There wasn't a single building that failed to tease my curiosity: raised Korean villas, Japanese pagodas of thin rice paper, and—among them—structures I couldn't have placed even after rummaging through every manual I'd ever read. The old Roman road funneled a river of varicolored souls toward a dense mass of masonry: an eastern market, a souk uprooted and replanted in the afterlife.A thick mixture hit me: cumin, cloves, cinnamon, burnt meat, iron, sweat.
I pushed through arms, baskets, and cloaks, sweating in the sticky heat, until I found myself before the inn my Scandinavian friend had mentioned.
I recognized it: a fragment of the collapsed temple of Ayutthaya, wood and stone wedged into a side square like a stubborn memory. Two towers flanked it; one, bell-shaped, was maimed—its spire, once pricking the sky, was missing.
I crossed the threshold, and a cloud of incense blinded me enough to make my eyes water. If I'd had my Ventolin, that would've been the moment to use it. Inside, the ancient colonnade was gone: new beams, dark planks, short stairways.
I climbed the steps and reached the ebony counter, behind which sat a middle-aged woman.Massive, swimmer's shoulders, hair the same color as the counter tied into a chignon, and eyes blue and sharp as ice blades. She wore a dark dress that hung on her like a mourning apron. Despite her imposing appearance, she greeted me with an almost maternal smile, her voice soft."You're here for a room, dear?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.
"Yes. I spoke with your Norse friend, the tall, wiry one…"Her pale eyes flickered with recognition. "Oh yes, good Olaf. An honest man, keen eye, strong arm. You did well to trust him." She looked me over—perhaps a bit too insistently. "I'm Brynhild, the owner. But you may call me Belle. How long do you plan to stay?"
"I've just arrived. First I want to understand how this place works, then I'll decide. What are your rates?"Her full lips curled into a half-smile. "Depends on what you have with you. Every coin has its worth."
I pulled out my leather pouch and let a few coins drop into my palm. In that instant her expression changed. Her eyes, once welcoming, turned greedy, dilating like those of a predator spotting prey. She leaned forward, staring at the gleam with too much intensity.
I chose an Amalfitan gold Tarì—a graduation gift from my grandfather, Rodolfo Augusto—and handed it to her."How much for this?"
Belle took it with slow fingers, weighing it as though it were living gold. Then, in a gesture that chilled me, she brought it to her lips and licked it with a heavy tongue."Authentic. Very rare. A coin worthy even of a demon. I'll give you one month."
After that lick I certainly didn't want it back, but I countered,"Don't try to cheat me: it's worth at least three months."
Her face stiffened, jaws tightening in a nervous tic. For a moment I thought I caught the anger simmering beneath her smile."Two months. Final offer."
"Two months with meals."
She shot to her feet. She was over six feet tall. I felt dwarfed by her stature."Two months. Final offer," she repeated, like a broken parrot.
"Then give me back the Tarì. I understand now that I can get much more for it elsewhere."
I saw her hesitate, eyes shining with a greed almost painful. I don't know where I found the courage, but I gathered it and met her gaze directly."Give it back."
Belle huffed, and her voice hardened, cracked by barely contained rage."Fine! Two months with meals. But not a single day more."She yanked open a drawer, pulled out a heavy brass key, and slapped it into my palm."East Tower. First floor. Last door on the right."
The friendly smile was gone. Her imposing figure remained rooted behind the counter, her gaze already fixed on the Tarì gleaming between her claws.
The room was a collage of civilizations. Stone walls wrapped in polychrome marble, cotto d'Este on the floor, and at the window a Gothic rose adapted with clear glass. From there I watched the bustle in the street: the city was a magnificent, feral metropolis. Having means, here, meant having oxygen.A petty thought surprised me: had I been buried with my entire coin collection, I'd be a king here.
So much for "the last shall be first": the last were likely toiling to the bone in some distant labor camp. I felt no pity at the thought, and that ashamed me a little.
I turned, took an apple from a Bialetti stand, and bit into its tart flesh as I explored. In the study corner, a massive colonial desk was surrounded by a bookshelf of mute spines. I pulled out a book: the cover showed a blond child in a blue suit and red bow tie, standing on a gray planetoid. The Little Prince, without title or author. I opened it: blank pages, not a single letter. Puzzled, I put it back and took another: a bearded man on an island, parrot on shoulder, a native kneeling before him. Clearly Robinson Crusoe, also stripped bare: milk-colored pages and a few scattered plates.The entire library had been emptied of words. What pleasure is there in displaying shells without pulp? A mystery.
The bathroom looked stolen from a Roman imperial villa: mosaic floor with the Birth of Venus, walls frescoed with light scenes, marble groups standing guard around a tub already filled. I undressed and plunged in: the cold water was a balm, restoring my strength. I wondered if the place had appeared that way already, or if someone had stitched a Roman wardrobe onto a Thai skeleton. I imagined planes brushing against each other, architectures mingling as they passed through Hell's entropy.
I submerged my head, holding my breath.Clara. Where are you now? What are you doing, up on Earth?
We had chosen July eighth for the wedding. She wanted spring, but with my asthma attacks and allergies, pollen season promised sneezes during the bishop's homily. With a special permit and the Valmarana family's blessing, we secured the ceremony in a non-consecrated place: Villa Almerico-Capra, Palladio's Rotonda—Clara's obsession.
She loved opera: Mozart and Don Giovanni were her heroes. I seized destiny by the tie and, ring in hand, asked her to marry me on the staircase of the very villa where, in the '79 film, Leporello unrolls the endless list of his master's conquests. It was the happiest day of my life, also because I—my own worst pessimist—was convinced she would say no.
Clara still had to finish Cultural Heritage Studies in Bologna; distance had put our nerves on a crash diet. I couldn't bear the thought of losing her to some charismatic classmate, so I sped things up: romantic lunch, villa tour, one knee on the ground. "Yes." That's all I remember.
"You're such an idiot," she said later, once she learned of my fears.
The ceremony in the circular hall was a theatre of gods and men. A handful of guests, the bishop, and on the walls a crowd of pagan deities peering at us from the frescoes. Pachelbel unfurled his spiral, and Clara appeared. A white dress with a hint of amber, high-necked and regal. She walked as though she belonged among the divinities watching from the walls: in her perfection she was one of them and, at the same time, the only real person in the room.
I don't remember the homily, the speeches, or the readings. The only thing I recall before the kiss was my gaze darting among the four portals, terrified that some wretched Bolognese would burst in yelling "I object!"
Finally, the kiss. Deep, clinging, impossible until the last second, poised in the same iconic posture of Klimt or Hayez.A kiss whose taste burned itself into my mind, and will remain there forever, like oil on canvas.