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"You've gotten older."
"Hm, and you haven't changed at all."
"Is that so?"
"Mm-hmm."
Pause, a light whisper of wind, the ghostly embrace of night, the soft chirping of crickets.
"Are you lying?"
"Eh?"
"Have I really come to look worse?"
"So being of an old age is not a compliment for you now, eh?"
"If it comes from you, then no."
Such were the first words, spoken out to condemnation and ridicule by the stars above them, where their only listeners were the slumbering flowers, the occasional field mice, and the cool, all-enveloping silence; after them, they remained silent for a long time, for various reasons, about which neither of them particularly wanted to think too deeply -- either no one was sure what words would be eloquent enough, what topic to touch on in order to continue this free, unforced flow of thoughts between them, or perhaps these two did not need any of that, just being close to each other, knowing that the other was right there, close by, within the distance even less than that of an outstretched arm -- at a distance of comfort, at a distance of trust, at a distance of all the time they had spent in shared nights, shared lips, shared glances, shared heartbeats..
Some cricket stirred a stalk nearby, the grass rustled sleepily, one of the men coughed -- carefully, as if to preserve the current picture of tranquillity from any sudden sounds -- cleared his throat, and after a slow sigh, finally became the one who started the next conversation.
"Many years have passed, haven't they?"
The man next to him let out a small laugh along with his exhalation, although the sound seemed to be rather lacking in any bright, sincere emotion, shook his head in a smooth motion and replied,
"Yes, many.. even too many, I would say."
Even if there was the rumble of cars and the bustle of lively nights somewhere in the distance -- where every particle seemed to desire to live its whole life as quickly and intensely as possible in the span of a few scant hours of darkness and rest, only to return to its pale, unremarkable life in the morning -- no one would hear it here, in this place; the spot was really quite comfortable, even charming, someone would dare to describe it, for here you could be alone with yourself, with your soul, whatever parts of it they might be. They found this place a long time ago, a very long time even, back in the days of their first holy sermons, their first losses of faith; here they found something else, something much closer, much dearer, but none of them paid enough attention to the tingling in their chests and the fluttering of butterfly wings in their stomachs, dismissing it all in favour of excitement and agitation, an indescribable, almost naive joy at having managed so skilfully and unnoticed to escape from their icy beds to their own little hiding place, where they could now allow themselves to forget all the troubles of the world for a moment or two; they realised their closeness much later, in completely different circumstances and surroundings, when they lost themselves in the ardour of their eyes and the almost feverish heat of their bodies, in the synchronous beating of their hearts and the overly sharp, almost grotesque in its physical manifestation tango; after such a soundless, almost imperceptible, yet at the same time such a turning point, neither of them returned here, to their personal refuge, far from the whole world, yet in their thoughts, at times of greatest longing within their hearts, they always remembered the path that led to a small patch of grassy paradise with its fluttering, cricketing angels.
Perhaps that is why they are here now -- each of them still remembered the path, even though they should have forgotten it, erased it from their memories, covered it with dust and consigned it to the fog of oblivion on the furthest shelf of their consciousness.
So much time has passed, and here they are again, sharing the stillness and serenity of the night.
"Do you remember.."
"Hm?"
"Do you remember the last time we were here?"
"Well.. to be honest, no, not really.."
"That's fine -- neither do I."
After that day, they became closer, and the witness to such were the cold gaze of the frescoes of saints from the ceilings and the whispering of transparent curtains, which on their silky wings caressed every caught, inadvertently uttered word -- every sigh, every promise, every moan -- before blessing these stirrings in the air and releasing them to float freely through the endless corridors, like the furtive clicking of little rat claws on the marble floor, spreading gossip further and further, to all other ears, accidentally interested and actively prying; from that date they grew closer, it felt more familiar coming from strangers' -- no, oh no, no longer strangers, already explored, beloved -- lips their own name.. well, at least, that's how it was supposed to be, that's what they hoped for -- but instead, something between them cracked; something that should not have been touched, and now they had to suffer the punishment of broken porcelain cups, from which they had only recently savoured each other's drink, a punishment in the form of forced separation; neither of them dared to openly protest against such a twist of fate, yet both of their broken hearts grieved -- secretly, in the manner of everything that had been cherished between them in all the previous, numerous stolen moments of privacy.
The gaze of the deep, the colour of autumn coffee eyes was directed upwards, lost somewhere among the highest tree crowns in the distance, sluggishly following the light dances of the stars on the spreading branches, their pale glow reflecting on the surface of the dark leaves -- which were like little children, who had secretly sneaked out into the yard and were playing hide and seek at the quiet hour of sleep -- but without focusing on any specific object or event, more focused on the feeling of his partner's breath nearby and the whisper of the grass beneath him, which seemed to lend him a modicum of confidence to continue the free-flowing conversation,
"Who knew that after so many years we.." he began, and cautiously trailed off, lost for the right words for their current situation.
The other man, who was settled comfortably, even cosily, in the pose of a contented cat, let out a gruff snort, thereby somewhat disrupting the symphony of peaceful dark clouds above his head with his own darker, sweeter smoke; after taking a few breaths of the artificially sweetened, cool night air, he allowed himself a minute or two of reflection before simply shrugging his shoulders.
"Beh, forse è proprio quello.. sai, quella cosa di cui entrambi avevamo bisogno, eh?" the first second -- an involuntary rustle of clothing, an occasional meeting of glances, the second moment -- a carefree wave of the wrist, a hoarse cough, the beginnings of laughter, "Ma è così, solo nel caso in cui, se all'improvviso ti capitasse di credere nel sentimentalismo, ah hah!"
In the very next moments, rumbling, akin to a distant thunder amongst the clear daylight, laughter rolled in echoes across the fragrant grassy bed, enveloping the area like a coarse, untreated silky blanket, with its guttural sound, rich in depth and shades of raspiness. The edges of the symphony's fabric caught hold of his companion, heavy palms fell on his shoulders and made him shudder, from the very tips of the night winds' fingers, goose bumps ran along his back from top to bottom, disappearing among the blades of grass, but their trail remained quite palpable even some time later, when both men plunged back into silence. Of course, he made a considerable effort to restrain himself -- although it turned out to be nothing more than a futile attempt -- or at least to somehow hide any external manifestations of such a sharp, impulsive movement: a change of position, a forced cough, a hastily averted gaze somewhere in the opposite direction, hidden from possible questioning glances in his direction; it was not even out of surprise, not out of some reflex reaction caused by fear, that his body reacted this way, no.. or rather, to put it more accurately, it was not entirely true -- it happened unexpectedly, of course, there is no point in denying the obvious. He reacted so unconsciously intensely because this melody was very dear to him. However, he had not heard it for so long, too long. And that laughter felt as if someone had rubbed scalding salt into the man's wound: it was a precipice in a rhythmically pulsating muscle organ, with torn edges, for frequently enough, fingers, blinded by all-encompassing feelings of despair and sorrow, would tear off the thin, calloused new skin that was barely managing to heal; it was especially bad in those moments when he was overcome by sudden fear -- when he was afraid that he was beginning to forget the feelings that his heart had cherished and hymned nearly each and every day -- then invisible fingers dug deeper into the wound, and unknowingly only intensified the phantom pain; the wound was not completely healed -- and how could it be, if you think about it and give your thoughts over to logic, certainly not with such kind of treatment -- it was not treated properly, and so, eventually, it began to fester, giving off a dull, burning pain over all those long years, with every breath and every thought.. Even now, in the gentle clutches of nostalgia, he could not get rid of this bitterness: little by little, cell after another crimson cell, they were incinerated by memories, filling the lungs with smoke and ashes of dead particles, thereby preventing the organ from functioning properly and stealing precious breaths; the man's last cough sounded particularly choking, although it was then lost in the soft whisper of the grass.
How much he missed his laughter.
The bringer of laughter took another drag, filled his chest with acrid sweetness and released it back through his nose, smoke enveloping his head like the shaggy, graying mane of a majestic feline predator; turning his head towards his interlocutor, as if with his gaze alone, invariably confident, always provocative, but with certain shades of playfulness at the moment, he asked the man, "you want one?", while extending his hand with an electronic cigarette; the other man, of course, although not particularly eager of this, nevertheless found neither the strength nor the will to refuse.
"Your hands are so cold.." he said, touching the surface of the heated plastic, not with the intention of teasing, but rather as an involuntary observation; mentally adding, "I miss their warmth so much, where have you hidden it, why have you hidden it from me.."
"And yours seem to have become dry, hm.. interesting. Come mai?" one eyebrow rose, and the corner of his mouth twitched in the slightest of gestures, "You were, if not the most well-manicured one among us, hah!"
"Mh, no, nothing special. Just.." a slight pause was followed by a kind of broken sigh and a shrug of the shoulders, "..just stopped using certain creams, let’s say.."
"Oh, that's how it is.." another cloud of translucent smoke seemed to emphasise this short phrase and at the same time added more weight to the next question, "Even mine?"
"Especially yours.." flashed through his mind.
"Only on special occasions," he replied instead, thereby gently closing the discussion; for his own good.
Or against it; he was never entirely sure whether these conversations were for the good or only for greater heartache.
As for this time of year, late spring, the weather was, in keeping with all expectations of its nature, quite pleasant -- cosy in its gentleness, warm in the touch of the wind on the cheeks and neck, welcoming with its fragrant greenery, peaceful twilight, and daily blooming meadows, where time itself seemed to stop to rest, enjoy the caresses of the sun, and share the setting of the day star in the company of butterflies and small field animals. After a long period of cold weather, this was the perfect excuse not to wear too many clothes or anything too grand: a simple shirt of the colour of the dawn sky -- pale blue, simple trousers in shades of young bark, and simple shoes, which were now lying somewhere nearby; bare feet touched the grass, and it was almost soothing.
"Well, how are the others?" asked the owner of the artificial incense puff, releasing another cloud into the air between them, like a physical memory of a burnt cherry orchard with a sugary aftertaste. "How’s Thomas?"
"Not bad.. He finally agreed to therapy.."
"Oh? What kind of therapy?"
"Well.."
"Cosa? Christo santo, has it come back..?"
"Yes.. you know yourself, he’s always been a bit of a "favourite pet of the fortune", hah.. Although I sincerely.." pause, but a necessary one, just enough to stop himself from using the word "prayed", to let the slight tingling on his tongue from the momentary pressure of his teeth pass, and to find a lighter term, "..hoped that this misfortune would pass him by.."
"Frankly speaking, I won’t hide my surprise, but it naggs on my mind, how did you manage to persuade him?"
"It wasn’t us -- it was Vincent’s doing, all credit to him; he emphasised that it was non-negotiable, and it didn’t look like Thomas himself would dare to disobey the Pope’s orders."
"Mhm.. and how is his current state? Does he have.. well, does he have any chances?"
"Oh, if you only knew -- of course, everyone, even the doctors, were surprised at how he was getting better with every week."
"Everything heals on him like on a dog. That's how he is, our Tomasso, hah."
"On a dog, you say?"
"And isn’t that so, am I not right about that? You just wait, he’ll live to be a hundred and outlive us all."
‘"Come on, don’t exaggerate.."
"I’m telling you, you’ll see -- he’ll outlive us all, every single one of us poor wretches, and he’ll visit everyone in the cemetery."
The body under the blue shirt shuddered slightly again, and he moved closer to the larger figure next to him, cautiously, unnoticeably; in search of physical warmth, which he was unlikely to find.
"Then it's better to call him a turtle.."
"A turtle? Ha! Oh, please, spare me, nothing alike."
"Who knows him better, you or me?"
"Solo il diavolo lo sa, ma comunque, cosa ti ha spinto a scegliere quello, eh? Perché?"
"Because they are long-livers."
"Long-livers.. long-livers, you say.. But tell me, do turtles have any diseases?"
"Everyone has them, just like humans; animals have them too."
"Bah! For your record, I have never seen a sick turtle in my entire life!"
"Well, that’s quite something, a global benchmark, indeed."
"Well, there you go! On that point, I’m right -- he’s more like a dog.. and moreover, a very, damn, resilient, tenacious dog.."
The laughter of the night, which seemed to be born of a barking, subdued guffaw, brought with itself a sudden gust of wind, not cold enough to be unbearable, but cool enough to leave its mark on the body, the imprints of its ghostly dance, which penetrated to the bone. The edge of the red cloak's collar, which had taken on deeper shades of bloody red under the veil of shadows -- pomegranate in a halo of fragrant smoke -- flickered in the air like a simultaneously aggravating and alluring dance; the hem of his dark cassock enveloped the dormant greenery around him, as if the night itself were touching the earth; his firm, rough palm rested on the pectoral cross, sometimes clutching the object more tightly, sometimes alternating with various gestures, thanks to which he added a special nuance to his words and emphasised the significance of certain specific phrases; eventually, in a nonchalant gesture of a loose flick of the hand, his finger flew up and pointed at his interlocutor.
"And how are you?"
A pause; it dragged on and stretched further and further, until the awkwardness of the situation became too unbearable, and the intensity and weight of the impending silence forced the following sounds out of his throat,
"..acceptable.."
"Oh? Acceptable for whom?"
At this point, the man could no longer bear it, and his desire to turn away was overcome by a contradictory urge.
There was no meeting of eyes, and all that remained for him to do was to observe, to take in the details and features that he had once had the opportunity to see up close, in different circumstances, at different times of the day, and to admire what he had missed so much all these years. The person opposite him was gazing into the distance, as if completely unburdened by the weight of the previous discussion, at just the right angle so that wherever one looked, the profile of his face was kissed by the moonlight in all the right places, emphasising every insignificant feature, every wrinkle and every little thing that only he knew about -- never before had he envied the nocturnal luminary as much as he did at that moment; the rays played with the dark, wind-tossed strands, like the curls of the deepest seas, their delicate fingers gently playing among his hair, hopping here and there, bestowing upon him an invisible laurel wreath composed of small, pale, twinkling stars; from the very top, from his temples and other places where gray hair was most concentrated, the stars slid down, across the surface of the lenses of his glasses, illuminating for a few moments, filling with a special, delicate glow the depth of his dark brown eyes, in which the same laughter from his memories was frozen, along with many unspoken words that would probably never have a chance to be spoken, either now or on any other occasion.
He looked almost saintly. And he hadn't changed at all; in all these years -- not at all.
"I missed you.." he thought, fearing these words himself, instead, the following words came out of his lips,
"Why did you leave me..?"
"Mah, you say that as if I did it on purpose.." replied his voice in his head, a ghostly echo, a futile attempt to imitate something that had long since fallen silent.
And he was silent.
The stone plate was silent.
The flowers were silent, bowing their delicate heads in mute mourning.
The carved letters were silent, some of which had already lost their clarity with the merciless passage of time.
The earth was silent.
Even the maggots were silent.
He met the next dawn there and spent the whole night being a lonely observer of the stars, and on the following morning -- a light, drizzling rain became the only witness to his last breath.
Their last meeting.