I finally decided I’d play all innocence, never turn my back on him, and maybe it would all go away. I’m pretty fast on my feet and he was an old man, but no telling what he’d do if something gave — like he might get extra adrenaline. If he did manage to do me in, it sure would be one heck of an artistic way to go, with a Venetian stiletto between my bony little shoulder blades. But I didn’t intend to die, even artistically. I mean, I’m just a young cat and I have a lot of living to do.
Yes, tonight is the night. I shall play it cool, to quote my young and entirely too perspicacious friend. I do feel the entire situation is unfortunate, but what am I to do? The stiletto, of course. I remember when I bought it in a Los Angeles antique store. How many intrigues had it seen? Had it belonged to one of the Borgias? Well, the time has come for it to come to life again. Has it been waiting for all these years to taste that precious thing, blood? I have already removed the cover from the well — those heavy cement lids are difficult to manage, but this is something that must be done and I find that my strength is now that of ten.
I, Calagria (I have become bold enough to use my true name), must now protect myself so that I may continue to offer the world my genius, for what is one lad compared to the deathless paintings which I shall produce? Life is short and art is long; a cliche; but so true, so true. The boy has great talent, yes, but then another will come along. Through the centuries great talents have always been with us, sung and unsung. It would be best for me to spare the poor child the intense pain of maturing in this violent world, where his sensitivity might be permanently damaged. In a way I’m doing him a favor. It is all so simple, really. We shall have our dinner, I will interest him in the process of egg tempera paint, and knowing the lad, he will become so involved with the new knowledge that it will be quite easy for me to, shall we say, send him to a happier place.
While gazing at my painting last night I was discussing with Lorenzo de’Medici the fine art of people disposal, as I prefer to call it.
“Diversion, diversion,” he said, smiling, as he fingered one of his priceless rings. Of course Lorenzo himself would never do such a thing, but he did have people working for him. We Venetians are clever, subtle people. I have prepared what might be termed a “last supper” for the boy. I do feel that the lad should spend his last night upon the earth happy and well fed. Only two more hours and he will be here. Everything is in readiness. The lasagne is waiting only to be popped into the oven and the wine is chilled. I am prepared.
Hoo, boy, Kelly John Kelly, I mumbled to myself as I combed what beard I have, here we go. It sounds sort of, well, melodramatic, and like it would be easier just to turn the poor guy in but, I repeat, I’m a fanatic about art and I just couldn’t hurt him. I was sincerely hoping that it could all be settled, like nice and peaceful. So off I went. One of the of-age students had bought me a half pint of vodka and I’d downed some of it — Dutch courage, my old grandmother used to say. I trundled along, sort of all drunked up under the spooky moon, and as the one sidewalk in this village sort of rolls up at eight o’clock I really never felt so alone in my life, like going to my doom.
I finally came to the little shack, looking dark and forbidding, in the middle of a weed patch, with dinky glimmers of light coming through the window — like a goblin house. Up I tippy-toed and knocked on the door, gulping oxygen all the while. Then I stuck my chin up and tried to relax. Man oh man oh manaroonian, I was scared, but still feeling the vodka, like the rough edges were sort of dulled.
The door slowly squeaked open and there he was, grinning through his beard, wearing, for Pete’s sake, this Venetian-type costume, like one in the Calagria picture.
“Ah, my boy, come in, come in. Delightful to see you, yes indeed.”
The food smelled great. He poured me a glass of wine — real good stuff this time, though I couldn’t help wondering about poison — but seeing as how he poured a glass for himself out of the same bottle and I didn’t see any funny stuff going on, I started to relax, and pretty soon my worries were sloughing off. It was warm and cosy and I thought, well, I’ve had a paranoid spell. Hell with it.
Then and there I decided, oh, let him keep the picture. Who am I to deprive this neat old artist of his precious picture? Who really cares about an old painting anyhow? Most dumb people don’t even take the time to look. So, what with everything, we were talking away over a fine dinner. He had opened the curtains that covered the painting and, man, after a while I felt like I was back in Venice eating and drinking and being merry and he was yabbering about that egg tempera technique and I was feeling like an idiot. Me and my fantasies. Maybe the picture was a copy. Who cares?
Then, after we’d burped for a while and he’d put the dishes in the tiny sink, he said, sort of grandly, “And now, lad, for the egg tempera process.”
He cleared the table of the rest of the stuff and brought out all the paint and the eggs and a hunk of wood with gesso on it. Then he started to tell me all about it and pretty soon I was all involved messing with the paint and leaning over the table with the kerosene lamp in the middle of it. He was kind of pussyfooting around in back of me while I got more and more into what I was doing.
Suddenly the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I glanced at the kerosene light and saw, so help me granny, his reflection. His lips were peeled back, and the glints from that stiletto were just too much. I jumped aside, pushing the table over, and everything fell off with a big crash and the old kerosene just went spoosh and everything was on fire. By now he was screaming — the flames had got to the Calagria — and suddenly he turned into a devil and I was running out the door and he was after me. With that and the old shack burning up like crazy, I thought goofily, oh, man, there goes the beautiful picture.
I headed out toward the open field and then I saw this open well, so I zigged a bit and zapped around it and there he was on the other side holding that knife and by now I didn’t know what I was doing. I was plain mad, so I thought, well, dammit, he tried to get me, so I’ll get him because he’s dangerous. I grabbed a stick lying on the ground and we had a duel right there, round and round that open well. Then he let fly with the stiletto. I ducked, and whiz, down came my stick on his skull and he went flat and hit his head on the side of the well. I knelt down and saw that poor old Lawrence Weber Weeves was as dead as could be. I started crying. Then I heard the volunteer firemen coming, so after scrabbling around in the weeds, I found the stiletto and tossed it in the well.
I sort of went into shock for a while. Finally I told everybody we were having dinner when the lamp got knocked over and we ran outside and he tripped over the well.
After that I kind of kept to myself. I think I cried for a month or two. Then one night I bought myself some French bread, salami, and wine, sat down at my table, and had a sort of memorial dinner for him.
A couple of weeks later I found a reproduction of the Calagria at the bookshop. I framed it and it’s on my wall. Man, I really get lost in that thing, like I was there! Sometimes I even feel like I’m one of the people in the picture — or maybe old Calagria himself. I’ve been working with egg tempera and I’m doing a copy of the Venice Street Scene, or the Venice Canal Scene, actually. It’s got everything — women haggling about the price of fish; orange rinds floating in the canal; dandies swaggering; clothes blowing on lines strung from one building to another; tarts with bleached hair and scandalously low necklines strutting beside the water; gondolas being propelled by muscular gondoliers. The true Venice. The Venice then. I sometimes get back there, back where I should have been in the first place. I was born in the wrong century.