The Damiano Series (55 page)

“And Cardinal Rocault. It is to be quite an occasion. Keep your eyes and ears open and you might learn something. Which you must relate to me, of course.”

Damiano said nothing. He was breathing hard.

“Are you afraid, Delstrego?”

Gaspare spoke up. “Of course he is not! He is merely planning what he should play.”

 

Chapter 9

Damiano woke because the lute was gouging his skin. He wormed his hand in between the neck of the instrument and his cheek to feel a rectangular gridmark of strings and frets. He felt alert and ready for the day, though he had slept only a few hours.

Last night (this morning really) he had known ten minutes' panic that his change of state had destroyed his ability to play. But that had been only nerves, as well as a confusion of sensations to which his past year as a simple man had left him unaccustomed. And since the other occupants of the inn-chamber were already waking for the day, he had been able to practice until sleep took him.

Gaspare was still asleep. Of course—yesterday had been harder on him than on Damiano. Deliciously, Damiano stretched his feet out over the yellow straw and yawned, feeling more at home within himself than he had for long months. He could not think why he had allowed himself to remain immersed in melancholy all that time, when life was really quite enjoyable.

Tomorrow he was going to play before the Holy Father. That was enough to make one nervous. But it would quickly be over, and why should he think Innocent would be listening anyway, with Cardinal Rocault across the table from him?

More important to Damiano's practical concerns, he had five days more at the Bishop's Inn. Five days of playing in the corner of the high gallery, being alternately praised and ignored, while smiling respectfully at both Coutelan and MacFhiodhbhuidhe, (who spent more time in the inn than the innkeeper). And on the last day maybe he would say to them, “Messieurs, your interests are very limited. I myself am going off into the countryside, to make my music with a lovely white dove.”

No. He would say nothing of the kind, for he would want to come back. Besides, he should be nice to the Irishman, for he intended to ask him to take over at the inn for him tomorrow.

And also, such proud words could prove false, for Saara might not come in the shape of a dove at all. She might be retaining the form of an owl.

Or she might be a woman. Most likely she would be a woman.

Suddenly Damiano was very nervous: more nervous about Saara than about the Pope. He threw back the blanket. It was quite warm out.

Had he crawled off among the vines with a wine-stained Alusto grape crusher at the age of fourteen, like other boys, his heart would not now be assaulting his lungs in this manner. Had he not panicked under the covers with Saara herself, a few days ago, he would have no more reason to be nervous.

Damiano pulled on his clothes, all the while telling himself that a man ought either to fornicate like a dog as soon as he was able or keep his chastity for life.

Half-measures just made a body awkward.

Yet he felt unshakably committed to the impending effort at sin, and even his attack of nerves could do no more than spice his expectation. He trotted down the corridor and stepped into the sun.

Along the white cobbled street strolled Damiano, accompanied by the Archangel Raphael. Early afternoon sunshine liquefied the air around them, and the cries of hawkers (for Avignon was a huge market that never closed) echoed against the limed stucco, meaningless and ornamental as birdsong.

The mortal felt very privileged that Raphael had decided to come along, for as once before the angel had said, he was no great walker. He could no more walk without moving his wings than a Latin— Damiano, for instance—could talk without moving his hands. The great shimmering sails arced up and out, or down, or rolled together behind or in front, or pointed like great fingers to the sky. And it seemed an effort of concentration for the angel to put his foot to earth and keep it there.

Yet his progress was not clumsy but terpsichoric, and Damiano regarded the seeming fragility of his companion with great fondness. Whenever there was no one else within hearing, he spoke. “Seraph, your feet are not really touching the ground, are they? I mean—you are barefoot, and these cobblestones are dirty.”

In a very human gesture, Raphael brought his right foot up along his left shin and held up the sole for inspection. It was dirty. At Damiano's air of apology his eyes flickered with amusement.

“Would you apologize for the entire world, Damiano? Did you create it, that you should feel responsible?” Raphael walked on.

There was something infinitely touching about the appearance of Raphael today, reflected Damiano. Of course this was the first time in a year and more he'd been able to see—to really
see
the angel. Perhaps memory had made him more intimidating than he really was.

But look now: save for his galleon-sail wings, he was no taller than a man. No taller than Damiano. And he seemed to be made of spider-silk, so delicate were his face and hands. Damiano felt obliged to step between the angel and a passing merchant sailor whose entertainments had known no Lent.

“You know, Raphael,” whispered Damiano, ducking under his left wing, “four years ago, when I was young, you frightened me a little. It seemed you were like a… great cloud in the sky, which could produce lightnings if I wasn't careful.”

The tip of that wing curled over Damiano's head like a great question mark. “And now I don't seem that way?”

Damiano shrugged and smiled. “No. I don't mean to offend you, but no, you do not seem so dangerous.”

Both wings touched together along their forward edges, from just above Raphael's head to their tips many feet in the air. (They barely cleared an overhanging third floor.) For a moment Raphael made a picture of formal symmetry, like one of the row of angels behind the altar of Saint Catherine's Church in Partestrada, far away.

“You certainly do not offend, Dami. I have never desired to frighten anyone. If I do no longer, then that alone has made it all worth it.”

Damiano stood stock-still, even after a woman with babe in arms slammed into him from behind, cursing.

“That alone has made it worth it.” It had been said in the same tone in which Saara had said, “Then it has been worth all the rats and mice.” Damiano felt uneasy. He cleared his throat.

“But, Seraph, this change has been in me, not in you.”

Raphael shook his head—a gesture Damiano had never seen from his teacher before. He replied, “No, Dami. I know it becomes hard to tell, when people, like boats moving across the water, have no reference point. But I know I am not what I was.”

“Then what are you?” blurted Damiano, regardless of the press of people on both sides of him, who were carefully not touching the madman. “Is it something I have done?”

For the sake of other pedestrians, Raphael nudged Damiano forward. For a minute he did not speak.

The angel's midnight-blue eyes roved from face to face with a probing interest, but he found none who looked back at him. He maneuvered his charge onto a less crowded street.

“What I am, my friend, is one of the Father's musicians. Or perhaps one of his pieces of music: it is not an easy distinction. And like any music—put into time—I go through change. It is not against my will.”

Damiano stood between disreputable housefronts, where wooden shutters still sealed the windows on this balmy and seductively breezy day. Before him an ancient grape twisted out of a hole in the cobbles. He was only a few feet from the spot where he had met Saara the owl.

But his thoughts were on Raphael, and he considered the angel's last statement. “Then, outside of time… you would not appear to change?”

The fine-etched golden brow drew down. “Damiano, you are not making sense,” the angel said, and raising both wings behind him he continued his careful parade.

Damiano did not feel like making sense today, but he did feel like talking. After the passage of a laundress, a red-tabarded member of the Guild of Sign Painters and two louts of undiscernible occupation, he began again.

“You were right, Seraph. I was not meant to be a saint.”

The angel turned in a baroque curl of feather. “I was right? I, Damiano? Did I ever say you were not meant to be a saint?”

The mortal thought back. “Well, almost. When I said that God loved dirty, sloppy-looking saints, you answered that you were not God and…”

Now the great wings pulled down and back, like those of a teased hawk, and Raphael's perfect nose grew a trifle sharp. “That I was not the Father. And that was all I said. I certainly didn't mean to put a limit upon your aspirations, Damiano.”

“Oh.” Damiano found himself staring at a misshapen alley corner which was decorated with plush blue mildew and yellow mold. He scratched the day's worth of beard on his chin. “Oh. Well, I don't even aspire to being a saint, Raphael. You see I plan… to…”

The wings lifted slowly, as though raised by ropes. “Yes. Yes. You plan to… what?”

“To… uh… marry Saara the Fenwoman.”

In truth, the word marriage had never occurred to Damiano until this moment. But what else could he tell an archangel: that he planned to copulate like a dog?

Besides, why shouldn't he marry Saara? She was lovely and amusing, and had talents which could do his own career no harm at all.

Because she had been his father's lover, replied a whisper within his own head. Wasn't that enough reason?

But Raphael was speaking. “That is a very important decision, Dami,” said the angel slowly. “But what has it to do with becoming a saint? Or with not becoming a saint?” As he spoke he very carefully preened his flight primaries with both hands.

Damiano watched the process. Surely Raphael's were not real, physical wings for their feathers to become disarranged. It must be that he needed something to do with his hands. The angel seemed to be nervous, in fact, for he shifted from foot to foot and his dark-sky eyes were wandering.

“Marriage,” Damiano began, “is the mediocre way, not the path of perfection. Very few saints have been married, I believe, although many were wicked and licentious until God showed them their error.”

It must have been that Raphael was not really listening, or else he would not have replied, “Well, why not begin by being wicked and licentious, then, Dami?”

The mortal grunted in disbelief which changed to confusion as Raphael turned as though oblivious of him and passed into the alleyway of mold and mildew.

Damiano followed, out of the sunshine and into damp, odorous shadow, and as the chill patted his face, there came a cough out of the alley: a cough rich, phlegmy and spineless.

Never before had he understood the expression “his blood ran cold,” but now the witch had to retreat for a last breath of sunny air before following the glimmer of samite into the murk.

The coughing continued, horrid as that of the dying farrier in the church of Petit Comtois, and Raphael was leaving him behind. Damiano bounded forward, fixing his eyes on the clean form once more before it rounded a corner.

Here was sun again, for they had come out on another street. The taint of decay vanished, to be replaced by an odor of wet ashes, as though some nearby housewife had scrubbed an entire winter's dirt out of the kitchen hearth.

Raphael stood talking to someone; his wings were spread sideways and Damiano could not see through them.

Wonderment, spiked with jealousy, bent Damiano around the cloudy wing. Who could the angel be talking to, when no one except Damiano (and Saara, of course, and assorted domestic beasts) could see him?

He was talking to his own image, which sat at a small round table, dressed in gray and scarlet, toying with a bowlful of grapes.

It took no time at all for Damiano to recognize Satan. The witch's first impulse was to duck back behind Raphael's sheltering wing. But that panic faded in a moment and a more belligerent reaction took its place. Damiano stood upright. He strode forward out of the shelter of the angel's wingspan and stood between Raphael and his brother.

And was ignored by both.

Satan had plucked a purplish orb from his bowl of dainties, and was rolling it from hand to hand. (Somehow Damiano's stomach was bothered to realize that the grapelike things in the bowl really were grapes.) He was saying:

“… really don't look very well, my dear brother. I might almost think your decisions had gone awry, except of course, for knowing that you do not
make
decisions, but rather float on the Divine Will.” The Devil's voice was urbane and well modulated, expressing just the right shade of sympathy touched by the diffidence due before an estranged member of one's family.

“I am rather pleased by the way I look,” answered Raphael, and Damiano felt a fierce pride in the fact that the angel's voice (though not overly subtle in modulation at the moment) was more beautiful than Satan's. “It was just today I heard pleasant things about my appearance.”

Satan let his deep-set blue eyes slide from Raphael to the young man at his side. Looking at Damiano, Satan very deliberately coughed. “If one travels widely enough,” observed the Devil, “one will eventually find someone to verify one's prejudices.

“But then, Raphael, you have always had an antic taste in companions.” Satan leaned back and peeled a grape with his thumbnail. “How is the fat bitch-dog? Have you tired of shepherding about that meaningless little shade?”

A lump grew in Damiano's throat, and nothing except the hand of Raphael on his shoulder kept him from assaulting the Devil barehanded. “She is well, Morning Star. Happier than you are.”

Satan's guarded face did not change expression, but Damiano heard the faint sound of ashes falling, light as snow. Then the Devil glanced toward Damiano. He shifted on his three-legged stool and propped one elegant boot insouciantly against the table. Satan had a small foot—almost too small—and the toe of his black suede boot curled up as though there were nothing within it.