65. Memory of a Dream

Date Written: July 3, 2019

Date Posted: November 12, 2020

Characters: Veneziano

Summary: Veneziano looks back into the past while wining and dining a German tourist.

Notes: The Risorgimento (1848-1870) period in Italian history was an ideological and literary movement that eventually ended the disunity of the Italian states to become one whole nation.


"Do you have a family?" The German tourist leaned a bit too closely to her companion, the red hue on her cheeks showing that she was on her merry way to getting drunk. "Any siblings?"

Veneziano smiled at the young woman. For a moment, he allowed himself to gaze at her auburn hair, how her flushed cheeks accentuated her glassy, light blue eyes. Before he could get lost in her good looks, he found himself laughing and answering—friendliness oozing like honey as he spoke.

"Of course! I have an older brother in Rome and a younger brother in Seborga!" It didn't escape Veneziano's notice that the woman looked a little too confused or too unconcerned over what Seborga was. Such a shame, his brother's share of the land was actually quite charming. "Eh, but don't worry about it! What are you studying?"

The German tourist took a sip of red wine. Her eyes, once glassy and wide eyed had become even glassier, yet narrowed as she pondered the rim of her wine glass.

"Don't wanna…" A little whine left her throat before she abruptly knocked back the wine as if it were a shot glass, much to the horrified bemusement from Veneziano. After swallowing down the plum colored liquid, she begged the Italian, "Can we talk about something else? You barely told me anything about yourself!"

That was true. While Veneziano wasn't too prone to talking about his "life" or as much of his life as he was permitted to tell normal humans, he thought that he could indulge her just this once. After all, what were the odds that they would speak again after the night was over? Their conversation was pleasant, yes, but there was nothing truly astounding about him or what they had spoken about that would have raised any red flags pointing towards future interaction.

He thought for a moment.

"I'm sort of an artist."

It wasn't a lie: Veneziano had spent centuries perfecting and honing his craft. To say that he was only 'sort of' an artist in such a modest way did not do himself justice considering that he was the Father of the Renaissance. Hearing a gasp, the Italian looked up and found that the young woman was looking up at him in awe. He blushed a little at the sudden look that the woman was giving him, but inside, he was preening with pride. It appeared that she had a soft spot for artistry… or perhaps it was the wine that was speaking for her. Whatever the case, Veneziano didn't mind elaborating.

"I've done a few pieces here and there." Try a couple thousand or so. "And I may have been featured in at least one art exhibition."

Was that too much information? Or was that considered too little in today's day and age? As Veneziano mused to himself, the German, in all of her infinite wisdom immediately began to rummage for something in her purse. Just when the Italian was about to ask what she was doing, she emerged from her task. In her hands, she loosely held a scrap of paper and a ballpoint pen.

In no uncertain terms, she demanded that Veneziano prove that he was an artist.

He complied.

(But, he would have been far more pleased if his lady friend asked politely).

"What should I draw?" He asked as he carefully uncapped the pen.

The woman shrugged. "Something from memory? Or anything you like, really."

Eager to impress, Veneziano held his pen firmly in between his fingers and as soon as he had done so, an image appeared in his mind. He began to visualize the remnants of a battlefield, of sprawling fields and ruined buildings; the scent of blood and grime filling the air. Gunshots and screams, yells for help, commands given by generals and soldiers long gone.

As the pen glided across paper, Veneziano breathed and then…

And then he sees. He listens. Hears. Breathes.

And then—

Veneziano is there in the middle of the conflict. There's a soldier, fairly young and bleeding heavily, as he hangs limply across his shoulders. Veneziano is carrying him—them—somewhere. Where? He's supposed to be somewhere else, supposed to be in the middle of the fight. Determination was coursing through his veins, his blood was pumping harder, faster, louder and then—

There's a bang.

A gunshot.

He turns around.

There's gunpowder in the air; sweat runs down his forehead, staining his vision and his eyes.

Men ran past him, their voices crying with words that were both curses and yells of their own sources of determination. Veneziano didn't care. He needed to get somewhere, needed to get this body that was weighing him down somewhere safe. He didn't know where he was going, didn't know why he was going anywhere to begin with, but—

The body that he was bearing shifted on his back.

For a moment, Veneziano pauses, his bloodlust stuttering to a halt as he glances over his shoulder.

Romano.

How had he not noticed before? As Veneziano continues to run around, chaos billowing all around them, Romano's eyes open. It was at that moment that he remembers.

With a pang, he stutters to a complete halt, his hand twitches with familiarity, and he knows.

This was—

"Oh, that looks rather good!"

The German woman tapped her polished fingernails against the grain of the paper, her amazed look in her eyes doing nothing to ease the pain that erupted from his shoulders, or the sudden shock of finally seeing again… As he blinked back the tears of the brightness that accompanied the wonders of modernity and the bright lights of the establishment Veneziano leaned back in his chair and hoped that his fingers weren't shaking…

It had been so dark and hopeless on the battlefield…

"What was your inspiration?"

It took everything in Veneziano not to scream and find his brother. Just where was he? After he was done talking with this tourist, he was going to have to find him, soon….

"The Risorgimento period," Veneziano couldn't help but murmur more to himself. "The Italian wars for independence were so bloody… So very much ingrained into our very history…"

His eyes looked so far away, so haunted, the woman couldn't help but lean away from him. Her fingernails left the grain of the paper as she shuffled a little on her feet, her hands outstretched as if she wanted to whip the pen away from him.

Ah, well.

Looks like tonight wasn't the right time for flirting. That was all right. He could work on his skills later.

Veneziano, with all of the aplomb of someone who had just been awoken from a nice nap, said, "Don't worry about that, my fair lady. Now, what were you studying?"