1860

Erik


Contentment.

A dry breeze today. A few day laborers assembled downstairs, their voices echoing. I planned to avoid them today. We were close to completing the north face of Giovanni's house. Rome cannot be fixed in a day, he intoned. We had argued about addressing the crumbling villa for months. Finally, he had relented. I was glad of it. I lived in the cellar and was tired of staring at the cracks in the centuries-old stone. After months of labor, my calluses thickened. My endurance had strengthened. Soon, I would direct plans. The men would tolerate it if I modeled the knowledge of a master.

That day would come. I saw a path forward. I craved it.

Giovanni offered me his thick hand, more of a paw. The wrinkles were a testament to his experience, and the veins showed his energy. Three of his thick fingers were crooked from accidents over the years.

After I refused him and returned to work, he sighed. "You must take a break." He had acted more distant these past weeks. Luciana would leave for school soon. They had spent more time together. I tried not to be offended. I was not his son. Despite her meddlesome nature, I knew he would miss her. "It is lunchtime."

"I am not hungry."

"Very well. But if you faint like a woman and tumble to your death, how will I have time to carve your casket?"

He was a rare individual who cut through pretense. He was unafraid of punching remarks. Perhaps it was why he had accepted me.

"My hands are already skeletal."

"You do not have a mason's hands."

"But I have a mason's mind."

He left for his midday meal. Here, at work, I embraced the sun. With my neck craned down, I looked like any other worker. Hammers rattled, ladders slammed down, and dust wafted– a cacophony of stonemason's music. Ugly, but in service of beauty. Humble, yet creating something grand. Hot sweat slid down my neck. I never minded. I embraced industry.

We planned to gather that night. Giovanni hired a cook on most days, and while she would pin me with her watchful glare, I tolerated her for the black pepper in her stew, which created a pleasant flavor. Luciana would ramble, and her father would nod, pretending to listen. He would send her to bed, and we would talk until the candles waned.

Yes. Tonight, I would ask him. A new project was on the horizon, and I would be perfect to lead a team of men. A small post office needed fixing. I visited the site five times, evaluating the structure's flaws—a cornerstone adjustment here, a replaced window ledge there—and itched to begin renovations.

"Erik!"

A shrill voice. I was so focused on my work that the handle on the tool slacked, cutting my palm. Luciana? Did Giovanni not promise me this morning that she would be occupied?

I sighed. "Do you not have lessons to attend to, signorina?"

"You are so silly to call me that!" She wore a pale blue dress, her light hair complimenting it. My breath caught. "This is a science experiment. I want to observe something new."

I ignored her.

"I want you to take off your mask."

I turned, stilling my pitching chisel. Anxiety boiled in my gut. "You must excuse me." I dodged her gaze, eyeing the project I longed to begin. It was a mere three blocks away. I could make some excuse to visit there. Giovanni would forgive me.

"I will not excuse you! You don't have any work to finish! I want you to take off your mask right now!"

What brought this on? Blindsided, I could not think. Familiar pangs rose in my ribcage. Get out! Get Out! My mind repeated. My hands shook, my mouth dry. Giovanni appeared behind his daughter. Had he not left? He never missed his noonday meal.

"Sir," I called. He always stood up for me, shooing her away when I needed privacy and protecting my gadgets.

"Erik, you must follow what she asks."

"Sir-"

"This is not a choice." He repeated. Curiosity glimmered in his eyes, like everyone else's.

Was he choosing this course? That morning, we shared coffee. He asked if I had wanted sugar. And now…

"Is this an order, sir?"

He stiffened, but his eyes held firm. His feet shifted. "We cannot go on like this. Take the damn thing off."

The three of us were alone on the roof. I sensed the continued goings-on of Rome. Indifferent to my plight, street sellers yelled, and horses' hooves clopped on the streets. I hated them! This would not be happening to them! Deep, fierce disdain boiled within my chest. Two years of easy conversation and poignant advice whittled away in as many minutes.

"You wish to see?" I could not look at him. Any anxiety I felt would prevent me from taking my next action. "I so long to give you what you wish." I extended the last syllable, sounding like a snake even to my ears.

I ripped off the leather, throwing the mask at Giovanni's feet. First, Luciana's face expanded in wonderment, then shrunk in disgust. But I did not care for her feelings on the matter. I stared at Giovanni, composing the ugliest sneer I could, showing my teeth like an animal. He grimaced, covering his person with his great hands, then picked up my mask as if eager to return it to me. His eyes fell to it, his arm shaking. He had caused this. Let him face the result. I wanted him to. At that moment, I wanted the man I had thought of as a father to suffer.

"Look at me!"

Giovanni refused to, so I approached the weaker, more bendable target. "Gaze upon me, Luciana! For science! Stare at the creature you wish to study! He would be wonderful in a museum, wouldn't he? Or perhaps a university laboratory, to be poked and prodded like some African beast!"

Her spindly arms reached to her front. I grabbed them, and she yanked back, thrusting her head away from me. Her struggle annoyed me, so I released her. Her cries echoed, her shuffling feet kicking up dust. Giovanni coughed, his old lungs struggling.

Luciana turned and ran for the stairs. No longer would she bother me in my lone cellar. The unfinished stone gave way, and her foot caught a broken flowerpot she had asked me to fix. I had meant to fix it. That was why it was on the roof.

I made to grab her. Her dress was long and sturdy; perhaps I could catch it, but I could not reach her. Giovanni yelled, but he was too far. Her mouth opened, and she looked at me and gasped. I watched in horror as she tipped over the precipice. She fell the five stories, a splinting noise replacing her earlier cries.

Giovanni's haste to reach her had jostled the limestone masonry, causing several pieces of the undried steps I had worked on that day to break free. His arthritic legs carried him to his daughter, palming her face, eyes, and arms. I did not bother to rush down the stairs, stumbling in a daze. The moment I glanced at her pale neck, bent at an unnatural angle amidst the dust and stone, I knew she was dead. I had killed this small, gleaming thing. He was kissing her hair and rocking the girl. The pair resembled a Pieta. Michelangelo failed to capture a parent's grief, I concluded. Giovanni embraced his daughter almost aggressively. The Madonna was aloof by comparison.

Oh! Giovanni!

His face would haunt me. This, I already knew. His thick grey eyebrows pressed down, and his mouth pulled upwards in grief. His usual disposition transformed into something heinous. Shame bloomed. One would think I would be haunted by the person I had killed. Although unjustly ruined, her face would not be what shamed me forever; this I knew. How cruel of me. No, what would follow me like a shadow would be her father's disgust, reaching inside the recesses of my mind and plucking any potential peace I acquired in my few years at the villa.

I know the spoiled brat deserved a good fright, but what could compare to the aberration that is my face? Luciana! Poor stupid child! My face had the power to terrify- but to murder? This ability was novel, and it sickened me.

I approached them, head low. He did not look up at me when he said my name. Usually, it sounded warm off his lips. Now, it resembled a curse. I looked down at him, maskless. I choked out of guilt, selfishness, or desire to be understood, "You made me do it."

He glanced up, his eyes bright and fury. His face and anger looked wrong on him, hardening his jovial features. He clutched the piece of leather in his hands.

"Sir-"

With surprising speed for a middle-aged man, he fisted my sweat-soaked collar. I had never been this close to him before- we were both too afraid for that. His eyes were not brown but a hazel color.

His grip terrified me, and I thought I might die at that moment. My caretaker- or master? Father? As he stared, my earlier callousness shriveled. What had I done? Whatever role Giovanni represented to me morphed as he shoved my lanky form backward. He was father no more. Dumbly, I fell on my ass. He looked at me and let out a sound of such torment. A wailing cello, mournful and tight. He rose, and I wondered if he would strike me down. My pathetic life would end. I would accept it. I inhaled, preparing. But his gaze reached his daughter again and embraced her.

In a daze, I rose and walked away from the ruined steps I constructed that day. My face naked, I could not ascertain much. Still, I damn well realized I needed the mask. I eyed it still under Giovanni's foot, crushed in the dirt. Perhaps he still had it to punish me. Maybe he wanted to humiliate me in front of all of Rome. Whatever the case, I cringed at the idea of approaching him again and turned toward the southern edge of the building, where Luciana's glassy eyes stared at the sky. Giovanni's back turned away from me—a dismissal. Quickly coming to, I sprinted, dodging a group of Dominican nuns exiting their weekday mass. They possessed the decency to only gasp- although one screamed. Their white tunics fluttered as I avoided barreling into them. I yanked the black veil off a young one's head without thinking. The girl wailed in embarrassment, but my need for privacy won out. Stupid girls- wailing- wailing until they die. What did I care about stealing when I had committed murder before noon?

By this point, several passersby noticed the commotion. They pointed and gaped. I didn't care- but I needed to leave. I would not be staying, as Giovanni ensured. Still, an overzealous authority would arrive at this rate, and I would be trapped. At the thought, my ears felt stuffed with cotton, my tongue drier than dust, and my hands clawed the veil like a demon. Screams and voices faded as I slipped between the cracks of an alleyway. I scanned for an escape. My frail chest moved up and down, and my heart pounded so fast that it ached.

Over my shoulder, I spotted my means of transportation out of the city. A high society gentleman dressed in a fine brown frock coat to match his horse dismounted in a hurry. Not once looking back, he entered something like a dilapidated bank. The Pope needed to invest more in the city, or else the Nationalists would succeed—idiotic governments filled with idiotic men pushing paper. I created art. It was something worth value in this vile world. Whether Giovanni hated me or not, the stone I laid would remain for years, centuries to come. These fools received egregious income from their stocks and assets to afford their pretty suits. Their work meant nothing.

Yet here I was, nothing, again while these gentlemen enjoyed their fancy houses, fat women, and spoiled children. Fuck their security! My anger rose, twisting my shame into something useful.

He did not see my quick approach coming. The attendant's face dropped suddenly, then twisted into absolute fear as I lifted the veil. He dropped the reins. I expected to resort to violence to engender his floundering, but my face was enough.

I ripped two holes in the veil, taking some twine to secure it around my neck like some medieval executioner. Murder and sacrilege in less than twenty minutes- enough to fuel an angry God's ire. I jumped onto the horse, nearly vaulting face forward off the other side as the animal shifted its feet, anxious. Beyond the crowd, I spotted a thoroughfare that seemed relatively empty for my purposes. I yanked the reins. This animal protested, chuffing. I turned the horse around, bracing my feet in the stirrups, and kicked. It let out a painful cry. I slurred an apology.

We sprung forward and galloped into an emerging wheat field on the city's outskirts. My hands gripped its thick mane.

The excitement of the city faded as my ears welcomed the sounds of pounding hooves and heavy breathing. Waving growths of wheat brushed my legs. The midmorning sky shone bright, indifferent to the disastrous turn my life had taken yet again. A few years ago, I similarly fled the Roma clan- though gaining a horse as an escape was an unexpected boon this time. Perhaps I would keep him- or her. I did not have time to evaluate much. I patted its neck, adjusting my seat as we galloped towards the tree line. Though horse thievery was not an anticipated criminal offense, I enjoyed it. Wind bristled against my chest. The ground swept past us, the nearby area blending into an abstract display of color. I focused on these sensations- the horse's mighty steps, the wheat's lazy swipes, the sun's heat tempered by the wind. We continued this way for several minutes. The animal under me seemed to enjoy stretching its legs, confined to the city as it was—momentary bliss.

We approached the forest sooner than expected.

Attempting to stand up in the too-short stirrups, I lost my poor balance. I fell forward, catching myself on my mount's neck. My feet lost their traction as the metal rattled against my shins. The trees came closer. I pulled the reins. Angered at my sudden action, the animal reared, its front legs pawing the air. I clutched the saddle's leather. The horse chuffed, then bucked. My grip loosened. It reared again, successful this time. I fell backward, landing flat on the hard dirt.

I groaned, the air knocked out of my lungs. Spread like a star on the dirt, I looked upwards, unable to do anything but attempt to breathe. I heard the horse trot away, snorting. The sun glared as a cloud lazily revealed it. I closed my eyes. I experienced something akin to a home at Giovanni's villa. We had broken our fast before going to the site. He always dabbed his bread in olive oil, then smeared it in a salted cheese. I had grown accustomed to the meal, even enjoying it. He gave me books to read. Despite Luciana's meddling, the mason had carved out a life on my behalf. Necessities were taken care of, and quiet conversations filled the summer days. No human being had shown such kindness to me. It had blinded me to the curse of my face and made me stupid. I trusted him like a son, but I knew he would never have loved me. My naïve outlook shamed me. Our relationship was superficial- whatever pity he may have felt, leading him to provide my lodgings and occasional advice, was held up by the ignorance of what I was and what I looked like. The knowledge of what was behind the mask would forever invoke his repulsion. Even without his daughter's death, I would have had to leave Rome anyway.

And now Luciana was dead. Giovanni's house would be empty tonight. My few things- spare clothes, tools, and some money I had saved up were still at his residence- in the cellar floorboard. Tears threatened to slip out from the aching in my chest and frustration at my situation. I would have to acquire funds- and a mask. Perhaps the saddle leather would do.

If I could find that damn horse.

Rising, I coughed. I craned my head back at Rome. The Apennines loomed in the distance.

I didn't imagine I would ever see it again. Surveying my surroundings and seeing no one, I walked towards the forest.