Jazz Age Cthulhu

by Orrin Grey

  I pointed to the picture. “Is this Typhon?”

  Monte frowned at the drawing. “We have some inferior works here. You must understand, Professor, how hard it is to fill an entire museum for the glorification of Nestor’s cup. This is a poor example of l’art pour l’art, I’m afraid.

  “The artist lived here many years ago, before tourism was our life. He wandered the mountain, explored the ruins. He lodged at the Lacrima and even went to the Castle Aragonese, where the convent was opened to him. He had connections, some son of an official in Naples. He made etchings and prints of all the major sites of Italy. A morbid man. After making some handful of drawings, he climbed to the castle and threw himself off the cliff.”

  The guard made a falling motion with this hand. “Splash. Gone. Finito.”

  “Still, he was of no mean talent.”

  “Squandered potential wasted on trivial subjects and fantasies.”

  “What is the title of the work?”

  “Pomptinia Sum. It was the last in a series called Emanations From The Intelligent Order Of All Existence.”

  I am Pomptinia. Strange. Even an inanimate object knows itself better than I do, claiming with such boldness who it is. Then again, it was a label imposed by the artist and so are we all defined, by others.

  “Could I buy this trivial work from the collection? On behalf of the University, of course.”

  The guard looked taken aback. “Buy? Are you suggesting walking away with it?”

  “Not without permission, remuneration befitting the work’s value, and the imposition placed on yourself.”

  “If I open my palm and you drop in some coins, you can take whatever you wish, except for the cup and that print.”

  “You said it was insignificant.”

  “It is, but it does not belong to me.”

  “Neither does anything else here.”

  He held up his hand to stay my objection. “It belongs to the priest of Lacrima and he, for one, would notice its absence. Take it up with him.”

  Now I was plagued with revulsion and longing. The priest, his loathsome, clammy aspect, his broken mind. But the print was his. I wanted to snatch it away immediately. To take something valuable from him would be a deep, luxurious pleasure, like denying last rites to the man who murdered your wife. I shivered. My desire must have shown. “I can let him know you are interested, Professor. But I doubt you’ll hear from him.”

  “Let’s hope not,” I said under my breath. I ignored the curator’s raised eyebrow. Some things must remain a mystery.

  ***

  The stifling air wraps me in wet wool. Through the slit, I see her profile, her slender neck, the glint of amethyst. She flips her hair and smiles at me, lifts her hand and waggles her fingers: Toodaloo. The smile widens, spreads across her cheeks until it reaches her ears. It splits into hundreds of pointed teeth dripping saliva. The fingers waggle again: Toodaloo.

  A BONE TATTOO

  Diario Di Leiano

  Those who work for a higher purpose are often deluded, for they chase empty ideals. “Purpose” is an illusion and “higher” is its shadow. For this reality has no purpose other than what we ourselves decided. Since there is no “we ourselves,” our desires are phantoms. And yet, there are things I want. Oh, yes, so many things.

  ***

  Success. His lecture went as well as he could have hoped. He spouted everything Monte had told him, adding a few choice quotes from the dog-eared copy of Horace the real professor had been carrying. If that insufferable Belgian hadn’t asked him about the Odyssey’s third book, he wouldn’t have sweated at all. But he avoided the question, deriding the fool.

  Odyssey? Third Book? Sir, only the insipid read Homer in books, since that artificial convention hails from the Byzantines.

  Laughter. Sporadic applause. See how we love to join in mockery, even if we don’t understand the context. The chastened Belgian reddened, his question unanswered. Donations would soon flow in. He already had two checks. And after what the Colonel had given him, by God, now he could finally live. Every nerve buzzed in electric anticipation. After dinner, as dancing started, the chancer left the ballroom.

  He’d stuffed a small cushion under his vest to emulate fullness. It was always good to let the revelry ensue for an hour or two before making more requests; alcohol unlocks the purse strings. In the meantime, he’d walk the promenade and survey the sea. As he followed the walkway’s gentle curve, the castle appeared, as he knew it would. And perhaps, if he looked closely at his motives, the real reason he’d chosen to leave the festivities was to get another glimpse of the fortress. If he looked at it long enough, he’d realize it was just stone. Brick and stone. Phantoms didn’t leap from the parapets; voices didn’t threaten from the sea.

  Returning to the scene of trauma. How pedestrian.

  A man, hunched against the wind, his coat drawn over his face, walked towards him. He nodded a greeting as the man passed. The man’s fist shot out, caught him in the guts. He doubled over, retching, stomach clenched. From above, a jeer. “We don’t take things lightly at the castle.”

  Fire in his ribs. Again. White-hot fire. Again. Again. He rolled on his back. This time, Giovanni’s boot only glanced him. He twisted and kicked his heel into the man’s shin. A shock went from his foot up his shin into his thigh, like kicking steel. With a snick, a silver line sprouted in Giovanni’s hand. “And now we make an end.”

  Arms wrapped Giovanni in a full nelson, forcing his head down. Four men. One with a blackjack clubbed the back of Giovanni’s head. Giovanni reared back, smashed the nose of the man holding him. The blackjack went up and down with methodic, mechanical rhythm. The others added fists and feet to the bone tattoo. A flailing Giovanni was finally held, a man to an arm, and dragged into the shadows cursing, spluttering. “You’ve taken our meal.”

  One of the two remaining men reached out a calloused hand. The chancer took it, groaning, playing up the need for aid.

  I’m a beaten, middle-aged man.

  A lit cigarette was shoved into his hand. He made sure it shook.

  The chancer couldn’t place these men, but then realized he’d seen them from afar: once on the trail to the garden, once passing by on a boat. But those things surely hadn’t really happened. The men wore twin pinstripes. One had a rectangular, Jack Dempsey build. The other was thinner and smoked. His cigarette’s glow danced like an addled firefly when he spoke. “Don’t worry about that bastard communist. They’re all communist bastards here.”

  The chancer rubbed his ribs, bruised certainly, but he’d had much, much worse.”Thank you, gentlemen. I’d better get back to my room.”

  “Just a second, friend,” said the smoker. The smoker held out his hand. The chancer shook it. “Ernesto Albani. The Titan is Signore Petrus.”

  The chancer let the odd name pass. “Professor Francesco di Milano. What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

  “You got it backwards. It’s what we can do for you.”

  Ernesto nodded to his partner. Petrus moved behind the chancer. Instinct kicked in and he sidled a step to his left. Petrus followed so naturally, the professional shadow. They continued the step dance until the chancer led them to the balcony’s railing. He played the game well, let himself appear to be bullied onto the overlook.

  Ernesto held out both hands, fingers spread wide. We’re all friends here.

  “We can tell you’re an outsider and it’s a shame, being an outsider in your own country. Illustrious men, such as yourselves, should be able to walk around without being molested by half-barbarous peasants, don’t you think?”

  Illustrious.

  Was that ironic?

  Did you watch me on the ferry from Naples? See me on the docks?

  If someone mentioned certain events preceding his boarding the ferry, someone might have a precipitous fall. Someone other than he.

  “Petrus and me, we’re real Italians, if you know what I mean. Mind my asking if you’ve been to Rome recently?”r />
  Ah, that sort of question. Relief. He leaned toward the smoker, using his superior height. Now he was the intimidator. “I witnessed a parade. I didn’t wear a shirt, but I waved a flag. I’m a patriot, sirs. As is Mussolini. And I don’t care who knows it.”

  The last was a tad too thick, but it proved efficacious. The tension eased from their postures. “We think alike. Great minds and all that.”

  “We saw you talking to that guy on the boat.”

  Ernesto hitched a thumb towards the black shadows where his thugs had dragged Giovanni. He opened his jacket and pulled out a wrinkled, communist flyer.

  “You know he hands this manure out all around Naples?”

  The flyer showed Pomptinia’s mountain, Castle Aragonese foremost. Escape Hardship. Breath Free in Fellowship. There is always a Feast in the Castle.

  “We can’t have this populist garbage,” Ernesto said.

  The chancer nodded without commenting on Mussolini’s own populism. As Horace wrote: Change the name and the story is yours.

  “We can’t have havens within havens, places where the rules don’t apply,” Ernesto said.

  “Agreed. One Italy.”

  “Exactly. So, why is it that on this island, people thumb their noses at the rest, sitting in decadence while their brethren suffer? No more. We are here to do something about that.”

  “Pave the way,” said Petrus with a voice five fathoms deep.

  “Stick with us, Signore. The Blackshirts are coming. Tomorrow’s ferry will be filled with sympathizers. In the meantime, we want you to help us—”

  “—pave the way,” said the chancer.

  Ernesto patted his cheek. “A quick study. So, go. Hobnob. Make sure the guests feel the same as us.”

  “As we.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I’ll help. I can already tell you the Belgian diplomat will be a problem.”

  “Done,” said Ermesto, who nodded at Petrus. Petrus the Glacier nodded in turn. And so, it was done. “One more thing, amico. I’ve been authorized to tell you a secret.”

  “What’s that, then?”

  “Me and Petrus. We’ve known you. We’ve known you forever.”

  WE ARE ALL UNDER CONTROL

  I remember a gray-haired man in a crisp black uniform with golden epaulettes. He held by the tail a bloated, dripping monkfish, its gray flesh clammy and rubbery. Its angle dangled like a limp phallus.

  “Look at this. It feeds by deceit.”

  The man flicked the angle.

  “It draws you in. Beauty, people, sun, trees—they are angles. It has angled for people long before a blind man named the wine-dark sea.”

  He drops it on the concrete. Its rotten body busts, spilling guts. Stench.

  “It is empty, without mind, forever hungry for minds to give it thoughts. Emptiness is a toxin it cannot consume.”

  He kicks the fish with a polished black boot, splattering me with gore.

  “It’s just like you … only older.”

  I wanted to ask why the fish had so many fingers.

  Diario Di Leiano

  And now I am a spy. Glorious days to be so many things and still unmoving within, a tornado. And speaking of tornados, there was quite a commotion in the dining hall the next morning. Kate and I were breakfasting. Yes, Kate, sitting next to me as if the last two days never happened. She has not once mentioned the garden or the grotto. I dropped hints but not even an eyebrow raised. Either they are my own nightmares, probably, or—but what of it? I’ll be leaving tomorrow with enough money to ride out the coming storm. I was enjoying a buttered croissant with the most delightful espresso when someone from the kitchen staff burst into the room and ran from waiter to waiter, whispering to each one. My waiter, who had just returned with a full creamer, dropped his tray when he heard the news and shouted, “Bastards!” He ran from the room, along with the rest of the staff. The guests followed. I gathered a few lire—nothing to speak of—from the empty tables before following.

  In the piazza, tied to a metal stake hammered through the cobblestones, slumped Giovanni. His hair was slick with castor oil. Face bruised. Nose broken. Eye black. Two men were already at his side, one cutting the bonds with a fish knife, the other holding his head, trying to soothe him. Giovanni groaned and shook his head, slowly, like a man in disbelief, spreading a greasy sea anemone across the chest of the man helping him. Then he bucked. His dislodged benefactor stood back. Giovanni groaned again. His head lurched back, spattering the piazza with fat drops of oil. Then, with a great retch, the man vomited oil. A seemingly endless stream poured from his guts, darkening his brown trousers to black. And in this vile eructation writhed hundreds of glistening, creamy maggots. The Belgian swore. “Barbarians.”

  He was pale. Sweat silvered his forehead. “I found this in my pocket.” He held a sheet of hotel stationary: LOOK TO THE PIAZZA. THUS TO ALL ENEMIES. The Fascists, I told him. It was a message for those who were inimical toward Mussolini’s control.

  Kate’s response was cryptic but perhaps true: We are all under control.

  I won’t stay for carnival.

  MY GOD, AM I THAT ALONE?

  I’m in a cell, but once, I was in a car, blindfolded. The road jolted. The Engine whined. Talking:

  “We cannot go there, yet.”

  “We go where we want.”

  “Not yet. It protects. It owns.”

  “We try my way first.”

  “And after they die, then we try mine.”

  Someone patted my hand.

  ***

  Diario Di Leiano

  The day passed as days do. I wasn’t in the mood to fleece and flense. Those Roman thugs saved me from a beating by Giovanni, but if anyone saw, if they told anyone, I would be marked as a Blackshirt. But the thugs were bringing friends. Order was coming to Pomptinia. It was time to leave. I made the rounds.

  Wonderful lecture. I can’t believe you’re leaving before carnival. A true pleasure. I wish we could do more.

  I gathered my cash, collected checks, and handed out a Pisian address from those who had promised to forward the money. I had my valise sent to the docks. I avoided Kate and the Colonel. Kate for fear. The Colonel for that deliciousness a seducer feels after a conquest, as he slinks from the bedroom, never to see his lover again. I felt nothing towards Giovanni, but something in his treatment aroused general pity. No, not pity, the petty tyrant got what he deserved. Even some Pomptinians said as much. Am I not the man I was just a few days ago? Why should I care? I wanted solitude, to be alone with my many and burgeoning selves until they quieted and left me with just me. I stood at the coastline watching for the ferry. The sea was high. The port authorities said the ferry would be late. I walked the island’s circumference, followed only by the castle’s windows. I needed to watch the water, to will the ferry here by my desire.

  That evening, I dined in a splendid dockside trattoria, while the shadows played across the sea. The water’s depth, the deep cobalt of the volcanic rock under the sea, the sinking sun’s bloody light on the waves—these all caused the illusion of an inky stain spreading under the water, a negative of cream poured in coffee. On the horizon, a thin tendril of smoke rose from the approaching ferry.

  The fish was lightly fried and served with zucchini flowers stuffed with mozzarella. I deboned the fish and savored each morsel, letting the salty flesh dissolve on my tongue. It is not wrong to live for pleasure, I thought, and renewed my vow to increase my coffers. I would reach into everyone I met, and take and take and take. Hunger is a jealous god. It comes for us every day, again and again until we eat no more. Every role we play, every action we undertake, all done to appease this bloated, unholy beast. I held a morsel of fish on my fork. The golden oil glistened on the perfect crust. The rewards for appeasing this god were great.

  I ordered another bottle of wine. I said I do not drink much, but to every rule an exception. For every job, a night off. Tomorrow, new lands to plunder. Glasses clinked, people laughed
, accordions played. I sank into the luxurious buzz of the conversations around me, the bliss of white noise and solitary company. The ferry approached like an old peddler trudging forever uphill. More Blackshirts coming, true, but doubtless, there would also be new guests with deliciously full pockets during carnival. Warmth flushed my cheeks. Should I stay? I could stay. I could grow. Out with the old, in with the new. Bring forth the fattened calf.

  The ferry made its lazy turn to back into the docks. As it left the blue waters and crossed the ink-stain blot, the entire boat shuddered. A metallic clang. Fire shot from the smokestacks. The music played on. Shattering glass. Twisting steel’s banshee groan. The food was served.

  Black, tendril-like fingers folded the boat, stern to aft, crumpling it like trash.

  Laughter. Under the water, lights from the ship flickered for a moment then went out. The hand was gone. Gulls screeched. I won’t speak of the four-limbed sticks thrashing in that stain before they disappeared into a gaping maw. No one saw this? Another layer from my onionskin pulled back. A hand, a grotesque tangle of tree-roots pulled a boat into the sea. I was the only one who saw it. Impossible.

  “My God!” I shouted, “My God!”