Raphael Redcloak

by McBrearty, Jenean

  "I think there is a doctor who can help him."

  "He's a miracle worker this Doctor?" Sebastiano was a short man with hair like white sheep's wool. He looked more like a farmer than a cleric, and his voice filled the empty church as though it was his living room instead of the sanctuary, as though God should be included in the conversation. "Gonzaga will help you. He's the Bishop's favorite these days. And why not? He waxes the cathedral floors one a month. I warn you, Maria Ballesteros is protective of her Angelo. Come on."

  He led Maddie and Paulo out of the church. He and Sebastiano talked Italian and then Sebastiano turned to Maddie. "I'll call Gonzaga and tell him you're the angel Maria's been praying for." He shook her hand firmly and bounded back up the steps.

  "What did he say, if you don't mind?" she said to Paulo.

  "He'll make a novena for me. Rocco is the patron saint of bachelors," Paulo said and set off for St. Catherine's, map in hand, and Maddie at his heels.

  "Why the hurry? Do you believe your bride's at St. Catherine's?" she said breathlessly. "Is Rocco that good?"

  Paulo slowed to a walk. "I believe Sebastiano will pray for nine nights, but during the day he will be calling everyone he knows to see if they know a young, single girl who is willing to love a starving artist. He may just find one."

  "It won't be easy. Even successful artists are hard to love," Maddie said. "What do you do when your rival is an invisible force? Call it talent or inspiration or..."

  "A vocation. It's a little like that. Art chooses the artist like God chooses his saints. Are you glad your husband chose you over his art?" Paulo said, and then quickly added, "I didn't mean it the way it sounded." Maddie stopped walking and pulled Paulo's arm. He swung around, his face warm and pink.

  "Is that what the art world is saying, Paulo?"

  "Domesticity is damnation. At least that's what my Professor says. She's a great teacher and a passionate water colorist, but a lousy wife and mother. She says she became a teacher because she couldn't have a career. Destiny's cruel decree."

  “I’m a teacher,” Maddie said.

  “Oops. What I meant was, some people have to settle for a second choice. Teaching is probably your first choice, so you probably have a different decree.”

  "Okay. Okay. But tell me, if Father Sebastiano finds you a girl, will you give the relationship a fair try?" Paulo was a stranger, but who better to speak with about important matters?

  "You’re darn right I will. Maybe she'll love my art as much as I do, the way a woman hopes the father will love her children as much as she does, as a life-long fan club of one. What more could a man want? Someone to keep him from sliding from artistry into genius. That's real terror. Once free, genius can't be put back in the bottle."

  Across the street, in a poplar shaded plaza, Maddie spied an iron bench. She pulled her Avian water bottle from her purse and headed for it, wishing she'd worn her hat. Alby's photos were good. Cupertino assured them he could sell them all. But, Maddie knew, they were the product of a modern eye shot from a modern sensibility. She fumbled in her bag and drew out the photo, staring at it with demanding eyes. "Why was this photo the great one? What made it better than the countless others Alby has taken?" she said.

  Paulo sat beside her. "It's your husband's truth. If he was a writer, it would be his voice. You gott'a wonder why his Muse deserted him."

  "Paulo," Maddie said as she handed him a ten dollar bill. "Get us an ice, will you?"

  Reluctantly, he took the money. "Lemon or watermelon?”

  "Watermelon." A few minutes alone—that's what she needed. A few minutes to remember when Alby stopped having his night dreams that pulled him to his canvass and moved his hands. Maybe it wasn't that unusual after all. Paulo seemed comfortable with the supernatural aspects of art. She believed in an unseen God and the forces of good and evil. She would even be considered devout by today's standards. Father Kellan was a friend as well as a priest. Why, then, did she fear for Alby? Why the sense of dread when he saw him, in the early morning hours, oblivious to everything but his oils and his brushes? Maybe because the supernatural was okay until she saw it at work in someone's life.

  "You know, "Paulo said, as they walked towards St. Catherine's, "people look a Masterpiece and say the artist has God-given talent, but when a doctor cures a person of cancer or invents a vaccine for polio, those same people give all the credit to science. It's funny too because all medicine begins with faith in something."

  They stopped in front of the chapel a step up from the street. In America it would be called a store-front church, sandwiched as it was between a three-story ochre plaster building and a one-story rectory. Like St. Rocco's, St. Catherine's had wooden doors, six inches thick with iron bands, but it had none of the intricate carving. ”Mind if we go inside first?" Paulo said. "I've never been here. The facade looks almost Protestant."

  "Intriguing," Maddie said as she pulled the handle. The door didn't move. "Locked?"

  Paulo pushed the door inward and they stepped inside. "It's safer than bumping the tourists with it."

  There was no narthex. "Probably a converted house from the size of the room," Maddie said, "and have you ever seen a church window with no stained glass?" Off to the left of the altar, an eye-level paned window looked out onto a courtyard. In the midst of a small olive grove, an elderly priest sat at a bare wooden table. "You should paint this," Maddie whispered.

  They moved passed the sanctuary, genuflecting in front of the tabernacle, to the right where staggered rows of votive candles flickered in red holders before a picture of young woman standing by a wheel and gazing heavenward in rapture. "A copy of Raphael's St. Catherine of the Wheel," Paulo said. He drew closer to the picture. "Well, a print anyway. You look like her."

  "What's the wheel for?" Maddie said. She noticed the resemblance too.

  "Beats me, but Catherine was a martyr. Maybe they used it torture her."

  "That's right," a deep voice said. The man in the courtyard had probably seen them inside. "When the guards put her on the wheel, it broke. So they lopped off her head. Catherine's gone in and out of sainthood for centuries. Like many of the saints we don't know the truth or what they looked like."

  "What's her claim to fame?" Paulo said.

  "She's one of the Fourteen Helpers."

  Paulo nodded knowingly, but Maddie said, "Who are they?"

  Saints that protected people from diseases they couldn’t cure. Plague, epilepsy, stillbirth. Catherine was a virgin, but she's the patron saint of pregnant women."

  "Rocco's a helper," Paulo said.

  Maddie was staring at the picture. "Was she a real person, Father?"

  "It depends on who you ask. She wasn't in a nunnery. She didn't write books or fight wars so there aren't any records, just stories of people who say Catherine cured them. Believe them, believe Catherine was real." He gave Maddie another minute to appreciate the picture before asking, "Are you the angel Sebastiano called me about?"

  Maddie smiled. "I have no miraculous powers, but I'm looking for Father Gonzaga."

  "I’m him. And someone who cares about a stranger's child is a miracle. I've made some espresso. Join me."

  Gonzaga served her pastry as well as thick, black coffee. Maddie put so much cream in her cup, the priest traded her demitasse for a mug. "I forget Americans like coffee with their milk," he said. "Now, show me this photograph Sebastiano raved about." Maddie removed the photo from its folder and watched another pair of eyes stare at it with fascination. "Very fine," he said. "Sebastiano was right. Unmistakably a Rector. This’ll be another triumph for him, and he wants to share the rewards of that triumph with little Angelo."

  "We live near UCSD medical center, Father. If something can be done, it will be done. Where were you going that day? You look like you're in a hurry."

  "A soccer game. Some of the teachers at St. Catherine's believe I shouldn't take Angelo to games because he can see what's going on, but I think he should be with the other children
. By the time the teachers got his mother's permission, the bus had left. We had to run, but we made it."

  "The old women in the wedding party, cried out strega. What does that mean?"

  "Witch. People see a child like Angelo, and they believe the mother to be a victim of demons. It's as good an explanation as any other in Angelo's case. Vision is a miracle. How does the eye see through the liquid it absolutely needs to lubricate itself? We don't have windshield wipers over our eyeballs." The priest studied Alby's photograph again. "Angelo's a good boy, and smart too. Blindness isn’t retardation."

  "I know that, but many people don't. Will you help me, Father?"

  The woman sipping milk-laden coffee could be Maria Ballesteros' prayed-for miracle. "Come, I take you to his mama," Gonzaga said. He put on his black hat and secured it under his chin. "Wait for us," he told Paulo and led Maddie outside where his red scooter was parked. "Jump on," he said as he turned the key.

  Maddie sat behind man in the flowing cassock, thankful she'd worn pants. Father Gonzaga zipped down the narrow back streets of Urbino, with her teetering on the seat behind him, clutching him about the waist as they sped to the edge of town. "Don't worry," Gonzaga yelled above the sputter of the motor. "No more running for me and Angelo!" They rolled to a stop at door of a two-story row house, and Maddie breathed a Hail Mary. Gonzaga laughed. "Wait here." He returned with a plump forty-ish woman in a cotton dress and a blue, blood-stained apron. "She was dressing a chicken," he explained.

  "You take Angelo to American doctors," Maria Ballesteros said. It sounded like half a question and half an order. "You make him well."

  "I can't promise that, Signora Ballesteros, but I can promise you we’ll try our hardest. I swear." Maddie said. The woman stretched out her hand, still damp from a quick hand washing, and Maddie held tight as the woman pumped it in gratitude.

  "Angelo!" Maria said over her shoulder and a scrawny boy appeared in the doorway. "This is Signora Rector, Angelo."

  The boy groped the air with his hand. "Hi, Angelo," she said taking his hand in hers. "I want to talk with your doctor, Angelo."

  "Signor Canera," Maria said.

  "Signor Canera. I want him to send your records to the doctors in America so they can help you. Father Gonzaga will help arrange it. Father, do you think the bishop would let you go too? Angelo wouldn't be afraid if you were with him."

  "I am not afraid," Angelo said. His small hand brought her hand to his face and, and followed her arm to hers. Maddie let him feel her eyes, nose, and lips. "You are beautiful, Signora." Maddie looked at his eyes, brown and clear. How could he not see her?

  Discoveries

  "Who are you?" Charles said, peering above his glasses at the portly man looking around his work room like a thief. The man's attention turned to the hawk-eyed man at the secretary, and his intensity turned into a broad smile.

  "Giuseppe Verdi," he said. He was wearing a tailored suit and carried a leather shoulder bag.

  "Oh Lord, another musician," Charles muttered. He put down his pen. "Beethoven sent you."

  “What he asks is reasonable, Sir,” Verdi looked around and chose a chair, dusting the ebony seat with a white handkerchief before he sat down.

  “Ha! So he thinks you can get with affability what he couldn't get with rudeness."

  Verdi nodded. "Herr Beethoven knows his limitations."

  Charles leaned back his arms and folded across his chest, amused at Beethoven's puny efforts. Verdi was renowned for his good humor, not persuasiveness. "Just what is it your blustery friend wants?"

  "He wants to know what the future holds for Albion Rector. Is it such a deep, dark secret?"

  Charles pretended pensiveness. "Hmm. Something tells me Death's new-found friends are more interested in the whereabouts of the missing Guardian than in Rector's future. Be that as it may, I'm not going to set a dangerous, and time-consuming, precedent. Every Messenger and Muse will be here demanding to know his protégé's future so he can go to the Arts Council and say, look what I inspired—what a good servant I am. Make me a Guardian."

  "Is that what Rafael Redcloak did? I was told he was nominated by Fra Angelico. Is that not true?"

  Charles shrugged. "It's of no consequence how he got to be a Guardian."

  "Beethoven's concerned that Kha'zar may be interfering with Rector's career. To ask him why didn't seem prudent—so I didn't inquire," Verdi said.

  "Well, I'll inquire. Why does Beethoven—on the verge of eternal bliss—give a lira about a 21st-century artist in California?"

  Verdi fanned his face with his handkerchief. Fate obviously hadn't heard. "Someone nominated Maestro Beethoven for Guardian."

  Charles braced himself on his chair. "Preposterous."

  "Granted, Ludwig's temperament and personality evidence that he is not entirely suited to the role of a protector—unless you want to count his interest in his nephew."

  "An interest that led to the boy's suicide attempt," Charles said.

  "No, no Guardian can be a one-note when it comes to the arts—showing preference for one medium at the exclusion of others," Verdi said, avoiding a discussion of Beethoven's contribution to his nephew’s tragedy that had everyone scratching his head when Beethoven was invited to a heavenly realm. "He must demonstrate concern though—and his concern is genuine in Rector's case. Rector's given up painting and taken up photography."

  "It's a noble art," Charles said.

  "Unworthy of his talent. As a calligrapher, you can appreciate that."

  "Are you accusing me of depriving Rector of a Muse? He has Stoker to guide him.”

  “A writer inspiring a painter! Surely you can see the folly of that.”

  “Whatever twists and turns Rector's life takes, is no longer my doing. Better to look to Death and Raphael Redcloak for the explanation of Rector's career change." Charles turned away, lest Verdi see his face redden with pique.

  "No. No. No. All that brouhaha over the Swallows security breach—yesterday's news. No one cares. Even Death acknowledges it taught him a valuable lesson, my good man."

  Charles sniffed. "Death proved a fickle friend."

  "Indeed," Verdi replied.

  "Have you seen Rector's work?" Charles said as he went to his ledger.

  "His Via Dolorosa photograph is getting as much acclaim as Cache of the Damned," Verdi said. "He's had several exhibitions. An agent named Cupertino is handling his work."

  "Cupertino. A pretentious puffin," Charles said.

  "But a wealthy and influential puffin," Verdi said.

  "Have you actually seen copies of Rector's photographs?" Charles asked again.

  Verdi opened his shoulder bag, and handed Charles a folder of 8 x 10 prints. Charles reviewed each one quickly; number seven gave him pause. "So this is the one. Who is the blind boy?" he said, drawing the picture closer to his face. "I do not recognize him."

  "Angelo Ballesteros. A sad story. Rector's wife brought the boy to the California doctors, but to no avail. They've kept the boy with them for the present."

  Charles was no longer listening. He was examining the photograph with a magnifying glass, slowly passing over every inch of it. "Where is Death now?"

  "I do not know. Some say Japan."

  "He will need something to cheer him, then," Charles said softly, remembering how his hand ached after writing finis to the lives of so many. "He will be tired after his harvest. Demeter works him hard."

  "You can understand why any Guardian would lament Rector's choice to use a camera when there is so much work for a painter of Truth," Verdi said. "But at this point it will take much to get Rector to suffer genius again."

  "Tell the Maestro. I will look into this." Verdi was gone, but the spirit did not exist who did not feel the weight of Earth's latest tragedy. Charles had heard that photographs were all some had left of friends and relatives swept away by the tsunami that followed the earthquake. In the modern world even poor people had images to remind them of people who once lived where once
only royalty were immortalized. It was a fact that not all modern art was abstract.

  But it was not Rector that had Charles frantically searching his ledgers. It was the unrecognized name of Angelo Ballesteros and the picture of what looked like a familiar hand. If he was right, the blind child was Raphael and armed with that information, he could machinate the decertification of Raphael as a Guardian. Visiting other universes with Verne indeed!

  ****

  Beethoven scanned the great room of the Fortress. For all his bluster, Death had rather simple tastes in furniture—wood and leather chairs, of course, perfect for brooding before a fire that crackled beneath a cauldron of what looked and smelled like soup. And on another hanger in the hearth, a tea kettle. From where did the accouterments of life, so unnecessary in the Spirit World, arise, he wondered? They appeared to be nothing more than comforting additions of choice to the existence of one with a horrible vocation.