Immortal (4 page)

“Roma,” I said. “I always wanted to go there. I can look for my parents there!”

“Why not?” Marco smiled. “I’ll make the escape in three days. Today I’ll scout around for someone to take me out to the contado. I’ll wait two weeks, that’ll give you time to fast—”

“I’ll start today!”

“Good. Then I’ll come back to the city. I won’t be able to get word to you, but I’ll wait for you at the Ponte alla Carraia. You’ll meet me there.”

“Bring food,” I said anxiously. “After a few weeks of not eating, I won’t just look sick, I’ll be sick!” I knew that from my years on the street. A week without food made the limbs sluggish, the mind foggy, the will weak. I did not underestimate the power of hunger.

“I’ll have food and clothes for you,” Marco said, looking determined. “Since you helped me make a plan. I always take care of my friends!”

“We made a plan together with our ingegno,” I said, eager for him to feel the bond that I was starting to feel.

“Silvano has more ingegno than anyone,” Simonetta whispered. “And his is deadly!”

“It’s true,” Marco admitted. “No one has ever escaped here. He finds everyone. Always.”

“But we’ll try,” I pressed him. “We have to try!”

“It’s worth trying. Maybe it’ll work. I’m the lucky sort, it goes with my good looks. Look how lucky I am to meet you, and you have the ingegno to help me escape!” Marco grinned. He flipped me a jaunty salute and spun off. I was left smiling and dreaming that he and I would win freedom together. Perhaps he and I would be real friends, even brothers, as I’d imagined Massimo and I were.

DAYS PASSED THAT I DRANK WATER
but ate nothing. It was easy because, after all, I knew how to be hungry; I’d practiced it often enough. But Silvano didn’t seem to notice that I was wasting away, and after Marco’s fortnight had come and gone, I grew desperate. Sixteen days had passed since I’d taken anything other than water and a few mouthfuls of wine. I was on the verge of being too incapacitated to make it to the Ponte alla Carraia. I cast about for a way to come to Silvano’s notice without being beaten, so he would see that I was ailing and needed to be let outdoors. Massimo had betrayed me, but I didn’t think Marco was like that, so I trusted that Marco would be waiting with food for me at the bridge.

That night, after the final patron left, while I was still reveling in the graceful rise of St. John soaring to heaven in his ascension, I took action. This patron had taken longer than most. It made me impatient but also permitted me to bask longer in the frescoes. Starvation had enhanced the clarity of my vision and taken my attention away from the humiliation and despair. The colors of the paintings had never seemed so bright, the flesh of the figures so warm and alive. They were truly my brothers and sisters, and their intimacy lent strength to my weakened limbs, so I could pull on my camicia and hose and stumble out the door of my room. I was surprised and encouraged to see no condottieri about. Perhaps it amused a baleful God for my plan to succeed, I thought, as I tottered through the halls of the shrouded palazzo. I was determined to encounter Silvano and wrest from him the privilege of going out. I leaned against the wall to gather my strength.

“Luca, I was coming for you,” Simonetta said, appearing in front of me. She stroked my hair gently. “What are you doing out of your room? Be careful, you’ll call Silvano’s attention to yourself!” She motioned. “Come,” she said, taking a candle out of the sconce on the wall. She led me through the long hall. As we passed other doors, she knocked, and motioned the occupants to join us. It was so unusual a happening that, despite the lassitude in my body, I eyed them with unabashed curiosity. Mostly they were children like me, boys and girls in assorted ages, shapes, and sizes. There were pale blonds, redheads, dark gypsies, and even a few Africans with glossy ebony skin over rolling round muscles. There was a slender red-eyed boy whose skin and hair lacked color, like white linen, and a dwarf child who stood barely to my waist. We were all silent, most so demure they didn’t even raise their eyes. I wondered how they’d arrived here, if they’d been plucked off the streets like me or sold by their parents, like Marco. Women joined us, mostly young, all beautiful, except for two enormously fat women. Two grown men couldn’t have circled the fat women’s waists with their arms. I tried to imagine how much they had to eat to grow so huge, and had to stop when I felt weak visualizing a breakfast of sweets with butter and cream and lunch with a pot of soup and an entire haunch of spit-roasted beef. Simonetta turned another corner and brought us to a large door. She threw the sash and led us downstairs.

Torches set in sconces lit our way down worn stone stairs. A little blond, beribboned girl behind me started to cry. I slowed until I was beside her. She seized my hand in a spastic gesture and squeezed. It was the first time anyone had ever turned to me for comfort, and I was unaccountably moved. My chest puffed out with courage. Despite my lightheadedness, I squeezed back gently and smiled. She gave me a terrified look out of blue eyes as big as milk bowls and clung to my hand as if it comforted her.

We entered a large cold cellar lit with torches. Flames threw malignant shadows on gray stone walls, and Silvano stood in the center with a group of burly men who had the hardened look of condottieri, the hired soldiers who defended Florence from those old rival cities Pisa and Torino. Silvano’s face, with its bladelike nose, looked relaxed and ruddy in the torchlight. He turned abruptly so that he stood in profile to us, and the play of light and shadow on his hair and beard gave the appearance of another face on the side of his head, where his cheek and ear should be. He motioned and two tall, coarse men stepped forward, holding Marco limply between them. Marco looked pale and dazed. His porcelain face was dirty and scraped, his lower lip was split, and his clothes were torn. I gasped, then covered my mouth with my hand.

“This is Marco. You know him,” Silvano announced, with a wave of his hand. “He had privileges here, didn’t you, beautiful Marco? But you abused my trust.” Silvano clucked his tongue in mock disappointment. He circled Marco, who kept his eyes trained on the floor, and I felt fear gripping my chest. Something gleamed white in Silvano’s hand. At first I thought he had a giant tooth growing out of that hand, but then he tossed it into the air and caught it in his other hand, and I saw that it was a long, thin knife.

“By my supreme grace, Marco was granted the privilege of going outside,” Silvano said. “But he thought he would stay out. He thought he would never come back!” With that Silvano pounced on Marco, slashing. Blood spurted from the flexion fold in the back of Marco’s right knee. Marco screamed then, his chin lifting toward the ceiling as he howled in anguish. His leg went limp and he folded over on that side. The children and women around me fell to sobbing, mutely. Something inside me ripped apart.
Don’t scream, Marco,
I prayed,
that will incite him.
Marco had been kind to me. Had I repaid him with a fantasy of escape that had ripened into this violence? Then, sickened by my own selfishness, I could not help trembling with a worse question: had Marco told Silvano about my part in his actions? My chest felt like old, charred leaves crumbling into dust.

“Foolish boy.” Silvano slashed again. Blood sprayed out, drenching his rich vestments. The men holding Marco guffawed. They released him and Marco collapsed onto the ground, still shrieking and weeping. I held my breath as he fell silent, his dazed eyes searching through the crowd until they found mine. I felt sick, and, though I am still ashamed to admit it, I was silently begging him not to inform on me. I knew that in my heart I was betraying Marco, and I thought that perhaps this is the way Massimo had felt when he sold me. Part of me remembered telling Marco that there wasn’t much kindness in people; that included me, I knew now. Perhaps people would be kinder if God were. Then Marco closed his eyes and rolled over onto his face, weeping and moaning into the floor. I felt a relief so potent that it dizzied me. He would not tell on me.

“Bind the wounds.” Silvano jerked his chin at Simonetta, and she leapt forward to do his bidding. Silvano’s eyes swept the crowd of children and women. “Marco can have his wish. He will live outside my beautiful establishment. He can live anywhere, but he will never walk again.” He stepped over Marco’s limp form and approached the stairs. We all moved to the side to let him pass. Silvano paused on the second stair. “There is no escape. Anyone who tries to escape will suffer this, and worse! You, come.” He pointed at me.

The little blue-eyed girl smothered a sob and released my hand. I shook all over, but I moved quickly to obey Silvano. He said nothing as we ascended the stairs. I followed him back into the dining room where I’d been led on my first evening at the palazzo. This time the table was laden even more profusely with roast meats, pungent cheeses, breads, fat green olives, and wine. I wondered if I was going to be beaten again, if, after all, Marco had told Silvano about my part in his escape plan. I looked around for the weighted silk sack.

Silvano sat at the table, wiped the bloody knife on his shirtfront, and speared a lamb rib. He dropped it on his plate, laid the knife down, and picked up the rib with fastidious fingers. He began to eat with great delicacy. I stood frozen, barely breathing, waiting.

“Would you like something to eat, Bastardo?” he asked. “You aren’t really a bastardo, but the name suits you. Some wine? You look pale. Wine will fortify you.”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Are you sure? Are you ill?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Is there another food you prefer?” he queried. I shook my head. He frowned. “More sweets?” I shook my head again. “My patrons are pleased with you, except that you look ill. Are you certain you’re not ill, boy?” he asked as he dropped the denuded rib onto his plate. “I remember how you stood in this room with your fingers dug into a roast capon, a hungry little animal, clean for the first time since your smug, proud mother lost you.” He chuckled almost fondly and the sound sent a shiver up my spine.

“I’m not hungry, sir.”

“We can’t have you getting thin, Luca. Part of your appeal is your sweet round ass. That’s what they tell me.” Silvano chuckled again. I looked away. “You’re no use if you die of starvation. I will lose profit. Do you think going out into the city would stimulate your appetite?”

“Outside?” I breathed the word, caught in torment. Marco and I had planned for me to be released. But now he was crippled, probably dying. Even if I went outside, neither of us would have our freedom. Silvano truly did have more ingegno than anyone. He was all-seeing and all-knowing. There was a deep ripping in my belly as all the hope I had left in the world dissolved.

“I would like to go out,” I whispered. Oh yes, I would like it very much, to have some relief from this rich, mute, lonely prison. I hated myself for the gratitude that surged in me at the prospect of even a small portion of freedom, for I knew I would more willingly let myself be used because of it.

“There are rules.” He gave me a meaningful look.

“Yes, sir.” I nodded vigorously. “I understand rules. I will follow them exactly.”

“You wouldn’t want to end up like Marco, would you?”

“No, sir,” I squeaked.

“He didn’t end up so badly.” Silvano shrugged and scratched his narrow, protruding chin under his coiffed beard. “I’ve sent others out of here into the cool arms of the river. Once she has you in her embrace, you don’t last long. He will live on the street. People out there are generous to cripples. Isn’t that so, boy?” He didn’t really seem to want an answer and I didn’t want to give him one because it would entail lying, and I neither wanted to lie nor to displease him. People out there weren’t generous. I had worked hard to collect alms, and still often went hungry.

“The women will give you coins to buy food at the market. You’ll like that. I used to watch you there, coveting everything. You have a lustful and acquisitive nature. Feeding it will make you plump again.” He motioned for Simonetta to take me back to my room.

“Oh, boy,” Silvano called. Simonetta and I froze. “There’ll be extra patrons each week, to pay for your outings,” he said. Simonetta clutched my hand to her soft bosom and we raced back to my room. I felt as if I were racing from the image of Marco, bloodied and crippled. I was also fleeing my part in his fate. As horrific as the patrons were, I almost couldn’t wait to travel to Santa Croce. The frescoes would erase Marco, and perhaps my own guilt, from my mind.

WEEKS LATER I WENT OUT TO VISIT
the Franciscan church of Santa Croce. Winter was drawing on, the city was cold and windy, and I walked with an ermine-lined mantello wrapped around myself, the finest garment I had ever worn. I walked about the interweaving flagstone streets of the bustling, working-class Santa Croce quarter with my heart palpitating and my nerves seething in anticipation: I meant to stand before the frescoes to which I had journeyed so often. I passed wool-dyeing mills and justice courts and a market that I now frequented. Since Silvano had granted me freedom, I had gone for walks, but I had not returned to my old haunts. I did not want to see Paolo and Massimo. They would despise me. I was changed now. I had always been different from the beggars, gypsies, and castoffs I met on the street, but now I was different even from my old self. I was soiled to the core by the work I did, yet I was bathed and dressed in fine clothes. I was also no longer hungry, and shamefully grateful for that. And I had discovered within myself a secret and wondrous journeying that separated me still further from my old companions and former self.

I walked across the right transept of the church of Santa Croce into the Peruzzi Chapel. Finally, reverently, I stood in front of the frescoes of St. John. They were exactly as I had seen them in my travels. All the details—the musical clusters of figures, the harmony of people with buildings, the ravishing hues, the full-blooded liveliness of flesh and mien—were even as they’d been revealed. It was wondrous, miraculous, and I dropped to my knees in gratitude.