Buono’s Tale

He staggered back towards the docks. Buono wasn’t drunk any more,  but his head felt light and he needed to concentrate to stay upright. He wshed he’d bought some bread with part of Paolo’s fifty nummi.  He had fasted all the previous day to prepare for his tonsuring, and nothing but wine and some seawater had passed his lips since then. As a noviate he had taken fasting well. It brought him a sharp focus for prayer. He also got a certain dark satisfaction watching fat-faced Pio suffer through the fast-days.

Now it was Buono who suffered. He did not dare to pray, and the belly-full of wine only reminded him how hungry he was. Hunger heightened all of his senses. His growling stomach boomed in his ears and he cringed from the sun’s light. His skin itched where his damp under-tunic had dried to it. His own stench disgusted him.

For the second time that day Buono jumped into the lagoon. This time he stayed near shore. He soaked himself up to his neck until the worst of the filth floated away.

When he walked out of the sea again in his dripping clothes, an old woman dropped her basket of laundry in alarm.

“The Virgin save me! What evil are you doing, hiding down there like that?”

“No evil, I was only washing my clothes,” Buono answered.

“Most people take them off first.”

Buono laughed. “Then I’d really have given you a surprise, wouldn’t I?”

The crone drew in a sharp breath. “You mean to rape me, don’t you? Help! Someone!”

“No! No, I swear, I won’t hurt you.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Food,” Buono admitted. “I’m hungry.”

“I’ve not a crust for you. You might try the monestary.” The old woman put her basket on her shoulder and turned away.

“I need to find Paolo,” Buono muttered.

“Paolo, you say?” She stopped and looked at Buono over her shoulder. “Which Paolo?”

“Which?” Buono repeated.

“Not Old Blind Paolo?”

“No, not that one.”

“Paolo the Hunchback?”

“Not him either.”

“What does he look like?” She asked.

“Middle years, a wide face,” Buono said.  “He shaves it but not close. Hair is bald in the front, the back black and wooly.”

The old woman frowned. “Not Paolo the Buggerer? How did he act? Queer? You do seem a bit…”

“I– I don’t think it was that one. He saved me from drowning and gave me fifty nummi.”

“That could have been Paolo the Buggerer.”

Buono shook his head. “Let’s say it wasn’t, shall we?”

“Then it has to be Paolo da Siracusa.”

“He’s from Syracuse?”

“Yes,” she said, “and that’s where he’s going. Won’t be back for months.”

The old woman pointed east along the shore. A sleek galley had just left the quay. Dozens of oars splashed in the water as it pulled away, out to sea.

Buono had never been a drinker. He raced to the bottom of the jug, tossing back wine as fast as he could fill his cup. The wine was the only thing in Buono’s belly and he could hear it sloshing around as he swayed from side to side on the bench.

He tried to pour out one last drink but missed the cup entirely. Buono reached out to steady the jug and lost his balance. His head crashed into the table.  He let it rest there, soaking his hair in the puddle of spilled wine. It felt strangely comfortable. He closed his eyes and let the sick-sweet, acid smell of the wine fill his nostrils. The wine worked as well as Buono had hoped: he did not dream.

“Hey, Innkeeper! Some dinner for my men, there!”

The shout roused Buono. He opened one eye and watched sideways as a group of sailors entered the inn. It had to be after noon, time for the mid-day meal.

“Shove these drunks aside and make some room!” one of the mariners bellowed. Rough hands closed on Buono’s shoulders.

“Christ, the stink!  This one’s pissed himself!” The hands released him and the sailors took another table.

Buono woke again when the innkeeper brought a clattering tray of hot stew to the sailors. “What’s the news from Genoa?” the innkeeper asked them.

“Carlo. Carlo-by-God’s-nutsack-King of the Franks,” the sailors’ captain said. “They say he’s coming to Rome.”

“Rome? Why-ever for?” the innkeeper dutifully asked.

“You know how he saved Pope Leo’s holy ass last year? Well, they had a big council way up in Germania last year. Oh, yes, Carlo made them all come—but they still wanted to cut out Leo’s tongue and blind him. So now the great Carlo is coming to Rome himself.”

“I heard a man say Carlo wants to be made Roman Emperor,” another sailor added.

“Hmm. I doubt the Roman Empress is going to like that,” the innkeeper ventured.

“Her? Ha!” the captain slurped his stew and brown gravy ran into his beard. “Those Greek assholes in Constantinople calling themselves Imperator Romanii is a joke that stopped being funny a long time ago. This is about as far West as anyone gives bugger-all about the Emperess Irene.”

“This is about as far East as anyone’s going to give bugger-all about Emperor Carlo,” the other sailor said.

The captain laughed. “Hey, innkeeper! Which one will you serve? I want to know. Emperor Carlo or Empress Irene?”

The innkeeper puffed his chest. “I’m Venetian, aren’t I? Bugger them both.”

“Venice! Bugger the world!” the captain roared. The sailors drained their cups and sent the innkeeper scurrying for more wine.

Buono lifted his head from the table and belched. His hair was matted with wine and his empty stomach churned. He realized the sailor was right: he had indeed pissed himself.

“That’s no way to answer a toast.” The captain motioned to his men. A pair of sailors with thick legs and crushing fingers lifted Buono up by his armpits.

“What’s your name?” the captain demanded.

“Buo— pardon me. It’s Buono.”

“Buono? You? Another joke. Not funny.” The captain smashed a meaty fist under Buono’s ribs.

Buono bent and wheezed. Bile surged up from his belly but he kept it in his mouth. He straightened and returned the captain’s frozen stare.

“Well? Didn’t I hit you hard enough, boy?”

“Oh, I’ll piss blood all right,” Buono replied. “But I’m a Venetian too, you Giudecca sheep-reamer.”

The captain laughed. “All right. All right, Buono the Venetian. I’ll let you walk out of here, if you can.”

Buono nodded and turned. He willed one step to follow the next until he stood outside in the afternoon sun.

Awake under the olive tree, Buono sucked air in hoarse gasps. He pushed himself up off the ground and sat against the tree trunk. Sunlight shone through his white under-tunic hanging on the branch. He hadn’t slept long: the sun had barely moved, and the under-tunic was still damp.  He put it on anyway. The discomfort would keep him from falling asleep and dreaming again.

Buono picked up a few small bronze coins, his change from buying the grey tunic. He clenched them in his fist and left the olive grove.

Malamocco was a low, swampy island in the Venetian lagoon. Its first settlers hadn’t come by choice: they fled the Huns in the last days of the old Roman Empire. Waves of invasion scoured the mainland, but no one bothered the Venetians. It wasn’t worth building a boat.

That was hundreds of years ago. The town Buono entered was still just a collection of wooden shacks by the sea. The only buildings of any substance were the monastery and the Doge’s palace. Buono didn’t have any use for either of those places. He walked into a tavern with smoke-stained walls and a packed-dirt floor. Some drunks left over from the night before lay slumped over the tables. Flies buzzed around puddles of spilled drink and vomit.

Buono sat at a rough-hewn bench. A groggy, fat innkeeper with a blue-white face approached him.

“Morning. I’ve got one good bed left, if you don’t mind sharing with a snorer.”

Buono shook his head. “No bed. How much wine can I get for this?” He slapped his coins down on the table.

“It’s a bit early, isn’t it?” the innkeeper asked.

“I just dreamed the Lord Christ in a rowboat made my own brother drown me.”

The innkeeper nodded slowly. “That’d shake any man. You know, you should go up the hill and talk to—”

“Just bring the… the damned wine. Please.”

The innkeeper shrugged. A minute later he put a clay jug and a wooden cup in front of Buono. Buono poured the wine. It smelled like wet doghair and vinegar. He drained the cup and it burned in his empty stomach. He gasped for air and poured another. Buono’s belly gurgled in protest.

One of the snoozing men stirred. “Hey, brother, could you—”

“I’m not your brother,” Buono said, tossing back half the cup.

“Sure, sure, I was just—”

“Go get buggered, would you?” Buono drank the rest and poured a third cup. It was beginning to taste better. He felt his head begin to float above his shoulders.

“Asshole,” the other man said. He laid his head on the table and went back to sleep.

The grey tunic Buono bought was threadbare and patched, but at least no one could mistake it for a monk’s habit. He stripped off his wet under-tunic and draped it over the branch of an olive tree to dry. He put on his new garment and lay down under the tree. The wool scratched his bare skin and roots poked into his back, but it didn’t matter. Buono only felt his body grow heavy, sinking into the earth like a stone into mud.

He dreamed he was back in the lagoon, deep in its blue-green haze. Water pounded in his ears. The disk of sunlight on the water’s surface was far, far above. His feet touched bottom, and he realized he was holding a large stone. He dropped it and kicked himself free of the soft mud that sucked at his toes. His throat burned for air. He flapped and thrashed his limbs. His mouth begged to scream, to gulp a lungful of cool water, but he kept it clamped shut. He reached for the dark shape floating above him.

Hands grasped his and pulled him aboard the boat. He lay in the bottom, coughing and gagging. A face hovered over him, the same face that had often peered down into his cradle. It was wiser now, lined with age, and it was framed by a fur-trimmed purple cap.

“Aberto?”

His older brother frowned down at him. “I am not often called by that name, my son. I am Innocentus, bishop of Ravenna. Linus, do you know this man?”

“No, your Grace, I do not.” Brother Linus crouched next to the bishop, studying Buono’s face. Another man rowed.

“Aberto, don’t you know me? I’m your brother, En—” A spew of seawater gushed from his mouth and choked off the word.

“All men are brothers,” the bishop said.

“That’s not what I mean! I’m—” He threw his head over the side as a flood of water rushed up from his belly. He retched into the lagoon.

Brother Linus patted his shoulder-blade. “Don’t try to talk any more.”

“Do you suppose this man is drunk?” the bishop asked.

Linus frowned. “I should hope not. It’s barely nine in the morning.”

Buono stared into both mens’ eyes. “Don’t you know me? Either of you?”

“I do not,” Linus said.

“Nor I,” said the bishop.

The man rowing the boat turned his face to them. It radiated pure, white light. Buono squeezed his eyes shut and cringed away.

“I do not know him either,” the rower said, “for he does not know Me.”

Linus and the bishop looked at each other. Without a word, they seized Buono by the arms and tumbled him over the side. He sank to the bottom, screaming the air out of his lungs. Seawater crushed him and filled him. High above, the sun’s glint on the water dimmed to blackness.

TWO

Salt water stung Ennio’s eyes. He kicked his legs, searching for the bottom. Dull echoes throbbed in his ears, and murky-blue green surrounded him. He could see a bright disk of sunshine on the water’s surface above him. He tried to will his mouth open, to suck the cool water into his lungs. His lips wouldn’t obey. He flailed his arms, whirling and thrashing, his mouth clamped shut.

Something hard struck the back of his head. He cried out, blowing a cloud of bubbles, and began to sink. But strong fingers twined in his hair and pulled. His head broke the surface and Ennio sucked in a lungful of air in one breath. Someone dragged him up out of the water and dropped him across the gunwale of a small boat. The hard edge hit him square in the belly, and Ennio retched salt water into the bottom of the boat. His weight tipped the gunwale nearly into the water.

“Well?  Throw a leg over, before you sink me!” the boatman said.

Ennio obliged, and tumbled aboard. His wet under-tunic stuck to his body.

“Looks like you ran out of dock, my friend.”

“I didn’t see your boat,” Ennio replied.

“You had your eyes closed,” the boatman said. “You know, you should have used a rock.”

“Excuse me?”

“A rock. You could have jumped with a big one and gone straight to the bottom. If you didn’t think you’d hold onto it, you could have tied it to your neck with rope.”

“If you knew I was trying to drown myself,” Ennio asked, “why did you save me?”

“Now, how could I be sure of a thing like that? Here, take an oar.” The boatman moved over and let Ennio sit next to him on the bench. The oar was a rough, squarish block of wood lashed to the gunwale with hide. Ennio’s soft hands protested as he dug the squat blade into the water. They landed the boat at the foot of the dock.

“Are you going to try it again?” the boatman asked. “I can help with the rock.”

“No. I’m glad you saved me. Thank you.”

“Look at you, all in white,” the boatman said, laughing. “Like a baptism.”

“A baptism means new life,” Ennio said. “I was trying to end mine.”

“You should go up there and talk to the monks.” The boatman pointed at the building up the hill. “They might–why are you laughing?”

“It’s nothing. Thank you again.” Ennio stepped out of the boat and into his sandals. He let his water-logged habit lie in the weeds.

“I think there are two kinds of men who try to kill themselves,” the boatman said. “The guilty, and the failures. By the look of you it was a bit of both.”

Ennio bent to tighten his sandals. “Perhaps you should get me that rock after all.”

“No need. That man drowned. I saved someone else. Here.” The boatman flipped him a bronze coin. “Buy some clothes. Get drunk if you want. Then come find me. I’m Paolo.”

“I owe you my life, Paolo.”

“And fifty nummi. What’s your name?”

“Call me Buono,” he answered.