•
The squires, the donceles, are no longer that sweet nor young. From the parking lot that bears the same name of the street, it seems a labyrinthic cave opens up; at its entrance, an impassive, worn, three-story building stares back: three heads which question my entrance, but allow my passage. I penetrate a web of centuries-old neoclassical constructions, which close above me. Although it is noon, the sun barely lightens the sidewalk; there is a cold that slices the bone, but I keep walking. I walk by the theatre, Fru Fru, amidst a thick rain of black feathers. I see, on each side of the street, photographic businesses in niches full of humidity, some which are, ironically, illuminated by candles of trembling light. The bookstores of used books, like angels of a cemetery, open voluptuously. Amongst the angelic businesses shines “Miracle Alley”. I enter this store as though an external force conducts me to the shelf at the back. On the third bookshelf – dusty, damp and covered with a black jacket – is the book. I pay 13 pesos. I walk. The street also smells of mildew; it is cloudy, full of dust. The used bookstores invade the sidewalks. I walk as if possessed. I walk.
I stand before a newsstand. On the right side, a thin, very-white sheet is pasted. With beautiful calligraphy, it offers a room for rent. There is no phone number, only an address on this same Donceles Street. I take the rice paper and ask the newspaper seller for the address.
“Right ahead, miss,” he says, pointing to a moth-eaten wooden gate.
At this moment, I realize I am pressing hard on the book. I open it to the first page and place the white sheet of paper as a bookmark. The dust from the street lodges in my throat when I realize the book, Bakeneko Monogatari, was written by the author of Hitomi. Not only that, but on the margin of the paper, the same name is written in Japanese: ‘Tsukino’.
Heart beating, I touch the knocker. She opens at once and, with a gesture of her enormous eyes, invites me in.
•
To live in Tsukino’’s house was like going blind: The small building from the dawn of the 20th century had been trapped between another two of greater size. For this reason, it received very little sunlight. The electrical wiring was old and failed constantly, so our daily life depended on the faint candlelights, which shone yellow because of the humidity.
Despite this impenetrable darkness, I grew used to living in this place with airs of used bookstore: There were rooms full of dusty books and a central patio which, I can swear, is the source of all the humidity in the world. At night, Tsukino walked the hallways in the company of her three cats: Hitomi, Kasumi and Ayumu. From my desk, as I made annotations on the thesis, or from the bed, I would see the brightness of the flame travel the house and hear the meows and purring of the felines. Later, I would feel how one of the cats jumped on my bed and snuggled against my feet.
I had not seen the cats. I knew them by their cries and because Tsukino mentioned their names during her nocturnal walks. Once, I tried to caress the fur of the one sleeping in my bed, but it fled when I reached my hand towards its back. Surely, the darkness and loneliness of the house had made them unsociable.
One night, I bumped into a bookcase while searching for a candle to replace the one that was extinguishing. The book that I had bought on that occasion at “Miracle Alley” fell and opened on a page: “The pupils dilate and shine, with the thousand facets of a kaleidoscope with an abyss in the centre ....”
The light went off.
Kneeling at the threshold, I was able to glimpse a reddish light coming closer down the hallway. I heard Tsukino calling the cats and they responding with loving meows. I heard, too, my name. When the light came closer, I realized it floated like a will-o’-the-wisp over the robust body of a beautiful white cat with two long tails, which, with elegant steps, entered Tsukino’s room. My hands shook, I sweated cold sweat, but I managed to drag myself to the main room. What I saw can barely be told with words: On the bed, wearing the clothes of my landlady, the white cat devoured the bloody flesh of a creature which I am unable to describe.
The tails quivered, ethereal, happy: Kasumi, the mist, and Ayumu, the apparition. The white cat turned, looked at me, and with a gesture of her enormous eyes, invited me in. Hitomi, the pupils ....
I felt myself watched into the infinite by those abysmal eyes, which eat away the flesh and soul. I ran outside towards the dirty air of Donceles, where the moldy bookstores grow and spread like mushrooms over the asphalt, and, like the infinite faces of Tsukino, I began to escape eternally to rid myself of those eyes ....
•
I still feel her lying at my side at night. I hear her whisper lascivious words in a language I do not understand. Each night, I imagine her eyes and I feel her snuggle next to me, and I am paralyzed and I am lulled and I slowly fall asleep, while she, wickedly, purrs her bestial prayer.
•••
Nelly Geraldine García-Rosas is a Mexican writer and a freelance copy editor. Her stories have been published in local independent magazines and anthologies like Historical Lovecraft (Innsmouth Free Press, 2011). She loves cats and has been working on a thesis on Gothic Literature for so long that it’s not sane, anymore. She can be found online at: http://www.nellygeraldine.com.
I Tarocchi dei d’Este
By Martha Hubbard
The Magus
Lurking in the sharp morning shadows, I, Zoesi Bianfacchio studied my niece in the courtyard below. I schooled my long, saturnine face to display little emotion, only my narrow mouth puckering as if I’d just ingested a rotten lemon. Look at her, I thought. Jumping about like a demented chicken. There are times I think my niece should be sequestered somewhere quiet for her own safety – other times, – I’m certain of it. Holy Mother of God, it’s a hanging not a circus.
“Alicia! What are you doing?” I commanded, leaving the shelter of the portico.
“Oh, Uncle, can’t you see? There’s to be an execution – actually, three. I do adore hangings. All those dangly bits flipping and flopping about,” the girl burbled. “I love watching the workmen – look at those muscular arms – setting up the scaffold for the hangings. I hope the hangman is incompetent. I like it so much better when the knot isn’t tied true; the victim dies slowly: gasping, gurgling, tongue protruding as his life ebbs away.”
As Alicia rattled out this obscene monologue, I wondered, not for the first time, if installing her in the household of my Lord’s wife Parisina had been a mistake.
True, there weren’t so many hangings these days. The long reign of the d’Este family had enabled a period of peace and stability that meant most citizens of Ferrara were too busy scheming up ways of pulling in more florins and soldi to foment troublemaking, while the Duke usually preferred the swift finality of beheading. Sad, really – a proper hanging could be an occasion of unbridled festivity. Tomorrow, there would be, not one but three droppings: pickpockets, thieves – lowlife – in plain sight of the entire court and populace of Ferrara. It would be the high point of a boring, lonely summer for Alicia.
Nonetheless, that was no excuse to behave with such an appalling lack of dignity. She should consider herself a very lucky young woman. Had not I, her uncle, Chamberlain to His Lordship the Marquis of Ferrara, Niccolò d’Este, secured a brilliant position for her with the Marquis’ beautiful young wife, the Madonna Parisina Malatesta? If she would only apply a bit of discretion, a judicious combination of hard work and well-judged flattery would see her named Chief Lady in Waiting. From that place, she would be of genuine use to me. I would repay her usefulness to the fullest.
Instead, the stupid girl had fallen in love with the Marquis’ bastard son and heir, Ugo.
It disgusted me to watch. Whenever she was not otherwise occupied, her eyes tracked his every move. When she and Parisina walked to chapel, the young prince glanced in their direction with the sweetest, most tender expression in his coal-black eyes. My stupid Alicia believed that his tender glances were for her. It had not taken me long to discern the truth – that the boy was enamoured of his stepmo
ther. This was something I could use – but how?
You ask why I would want to harm my beautiful young mistress? I tell you my hatred of this spoiled, self-indulgent beauty burns like a smouldering fire, ready to burst into blazing fury. She possesses the singular item I want most in all the world and now, she has claimed this exquisite boy, as well.
I know it is so. Damn her! Surely, no man can look at a woman the way he does without feeling the same stirring in his loins that I feel in my most private places at the sight of him. If only that stirring were for me. I cannot bear it. For months, I have sought a means of bringing down my cruel mistress. Now, perhaps Alicia has shewn me a way.
The High Priestess
My life was not easy. Do you imagine it a wonderful fate to be married at fourteen to the greatest lecher in our city-state? The magnificent Niccolò, hero of ditties sung in every tavern: On this and the other side of the Po, everywhere are the sons of Niccolò. How could any woman, after experiencing his masterful lovemaking and potency, desire another? Let me tell you true. In bed, he was a dud: fat, pimply, foul-smelling, and fast. The buck in its cage takes more care of his partners’ needs than my Lord Niccolò.
Nonetheless, I was a Maletestina; well-trained by my father, Andrea, I knew my duty. Surrendering my dignity, I acquiesced to his ruttings, even on occasion pretending he had pleased me. My reward was two beautiful daughters, Ginevra and Luiza. Of the boy wrenched from my arms too soon, I will not speak.
On balance, my life was not unpleasant. After a few years, Niccolò, determined to continue the goal of planting his seed in every nubile female residing in Ferrara, demanded his husbandly dues less and less. Monetarily, he was not stingy to me and mine. Thus, unlike many of his other spawn living in the palace, we had proper clothing and the rushes in our bedding were changed before too many ticks and lice could take up residence in them.
I did what I could to help my stepchildren, but my primary concern was my daughters, their well-being and their education ... and my cards. Oh, my cards, my pretty playfellows!
Desiring to find a way to understand and endure my place in this life, I had become interested in the Sacred Inner Teachings. Any wise man will tell you of the two key pathways to Supreme Knowledge. One of these is the Sacred Tarot. In its powerful, mystical images, I hoped to find the conduit to an eternal and happy life. To this end, I had begun collecting decks of tarocchi. How beautiful were these packages of sublime ideas! Each artist brought something new and different to his own creation. Using an allowance from my father, I sent my servant, Zoesi on journeys throughout the breadth of the peninsula, to most of the city-states: Venezia, Mantua, Bologna, Ravenna, even into the lair of the Popes themselves, not so many years returned from exile in Avignon. Who would have believed that the most treasured and dangerous deck of all would be found so close to home – in the greedy, mercantile city of Firenze?
In the spring of 1423, whispers reached me of the birth of a very special deck. Discreet inquiries returned the news that, indeed, such a deck, containing entirely new images and with covers wrought with fine gold, had been brought into existence by the painter Giovanni della Gabella. The story making the rounds the drinkers in the Firenze enoteche was that these extraordinary images had appeared to della Gabella in visions, that for the seven nights he worked on their creation, he neither slept nor partook of food nor strong drink, so powerful was the urge to render out this creation. He was said to be demanding the unheard-of sum of 40 gold ducats for this valuable pack of cards. Was he insane, I wondered. What stack of paper images could possibly be worth so much?
Excited beyond the point of reason, I nightly dreamt of them. The idea of them, how they would look, their scent, their cool, portentous feel in my hands. What hidden knowledge they might reveal possessed me. At last, I sent Zoesi to secure them for me. I had realized the outrageous price by selling my dead mother’s wedding ring, one of my dearest treasures. At the time, it seemed a small price to pay, to acquire an object so extraordinary.
The Magus
By the time Milady ordered me off to Firenze to collect the latest of her trinkets, I had become disgusted to my core by being made to act as her errand boy. Arriving in that glittering, giddy metropolis, my first thought was to secure lodgings. I had no intention of returning to Ferrara the same day. A bird released from its cage will fly free as long as it may. Inquiries about the house of the painter Della Gabella produced the news that the painter had left his home and family, and was living in a house of ill-repute with Angelina, the exquisite beauty who was said to have been the model for some of his cards.
Certain that, with these changes in his fortunes, he must now be in great need of monies, I reasoned that procuring the mistress’s cards would present no problem. The house, so-named ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’, was on one of the narrow alleys leading away from the Ponte Vecchio. It was not difficult to find. Reaching a massive wooden door that guarded the entrance to this ‘garden’, I knocked several times, only to have it opened by the largest, shiniest Moor I have ever seen. The head was shaved, the massive body entirely encased in a voluminous robe, making it impossible to determine whether this creature be man or woman.
“My good lady or gentleman,” I began.
“Ha.” Don’t know what to make of me – do you?” the creature mocked. “‘Merisondé’ will do. How may I help you? From the look of you, you aren’t the type to require the kinds of services we offer here.”
“You are correct in that assumption, Merisondé. I seek the painter Giovanni della Gabella. I am told he is to be found here.”
“Oh, you want the lunatic. If you can take him off my hands, I’ll make it worth your effort.”
“He is mad, you say?”
“Not so as you’d notice outright, but something about him upsets the other customers. My regular business has fallen off since he took up residence.”
“I’m sorry to learn that. Perhaps I can help.”
“Somebody has to. He’s been keeping one of my best girls from working. And now, neither has set foot outside his room for two days.”
“Direct me to him and I’ll do my utmost.”
“Right this way. If you can shift that miscreant out of my house, I’ll give you personal service, myself – free of charge.”
Tempted as I was to find out what was under that kaftan, I declined.
A stirring in my chest, a vague new hunger, was pulling me upwards to the painter’s room. I knocked, knocked harder, called the painter’s name – all to no avail. So it was, uninvited, that I entered the maestro’s lair.
The scene that greeted me should be indescribable. Even now, I wish those images were not forever burned onto my memory. The once-beautiful model lay, sprawled naked on a bed, her shaved sex open to all eyes, her blue-white body a mass of cuts and stripes oozing blood and pus. I feared that she was dead, but a soft moaning, like the purring of a dying kitten, told me that life still flowed in her.
On the floor nearby, in a pool of urine and excrement that had attracted the attention of a host of flies and other insects, the painter sat staring with cloudy eyes at the beautiful deck laid out in the traditional Spread of Destiny. As I entered, he looked at me and moved to shield the cards from my glance. From what I did see of the pictures, his future was not going to be pleasant.
“Go away! “ he cried. “You cannot take my beauties.”
“You have promised them to the Madonna Parisina. Here, I have money for you.”
“I don’t want the filthy bitch’s coins. She cannot buy my love.”
“I thought your love was the model Angelina, there.”
“That,” he gestured with his head toward the bed, “that is dross. It knows nothing, sees nothing, is worth nothing. Only my beauties here can speak the truth.” He stroked them with a lover’s touch. I winced to see him fondle the lovely images with his filthy hands.
At that moment, Merisondé arrived, a shadow falling across the carnage in the room. “You beas
t! Monster! What have you done to my beautiful Angelina?”
“Not so pretty, anymore – is she?” cackled the painter.
Turning to one of the blond giants who had followed her, she ordered, “Get that foul creature out of my house! Throw him into the Po so he doesn’t stink up our streets.”
Then, kneeling on the bed, cradling the dying whore, she commanded, “And fetch the doctor. Now!”
“Well, Signor from Ferrara,” Merisondé said to me, as the wretched painter was dragged, crying and screaming, out the door, “It seems you have forced an ending to this sorry tragedy. There, take those accursed cards. Get them and yourself out of my house, as well.”
I was only too happy to oblige her. Scooping them into a pouch I had prepared for this purpose, I thanked her and departed. I was already crossing the ancient bridge, with its mercantile temptations, when I realised that I was unexpectedly 40 ducats richer.
Returning to my lodgings as fast as my shaking legs would carry me, I ordered a magnificent supper, along with a basin of warm water and some scented soap to be sent up to my room. Once my feast had been laid out, the curious eyes of the servant had departed and my cleaning materials set out, I removed the miraculous deck from my pouch. My first thought – to remove all trace of that painter’s contamination from the lovely images. As I worked- oh, so carefully – wiping the grime and mire of his fingers from the beautiful faces and gowns, I felt a warmth growing in my breast. A stirring of love such as I had felt for no living creature in my existence.
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