Tenebroso By Edana |
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Tenebroso By Edana |
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Carefully Cariani sketched in the left eye of his subject. The angle was not quite right and he frowned as the silver point of his pen drew the wrong line under his control. 'Damn!' he swore under his breath. He looked up at his patron, Senor Verchelli, sitting upright, his back as straight as a pole and his expression as dour as a rancid melon. Cariani sighed and placed the silver point once more on the parchment, this time saying a small prayer to Saint Stephen to guide his hand and his eye. This time the line he drew matched the angle of the line of his patron's eye perfectly and even managed to finish off very fine and strong. 'Thank you Saint Stephen,' Cariani mumbled. 'What did you say?' asked Senor Verchelli. 'I was thanking Saint Stephen for guiding my hand, Patrone,' answered Cariani with a smile. Senor Verchelli lifted his bushy left eyebrow and sneered. 'As well you should, limner. It is only with the blessing of our Savior and the Holy Saints that we are able to accomplish any deeds at all. We are mere tools in the hands of the Lord. You would do well to remember that, Cariani.' 'Yes, Patrone.' Cariani redrew the other eye of his patron in the sketch, purposefully making the angle a bit lower, giving Senor Verchelli a slightly sinister expression. Satisfied, he held the drawing at arm's length and squinted at it. It looked good so far, the composition strong and the likeness very good. He tipped the drawing so that he could peer at it through his looking glass which stood next to his drawing table. The drawing was as strong in reverse as it was as drawn. With a sense of relief, Cariani put the sketch aside and rose. |
'That is enough for today, Senor Verchelli. The drawing is finished and I must prepare the canvas for your next sitting. Please, will you come back tomorrow?' Senor Verchelli stood and brushed the front of his robe with his hands. Cariani noticed that the man had a ring on each and every finger, including his thumbs -- rings of gold with precious stones -- rubies, emeralds and sapphires. 'Tomorrow is not satisfactory, I am afraid. I have business to attend to. I will come the next day after.' 'Very good, Patrone,' said Cariani and made an elegant bow. He ushered his patron out with a promise that he will have the canvas prepared in good time for their next sitting and hoping that Senor Verchelli would slip him a slight advance on the commission for the portrait. But, no. The man left the house with his nose in the air and his hands firmly clenched around his closed purse. Cariani sighed in resignation. He would have to be satisfied with the day old bread and half bottle of cheap wine he had saved from his last meal. He brushed his long curly dark red locks from his face and climbed up the stairs slowly to his loft. He spent the time before dark preparing the canvas, stretching it, priming it with animal glue and then coating it with white lead. The smell from the hot glue made him think of soup and his stomach growled loudly in sympathy. He finished impregnating the canvas with the hot glue and frowned to see how much he had left over. It would get moldy if he left it in the metal pot overnight, so he decided to scrape the old panels his friend Giamondi had given him and reprime them to prepare for painting. The first panel he reached for had split down the middle and he sighed to see that it was only good for firewood now. The second panel seemed promising. It was good and sturdy and covered with a fine layer of white paint to cover the painting underneath. The shapes of the figures in the covered painting looked ghostly, their features obscured with a transparent caul of paint. There were two figures -- one a woman and the other a man -- on either side of the painting, each occupying the same amount of space in the composition. That was all Cariani could make out of the painting underneath the whitewash, except for a small area where the whitewash brush missed as it had crisscrossed quickly across the surface of the painting. It was a small triangular shape from which glowed the painted depiction of hair, as golden as the gilded spires of St. Antonio's Cathedral. |
'Hmmm. Not bad, Giamondi,' exclaimed Cariani, as he peered closely at the triangular patch. He took the painting over to the table where he had recently lit a taper, and inspected it some more. He frowned in confusion. Why had Giamondi whitewashed this painting? To Cariani it looked as if the portrait was a rather fine one, the composition excellent and the technique, if the small uncovered patch was any judge, very good. He dipped a clean rag into some turpentine and dabbed at the white paint and was pleased to see that he could, with care and a slow, gentle touch, remove the overcoat of paint without disturbing the paint layers underneath. He wiped away a bit around the triangle shape revealing more of the golden hair that had caught his eye initially. Then he found an eye, blue and wide with an arched eyebrow... then another eye, slightly closed this time giving a strangely coy expression. Cariani rubbed some more, revealing a small nose and a rosebud mouth, then a long swanlike neck and more golden tresses cascading down the pale skin of the woman's chest, ending finally at the top of her red, velvet bodice. She was lovely. Cariani stood back to take in the whole figure. He felt a tap at his heart, like it had been touched by a cold finger. 'Giovanni!' He spun around quickly in surprise. Someone had whispered his name, but there was no one in his small loft except his cat, Trunfio. 'Giovanni!' He turned again quickly and put his hand up to his face in fear. 'Who is there?' he asked the empty room. The candle flickered as a warm breeze blew in off of the water under his window. He could smell the brackish water, the green algae that encrusted the buildings of Venice, the rotting bodies of dead fish and an underlying smell of human waste. The shadows had grown longer while he scrubbed at the painting, and now his canvases cast huge dark triangles around his loft. Trunfio sat with his paws tucked in on Cariani's red velvet chair, his eyes closed in the contentment of warmth and comfort. But just as Cariani's eyes left him, the cat's eyes opened wide, gleaming with an opalescent glow as a ray of moonlight struck them. The gray fur on Trunfio's back rose bristling with fear. Then, with a hiss, Trunfio leapt away into a dark corner. Cariani could hear him making low growling noises in his throat. |
Like Trunfio, Cariani felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He hurried over to the window and looked out. The night was clear and calm. The stars glittered in the dark sky and the moon shone full in their midst. There was no one in sight. Suddenly there was the sound of laughter and a small gondola appeared from around the corner. Several people in the boat were laughing and reveling in happy drunkenness. They were dressed in satins of red, green and yellow. Their happiness was contagious and Cariani waved at them, receiving enthusiastic waves in return, and kisses blown from painted lips. By the time they had disappeared into the night, Cariani felt cheered and had shrugged off his melancholy. He looked over at the panel propped up against an open easel, and came to a decision. He would continue to remove the whitewash. He must see the entire painting. Once more he dipped the rag in turpentine and applied it to the surface of the panel. He concentrated this time on the male figure and had quickly removed the white paint to reveal the man's face. It was dark with a black beard and mustache -- trim and neat. The nose was straight and classic. The mouth seemed a bit crooked although it was turned up into a smile, and the eyes were so dark, Cariani had to look closer to make out their whites. Further scrubbing revealed a black hat with a white feather, and a black and gold doublet decorated with diamond studs. He was a young man, no more than twenty five years, and his eyes looked longingly at the golden-haired woman who stood by his side. 'Cariani!' His hand slipped as the whisper startled him and he spilled turpentine onto the surface of the panel. 'Damn!' he exclaimed. He tried to soak up the turpentine with a rag, but there was so much it dripped onto the easel and then onto the floor. He ran for more rags and threw them down onto the puddle. The odor of the turpentine overpowered any smells that were wafting through the open window, though the candle showed evidence of the breeze that streamed into the room. 'Cariani!' The whisper had come from the panel. Cariani had heard it clearly this time. Quickly, he turned to look at the painting and could see that the turpentine had removed all of the whitewash. It was running down in milky rivulets. And there, between the two human figures, man and woman, was revealed another figure, not human, not animal, but a twisted being with reptilian flesh and oddly contorted limbs. Its pale eyes stared woefully directly out of the painting and into Cariani's. Cariani felt his heart writhing in horror at the monster revealed, yet the look in its eyes was so pitiful, he felt the wetness of tears on his cheeks. |
'Cariani!' whispered the voice, pleading and full of sorrow. 'Yes!' Cariani answered in a loud whisper, 'Yes!' He knew what he must do. The painting dripped turpentine and pigment onto the floor as he carried it over to the empty fireplace. As he touched the candle to it, it burst into colourful fire that danced and laughed against the stones of the hearth. Cariani felt such a sense of joy as he watched the painting burn that he actually laughed aloud once. And when the beautiful face of the woman in the picture blackened and flamed, he smiled. When the loving face of the man disappeared into blackened char, he giggled and when the horrible reptilian monster flared up into a bright green flame and then vanished, his heart swelled with satisfaction. That night Cariani slept more peacefully than he had slept in many months. Trunfio slept at the foot of the bed with a wide happy cat grin on his face. Giamondi shrugged and filled Cariani's glass with good red wine. 'It was an unfortunate painting,' he said with a frown, 'and an unfortunate couple!' 'Tell me about it. I must know!' Giamondi leaned back and sighed. 'Very well. The first thing you must know is that the painting was probably the best piece I ever painted. It had a sparkle. It couldn't miss, the sitters were so handsome, and so happy. It was Theresa de Fontilla and her husband, Niccolo di Brindisi. They were so in love! It warmed my heart to see them. They had everything it seemed -- love, money, happiness -- and most of all -- each other.' 'But something happened?' 'Yes, something terrible.' 'What? Betrayal? Financial ruin? Murder?' 'No, my friend. It was a birth. Theresa gave birth about a year after they were married. But unfortunately it was a difficult birth and she gave her life so that her child could live. 'And live it did, but only for a few hours. It was so twisted and malformed it could not survive. 'When the doctors were consulted they shook their heads and whispered evil things. They crossed themselves and murmured about demons and witchcraft. The priests were summoned and immediately pronounced the poor sweet woman a witch who had consorted with demons. With all of the horror resting heavily on his soul, Niccolo took poison. He could not live without his beautiful Theresa.' |
Cariani sipped his wine and then sighed deeply. 'A sad story, my friend,' he said. 'Yes, it was a terrible end to such happy lives.' 'But tell me, Giamondi. Why did you paint the portrait of that poor, sad, twisted child? It must have broken your heart to draw those pitiable limbs and to paint that pathetic mottled skin.' 'What do you mean, Giovanni?' 'The portrait of that pitiful child, standing between its unfortunate parents on the panel you gave me to use. It was a very fine job, Giamondi, but how sad it must have been to copy those sorry features.' Giamondi shook his head. 'Cariani, I did not paint a portrait of the child. The picture was of their happy wedding day a year before the child was born.' A slow and cold chill sent its way to Cariani's spine and as it worked its way up and down, he remembered the sad look on the face of the painted twisted figure which stood with its bent limbs held out happily to its beautiful parents.
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