I stepped out, and my feet sank into soft earth. The air was different: a fresh breeze blew from the west, brushing the laurel branches that swayed peacefully beneath a colossal moon, white and nailed to the firmament. The only structure behind us was the cathedral, now just a stone memory embedded in a green, pastoral field.
"I hadn't seen plants down here before."
"Nor the moon, I wager."
I lifted my gaze. That immense satellite raced along its orbit, surrounded by a myriad of bright stars. If I had known where I'd end up after dying, maybe I'd have spent more time stargazing while alive.
Then, on the horizon, a red sphere rose—three times larger than the moon—followed by other globes: some gigantic, others encircled by rings. My breath caught.
"Planets?"
Charon nodded, guiding me toward a small masonry building. "Dead planets, destroyed by cataclysms. My personal collection." He pointed at a crimson planetoid with a double ring towering over the others. "That one is my favorite."
"How… how did you manage to gather entire planets?"
He laughed, and the stars seemed to shiver over his crooked silhouette. "Let's say having giant arks at my command helps."
I pointed toward a star burning brighter than the rest, the size of a ping-pong ball. "And those? Do stars end up here too, once they die?"
"That's another story." He cut me off brusquely. Not wanting to push my luck, I followed in silence.
We reached a circular chapel with a dome. He pushed the door open, and the interior revealed itself: a marble hexagon, white and bare, except for a massive carved oar suspended midair, illuminated by a shaft of light filtering through the oculus above.
He extended his hand and grasped it firmly. "This is what men once mistook for a winnowing shovel—belonging to the finest sailors—and now it's mine. Of all my relics, this one is the most precious. And with it, I'll take you wherever you wish."
We stepped outside again, and the sky had already changed: two violet planets and a sea-green giant traced arcs across the firmament.
We re-entered the casino. Down the nave, a figure approached us: Allu, her sultry stride unmistakable, clutching a leather sack.
"I brought the money," she sing-songed, her voice a velvet caress on the ears.
Charon took the sack, weighed it, then slapped her hard. The succubus collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Too little." His voice thundered across the gaming tables, drawing stares.
"We couldn't do better today…" she pleaded, expertly—enough that I would've forgiven her—but Charon wasn't fooled. A kick sent her crumpling again.
"That's the second time you fail. Be careful if you want to stay alive."
"Yes…" she whimpered.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, Master."
"Now get out."
Allu fled, and Charon turned toward me. "With succubi you must be firm, if you want results. And frankly, not only with them…"
We crossed the last stretch of nave, demons and gamblers parting as we passed. Once we crossed the threshold, instead of the street with the Rose of Virtues sign, I found myself in a vast quadriporticus, as large as the basilica itself, complete with fountain and bell tower. The façades were adorned with three tiers of sacred mosaics, and in the pediments, two cities: Jerusalem and Bethlehem.
We moved toward the center of the courtyard, where a small glowing boat awaited. Only then did something yank my attention violently: a massive, rectangular golden mosaic depicting Christ reaching out to Peter on a boat crowded with Apostles amid a storm, with angelic choirs in the background.
"But that… I've seen that before!"
Under his beard, I imagined a grin full of fangs. "Exactly. The Navicella."
My breath vanished. The mosaic I had studied in pieces, relocated and mangled over centuries, stood here whole. My skin crawled.
"So… this church is…?"
"Yes, my dear. Welcome to Saint Peter's."
The heart of Christianity, turned into a brothel-casino of the damned. Telling anyone on Earth would've earned an instant excommunication. Before me, the true Basilica of Saint Peter—before Julius II rebuilt it—stood intact.
"Are you coming?" Charon was already beside a small silver boat near the fountain. I approached.
"Get in. Where do you want to go?"
"Home."
"Then think of the place—fiercely. I'll open the way with the oar."
He lifted the relic above his head and drove it into the floor. The oar ignited, and ancient letters from a lost alphabet blazed along the handle as the stone beneath melted, turning to thick, red water. The basilica trembled, dissolving into a mist of fluorescent shards.
"Ready?" he roared.
"Yes!"
The boat began spinning, and I clung to the gunwale. The world whirled at supersonic speed, a vortex of light and champagne fizz.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!" I shouted, eyes blinded, balance gone.
"Have you thought well? You can't undo it if you're wrong!"
"Yes, damn it!" I screamed, desperate, gripping the railing.
"Good."And he struck me full in the face with the oar.
I fell into the prismatic waters, which closed over my head. Multicolored currents wrapped around me, glittering. Then everything turned white.
I woke in the center of my real living room, the one in Cittadella—not the dingy room with empty bookshelves I'd been stuck with in Hell. The atmosphere was watery, blurred, amber, as if I were floating inside a column of cider. Everything looked intact, yet sharper than memory should allow.
My Fender on the wall—companion of dreams never fulfilled—stared back like a sonic ghost. Family photos smiled from behind their glass, stubborn against time. My leather armchair, no doubt still shaped to my backside, waited softly for my return. Clara's piano gleamed with the familiar domestic aura, and even the houseplants I had always hated seemed newly alive.
The English clock struck the ghost hour as I walked down the portrait corridor. A black diagonal drape had been placed over my oil painting: Jerome's fanatical sense of etiquette, as unshakable as ever.
I climbed the stairs slowly, savoring each muffled creak of the wood. At the top, my ex-butler's deep snoring ruled from the guest room. On the opposite side, the door of the master bedroom. That room. The one Clara and I had shared for a lifetime.
My heart pounded harder. I sped up. Banged my shin on the usual corner of the writing desk and cursed, without stopping. At the door, my hand trembled. I held my breath to keep it from rattling my jaw and pressed my fingers to the cold brass of the knob. I pushed. The door clicked softly.
I entered.
The bed lay at the far end. A body curled under the blankets, face barely emerging from the pillow. I approached with hesitant steps, stomach churning. Clara. Sleeping as always: bundled up, tucked into her cocoon of dreams. Only her hair—soft, fragrant—spilled messily across the pillowcase.
I leaned down, fingers trembling.
"Clara…" I whispered.
Her eyes flew open. She sat upright, turning on the light, as the floor beneath me dissolved. The solid planks of my home turned into a viscous ocean that began pulling me under.
I fell.
The last thing I saw was her face—those beautiful eyes wide with confusion. Then the prismatic water swallowed me, and everything disappeared.