The book is mutating. This deeply personal, insane deep dive into reality, has grown beyond my control, beyond my influnce, and is dragging me along behind it, screaming. Like, at this point, my outline is mostly a suggestion. Did you ever fly a kite when you were a kid? did you ever let all the line out until there was nothing left? How much the crosswinds pulled you? Until the handle slipped through your sweaty kid-fingers and the kite just kept going??
Yeah, it's like that.
One of my surprise joys, is Vincent. He started out as a kind of afterthought, but has since evolved into a staggeringly unsettling, unpredictable creature of pure, unapologetic ID.
The following, then, is another out-of-context, random snippet: a taste of the series that I have been slowly working on. As I mentioned, it is a passion project born of a desire to preserve my familial history, culture and traditions.
Vincent had been wandering up and down the rows of multi-leveled tombs and ornate headstones looking for where Aradia had been buried for the better part of an hour, before finally realizing that he had gotten completely turned around.
When he got assigned this task, he had hoped for specificity; a landmark, a certain number of rows up or over, a name – anything, but all the mistress had said was; “You’ll know it when you see it.”
Such vague directions made Vincent decidedly anxious. If only there were a map or some kind of card catalog system like they had in libraries, he lamented, then this would be a far less aggravating chore. Instead, here he was, wandering around in his work overalls, sweating in the damp weather like a lost child in a fairytale.
“Shit,” he muttered. He stopped for a moment looking around, exhaled dramatically, and set down the large carpet bag of cleaning items and tools that he had with him, before leaning against a nearby tomb to catch his breath. He tipped back his flat cap and unbuttoned his raw denim jacket. The cemetery, which was this old, generational hillside burial ground, looked out over much of the Palermo populace. Sure, the vista felt serene – almost picturesque, but time had not been kind and much of the area had mostly been abandoned, gone to seed, and reclaimed by nature. He grumbled to himself, looking ahead for signs of any obvious, recent disturbances. This place wasn’t so much “large” as it was “dense,” so it was no surprise to him that even in the bright light of day, he didn’t ‘know it’ or ‘see it,’ whatever “IT” was.
Knowing Donna Luna as he did though, it was certain to involve a LOT of blood.
He rummaged about in his pockets and pulled out some leftover scraps he had of that Napoli morsel from the night before. She had been exquisitely tender and lean and melted in his mouth in a way that felt buttery and velvety; not all like the usual gamey and often chewy guests the madame brought home. This girl had been healthy and active and CLEARLY a vegetarian. The breeze picked up just then, shifting back towards him. He wrinkled his nose. He hated this place. The fetid, purified rot and decay that clung to the air just under the salty sea spray mixed with the lemony leather scent of autumn blooms, dulled his thinking and muddled his senses. But worst of all – it offended his pallet. He rewrapped his snack and stuffed it back in his pocket along with his appetite. The odd potpourri of old meat and flowers had soured his stomach.
Next to where he was standing, he spied a weathered ladder sticking out from behind a neighboring tomb. He grinned. At just over one and a half meters tall, a higher vantage point is exactly what a man of his compact stature needed. He walked around, kicking through the wild grass, and hoisted the ladder over his head. In just a few moments he had it propped against a nearby mausoleum, and was swiftly making his way to the roof. He stopped near the top rung and scanned the area. From this new vantage point, he could see most of his surroundings, unobstructed. He looked ahead towards the more sparse backside of the lot and that’s when he saw it: a big spiral shaped wound on the ground made up of dead grass and broken stonework.
He was halfway there.
The form reminded him of a snail shell, which made him think of oysters, which made him think of sweetbreads, which – of course, made him think of the young man he left marinating in the refrigerator.
Having memorized a more direct route and after making a mental note to pick up some port on his way back to the villa, Vincent climbed down, returned the ladder to where he found it, and gathered his things. As he more purposefully navigated through decaying local history, he shook his head at the loss of so many culinary delights and explorations going to waste beneath his feet. What a shame, he thought, a haul like this, I could open my own restaurant.
...
