Sample this excerpt from Book One of the Curator’s Series
by Richard T Harrell
The Bookbinder’s Signet
The air held onto a lingering warmth in this mid-Autumn day as Giorgio made his way from his Bookbinder’s shop to his weekly visit with his son. He breathed the thick summer moistness as he crossed his balcony overlooking the Angrogna River. His valley in the Piedmont of Italy moved between seasons as naturally as the sheep and cows that were herded moved slowly through the narrow streets in the Pellice villages. The Fall was fighting summer’s grip and he swiped the light sweat across the permanent creases of his forehead.
The bus that carried him to their meeting place was already filled with the usual suspects. There was the familiar handful of tourists, along with a few students heading to late classes or jobs. Sara from the corner bread shop was there. Emile and Maria from above the flower store sat in the front seats everyone reserved for them; she carried her shopping bags, he had a bouquet of carnations. Giorgio hoisted his leather bag securely on his right shoulder, shifted his plastic water bottle to his left hand and reached into his shirt pocket. The driver nodded to Giorgio as he validated his ticket. They traded buongiorno’s as the bus pulled into the street. As they exited, all four nodded their goodbye’s to the bus driver at the stop just after the fourth roundabout.
The gates had been opened since early in the morning as Giorgio made his way to his weekly chat with Andrea. His folding chair waited for him to join his son at their usual spot, He set his water bottle beside the chair. As he sat with a greeting, he paused for a quick prayer before sharing what was on his mind. He appreciate these moments each week. His son was a good listener.
“Andrea, you know I’ve missed you. But I am glad you put up with this old man’s ramblings. Mama says to tell you she loves you and always will,” Giorgio waited to make sure he paused to settle into the rhythm of the conversation. He began the same way each time before rehearsing the events of his week.
“I saw the brothers at the Sacra monastery on Wednesday. Like always, I stayed the night since, well, you know how long it takes to get to their place above Turin and back to the valley,” he explained, even though he knew Andrea was completely aware of the journey’s circuit his father takes nearly every week to rebind their ancient documents and books.
“This time, they had a very old Bible. You know the kind with the artist’s rendering in script of the first letter of each chapter,” he said. He anticipated his son’s nod in agreement.
Giorgio tilted his head to the side like he was stretching his neck muscles. He reached down for a sip from his water bottle. He continued, “Remember, I told you about the man who broke into the church? Si, he’s still out there; the thief. I never thought my years would carry me to such a time. Such offenses against a church, against the gift.” He made a noise between a groan and a rumble.
“I saw your daughter today,” Giorgio paused as he recalled their first encounter a week ago in the piazza. At first he wasn’t sure it was her. The auburn hair and slight lift of the nose at the end gave her away.
She looked like her father, he thought to himself. He rubbed his arthritic knuckles between his thumb and palm. His hands hurt this morning in the moist air. He reminisced with his son, “I wish I could still drum. Bah, these old fingers can’t hold the sticks anymore! Andrea, remember me teaching you when you were just older enough to sit on the stool. Such a natural. Much better than me. I haven’t sat behind a kit in years.”
He returned to the thoughts from earlier today, He talked slowly, unhurried words shared each memory, “Anyway, I told you she had been living in your flat on the coast. Si, I made sure the bill was paid each month. Si, Lerici. Si, all these years. And her job has brought her here to the valley. Si, she is…she’s beautiful. Has your green eyes. Sad eyes…and she has your nose. Quite striking,” he began to wrap up his chat.
He got up slowly, favoring his left side like always. He finished the visit with a promise, “I always said I’d be here for you, son. I missed just one day. I’m sorry.” He wiped his eyes on the back of his age spotted hands. He reached into his pocket for a pack of tissues for his nose. He was not embarrassed to cry in front of Andrea. He asked, “Can I bring her to visit you? Your daughter? I can see in her eyes she misses her chats with you.”
He set his water bottle down. He reached into his shoulder pack for the flowers he’d purchased across from his apartment in Lucerna-San Giovanni. He placed them near the top of the stone grave cover closer to Andrea’s face. Giorgio nodded and turned to leave.
Part One
The voices shouted in his mind and pressured him to prevail. The Anarchist bordered on insanity as he sought to do the will of the voices that demanded both success and obedience.
He felt, more than heard, the words: “Ruin. Confusion. Fury.” They were swelling inside: “It’s not here. Find the road…the gate! It has to be here…You have to take it away from eyes so gullible… so easily deceived.”
His long face and wide lips twisted in his fury. He was used to the dialog by now. The voices inside demanded subservience, but he knew they were right. “It cannot, it will not see the light of day,” the voices resolved. “What the enemy called religious art must not be exposed to the gullible again, ever. Destroy it…destroy it all!”
He rehearsed how he got to this village, and then became lost. The message last week mapped it all for him; which side streets to take, where to park, how to enter the church in the dark. He’d gassed up the Mercedes-Benz box van. The drive into the little no-name village was easy. What was it called? Pradi? Prali? Yes. That was it. Prali. Strange place, he thought, for the enemy to display his wretched pictures. But it was everywhere he went. Especially in the buildings they infest. The voices insisted he find this church. This building hollow of meaning. They were wise, the voices; and he listened. They made him strong. Bold. Heroic. Unconquerable.
The road narrowed in the village as it coiled around ancient buildings. The GPS lost signal. “What was the street? Borgo something?” He asked the voices. Panic intensified. Then he found it. Borgo Ghigo. He cut the lights and eased to a stop just beyond and across from the security gate.
“They trust too much,” he said aloud as he walked up to the gate. “Well-done,” they said. The gate was ajar. Exposed. Unguarded. If it was a treasure like they boasted, they would protect it. Secure it, even. But not here. Not in this village. Another reason to reject the fairy stories. “It’s why we must succeed,” he thought…”we will succeed…it will be taken. Destroyed. The story…destroyed. Silenced. Forever.” The voices reminded, “Shroud it in darkness. Bury it for all time, never to be seen, never to deceive anyone again. And then we rule. In the end. We rule what’s left.”
The veil of darkness gave him the confidence to slide through the gate, around the hedge of bay laurel and quickly past the garden’s single overhead light. He was sure he could go anywhere. He looked both ways, then tested the door. It was the oldest door and oldest lock he’d ever seen, old and weak. Another reason not to believe. It didn’t matter though. He took a box knife and scratched a line into the window to the left of the door. He pulled out the plastic packaging tape and followed the line etched into the glass. With a thin crowbar, he tapped the outline until he could easily, with a few clinks, break through. He could hear the breaking glass again. A surge of excitement, followed by fear.
Panic rushed in. He listened, for what? An alarm? A random villager? Someone just beyond the shadows? All was quiet except the deep pounding in his ears, and the voices: “Well done, so far.” He was destined to succeed. He knew the voices were pleased. He reached through the gaping hole in the window, toward the door and the lock. He cut his arm on the sharp glass. Blood. No matter. Blood for the cause. Blood for the victory. After four turns, he was in.
He found the room with the art upstairs. The pasteboard that held the drawing was to the left. His head tilted as he stared. He forced memories from the past deep inside. Deeper, he demanded. Beyond remembering. Anger raged just below the surface as he hesitated before ripping the ancient artwork from the wall. He saw the three faces. Just like the voices told him to look for. He knew these faces, or who they represented: the deceiver, the deceived, and his hero, Judas, looking on, with his hand on the supper table. He wrenched it from its frame on the wall and folded it roughly along the ancient lines long fixed; he turned to go. Halfway to the door, the dialog rejoined. “Go back,” they said. “Let them know. Leave the mark. Let them see who we are. Declare the war. Say the name with the sign. We are Anarchist.”