Frankenstein's Monster

by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe

  I write this by the light of dawn as she sleeps, her face pressed into the warm bedding where I recently lay. My dreams were troubled, but oh, there was the sweetness of waking to her face. Today when I go out to my corner beneath the gargoyles, I shall stay a bit longer, the more coins to acquire. After I have bought bread, I shall buy Mirabella a pretty trinket. I shall give it to her tonight as a wedding present—then take her for my wife.

  May 17

  …

  May 20

  Mirabella is dead.

  I can write no more.

  May 23

  Curse this pen! Curse this habit!

  May 24

  Eight days ago … eight days … Mirabella was still alive. I sat begging, cheerfully for the first time, spinning plans for the night ahead. Cup before me, I kept my head bowed, even when I was stared at. Uncertain whether it was the building’s landlord or the Austrian soldiers, I did not look up. Even though the hood cloaks my face, any movement at all might attract attention and cause me to be driven off. At last the person moved away.

  It was fully dark and the streets were deserted by the time I had begged enough, gone to the Piazzetta to make my purchase, and returned to the campanile. At once I called Mirabella to my side. She smiled and nestled within my arms. I pulled a necklace from my pocket and held it up, suddenly embarrassed by its cheapness. But what a treasure her face was! She was as delighted as if this cheap trifle were her first and only gift. She put it on at once: the chain fit snugly around her neck like a collar, and from it little charms hung down. She tossed her head to make the charms tinkle like bells, then offered her neck to my lips. I held her close and drew her down upon our bed.

  I wanted to lose myself in her, to lose sense of my own dark ugliness.

  At every moment I held myself back, aware that I had little experience distinguishing between passion and force. She was a small bird that might be easily startled; worse, easily crushed. I was determined to let her responses guide my actions.

  Gently, I began to caress her. With excruciating slowness, I kissed away each layer of clothing. Finally her shawl, skirt and blouse, shoes and stockings, and petticoat lay scattered on the floor. She had on nothing but her chemise, a once-lacy cloth now worn thin. Her eyes were cast down, and I thought that the changing nature of my touch had at last made her hesitate. When I paused for several seconds, she looked up into my eyes and nodded, pulled my face down to hers, and kissed me.

  There was a harsh shout from outside the campanile and the door burst open.

  “There he is! There’s your deserter!”

  Walton.

  Forcing their way in behind him were a half dozen Austrian soldiers, sabers drawn. I knew at once that Walton was the black shadow I had met in my dream.

  Mirabella struggled to get up. Perhaps she had not understood the reference to a deserter and thought her wealthy kidnappers had sent soldiers after her.

  “Rape!” Walton cried.

  The Austrian captain, the very man who had insulted Lucio, drew his pistol.

  “Give the woman up,” he commanded. His face contorted as he got a better look at me. “This is not my man,” he said to Walton, and to me: “Who are you?”

  “No. Say, ‘What are you?’ ” Walton’s eyes looked dazed, the fulfillment of ten years’ chase at last within his grasp.

  I stood. The captain’s mouth gaped with astonishment. From the side a soldier grabbed Mirabella and pulled her away. She struggled, striking his face, trying to twist loose.

  And in a single dreadful moment: Mirabella’s frantic movements distracted the captain. He turned toward her. She jerked free from the soldier and ran back to me for protection. Walton shook off his trance, seized the pistol from the captain, aimed at me, fired, and—

  Mirabella fell dead within the circle of my arms.

  Horror paralyzed the captain as he stared at her fallen body. Walton leapt in front of him, gesturing wildly.

  “Take him now!” he shouted to the captain. “You don’t realize what he can do.”

  “The woman …”

  “The woman is dead. And if she was his, she deserves death!”

  His savage words impelled me to action. I rushed at him, still holding Mirabella. Thinking I meant to flee with her body, the captain yelled, “Don’t let him escape!” Instantly his men surrounded me, blocking me from the door, blocking me from Walton. I set Mirabella down and with a cry embraced the battle.

  Rarely have I so gladly given myself up to violence: it blinded me, numbed me, deafened me. That night, men wore no faces, only eyes to be gouged, limbs to be snapped as I fought my way to Walton. He hung back, keeping a wall of bloodied flesh between us, then disappeared once he realized I could not be taken.

  As I write these words, faces flash before my mind’s eye: Frankenstein’s brother, his friend, his bride, he himself worn to fatal sickness, tracking me down; the nameless who, like the Austrian soldiers, unwittingly placed themselves in the path of my rage; even the myriad bodies that comprise my parts. All of these clamor in noisy accusation: You are death.

  And now Mirabella. I am bruised and beaten, but it is her blood that stains my hands.

  The soldiers retreated, forming a loose circle around the campanile to guard me while reinforcements were sent for. In that moment of quiet, I knelt beside Mirabella and cradled her. She was as warm as life. “Wake up,” I murmured. “It’s just a nightmare. I’m here now. You’re safe. You will always be safe with me.”

  She was the only one who had found gentleness in me, the only one who had waited for me to be gentle. I clothed her as best as I could, not wanting her nakedness exposed to those who would judge her unkindly, and then laid her body on the pile of rags that had been our bed. Tenderly I kissed her lips, eyes, cheeks; the scar on her neck, so like my own. When I kissed her, the charms on her necklace clinked, a soft but brittle noise, as though all their music had come from her and not the tiny bells, and now she was gone. I slipped the necklace from her throat, where it had rested for so short a time, and fastened it around my wrist.

  I took my cloak, pen, journal, and book; kissed her one final time; and left the campanile forever.

  May 26

  What foolishness possessed me to think that I could steal a crumb from life? For ten years, a thin layer of ink is all that has held me back from madness. This time I need to bathe in it, I need a baptism of ink to salvage my spirit.…

  May 27

  I had been so smitten with the prospect of living as a man I had not seen the warning signs. Someone stared at me for too long a time in the palace courtyard, on the Giants’ Staircase, beneath the gargoyles when I begged alone. I thought nothing of it. Being large and misshaped even under my cloak, I am always stared at. I did not even lift my head to see who it was. And before that, Lucio’s wife reported a stranger, badgering the crowds. I did not hear her words. I saw only her hair in the firelight.

  I write this now from St. Mark’s Church. Last night, all was dark save for the guttering light of a few candles. At dawn, priests walked down the aisle in reverent silence to say Mass, each at his own side chapel. I squeezed into a pew and huddled on my knees, just another beggar seeking forgiveness. The Latin chant ended, and all of the candles except those in the main sanctuary were snuffed out, yet I remained on my knees till the church had emptied. The side chapels are shadowy. Even though I might be told to leave, no one would think it unusual to find a beggar at the feet of an altar. Perhaps I came here looking for more than refuge, hoping for mercy and consolation, such as the old women seem to find in the unceasing click of their rosary beads.

  For me, there is no mercy, no consolation. My only God is my father, and he is dead.

  Later

  Seized by the conviction that Walton would return that night to the corner where I begged, I threw down my pen and paper and ran from the church. Surely he would be there, at the very spot. At last I would feel his throat beneath my fingers, see his eyes pop, smell his fear;
I would hear his last rasping breath.

  Down streets and alleys I ran, my feet echoing so loudly I might have been leading a stampede of wild beasts. Nothing remained in me but raw passion.

  He was not there. Breathlessly I paced back and forth, possessed by rage.

  I was not dead.

  Walton was not dead.

  Mirabella was dead.

  The gargoyles sneered at me. I leapt at the building they adorned and hammered at the face at the corner till skin scraped from my hands, blood mingled with stone dust, and horns and snout snapped off. I clawed my bloody fingers into the tiniest cracks on either side and pulled. The mortar finally yielded, crumbling beneath my touch; the stone slid out. Over and over I ran at the building and smashed the stone against the wall. Though ugly, the face was more comely than mine. I did not stop until it disintegrated into a thousand chips. The eyes, two hollows of darkness, bloodied by the imprint of my battered hands, were the last to crumble.

  With Mirabella, I had thought to put death behind me. What foolishness, what pride! Death is my element, my body, my blood. I hesitate no longer. I will kill Walton. I will be the soulless monster he thinks I am. For the sake of one person, Mirabella, I would have made peace with all mankind. He has denied me that. If I am not allowed to inspire love, then I will cause fear. From now on revenge shall be dearer to me than food or light. I may die, but Walton shall first curse the sun that gazes on his misery.

  May 29

  Blind fury cut short my last words, written with bloodied fingers. Today bids me to take up my pen so I can form a plan.

  I do not want to draw attention by staying in St. Mark’s by day, and so I slink through the streets like a furtive rat. All the city searches for me, as the story of what happened in the campanile has been told and embroidered and retold. The Venetians long for the sight of the hideous giant that kidnapped a nobleman’s beautiful daughter on her wedding day, murdered her, and then, being discovered, broke free from the dozen soldiers that her father had sent to rescue her.

  Walton has taken up the hunt once more. I can feel it. To him, I am more elusive than the Magnetic Pole he once sought, and perhaps more powerful. Though he searches for me, I must find him to have the advantage. He must have no possibility of escape.

  Hours before midnight, the rain poured down in such torrents that I returned to St. Mark’s Church earlier than usual. I found this corner and write. Tomorrow I will mingle with the crowd again as a hunchbacked beggar. I need to know what people are saying; more specifically, I need to know where Walton has his lodgings.

  The approaching dawn has begun to lighten the stained-glass windows. Usually I find some measure of enjoyment in the church’s statues, enamelwork, gold, and jewels—today, none. I have unwittingly made my nest beneath the church’s famous mosaic, the story of Adam and Eve illustrated in tiny stones and gilt paint. Where was I when God made man?

  May 30

  This morning the rain let up, although the sky remained a dismal gray, as if the clouds would burst open again at any moment. I left the church and sought out Lucio. Of anyone, the little blind beggar would have the most recent gossip. It has been almost three weeks since he bade me leave. Not knowing if he would speak to me, I thought only to stand close by, listen to his banter, and thus learn something that way.

  He had returned to our old spot in the Piazzetta, this time in the shadow of the column that is topped by a statue of a fierce, winged lion, symbol of St. Mark himself. Lucio had a wealthy old woman by the sleeve and was speaking quietly, a shock to me because his voice was often the loudest in the square. Perhaps he was engaged in gross flattery, softly cajoling her into buying a love amulet. Or perhaps he thought the woman to be younger, although he had never made that mistake before. She threw a coin into his bowl and hurried off.

  I walked closer. How he had changed! He was thinner, and his blind eyes were sunken and darkly circled. His manner was more subdued as if it, too, was overshadowed by darkness.

  “So, my friend,” Lucio said. “You have returned.”

  “And you have given up begging for peddling.”

  He pulled from his pocket strangely woven knots made from colored yarn. “The crowd finds them a novelty, at least for now, and have been filling my bowl more quickly. That’s good. These days I hurry home early. My wife is … not well.”

  I would not question him about her sickness, knowing its cause.

  “But how are you?” he asked. “I have missed you. Where have you been?”

  Such a short time ago his affection would have warmed me.

  “I worked another corner, as you asked me to do,” I said. Obviously he had regretted his words. I said nothing to soothe him; he had wounded me, and I was glad to see he had been wounded in turn. “Then I fell ill.”

  “And when you felt better, no doubt the corner was taken by someone else. The Austrians are right,” he said. “Venice has too many beggars. We fight for the same paltry coin and hurt only ourselves.” He leaned against the column and sighed.

  “Tell me what’s been happening,” I encouraged him. “I’ve been shut away for so long, I feel as if the whole world has changed while I’ve been gone.”

  “Old man Petrocelli was robbed last night. There are rumors it was the giant.”

  “Giant?” I said, feigning surprise. “What giant?”

  The delight of gossip did not bring its usual smile; instead, his face tightened. “If you have not heard of the giant, your fever must have made you senseless.”

  I listened to the story, which, by now, just days later and in a different part of the city, had been embellished even more. What had been a small, spontaneous attack, instigated by a foreigner who had claimed he discovered the deserter, now encompassed valor, honor, bravery, and such audaciously brilliant tactics that, although they failed, were sure to merit commendations. Lie piled on lie, body on body, until I had killed half a regiment and, with a strength like Samson’s, brought down the campanile itself.

  Lucio’s words cut the most sharply when he ended:

  “The worst of all of this …” His voice, now beyond his power to control it, began to tremble. “The girl was really not a rich man’s daughter, as they are saying. She was just a girl he’d dragged in from the streets, as poor and helpless as we are. The giant raped her in the vilest of ways and strangled her. The soldiers broke in, but it was too late. The girl was hanging lifeless from his enormous hands.”

  Shame and hatred jerked my body so fiercely I knocked over Lucio’s bowl and sent the coins spinning.

  “My friend?”

  I backed away before he touched my vile, enormous hands, still stained with blood.

  His stories had said enough that I now knew where I might find Walton. I would have gone at once but for the silent sadness that had returned to the beggar’s face. His words would be like broken glass in my ears, but I asked how he himself had been.

  He tried to command his emotions before he spoke:

  “Right before the girl’s murder, my wife was brutally attacked. I’m certain it was the giant. He invaded our home, but I didn’t even know till he had grabbed her!” he cried in anguish. “He choked my wife while I held her in my arms!”

  Lucio’s voice failed him and he turned away.

  “Till that night I never thought I was less of a man for being blind.”

  Remorse is too pallid a word for what I felt.

  “He did not kill her,” Lucio continued. “But the shock … They tell me her hair has gone entirely white. She won’t stay alone, yet won’t come with me to the Piazzetta. She does not eat, she does not sleep. She just stands by the window and keeps watch. She must be reminded to nurse the baby, though it cries and cries and her dress is wet from leaking milk. She no longer hears the baby, my friend. She no longer hears me.”

  “I’m sorry for your troubles,” I said, touching his shoulder. I could not bear to listen to him another moment. “Goodbye, Lucio. You have always been kind to me.”


  “No, I’ve been harsh. I’m glad you came back. Will you be back tomorrow?” He grabbed at the air to try to find me.

  I fingered the little chain of charms that encircled my wrist.

  “It depends on my luck,” I said, and quickly walked away.

  June 2

  I write now from a quiet place, whose silent peace mocks me.

  After I spoke to Lucio, I returned to St. Mark’s and impatiently waited for night. I could not go out until it was late enough that Walton would have returned to his room. Outside, people gathered on every side of the church and created an unexpected air of merriment that crazed me with anticipation. Through this door, prostitutes sold themselves on the steps. Through that one, soldiers patrolled by fours. Here was a couple arguing over infidelities. There was a drunk singing arias from Così Fan Tutte. The hours stretched till I imagined it close to dawn, but a bell pronounced it two.

  Late enough.

  A hush as thick as cotton wadding had settled over the night as I stealthily made my way to the quays at the Fondamente Nuove. According to Lucio, it was near there that the foreigner lived, in a house owned by the elderly Signora Giordani, in the corner room on the second story: such was the precision of the gossip. When the foreigner was not wandering the streets, he stood in his corner room and stared out at the lagoon, madness burning in his eyes.

  Separating the house from the one next to it was a narrow alley. I braced myself between the two buildings and by force steadily inched my way up. When I had gained enough height, I hung on to the ledge and reached around until I caught the sill and was able to climb up. I squeezed through the open window and into the room.