“What have you done? The Corridor is empty! They’ve all gone!” Death was looming over him, in all his terrifying power, his black robe filling the room, his voice full of rage...or was it astonishment perhaps.
Raphael, his strength returned to his body, magnified by sheer joy and confidence, rose to his feet. “You said there was no room in hell. Now, there’s room,” he said.
“You set them free?”
“No! By the Word and each soul has decided his own punishment. I can tell Francesca she needn’t come here. Herr Hitler is in hell.”
Death laughed. “She already knows, believe me.”
“Where is she?”
“Dead, but not by her hand. When I got to the root cellar, the spirits of her family were waiting for her too and I could not descend—they blocked my way. And then came the others. Soldiers who had fought by her side. Then more soldiers still until there was multitude, and the multitude became the Polish nation—I recognized the faces of all those who took the oath, faithful unto death—so many soldiers they crushed the demon, and when Francesca appeared they bore her soul to the heavens where Mother Mary embraced her daughter and welcomed her into the Hall of Heroes. And when I asked why, a cavalryman said to me this one thing only: after we died to defeat slavery, she fought on. Go ahead, Raphael, call her.”
“Francesca!” Raphael yelled. There was no reply. “Francesca!”
“She is in paradise,” Death said. “Such is the reward for patriots and promise keepers.”
****
“What a wonderful face. Who is she, Alby?”
Albion poured himself another cup of coffee and joined his fiancé on the couch. He stared at the newspaper clipping in Maddie’s hand. “It’s a weird story. Francesca Grasinski saved all her pennies all her life to return to Poland after the war. When she got there, she fainted on the steps of the Warsaw Uprising monument. So, they took her into the hospital and in her purse was a passport and a photograph of her family outside an old chateau that’s now a B&B. She told them about a root cellar that was covered by the rose garden but showed up on the plat housed in the nearby church along with six surviving records, one of which contains the names of her and her family. The authorities wanted to set up a trust fund that would take care of her for the rest of her days, but all she wanted to do was go down into the cellar. They said ok, tore up the garden to find the damn thing, and when they got down there, guess what they found.”
“Nazi bones?”
“Nope. White roses growing among the potatoes.”
“Roses underground? Impossible without light and heat.”
“They theorized the door to the cellar was so old that just enough light got between the boards to grow the roses, but not enough to kill the potatoes. Hey, it’s Eastern Europe, anything’s possible.”
“Not that.”
“It doesn’t matter because when Grasinski saw the roses and the potatoes, she died of a heart attack. How’s that for irony?”
“It’s sad.” Maddie said, reverently putting the clipping into Alby’s notebook.
Alby rubbed her shoulder. “Well, in happier news, my dear, I’ve been invited to submit an audition painting to the 9/11 Mural Commission. They want a mural—a big mural.
“Oh, Alby, that’s wonderful!”
“Scary, you mean. ”
“They saw Cache of the Damned…”
“Cooper made sure everyone who visited the Tate saw it. He hung it in the foyer.”
“Are you going to submit the one you work on instead of sleeping?”
Ably kissed her cheek. “You know about that?” he said uneasily. She must have counted his sleeping pills.
“Of course, I know.” Maddie went to a sheet covered canvas. “This it?” Alby nodded yes. She let the sheet drop and walked back from the easel. “What do you call it?” She pointed to the six roses and the bowl of potatoes on the table at which an old woman was sitting, contemplating a picture of the Resurrection painted on a wall. Surrounding her were the ghosts preparing dinner, and soldiers—one holding the Polish flag, another cleaning a rifle, another polishing his boots at the hearth. And, outside was a desert-like landscape littered with ravaged bodies, shredded limbs and torn uniforms, and a melted Death oozing over a rock on which stood a craggy tree with a dangling noose
“The Persistence of Tragedy.” Suffering was haunting, but tragedy lasted forever. Some people were marked for happiness, others for unspeakable pain not of their making and in spite of their best efforts to avoid it. Oedipus left town so he wouldn’t kill his father and marry his mother, unknowingly running to his destiny not escaping it. “Do you believe in fate, Maddie?
She was making neat piles of the books he’d scattered near his easel. Something about the painting produced a nervous energy in her. “I’m not sure what I believe in anymore.” She walked to him and brushed a wily lock of hair from his forehead. “I know so little about you artists. Where do the pictures come from? Are they all locked inside your head, or just invented as you go along. Does the brush follow your hand or lead it?”
Alby picked up a sable brush and examined it closely. Was there an eye tucked somewhere inside? “I think I create as I work, but maybe the people and their stories do live inside me.” Before he finished Persistence, he would have scoffed at the notion that he was the tool and not the tool user, but there was an unmistakable oddity evolving in his life. His vivid dreams were now accompanied by a voice that told him to rise and copy what was shown to him—the world of the characters who inhabited his canvasses. Inspiration was becoming an annoyance. Joy becoming trepidation. Last night, when finished the painting, he’d stood back from his easel, and remarked that it was gallery ready...but not to himself.
The Undoings
Raphael felt himself growing stronger every day. He couldn’t see admiration in Death’s eye sockets when he emptied the Corridor, but he’d heard it in his voice. He’d confronted the terrors of the unknown risk and prevailed. He’d recovered his confidence. His hands were master of the brush once more. He would paint his own dreams. Yes, that was it! He’d begun to dream again. And, having dreams of his own, he was ready to inspire the dreams of others. He was a Muse whether Charles approved or not. The freeman needs no permission. A slave emancipates himself.
Achievement was coursing through his veins, his youthful ambition making him ravenous for life. Even its monotonous, banal aspects—daily baths, regular meals, the need to urinate—fascinated him. The more he tried to suppress his desire for sensuous experience, the more concrete it became. In a fit of remorse, he went to Angelico and confessed, “I want to live again in the flesh. Tell me if such a thing possible. It must be.”
“It is no surprise. Those who die young often yearn for more time when Time no longer has the power to grant the desire. It isn’t good to dwell on earthly life,” Angelico said, himself remembering the sweet smell of morning in a wild flower field. “It is full of temptations, especially those that put at risk what has already been gained—eternal life in the Spirit. Serve out your time here fruitfully, and look forward to heaven.”
Raphael picked up a piece of coal and began to draw on a blank canvass. Quickly the face of Albion Rector began to take shape, a face that reflected the same ambition of the sketcher.
Angelico recognized it instantly. “You cannot do it over, my friend. Take on a body and it is easy to believe that the new present is simply a continuation of the past. It isn’t. You may not have talented hands that can paint what you see in your mind’s eye. Will you be content being a house painter or live miserably yearning for your past greatness?"
Raphael ached to erase the truth of Angelico’s words. Earthly life was not planned the way one wished; by necessity, one’s plans were contingent on reality. The Spirit world was full of unknown artists who starved for food or materials because of poverty, of great singers who were never heard, and great actors whose only audience were their wives. Perhaps he would not be born in Italy, but in C
hina where he would not be allowed to express what he saw—if he saw anything at all. “I could ask Charles if there is a way to discover where I would land if I return to earth.”
Angelico grabbed his hand and the charcoal fell to the ground. “Seek not to cheat Fate,” he said. “Charles is cunning. He won’t lie, but he may not reveal all either. Take care, friend.”
Raphael only swirled his red cloak around himself, feeling his being pressing against the cloth that stabbed at him as though it were made of barbed wire. “I wish I had your humble simplicity rather than a rebel’s heart.”
“Humble simplicity is the key to contentment in both worlds.” Angelico stooped, retrieved the coal and handed it to Raphael. “Rumor has it that Albion Rector is a painter of truth. Is it so?” Perhaps Raphael’s restlessness could be calmed by a reminder of his duty to the living.
“He is dedicated to that end.” Raphael resumed his work at the easel, pretending to be so absorbed in it that he could not attend Angelico’s words.
“Then he needs you more than most. Don’t forget that the truth is a painful Grail—those who desire to know it often want others to share their burden and thus tread on dangerous ground. Destruction and madness are often their fate. You must protect him from Charles’ antipathy to such aspiration.”
He finished his sketch and sat on a stool three feet back assessing it. “Agreed.” But that protection was better provided by one who could lounge on patios near the sea.
****
Kha'zar crept down the steep, jagged path to Hell knowing punishment awaited him for his failure to deliver the soul of Francesca Grasinski to his Master. His bruises and bleeding wounds, suffered during her apotheosis, would not mitigate Satan’s anger. How many millions of years would he wait again for a realm of his own inside the psyche of a human? He could only guess—one, five, a hundred? And what of Judas’ liberation and forgiveness? By now news of the humiliation Raphael had meted out to devil and demons alike had been proclaimed throughout the universe.
“Who is this pretentious Messenger who invents himself a Muse?” Satan demanded of Kha'zar as he prostrated himself before the living-bone Throne. “By what cunning did he overcome Judas’ self-absorbed remorse of 2012 years?”
“I spied Raphael one night in her dream, but how was I to know he was slier than that pesky monk, Angelico, Great One?”
“It is said he carries a golden sword of truth—is this true?” Satan’s clenched his hands around the two red orbs welded to the arms of his throne.
“I saw no such sword. He entered with his weapon sheathed and without the fanfare of a warrior.” Kha'zar wrapped his tail around his withered left leg, slithered onto a three-legged stool, and sat, cross-legged, horned head bowed.
Satan grabbed him by his pointed ears and held them close to his lips. “You did not see the dream he painted for Judas, did you?” he demanded.
“No. I swear. No one saw it but he and Judas. The door is sealed with sacred blood.”
“And the Word? You didn’t hear it, did you?” Satan’s grip became stronger as panic gripped him—even to hear the name Jesus invited Hope.
“No, Master. Only Raphael and the suicides heard, I swear.”
Satan threw the twisted form down the stairs, and Kha'zar rolled to the bottom where he lay sprawled, unable to move from pain. “Liar! And a stupid one at that. How do you know no one heard, if you were not there to hear also? Who is this Raphael? Is everyone in Hell stupid?” Satan screamed.
Mephistopheles groaned and said aside, "None would choose to wait upon you if he wasn't."
Medusa came forward and put a cold hand on his shoulder. “On the contrary, Master,” she said, “Hell is full of professors and scientists and philosophers—educated people who remade the world with their logic and knowledge.”
Satan turned to her and kissed her hand. She knelt by his throne and stroked his fury leg, working her fingers down to his cloven hoof. “It’s just that the Spirit World marvels at Raphael’s ability to reason. He is no more than one of many Italian artists who painted portraits of the Popes, and many of people in the School of Athens now reside here ...”
“Word has it, he finished the Corridor painting in under an hour, M’lady,” a scribe reminded her.
“Nothing miraculous, Master,” Medusa said, knocking the scribe in the head. “He was precocious but had to be—dying so young. You have nothing to fear from the Italian.”
A uniformed man with a large jaw stepped forward and bowed smartly. “Never underestimate the Italians. Take it from Il Duce. Remember fascism?” He marched up the stairs and handed Satan a list of Raphael’s works. “You've seen them all, I'm sure."
"Not true for one who turns away from Rapahel's renditions of heavenly personages," Mephistopheles whispered in Il Duce's ear.
"Any man," the thick-necked man continued hastily, "who can tackle the problem of space at such a young age has superlative reasoning capabilities, and that can be dangerous. He is a formidable enemy despite what your slithery sycophant tells you.”
Satan's scooped up the demon by the scruff, his sweat stinging the demon's scales. He brought the quaking lizard eyeball to eyeball. “Kha'zar, every human has a weakness. Raphael’s sins must be many if he's still trying to atone for them through good works. Artist turned Muse of Truth—seeking justice for the oppressed—hubris I say. Find his Nemesis!”
“I’ll need allies, Great One—do I have your permission to visit the Spirit World?”
“Go Demon, and do not fail me again.”
****
Kha'zar knew neither Fate nor Death would speak to him unless he deceived them, so he disguised himself with the affectations of humanity. He could have worn Fame and posed as a celebrity, or Fortune clothed with the finery of a mogul, but he chose the wiliest of all human pretensions, Self-Esteem, and clothed himself as a philanthropist.
He knocked softly on Fate’s door. Charles the Charming greeted him with hostility. “You’re a stranger here,” he said.
Kha'zar bowed graciously. He was now a young Florentine dressed in breeches and silver-buckled shoes. “Ah, what is a stranger but simply a friend one does not know until they exchange the pleasantries of the day?" He offered Charles a rolled parchment. “It is well known you restore manuscripts, and I have one for you.”
Charles opened the door and waved the beautiful young man into his office. “I'll gladly give you benefit of my experience,” he said, eagerly unrolling the scroll. He perused it, quickly ascertaining it to be an authentic letter from a priest to a well-born patron. “Your doublet is the color of mountains at dusk, and your cape the color of pewter—are you an artist recently deceased seeking a Messenger’s post?”
Indeed, many of the dead, having been released from purgatory, roamed the Spirit World looking for worthwhile endeavors with which to fill their time till judgment. Charles felt fortunate that so many artisans frequented his domain, though they usually wanted favors in exchange for the manuscripts they brought him.
“If only I had a talent! No, my clothes reflect the soberness of my mission,” Kha'zar replied, “And Messenger is not a post I seek. I'm Salvatore Constanza, and I seek information regarding my sister and the young painter she fell in love with—Raphael Sanzio of Urbino.”
Now aflame with curiosity, Fate offered the man a chair. “I recollect no record of Raphael’s involvement with women other than his fiance and his mistress—what is her name?”
“Bianca Constanza. A tender heart who pined away at thirteen when she chanced to meet him on his way to Florence to visit those august geniuses, Michelangelo and Leonardo. ”
“Love at first sight is often folly,” Charles said sadly, but a smile betrayed his amusement at the plight of youngsters in love, and the implications of the stranger’s tale.
“It was not an infatuation of a second. Rafael took refuge in my father’s house during a storm, and spent a fortnight with us—and at our table with a priest to whom he bragged that he c
ould, within 24 hours, produce a Masterpiece.” Kha'zar gestured to the manuscript laying flat on the table. “Though in need of repair, I believe you can recognize his style.”
Charles went to the Book of Fates and thumbed through the pages of the past. Was it possible that Raphael carried an unconfessed sin—and thus an unforgiven one? If so, he and Death could bring a fraud case against the upstart. “You say she pined—she died not by her own hand? Then she be judged, now that the Corridor of Suicides is empty of the past.” Charles’ voice cracked at the thought of his recent indignity.
“She pined, Sir,” Kha'zar assured him. He felt a frigid presence behind him, turned and looked into emptiness.
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