"If we leave now, there is no safe"
OCTAVO Episode 30
PUBLISHER’S EMAIL
Scarlett, this is getting way too risky. We recommend you drop what you’re doing and get out of Venice now. Activate your escape plan. You can send us Melzi’s letter some other time, when it’s safe.
8VO_76
SCARLETT: Safe? Hardly, Ms. Cavel. If we leave now, there is no safe. Safe is getting Dickson to believe there’s nothing left to take from us. He won’t quit until he tracks us down, at which point we’ll be alone and unprotected. There’s only one way out of this.
Last night I stood Salvatore up. There’s no chance I’d get within a hundred yards of that goon, much less hand over the prize. He’ll have to rip it out of my hands.
Meanwhile, Artie’s exhausted. She’s been writing for nearly thirty hours with only the merest break for a nap. Her face is pale and lined. Her eyes are bloodshot. She looks a thousand years old. I tell her to stop and get some rest, but she refuses. The ink supply looks like it’ll hold out, but the quills are almost gone. I cut a few more and line them up on the table.
On the afternoon of the third day, she finishes. All the sheets but two are used up, and the ink is almost gone. She’s delirious with fatigue. I finally persuade her to take a nap. She drops off the second her head hits the pillow.
While she’s sleeping, I use the time to make dinner. We still have some ciabatta for garlic bread, so I cook up some pasta to go with it. Primavera, in Leonardo’s honor. We don’t have any wine left, but I’m not leaving the flat unless it’s absolutely necessary. Water will have to do.
At four in the afternoon, I can hear her moving around in her room. The door opens and she comes out, looking slightly dazed.
I had the strangest dream, she says, rubbing one eye with the palm of her hand.
Oh, really?
I was just standing, looking over the rooftops, when a hummingbird came right up to me, hovering just outside the window. It’s feathers were a beautiful iridescent blue. You know that kind of blue that shifts from ultramarine to cerulean as the light changes? We stared at each other for what seemed like minutes. I couldn’t tell what kind it was, since I didn’t have my glasses on. I found it a rather spiritual experience.
A hummingbird?
Yes.
I run into Artie’s room and look out the window. Nothing. I close the blinds. I go around the rest of the flat and close all the other blinds.
Artie, I say, that was no hummingbird. There are no hummingbirds in Italy. That was a micro-drone.
She goes blank.
I turn off the stove and gather up the finished sheets. I stick them in the metal box with the original manuscript and shut the lid. Then I take apart the writing desk, dump the ink down the drain, and stick the used quills into my bag.
C’mon, Artie. We gotta go.
She doesn’t move.
Artie, come on! I lead her into her room and point to her bag. She starts to pack, mechanically at first, then more quickly.
Good, she’s waking up.
Leave the clothes in the closet, I say. Just take your tools and purse and bathroom stuff.
I pack my own bag and do one last check. Looks like we got everything. I pull the nails out of the wooden post and stick them in the pocket of my bag, along with the hammer.
I open the door of the flat and peer out. All clear. No sounds coming from the stairwell. I lean the post against the wall in the outer hallway and lead Artie down the steps to the street. I’ve got both our bags, so all she has to carry is her purse.
We get to the bottom. I look out the door. I see a couple of students crossing the bridge, chattering away in German. There’s an old woman across the canal, small and bent, pushing a flowered baby stroller with groceries in it. No sign of drones.
I lead Artie by the hand onto the fondamenta, where we extend the handles of our rollaboards and pull our bags behind us like ordinary tourists. We cross the bridge to the other side and turn left. I put on my sunglasses. Artie follows suit. We disappear through the door of an upscale boutique hotel.
The receptionist looks up and smiles. I smile back and pretend to be relaxed.
Got any rooms? Camere?
Sì, sì, abbiamo due camere, una singola e un appartamento.
I look at Artie.
Take the apartment, she says.
L’appartamento.
The receptionist takes my fake passport and hands me the key. I lean forward and whisper. Do you speak English?
A little, she says.
I lower my sunglasses just enough to let her see the seriousness in my eyes. We don’t want to be disturbed, I say.
I understand, she replies. Capisco.
If any strangers ask about us, tell them you haven’t seen anyone of that name or description, will you? Fans can be so tiring, as I’m sure you know. Artie looks away, a bored Vivian Leigh in her declining years. Me, her personal assistant.
Sì, sì, signora. Ho capito tutto, she says with a conspiratorial wink. Will that be all?
PUBLISHER’S EMAIL
I’m caught between two emotions. I’m awash in admiration for your resourcefulness, but I’m scared to death you won’t survive the night. I must say the second emotion is winning. Will you promise to be cautious?
8VO_77
SCARLETT: No, but I can promise to be courageous. Ms. Cavel, the future of—I don’t know, humanity—is at stake. This is no time to be cautious. We’re on a life-or-death mission here. If we all end up as blips on a computer screen in some Transhumanist future, whose fault will that be? You know what I mean? The world needs Leonardo’s thinking, ASAP. Is it worth dying for? I don’t know. Maybe.
The hotel appartment has a clear view of our flat directly across the canal. Since we moved in, I’ve seen no sign of drones or Salvatore. As for Dickson, I’m crossing my fingers that he isn’t reading this, but who knows what kind of tricks he has up his sleeve.
The new place feels calm. An oasis. Sleek Italian furniture contrasting with rustic beamed ceilings and undulating white walls. No kitchen, but the bathroom is outfitted with plush towels, heated floors, and soaps from Santa Maria Novella. Quite a change from the dumps we’ve been used to.
At noon I check on Artie. Still sleeping. I tiptoe over to her bed and place my hand on her forehead. A bit too warm?
My capacity for recall is off the charts, Katherine, but the memories I have of the next few days will be vivid for the rest of my life.
I gently rock Artie’s shoulder and say, ready to wake up?
Oh, hello, she says brightly, like she hasn’t seen me in weeks.
Artie, you okay?
I’m fine.
Really? Because you don’t look so fine. No offense.
Scarlett, really, I’m fine. But there is something I have to tell you. Something rather awful.
I nod.
She struggles up on one elbow. Sorry I haven’t been of more help to you in the last few weeks.
That’s what you have to tell me?
No, I’m afraid it’s not. The truth is, I’m dying.
Artie, don’t be absurd. You’re strong as an ox. You worked three days straight without sleep is all. You’re tired.
Listen to me, she says. I’ve been diagnosed with leukemia. It’s the real reason I left my teaching job. I knew I was losing the fight, but I couldn’t decide what to do about it. Then you came along, and I knew I wanted quality, not quantity—one last chance at life.
I reach for her hand and close my eyes. Shit, shit, shit. I take a deep breath and ask, how much time do you have?
Let’s just say I won’t be getting a telegram from the Queen. I’m in the red zone, dear. The light is blinking.
Jesus, Artie, why didn’t you tell me? I could have done something about it.
Like what, love?
For starters, I wouldn’t have dragged you along on this stupid adventure.
Nonsense. I wouldn’t have missed it for all the tea in Bengal. How many people does one meet who would willingly pledge their lives for the sake of an ideal? You, young woman, are a beacon. I feel privileged, if you want to know the truth.
I squeeze her hand and give her a kiss on the forehead. I can honestly say I’ve never felt so good and so bad at the same time. I ask, what can I do for you?
You can carry on. Don’t stop now. I don’t give a flying flock what happens to me, as long as you complete the mission.
Artie! Such language!
Just like that, she closes her eyes and drifts off. I check her pulse. Weak but perceptible.
As the shadows grow longer and the light turns a golden yellow on the buildings, I come away from the window. Time to get ready. I force Artie’s situation into a dark compartment in the back of my mind. She’s counting on me.
I open the metal box and take out the two manuscripts. I untie the strings of the portfolio and remove the original pages, replacing them with Artie’s forgery. I feel bad about sacrificing a 16th century folder, but it’s a small price to pay for a convincing spectacle.
Outside on the fondamenta, I scan the area for anything out of place. I see children playing on the stone pavement down from the hotel, squeezing the last drop of happiness from the day. Nobody else in sight.
I look across the canal at the Airbnb building. The windows are dark. No drones. No handymen. No assassins in trenchcoats lurking in the crevices.
The dying light reveals a particular kind of doom in this part of Venice, the fate of a neighborhood written in the sad calligraphy of ancient cracks and peeling plaster, of electrical cables layered one over the other because no one thought it was worth hiding them. Buildings too nondescript to invest in, with the sole exception of our new hotel. Who knows? Maybe gentrification is just around the corner as the rotting foundations sink and derelict walls are razed. I’m happy to push that process forward.
I glance down and see a plastic bag floating in the canal. In the dim light I can make out the fur, the legs, the tail of a cat in rigor mortis, its mouth pressed against the bag, teeth bared in a frozen wail. A shimmy of fear ripples down my spine. I hurry across the bridge and let myself into the building.
Upstairs the blinds are still drawn. I flip the switch in the sitting area.
The fireplace is fitted with an iron stove, its belly pre-stocked with newspaper and kindling. I take the matches from the top of the stove and start the fire. Within minutes the paper flares and the kindling catches. I take the portfolio from the box and place it upside down in the stove. Close the door. Yellow flames dance around like cannibals, licking the edges and biting into the leather. First the strings go, and then the leather starts to buckle. I let it run for a few seconds, then open the door.
With a flick of my hand, I snatch the portfolio and let it drop to the floor. I dampen the flames with a piece of crumpled newspaper. I turn it over and carefully pry open the cover, or at least what’s left of it. The top pages are mostly burnt, but intact. I can still see the writing, black ink on black paper, if I hold it to the light in just the right way. The sheets underneath are less damaged, but still charred and ugly. No one in their right mind would want a manuscript in this condition.
I lay the remains back in the box, set it aside, and go into the kitchen for a candlestick. I place the candle on a side table in the sitting room, then move the table up to the drapes. I crumple a few sheets of newspaper and form them tightly around the base of the candle, then stretch a large rubber band around to hold them in place.
I light the candle, take the metal box, and lock the door on my way out.
PUBLISHER’S EMAIL
Scarlett, that’s arson! What about the neighbors? The nearby buildings? People could die! Couldn’t you just burn the manuscript and call it a day? Why the whole building? My God. Please get back to me right away. I’m serious.
8VO_78
SCARLETT: Not to worry, Ms. Cavel. Way ahead of you. First of all, we knew the building was empty. Second, it’s a freestanding structure at the intersection of two canals, so the fire was unlikely to spread given the absence of wind. Third, the landlord could use the insurance money to renovate the place. You can’t go halfway with a spectacle. It’s all or nothing.
It takes the candle about 45 minutes to burn down. Soon we see a wisp of black smoke rising from the chimney. Artie and I pull our chairs up to the window and watch the scene unfold.
Let me tell you, Ms. Cavel, it was a thing of beauty.
After the first appearance of smoke, we see light flickering behind the blinds on the top floor. The drapes go up in flames, then the shutters, and within minutes the glass explodes outward. Yellow flames shoot from the windows of the sitting room facing the canal.
Within minutes we hear the sirens of fireboats. They come roaring up the canal, sloshing water over the walkways and up against the buildings. Boats moored on the sides of the canal bob wildly, straining against their ties. A few boats that happen to be putt-putting down the canal, innocently going about their business, swerve to the side at the sight of flashing blue lights.
Now the firemen in their black jackets and yellow hoods are aiming their spotlights at the top floor, streaming canal water in lazy arcs through the lidless eyes of the flat.
An inverted image of a building in flames flickers in every ripple on the surface of the canal. A ribbon of black smoke drifts upward, curls west, slices the three-quarter moon in two. Sour scents of burning wood and boat exhaust slip in through the cracks and mingle like sweat-stained sailors.
A crowd gathers on the hotel side of the canal. Our room is on the first floor, so we open the window and listen to what they’re saying.
Che liberazione, snorts an old woman just off to the right.
I look at Artie.
She translates: Good riddance.
The owner of the Airbnb is standing just to the left of the window. For a crazy second, I almost feel something like sorry for setting his building on fire. A middle-aged American man stands next to him, shaking his head in disbelief.
What a shame, says the man, all that history, gone up in smoke. The slumlord turns to him, his face positively gleeful.
I have been dreaming for this, he says. As if to add an exclamation mark, he does a little happy dance on the fondamenta.
I’m glad we could be of service, I say under my breath.
Artie huffs. He doesn’t care whether we’re in there or not.
I quickly shut the window so the owner doesn’t hear us laughing, then I call down to reception for a bottle of Prosecco. We drink a toast to The Great Spectacle of Santa Marta.
Artie raises her glass and says, well, dear, I’m dying of leukemia, I’m down to my last wig, and we just set fire to our clothes. And somehow, I’ve never been happier in my life. Cheers!
And then, almost as soon as it started, the fire was out. The firemen are satisfied that the building’s empty, and now they’re stringing caution tape across the front, criss-crossing the gaping entrance several times. The splintered door is off its hinges, leaning up against the wall inside the doorway. The crowd disperses except for a few students sharing a beer from a paper bag.
I wait by the window. Hours drift by.
It’s three in the morning and Artie’s sound asleep. The electricity is out on the far side of the canal, so I grab the flashlight from the closet and go downstairs with the metal box. Reception is closed and the door is locked. I check to make sure I have the key.
Outside the hotel there’s very little activity. I see a figure, perhaps a female student, wearing a parka and a pair of Nikes. She’s leaning on the railing of the bridge, looking the other way. I wait in the shadows until I see her leave in the direction of the train station. The night is so hushed that I can hear the wind teasing the tiny hairs on my cheeks. I put up my hood and cross the bridge. I duck under the caution tape and wedge myself through the plywood barrier.
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