The Third Uncle

Chapter One: The Third Uncle

Chapter One - The Third Uncle

    Squinting into the reflected sunlight over his spoon, he admired the consummate artistry of Bernini’s Fontana Dei Quattro Fiumi, the large, white statues depicting the Ganges, the Danube, the Nile and the Rio de la Plata directed and redirected the flow of water toward the large basin through a glittering rainbow. A sudden breeze threw a light cooling spray over him, and he turned away, cursing. Quickly grabbing a napkin, and careful not to let the ink smear, he patted dry the parchment he had been writing upon. Picking up the page, and reading over the letter, he added notations here and there, until, satisfied, he withdrew his quill from the ink pot one last time and signed his signature with his customary flourish over the bottom of the document. He frowned a moment, and then decided to add a postscript reminding its receiver to study, get eight hours of sleep and be patient with his brothers. 

   He rummaged around inside his satchel for a box containing his special ecclesiastica vermillion seal wax. Carefully dripping some over the back of the envelope, he fastened it by making an impression into the smooth mould with his ring. He bundled the letter together with the rest of his correspondence, and then happily stretched, wrapping his arms around his generous stomach in the still warm late-afternoon sun, and closed his eyes to the beauty around him. ‘What a glorious day, and how nice it was to be home again.’ 

                                         Or so he thought.    

    A small and sudden ruckus interrupted his revelry, nearly toppling him from his chair. Glancing about, he found the source of the disturbance fifty metres away over his left shoulder. Some soldiers were dragging a youth off between them, and they were being pursued, rather comically, by the young man’s equally young and pregnant wife, four toddlers, the mother and father of both parties, as well as extended relations, friends, hangers-on, and typically curious need-to-know-it-all neighbours. 

The protestations floating down his way through the confusion eventually revealed that the boy had deserted from the Grande Armée, and that most noble Corsican, the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte. Well, he thought, not everyone supported Le Petit Caporal and if they did, they weren’t keen on fighting in foreign lands for reasons unknown. Poor Europe, and worse - poor Italia! Shaking his head in disgust he grimaced, that was the way of things - for now. 

    Waving over a waiter, he settled his account and gave a little extra to ensure the delivery of the letters. He reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out his Breguet pocket-watch, and, with a quick glance at one of the twin clock towers of S. Agnese in Agone, he was satisfied of the correct hour. It was time to go!

     Rising from the table he collected his belongings, making his way the short distance through the burgeoning throng and across the filth littered piazza to one of the two smaller side-doors of the basilica. At this hour, the entrance to the church was already obstructed by old women dressed head to toe in black who found solace in the shared misery of their company and the daily ritual of mass. Behind them were the curious, the assorted devout, and the tourists from abroad with their foreign noses stuck firmly between the pages of their Baedecker's guide books, making them, he mused, oblivious to the morning pickpockets expertly plying their trade.

    Pushing past the too slow pilgrims he entered and glanced around. He paused. Although he practically grew up in churches, he was always surprised by the sudden change that transpired by simply walking across the threshold of one. Outside was the bright chaotic heat of a new day, and inside, the dark, cool tranquility of the house of God. 

    He silently moved across the stone floors, negotiating the filling pews and passing the four open altars until he found a point directly beneath the great dome. He pulled a small and cracked brown leather folio from his pocket and opened it to where he had previously placed a red velvet marker. The page revealed an architect’s diagram of the basilica he was in, with small hand-written notes and annotations running over and round the edges of the page. He quickly scanned the page and read what he found there to himself. 

    Snapping the book shut, he gazed up through the gentle haze of candle smoke and incense and tried to locate the direction the sunlight was filtering in through the windows of the dome. Having established that, he traced the chain of his pocket-watch to its source and drew it up to eye-level. Positioning the minute-hand so that it pointed in the direction of the sun, and by noting the halfway point between the minute-hand and twelve o’clock he was able to establish due south and follow its direction to the far wall. 

    This wall of the basilica, decorated with precious marbles and a gratuitous use of gold stucco, held a small, carefully hidden opening between two reliefs that displayed the martyrdom of Saint Agnese on the cross. ‘Well, well’ he thought, taking out his spectacles and placing them on his nose for a closer look. ‘It’s not as I would have imagined - but it does make sense.’ Looking around to ensure no-one was near enough to notice, he placed his shoulder-bag upon the ground and rummaged through it till he found a small leather-bound box. Taking it out, he carefully undid the gold clasp holding it shut and looked inside.

    Laying in a worn, blue and burgundy cavity, and wrapped in an old faded cloth was a woman’s toiletry mirror. It was bright sliver and not so ornate to be tastless, with violet coloured flecks sparkling across its surface.

   Standing up, he carefully slid the mirror into the hole in the wall and turned by its handle counter-clockwise until he felt a soft click from within. Carefully pulling the mirror out once more, he turned to inspect the basilica behind him for any sign of being watched.

    A movement behind a nearby pillar caught his attention, and before he could do anything about it, a rather small and unkempt altar-boy in a plain grey robe carrying a tray of smoking incense was suddenly upon him. Not knowing what else to do, he raised his hand to greet the child and accidentally knocked the tray, and its odiferous contents to the ground.

                                      The boy stood stock still.

   Stunned, and worried that this pious pupil might call for help, he dropped to his knees, and began to gather up the broken cones from the polished floor of the church. Satisfied he found them all, he placed the tray back into the oddly calm hands of the youth only to see that, in his haste, he had somehow stupidly placed the hand mirror on the tray as well. He snatched the glass back from the tray and hastily thrust it into his waistcoat pocket, only to miss, and have it clatter across the floor between them. He started to sweat. 

    ‘Well, good morning to you, young acolyte!’ He smiled in what he hoped was his most inconspicuous smile. 

    The boy brushed a shock of his gold hair behind his ear and inspected him with the largest glittering blue eyes he had ever seen. Very slowly, the young cleric put the tray down on the ground and took a step towards him. Feeling the intensity behind that strangely adult gaze, he pulled a worn handkerchief from his waistcoat and mopped his brow while gesturing back into the church and towards the dome.

     ‘You must be very proud to tend such a ...’ He hesitated, searching for the correct word, devout? Yes of course, dimwit that I am, he thought. 

    He started again, ‘Such a devout flock in this very magnificent basilica.’ The youth ignored him, and seemed to stand even more unnaturally still. Perhaps, he reasoned, this boy is doing some sort of silent penance. He smiled at the boy and tried to guess what the child was thinking while discreetly trying to roll the mirror up the wall and back into his waiting hand with his boot. The boy continued to stare right back at him and then, ever so slowly, his gaze moved down to the hand mirror peeking out from behind his trousers.

    Suddenly, and with surprising swiftness, the boy made an athletic lunge for the prize he was trying his best to conceal. Damn, he thought, I’m going to go straight to Hell for sure. Catching the child up under his arms and spinning him round, he placed his hand over his mouth to prevent him yelling out, and quickly snatched up the mirror from behind his leg. Then, with one more glance into the church and an apologetic prayer to God, hammered the struggling boy across the back of the head and pushed him face first into a crooked, old door, causing it to tumble open, and the two of them to disappear into the unseen darkness beyond it. 

    Now it may not have seemed so then, but that awkward and auspicious first meeting between the boy and I in the basilica of S. Agnese in Agone, would be the beginning of our becoming the very best of friends.