Raphael Redcloak

by McBrearty, Jenean

  Portia looked down and saw her reflection in the clasp that held her briefcase closed, a distorted face, but hers though no one could have recognized her if the clasp’s image was all they saw.

  “The guardian takes a brief detour into flesh and there is concern he will cease to be his spirit. Yet, we all play roles, even here, and do not cease to be ourselves. Raphael is like a beautiful lady without a mirror—she does not cease to be beautiful just because she cannot see herself. Nor has Raphael's soul lost the measure of goodness he has attained, whatever be that measure. The body is nothing but a momentary occupation. Raphael may live a thousand lifetimes before his mettle is fully tempered. But in each lifetime, he only lives to demonstrate the gloriousness of the same immortal soul.”

  With that Mahariva removed Darrow’s raincoat, and walked through the crowd, slowly disappearing until, at the door, no one saw him at all.

  Death leaned toward Darrow’s ear. “We would have won,” he whispered. And Charles struck a pensive pose that suggested he was weighing Mahariva’s words.

  “The parties must file their settlement agreement with the tribunal,” Picasso ordered. “These proceedings are closed.” He banged his gavel, and then again when the hum of the crowd suggested they were not weighing the Mahariva’s words. “Clear the courtroom and go back to your Edens.”

  ****

  Time massaged Fate’s temples, tsk-tsking as he poured out his frustration to the most willing sympathetic ear he could find. “Cruel irony. Now I’m to play Bulldog Drummond to Death’s Batman. What a sorry state I’ve brought myself to,” he concluded before standing and staggering away from her like a wounded soldier. “I am blamed for Raphael’s broken heart and Angelo’s blindness when it is Death’s own mother who caused the boy’s misery.

  “Una fortiva lagrima,” she sang. “Recapturing the demon may not be as difficult as it seems.”

  Charles turned his sangria into orange juice and vodka. “Of all the cultures, the Russians would understand. I was only having sport with Kha'zar, and the Spirits treat me like I'm a demon myself. Raphael was right to lament the coming of the modern age. No one has any spirit left in this place.”

  “Can football defeat romance? I think not, Dear.” Now a matron, Time had laid down her love lotion and picked up her knitting needles. “Maybe the Bard will write another play—about middle aged star-crossed lovers such as we.”

  “You’re making a plan?”

  She sighed. “The Underworld must be as confused about this course of events as we are. An ambitious Guardian who foregoes honors for love. Maddie Rector making the ultimate sacrifice for Albion’s talent, and the world applauding when she doesn’t wall herself up in a convent like the Blue Nun, but lives in a castle as fine as the Fair Bianca. If she pines for Albion, she does so in the bed of gallant Manstein without temptation from Kha'zar. Can the demon not be undone by these post-modern martyrs?”

  Charles changed his vodka into champagne. “All this court business has distracted me. I haven’t seen the Sherwood for the Hollywood. It’s time I paid my respects to Death. But not in that horrid place he calls home.”

  ****

  With self-satisfied hand-shakes, Darrow bid farewell to Death and his companions with no instruction on how the settlement terms were to be fulfilled. “It says within a reasonable time Charles is to co-operate in the recapturing of Kha'zar, but what is a reasonable time for those who have eternity?” Death was reading the fine print closely as he sat in his ebony chair. “I know now why there are so few lawyers here, and those that are here await Heaven for so long.”

  Stoker withdrew at the sound of the doorbell and returned with Fra Angelico at his side. “You have a visitor,” he said, and Angelico stepped toward Death, extending his hand that held a familiar blue envelope.

  “An invitation,” Angelico said.

  “Well, bring it here.”

  Angelico warily moved closer. “And I believe the Spirit World has been invaded again—there was a spy on the wall, so to speak. A man in a Dominican habit.” Angelico cringed, waiting for Death’s wrath, but Death became his unthreatening self and produced a small jeweled and gold throne as recognition of the heavenly crown that awaited the priest.

  “Take a chair, good friar, and don’t fear. I’m not one to kill the messenger.”

  “The man hid his hands under his scapular, as is customary. Perhaps he didn’t expect the Dominican Church Doctors to attend—although anyone with any sense would have known their interest in law would draw them away from their studies—and when Aquinas and Albert passed by wearing their crucifies, the monk lowered his capuce, the lesser of two risks, no doubt because not to lower it would have attracted attention. But I saw why he was hiding those hands so religiously.”

  Beethoven pointed to Angelico and danced an excited step. “Yes, yes, I remember him! Standing near the door and the first one to dissolve after Mahariva had gone.”

  “What about his hands?” Death said.

  “They were scarred—burned by innocent blood.”

  “Juan de Torquemada. I know him well. And yet, did not recognize him.”

  “We do not see what we do not expect to see,” Angelico said.

  “The images of the Great Innocent did not cause him agony? How can that be?” Stoker said.

  “He looked away and closed his eyes as many evil spirits do when confronted by their victims,” Angelico said. “I am sure it was he.”

  Death opened the blue envelope. "In accordance with our agreement, let us break bread with Angelico and secure his blessing for our noble endeavor," he said as he unfolded the note inside.

  “Are Charles’ hands in this spy game?” Beethoven said.

  “No. He entreats me to mediate, lest you treat him harshly when he desires to make amends. I doubt his sincerity only in effort. His intent is honest.”

  “Honestly cunning at playing the agrieved. Have you told Fate of Satan’s invasion?” Death said, handing the invitation to Stoker.

  “No, but he has his own suspicions Satan is perplexed.”

  “Old Nick always has his breeches in a twist about something,” Beethoven said.

  "Set the hour at your convenience, Angelico," Death said.

  ****

  When they had all departed, Death passed through the door to the Swallows, and knelt before the cell door of the Resurrection painting. So often he had wept for those whose loved ones he brought into the Spirit World, those left behind with aching bodies who yearned for the sweet company of friendship. He wrapped his red-lined cloak around himself and recalled his promise to safeguard it for Raphael. What prayer could he say? He was not Angelico, nor a great and well-learned Doctor of Letters. He lifted his eyes and said simply, "We try," before touching his forehead to the stone. Fate may not have a pressing purpose, but he'd been called by the angels to escort twenty children home.

  Reconciled to Fate

  Dear Father Kellan:

  The German winters are long and dark—the perfect clime for ghosts and philosophers to thrive. If I had a demon chasing me, he’s frozen in the wine cellar or the lunarium (because there is no sun) by now. I know you prayed diligently for me and Albion, but sometimes prayers are not enough. When Angelo stayed with us I saw what a hopeless situation looks like, and finally recognized my own. No, Father, I don’t blame God for my unhappiness just as I’m sure he won’t blame me for doing something about it. The fact is, Alby lives in a different world. He looked at Angelo without pity or understanding. He is unmoved by everything he sees, always composing pictures. I knew I was right when I saw Angelo’s Eyes. The child was merely a model, as I had been for The Red Parasol....

  “What follows is a chit-chat about spending her time teaching on-line classes and learning what vegetables grow best on Manstein’s estate.” Kellan folded the letter and returned it to its rose-pink envelope. “I know she loves her husband. O-kay. Ex-husband.”

  “Her love isn’t the problem. It can be as vast as the oce
an, but it won’t make him love her back. Our job seems to be convincing her it will, or that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t. Unlikely in the age of Dr. Phil,” Monsignor Rice said.

  “More unlikely because she’s got too many options to buy into the suffering-is-good-for-you school of thought.”

  “Have you talked to Albion?” Moralizing to wealthy, generous donors was counterproductive, but Kellan had been Maddie Rector’s spiritual director.

  “I’ve tried. He just said, how much?”

  Rice rocked his office chair gently, holding his crucifix the way he always did when he was thinking. “Have you seen this picture Maddie mentioned?”

  “Angelo’s Eyes? Yes. It’s disturbing. But the child! Such a beautiful rendering of helpless innocence. Hard to believe he came between Maddie and her husband.”

  “It wasn’t him that came between them, but the truth, I suspect,” Rice said. “Nothing’s more cruel than the truth. Isn’t the Manstein estate where she met her ephemeral workman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then maybe it’s not the Baron she’s in love with, but an unattainable phantom in the mirror. Write to her, Kellan. Tell her you’re praying for her. That’s my best advice. Keep me up to speed. It’s a fascinating case.”

  Rice had given him twenty minutes, cold tea, and predictable counsel: pray. It was a religious way of saying, walk away there’s nothing you can do. It was another cruel truth. Yet, his visit to Albion alarmed him. He looked exhausted. Was hardly able to carry on a conversation, and obviously didn’t want to. His “I’ll pray for you” promise was met with a sullen, “whatever”. Alby’d gone upstairs to his studio and he’d sought out Lupe in the kitchen.

  “Did Mrs. Rector say anything before she left about why she was leaving?”

  “Padre, she needs rest. Go, go, go all the time. Nobody need her except that poor little boy and he had to go home to his mama.”

  It sounded like a reason. A good one. “Did they have arguments?” Lupe leaned against the sink and looked heavenward. “I don’t mean to pry, but...”

  “They never shouted, but he paints by night and sleeps by day. The Senora has a day job.” He hadn’t even want to think about what Lupe meant by that. It’d been difficult enough for him to remember Maddie had a husband. But, if he’d manned up, maybe she and Alby would still be married. It was, a Baptist minister once told him, a perk and a duty of a man of the cloth to pray and act to save marriages going through a rough patch.

  ****

  “Maybe the divorce was for the best, if you produce works like these,” Cupertino said, as he gazed at the three oils Alby finished in as many months. One was the mural promised to the Chinese—a 16X10 foot canvass composite of the Rape of Nanking—in fulfillment of their contract. One was an updated version of Rubens’ Massacre of the Innocents, with men using guns instead of swords. And the last, a peculiar reworking of El Greco’s St. Dominic, with a wild-eyed monk kneeling in flames before a rack on which a terrified woman was bound, iron prongs holding her mouth open and a demon pouring water into it. “Is this one of your dream paintings?”

  “I call it The Contemplative. I don’t know what—or who—that is,” Alby said. The Agent had begged him not to blame him for Maddie’s affair with Manstein. He should have been outraged that the Patron had seduced his wife, and cut them both lose. But being relieved of familial duties was proving too advantageous to carry a grudge. Decorum prohibited an outright expression of gratitude to Manstein, however assurances of continued commerce with him through his representative made good business sense. “Maddie was my researcher. She’d be able to tell you, I’m sure.” He made sure his voice was tinged with regret, the way he delicately applied white paint to give the illusion of frost.

  “I take it you’re still not willing to part with the Parasol.”

  Alby was sketching at his easel. He turned around and shook his head no, and said, “The kids consider it a family heirloom. Elise says it’ll be as famous as the Mona Lisa,” He replaced the finished sketch, an old man in diaphanous drapery that covered his privates, with clean paper.

  “Such a pity. Profit wise. And Angelo’s Eyes? San Diego MOMA wants a special exhibit to raise money for another restroom, and you always draw a big crowd.” He ambled over to the easel and watched Ably outline another figure, this one of a man in a dark suit. “What’s this you’re working on?”

  “Ideas for a mural for the county court house. I want people to look at it and see justice as a heavenly task, the equalizing of rights and duties...listen to me, I sound like a pontificating ass. Maybe I’ll do a series called message paintings.” He laughed, and Cupertino saw his likeness emerge on the face of the portly figure. “You want to be immortalized in oil, Coop?”

  “Just as long as you don’t have me boiling in oil. What do you do with the sketches when you’ve completed your picture?” Already a dozen were stacked on the table an arm’s length from the easel. “May I?” he said, and lifted one after another, scanned them, and laid them back on the table neatly.

  “I hear your brain-gears turning a buck. You think people might want to see how a modern artist develops a painting’s characters?”

  “It’d make an interesting exhibit—from inspiration to perspiration to finished piece. I’ll pitch the idea to MOMA’s curator and get back to you. Meanwhile, find your sketches for the Nanking mural. And for Christ’s sake, treat them gently.”

  By the time he got to the stairs, the Agent was already on his cell phone. Alby could hear him talking all the way to the front door, and saw his lips moving as fast as his legs carried him to his car. A little scandal never hurt an artist, Coop’d told him. In proper doses, dirty laundry and bad publicity were marketable commodities. “Build a mystique and someday they’ll make a movie about you.”

  But, how does one build a mystique? Alby went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet door. Vansandt had told him to stop taking the Ambien if he felt suicidal, as if a depressed person could differentiate between suicidal impulses and daily sadness. He swallowed two pills and went to lie down on the sofa he’d saved from his apartment. He’d had the landscapers move it upstairs from the basement, telling Lupe he was superstitious about it when she complained it was ugly.

  “Senora Rector will get rid of it when she comes home,” Lupe told the twins during spring break. One summer at the Manstein estate and they knew she wasn’t coming back.

  ****

  Death made himself comfortable in Angelico’s studio. Raphael visited here often and Death finally figured out why. Light. Not just as the opposite of dark, but as the opposite of heavy because Angelico’s apartments seemed lovely in a summer afternoon, waving branches kind of way. And the monk himself seemed like a black and white, light and shadow, industrious bee one minute and lazy lizard the next. He drew back his hood, and let warmth touch his cheek, let his eyes close, and his mind wander off into that half-dream, half-waking state that humans relish when they have no duty to rise.

  To see the dreaded specter in repose made Angelico smile. Does Death dream, perhaps of a time before his gruesome occupation, when his gloomy guest wasn’t as terrifying as advertised? He quickly sketched the face of the golden youth laying on the pallet beneath the window, capturing the unexpected beauty of sleep’s reprieve.

  “You didn’t wake me,” Death said, as he rubbed his eyes, “Why?” He stood and stretched and joined Angelico at his table.

  “We’ve plenty of time to talk. When Charles arrives, we’ll do nothing else but, and we’ll need our strength to sift his words. Will you have some wine?” Angelico poured claret into goblets and offered Death the one of gold while he dank from one made of wood.

  “Here I am,” Charles announced, filling up the doorway. He appeared in blue breeches and a waistcoat, white ruffles at his throat and wrists, and wore a hat adorned with peacock feathers.

  “You’re welcome,” Angelico said and offered him a humble bench.

  Charles changed the
bench to a velvet cushioned captain’s chair and slowly lowered himself down. “Never mind, I’ve brought my own elixir too,” he said and produced a crystal glass of cognac. “ I assume you have formulated a plan to catch Kha’zar. Let me hear it as I’m anxious to right the wrong that I inadvertently abetted.”

  “It’s close enough to an apology, I’m thinking,” Angelico said, and saw Death grimace.

  Death sat at the table, shoulders hunched in anticipation, his eyes afire with triumph. “We have bait for our trap. Satan has sent a spirit bound neither as a demon or a villain, but as a human into our midst. A monumental mistake, as we can bar his return to hell with the same holy artifacts that constrain human evil.”

  “It’s Torquemada posing as a holy man within the Dominican enclave—no doubt to learn the Guardian’s fate and report to his vile master,” Angelico said. “But as a monk, he cannot leave without permission and must endure the evening meal with its readings from the scripture and prayer before the breaking of bread, and stay the night among the spirits of the saved ‘til morning when the doors can be opened.”