{"id":1195,"date":"2021-03-07T18:37:15","date_gmt":"2021-03-08T01:37:15","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/alessandrob.com\/blog\/?page_id=1195"},"modified":"2022-01-18T17:53:39","modified_gmt":"2022-01-19T00:53:39","slug":"venerio","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/alessandrob.com\/blog\/?page_id=1195","title":{"rendered":"Bearer of light"},"content":{"rendered":"

\u2014Venice, Ninetieth Century.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A scent of burned incense, lemongrass, and lavender enwraps Venerio. Minutes enfold into hours as the group completes the ritual. The sound of the bell breaks the lethargy within him and for the hundredth time that day he curses Giacomo Aldograndi for getting him into this. The commendatore<\/em> means well, he tells himself, and perhaps there is truth to what he says\u2014in this world the strong engorge themselves on the weak and to be strong you need friends in high places\u2014<\/em>yet he finds this entire affair an exercise in futility. Placing an effigy on an altar and setting it on fire, entering a coffin, chanting inane words to a giant owl is a child\u2019s game. Had he not seen with his own\u00a0eyes he would not have believed grown men, men of affluence and power, could engage in such drivel.<\/p>\n

He feels someone tap his shoulder lightly and obliges, walking through the opening flanked by two pillars, a sense of dread gnawing at him. He takes his place before the semi-circle of cloaked figures as he has been instructed. There are nine, their features indiscernible in the thick darkness.<\/p>\n

\u201cAldograndi speaks highly of you.\u201d It is the man seated at the center, addressing him in the second plural different from his own habit of addressing others in the third singular.\u00a0 \u201cThat Giacomo should do so, makes us entrust you with our confidence.\u201d His voice is sonorous like a schooled dramatist of the Commedia dell\u2019Arte<\/em>, and as beguiling.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe commendatore<\/em>\u2019s very kind,\u201d Venerio says. His eyes are getting used to the darkness and he is beginning to make out the full-faced masks of papier mach\u00e8<\/em> the men wear.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour intonation suggests you\u2019re a native of Venice. I believe Aldograndi might have mentioned this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBorn and raised, Signore.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA noble city, although the weather doesn\u2019t agree too well with our old bones. In fact, the rain these days has precluded any outings. I had to immerse myself in one of those ten-lira reprints of novelettes, which do not enlighten a man but entertain with trivialities.\u201d<\/p>\n

Venerio expresses sympathy with the gentleman\u2019s plight.<\/p>\n

As the conversation voyages pleasantly, he thinks that his first judgment might have been wrong. These men seem pleasant enough.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe, Signore, believe in the splendor of learning, the commendable intellect of man that separates him from beast. The prevalent cause doth from the beginning. To grasp this noblest form of understanding, man must cross a wide and precipitous abyss. That mysterious truths do not shine but are veiled in obscurity is a fact that must be evident to a man of your erudition.\u201d The way the man pronounces his Cs <\/em>as though they are Hs<\/em>, his predilection for the conjunctive, and old-world manner of speech, reveal him as a citizen of Florence, the capital of the republic. \u201cWe\u2019re naturally prevented from saying more.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFor \u2019tis a secret?\u201d This time his humor is rewarded by an indignant silence. Venerio says nothing, not knowing how to remedy.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat I do permit myself to say is that our ambition is to persuade you to cast your eyes upon our creed and beguile you to join us, and if your judgment should find a deficiency therein, let your candor make a supply thereof.\u201d<\/p>\n

Venerio mumbles his thanks.<\/p>\n

\u201cOur purpose is to preserve the capacity that is life, a kindled Sulphur that is within every man, beast, inanimate object, yet very few ever glimpse it. What we offer is the inside and outside of knowledge, the contemplation of most secret things, the sublime virtue of existence, but to be worthy of the cause, one has to prove oneself.\u201d<\/p>\n

The man\u2019s words, his delivery, cast a feeling of unease in Venerio.<\/p>\n

\u201cLike you, most of us are Christians,\u201d the man says, \u201cyet we don\u2019t believe in allegorical abstractions<\/u>.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAbstractions<\/em>, Signore?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAldograndi says you\u2019re a man of the liberal professions.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDoctor of physics.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA man of your intellect will no doubt understand that the resurrection of Christ is the pillar upon which Christianity is founded. Without it, Christianity falls apart at the seams.\u201d<\/p>\n

Venerio says that he agrees.<\/p>\n

\u201cYet, the prophecy of resurrection is a Zoroastrian tale, recounted a thousand years before the advent of Christ. Mithra is the prophet of the Persian Empire. He was born of a virgin<\/em> in a stable<\/em> on twenty-fifth of December<\/em>. His resurrection was celebrated at Easter. <\/em>The Christian beliefs are nothing but recycled narratives. And so are those of the other religions of our time. Churches, mosques, and synagogues harbor the fallacy of endlessly repeating variations, reducing faith to mere reflex.<\/em> Ours, Signore, is a spectral God, a deity majestically devoid of name and face, an entity whose substance is ingrained in the wisdom of the universe.\u201d<\/p>\n

Another one of the dark shapes speaks. \u201cIts image reveals itself entirely through the nine shadows it throws upon the Universe.\u201d His Italian is coarse, his vowels rounded, and he must yet master the fine art of putting the accents in their proper place. An Arab<\/em>, Venerio thinks. \u201cReligion reveals The Truth in fragments\u2014alas! How illegible.\u201d Venerio makes out the resolute expression of his mouth, the white teeth gleaming. \u201cWe, Signore, believe in the science of machines. We believe in knowledge.<\/em> Human nature, so naturally perverse, becomes Holy through knowledge.\u201d<\/p>\n

The other cloaked figures nod, glinting masks in a dream, bobbing.<\/p>\n

Venerio says, \u201cAre you men of the Phoenix?<\/p>\n

The\u00a0Florentine says, \u201cAll of us are Masons, but not all Men of the Phoenix are privy to the secrets. I ask you this: men are prone to tear each other piecemeal by brute fury. If there were a compassionate and benign King of The Universe, how could He permit this? What precipitates war Signore? Is it not belief in some righteous creed? Aldograndi says you are a man who adheres to secular thought. Let it be not in vain that you have crossed the threshold of this palazzo, allow yourself to shed the vulgar and the irrational, and be converted to the rational embracing of the sublime. We, Signore, believe in the Bearer of Light as He who will unveil the secret through transcendent reasoning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBearer of Light,\u201d he says. \u201cLucifer.\u201d He can feel the beating of arteries in his neck. These men are raving mad. It is as if there are two of him, one standing in front of these cabal of ruffians, another, gliding through the crisp winter night. He can imagine his companions bent over the faro tables at the casin\u00f2, mingling with the alluring women of Vicenza and Treviso.<\/p>\n

Another man speaks in a stateless accent, barren of any regional inflections. \u201cWe need a capable man to claim the captaincy of the altar in Venice.\u201d He asks Venerio if Aldograndi has spoken of this matter.<\/p>\n

He confesses such a conversation has never taken place and enquires after the purpose of such an assignment.<\/p>\n

The Florentine speaks of the seminal virtue of things, spirits of darkness, and hidden causes declared in mathematical numerals, a discourse that expounds absolutely nothing on the position they are offering him. The Arab seizes the rudder of conversation with his wrecked Italian, which can puncture the good nature of any patriotic citizen and speaks of the divinations of the Father of Light, which Venerio assumes is a reference to Satan, but he can\u2019t be certain as his mind is, by now, reeling with confusion and panic.<\/p>\n

Silence descends, pregnant with a sense of waiting. They have asked him something he has not heard<\/em>. A moment of panic as doubt besieges him and he grapples with possibilities; then he decides that they must have reiterated their proposal for \u201ccaptaincy of the altar in Venice\u201d, or some suchlike query. <\/em>A moment to consider how to proceed and, averse to offending them and seem ingrate to Aldograndi, he expresses his gratitude for the faith evinced in his capacity and asks for a few days to reflect upon the matter, remaining purposefully vague. In the indignant silence that ensues he understands he has misspoken. He tries to overcome the embarrassed moment by further gallantry, complimenting them on the erudition of their discourse.<\/p>\n

They say nothing.<\/p>\n

He doesn\u2019t care for these men, wishes never to see them again, yet feels strangely humiliated by their silence, and mortified at feeling the need to please them. He mumbles salutations and takes his leave, conscious that no one acknowledges his departing words. He staggers like a drunkard, feeling the heavy silence in his head like the residue of a tremendous noise left in the skull when one enters a quiet place, a burden he cannot shake off. Outside the darkened drawing room, he turns left and finding his legs, marches toward the entrance through the great hall, his spine as erect as that of a naval officer of the Venetian army. The entire palazzo is filled with shadows like cobwebs. The air is redolent with incense, causing a burning in his throat. A hairless bitch, mangy and emaciated, places itself in front of the large wooden door but does not bark when he unbolts the iron lock. He yanks the door open, and steps out. He strides away, inhaling the crisp, cold air, like a man quenching his thirst at a desert oasis.<\/p>\n

With the forlorn palazzo behind him his mind vibrates with sympathy to the sounds of the city: wheels of a carriage rasping along the cobbled passageways, then a crowd, their wooden clogs, clip-clopping. A narrow calle. A small square. An archway. Mist clings to everything like velvet. Venice is a dark place at night. Shadows are shapeless things dancing in his path as he makes his way through the passageways of San Marco. He turns around the bend that hugs the water\u2019s edge away from the piazza, goes past Riva Degli Schiavoni, and starts across the Ponte Dei Sospiri. Atop the bridge he pauses. A fishing boat is kedging out of the bay. Feeble lights of the gondolas mix with the fog in the distance. The quiet, silent night restores his inner peace. On the bridge, a couple throws something\u2014a coin perhaps\u2014over the rail, then, there is a sound, strange to his ears, a breathing<\/em>, and he turns. A woman with a brocaded boerio<\/em> and half-face mask stands besides him. His first thought is that she must walk on cork for he has not heard her approach; then, he guesses that she is foreign. No Venetian would be masqueraded two months before the commencement of the carnival, and she is not emitting any of the unguents and spices a Venetian Signora would be engulfed in.<\/p>\n

She has coarse, almost mannish hands and the muscular forearms of someone who makes her living outdoors. A peasant,<\/em> he thinks. This kind, Venerio knows, shed their robes for a couple of francs. He feels a stirring in his gut.<\/p>\n

\u201cSignora.\u201d<\/p>\n

Holding her hands high above her in an arch, she begins dancing around him in a circle. The swift movement of her boerio<\/em> creates a breeze that enwraps him like a soft nightshirt. On closer inspection her mantle is not brocaded but is covered with tiny, overlapping designs of\u2026some form of a large insect<\/em>, he thinks, or\u2026 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThese spiders do not bite, do they?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she says, continuing to twirl, \u201cbut I do.\u201d<\/p>\n

He enquires how old she is.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am older than time,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n

He laughs. \u201cMay I join you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou will be\u201d\u2014changing direction, now spinning counter-clockwise: \u201cjoining your Maker.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEh<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m here to show you the dark alley.\u201d<\/p>\n

He glimpses something shiny in her hand and a feeling of warmth ripples across his chest. Sleep descends, lusty and murderous.<\/p>\n

–The End.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u2014Venice, Ninetieth Century.   A scent of burned incense, lemongrass, and lavender enwraps Venerio. Minutes enfold into hours as the group completes the ritual. The sound of the bell breaks the lethargy within him and for the hundredth time that day he curses Giacomo Aldograndi …<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1417,"parent":1156,"menu_order":2,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"template-full.php","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1195","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/alessandrob.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1195","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/alessandrob.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/alessandrob.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alessandrob.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alessandrob.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1195"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/alessandrob.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1195\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1418,"href":"https:\/\/alessandrob.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1195\/revisions\/1418"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alessandrob.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1156"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alessandrob.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/1417"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/alessandrob.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1195"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}