The Agostino family manor's presence loomed over the city like a specter. Flavio Agostino was an artist, a sculptor to be more precise; eccentric, and queer to the people of Sicily. Only the wealthy could get close to him to see the genius neatly wrapped within his madness. His work was so striking, vibrant, and life-like. One of his statues still sits in the center of the city, high on a pedestal—a sculpture of a young boy holding a sword. He’s not smiling, simply holding the sword straight up into the air. At certain points of the day, when the sun is just right, it looks as if he’s glowing. It was erected a few years after the Bourbon dynasty of Spain seized control over the Kingdom of Sicily, they have ruled over us ever since.
Then, I was invited to one of his parties. These parties were only held when Flavio was preparing to unveil a new piece. The invitation arrived with little fanfare. On the outside of the envelope there was only a bright red wax stamp and, on the front, my name in bright red ink. Inside, it contained a piece of paper with the date, time, and location. Signed, Con affetto, Flavio. With love, Flavio.
My father was a fan of Flavio’s sculptures, as was I. Upon their first meeting, my father had even inquired about purchasing one of his sculptures—to which Mister Agostino vehemently refused. We had the money, but Flavio was not keen on selling his works outside of his tight nit circle. My father off-handedly remarked about my interest in the arts—to which Flavio was intrigued. Begrudgingly, my father told Flavio about my paintings and how hesitant my parents were to indulge in my hobby. Women couldn’t receive training in the arts, so I was purely self-taught. This piqued his interest--he was insistent about meeting me.
My father called me into his office, my mother stood behind him, maintaining a subtle grip on his shoulder.
“Yes papa?” I answered from the doorway before being impatiently beckoned into the room by my mother.
“This party that Mister Agostino is having, are you sure you’re alright to go on your own?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” I tried my best to reassure him, although I seldom left the house on my own, and internally, my stomach was all tied up in knots.
“It would be good for you to make friends with some of the socialites.” My mother chimed in, her hands planted on her hips, brow cocked at me. "You're old enough to attend a little party by yourself, yes?” I could tell she was mocking me by the lilt in her voice. She was actually saying: ‘Go find a husband, you’re too old to be unmarried and childless.’ If I could marry into a Spanish family, finally, we could be fully accepted into their society. The only flaw was that I would rather die than marry right now, and that ruined my father's plans for our future.
“If I'm allowed to go on my own—I will not disappoint you,” I replied.
“Of course, I know you won’t,” My father reached out and took my hand from where he was reclined in his desk chair. “Remember, you are representing us,” he said, giving my hand a firm squeeze. A warning.
When I returned to my room, my dress was already laid out for me. Flat and lifeless. Once I was dressed, I heard my mother calling to me.
“Oh, Lina...So pretty.” her hands were already smoothing out the wrinkled fabric of the Skirt. She was unable to look past the minute flaws in my appearance. She wouldn't even meet my eyes as she raked her nails through my hair, occasionally pulling and tugging at invisible knots until she was satisfied.
“And you mustn't walk home in the dark,” She paused, daring me to object. “You’ll be snatched up like one of the urchins.”
“I know, I won’t.”
The urchins are disappearing from the streets, at least, that's what the paper says. They leave everything behind and just vanish. Of course, nobody cares enough to investigate, and nothing suggests foul play was involved. They’re simply disappearing into thin air. These people have no family, money, jobs, or property so I can’t blame the constables for simply not caring; essentially, they don't exist. People cared more about the story itself than those who had disappeared. I hope they finally realized there’s nothing here for them; the Bourgeoisie would much sooner crush the poor under their boots than spare a coin for their cup. I know my parents felt otherwise about the aristocrats. My father was a luxury clothing merchant; he knew the families of the upper class well. Since we immigrated to Italy from Greece, he’s been able to make connections in the Spanish aristocracy. The only thing that barred us from social movement was that we were not Spanish.
My mother teased my hair up and up, leaving a few sparse curls around my face. I’m sitting in front of my vanity, my face painted unnaturally pale and my lips a loud shade of red. I was a ghastly sight. But this meant I was beautiful.
“Better, hm?” She stepped away and allowed me to look at myself in the mirror. I shrugged. “You look good, like one of those rich girls,” She chuckled. She says that like we’re poor wretches. “And stop slouching; it makes you look ugly, Lina.” She dug her thumbs into my lower back, forcing me to stand up straight.
So I stopped slouching. I stood up straight, and I walked like one of those rich girls. I floated to the front foyer where my mother helped me onto the carriage that was waiting. The driver looked Upon me with disdain.
“Agostino residence.” I say, adjusting my gloves, the fabric hanging loosely off of my palms.
“You will give Flavio my regards as well, won’t you?” She used his first name like she knew the man personally. Nobody did.
“Yes mama.” The driver tsk’d impatiently and whipped the reigns, sending the horse into motion at the front of the carriage. So, I sunk into my seat reluctantly, trying to avoid the gazes of the people on the sidewalks; Wondering surely why they should walk while the likes of me traveled by carriage. Maybe they weren't wondering that at all. The streetlights simply felt too bright, and I was suddenly feeling sick. In my spiraling I hadn't noticed us approaching the Agostino residence. Every single light in the house was on, like small spotlights illuminating his front lawn. Towering flower bushes extended their well-manicured petals at me—beckoning me forth as the carriage lurched to a stop.
“We’ve arrived, Miss Bianchi.”
I clutched my handkerchief; my gloves were dampened with sweat. In my panic I flung the door open, nearly knocking down my driver. Fumbling with my dress, I stood up straight and let myself be drawn like a moth to a flame towards the music that was drifting from the front door. The corset tied much too tight seemed to be the only thing holding me upright. Men and women were strolling in beside me, brightly colored dresses, men in long coats and much too tall hats. When the door finally shuts behind me, the bustle of my dress is crushed pitifully. The manor was unlike anything I had seen before, it would have been befitting for a member of Spanish nobility, hardly the kind of house I would expect an artist to own.
I felt a tap on my shoulder, then the hand gripped me a little tighter. I fought my instinct to berate whomever put their hand on me without permission but I softened slightly when I turned to see a handsome young man standing behind me. He was tall, with black hair and eyes dark like pitch.
“Buonasera, Signora.” He boomed, with the showmanship of a carnival barker. “I’m Flavio Agostino.”
“Oh! Apologies, I didn’t recognize you.” I exclaimed before hastily sinking down into a curtsey.
“Stand up, there’s no need for that.” He instead took my hand and kissed the back of it, his eyes flickering up at me momentarily. “You must be Miss Bianchi?”
“Yes, but please just call me Madolina.”
“It is so wonderful to finally meet you Madolina.
“You as well, its an honor for me as a fan of your work.” I suppressed the urge to gush over his artistry, lest he take me for some kind of fanatic!
“I must know about your tastes in art...” He trailed off slightly, for a moment when he met my gaze I felt myself being pulled inward as if his eyes were an irresistable vortex. “Forgive me, I don’t meet many women with an interest in the arts.”
“I’m...not very well versed I'm afraid.”
He hummed in thought for a moment, “Do you know anything about classicalism?” The word sounded completely foregin to me, like something out of a scholarly work.
“No, I can't say I'm familiar with it.”
“That's a shame, but I suppose you haven't had any proper training in the arts, it's not your fault.” He shrugged, narrowing his eyes as if he were deep in thought “Classicalism is a rebuttal against this new style of works that’s emerging.” He paused for a moment, looking to see my reaction. I nodded, slightly confused, “The Baroque style is just the beginning of the decline of artistry.” He paused for a moment, looking to see my reaction. I nodded, slightly confused, “We don’t care for that here.” A handful of people hummed in agreement, nodding in perfect sync.
“Ah, I’m not fond of it either.” I paused “I prefer the look of Grecian art. Something timeless.” He nodded, smiling proudly like I was a child who just uttered their first words.
“We have a lot in common.”
“Oh? You think so?” I cocked my head to the side. What could I possibly have in common with him? He laughs, loud and haughty.
“Yes. I do. Your father tells me you’re somewhat of an artist yourself?”
“I suppose you could say that.” I fumbled with my words for a moment; nobody had ever asked me personally about my art before. The chatter died down a bit around us; the other guests were paying attention to me. My body felt hot like I was placed under a spotlight in the middle of the room. I cleared my throat, trying to imitate some of Flavio’s confidence. “I paint, but I have always had an interest in sculpting.”
“And I would be more than happy to teach you.”
“Are you suggesting an apprenticeship? I must be the luckiest woman in Italy.”
“We can discuss later.” He flashed me a toothy smile, “Don’t wander too far, I’ll call a toast when it's time for the unveiling.”
~
Contrary to my expectations, the party was rather dull after a while. After the drinks were brought around, everyone settled into small groups for conversations. I was lost in my thoughts, wandering towards the fireplace where two statues flanked the mantle. One was of a man, fully nude and looking downward with his head resting on his hand. The other was a nude woman with one arm outstretched. The details were even more remarkable up close, like one could count every hair on the statue's head if they so pleased. Their faces were so content and calm, eyes shut—it compelled me to take a deep breath and ground myself.
“Greetings, Signora!” Someone nearly shouted from behind me, to which I whipped my head around quickly. An older woman was standing there, grinning at me and holding a drink in both hands. She was accompanied by two younger gentlemen. “I’ve never seen you at one of Flavio’s parties before.” She observes me carefully, and I instinctively stiffen up like stone.
“Si Signora, this is my first. My name is Madolina.” I said, my voice sounding much more meek than I intended. I held out my hand to shake hers, but it was quickly snatched by one of the young men, giving me a slightly too firm handshake.
“My name is Teresa; my boys here are Felipe and Alfonso,” She held out her hand to present them like she was showing off a priceless painting, “My sons here are both war heroes, you know. They helped hold off those Francese—drove them right out of Spain.” They both nodded in sync with a smug grin.
“The best aim in my infantry,” One of them chimed in, laughing haughtily. “They hardly stood a chance!” He mimed holding a rifle and recoiling as if to fire.
“Oh, yes, very impressive,” I said, trying to sound as interested as possible.
“You know I was surprised to see someone so young here,” She leaned on my arm and chuckled drunkenly. “Flavio must like you.”
“Oh, no, don’t say such things.” I shook my head quickly
“Flavio is very picky about who can attend these events, if he didn't want you here, I'm sure he would have done something about it.” The other gentleman butted in abruptly,
“It's true, I’m surprised you were allowed in.” The woman chuckled, “But you’re going to love his unveiling. We like to say he’s a fabulous artist but an even better performance artist.”
“I love his piece in the city square.” I say, “Every time I’m passing through, I can’t help but stop and stare.”
“That’s nothing compared to his personal collection really,” She clicked her tongue, sounding a lot like my mother at that moment. “Come along, I’ll show you.”
I tried to hum like I was pleased but I would have loved nothing more than for this conversation to end.
“Ah, look, here we are.” She opened a door to our right with a flourish, revealing a terribly cluttered room.
The room was scattered with pedestals, covered with red fabric to conceal whatever was underneath. Sculptures, dozens of them, draped in red. The woman was meticulously making her way towards the back of the room, muttering something under her breath.
“This is the one...” She smiled, pulling the cloth back just enough so I could see what was underneath. Unlike his other sculptures, this one was an animal, a swan.
“Oh, it's beautiful,” I said, crouching down until my face was only a few inches from its beak.
“This one is my favorite.” She said, “He hardly ever does animals anymore.”
“Why is that?”
“His goal has always been to capture human beauty. I suppose animals were just the starting point.” She traced a gloved finger across the arch of the wing.
Artists are complicated people I suppose. My curiosity got the better of me and I pulled back one of the cloths on another sculpture nearby. This one was also an animal, a small rabbit standing on its hind legs, its ears pointed straight up. As I revealed the full piece, I noticed that One of its ears was missing—broken. Peering around to see if the piece had been knocked off somewhere, I noticed something: the inside of the rabbit was hollow. I craned my neck forward to see inside, but it was just a deep black void.
“That’s a shame...” I frowned, holding the broken half of the ear in my hands.
“They’re very fragile, I’m not surprised.”
I wanted so badly to prod at the other statues, the vague figures around me draped in red. Some were tall, with what I could only assume were long, outstretched limbs. Some were small and close to the ground.
“I forgot to ask, what's your family name, darling?”
“Bianchi. My father is Lorenzo Bianchi.”
“Bianchi.” She parroted back at me as if she was testing out the sound on her tongue, “I’ve never heard that name before.” her eyes narrowed, creating even more wrinkles in her crepe-paper skin. “Where is your land in Spain?”
“We have no land in Spain.” I already said too much.
“I see.” The woman finally uncrunched her face, lacing her fingers together, she sighed rather loudly. The men exchanged a knowing glance as if they were sharing a joke I was not in on, “Miss Bianchi, do you like Spain?”
“Yes. We’re loyal to the Kingdom.”
“I didn’t ask if you were loyal, I asked if you liked Spain.” I noticed for the first time how intently she was looking at me, her brown eyes studied my every movement and anticipated every breath that I took.
The smile dropped from my face, “Of course, Miss Teresa.”
She hummed in response before turning and leaving with her sons in tow, leaving me standing in the middle of the dimly lit hallway.
“Enjoy the party, Signora,” I muttered under my breath,
Without even thinking I rushed down the hall in the opposite direction, a pit of anxiety settling into my stomach. I had perhaps dashed my only chance for my family's upward social mobility, and it was truly all my fault. Because I had forgotten my place here, I was not myself at this party, I was my father. My throat feels tight, and I realize I’m holding in tears, stop slouching Lina, you look so ugly. And I stopped slouching. I pushed my way into a room off to one side of the hallway, separated from the others.
‘Studio’ read the sign on the door.
My eyes couldn't adjust to the darkness for what felt like an eternity. Feeling around on the wall I eventually found the drapes and opened them, bathing the whole room in moonlight. Something smelled acidic, mixed with something rotten lingering in the air. I had forgotten all about my previous embarrassment when I finally saw that the room was filled with wooden trunks, all stacked on top of each other from floor to ceiling. The acidic smell was coming from a collection of buckets in the middle of the room. A deep, thick gray sludge sat in the vessels. Curiosity got the better of me, as it often did, and I stuck my finger into the bucket ever so slightly. Upon pulling it out, the material hardened within seconds, trapping the tip of my finger.
Concrete...?
The abrasive sound of a toast being called from downstairs drew my attention, and I fled the scene of my incessant nosiness, stumbling back down the stairs and trying my best to blend in with the crowd. In the middle of the lounge stood Flavio, towering above everyone in the hall on a chair next to a giant object draped in a maroon cloth as if doused in red wine. It was so Quiet, when Flavio finally spoke, his voice filled the whole room—booming with such intensity, it could make the very earth tremble.
“Firstly, I would like to thank you all for attending. I am so pleased to see so many familiar faces in one room. I am even more pleased to see new faces, though. Very few people will ever get to see—let alone appreciate what I do, so I thank you for that.” He locks eyes with me, and I realize I'm smiling in pure admiration. The crowd around him erupts into applause, “Art has strayed so far from its original purity. If the Romans saw the filth that these artists have created, they’d execute them.” He pinched the skin of his neck for emphasis; I whooped along with the crowd. It was true. Flavio continued; he was gripping the red cloth over the piece tighter now. “So, I alone will capture the image of humanity in all its purity.” And then he pulled off the cloth.
Underneath was a man encased from the neck down in concrete, his eyes were shut, but I could observe very shallow breaths leaving his lips. His skin and lips were a ghastly white, with his hair neatly parted and slicked to the side. Flavio grabbed his head, shifting him so the crowd could observe this man’s face. He tenderly ran a finger over his jaw. The crowd murmured in agreement. He smiles fondly at the unconscious man fixing his hair affectionately until he was satisfied with the style. Suddenly Flavio began meticulously covering him in the thick concrete sludge until his face was no longer visible. Then, he was carving out areas where the man’s features had been—still just barely recognizable under the concrete layer.
The blood drained from my face, leaving me as pale as the man under the sheet. I was shoving people now, not sure where I was trying to go but my body was moving on its own. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears as I tried to make it to the front door, but it was blocked by the sea of people. They were all staring at Flavio, totally enraptured by him as if in a trance. There was a cold, firm hand on my shoulder—tearing me away from the crowd. I tried to stay calm,
“Please unhand me--I simply have to leave now!” My voice shook slightly as I pleaded with whoever was dragging me through the crowd. I was clawing at arms, clothing, anything I could hold on to as I was tugged from the crowd, but I was being shoved away like some street urchin. The last thing I saw was Flavio puppeting the man’s head from side to side, showing off his handiwork to the crowd before my whole world went dark.
When my eyes had adjusted, God only knows how much time had passed. I was at the bottom of a set of stairs, my body in a crumpled heap. I was still wrapped in darkness, but a chill had settled over the room. My body aches. It smelled vaguely acidic again, like damp earth soaked in alcohol.
“I thought you’d be more receptive to my plight.” Flavio murmured, “I see it in you, you’re an artist, So I thought you would understand.” He grabs my hand, forcefully pulling me to my feet.
“I do! I do understand. Everything you have said is true, Flavio.” I pleaded, “I won’t tell another soul what happens here,” I muttered, my voice sounded so weak compared to his like a flame being snuffed out. “Now let me leave, please.”
“I cannot do that, Madolina.” He clicked his tongue, “I find myself infatuated with you, after our conversation, I could hardly focus on anything else other than you. I would love to look upon your beauty every day.”
I spat at his feet, or at least where I guessed he was standing in the darkness. Flavio only scoffed. He was silent for a long moment before he finally turned on the light. The room was only dimly lit by one dying lightbulb. Harsh concrete walls and flooring made it feel like a prison cell. I wondered how many others spent their last moments in this room. All of the walls were lined with shelves, and upon them were dozens of wooden crates, all stacked on each other like ship cargo.
“This is where I keep them.” He said, placing a hand on one of the boxes, tapping lightly with his fingers. “This one is for you.” He motioned towards the center of the room where an open crate had been set up. Beside it was a needle, with a few drops of an indistinguishable liquid inside.
He grabbed my arm, wrenching it behind my back and shoving me down to the floor. I thrashed, kicking him in the chest. In the absence of anything to defend myself I took off one of my heels, holding it out in front of me like a revolver. I swiped once in the air. A warning. His eyes darted around for a moment before he lunged for the syringe on the ground, I tried to get there first, but he was too quick. With white knuckles he held out the needle towards me. He reached out to grab me again but this time I struck him square in the face with the heel of my shoe, then he was bleeding. He holds a hand against his cheek where I slashed at him.
“Do you not know when to quit woman?” He spat.
I wasn’t sure what I was doing, but with the panic and adrenaline coursing through my body, I felt stronger than I had ever felt before. I shoved him as hard as I could muster towards the shelves lining the wall and, to my surprise, he tumbled back. There was a loud creak from the shelf, and then, what felt like an earthquake, shaking the very foundation of the house. All of the wooden caskets came tumbling down, at least a dozen of them. A loud crash. He gasps once and then—silence. I could have sworn in the chaos, I heard a sickening crack like a walnut under pressure. I stood up straight, my hands trembling. His body was laid out, flat on the floor in a pool of his own blood, his head crushed under one of the crates.
I crouched down next to him, carefully observing the body, looking for any last drop of life; But he was still. The air in the basement was still and thick with the smell of decay. I thought, for a single fleeting moment that Flavio was (or had been) living the life I have always wanted, to be free to create my art without these shackles; Nobody telling me how to dress, when to marry, what my hobbies should be. I was sick to my stomach with jealousy for the image he was able to create. I don’t know how long my emotions had immobilized me but eventually I freed Flavio’s body. It made a terrible mess on my skirt.
What now?
I cannot return home; someone will surely find out. I am covered in the man’s blood. What if this whole operation were to be found out? Is there someone to take up the mantle? I paused for a moment, realizing I was smiling to myself at the thought. What a life he must have been living! All these connections to socialites, these parties, this beautiful house, and—he was free to do his art. I sneered down at his lifeless body and began to drag him up the stairs.
The house of the great artist of Sicily was empty now, Except for me. It was so quiet; the party guests were long gone, but their presence still lingered in the half-empty wine glasses scattered about. The sculpture of the man was still in the lounge, the concrete mask had been carefully crafted to reflect the man encased inside. The concrete was still damp over his face, but I know, deep down, he was long gone. I reached out and caressed his face, leaving a tacky gray mess on my gloves. It's warm. Comforting. I dragged Flavio by his arm, this time up towards the studio on the second floor.
Although his face was an incomprehensible mess of gore, I could still picture his sharp jaw and hooked nose. I closed my eyes, focusing on the picture of his face imprinted in my mind. It was fitting to me that his beauty, too, should be preserved for all of eternity alongside his victims. So, I laid his body down on the pedestal on which he sculpted. And with Flavio’s tools, I began to sculpt. Should anyone come looking for the wretch, he is thus forth retired. If his followers come here to search, I will expose this whole operation. It would be in everyone's best interest to simply let us be. Let me thrive. I opened the curtains to find the sun slowly rising over the horizon. The smell of concrete had grown on me.