Desdemona by Tag Cavello (read e books online free .txt) 📖

the furniture by now, or how many soiled dishes—caked with dry brioche—had piled in the sink.

Dante frowned. Perhaps he should cancel his visit. Tell his father to keep driving.

No, no. That wouldn’t do. Number 114 was already falling apart around the opera singer’s bulbous ears. He needed a caretaker. Correction: The house needed a caretaker. Thinking of it that way made Dante’s frown deepen. Did Donati even deserve to live in such a fine old place? Bah! It was Greek Revival, and he Italian. How ludicrous was that? Their mythologies were criss-crossed. Meshed together in awkward, senseless fashion. A painting of mixed styles, portraying a dedication to nothing save chaos.

Nor could the house be blamed for such sacrilege. It was Donati’s fault. He’d been the one to pick up his roots. He’d come to Norwalk, purchased one of its finest pieces of history, and cast it to sorrows of decay.

Shame on you, old man, Dante thought, suddenly angry.

It was the final straw. He turned to tell his father never mind about the visit. But by then it was too late.

“Here we are,” Mr. Torn said, pulling the car to the curb.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“No sweat. I’d come say hi to your friend, but I need to get home and walk Dukey.”

Dante laughed. “He’s a good dog, Dad.”

“He’s a wonderful dog.”

As a numbing gel snuffs the pain of a sore tooth, so did the thought of Dukey extinguish Dante’s anger. He stepped from the car and waved goodbye to his dad.

March punished him for his arrogance. A cold, brutal wind swept round Donati’s house. Dante staggered. Dead leaves, exhumed from February snows, rattled up the walk. Following them, Dante went to the door and knocked. No one answered, which did not surprise him. Chances were the old man’s hearing wasn’t all that great. Worse in wind like this.

He knocked again. This time his effort was rewarded. A voice—Donati’s—called from inside the house.

“Dante? Is that you?”

However bad his hearing might be, the opera singer’s vocal chords worked just fine.

“It’s me!” Dante called to the upper windows of the house, from where it seemed Donati had called.

“Help me, boy! I need help!”

“Where are you?”

“I’m upstairs! I’m in trouble!”

With mounting concern Dante tried the door. It was of course locked.

“You need to open the door, Mr. Donati! I don’t have my key!”

“There’s an old flower pot on the step! Dump it over!”

Dante looked down. The pot had already toppled, courtesy of March. When Dante flipped it upside-down a key fell out. He picked it up, used it, and in a flash took to the stairs, calling Donati’s name.

The opera singer stood at the end of a long hall lined with doors. Behind him lay another flight of steps, smaller and cruder than the main flight.

“Ah!” he said, tightening the belt of his robe. “You’re here!”

“What’s wrong?” Dante demanded.

The old man gestured toward the stairs. “I need you to take some pictures of the attic bedrooms. For an article I’m writing,” he explained, when Dante became incredulous, “about the house.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Were you hoping for more?” He disappeared inside one of the hall’s many doors and came back with a Polaroid Instamatic camera.

“Why didn’t you just come down and let me in?” Dante then asked.

The old man affected to look pained. “I cooked pasta,” he said.

His reply made no sense whatsoever. “That’s nice,” Dante told him. “What happened? Did it come to life and pigeon-hole you?”

“That,” the other said with a smile, “is closer to the truth than it sounds.”

Rolling his eyes, Dante took the camera. The attic stairs went to a half-landing, then up to a short hallway with a small, wooden door at each end. Each door, Dante found, let on a tiny bedroom, neither of which looked to have been slept in for years.

“Try to get maybe five pictures in each room!” Donati called up.

The silence of time overrode him. The silence of a lost era, which now, suddenly, had crept forth to whisper in Dante’s ears. Stepping into one of the rooms, he felt like he should hold his breath. Gray light shined dimly through a crooked window. A tiny fireplace, unlit for perhaps decades, slept soundly in one corner. In another lay the remains of an old sewing loom. The walls were made of simple wooden planks. Someone had carved a heart into one. Another bore a name: Louisa.

Dante tried to picture girls sleeping up here after a day at school. The leap proved difficult at first. Over a hundred years had passed since they’d giggled under their wool blankets at midnight. But through exposure he managed to succeed. The giggles became syllables, the syllables, words. Whispered secrets near a winter candle, let loose in the room to swirl on a rogue draft, and be gone up the chimney. And with the scene came a nameless poem Dante had once, years ago, read under his own blankets.

 

Set flame to the wick of some memory,

Idle in this room for a century,

And share with me a secret story,

Told by a girl in her youthful glory,

A girl now a ghost in a garden of stone,

A girl now a ghost, but no longer alone.

 

“Louisa! Louisa! Do you think he’ll come tonight?”

And from another bed in the room comes the smile of a girl with mischievous blue eyes. “Of course he’ll come! We’re in love!”

“But it’s cold and windy. Suppose he gets hurt?”

“Never!”

Giggling from Louisa’s friend. Her freckled face glows by candle-light. “You’re so lucky! Has he kissed you yet?”

“Oh Darci! He kisses me every time we meet!”

“So you’re his? You belong to him?”

“Forever, Darci. Forever.”

Darci brushes a lock of red hair from her face. The wind blows stronger. A draft slips through loose window panes, agitating the candle. Shadows dance on the wall. Both girls gasp, then laugh, then giggle some more…

Dante took pictures in both bedrooms. He went downstairs and gave the photos to Donati, who shuffled through them. Pretending, Dante surmised, to be analytical. He paused over one, shrugged, then smiled at Dante.

“These will do fine,” he said. “Thank you. Would you care for some breakfast?”

“Already had it,” Dante said.

“Cappuccino then.”

“Sure.”

The old man’s slippers dragged on the floor as he went to the stairs, then down. Following him to the kitchen, Dante saw about what he expected: dirty dishes, unwiped counters. The microwave door was ajar. Dante pulled it wide. Pasta, still moist from whatever disaster had occurred here recently, gooped its innards.

“You need a wife, mister,” Dante said before he could check himself.

“Bah!” Donati replied. He fired up the cappuccino machine, forcing Dante to speak louder.

“Does that mean you don’t want one or you’re frustrated I speak the truth?”

“It means mind your own business!”

“Second one, then,” Dante muttered.

They took their cups to the living room. Leaving the kitchen pleased Dante no end, though he knew he’d need to clean it later, else nobody would. Donati sat down heavily in his chair. His cup hit the table.

“I want brioche,” he said grouchily. “But since you’re not having any I won’t bother.”

Dante gaped. “That’s ridiculous. Have some.”

“Oh no, no,” the other insisted. “It’s bad for my health.”

“So is leaving linguine to turn green in your microwave. And speaking of that, what sort of a real Italian nukes his pasta?”

“The sort who gets gas from cheap olive oil.” Donati peered over the table with narrow eyes. “Have you ever farted under your covers at night? Accidental suicides have happened that way. I once knew a man who pooped himself in a dream. Cacca te stesso. And when he woke up—“

Dante began to laugh. He could no longer help himself.

“And when he woke up, my dear boy, there was a log between his legs, and not of the kind homosexuals describe over bagels and chocolate mocha.”

He took a moment to stare at Dante, who was now laughing too hard to respond.

“This,” he went on seriously, “was a tragedy. A catastrophe. The man leaped from his bed and ran away screaming. Only he shouldn’t have panicked. Jumping off the mattress caused it to spring. The poop sailed into the air—“

“No!” Dante yelled, choking on his cappuccino.

“Yes, I’m afraid. It sailed into the air and landed on his head. It’s not funny!”

“But it is, Mr. Donati, it is!”

“Good. Now you won’t be so grumpy about cleaning the house.”

“So you detected that?”

“It was coming off you in waves. As for that poor, unfortunate man…”

Dante leaned closer. He had to hear the rest.

“He’d been despondent about going bald. But never again. And whenever he looked in the mirror, he called himself poophead. Now then!” Donati drained his cappuccino in one gulp. On the mug were the words Italian Girls Love Long Piedi. “Another story. Eh? One that involves me, and is far more recent. Just last night in fact.”

“I’m game,” Dante said.

“Excellent. You know I was once a dog lover?”

Dante’s hand had been reaching for his own mug. Now it froze. “Um…”

The old man’s features shriveled. “Not physically. Good heavens, boy.”

“No! I know you didn’t mean it like that.”

“I meant I enjoyed their company as friends and companions,” Donati went on, relaxing. “Over my lifetime I must have owned…oh, eight. Perhaps ten. Starting with my boyhood in Nascosto. But two in particular stand out. They weren’t only friends. They were my best friends. My heart let them in. The heart is a very choosy, very selfish muscle, Dante. Its doorstep is a place of instant judgment. When one meets another, they each put the other up. They are cold and severe as the most impeccable butler. Their ties are straight. Their tails are pressed sharp. An eyebrow may arch; a nostril may sniff. A gloved hand may reach for the door, prepared to close it and turn the lock. Oh yes, boy! We are hard markers all! In…or out. The heart chooses. The head copes. And should that butler decide to close the door—ah! But the one rejected is in for a fight, assuming of course he still wants to come in. It could take months, or even years, to change another’s heart. But when the butler lets you in, why…you’re in. And you may never leave, even beyond death. A most comfortable room awaits you upstairs. The bed is soft, with counterpane thick and cool. And there is tea in the breakfast room, and whiskey in the library. Knowledge. Laughter. Pain. Memories. They are all there for the one who passes judgment, as that one holds them all for you. Even beyond death.

“Freddy and J.D. were let into my heart. One was a border collie, the other a briard. Both are gone now. In the physical world they are gone. But of course”—smiling, Donati tapped his chest—“in here they remain.”

Dante nodded. It was a silly way to respond after such a long speech, but he had no words of his own. He could only think of Dukey. Dukey had gotten into his father’s heart. And there he would stay forever.

“I dreamed of them last night,” the man sitting opposite continued. His eyes had roved to the living room archway, as if both dogs had somehow appeared and were wagging their tails. “Strange. One I owned as a boy, the other as a man. Yet there they were, romping together like old friends. I was in a house I never knew, sitting on someone’s couch. Behind me was a window. It was open. Across from me was a girl with long brown hair, and we were talking about paintings. Different styles. She was defending realism, while I remained headstrong toward abstract. Suddenly there came the sound of paws on the frame. I turned, startled. Then the paws—eight of them—were in my lap. Happy barking flooded my ears. Overjoyed, I hugged both dogs. Each died in terrible pain, yet here they were again, young and vibrant as puppies. You can’t think how amazing it was to see them thus. Distemper took Freddy in the prime of his life. He died in my arms, wracked by