Milady Filacia

10: Il Effetto Neve

And yet I crawled into dad's arms, on the eve of autumn. His voice was warm on my ear, but got cooler as it traveled through my head and down to my heart. "Courage," he said, "cannot be measured by a screaming kick to the interminable enemy. It's in how one behaves. When faced with hardship, does one shake, or does one prevail? Does one bring food home for his family, does he cry in the streets with an empty sodden hat at his knees? 

"Palladio built a hundred churches, villas and theatres - places to house the most altruistic expressions of humanity. Each wall, each stair, each stone curated and stowed in the most personally intrinsic precincts of the space that was given to him. He built centuries-standing beauties, the commonalities of which can be seen in the perseverance of the man who designed them. Good space cannot be erected without a passion, a vision, and courage. Otherwise, we wouldn't have Venice."

"I don't want Venice," I said.

"It's not about what you want. It's about what you make. And what you make of what you make. You're the master of your own score - you're the designer of your Venetian villa. You can take one reality and make it something else entirely, if you wish. If you have the courage to."

Father Jacopo, now so old he couldn't stand for more than a minute, had a man waiting for me in the cellars. "His name is Martirio, and he won't hurt you. This is only an effort, Vendolius, to invert your sins." As Father Jacopo left, Martirio, looking like the sort of man who'd lost half his mind half a decade ago, approached me. His gruff hands slammed me against the doctor's bed and ripped my trousers down my thighs. I could feel the screams curdle from my vocal chords, but I could not hear them. They were trapped somewhere between insipidity and solicitude - two words I'd learned from dad's American novels. Martirio thrust the bed - on rusted wheels - all the way to the wall. He thrust it until it broke - its springs burst, its joints ached, its mattress seething with estuaries of fingernail scrapes. The force caused it to snap in the middle, to bend to his will and sink to the floor, clawing at its own spasmodic fate to stay afloat. 

Filacia could sense a change of tide juxtaposing her effervescent poise. She crept by my bedroom one night, her nose, then eyes, peaking around the door frame. There was barely a dent in the side of my bed as she sat on it. "Stockholm syndrome is a deadly psychological weapon," she said.

"Who's wielding the sword?"

"There is no sword. Only ropes, tied by a duet of captive and captor. The sooner you set fire to these ropes the sooner you'll be free."

"If I set fire to them, I'll burn myself."

She observed me, her glacier-tinted eyes blinking slowly. I couldn't tell what sort of emotion they showed - but for once, I felt they showed emotion. I was unnerved by that, and that uneasiness suddenly turned to spite. "You said we would leave," I spat through clenched teeth. "You said that over a year ago."

"Over a year ago, I thought there was someplace better than here."

"Every place is better than here."

"You're right." she hung her head. "I'm sorry. I misspoke. I..."

"It's you who has the Stockholm syndrome," I accused. "You're the one in the ropes."

Her mouth hung agape as she perused my words. I could feel disdain from her, before her face hardened again. "Tell me where we would have gone. Tell me. The woods? Would we go to Milano, Vicenza? Where cats prowl the streets and beggars loom in the dark? There is no place for us in this world."

"You sound like you've given up."

She was beside herself. "I haven't. But you scream at night and you come up from the cellars with bruises on your wrists. It's a terrible life you're forced to live. And there's nothing I could have done but watch - I can do nothing - "