Michelangelo's David
by Bonnie Pardoe
Happy Birthday.That's what I said to myself when I saw it.
According to the diary of Michelangelo, it took forty men five days to move it; archways were torn down, narrow streets widened until finally it stood outside the Palazzo Vecchio.
And an awesome thing it is, too: over fourteen feet tall, chiseled from solid marble. The master claimed the block he had been given was flawed, but you would never know it from the finished statue.
Happy Birthday.
Put into place sometime during the year 1504. The year I was born. Though no one will tell you I look that old. For several reasons. The first being the simple fact that this is the year 1904, which makes me 400 years old. The second reason being, I stopped aging in 1531, when I ceased to be mortal.
Still, few would even peg me for twenty-seven -- the age at which I "died." There's something about me, always has been, which people take for youth and immaturity. I don't mind, though. Any time anyone underestimates your abilities, your experiences, your knowledge, you have the upper hand -- and I have grown rather fond of that.
Happy Birthday.
And here before me stood David, fiercer and more powerful than his adversary Goliath ever was. Like me, more powerful than any twenty-seven-year-old who ever lived. Ironic, really, though I doubt either of our creators really had that in mind.
No, Michelangelo meant his David to be a warning: whoever governed Florence should govern justly and defend it bravely. I, on the other hand, was created to be the governor: to protect those who cherish life and to kill those who do not. Standing there before him inside the Galeria dell'Academia, I could not help but believe that his was the easier task. It is a subject I have struggled with these past centuries and I find that it is wearing on me, especially these last few days.
Happy Birthday.
I've certainly had more than my fair share of life. So, who am I to deprive anyone of theirs? It's not like my master left me with any rules, any guidelines. "Cherish" is quite the intangible, I've discovered. Whose life, after all, is it important to cherish? Your own, or someone else's? Does the man who kills in self-defense cherish his life any more or less than the man who murders for any other reason? Does the man who must beg for or even steal his daily bread have a life worth cherishing?
I can't say I'm at all that equipped to answer these questions. What in my mortal life prepared me for this? What in my master's brief night of teachings? Nothing.
And I have long tired of the philosophy of the issue.
Better that I knew my victims' fates beforehand, so that I could choose the how of their deaths instead of the when. Certainly, my way can be far more pleasant than most means of demise, if I choose it to be.
Happy Birthday.
And in walked a present, wrapped up in yellow satin and white lace, just for me.
She was very pretty, though, I could not accurately judge her age. Still, she dressed as an unmarried young lady does, so she was probably not less than eighteen and not more than twenty-two, based on the standards of the day. Any older and she would have thrown off the bright colors and rich fabrics for something far more practical, far more frugal, as would suit someone with few remaining prospects who was beholden to a father or brother for her livelihood.
A distance behind her, down the hallway, came a gentleman of fine dress, English by the look of his tailoring. He was a sturdy one. A firm scowl marked his brow, and I could easily imagine that a firm hand was hidden inside the pocket of his overcoat. Was this his younger sister, his fiancé, or, perhaps, his new bride?
I watched as she neared to stand before the statue. Obviously unfamiliar with the great work, her amazement of the masterpiece was as great as mine was of her. Such lines, such form.
But then he came to her side, roughly taking her arm. "Staring at such a thing," he said, in more of a growl than a whisper, and moved her swiftly away down the corridor. Art to some is indecency made solid to others, especially the modern Englishman. I wanted to scoff at the learned gentleman's ignorant behavior, but something inside me would not permit it.
I followed them. Down the corridor they moved and out into the evening air of the piazza. His anger at the very existence of such a piece of so-called art was channeled into the grip he had upon her arm. Even with my keen hearing, I was now too far away to make out the words he continued to rage at her -- but I could tell by the expression on her face that they were not the first she had ever heard from him. Nor would they be the last, I easily imagined, unless I made them so.
Back to their hotel they quickly went, her stumbling over the cobble stones of the street, saved from falling numerous times not from his concern but from his iron grip. I followed them only far enough into the lobby to determine the number of the room in which they stayed, then, outside, using the darkness of the narrow streets to my advantage, I made my way up until I was hovering in the shadows just outside their balcony-less window. Then I lifted the latch, unlocking the panes, and waited for them to arrive.
The door was flung wide and was quickly followed by the young lady who tumbled to the floor, finally released from the man's hold. Then he entered, gently closing the door behind him before approaching the fallen figure, whom I now knew must be no less than his bride. He yanked her up, chastising her for soiling her expensive dress.
I waited.
I knew he would strike her, but I vowed to do nothing until he actually moved to do so. I have been wrong before about people; tonight I needed to be certain.
Call it my new philosophy: take those who are already damned and let the guilty be punished for it.
When he raised his arm to strike her, I threw open the window and, in an instant, came between them to catch his fist just inches from her face. He was a good half foot taller than me, and nearly twice my weight, but I held him off as if he were a small child. The anger on his face and the force of his aborted blow told me that he would have killed her, whether it had been his conscious intent or not.
She fell away from us, as if in a faint, but when the floor met her backside, she quickly used it to push herself away from us until she was huddled against the edge of the settee. As my eyes followed her, her husband used my momentary distraction to his advantage, shifting his weight to twist his large hand free of my fingers. He then used his other arm to deal me a blow straight to my gut, lifting me a good foot off the ground, but the surprise of his attack was not enough to give him a true advantage and a moment later he lay immobile on the floor.
The young woman did not know what to think as I approached her. Certainly I had saved her, but I was also the stranger who had broken into her hotel room, through a fourth story window no less. I could not fault her for cowering.
I knelt before her, taking her chin in the cup of my hand. My first assessment of her across the gallery had been correct and I could not imagine anyone wanting to shatter such a display of beauty. As I stared into her eyes, I knew that I must have her, I must let her feel what it is like to be cherished. Certainly nothing in her immediate past had given her such a feeling. And, whether or not I chose to end the life of her husband, her future promised her nothing more.
No, I would make her feel cherished and then I would end her life before she could know anything else. It was my birthday, but it would be my gift to her.
But she trembled before me, her warm eyes pooling up with tears.
"Prego, il singore, non lo danneggia," she pleaded with me in perfectly schooled Italian, thinking me a native. "Please, signore, do not hurt me. I have done nothing wrong. He was just ... angry."
I shushed her as I stroked her jaw lightly with my thumb. "Perchè era arrabbiato?" I inquired. "Why was he angry?"
But she shook her head. What woman could truly know what angered men, especially their husbands, when she had done her best to be obedient?
"When did it begin?" I asked, still in Italian.
She swallowed hard, obeying propriety which instructed her to hold her tongue, but my voice cajoled her mind and finally she said, "This is our honeymoon. We were wed but three days ago. He came to me, as a bride must expect her husband to, and I tried to be dutiful as my mother instructed me, but...." The tears spilled down her cheeks and I could hear the muscles of her throat tightening as she tried to fight them.
"Calma voi stessi," I soothed gently in her ear. "Calm yourself. You are with me now."
She nodded and a moment later continued: "He came to me, but I did not please him. I mean," she swallowed hard again, searching for the words which would have been no more easy to find in her native English. "He found me ... unclean. And it angered him."
I wanted to scoff again at his ignorance, but I could not dismiss it so easily. "You cannot blame yourself for being a woman. No true man would want anything less. His lack of patience was not with you, but with his own nature."
"I repulsed him" she declared in a hoarse whisper.
"No," I breathed. "Not one as lovely as you. A man should feel honored to drink in such beauty." And for that compliment I was rewarded with the hint of a blushing smile. A woman she was in body alone.
"I do not repulse ... you?" she spoke again, the smile replaced not by coy, veiled eyes, but by wide, innocent ones.
"Were I of another nature, I would paint your aspect, sculpt your figure, worship at your alter...." Then, with a smile tempting my own lips, I remembered that my nature did fall to the latter, so I slipped my hand from her chin and bowed reverently before her.
I did not know if she would fight me, so I was relieved when her blush became a gasping sigh as my hands found her ankles hidden beneath yards of lace hem. In the instant that her head lulled back, a smile growing on her lips, I knew that she was mine.
As I moved my hands up her legs, I pushed aside the yards of fabric. When I reached her hips, I quickly untied the lacing then slowly pulled the bloomers down to reveal skin as soft and pale as the marble statues housed inside the Galeria dell'Academia where I had first set eyes upon her.
I raised her knees to pull the fabric free of her legs and was rewarded by a tantalizing glimpse of red. Without hesitation I bent down to taste her artesian fountain. I lapped at it with my tongue, drinking in the unique flavors.
Some compare the blood to wine, but not because of the similarity in color. No. It is the complex nature of the blood which brings to mind the comparison. And a woman's fluid is not all together different -- a cognac, though, rather than a cabernet.
The more I drank, the more I craved, and her moans only sweetened the flavor, like honey from the hive. From above the fold of her dress, I heard her moans grow stronger, faster. I knew the pleasure I was giving her and it pleased me. I licked and suckled at the folds of her moist skin until I felt the muscles in her thighs tremble against my cheeks. A moment later a muffled scream reached my ears, then she fell slack, though my hunger was only just peaking. As she lay panting from the pleasure, I bared my fangs and sunk them sharply into the pulse inside her thigh.
She screamed again, but this time it was not muffled. Her body went ridged, pain confused with pleasure in her mind. I moved my hands from beneath her cheeks up to her hips, forcing her legs to remain still until the strength of her blood drained away down my throat. But as her body slacked once more, I abandoned her loins. I felt the need to look upon her countenance again, while there was still blood enough in her to light the faintest of blushes upon her cheeks.
Happy Birthday.
She saw me, and though her eyes told me she knew what I had done, she smiled up at me. It was the best present I'd ever received: the accomplishment of what I had set out to do. Here, below me, this beautiful, young woman knew what it was like to be wanted, worshipped, loved; and, as she fought to keep the weak smile upon her lips, she finally knew what it was like to cherish life.
"Siete così bei, il mio dolce," I breathed. "You are so beautiful, my sweet. A beauty for the ages." I wished then that Michelangelo could have seen her, could have captured her visage to perfection in marble -- could have made immortal the stillness which now covered her like a shroud.
I left her still form then and made my way into the side room. It took me only a moment to find the object I sought, then I immediately returned to her side.
I took one last look at her features, trying to burn the beauty of her features into my memory. Then I knelt beside her and stole a kiss from her lips before I placed the straight razor to her throat.
Not enough blood soaked into the carpeting, but few if any would have enough knowledge to realize that once they found her.
Rising, I moved to her unconscious husband and placed the bloodied razor in his hand. Then I locked the door to the room and returned to the window. Without another glance toward the occupants, I slipped easily over the sill, closing the unmarred panes behind me.
I moved unnoticed down the dark street which ran beside the hotel, though I had nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Wandering through the narrow streets of the city, I was almost surprised when I found myself before the dark Palazzo Vecchio. From there I made my way back to the Galeria dell'Academia, deserted save for the inattentive night watchman. Silently I made my way through the lonely halls, back to the place where I had first seen her.
Happy Birthday.
I stood again at the foot of the statue of David.
Magnificent. Immortal.
But I thought only of how alone he was, there, in the alcove.
END
Grazie molto a Nancy W. per il suo portrait bello di David di Michelangelo.