Empire of Light (36 page)

I finish a decent sketch of Ursula, and I look back to the Christ painting.

I’m seriously trippin’ that I’m staring at the the very last painting on my list. I find a single chair in the corner of the
Flagellation
gallery, as if somebody was expecting me. I sit, and I begin to draw. Drawing Christ, the Marvel way.

The Flagellation of Christ
depicts the moments before Christ is beaten within an inch of his natural life by the Romans. It’s been described as a sadistic ballet, as one captor binds Christ’s hands taut behind his back while kicking him in behind the knee, causing him to stumble off of the column’s base. A second captor pulls at Christ’s hair with his left hand while brandishing sticks in his right hand, ready to strike. A third Roman kneels at the feet of Christ, but not in honor. He is quickly stitching together a vicious weapon of wood and rope, eager to jump in on the ass-whoopin’ while the whoopin’ is still good. Christ’s skin is still pristine and flawless, for now. It glows almost ivory white, but not nearly as white as the immaculate cloth draped across his waist, which will soon be drenched in his blood.

I’m drawing his torso with my favorite pencil, now almost worn to a nub. But I don’t want to swap it out. This pencil has been my constant since Paris, and now it’s working the chest and shoulders of Christ like it’s possessed by somebody who actually knows what the fuck he’s doing. Suddenly, the teachings of Jedi Masters Stan Lee and John Buscema are beginning to make sense to me. I’m capturing the motion of the characters, and for the first time in my life, I’m actually putting down on paper what I’m seeing in my head, and it’s
sick
.

Endorphins crack wildly through my body, like my ol’ football days, exploding on the snap of the ball, blowing past my blocker on almost every down, and blindsiding the pussy quarterback.

I’m in a zone.

It’s orgasmic!

I just pray that nothing disturbs me, nothing happens to kill my buzz.

“
Stai attenzione! Stai attenzione!
” shouts a teacher as she herds a dozen rambunctious kids into the gallery.

And there goes my buzz.

The little brats laugh, screech and jubilantly dance in front of the painting like starving hyenas stumbling upon a fresh kill. They’re blocking my view of the very last painting of my trip and they seemingly won’t go away.

You know, it’s a moment like this when I completely understand why God refused humans the gift of telekinesis
.
Because if I had that power, at this instant, the leg joints of these small children would be exploding like popcorn in hot, salty oil. I would be some sort of ethereal Tonya Harding, miraculously detonating kneecaps. And that includes the chaperones, who stand at the entrance of the gallery, oblivious to the bomb sitting in this chair that’s about to explode.

Man, I need to chill the hell out. Come on! I’m not going to let these jokers ruin my last day here in Europe. I’ll just keep my head down and work on what I already have on the page until they go away. No worries. They can’t be here forever. They’ll move on to the next gallery before I know it.

But, as I draw, an ominous shadow slowly creeps across my paper. It reminds me of the opening shot of
Star Wars
. Vader’s destroyer slowly swallows the screen, filling the audience with the feeling of impending doom.

I look up.

Oh dear God, no.

To my unadulterated horror I find myself surrounded by the gang of eight-year-olds, transfixed by every stroke of my pencil. Seriously, only a mob of Arkansas Neo-Nazis could make me go colder.

I try to keep drawing, but my pencil freezes up. The talent that had possessed it, ran away, like a sissy in a bar fight, at the thought of performing in front of this brutally honest audience of kids. What I have on the page so far is the best thing I’ve ever drawn in my life. But instead of moving on and tackling the face of Christ, I just keep drawing over the same ovals and curved lines of Christ’s pained torso, making them darker. Shit! It’s getting too dark, now. I need to move on, but I’m too afraid of making a mistake in front of this audience.

I start to feel like I did in the glass cage.

I’m having a panic attack.

I begin to sweat.

“
Bello..
.”

An angelic voice, hanging just over my right ear, whispers to me. I look up to see the face of an adorable Neapolitan boy staring at me, like the angel whispering the divine inspiration into Matthew’s befuddled ear. The kid looks down and points at my half-drawn body of Christ.

His finger touches the page.

“
Questa è bello.” This is cool
, he repeats soothingly.

“
Grazie,” 
I say back to the Cherub, my voice unexpectedly hoarse.

“
Prego,” 
he responds with a serene smile.

And my hand goes steady. How ‘bout that?

I place the pencil tip onto the page and begin to draw soft oval circles, the outline of the face of Christ. The boy rests his hand on my shoulder as he watches me flesh out the drawing.

“
Bravo... Bravo... Tutto è bene,” 
he says.

As I make my last sketch, I think about my journey, the people I met, the fear and the happiness. I didn’t sign on for all this, but I feel blessed that it all caught up in the current of my insane journey. I think about Dani. I’ve never been happier, and at the same time I’m absolutely crushed that my trip is coming to an end.

I stop drawing. I put my pencil down and zone out, forgetting where I am. I go all misty-eyed like a little punk. Damn it.

Everything suddenly goes dark as I’m slowly enveloped by a roomful of children consoling me. Angels dance about me, telling me that everything is going to be okay. The moment has been Disney-fied to shit. Michelangelo would be proud. Andy back in Cleveland is probably laughing at me.

Light slowly enters my space again as the chaperones attempt to move the kids away from me to see what’s the matter. Their teacher appears below me, on one knee and holding out a tissue, like she’s soothing one of her students.

I take the tissue.
“Grazie.”

“
Stai bene?” Are you Okay?

“
Si. Sto bene. Grazie,” 
I say, wiping my nose.

She sees my drawing, trying to examine it from upside down.

“May I?” she asks in Italian.

“Sure.”

She spins the drawing around and looks at it closely.

“Ah!” she says. She holds it up to compare it to the massive Caravaggio on the wall. The kids all move to look at the two, jockeying for position to see exactly what their teacher is seeing.

“Not bad,” she says. “You like Caravaggio?”

“Yeah.A lot.”

The teacher looks at me with a smirk. “Why?”

Ha! The woman’s going to get even with me for wrecking her lecture by forcing me to discuss a Baroque era painter in Italian.

Well played.

What she doesn’t know is that I’ve just spent two glorious weeks listening to countless lectures on the subject in every church I’ve visited, and my Italian may not be all that good, but it’s the best it’s ever been.

I tell the kids of my entire story, just like I told Matteo on the subway, with the added bits that took place at Cinecittà and here in Napoli. And I tell the entire story in Italian. Actually, I
stumble
through the entire story in Italian. The teacher and the kids jump in sporadically, guessing translations and words like an international game of charades.

I’ve never had so much damn fun.

“And that’s it.
Basta
,” I say.

The teacher grins at me. “
Bene
.”

The Cherub concurs. “
Sì, molto bene.
”

And with that, the teacher and the chaperones begin to herd the children into the next gallery. The kids slowly shuffle out of the room with a chorus of
ciaos
and
buon viaggios
.

I sit alone for a second. I open my sketchbook and flip through my drawings. The first one, back in Cleveland, feels like somebody else drew it, years ago. Then I hear tiny footsteps running back to the gallery. I look up and there is my Cherub.

He scampers to me, holding out his hand, “My name is Donato,” he says in Italian.

I shake his hand, “
Ciao, Donato.
Jason
. Piacere.
”

“
Piacere mio
, Jason
. Ciao!” 
he says like some charming adult.

The Cherub then darts out of the gallery, leaving me alone once again.

The cacophony of the class of children slowly dies to silence as they head deep into the museum.
Arrivederci
, brats. Uncle Jason won’t be blowing up your kneecaps after all. That is, unless one of you ends up sitting behind me on the plane ride home.

I’m ready to go back to Cleveland, now.

24 

Everything’s Going to Be Okay

I GUESS EVEN THE 
Shadow Don of Napoli couldn’t get my camera back. He promised that the camera would be on the plane with me, but as I approach the Check-In desk, I look around, hoping the courier will appear with my camera.

Nothing.

I guess my only hope is that Edgerton will somehow forgive me.

“And how was your stay here in Napoli?” the agent asks me.

“The rabbit hole’s got nothing on this joint. In fact, I’m going to end this trip right. How much for an upgrade?”

“Certainly. Business Class?”

“No. I’m afraid those seats are no longer good enough for me.”

The Naples to Paris leg is short and sweet. I spend a third of the time thinking about when I’m going to see Dani again, a third contemplating my trippy-ass trip, and the last third sweating over how I’m going to explain to Edgerton how I lost the Brownie. But there’s little time to contemplate it all before I connect in Paris and settle into my seat.

I’m headed stateside, Paris to Cleveland, chilling in the baller section of a spankin’ brand new airbus, and it’s exactly what the doctor ordered.

“Would you like to change into pajamas, sir?” asks the flight attendant as he offers me a plastic pouch of blue PJs.

“Why, yes. Yes, I would like to change into pajamas.”

“Very good. And here are your slippers, sir.”

It feels like a prepubescent middle school dream as I exit the toilet and walk down the aisle in my jammies. I sit in my chair, although it’s more like my own studio apartment than a chair, slide off my slippers, throw a pillow behind my head and crawl under the comfy airline blanket.

“Would you like to select your breakfast for the morning, sir?” asks the flight attendant as he hands me a fat menu.

I am so “new money” it’s all I can do to stop myself from giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Why, yes. Yes. I would like to select my breakfast.”

Satellite TV. Hundreds of films at my fingertips. Mimosas. Privacy.

An embarrassment of riches, indeed. I have a grin on my face so big that my gums are starting to dry out. It’s nothing a flute of champagne won’t solve.

The plane takes off, just as easy as Sunday morning. It’s pitch black outside. The pilot banks so that my side of the plane has a perfect view of Paris at night. I scan the cityscape looking for my old nemesis, the Eiffel Tower. Almost on cue she explodes within a burst of strobe light.

It’s as if it’s speaking to me.

Yo! Down here! No hard feelings. Now take your black ass back to the states.

Suck my balls, Eiffel Tower!

“Your champagne,” says the flight attendant, handing me my flute full of joy. The last time I mixed champagne and Ambien I felt like I tumbled down the rabbit hole.

Screw it. My mind needs some peace. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen?

***

WHOOP! WHOOP! PULL UP! WHOOP! WHOOP! PULL UP!

This is not the pleasant alarm I prefer to hear when jostled out of an Ambien induced sleep.

“No,” I keep repeatedly whispering to myself while the plane performs a series of insane acrobatic maneuvers. Maneuvers I’m sure it wasn’t designed to survive. The door from the cockpit has blown open and the computer alarm blares through the First Class cabin, begging the pilots to pull her up and out of danger.