with me?” Adalina urged. “You don’t have to be afraid, you know. They wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Chuckling to himself, Hannity rubbed his knuckles.

  “I guess we’ll just have to disagree on that one, you and I.”

  Tisking scornfully, Adalina shook her head and walked into the library. Tracking her over the tops of their books, four sets of doll-like blue eyes zeroed in as she crossed the room.

  “Boreas, Notus, Zephrus, Eurus,” she called. “Breakfast time. Come here and try some of this.”

  Rising as their names were called, the four brothers unfolded from their overstuffed chairs and stood. Taller than they had been on the night of their birth—older, each one now looked about sixteen. In matching outfits of short pants and open-collared white shirts, they were like a collection of adolescent monks, imbued with holy light. Only the feral hunger in their eyes, and the dried-blood under their fingernails, hinted at their true nature.

  They set aside their books, moving in a body toward Adalina. Hannity dropped one hand to the small of his back, and gripped the butt of his 1911. Picturing the garden, slick with blood in the moonlight, he imagined the brothers tearing Adalina limb from limb.

  “What are you thinking about?” Asked Bruno, approaching on the right.

  Hannity shifted to make
space.

  “They grew more,” he said. “Since last night. I don’t get it—I don’t think they slept.”

  “They didn’t,” grinned Bruno. “Not a wink.”

  Nodding slowly, Hannity gripped his 1911 tighter.

  “This is weird boss,” he said. “All they do is eat and read.”

  Bruno laughed.

  “Those happen to be two of my favorite pastimes. And besides, this is merely the calm before the storm.”

  Wordlessly, Hannity watched the brothers take their breakfast with Adalina. Speaking in loving tones, she planted kisses on their marble cheeks, and tousled their ash-blond hair.

  “Are you still with me, old friend?” Bruno said. “Tell me that you haven’t had a change of heart—no, not that. Tell me you haven’t lost your nerve.”

  Hannity frowned and glanced down.

  “I’m still with you, boss—always.”

  “Good,” smiled Bruno. “I can’t lose you now—not now. Someone has to teach them how to fight in this modern world—how to kill. Lord knows I’m not the man to do it.”

  He put a hand on Hannity’s shoulder.

  “I was hoping it would be you.”

  IX

  Cato, and the Man from Rome came out of the café at half-past 7AM. Eyes vacant and wide, Cato walked before his Benefactor like a hostage. Still parked at the mouth of the alley, the Bentley started up as they drew near. Opening the back door for him, the Man put a hand on Cato’s shoulder and squeezed. Heavier than stone, the grip sent shivers through Cato that were not entirely unpleasant.

  “Get in,” he said.

  Cato dropped into the car and slid across the leather seats. Elegant frame folding like origami, the Benefactor came in after him, and shut the door. Yellow sunlight cut to blue through the tinted windows. The Man leaned forward and spoke to the driver in a language Cato that did not recognize. Watching him in the rear view mirror, the jewelry-strewn Greek nodded obediently, and backed them down of the alley.

  Following the river south, they re-traced the route Cato had traveled earlier; except now, everything was different. Outside the window, Rome had undergone yet another startling transformation. Animated by the reality of the Benefactor, the city became the literal backdrop for every bedtime story Cato had ever heard.