Sta' Zitto

Giovanni sat down on his waggling seat, but Minniti didn’t even notice him a bit.

“Was this wine you ordered?”

“No, Pietro. I’d like Spirit today and I need to keep me sober enough. You can perhaps pay more attention on our melancholic figure today.”

Minniti didn’t realize his reference until Givoanni shook his hands and began to drink Minniti’s drink. His red face was a different sense of energy from yesterday, and all before. The noisy crowd outside the bar didn’t intrude this silence. Minniti still stayed calm.

“Giovanni, didn’t you know Tomassoni’s brother had announced the reward for killing the murderer of Tomassoni? It was a huge amount, and the whole city was craving for searching the murderer’s trail.”

He paused and watched affectionately at his friend.

“The murderer? He again? Couldn’t he escape like he did before? Their tennis was not ever a big deal, and how could he the tearaway squander like this!”

Minniti tried to refrain tears as he could, but his fever-like face was never enough to hold his regret anymore. “No, that wasn’t the problem. You’d never know, Giovanni, you’d despise me as you did to all of us, to break my final heart.” He was holding an invisible obsession, but the giver has run away to Naples, the notorious hotbed for reborn of people like him.

“My emotion was so strong to be cured by himself, but his canvas, and his desirous guitar, are persistently drawing my energy. Oh, how can I bear it!”

Minniti stopped to take a deep breath. He was now a mature man, a 24-year-old model, and nobody can remember his past. Therefore, he should follow the rules of a mature Italian instead of a vibrant teenager anymore. He knew this point, and he knew Giovanni knew this point. Silently he closed his eyes.

“You love him, and I do not deny surely. But you shall already knew his nature, and you shall envisioned this ending. It’s reasonable to everyday man like you, and everyday villain like him. Why can’t you cease? Why can’t you stop regretting, abandon the fame brought by him to you?”

“I have remembered, remembered every his paintings and offers. His desired depiction of my gestures, my fruit basket, my music sheet and crystal clear goblets, and so on -- can reveal his strongest personalities. Oh my fate, and maybe in one different chance, it’s not his tennis breaking our relationship:

it’s me, Mario Minniti, who fused this tragedy, and therefore my horrible loss!”

“ ‘I announced that XXX’s crime of murder has been pardoned via his remarkable attitude of pleading his acceptable guilty! This painting symbolizes my confirmation that he was a promising citizen, a claire-bright and bold member of Malta! I, Alof de Wignacourt the grand leader of Knights of Malta, granted him the brave name of a knight could have. Do you and we trust each other and commit to eternal harmony in the name of Knights of Malta?’

‘Yes sir, and that shall be the greatest honor I could attain!’

I clapped like other knights and members, sharply staring at this suspicious intruder. The commander was strong, wearing a shining, reliable full armor set. His helmet was held by Luca, and his eyes were small yet solid. This was beautiful for any knight, if this figure were present in the real life. But, what a stark contrast between dear Wignacourt’s real, listless, veiled figure and this perfection in that painting, painted by so ‘famous’ XXX!

He was an outlaw, an unforgivable murderer escaped from Naples and his debt was the hugest load for him about his victims. Every ant in Malta knows his name, and must so do people in Naples. His inverted painting of all Seven, seven deadly sins, had no proper meaning and should be burned like his talent.

‘Thanks for drawing that big axe and shiny helmets. You are a splendid creator, and foolish Roman administers don’t admit this as they could! In the name of me, Alof de Wignacourt, I will make your brightness retained forever in the future of knights and Valleta itself!’

Oh my knights, I can even imagine this inferior dialogue between... ”

The diary, at least pieces of broken manuscripts, exactly preserves every detail written by Roero the knight, but unfortunately no historians could now infer the real name of this complex artist drawn in this diary, at least before.

Suddenly, Cleopas pushes the table and leaps one step behind. Plates fall down and break. The whole room is transitorily spreaded with silence. But immediately, a crow shrieks; fear and excitement surpasses the silence, reuniting with this unordinarily mundane dinner.

“My master, it’s you! You escaped from the fate... no! No, you’re kindly visiting us, and you.. have traced me and Luke the whole road! My lord and my god, you are alive! You justly violated natural laws!”

Luke is so shocked: he couldn’t believe anything he see now. An hour before, they were inviting this newly joined stranger, and he believed that Cleopas was too ignorant to think about anything of this stranger’s identity. He was foolish as well! How could we not find out? His heart beat shows his current astonishment, but his brain was still running. This village was as common as any small and poor place in Jerusalem, so there is no reason the God himself arriving here!

“My lord, but... why you are wearing those weathered clothes?” he finally asks unaptly and excitedly.

The silent listener raises his right hand and suspends it in the air.

“In the name of Jesus, what news are you the master going to bring our small Emmaus? Why did you choose us?” Cleopas shouts.

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are still closed. His shadow becomes bigger, and the candle is burning faster. The room falls into silence once again, and this time it’s longer, with only sounds of breath and mice.

“Why are you making this gesture? Oh this must be metaphorical! Note it down Raveo, note it down! Quick! Why are you reviving... unbelievably?”

Luke asks again with less confidence and higher pitch. He stretches the whole arm. His right hand has just a noticeable difference from the listener’s shoulder. Jesus’ mouth is still closed, though he is receiving three mortals’ (if applicable to him) doubt. He is calmly consecrating a bread in front of him. The bread, shared by Cleopas, shows a radically different shadow because of Jesus’ right hand above it. None of other three men could notice this, but it must have had a reason to appear like that. For anyone in this situation like Luke and Cleopas, one can only be less calm than our two protagonists. The sacred idol is sitting humbly and plainly behind an everyday table, but no one can understand him! Faintly and intuitively, both Cleopas and Luke feel that this opportinutiy is going to vanish: their savior is returning to the holy land, just like three days ago!

The meditator opens his eyes. He hazily rotates his sight: trying to understand his companies’ reactions. Then, like a real and poor youth, he surprisingly says:

“I don’t know. I just do what I was told by the painter of this painting!”

“He used light to make the divine and dramatic explosion out of the very darkness. He builds plots themselves. And he must have been the closest lecherous and violent painter. My light that reveals quiet, and moments in calmness, would sure evoke my feelings.”

The listener saw the brightness and veracity in this ascetic villager, and that unfathomably elegant light in his works could see. The sunlight strikes the wood and leaves a trail of flare like the fiercest tension, but it soon fades and preserves the serene stamp from the carved window. How must he cherish this opportunity to visit, thanks to the artist’s generosity! If the visitor, the humble trader, didn’t occupy this artist’s time as much as he can, it was impossible for him to see this munificent side. In his painting, there sits an identical figure as the painter himself, drawing toward a model; the curtain occupies the whole left of the painting, while the big wall behind everything in the picture hangs a delicately complex map.

“He painted a lot, but his is a loud thunder, and mine could be gentle like a mirror. Revealing this veil of which model was originally should be his work. For me, I’d rather put the veil back.”

He paused a second and sincerely said,

“Mustn’t we deny his unbelievable hands and eyes! As well as his courageous techniques! I’d like you to find his impact through his paintings, but not to be entangled or captivated.”

He then returned to his canvas, where paints are already dried. They were glowing in a certain rhythm.

“If any legend can escape from this damned guva, to the outside of Fort St Angelo, then I guarantee nobody can catch him again to put in any prison. Even after fourty years, unlike other prisoners you saw, I could always remember the imposing desperation of being sentenced to here in the court. So, don’t try to think any about jailbreak, my dearest son.”

“But, bald Calvo, have you really never seen such a lucky fellow?”

“Ah, during the time I was in this prison, the only one I’ve witnessed who has done this epic win is an artist. Could you believe? He was the coolest man I’ve ever met, just like your Calvo whe he’s young! I remembered that was a freaky carnival night, and all the guards were drinking too much.

‘He was gone, and how dare you drink like dogs here! How many times have I told with all you gentlemen! He was the one whom Roero hates the most, go chase and find him!’

That indignant shouting woke me up immediately, and I turned my back toward the door of the cell to avoid attention from guards. My ears caught fire just like anyone would in this situation: guards’ stomping sounds and warden’s roaring became the only yet interesting elements at that night.

The artist was gone. I don’t know how he did it, but he already had that desire for a long time just after he got in. We shall ask, who couldn’t have that pursuit? However, I don’t have that young body and energy to simulate such a plan now. Throughout the whole night, the alarming bell tolled without ceasing, so everyone must have known the importance of this prison. Everyone knows Roero and his knights, so everyone then understood how much this artist was hated by Roero. Otherwise, there’s no better reason that he would’ve come into the same layer with me.”

Dust of lime fell down into the rusty bowl, but “Calvo” didn’t notice. He drank with satisfaction, coughed and continued the story with his pallid voice.

“My son, before you had come, at least ten new buddies had stayed at your cell and talked with me. Everytime I would ask whether he knows about this legendary jailbreaker. According to some of them, this man was even a knight in Malta. I laughed... like you do now —— how could a murderer be a knight! But even more ridiculous, after this artistic celebrity escaped from this stupid prison, the status of knight was earned again by him, after he committed so many crimes! Don’t be shocked, because five men have told me the same thing with the same detail. For me, I have refreshed my knowledge about art ever and forever.”

“Do you trust I can run from this hellish place, bald Calvo?”

“Before you can seriously injure Roero, you’d better put your head in dirt and consider your dinner tonight, my innocent son.”

Less than in weekdays, people are still shuttling through this tunnel quickly. Some of them stopped in front of each painting; some are centered on Lady Standing at a Virginal; others are rushing alone. I can even see children running back and forth with their souvenirs.

“Psst... Look at that!”

Sunlight shines unreally on the little mustache of my beautifully dressed partner. His black-and-brown hair is even more representative of a connoisseur under sparkling rays of light, but his beards should be trimmed, effortfully. This bizarre appearance makes him looks like Jesus painted by himself: I couldn’t assess it obviously.

“Adam, what? Oh my god, I see that! I was just wondering where this piece of work is!”

If he thinks his style would trick him up more elegant in his opinions, then I shouldn’t assess it obviously even. He is staring at Lady Standing at a Virginal as well. Should I remind him that his own works are depicted in this gallery? No, let’s wait for his own discovery.

“Is that Jesus? And who is that guy wearing the armor?”

I followed my newly acquainted partner’s steps. His clothes are influenced by very old-fashioned, or I should say ancient-fashioned, formers. I don’t know why he didn’t hold his past style like a completely ordinary man in the 21th century. However, accompanied with him, I’ve already seen so many unbelievable things which no more strangeness I feel then.

“That was Judas, Adam, learned in art history class. Look, they’re kissing each other!”

My dissolutely sedulous friend finally turns his sights to that painting, that work discussed by the young couple. During my nine-year visits of this national gallery in Ireland —— at my random will, young lovers are the most common view seen in such an artistic place. Very appreciated! In my young days, I have only the opportunity to visit art yet no chances to meet my destiny.

“No, their lips are not touching each other. That was exaggeration, Julia.”

“And if you see closer, the professor has said that the figure behind Judas was the artist himself... Sounds interesting? He was criticized because of radical new attempts in religious paintings... just like this one.”

We can now see the two speakers in front of the picture frame now. They didn’t notice us, partially because my proudly smiling artist is pondering the masterpiece. What is he pondering about? His model, the one forgotten stroke, or his well painted detail? Four of us stand quietly, as if the holy brightness surrounding us has trapped us. The artist’s crafty smile and meek yet vigorous shadow —— wondering if those are unchanged in his parallel lives of the old age.

“Adam, what was his name?” Julia suddenly turns back to us, “Uh, this old and artsy figure?”

Adam was searching online for the controversial discussion about portraying god as a death.

“Uhm, wait, his name is Cara-”

”-v-a-g-g-i-o”, I helped him, continuing the break of silence.

Immediately, my partner turns to me with a hoarse and amusing voice, “Sta’ Zitto! No, you’ll show mio traveller’s identity!”