Killing Kiss

by Sam Stone

  ‘Is this the boy’s uncle?’

  ‘Si.’ My guide nodded his bearded head to the much older man.

  ‘I’ll take you on now, signor.’

  My new guide led on, limping through an even darker hallway to a set of stairs.

  ‘This would be the old master’s servant’s quarters, wouldn’t it?’ I asked.

  ‘Si, signor. All the younger boys are kept here.’

  ‘I see.’ I ground my teeth, biting back any further comment.

  The stairs were narrow and steep, for a moment I tried to imagine Gabi running noisily up them as he did at home, but I couldn’t place his vigour in this cramped environment. I could barely imagine him here at all. At the top, the old servant turned left and led me down a tapering hallway. We followed it to an abrupt end where the servant stopped and opened a low door.

  Sickness wafted out from the dark room. There was not even a candle to light the evening for its occupants. I could see clearly inside, unlike the servant, but he kept back as though afraid to enter.

  There were six bunks crammed into the tiny quarters and several small bodies filled them, laying like bundles of rags in their own squalor. A tiny moan escaped the lips of the boy nearest the door as the light from the torch seemed to burn his eyes. He threw the grey covers up over his head. Two others responded with gentle whimpers, groaning as they turned painfully from one swollen side to the other.

  Gabi was in the far corner. He lay still; his breath huffing out between swollen lips.

  ‘When were these boys last attended?’

  ‘Er ... someone comes in regular like ...’

  I entered the room, picked up the dry jug. ‘There’s not even any water.’

  ‘I’ll fetch some right away, sir. They must’ve just drunk it all.’

  The old servant placed his torch against the small torch at the door and it fired up, before he hurried away noisily down the hall.

  ‘Gabi ...’ I knelt by my son.

  His lips were parched, his skin sunken and damp with the residue of an intense fever. His shallow breaths puffed his hollow cheeks in and out with the effort of breathing. His eyes were half open, yet sightless. Fatality hung on his flesh like the dirty rags he wore. How had I let him come to this? My son, my darling boy. I had thought him safer from me and I had sent him here in good faith. Here. Surrounded by the stench of faeces and urine; wallowing in vomit, encircled by death. I raised his wasted arms, looked under and saw the undeniable evidence of his murderer; black, pus-filled lumps lay in his armpits. Plague was in the room and it would only be a matter of time before they realised and quarantined these boys. That meant they would seal up the room and leave them to die like rats trapped onboard a sinking ship.

  I couldn’t allow him to die like that. Not my boy. My child ... I had betrayed him. Why hadn’t I kept him and Marguerite with me always? Would it have mattered if I had revealed my secret to them? Could they have hated me anymore for knowing I had murdered their mother? Surely they despised me now for my abandonment of them?

  ‘Gabi ...’

  ‘Uncle ...’ The cracked whisper could only have been heard by my supernatural ears.

  ‘Father ...’ I told him.

  His yellowing eyes tried to focus on me.

  ‘Marguerite ... she ...’

  ‘Don’t try to speak, child ...’

  ‘She knew ... Padre ...’ A hacking cough choked away his further attempts to talk.

  In the next bunk a boy of around eight gave a shuddering sigh, his breath rattled in his throat as he took his last and slipped quietly away; alone except for five other dying boys.

  ‘I’m taking you from here.’

  He mewed softly as I lifted him; every part of his body was sore to the touch. I wrapped him as gently as possible in my cloak. His arms were like broken twigs and I placed them carefully inside the warm fabric, else they would flop as though blown in the wind. Standing with him, my arms felt empty; my strong vital child had wasted away. Gone were the plump and happy cheeks, the slightly protruding stomach which heaved, still swollen, but with sickness and starvation not with indulgence.

  Gone was that mischievous glint that shone in his green eyes, so like mine.

  ‘Here is the water, signor.’ The old servant returned, winded from the exertion of his flight.

  ‘These boys have been neglected, starved; it is days since anyone attended them.’ My anger flared brighter than his torch.

  ‘No, signor.’ Sweat beaded his brow.

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘It’s not me, signor. I’m just a humble servant here. The captain ... he insisted they were left alone. ‘Real soldiers pull themselves t’gether,’ he said. ‘If they want a drink they can get out’a bed.’

  Some of us ’ave been sneaking in here with water sir, honest.’

  I pushed past him. My son groaned in my arms, but I retraced my steps down through the house and back to the main entrance. Outside my carriage waited. As the driver held open the door he took a step back at the sight of Gabi, wrinkled his nose at the rank smell that wafted from his fevered limbs, but dutifully closed the door behind as I stepped in.

  I kept my son on my knee in an attempt to cushion him as the carriage jolted through the Verona streets until we reached the tavern. With every movement he cried softly, so intense was his pain. As we pulled up, I heard the flurry of activity that always accompanies the arrival of a wealthy visitor and knew that I would not be questioned about my son’s illness if I showed I was generous.

  The driver opened the door.

  ‘Go in and arrange rooms; a tub of hot water is to be boiled for bathing and I want food and wine brought up.’

  Within minutes everything was arranged and I carried Gabi through the inn and quickly upstairs without arousing too much curiosity or suspicion. I laid him on the soft bed. The room was sparse but comfortable. By the bedside was a roughly carved table bearing a lit candle. There was a wooden chair beside it, with a thick straw- filled cushion on its seat. The chair was not roughly carved like the table but smoothly finished and varnished; it looked out of place in this basic room. Gabi slept while I waited for the tub to arrive and I stripped him of his rags, wrapping him once more in my cloak. I sat beside him, watching the rise and fall of his small chest. His breathing already appeared to have improved by the fresh air and I began to hope that maybe by some miracle ...

  A knock at the door roused me and I woke suddenly. Frightened, I checked Gabi and found there was no change. He was breathing easier, but he looked so pale that I blew out the candle at his bedside so that the innkeeper would not see he was so ill. I went to the door and allowed two boys to bring in the tub, followed by the innkeeper and his wife each carrying buckets of hot water. For the next few minutes there was a flood of activity as they tipped the buckets into the tub, left and returned with more until I said it was sufficiently full.

  ‘Take this,’ I said, offering a handful of coins to the innkeeper.

  He quickly took the money in his big fist and bowing, hurried outside with the rest of his entourage. I locked the door behind them and I heard the innkeeper’s wife gasp as her husband showed her the money.

  ‘We have to take special care of this gentleman,’ she told him as they descended. ‘I’ll send up a jug of the best wine with a slab of the best cut of meat.’

  I turned to Gabi. He was shivering now. I quickly removed him from the cloak, stripped away the remains of the awful, soiled rags and examined him. There were more black boils in his groin and his skin had that bluish tinge of the dying. I took his poor blistered body, still covered in his own filth, and lay him in the bath. He gasped as he sunk into the water. His tiny hands fluttered like birds wings, grabbing at the air. I supported his head, carefully washing away the signs of his neglect.

  ‘My boy. My
poor boy. How could I have let this happen to you?’

  Gabi’s eyes flickered briefly with recognition and then with a gasp he fainted in the water. Bubbles broke to the surface as black pus oozed from his wounds. I was terrified I had killed him.

  But no, the water was hot and it had burst the boils. His shivering stopped and once again he was resting easier. I took this as a good sign and so I used some soap and cleansed him thoroughly, before lifting his frail frame from the water. I wrapped him in a towel, carefully patting down his flesh rather than rubbing. Once dry, I examined his sores. The boils had all broken and the poison washed away. From my trunk I took out a silk shirt and began to shred it, making bandages to protect his raw flesh.

  All this time Gabi slept, unaware that I was trying to help, trying to make amends, trying to be his father at last. I covered him with one of my night shirts, which was so large he looked as though he were lying in a shroud. My eyes burned and stepping back from the bed, I looked away for a moment. My heart hurt more than ever. I was never more certain of anything; my son was going to die. No one ever survived plague.

  Taking a shuddering breath I turned once more to him; pulled back the covers. Lifting him gently I settled him in the bed. Then I took up a small jug of water and pressed it to his cracked lips, forcing in a mouthful. He coughed and spluttered; the water dripped from the corners of his lips. I tipped the jug against his mouth again; but still he couldn’t swallow. At the third attempt the water didn’t come back. His parched pale tongue reached out and I allowed him another small gulp. Once again he slipped into unconsciousness and I was convinced this marked a turning; maybe he would get better. If there was only something more I could do.

  Before the coach driver retired he arranged the removal of the tub and in the dim light the innkeeper didn’t notice the vile state the water was in. I ushered them out, urging them to be quiet.

  ‘My son is very tired ... We’ve travelled a long way.’

  They left a fresh jug of water, a jug of wine and a platter of meat on the side table. I sat down in the chair by Gabi’s bedside. Although I drank the wine I couldn’t bring myself to eat as I watched the slow heave of his chest. He had little more substance than a shadow in the big bed.

  All night, I was alert to his every movement. I gave him water often and the gulps became more controlled but his fever began to rage again around early morning. I sponged his body down, using part of my makeshift bandages, steeped in cold water. I noticed that there were new boils, swelling up again like black stars in the white night of his skin. Eventually I left a rag permanently on his brow, though he tossed and turned frequently throwing it off.

  ‘Madre!’ he cried turning over. ‘Marguerite ... he can’t be ... Mother would have told us.’

  ‘Drink my child.’ And he drank. His body, a dried-up husk, constantly needed to be replenished.

  Through the walls, I heard the driver in the room next door using the chamber pot as he scratched his dry flesh with broken nails. For a moment I feared he would enter and begin to cry plague, but then I heard the creak of the bed once more inhabited.

  As the morning lengthened I could hear the sounds of the inn as it wakened. Outside in the stable a horse shifted in its narrow stall, rising to its feet to greet the dawn; the blacksmith fired up his kiln, rattling the chains holding his tools as he fanned the flames until the heat rippled up into the air; the slow, steady clunk-clunk of the wheels of a carriage as it was pulled from the stables to be prepared for its owner’s early departure. The kitchen came to life with the dull thud of dough, slamming onto the table as the innkeeper’s wife kneaded it. There was soon the smell of bread baking and cold meat, left over from the previous night, as it was carved and placed on platters to break-the-fast. Fresh cheese was delivered with still-warm milk from the local farm, in open buckets, on a creaking hand cart accompanied by the light tread of a young girl. The smells merged and seeped up through the floorboards as Gabi moaned. I went into the adjoining room and roused my driver.

  ‘Fetch some bread, cheese and milk.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And get them to bring a fresh tub of water.’

  The cleansing began again. Still more pustules burst in the heat of the water and again Gabi began to improve. I realised that the swelling boils affected his fever; the fever subsided as they fractured. So I set about examining him again only to discover they had all emptied as before. After his second bath Gabi was more aware. He drank the fresh milk greedily, and managed to chew and swallow lumps of milk-soaked bread.

  ‘Father ...’ he said quietly, ‘I’m going to die ...’

  ‘No ...’

  ‘Did we ... Marguerite and I ... do something wrong?’

  ‘Of course not. Why do you think that?’ But I knew the answer.

  Gabi drifted into a calmer sleep as I sat quietly beside him holding his fragile hand in mine.

  ‘You’re my child. I love you ...’ But the rise and fall of his chest revealed that he could not hear me as he slept.

  Later I discovered the return of yet more boils and so I wafted my dagger over the flame of the candle until its steel went black.

  When the tip was hot and black I ran it carefully against the remaining boils, which burst emptying their foul-smelling contents onto a waiting strip of damp cloth. Gabi didn’t stir. He was in a deep sleep now, so I did not feel like some sadistic torturer.

  By evening my son had slept all day without moving and I began to wonder if he would ever wake again, or if he would simply slip away. I forced myself to eat the food that the innkeeper’s wife brought me and I paid her well every time. I had given the driver a handful of coins to ensure he enjoyed the wares of the villagers and to keep him occupied for the day but as the evening wore on he returned, flustered.

  ‘My Lord. In the village ...’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There are rumours of plague at the academy. The whole building is being quarantined.’

  I turned slowly and looked at my son. ‘You have nothing to fear. There is no plague here, only neglect. The academy was abusing these poor boys while taking the money from their parents.’

  ‘But ...’

  ‘Look at him, if you don’t believe ...’ The driver stood still, afraid to move closer. ‘Does this room smell like plague?’

  ‘No sir, it doesn’t but then ... the boy is sick.’

  ‘Yes. But he’s improving with the food and drink. He’s been practically starved.’

  The driver was unconvinced, so I turned my eyes on him, forcing persuasion into my throat, into the emphasis of every word as I met his watery gaze.

  ‘The boy was taken out before the outbreak. He was not infected. I saved him in time. You are safe, the inn is safe. Here, take this money; there is a brothel just up the lane from here. You won’t mention to anyone that we visited the academy ...’

  I had never done this before and I was not convinced it would work but the driver took the money and left, heading out to the brothel as suggested and I waited behind, tending the bedside, wondering if a mob was going to arrive to throw us out onto the street.

  The next morning Gabi woke again, and this time I could see there was a definite improvement. He was talking more, ate more and stayed awake longer.

  ‘You’re going to get better. Then we will fetch Marguerite and set up home. I won’t ever abandon you again.’

  ‘Why did you send us away ... father?’

  ‘I thought it was for the best. It was a mistake.’ I had been given a second chance and I intended never to make this error again.

  On the third day he was eating broth and more bread. A rapid improvement had occurred. Even the driver could see that Gabi was recovering and therefore stopped worrying about plague.

  ‘We’ll stay a few more days until he is stronger,’ I told him
. ‘Then we’ll go back to my house in Padua. Here. Relax and enjoy the stay.’

  The driver was content to take my money. He was interested in a certain unmarried dairy maid and there was a market to buy local wares.

  ‘When we return to the new house I’ll leave you to rest while I go to fetch Marguerite. Then we’ll be together again.’

  ‘Can we, father?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve promised it and I mean it.’

  ‘Will we ever see mother again?’ he asked as I plumped his pillows and helped him lay back.

  ‘Perhaps ...’ His eyes met mine and I knew that on some subconscious level Gabi did not believe me. ‘She loved you. Never forget that.’

  ‘It seems sometimes love is not enough ...’ Gabi, my eleven year old son, drifted off to sleep. He had grown up so suddenly and I had almost lost him.

  The next day I sent a letter to the school in Switzerland informing them I would be coming and to prepare Marguerite for her return with me. I also sent an urgent message to my uncle Giulio in Florence. I had decided that I had to try to spend what time I could with all the family I loved. The messenger was to beg my uncle to return with him to Padua. I was fairly certain that I would be at the house before he arrived.

  Gabi improved daily but the imposing presence of plague spread through the village; I deemed it sensible to leave as soon as possible. Gabi was recovering well, but I was afraid that the village would be closed down and we wouldn’t be able to leave. So, early the next morning I arranged with my driver to leave Verona and make our journey to Padua.

  And so, we travelled the bumpy roads once more. Gabi was wrapped in a thick blanket; a makeshift bed was made for him on one side of the carriage. His thin, pale cheeks were far less hollow now and the bluish tinge of death had long since left his lips.