Of Love And Evil Part 11

No, not now, I thought desperately.

The ghost had vanished.

Every portable object in the room seemed suddenly to be flying through the air. The candles were blown out.

In hopeless darkness, I dropped the candelabrum, turned and ran towards the dim light at the top of the steps. I was certain I could feel hands pulling at me, fingers s.n.a.t.c.hing at my hair, breath against my face.

In sheer panic, I kept going until I could grab ahold of Pico, and push him out of the way, and slam the cellar door. I threw the bolt.

I lay back catching my breath.

"Master, there's blood on your face," Pico cried.

From behind the door came the most piteous howling and then a thunderous noise as if the large wine casks were being rolled across the cellar floor.

"Never mind the blood," I said. "Take me to Signore Antonio. I have to speak to him now."

I headed out of the house.

"At this hour?" Pico protested, but I wouldn't be deterred.

"He knows who this ghost is, he must know," I said. I tried to remember what I'd been told. A Hebrew scholar had lived in the house, yes, twenty years ago. This Hebrew scholar had arranged the synagogue on the top floor. Had Signore Antonio never guessed that this man might be the ghost?

We pounded on the doors of Signore Antonio's house until the night watchman appeared and, seeing who we were, sleepily let us in.

"I must see the master immediately," I told the old man, but he only shook his head as if he were deaf. It was amazing, I thought, how many elderly and infirm servants this house included. It was Pico who took up a single candle and led the way upstairs.

Signore Antonio's bedchamber was filled with lighted lamps. The doors were wide open and I could see him plainly, kneeling in his long wool robe on the bare floor at the foot of his bed. His head was bare and sweating in the light, and his hands were outstretched in the form of a cross. Surely he was praying for his son.

He started when I appeared in the door. And then stared at me with muted outrage.

"Why have you come here now?" he demanded. "I thought you'd fled for your life."

"I've seen the ghost who haunts the other house," I said. "I've seen him plainly and surely you know who he is."

I came into the room, and offered my hands to help him to his feet. This he accepted, as it was very difficult for him at his age, and then he backed up and, turning, found his way to one of his many enormous heavily carved chairs. He sank down on the cus.h.i.+ons and, rubbing his nose for a moment as though he was in pain, he looked up at me.

"I don't believe in ghosts!" he said. "Dybbuks, yes, demons, yes, but ghosts, no."

"Well, think again on it. This ghost is a small elderly man. He wears a black velvet tunic, long, like that of a scholar, but he has blue ta.s.sels sewn on the edges of his mantle. He wears the yellow 'badge of shame' on his tunic, and peers at the world through spectacles." I made the gesture to describe them with my fingers before my eyes. "He has a bald head and long gray hair and beard."

He was speechless.

"Is this the Hebrew scholar who lived in this house twenty years ago?" I asked. "Do you know this man's name?"

He didn't answer but he was mightily impressed by what I'd described. He stared off, stunned and seemingly miserable.

"For the sake of Heaven, man, tell me if you know who this man is," I said. "Vitale is locked up under your roof. He'll be tried by the Inquisition for having a-."

"Yes, yes, I've been trying to stop all this," he cried, raising his hand. He drew in his breath and, after a moment of silence, he seemed to surrender himself, with a long sigh, to what had to be done. "Yes, I know who this ghost is."

"Do you know why he haunts? Do you know what he wants?"

He shook his head. Clearly all this was excruciating for him.

"The cellar, what has it to do with the cellar? He led me to the cellar. He pointed to the stone floor."

He let out a long agonizing groan. He put his hands to his face, then stared forward over his own fingers.

"You really saw this?" he whispered.

"Yes. I saw this. He rages, he bellows, he cries in pain. And he points to the floor."

"Oh, no, don't say any more," he pleaded. "Why was I fool enough to think it could not be?" He turned away from me, as if he couldn't bear my scrutiny, or anyone's for that matter, and he bowed his head.

"Can you not tell everyone what you know?" I asked. "Can you not testify that this thing has nothing to do with Vitale, or poor Lodovico, or Niccol? Signore Antonio, you must tell what you know."

"Pull the bell rope," he said.

I did as he asked.

When his servant appeared, another ancient relic of a human being, he told the old man that at dawn he was to gather the entire household to the nearby house where the ghost raged. This gathering must include Fr. Piero, Niccol and Vitale and that all were to be a.s.sembled around the table in the dining hall, which should be dusted and provided with lamps and chairs. Bread, fruit, wine, all should be furnished, as he had a story to tell.

I took my leave of him.

Pico, who'd been hovering in the pa.s.sage, took me to Vitale's door. When I called Vitale's name he answered, in a low dispirited voice. I told him not to be afraid. I had seen the ghost and its mystery would soon be explained.

Then I allowed myself to be led to a small bedchamber with painted walls, and curious as I was as to everything about it, I sank down on the coffered bed and went fast asleep.

I awoke with first morning light. I'd been dreaming of Ankanoc. We'd been sitting together, talking in some comfortable place, and he had said, with all his seeming charm, "Didn't I tell you? There are millions of souls lost in systems of pain and grief and meaningless attachment. There is no justice, no mercy, no G.o.d. There is no witness to what we suffer, except our own." Spirits using you, feeding off your emotions, no G.o.d, no devil... Spirits using you, feeding off your emotions, no G.o.d, no devil...

Quietly in the small bedchamber, I answered him, or I answered myself. "There is mercy," I whispered. "And there is justice, and there is One who witnesses everything. And above all, there is love."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE FAMILY WAS GATHERED IN THE DINING ROOM OF the unfortunate house when I arrived. The ghost was rampaging in the cellar and now and then sending great howls and roars through all the rooms. the unfortunate house when I arrived. The ghost was rampaging in the cellar and now and then sending great howls and roars through all the rooms.

I saw at once that there were four armed guards in attendance on Signore Antonio, hovering about his chair at the head of the table. He looked rested and resolved, and solemn in his black velvet, head bowed, and hands pressed together as if in prayer.

Niccol looked marvelously improved, and this was the first time I'd seen him in regular clothes, if the clothes of this time could ever be called regular. He was clad in black like his father, and so was Vitale, who sat beside him, and looked up at me with timid eyes.

Fr. Piero was seated at the foot of the table, and beside him on his right were two other clerics, and someone with a stack of papers and an inkwell and quill pen who looked, of course, like a clerk. Abundant food lay on the immense carved sideboard, and a collection of frightened servants, including Pico, cleaved to the walls.

"Sit there," said Signore Antonio, pointing me to his right. I obeyed.

"I say again I am opposed to this!" said Fr. Piero, "this communing with spirits or whatever it is reasoned to be! This house must be exorcised now. I am prepared to begin."

"Enough of all that," said Signore Antonio. "I know now who haunts this house and I will tell you who he is and why he haunts. And I charge you, not a word of this is ever to leave this chamber."

Reluctantly the priests agreed, but I could see that they did not see themselves as being bound by this. Possibly it would not matter.

The noises from the cellar continued, and once again, I was convinced that the ghost was rolling the heavy casks of wine over the floor.

At Signore Antonio's gesture the guards closed the door of the dining room, and we had a measure of quiet in which Signore Antonio began to speak.

"LET ME BEGIN MANY YEARS AGO, WHEN I I WAS A WAS A young student in Florence and had enjoyed myself to some considerable extent at the Court of the Medici, and was not at all glad to see the fierce Savonarola come into that city. Do you know who this is?" young student in Florence and had enjoyed myself to some considerable extent at the Court of the Medici, and was not at all glad to see the fierce Savonarola come into that city. Do you know who this is?"

"Tell us, Father," said Niccol. "We've heard his name all our lives, but don't really know what happened at the time."

"Well, I had many friends among the Jews in Florence then as I have now, and I had scholarly friends, and one very grave teacher in particular, who was helping me to translate medical texts from Arabic which he as a great teacher of Hebrew knew very well. This man I venerated much as you boys have come to venerate your Hebrew teachers at Padua and at Montpellier. His name was Giovanni and I was deeply in his debt for the work he did for me, and sometimes felt that I did not pay him enough, for every time he gave me a beautifully prepared ma.n.u.script, I took it at once to the printer's and the book went into circulation for all my friends to see and enjoy. I would say that Giovanni's translations and annotations for me were circulated throughout Italy, as he worked very hastily and in fair copy most of the time without the slightest mistake.

"Well, Giovanni, who was my good friend and my drinking companion, depended upon me for protection when the friars would come and preach their sermons working up the populace against the Jews. So did his beloved and only son, Lionello, who was as good a friend and companion to me as I have ever had. I loved Lionello and I loved his father with all my heart.

"Now you know every Holy Week in our cities, it is the same. The doors are shut on all the Jews from Holy Thursday through Easter Sunday, as much for their protection as for anything else. And as the sermons are preached in which they are castigated as the slayers of Christ, the young ruffians make for the streets and hurl stones at any Jewish house they can find. The Jews remain indoors, safe from this onslaught, and seldom is more than a window or two broken, and when Easter Sunday is over and the crowd is quiet once more and people have gone back to their business, the Jews come out, repair the gla.s.s and all is forgotten."

"We all know this, and we know they deserve what they get," said Fr. Piero, "as they are indeed the murderers of Our Blessed Lord."

"Ah, let's not try the Jews here on fresh charges," said Signore Antonio. "Surely Vitale here is respected by the Pope's physicians and he has many members of his family in the employ of rich Romans who are glad to have him in their service."

"Will you tell us please what Holy Week has to do with the ravings of this spirit?" Fr. Piero shot back. "Is he some Jewish ghost who imagines himself wrongly accused of the murder of Christ?"

Signore Antonio glared at the priest scornfully. And quite suddenly there came a racket from the cellar like none that had been heard before.

Signore Antonio's face was very grave. And he stared at Fr. Piero as though he despised him, but he didn't answer right away. Fr. Piero was shaken and enraged by the noise. So were the other priests who were with him. In fact, everybody was shaken, even me. Vitale sat flinching at every new a.s.sault from the cellar. And doors throughout the house began to slam as if in a powerful draft.

Raising his voice above the sounds, Signore Antonio spoke again: "A terrible thing befell my friend Giovanni in Florence," he said. "A thing that involved Lionello whom I so loved." His face grew pale, and he turned to the side for a moment as though averting his eyes from the very memory he was about to report. "I only now as a father who has lost a son can begin to grasp what this meant for Giovanni," he said. "At the time I felt too keenly my own pain. But what befell Giovanni's only son was more miserable than anything even that has happened to my Lodovico under my roof."

He swallowed, and in a strained voice went on.

"You must remember these were days unlike the days we now enjoy in Rome," he said, "where the Holy Father keeps a check on the friars that they won't work the populace into a frenzy against the Jews."

"It's never the friars' intention to do these things," said Fr. Piero. His voice was as patient and gentle as he could manage it. "When they preach in Holy Week they mean only to remind us all of our sins. We are all the slayers of Our Blessed Lord. We are all responsible for His Death on the Cross. And as you said yourself, it is no more than a drama, this throwing of stones at the houses of the Jews, and everyone returns to normal intercourse within a matter of days."

"Ah, listen to me. In Florence in that last year that I lived there, during such a happy time with my friends at the court of the great Lorenzo, a dreadful accusation was made during Holy Week against Giovanni's beloved son, Lionello, and it was an accusation that could not have contained a particle of truth.

"Savonarola had begun his preaching, he had begun insisting that the populace cleanse itself of sin. He had begun recommending the burning of all items that had to do with licentious living. And there was at his behest a group of young men, toughs all, who went about attempting to enforce his will. It was always this way with the friars. They had what were commonly called the friar's boys."

"n.o.body approves of such things," said Fr. Piero.

"Yet they congregate," said Signore Antonio. "And a mob of them brought their fantastic charges against Lionello, accusing him of profaning the images of the Blessed Virgin publicly and in three different spots. As if a Jew would have been mad enough to do such a thing once. And here they put a triple charge against him. And at the behest of the friars and their ravings, a triple punishment for the young man was decreed.

"Now, mark my word, the young man was innocent. I knew Lionello! I loved him, as I've told you. What would have driven a man of intellect and polish, of love of poetry and music, to mock the Madonna and before others in three different places? And to show you how very preposterous all this is, imagine that he had committed some blasphemous act in one spot. Would he have been allowed to seek out a second and a third for the same crime?

"But these were mad times in Florence. Savonarola was gaining power. The Medici were losing their grip.

"And so this sentence was decreed on the luckless Lionello, whom I knew, you understand, knew and loved as I did Giovanni, my teacher, knew and loved as I do my son's friend Vitale, who sits with us here."

He paused as if he had no taste to go on. No one spoke. And only then did I realize that the ghost was quiet. The ghost was not making a sound.

I didn't know whether anyone else realized it, because we were all looking at Signore Antonio.

"What was this sentence?" asked Fr. Piero.

The silence continued. Nowhere in the building did anything rattle or shatter, or break.

I wasn't going to draw anyone's attention to this. I listened instead.

"It was decreed," said Signore Antonio, "that Lionello should be taken first to the corner of the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova, at San Nofri, to an image he had supposedly defaced, and there have his hand chopped off, which in fact took place."

Vitale's face was rigid but his lips were white. Niccol was plainly horrified.

"From there," said Signore Antonio, "the young man was dragged by the mob to a painted Pieta at Santa Maria in Campo, where his remaining hand was chopped off. And then it was the intention of the populace to drag him to the third scene of his supposed transgressions, the Madonna at Or San Michele, and there to have his eyes put out. But the mob, some two thousand strong by this time, did not wait for this last act of abomination to be committed on the hapless youth, but grabbed him from those accompanying him and mutilated him on the spot."

The two priests were downcast. Fr. Piero shook his head. "May the Lord have mercy on his soul," he said. "The mobs of Florence are altogether worse than the mobs of Rome."

"Are they?" asked Signore Antonio. "The young man, with stumps for hands, his eyes torn out, his body mutilated, clung to life for a few days. And in my house!"

Niccol lowered his eyes and shook his head.

"And I knelt beside him with his weeping father," said Signore Antonio, "and it was after that, after the beautiful young man who had been Lionello was laid to rest, that I insisted Giovanni come to Rome with me.

"Savonarola appeared unstoppable. The Jews would soon be driven from Florence altogether. And I had my abundant property here, and my connections at the court of the Pope who would never stand for such barbarity in the Holy City, or so we hoped and prayed. So my Maestro Giovanni, shaken, shocked, barely able to speak or think or take a taste of water, came with me for safe refuge here."

"And it was to this man," asked Fr. Piero, "that you gave this house?"

"Yes, it was to this man that I gave the library I had acc.u.mulated, a study in which to work, luxuries which I hoped would comfort him, and the promise of students who would come to him to seek his wisdom as soon as his spirit could be healed. Elders from the Jewish community came to set up the synagogue on the top floor of this house, and to gather in prayer there with Giovanni who was too crushed in spirit to go out the front door into the streets.

"But how, I ask you, can a father who has seen such barbarity done to his son ever be healed?"

Signore Antonio looked at the priests. He looked at Vitale, and at me. He looked at his son, Niccol.

"And remember my wounded soul," he whispered. "For I had loved young Lionello myself very much. He was the companion of my heart, Niccol, as Vitale has always been to you. He had been my tutor when my teacher didn't have patience for me. He had been the one to write verses with me back and forth across the tavern table. He had been the one to play the lute as you do, Toby, and I had seen his hands chopped off, thrown to dogs as if they were garbage, and his body torn all but to pieces before his eyes were finally put out."

"Better that he died, the poor soul," said Fr. Piero. "May G.o.d forgive those who did these things to him."

"Yes, may G.o.d forgive them. I do not know if Giovanni could forgive them, or whether I could forgive them.

"But Giovanni lived in this house like a ghost. And not a ghost who hurls bottles against walls or rattles doors, or heaves ink pots into the air or throws things against a cellar floor. He lived as if he had no heart left. As if he had nothing in him, while I, day and night, talked of better times, of better things, of his marrying again, as he had lost his wife so many years ago, of his perhaps having another son."

He stopped and shook his head. "Perhaps this was the wrong thing to suggest to him. Perhaps it wounded him more deeply than I supposed. All I know is that he kept his few precious articles to himself, his books to himself, and would never settle into the library or make himself at home with me at any repast. At last I gave up the idea of making him live in and enjoy this house as its proper occupant, and I went on back to my own, and came to see him as often as I could only to find him, often as not, in the cellar of all places, and reluctant to come up to me unless he was certain I was alone. The servants told me he had hidden his treasure in the cellar, and some of his most precious books.