Chapter Text
Gyro walked to the chapel with two little bottles. He deliberately stopped at the entrance, glancing at the shadow side of this building. A new wooden cross painted white. Two fresh Irish were lying on the mound.
The pulpit was unoccupied. The only nun was in the chamber, saying that Father was called out for an accident a few minutes ago. This chapel was too small to have even a deacon. He handed the bottles to the woman whose face was beginning to wrinkle, and turned his eyes back to the window on the west wall. Little angels with soft belly were flying around four corners. Daylight through colorful glass crawled past his feet and up to the legs and shoulder of the one sitting on public chair.
Out of curiosity, he took an extra look as he walked by. He noticed the blond-hair head when pushing the gate. Someone visited in the late Saturday afternoon, just an ordinary fact. At this moment, the colorful light was floating on that face dimly. His head was drooping, as if he was asleep. Someone also waiting for the priest.
The view crossed over the blond hair, the dark green velvet was hanging up on the confessional. He passed through the narrow path between chairs and figured what should be said in that little wooden cabin. The confessional was unoccupied and he felt in ease. The Father reigning here was known for his merciful heart and tight mouth, but he would only speak to God.
The entrance of confessional was so dark in scattering golden light among white walls. He raised his hand to cover the sun, and glanced back at the drowsy visitor again. The color of hair was familiar. Someone who had been to Zeppeli’s clinic.
Blondie would appear in spring, the season for recurrence of various chronic diseases. Every time he appears in extreme weakness, as a piece of gypsum, or marble soaked in seawater. He would be resting under that window, fed by charming gold sunlight around green vines, gradually revealing back to his initial form. The process lasts about a week, then he would disappear silently as how he appears.
Spring is also the season of vigorous infectious disease. Occasionally he runs into Blondie in that chapel, but never he succeeds in tracking him down. That guy always limps out of sight successfully even sometimes in a hand-cranked wheelchair.
The deepest room on the end of corridor becomes his secret space. No one in clinic seems to has noticed Blondie’s frequent appearance (though once a year!) neither his father. He has watched on purpose how father diagnosed Blondie, but the two were all acting as usual. Could father forget such a patient who comes to clinic in every same time? And, it was when Blondie first appeared, in his 13 or 12?
He is astonished by how muddled himself was. In search of the identity of Blondie, he opened the lock, checked the register book and medical records, finally found one line written in February: a dying anonymous John Doe was sent here by Father of that chapel. Scribbled underneath the symptoms, the name column is empty with only a capital letter “J”.
J, a letter does not exist in his native language. “I lungo”? He reads it and feels the pronunciation is alien. It reminds him of his first name in English version. If Blondie is called J, he could also be called as J. In other way around, maybe Blondie has the same name as him? That would be terrible. He kind of dislikes duplicate names only due to his own peculiar insisting.
So, it will not be a long “I”. It shall be “You”. I am right, he thinks so. Teachers in different schools taught him Latin, Hebrew, French and English in his past life. Blondie speaks English, and he would make every sound clear and slow when talking to him at first. He also has learned a little Italian from him, but far from being able to understand those dialect gags. There is more to be taught to “You”, but they have little time that could spend together.
“Blondie” is better, he thinks so.
Is Blondie asleep now? He jogs on the silent corridor smelling of bleacher, twists the cold door handle, feels a bit timid for no reason. He would apologize for what happened during the day, even if Blondie wants to beat him up.
That was a severe period right before his adulthood. Cholera brought by ships climbed up the bay of Naples, and burst forth wildly in the Lower City of the biggest city in Italy. It even directly affected the salubrious Chiaia, one of the west districts where Zeppeli’s clinic stands. Doctors were regarded as sacred as priests in the first horrible days. The number of patients grew beyond control, so Zeppeli had to turn to the genuine clergy of the nearby churches and chapels. It was they that be able to appease citizens who exposed themselves to danger out of madness and delusion.
The wave of panic in Porto and Mercato had lasted for a full week in late August. Schools were closed. Long lists of dead and confirmed cases were printed on newspapers every day. Armed guards and health inspectors arrived everywhere. The voice of prayer and rumors never faded. The pestilence only needed several hours to make a fresh man to be dry and cyan black. Cadavers should be carried out of city and disposed in designated locations. Boiling steam lingered all day long in every hospital and clinic, the strange smell of medicine did not dissipate until late at night. His hands shrank with over-cleanliness, and occasionally thought of that person when he took a precious break to rest in the yard among assistance. There was no letter J on top of those printed names. Was he still in Naples at this time? His face didn’t appear in the neighborhood, at least proved he was still alive. Or as an anonymous, under whatever new wooden cross?
He opened the room again in night duty as usual, to escape from the whining and festering briefly. It had been turned into a temporary warehouse, boxes of medicament behind the window. Outside was noisy. For sake of the first day without new cases, people combined and celebrated with riotous drinking in the streets. However, Zeppeli, his father, cautioned that no one should go out. It was not a divine sign, nor wrath of God neither. Truth would not change even if King Umberto come to visit tomorrow.
The bed once belonged to Blondie was piled high with bundles of gauze and towels, which made it look very soft. Throwing his dirty white smock outside the door, he jumped towards the clean white sea with open arms as if to hug it. But the sea was far much hard than it looked like. Among the white fog of dust, he clearly felt how he used the back of his head, scapular, hips and calves to intimately touched the hardness made of softness layer by layer. It was like the marble mattress of Hermaphroditus sculptured by Bernini. Blondie’s bed was more comfortable.
It was a similar midnight as that they had the first formal conversation. He imitated the posture of Blondie at that time with subconsciousness. Turning over and pillowing head on the right arm, he stared at the vines hanging down from top of the window. Strings of pale purple flowers upside down like bells. The pale moon was climbed by them.
Clematis. Do you want to see the flower? It looks like Iris, and they both bloom in summer. This one on your window is light purple with pink.
He picked one full green leaf and folded it between his fingers.
…But you are not here at that time, right? What a shame.
Faces living in clinic change everyday. Patients are taken back home for recuperation after diagnosis, only those who need to be operated are left in this building. Neither church nor hospital is a good place to stay for a long time for those who have a home. He always secretly looks forward to finding that familiar face in spring sunset after vines and window on the way from school.
Blondie is always in blue, but he will answer that he is not thinking about anything if asked there is anything he worries about. The weak body seems to exhaust all his energy, so Blondie rarely leaves his bed and walks around for relaxing like others. He is locked in the deepest of this corridor. Why not go for a walk with me? If asks, Blondie will only pat his head and ask for another interesting book. Of course, English version.
Suddenly, driven by the emerging idea, he did not dismount and turned the horse run out of meadows, jumped down on stone steps until they straightly reached the vines window in clinic. He waved his hands very hard to get attention from that person, but Blondie was lying on bed with his back to the window. His silhouette in shattered sunset was so tired and weak. He appeared here only two days ago.
Reminding the truth, the boy on horse back hung his head down in frustration. Yet Blondie turned around as if he had heard his sigh, and revealed a rather unexpected look. The wide-eyed looking was almost like his peers, a poor boy trapped on sickbed, how much he is longing to walk out onto the grass!
He guided the horse to the window and smiled happily at Blondie. He did not know where the great happiness came from. Blondie braced himself up and looked happy too. Horse was truly a gift from heaven.
He couldn’t help spinning around and around with his horse happily as if acting like his nickname. The slender but powerful hoof legs stepped on soil and grass. Blondie sat on the edge of the bed with his legs hanging down, raised his hand to cover the sunshine and looked over with a gentle smile on face. A light breeze shook the unflowered vines, the sunshine broke their faces on window into two pieces. Gyro saw nothing but the dazzling reflection.