Chapter 31 Chapter Thirty

He let the tray fall into the darkness and groped like a cockroach through the sacristy and into the chapel. Then I followed him into the chapel. The room was filled with the stench of defecation.I hesitated and refused to move until my eyes adjusted to the darkness.The altar was cordoned off, the scaffolding was still there, but canvas and strips were hung here and there.The decorations on the table are still working, and everything is in order. Organized.Next to it stands a concave mirror, like the one in Dad's study room, which can be used to collect the scattered light when the vision becomes blurred during the day.In a farther corner stood a pail with its lid scrambled, and I supposed that was where the stench was coming from.

Now I see him.He leaned against the wall, sat on the ground, curled up in the corner of the room.I walked gently towards the trapped beast.Despite my wild words before, I am still terrified now.I stopped a few feet in front of him.Thinking of the Madonna with my face and those eviscerated corpses, I opened my mouth, not knowing what to say first. "Do you know what they call you in the kitchen?" I heard myself say, "Bird." They use that instead of painter, out of respect and awe for your talent. They think you walk out of the window at night, Fly out. The cook believes that's why you don't eat his meal, because you have better taste elsewhere."

He didn't give any hint that he was listening to me, but folded his hands under his armpits, his eyes were closed and trembling slightly.I took a few steps and sat on the floor, the coolness of the stone piercing through my skirt.He looked so alone, so lonely, that I wanted to warm his heart with soft words. "When I was growing up, people told the story of the beauty of our city and the story of an artist who was Cosimo Medici's painter called Filippo." I said softly, " You've seen his paintings. His Madonna is so peaceful that one thinks his brushes must be filled with divine spirituality. He's a monk after all. But not all. Some nights he'll lay down his brushes and go Chasing the women who aroused his lust. The great Cosimo de' Medici was so annoyed by this that he locked him in his studio at night. But when he entered early next morning, he found the doors and windows open, The sheets were tied together and Filippo disappeared. Since then, he has given Filippo the keys again. Whatever Filippo does, he accepts it, even if he doesn’t understand it or disapprove.”

"It must be hard at times to have such a fire in your body. I think it must have affected your behaviour, and you don't know it." I saw him trembling all over. He shook his head, but his eyes snapped open.It appears he is not ready yet.I remember climbing under the ceiling and drawing the grid in the heat of the fire in order to paint the heaven in the chapel.Back then he was full of energy and sharp-eyed.God, what happened to him? "I'm probably the one who talks to you the most in this room," I said, "but I don't even know your name. You've always been called 'Painter,' and that's what I think of you as a painter. Except Knowing that you write like a god, far more talented than I am, I don't know anything about you. Are you sick? Have you got a fever again?"

"No." His voice was as thin as a mosquito, "I'm not hot. I'm cold, very cold." I reached out to touch him, but he jerked back, and I saw a flicker of pain on his face. "I don't know what's wrong with you," I said softly, "but I can help you anyway." "No, you can't help me. No one can help me." There was another silence, and then he whispered, "I'm abandoned." "Abandoned? Who abandoned you?" "He, God!" "why do you say so?" But he just shook his head violently, wrapping his arms tightly around his chest.What frightened me was that he began to cry, and he sat there stiffly, with the tears rolling down his face, as if the statue of the Virgin miraculously shed tears of blood and restored the faith of those who had hesitated.

"Oh, sorry." Now he was looking at me, and the painter, the shy young man from the north, seemed to be gone, and all I could see was the endless sadness and fear in his eyes. "Ah, tell me," I said, "tell me there's nothing too frightening to say." Behind me, at the door, I heard soft footsteps.It must be Irilah.I've been here too long, she must be very worried. I looked back at her, she gave me a wink, I nodded to show that I understood. I turned my head.She backed out and closed the door. He remained motionless.I ventured to get the sketches out of my skirt, and selected a few to lay on the floor beside the tray; so the man's entrails lay next to the remains of a roast. "I've known it for a long time," I said softly. "I just went to your room and I saw it all. Is that what you dare not say?"

He fought a cold war. "It's not what you think," he howled suddenly, "I didn't hurt them, I didn't hurt anyone..." This time I went to him. If what I did was not proper, I would not agree with it myself.There was no more right move than that, and I hugged him gently.He let out a groan, but I couldn't tell whether it was pain or despair.His body was as cold and rigid as a corpse, and he was so thin that I could almost feel every bone of him through his skin. "Tell me, painter, tell me..." In a low voice, as if looking for the right words, he said staccatoly: "He said that the human body is the greatest work of God, and to understand it you must understand its internal structure. Only then can we learn to bring life to life." People drew it. It wasn't just me, there were six or seven of us, and we met every night in a room at Holy Spirit Hospital, next to the church. The bodies of those unclaimed or executed criminals belonged to the city, he said .He said God will understand us because our art will reproduce his glory."

"Him? Who is 'he'?" "I don't know his name. He was very young, but he couldn't draw anything. Once they brought a boy, fifteen or sixteen years old. He died of some disease of the mind, but his body Intact. He said he was too young, he must not have been corrupted. He said he could be our Jesus. I am going to paint him on the mural. But I haven't painted it yet, he has already made his crucifixion Like. Carved from white cedar wood, that statue is so perfect and so vivid , you can see every muscle and tendon of him.I believe he is the Christ, I can't..."

He shook his head. "I'm never going there again. It's a total lie. There is no God in that room, but there is something else. The power of temptation. After the army came, he went and disappeared. No new bodies were brought to that The room. The room was closed. People were talking about the dead bodies found in the city. Our dead bodies..." He shook his head. "It's not God in the room," he repeated angrily. The body was his secret, his work. We were not supposed to know it at all, but to worship it. I couldn't resist the temptation to try to know it. I didn't obey his orders, so he abandoned me."

"Oh, no, no... that's Savonarola saying it, don't you say that," I said, "he wants people to be in awe, afraid that God will leave them. This is him playing them way between. How can it be evil to know God's miracles?" "You don't understand." He closed his eyes tightly and repeated, "It's over, it's over... I looked straight at the sun and my eyes burned. I can't draw anymore." "It's not like that," I said softly, reaching out to him. "I've seen those pictures. They're too real to be evil. You're lost in solitude, and you've driven yourself to despair. You're only Just trust that your eyes are still sharp and accurate, and you will see. Painter, give me your hand."

He trembled and whimpered for a while, then slowly pulled his hand out from under his armpit, and stretched it out to me with the palm facing down.I grabbed them, but he let out a squeal, as if my hand had burned him.I took his cold fingers and stroked his hands gently. what!It's not enough to use up all my tenderness.There were two huge wounds on his palm, a black hole on one side, the blood was coagulated, and the muscles around the wounds were swollen and infected.Those two holes were obviously nailed.I thought of my ecstasy that night, and the physical pain seemed to relieve the mental torment.But my wound was an accident, not as deep as his, nor lost as he was. "Ah! God." I gasped, "How can you be so cruel to yourself?" Despair seeped into him like a poisonous mist, filling his mouth, his ears, his eyes, choking his soul.Now I'm really scared because it's no longer clear if it's going to pass on to me. "You're right," I said quietly, moving away from him, speaking more unconsciously than rationally now, "You sinned, but not the sin you thought you did. Yes Despair, despair is a sin. You cannot see because you have extinguished the passion in you; you cannot paint because you wallow in self-mutilation." I stand up. "When did you do that to yourself? How's your mural doing?" I snapped. He remained seated, his eyes fixed on the ground. I pulled him roughly. "You're so selfish, painter. When you had talent, you refused to share it; now that it's gone, you're proud of it. Not only have you embraced despair, you've sinned against hope." You committed a crime. You deserve it." I took him and walked inside the chapel until the wall on the left side of the altar.He didn't resist, as if his body was under my control.But I could hear my heart pounding. "Come, let me see these holy works," I said. He stared at me for a long time.In that moment, I saw something in his desperation, a recognition of me, even an understanding.He walked over, untied the rope, and let the first piece of canvas slide down. The light wasn't great that day, so it's hard for me to fully explain why I was so shaken.Of course, I expected to see some mess, but instead I was stunned by its beauty. Freshly painted frescoes shine on the walls: the life of the Virgin Catherine is divided into eight parts, as a child, in her father's house, in the miracles she encounters in the fields, in these scenes she is demure and graceful The portraits are bright and vivid.Like the Madonna he painted on the wall, she seemed to embody not only the peace of God, but an extraordinary human goodness all her own. I watched him as he sank back into his own misery.I walked to the altar next to me, untied the rope, and let the canvas slide slowly to the ground.Her story from triumph to death is painted on the second wall.It was here that a trace of paganism began to permeate. This Saint Catherine is in the cell where she awaits execution, a solemn place that reveals restlessness; in the final scene, as the chariot is destroyed, she is dragged towards the executioner's sword, and she stares The eyes of the people are painted, and the face is full of fear, which reminds me of the pain of the young girl in the drawing. A final piece of canvas covers the rear wall of the altar, as well as the vaulted roof above.I walked over and the winch was so heavy I felt my shoulders sweating as I turned. The rear fresco depicts a group of angels, whose outstretched wings are weightless, and whose feathers are shaped not only from doves and peacocks, but also from countless imaginary birds of heaven; they look up to the Father who presides over the kingdom of heaven. The Heavenly Father is of course in the center of the ceiling, sitting majesticly on a golden throne, shining with dazzling light, surrounded by a group of ecstatic saints.The devil is on his seat with teeth and claws. He has three heads around his neck, each with a halo made of bat feathers. He is holding Christ and the Virgin in his hands, and he opens his mouth and stuffs it into his canine teeth.