It was easier to return to Ravistelle than I had feared. From what Basil and Corey shared with me, Ravistelle had been informed that I was taken by force, and during the abduction two of his associates were killed. I hoped that he thought I was still holding true to our blood oath. Albion Ravistelle’s first words to me as I strode up the long staircase to the compound were, “I knew you’d return. Come, there is much to discuss.”
The refined and articulate Albion Ravistelle spent an hour with me discussing the event that was to take place in Florence at the Uffizi on the following day. He assured me that the paintings to be shown were Basil’s earliest works, the ones that only hinted at the Center. “Enough of a Center to quake their souls, but not harm them,” he said. It was his belief that the paintings would place Basil in front of the influential and powerful. “This will, of course, allow us to gain the support of the world community. With their blessing we can pursue our end—the cure to the dark maladies of the human condition.” I thought of Howard in his wheelchair, and how he had stumbled upon a painting Basil had done in his teens. One of Basil’s early works. Ravistelle is full of shit, I thought.
“How can we be certain that there won’t be an accident?” I asked Albion.
“We’ve been testing different forms of the Center in the Sun Room. We’re convinced that we have the right renderings for a memorable effect,” he replied.
“Well,” I said, “we’ll need all the support we can get. But we should have a plan if something goes wrong. I would hate for —”
“Never fear, good Doctor,” he said smiling. “We will have everything ready.”
We shook hands. “What an exciting time,” I said.
“Indeed,” he agreed. The cut in my hand burned.
I was then taken to Helen and Edwin.
The two rushed across the room and embraced me, Helen around my shoulders, Edwin around my knees.
“Thank God you are alright,” she cried, “when we heard that you were taken—” She broke off and began to cry.
“I’m fine,” I said. “And I’m so happy to be back.”
“How did you escape?” Through her tears I could see her studying my expression.
“I got lucky,” I said. “There are still some loyal to Ravistelle within the Orathom Wis.” She nodded. A subtle crease appeared between her eyebrows. “There was one that helped me to escape.” Helen nodded.
“Who was it?” she asked.
“He told me that names were dangerous.” I sighed and pulled her closer, “And now we’re moving forward with Basil’s work.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
“I am glad you’re safe.”
As for Edwin, he chatted about the black boats and the men with round hats. He had apparently been on several gondola rides with Crystal. He wrapped his little arms and legs around me. My entire body quaked with anger and fear, but hearing his little voice describe Venice, I felt hope.
“Edwin has been having a blast with Crystal,” Basil said. “They’ve been free to run amuck at the Ravistelle Memorial of Freakishness” He swirled the scotch in his glass. “She’s cool, by the way—Crystal. We’ve had a chance to hang out. She loves Zeppelin. She seems very different from Ravistelle.”
“Really? How?”
“I dunno. I trust her. Not sure why.” He sipped. “Zeppelin, probably.”
I shook my head. “How is Howard?” I asked.
“Fine—but getting crotchety. He’s been reading quite a lot. And was he pissed off when he heard about Helen! Holy shit! I thought the guy was gonna get up out of his chair, grab the bitch and chuck her into the canal. In front of us at dinner one night she did this whole crying thing, right in front of all of us—it was fucking pathetic.”
“What does he think of Ravistelle’s plan?”
Basil thought a moment and then answered, “You know, I don’t think he gives a shit. Pop has spent a good chunk of his life reading about all of this stuff—and has faith that it’s all in the hands of fate—or some higher power. Last night he told me that no matter what happens, he’s along for the ride, and will see it through to the end here in Italy, or wherever my art is—he’ll be nearby. For him, this is the stuff he’s dreamed about since the accident. He wants nothing more than to stand by and learn. It seems like Albion has taken to him. Pop’s been grilling the poor bastard with a million questions. Of course, Pop can’t stand the dough-head, but the overly curious part of him can’t resist his knowledge.”
“And he’s not afraid? What about Cythe—and the real reason Ravistelle wants us here?”
“Well, Pop doesn’t think this showing is a good idea.” He fell silent. “Neither do I. But what am I gonna to do, get a gun?” I felt a chill rake across my shoulders.
“What’s going to happen when the paintings are shown, Basil?” my voice shook.
“I think you already know.” We shared a defeated stare. “He claims that he’s chosen works of mine with Centers that are less potent. I told him he was fucking crazy. It’ll be a massacre.”
“He doesn’t care,” I said. “The people that come to the event will be sacrificed for his real purpose. In a way, they are his weapons. He’ll use them to damage your real audience.”
“I have a title for the show,” Basil said. “I’m going to call it: A Collection of Answers.”
I heard myself laugh softly. I felt more like crying.
He turned away. “Diana is safe.”
“What?”
“Corey got her out yesterday.”
“Where is she?” I asked excitedly.
“No clue,” he shrugged. “Corey said, she’s safe. That’s all I know.”
I wondered why William hadn’t told me the good news.
“Has Albion said anything about it?” I asked.
“Not a word,” he said. “I think he doesn’t want to interfere with my work or the upcoming event.”
I carried on with my story and Basil listened without interruption. I told him that I had retrieved the painting from Julia and moved it somewhere safe. At the mention of Julia he could see in my face a spark of light. He smiled. “Yes, and?” he encouraged.
I nodded slightly. He mimicked.
“Magical,” I said. His response was another smile, only this time it was laced with sadness.
He stood and went for The Macallan. “So tomorrow, it’ll be quite the party,” he chuckled gloomily. “Toss me a cigarette, I think there’s one in my raincoat.”
I smiled at the Paul Simon lyric. “We smoked the last one an hour ago,” I replied, completing the line.
Basil didn’t look up from his pouring—but I saw his grin. “They got me a turntable, finally,” he gestured with his glass.
The turntable in the corner of the room was spinning a record. An album cover with a red star in its center was tilted against the wall beside it—Rush 2112 was printed in bold type across it. The vocalist sang quietly, The sleep is still in my eyes. The dream is still in my head. . .
“Ravistelle has the site nearly finished. It’s at the Uffizi in Florence.” I pulled out a fresh pack of Marlboros and flipped it over to him. He caught it and tore off the top.
“Yeah, I know. Corey filled me in on the plans,” Basil said.
“Then you know that Corey, Greenhame and the others won’t let it happen, or at least, they will try not to let it happen.”
“Yeah,” he said, returning with a full glass of whiskey and a lit smoke. “So I’m told. But eventually it will all come around again—and again. Someone will always be meddling.”
Outside the sun was letting go of the day to make way for the night’s turn. Slender bleak shadows spread like long fingers across the canals and narrow streets, and the empty vineyards and harvested farmlands in the distance. It would soon be dark. Autumn is the night’s victory, for the possession of its prize lengthens. Its cold and gloom reap the last blooms, the last fruits, and the last leaves. A stranglehold that has always been.
“I know a way to stop all of this.” I reached over to him and took his hand. “But it’s something that we can’t return from.”
He looked at our joined hands uncomfortably.
“Basil my words are for humanity. They don’t open the Center like your work. There’s been some mistake. I have a gift, but it’s not like yours.”
“Loche, wait a sec, it’ll come—it is just a matter of—”
“Time?” I interjected. “We’re out of time. Tomorrow night your work will be shown to leaders, powerful people, the rich and influential. And they won’t survive it. But their sins, their humanity and their souls will take on a shape and be pulled away by the Silk to contaminate the afterlife. The door will be thrown wide. What can I do? Destroying the paintings is not an option because we don’t know the consequences. It was Greenhame’s hope that I would stumble upon an answer to this horrible reality. I have. I want to live for my son. For Julia. For the world that we know. Think of Howard—and our mother. What will all of us do once the paintings are unveiled? The destruction begins? What will you do? Will you paint on?” I squeezed his hand tightly, “You are a gift, Brother. But your gift is not for man, it is for the forces that rage for what we have, our questions. You are their gift—their possession. You belong to the gods. Can’t you see? You are the door.” I pulled my hand away. “And you must close the door.”
“I paint for myself,” he said. “I won’t allow myself to care about anything else. It’s why I live.”
“Do you really live, Basil? Cloistered in your studio, isolated from everyone around you? You’re being controlled by not only Heaven, but also by those here who will use you, exploit you. You have become a slave to your existence, to the gods, to powers like Ravistelle. You must stop. Stop everything. You will never be free—while you live.”
Basil’s eyes widened and his head tilted slightly at my last words. “While I live?” he repeated.
My hand slowly dropped to my jacket pocket. I could feel the cloth—the cold metal inside—the weight of the weapon. Grasping it tightly I lifted the black shrouded gun out and set it on the table beside my brother.
I held his eyes in mine.
His gaze did not stray. There was an acknowledgement—a knowing. Without looking, he knew the answer was there and it was sitting upon the table beside him. For a moment longer we searched each other’s eyes.
My brother stood up, went to the door and opened it. Stepping to the side he held the handle and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Uffizi.” He did not show me his face.
Slowly, the door shut behind me and latched.
From out of the hallway window I could see the moon gently rising up from under the distant fields. I felt as if I had just returned from those fields—from a terrible errand. My legs sore from tilling the sod, my heart heavy that the harvest yielded little, and my hands stained with blood.
Another door was now before me. My fingertips traced the thin veins of wood grain as if searching for a pulse. Beyond the door my wife waited.
She wore a sheer, grey-violet caftan that spilled over her body like a thin layer of evening-lit water. Her dark hair draped over her shoulders and over one breast. The other shone through the transparent silk. Between her fingers she pinched the stem of a wineglass, and its base rested on her thigh as she lay on the divan near the window.
“Edwin is with Albion’s daughter, Crystal,” she said playfully when I closed the door behind me. “He’s spending the night.”
A wave of nausea came on as I pictured Albion babysitting my son—I lowered myself into the chair opposite her and attempted to appear impassive.
I looked at her. My wife was beautiful. Like a lightning storm.
“Would you like some wine?” She asked.
I didn’t answer.
“Cat got your tongue, husband?” she mocked, knowing the full effect of her appearance. She reached down to the floor, lifted a full glass of wine and extended it to me.
I took the wine with trepidation. Supporting herself on one arm, she arched her body and rolled the rim of her glass along her lips, waiting for me to speak.
“You look lovely, Helen,” I said finally, forcing back my fear—my fury.
She lowered herself to the floor, set her wine aside, and on all fours crawled toward me, all the while keeping the sensual slope of her body arched. “I was so worried about you,” she said, crouching at my knees. Her hands slid up my thighs. “What would I have done if you hadn’t come back?” Dropping her eyes down toward my waist, her fingers followed.
I caught her hands in mine. “Helen,” I said slowly. “I can’t.”
She looked up at me—her lips softly tracing the lines of our joined hands.
“Tell me,” her warm breath against my skin, “have you been writing?” I could feel her teeth now. Biting gently.
“Helen, I—”
“Loche,” the heat of her mouth, hushed and wet, “don’t push me away. I need you tonight. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring.”
There was a storm coming. Tomorrow night was the unveiling of Answers. So many answers. The changes I had experienced in my recent past could in no way compare to what would transpire at the Uffizi.
I heard my voice suddenly, “Cythe.”
The air from her lips sent a chill up my arm, ice cold. Her body froze.
“Excuse me?” she replied. “Who is that?” She was moving faster now, biting a little harder at my fingertips.
“You didn’t read anything about Cythe in your research? It’s all right there.”
Rolling her cheek along my hand she looked to the box. “I didn’t read anything in there with that name.”
“He’s apparently Ravistelle’s superior. He’ll be at the event tomorrow night.”
“No more talk,” she whispered, or hissed. She slid her tongue between my fingers. “Don’t you want me?”
“I think it would be better to celebrate after tomorrow, Helen,” I said, forcing her hands from my lap and kissing them. “I’m in a terrible state. You understand, don’t you?”
A flash of lightning blinked across her face when she looked up at me. “Loche, please,” she lured. “You’re killing me here.”
I heard Corey’s warning, she is not who you think she is and would kill you if she were ordered to do so.
I reached with one hand over to my wineglass and brought it to my lips. Helen immediately dropped her head down between my legs. I let the glass fall and it shattered on the hardwood floor. “Damn it!” I said. “Let me get that.”
“No,” she pushed me back. “I’ll clean it up. Why don’t you get ready for bed?” Her hands began to carefully gather the shards. As I rose, I intentionally stumbled, crushing her fingers against a jagged splinter between my foot and the floor. She let out a quick cry of pain.
I crouched down, “Are you okay? I’m sorry.” Taking hold of her hand I inspected the cut. She pulled it away. Tiny drops of blood tapped onto the floor, mixing with the wine.
“I’m fine,” she cried, placing the cut in her mouth. She stood quickly, turned away and walked to the bathroom. “Get ready for bed,” she said over her shoulder.
It is difficult to say if I slept. Helen tangled her arms and legs with mine as the night passed. I do recall brief dreams— pieces only—visions of Helen watching me sleep—her eyes unblinking, with slashed, catlike pupils.
We rose in silence and didn’t speak until we were ready to join the company below for breakfast. In the elevator, watching the numbered lights flash our descent, Helen said, “I’m sorry about last night. I hoped you might have missed me, too.” Her tone was humble, and sad.
I didn’t answer right away. Instead I forced myself to turn to her and smile. “I’ve missed a lot of things with us, Helen. After tonight I’ll show you how much all of this has changed me.” Edwin reached up and held his mother’s hand. She wore a bandage around her ring finger.
Howard was seated in the dining room. He told me th
at Basil had worked all night and was still at it. He added, “He wasn’t very hungry.” Edwin ran to the table and started in on the juice and strawberries.
Albion Ravistelle and Corey Thomas approached the table. Ravistelle’s smile shined with its usual practiced sincerity. “Good morning,” he said scanning the table. “All has been arranged. Your short flight to Florence leaves in an hour.” Ravistelle’s eyes stopped on me. “I’ve tightened security for your safety. Again, Loche, I am so sorry about our security failure. I assure you, it will not be repeated. I also want to give surety that my increased security measures will in no way affect your ability to move about freely. You are no one’s prisoner, and I am anxious to finally see your gift come to its glorious fruition.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ravistelle,” I replied. “I am happy to be back with my family.”
My sentiment pleased him. “You and your wife will have a limousine to take you from your hotel to the Uffizi. Howard, you shall travel with Corey, Crystal and myself. Basil will be traveling with his paintings, accompanied by Catena and the Sun Room staff. We should be going now.”
“Very well,” I said. “Edwin, do you want to take a plane ride?”
He nodded and pointed toward the canal where two gondolas were gliding by. “Black boats on the water. Black boats!”
THE UFFIZI
The sky was grey and ragged. As the sun settled on the mountains in the West, it shot its rays of gold below the cloud cover. It was the kind of sky that was too dramatic to be believable, gory and light. I shook my head at it through the passenger window.
Our limousine driver cursed at the Italian traffic. We were brought to a halt with no way out and a long wait ahead. I noticed that we were just three city blocks from our destination so I motioned to the chauffeur that Helen and I would walk the rest of the way. We stepped out into a sunlit mist of rain, but I kept my umbrella closed.
“No, no,” the driver protested as I opened the door. “I have orders to deliver you to the venue myself—please Dr. Newirth, I must insist that you wait—”
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 32