Desdemona, Tag Cavello [classic literature list TXT] 📗

convulsions. J.D. went old. A degenerative hip took him. He lay in his bed for a month, weeping with pain. Finally I could bear it no more. I took him to the vet and had him euthanized.”

Here the old man paused to blink away a tear. “More cappuccino?” he asked, in a surprisingly level voice.

Without waiting for a reply he took both mugs, rose, and went to the kitchen. Seconds later the machine whirred to life. Over its din the singer asked if Dante owned a dog.

“A puppy, yes,” Dante called.

Donati shuffled back into the room. Their mugs were now on a tray. Alarmed at how precariously they rattled, Dante helped him place the tray on the table.

“Thank you, my boy,” the singer told him. “One day I’ll teach you how to make good cappuccino. Then you’ll be the one to fetch it.” He winked at Dante, putting his butt back in its seat.

“I know how to make a fire,” Dante said, nodding at the room’s cold hearth.

“Most kind,” Donati said. “But I believe this story calls for a bit of a chill.” He lifted his mug, quaffed its contents. A long belch followed, which made him shake his head in disgust. “Damn!” he said. “Your baking company here in America, Nestle. They think their milk disappears quickly because it tastes so good. Let them try my cappuccino! How that chocolate bunny’s ears would droop in shame!”

“I believe you,” Dante said with a laugh.

“But enough about bunnies. I was speaking of dogs. My very own, dear and dead, back from their graves, if only in a dream. They each licked my face about a dozen times, then jumped back out the window and disappeared. My heart wailed the injustice of it. Having thought them gone forever, they’d come back, only to whistle off down the lane once more, leaving me alone with this final, friendly memory. I wanted more. Selfish! Bah! I know. But I’ve already described to you the chambers of our hearts.”

“Did you chase after them?” Dante asked.

“Indeed I did. Right through the window I went. My feet landed on an oil-stained driveway. I slipped and fell on my culo. That’s my ass, boy. It slowed me only for a moment. Then I was on my feet. I ran to a street lined with maple trees, much like the one we live on. A red convertible car was parked at the curb. I had never seen its like. Sleek and stylish. Slumped at the wheel was a man who took no notice of me. He looked dead. Perhaps he was. I might have stopped to check, but one of the dogs—I think it was J.D.—barked my name.”

Dante blinked. “Your name?”

“In his own dog way,” Donati said. “I looked toward the sound, and saw that both animals had run to a small bridge with an ornate railing. Barking with joy, they leaped over the railing like rabbits.” He laughed. “Oh goodness. Here we are back to rabbits. Do you know I once saw an amazing magician named Bloomcraft who owned an impeccably trained rabbit. Salto!” he said, jumping a little in his seat. “I remember the rabbit’s name was Salto. But now I’m just trailing off, aren’t I?”

“Not at all,” Dante said.

“Ha! Don’t be polite with me. Where was I in the story?”

“The dogs jumped off the bridge.”

“Yes. Yes they did indeed. So I went to the bridge and peered over the railing. And do you know what I saw? Both dogs grinning up at me from a field of tall grass. Wind blew over the field, making the grass undulate. I could see J.D.’s fur ruffling, and Freddy’s collar—his collar!—shining in the sun. How I wished to join them! But they were out of reach. A hundred feet down from where I stood. Then an even more terrible thing happened. The dogs turned and ran away. I watched from the iron bars of the bridge their bodies—romping in the grass—become smaller and smaller. Tears flooded my cheeks. I screamed their names. And wonder of wonders, somebody heard. A ramp of dirt appeared just over the rail. It led gently down to the field. Wasting no time, I leaped from the bridge and continued my pursuit.”

A loud crash from deep in the house made Dante jump and knock over his mug. The mug was empty, but by instinct Dante snatched at it. He missed. It fell to the hardwood floor, where its handle struck and shattered. Bits of glass flew in all directions,

“Please tell me,” Dante said, humiliated, “that mug wasn’t worth anything.”

The sad look on Donati’s face was not reassuring. “It was, actually,” he sighed. “A family heirloom. My—my father made it for me. Oh, Dante!”

To Dante’s absolute horror, the old man covered his face and began to weep. His shoulders shook with sobs.

“Mr. Donati I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be,” the other moaned. “What’s gone is gone.”

“Mr. Donati!”

The old man lowered his hands to reveal a devious, devilish grin.

“Actually, boy, my father knew nothing of ceramics. I think he tried pottery once.” Donati raised his index finger. “Once.”

Clutching his chest, Dante slumped in his seat. “Oh my goodness,” he panted. “Why would you do that, Mr. Donati? Why?”

“To prove to myself I can still perform,” Donati said.

“That’s ten years off my life I’ll never get back. What made that big crash?”

“Undoubtedly the mourning room door. The knob is broken and sometimes I forget to slide the latch.”

Donati once again rose from his chair. Dante followed him to an empty room in back of the house. Here the old man’s suspicion was confirmed. A door that let on the back yard hung open. The jamb looked beaten and bruised. Dante went to it. He caught the door as it swung on another gust of wind.

“Brr!” Donati said from behind him. “One day that door is going to fly off its hinges and blow away. That will be my fault. I’m too old to fix it and too forgetful with the latch.”

“I’ll fix it,” Dante said. “All it needs is a new knob.”

“Too old and too forgetful,” Donati repeated, as if he hadn’t heard.

“You’re beating yourself up over a broken door.”

“This house doesn’t deserve me.”

Dante opened his mouth to accuse the old man of being ridiculous. The words would not come. How could he refute such a claim when, stepping from his father’s car an hour ago, he’d been in full support of it? His eye went to the walls. Like in other rooms of the house, they were peeling. Holes from nails pounded and pulled dotted their uneven surface. Overhead was an empty light socket, charred black. Its screws were missing. Someone—possibly Donati—had duct taped it to the ceiling. It looked ugly and crooked.

“Anyway,” the old man said with a sigh, “forget the dream. Who cares? They were just a couple of dumb dogs.”

He turned to go. Dante let him get a few steps before giving chase. He told Donati to stop, to come back and finish the story. But the other would have none of it. He opened a second door off the hallway and descended a flight of wooden stairs. The stairs led to a cobwebbed basement for which Dante, hesitating at the top, didn’t quite have the nerve.

“Come down,” Donati said from the bottom. His hand beckoned. “Come.”

“No thank you.”

“Why not? Scared?”

“A little,” Dante admitted.

Donati regarded the cobwebs. They hung in snarls from ancient beams of wood. Their spinsters, as well as their spinsters’ spinsters, were long dead. Dried up on the dusty floor.

“What happened in the dream?” Dante asked.

“Same thing that’s happening to you right now, boy. I got scared. The dogs led me into a cave of ice that closed in hard after a few steps. It was dark and cold. I could see my breath. My fingertips grew numb. The passage became more and more narrow. Soon its icy walls were all but crushing me. Nevertheless I could still hear my friends up ahead, barking. Just a little further, those barks seemed to say. Just a little further. Then I did a most foolish thing. I looked over my shoulder. The poet Virgil told a student of his never to do that. Why? Because we must leave our sins behind us, boy. We must endure the pain of cleansing. Of becoming pure.”

But Dante still would not come down the stairs. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“When I looked back I saw Princess, standing in a ray of sunlight. She was naked. Naked and inviting. She held out her arms to me. At once I forgot about the dogs. Mindful of the ice, I moved toward her. But as I exited the cave she disappeared, and moments later I was awake in my bed. Tears welled in my eyes. I knew I’d been given a chance, and missed it.”

“A chance to be with Princess?”

The old man bared his teeth. “NO, boy. For God’s sake, can’t you reason anything out on your own? Somewhere on the other side of that ice are my friends. They wanted me to come and run with them again, as I had in my youth. We were healthy and strong.” Donati’s head lowered in shame. “But I couldn’t go. I was frightened. I was tempted. I couldn’t go.”

“It was only a dream, Mr. Donati.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. And I don’t put stock in dreams. When we go to sleep the mind gets bored and babbles whatever memory it happens upon. Those memories form a huge stockpile, ripe for sifting. Except everything in it is useless. Now come out of that basement.”

They went back to the living room without further exchange. Donati dropped heavily into his chair as if he’d come to the end of a long journey and his strength was spent. “I have faith,” he said, without lifting his eyes from the table, “that those dogs are still there. Do you know what faith is, Dante?”

“It’s the belief in something you can’t see.”

“Yes. Very succinct. Do you have it?”

“What? Faith?”

“Yes, boy.”

Dante’s answer was immediate, self-satisfying, and cold as the wind on the windows. “No, sir. Not remotely.”

It seemed to weaken Donati even further. His eyes rose desperately from the depths of his empty mug. “But Dante—“

“If I can’t see it, it isn’t there. Period.”

A long silence followed. Dante waited patiently for the other to break it. After all, the hammer and chisel of his own speech had done their work. He had nothing further to add.

Finally the other seemed to realize as much. He asked if Dante would please tidy up his kitchen, and perhaps do some dusting around the downstairs fireplaces.

“You see the mess, yes?” he added with a tiny smile.

“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you, boy. Thank you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Sunny and Maris

“I may never do you right, but will always do you proud. My heart knows no sun, and your own it shall enshroud.”

 

Sunny had whispered this promise in bed, sometime after midnight, as she and Dante were drifting off to sleep. He’d thought it strange, not because it rhymed, but because he knew full well that her heart had already done the deed it spoke of. The knowledge pleased him. Nor was it an exaggeration on her part. The temple of Sunset Desdemona was dark, its chambers countless, its corridors labyrinthine. And as the years passed it would grow even larger, confounding its resident—Dante—with even more doors that opened on doors, windows in the floor, and spiral staircases that stopped at the ceiling.

But on the Friday following his less than pleasant visit to Donati’s home—a day that would end with Maris stealing Sunny’s bloodstone ring—she seemed innocent enough. Almost harmless.

“Hey Dante!” she sang as he opened the door of her dad’s car.

Holding her hand, he escorted her from the back seat. Her red hair caught the sun and for a moment seemed to flash.

“Mr. Torn,” Brenton purred. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Sir.”

“Is my daughter being a good girl at school?”

This was a question he’d