Eco

I could hear the Sword of Damocles, creaking and teetering above my head, swinging back and forth like a pendulum; eventually it would swing at just the right angle in the right frame of time, collapse into my skull, and I would leave this Earth. But it will be worth it, for by then I will be taking Ike Calvino with me.

Peering into the modest cafe, I saw him--the timid, nebbish, man, hard to believe he’d ever killed anybody--sitting alone with eyes just as wandering and evasive as mine. Upon locking our eyes I could see a confused mix of relief and fear wash over his pupils. He didn’t know what I wanted, but both our being here meant we were men of our word, at least in this moment in time. I was just glad his treasonous ways had washed away in time, if not only for this particular day.

Fresh off the boat from Venice, I had met Icarus Calvino merely a day ago. I was still acquainting myself with the landscape of Destino, Sicily when I first saw him. You could be near-sighted and still get a full view of the downtown area; the realm of Destino was a shallow and humble one. Ike was strolling out of a bakery without a single care, and without a fleeting thought all my other interests--including what brought me here--melted away.

I am still uncertain how the letter came upon my desk, and who sent it and why, but I am perfectly aware as to my new objective. Having had the confrontation and the arrangements at the cafe in a spur-of-the-moment impassioned (but calm) rage, I was still unsure what exactly I would do. But I knew I’d have to do something, or my own twenty-five-year-old self would never forgive the version that was approaching forty-five.

Coming up from behind, I avoided causing alarm by grabbing him lightly by his elbow. He turned around and looked at me with a knowingness, one that he could not quite place in a setting or time, but a knowingness nonetheless.

I smirked, knowing already I was in the right, that I was doing what was morally just: “You wouldn’t happen to be Icarus Calvino, would you?”

With a moment of hesitation and a stutter, he said: “I-I am. You may call me Ike though. I haven’t seen you around here… Did you just move in?”

“Oh I’m just passing through.”

He looked around a bit: “Here? This isn’t much of a tourist spot.”

“Well--I’m more here on business…”

“...What kind?”

“Actually…” I figured I could play with him a bit. He probably did it himself all those years ago, it was time for someone else to circle their prey. “I’m an investigator from Venice. Vincenzo Crepuscolo. I’ve been looking for you, Mr. Calvino…”

And so without giving many details, I told him we needed to talk. Despite his protests that he had never been to Venice, one flash of my badge and the arrangements were made. He insisted tonight instead of last night, claiming he had meetings and such over what he called a “campaign.” I might damn-well save an entire Sicilian town.

I could tell by his eyes in the cafe that he still hadn’t quite placed me. I figured this to be a good thing, for that way I could gently guide him into the past that was coming to haunt him.

I sat down and gave him a cold smile. He almost shuddered at it.

“What can I do for you, Investigator?” He inquired, politely enough.

“Call me Vincenzo,” I said, lighting a cigarette.

He saw that I was dragging this out, and got a little more direct: “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Well,” I began, “You ever been to Orvieto?”

“Um… I don’t think so?”

“Grew up there, with Mom and Dad. Had a nice little farm there. Where are you from?”

“...Rome.”

I looked at him intensely, choosing words carefully. I wanted him to know me, but not all at once. Little by little I tried to pave the way towards recognition.

“You fought in the war, didn’t you? Under Mussolini?”

He squinted at me a bit, “I did.”

“Are you sure?”

He was caught somewhere between anger and fear, trying not to unleash either in this public place: “What’s this about?”

“I’m a curious party. I like to talk to deserters,” I lied.

“Excuse me?”

“Cowards. See, not every man is a man, therefore not all men can fight in our wars. So they don’t.”

He swallowed as I took a moment, dragging my cigarette and reintroducing my frigid grin.

“And you know where cowards are put in the war, correct?”

Although he still did not recognize me, he knew that I knew. In a near-whisper, he uttered: “POW camps…”

“You know the special thing about this deserter,” I pointed at him, “Is that you and I actually go back a bit.”

More terrified than angry now, he was still visibly confused.

“You know,” I said, “After my Dad passed, I changed my name to my mother’s--Crepuscolo wasn’t my birth-given name.”

He could tell I wanted him to ask. “And what was your birth-given name?”

“Vincenzo Salieri.”

Icarus Calvino’s face flushed, all the scarlet rage washing away into a ghost-sheet eggshell white. “You don’t say…” he muttered.

“Ike,” I leaned forward, “I know everything. They told me what happened regarding Salvatore.”

“What--?”

“Salvatore!” I said a bit louder, taking my turn to be angry. “They told me what happened. I know that you fled, I know you for the deserter you are.”

Ike sat still, eyes glued to the tablecloth, gazing into the coffee the way a dying man would the abyss.

“I know you’re trying to become mayor here,” I went on, “I know that people here seem to care for and respect you. They don’t know who you really are. But I do.

“Look at me, Icarus,” I whispered menacingly. He complied, “Just know that you’re going to pay for killing my father.”

And that’s when confusion rolled into the whites of his eyes, and he looked not just at my face, but into the blinding fury of my own eyes. “I didn’t--”

“Don’t try to deny it,” I growled. And after a beat, I calmed down and told him: “We’re actually quite alike, Icarus. I didn’t want to serve either. I ran off with some woman in a bout of stupidity. The last thing my father did to me was curse my name,” I leaned toward him again, “But I’m not a murderer. That’s where you and I differ.”

Having worked up the courage to speak once more, he quietly proclaimed “I didn’t kill your father,” looking me in the eye, so I could see his pupils, still and truthful.

I scoffed, and got up, ready to storm away from the table to only God-knows-where, when he spoke again: “You really believed what they told you?”

I started walking away, guided only by rage, when he said: “Lieutenant Rossi lied to you!”

I came to a screeching halt and turned around at his remembrance of Rossi’s name. That lieutenant had been my father’s boss, as well as the man who’d come all the way to the farm to deliver the news to my mother and me.

That day was still ripe in my mind. I had long returned, having long-ditched the young girl I was with and returned home. I vividly recalled holding my mother as she was on her knees, weeping for a loss from which she’d never recover. The backs of my eyes had forged a dam to prevent my own sobs, for I was from that point on the man of the family, knowing I’d have to drop my pacifist ways for the sake of those I love.

But the fact that this one insignificant deserter--the one who killed the Salieri patriarch just to escape from Italy’s grasp--could remember, let alone speak and tarnish, the name of my only other paternal figure, caused me to inch toward exploding at him. I stalked back to him, put my hands down on the table, hard enough to intimidate but not enough to cause a scene, and said to him: “What do you know about Rossi?”

Ike was intimidated but not belligerent in his expression. He spoke softly and articulately to make sure I understood every word: “Your Rossi was a dictator in his own right. He was as bad as Mussolini, or even Stalin or Hitler. He threatened and killed everyone--Jews, homos, even simple Italians too weak to fight--for the mere sport of it.”

I scoffed again at this accusation. “And what? You’re saying he killed my father too? One of his best soldiers?”

With honesty and remorse he looked at me with such pity that I could only interpret it as sheer contempt. “I don’t know who killed your father, Vincenzo; I know that Rossi ordered it, but all I know for sure is that…” He paused, “That you are right to be angry with me, but you also have the right to know that I am yet to kill a soul. Your father died with me, but he died helping me escape.”

I kept my gaze on him, looking for anything--a twitch, an oblique movement, something to indicate a lie--and nothing came.

“He saw what I saw in Lieutenant Rossi.” Ike went on, “He saw the cruelty of men not just in the war, but embodied in that monstrous man. He helped me escape. He almost escaped himself. But…”

“But what?”

“We were almost clear of them, and he was shot. He died beside me.”

I just stared at him in perplexed fury.

“You may do as you wish, Investigator,” he said calmly, “Just know, he did not move on alone; he died with his only friend kneeling beside him.”

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The boat took its sweet precious time in getting here, and I could not wait to get off this monstrous oversized rock they called Sicily.

I was still reeling from what Ike had told me, that he was not the last enemy my father made but the final friend who knelt to him as he passed on to exist elsewhere. I spat on the concrete dock and finally saw my escort on the horizon.

“Vincenzo,” I heard a repugnantly familiar voice behind me.

I turned and there Icarus stood, and like the old legend he was about to hurl himself just close enough to the Sun.

“What is it?” I asked.

“If you’d be so kind,” he began, as if we were friends, “As to hear me out, I think we can work something out between us, a deal, as to assist one another.”

Turning back to the open water, I lit a cigarette and sighed. “I’d wasted most of my life looking for you,” I told him, “With all that anger misplaced, apparently. There’s nothing you can do for me.”

“Perhaps so,” Ike said, not convinced, “But I think I know who put you on this path.”

My eyes lurched toward him once more: “How’s that?” I asked.

“You said something about an anonymous letter, no?” Ike inquired, “May I see it?”

More wanting him to go away than to be compliant, I unzipped my luggage and searched, pulling out the rough and folded letter that had appeared on my desk, mere days before my premature retirement. I handed it to him, and he scanned quickly toward the bottom.

“Here,” he said, turning the paper back to me, “See this?” He indicated to the logo at the bottom, the company known as Gurrieri. “Are you familiar with this organization?”

I shrugged. “No.”

“Did you know that they were based here? Did you know that the man I’m running against is of this name?”

“Is that right?” I asked, him vaguely capturing my interest.

“The Gurrieri practically run Destino,” he went on, “They outsource jobs and exports, all from money laundering fronts run from their immigrated patriarch in New York, across the sea.”

“Therefore,” I began to piece together, “They wanted to push you out of here, or worse… So they sent me this letter knowing it’d likely bring me here.”

“Precisely,” Ike said, “It would look less suspicious if my disappearance or death were brought about by a foreigner, especially an Investigator.

“I see,” I said, “And what exactly is it that you would like to happen now, then?”

“Well,” he said, starting to mumble and trip over his words, “As an officer of the law, I was thinking perhaps you may be obliged to help me…”

I snorted and scoffed: “Listen, Ike, we are not friends, and I haven’t the slightest jurisdiction in this area. I may as well have never come; you already thwarted what the Gurrieri wanted from me in the first place. I feel like you’re really just pushing your luck here.”

“Sir,” Ike went on, “You may see me as a coward, and while I will admit to a certain timidity the fact remains that I have found not just sanctuary in Destino, but a wife and son in the locals as well. I’ve found a chance to renew my luck and my faith in order to take a clearer and more righteous path.”

“So you want to be the martyr of some Sicilian town nobody’s ever heard of?” I asked condescendingly as I scoffed again. “Good luck.”

“Investigator,” Ike said, “You know more than anybody what I’m doing, what I seek to make up for. Not even my wife nor her son know of that day. I am unsure if Rossi lives and breathes to this day, but I’ve found that Rossi’s belligerence takes many forms; and one of those forms is in the heads of the Gurrieri family. They take as they please and murder and assault those who don’t immediately yield. With your assistance or not, I will continue on my quest to legitimize Destino. I only came here because I knew it may go faster with you in my corner.”

I sighed and looked down, contemplating the genuineness and the significance of his words. And understanding that should things go south for Icarus Calvino and his family that my father’s dying acts would be in vain, I spoke, just as he turned away. Begrudgingly, and chagrined I said: “Hold on, hold on,” whilst praising and cursing my father’s name in the same breath.