Down: Pinhole (35 page)

A disembodied voice answered in accented English, “Indeed yes, books.”

John approached the fire and saw an older man sitting in a high-backed chair, a blanket on his lap, flanked by two large hounds that growled but stayed obediently on their spots. His hair was white and shoulder-length, his beard, trimmed to a point. His brown skin was taut over a high forehead, his eyes, moist and probing. But perhaps his most distinguishing feature was his shirt, so different from the drab garments of most of the men in this place. It was a deep shade of red with white buttons done up to the throat and white piping at the sleeves. He began to rise in obvious discomfort and even though Antonio exhorted him to remain seated he insisted on finishing the act on his own.

“I will stand to meet my esteemed guest,” he said, extending a hand. “I am Giuseppe Garibaldi, at your service.”

John’s eyes narrowed at the name. He knew who Garibaldi was. He had studied his military campaigns at West Point.

Garibaldi was their master.

“I’m John Camp,” he said, taking the gnarled, arthritic hand in his and squeezing it gently. “It’s an honor.”

Chairs were gathered and Garibaldi slumped back down, stroking one dog, then the other. John listened as the men exchanged hasty words about their journey—the sea battle in the channel, John’s escape from Maximilien’s palace, their passage through Francia by steam. All the while Garibaldi kept his probing eyes on John, as if wordlessly trying to measure him up. When this conversation was done Garibaldi called to his manservant to have supper brought to the dining hall and while he slowly and painfully became vertical again, he told John, with a youthful eagerness, that there was so much to talk about that he scarcely knew where to start.

Supper was mutton stew over a bed of pasta, surely the best meal John had eaten since his arrival and since the oil of cloves was still doing its job, he ate with gusto. All save Garibaldi tucked in greedily but John had to eat in spurts because as soon as they sat down, he was called upon to explain his remarkable presence. Garibaldi showed a keen intellect and a glowing admiration for the technological marvels of the modern era on Earth. Though he had died in the steam age, he was keenly interested in the kinds of advances that John and others before him had described and he listened in rapt silence at the description of the supercollider that had miraculously transported John to his supper table.

“You say these atoms travel full around London many thousand times every second?”

“It’s the truth, Signore Garibaldi,” John said.

“Giuseppe.”

John bowed his head at the offer of informality. “It’s the truth, Giuseppe. I wish I could explain it better but, like I said, I’m not a scientist, I’m a soldier.”

“As am I, John, as am I. A humble soldier.”

John asked about his excellent English and Garibaldi reminded him that in between the first and second Italian wars of independence, he found himself in 1850, living at the Staten Island, New York house of the Italian inventor, Antonio Meucci.

“I’d forgotten your New World connections,” John said. “But it’s coming back to me. You were called the hero of two continents, weren’t you, for your work as a freedom fighter in Europe and South America?”

Garibaldi put his wine down, his eyes dancing in pleasure. “You hear that Antonio and Luca? And you too Simon? This American who was probably born a century after I died knows of Garibaldi! How extraordinary and how delightful.”

“I am not surprised,” Antonio said quietly. “You are a great man.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Luca said and they all toasted their pleasantly embarrassed host.

Garibaldi drifted into a reminiscence of his youthful days in Brazil and Uruguay. He had first fled Italy in his mid-twenties when, as a member of Mazzini’s revolutionary Young Italy movement, a failed insurrection in the Piedmont led to a death sentence from a Genoese court. It was in the jungles of South America that his newly assembled band of Italian freedom fighters took up the cause of Uruguayan independence and began sporting their trademark red shirts.

He fingered the coarse, red fabric and said, “You know, it is no small thing to get the dye to make these shirts. It comes all the way from the Orient. But for me, it’s more than a way to remember times past. Everything is so drab here! It’s as if a painter only had two colors—brown and gray. A little bit of color is important, no?”

John had taken the opportunity to clean his plate and mop up the gravy with bread. Now he said, “I recall studying your decisive battle during the invasion of Sicily when I was at West Point. You had only a thousand men and you employed the counter-intuitive tactic of launching an uphill bayonet charge against a heavily fortified, superior enemy force. I mean, who does that? And I remember imagining what it must have looked like, a thousand men in red shirts, charging uphill.”

Garibaldi looked dreamy and unfocused, as if seeing the battle play out in his mind, the screams and shouts, red blood wetting red cloth. “The Neapolitans were, indeed, well fortified on that hill at Calatafimi, but I saw that the slope was terraced for cultivation and I correctly reasoned that those terraces would provide us with cover from their carbines. I said to my lieutenant, ‘
Qui si fa l'Italia o si muore
,’ here we make Italy or we die. And we did win that day, and we had our unified Italy.”

John raised his goblet for another toast then asked, “Can I ask a delicate question?”

“You may indeed.”

“You’re remembered as an honorable man, one of the military heroes of the nineteenth century. I mean, how did you …”

“How did I come to suffer this ignominious fate?”

John nodded. “Obviously some strange force, which I don’t pretend to comprehend, determines what happens to a man when he dies. It’s like there’s some kind of moral standard in play that sends you up or sends you down.”

Garibaldi laughed. “I don’t know about up. Perhaps there is a Heaven. The thought is nice. But I do know about Down, for here we are. As to this moral standard you speak of, I call it a moral absolutism. There are rules. How they are determined, how they are enforced, well, I cannot answer these questions and I dare say, no one can. We did not pass through a period of judgment. We did not pass through the gates of Hell, guarded by Cerberus the hound. We did not glimpse Satan or his minions. We simply arrived in this dismal place and that was that.”

John had another gulp of wine. “I’m not name-dropping here but I sat with King Henry and King Maximilien and they were saying they never killed a single man by their own hand and they’re still here.”

Garibaldi nodded. “One may nevertheless be a murderer even without blood on your hands. Murder by proxy. I have met many a soul here who committed such crimes.”

John rolled his next question around in his mind a few times before saying, “Everyone I’ve spoken to here tells me that a soldier who kills in a war gets a pass, as if there’s a moral distinction between legitimate and illegitimate killing. But here you are.”

“Yes, here I am. Of course, I’ve had a good long time to contemplate this myself and I will be frank with you, John. I know why exactly I am in Hell. You see, I did kill a man, as you put it, illegitimately. At the time, I have to say, I foolishly made no such distinction. Here is what happened. We were in Salto in Uruguay, supporting the Colorados in their civil war. There was a fierce battle on a day that was so hot, if a bullet or a bayonet didn’t kill you, the sun might. We redshirts lost many men, and I could always accept this, but as I was defending my own person against an onslaught, I saw my trumpeter, a boy, only fifteen, armed with nothing but his musical instrument, get cut down by a Blanco’s saber. The blow almost decapitated the lad. Afterwards, when victory was ours, I surveyed the line of prisoners we had taken and there, I saw the man who had killed the boy. I took him out of the line and to my infinite regret I put a bullet through his head. The rest of the prisoners, I disarmed and released, but that Blanco, he died by my hand. Executed, one could say. He had no right to kill my unarmed trumpeter and I had no right to kill him once he was my prisoner. And that, I believe, is the reason I am in Hell.”

The room got very quiet. John fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair before reaching for the flask to refill his goblet, downing the wine in a series of gulps.

It was Luca who broke the tension by declaring, “Well, I killed a dozen men, a barking dog, and thousands of flies. They all deserved it but here too am I.”

“We all deserve our fate,” Antonio said, “but we have to make the best of it. That is what our master teaches.”

“Master,” Garibaldi said, shaking his head. “I don’t know why they call me this. I am but a humble man, a sinner with an ambitious plan.”

“Can you tell me about it?” John asked. “Your men keep it well protected.”

Garibaldi rose slowly and reached for his cane. His hounds rose with him. “Please join me in my study. I have some brandy. It is not great brandy but it is not bad either. Do you drink spirits, John?”

He made them laugh with his answer. “I’ve never turned down a drink in my life and I’m not going to start now.”

While his servant stoked the fire, the men settled in and sipped at their brandies. Garibaldi was right—it was on the rough side but it was drinkable and John downed it quickly and was poured another.

“Let me say this,” Garibaldi began, “I am pleased that these good men have kept our secret close to their breasts. On Earth, loose lips killed people. Here, it is worse. You see, John, we live in fear. All of us. On Earth, men dread it but here, we would give anything to taste its finality. Even though I did not wish to die, I thought death would bring escape from my crippled joints. Foolish me! I still suffer, but now it is for eternity. Death can bring no escape for me and for everyone condemned to this world. If a prince or a king would seize and torture us, maim us, we would suffer the pain forever. There is no escape.”

“Grim,” John said, his head beginning to swim from the drink. “Fucking grim.”

“Ha! Fucking grim, indeed,” Garibaldi said. “I’d forgotten how much I like Americans. So I will tell you this secret of ours, but only after you answer this question: can
you
die in Hell, John?”

“I have no idea. Since I’ve been here, I’ve been shot and I’ve been clobbered in the head but so far no one’s dealt me the death card.”

“Then let’s try to avoid finding this out, shall we?” Garibaldi said with a chuckle.

Antonio was not as diplomatic. “Honestly, signore, it would be better for us if you could die and thus be prevented from answering questions posed to you under torture. I would deliver the fatal blow myself to protect our master.”

John felt like punching the guy but instead he had another drink and said, “You know, Antonio, you’re no fun at a party, but I’ll tell you what. If you feel the need to try and kill me one day, go ahead and try your luck.”

“Now, now,” Garibaldi said, “we’re all friends here. I am certain that when John hears what we are trying to achieve, he will wish to help us and in return, I am certain we will wish to help him.” He turned to John. “With your lady friend. Yes, Luca tonight told me about your plight and your quest.”

“I didn’t want to take a detour all the way to Italy when she’s in Germany,” John said sullenly. “I’m here now but let’s just say I’m impatient.”

“I’m sure you are. I too am impatient. I am impatient for change. Hell, you see, is an astonishing place because its residents have universally abandoned hope. Here there are only masters and slaves and neither has hope. The master can only take some pleasure in having less daily pain than the slave. But both have been stripped of the joys of family life, the humanity of building something for future generations, the camaraderie of noble common purposes, the belief that death might at least be an escape from the suffering of the flesh, the solace that religion offered the masses.”

“There’s not a lot you can do about that, is there?” John said.

“Yes, and no. Do you like that infuriating answer? Let me explain. No, we cannot change the fundamental rules which seem to govern this place but yes, we can make the most of what we have and try to improve our lot.”

“How?”

“By thinking and acting collectively.”

“Communists in Hell? Is that your big idea?”

“Not at all. Unlike Karl Marx, who was a contemporary of mine, though we never met, and to the best of my knowledge he did not end up here, I am not talking about a political philosophy, but a pragmatic way forward given the cards we have been dealt. I fought many a battle when I lived. For some I used the gun and the sword. For others I used words and the power of persuasion. There were successes and there were failures. But I believe my greatest victory, and the one that I have been told has secured me the most meaningful legacy, was the unification of my homeland. So that is my goal, John, our goal, the unification of Hell.”

Luca, Antonio, and Simon nodded solemnly while John, for his part, eyed the brandy. He had little patience for talk right now. He was farther away from Emily than he had been at any time in the past week and he felt like getting extremely drunk. But if he got too sloppy in front of his host he supposed he might regret it in the morning. So he opted for bland politeness.

“Unification? Sounds interesting.”

Antonio seemed to sense that John might be patronizing his master. “Interesting? Is that all you have to say? It is not interesting, signore. It is revolutionary.”

“Okay, revolutionary,” John said, no longer keen on sparring with the young man. “How do you plan to go about it?”

Garibaldi sipped at his brandy then licked his dry lips. “I have been quietly working toward this goal for much of my time here. Upon entering this realm my first concerns were no different from any new arrival, namely personal survival in such a cruel, dangerous land. In my case, I had died on the island of Caprera and fortunately, in my first, disoriented state I was aided by some peasants from my era who were already there. They hid me from an ancient old warlord who controlled the isle and later, spirited me away to Roma where I encountered more supporters and even a few of my old red-shirt comrades. I quickly learned that the only way to keep out of a rotting room, and perhaps even to prosper was to make oneself invaluable to the ruling powers. Imagine to my surprise when I learned that the King of Italia was the medieval prince, Cesare Borgia. To my mind, Borgia had been a historically minor character, certainly a lesser man than his father, Pope Alexander. I had expected someone more capable as king. But cunning and ruthless men may do well here, even if they were not among the greatest of statesmen during their lifetimes. Borgia, himself, once here, had to claw his way to the top, over the back of a more illustrious man than he, the venerable Emperor Nero, who Borgia defeated then kept impaled on a pike for several hundred years, I am told, until his appendages and head simply rotted off. Borgia in life was not a Roman. He was more of a northern man, and I learned he had established his palace in Milano to be nearer to his principal enemies in Europa. So I sent my allies as emissaries to tell him about my exploits in life and my wishes to be in his service as a military man. And in time, a meeting was arranged.”