The Greatest Thief
The Sistine Chapel was ready for me. The audience awaited my entrance.
I checked my violin, my beloved friend, and adjusted the chords and the tunes to get it perfect. This night needed to be perfect. I have spent much of my time, much of my effort, for this moment. I have trained with great mentors, but none of them, to my dismay, were Landini nor Des Prez. Yet I have met these icons, and through their works I have created a composition that shall bring the Chapel to tears.
After confirming with my beloved friend, I snuck a peek at the waiting crowd. So many of them, here, in the house of the Father, all here to hear my masterpiece. Long have I trained for this. Long have I worked and fought my way to get here. In the beginning, I had created simple compositions to earn a living in church and in nations. Now I was here, in the Sistine Chapel, the place I so longed to play in. I wonder, will these people spread the word of my excellence? Will the music I make continue to sing after I have gone to the grave? Will there be masters who will follow on my footsteps? Will the name Enrico Santi be spoken the way Bach, Vivaldi, and Pachelbel are spoken thus?
It was time to discover the answers as the church speaker introduced me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, give applause to the great Enrico Santi!”
So began the wonder. I rested the violin between shoulder and chin, feeling that comforting wood, and placed (violin string thing) upon the strings, feeling the purr of my beloved. This composition was a madrigal about a man and a woman seeing the sunset for the last time, so I began soft and simple, and as I did so I scanned the crowd. Where was Vernardo Luciano Beladona Gutierrez, the master who taught me much in the arts of musicians? Where, too, was Magdalena, sweet, beautiful Magdalena, whose love was near to my heart as the violin? They were always there to witness my spectacle and to show support. Yet I could not see them here, of all places.
I could not get distracted. Focus. With tentative and careful movements, the masterpiece changed from soft and slow to loud and fast. The crowd, I could notice, were getting excited. All eyes looked to me. All ears paid attention. I closed my eyes to hear better my work, to feel the rhythm and the song. I could almost see the man and woman, hand in hand, standing on a cliff by the sea as the light hid beneath the horizon. As the song slowed in sadness, I could see the couple again, the night almost eternal. There should have been pride and admiration in me, even as the song took a solemn twist. There should have been gladness at what I have done, at what I could achieve. There should have been penance at the crimes I had to do to get here.
I only felt sick.
Focus. It was almost over. Yet I felt that the song was not the only thing near its finale.
My work never ended as it should have when someone screamed.
I opened my eyes. The audience began to quickly back away from me. Armed men with spears and muskets surrounded me, fear and caution in their faces and movements. The priests began to mutter a prayer of health. What was this?
The people pointed at me, particularly the area of my neck. I asked what was the matter, and one of the guards brought a mirror. I beheld my visage.
My face was fine. My hair was fine. My clothes and pants and shoes were fine. I looked at my neck, and now nothing was fine.
A red ring was etched opposite to the neck side where I would stabilize my violin. In the ring, a white patch seemed to glow. The whole thing appeared like a kiss from a lover, a flower, a rose.
I knew there was no love to its sign. This was a token, neither from a lover nor a friend. This was a symbol, the beginning of the end.
Death had marked me. The Plague would have me soon.
The guards led me to my home, careful not to touch me. They led the way, clearing the path, warning the people to keep away. I rarely saw anybody in my last travel around Rome. Those I did see showed pity and fear. As I neared my abode, I heard a child sing. It seemed an adorable melody and tone, especially as it was played by a child, yet the song was not for cheers. It was no frottola, not even a carnivale. This was a funeral dirge.
“Ring around the roses,
A pocket full of poses,
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.”
I entered my home. I laid in bed. I heard the guards mark my door with an X. I heard it open again, and I met the doctors with their raven masks and well covered suits. They strapped me to my bed with tight ropes, gloved hands careful in their work. They examined me, asked questions, how are you feeling, you are going to be all right soon….
They kept doing their work when a visitor came.
I looked at him. “Master?”
Vernardo Luciano Beladona Gutierrez spoke with the doctors. “May I consult with my pupil?”
“Seniore,” a doctor said, “it is unsafe for you to be here.”
“I am an old man, good doctor. My life will be short, and all I wish to do in my remaining time is to speak with my legacy. Besides, I shall try my best to keep away from him.”
The doctors looked at each other to confirm. Finally: “As you wish, Seniore.”
They left the room, leaving the master and his student to talk.
“My master,” I began, “why have you come?”
“For the truth. Were any of your ‘compositions’ yours?”
I did not understand at first. What was he saying? What truth? Then I looked at the hatred and shame in his eyes, and I knew he knew what I had done.
“How did you know?”
“Your work was evidence. My suspicion arose when you played your third frottola, ‘El Toro’. Weeks before that, you and I had visited Josquin Des Prez. While you were about practicing Josquin’s ‘El Grillo’ notes in violin, the man himself showed me one of his recently made compositions. After this meeting, that same composition vanished. I never thought much about it until you played El Toro, which was strikingly similar to Des Prez’ missing masterpiece.
“I had doubts whether you were the one. So I met with other composers whose works had also been stolen or lost, even Francesco Landini’s. There were no preliminary copies to double check anything, so instead I investigated the time of disappearances in relation to the time you started playing your compositions. There was a connection, and my suspicions were only confirmed true today.”
“Pardon?”
“Your face, your eyes, and your words. They confirmed it all.”
There was no sound between the musicians, no sound except silence.
“What will you do with me?”
“I would strangle you with my bare hands for what you’ve done. All the things I’ve taught you, the times we had….. Was it your plan since the beginning to steal from others?”
I was disgusted by him. “Steal? You think me a thief? Are we not all thieves in this world, master? Did you not tell me long ago your own story, how you had to survive in the streets by stealing from the richest pockets, and how that eventually earned you a living as a master musician? Perhaps I am a thief, but what of the other composers? Men like Des Prez and Vivaldi rob the purses from their patrons. Many of them even have the nerve to rob from the Medici family!”
“Those patrons gave them the money!” Vernardo shouted. “It is not theft if you give the person your money out of free will.”
“And if I held a pistol to your head and gave you a free willed choice to give me your money or I pull the trigger, is that still not theft?”
Vernardo said nothing. His nostrils flared and his hands clenched. He made no move to come near, even though I could tell he desperately wanted to be rid of me.
“I will leave you to your torment,” master said. “Since you seem to state that larceny is a practiced art, as practiced as music, then let Death have its due.”
“No….”
I tried to get up. If I was to die, then let the old fool be embraced in my final hug. But the ropes held strong, and my body grew weak from the plague. I struggled even more. The bed shook and rattled, but the restraints were dauntless.
“I will use the rest of my days in the effort of righting your wrong. Your ‘compositions’ shall be burned, forgotten, or returned to their rightful owners. Perhaps you will be remembered, but never as a composer, and never as a musician. When the people mutter your name, it will be opposite in muttering the names of Bach, Vivaldi, and Pachelbel. Good-bye, my pupil.”
He turned around and began to leave.
“NO! Wait!”
He stopped and looked at me.
“Magdalena,” I begged. “Where is she? Will she be coming? Does she know?”
There was no longer hatred in my master’s eyes, only deep sorrow. “She never knew and she will never know. I am sorry. I fear it is you who will come to her.”
With that, he left.
The days went by and so did my life. The doctors eventually cut my ropes, but I was still trapped within my own home. I feared to look at the mirror and see what monster this disease had made of me. The raven men came to see me for the last time. I never saw any other living thing again.
The only company in the last few days was the ghost. My whole body ached and itched. The coughing was the only composition to make. The ghost was of little help in my time of need. I knew the apparition was unreal, but she looked exactly as she was before I was marked. I knew she was an illusion, for my master had said that she was dead.
She would be there for me, always, and I would be there for her. That was the promise of our lives. She would comfort me in times of distress, and I would pay the favour with whatever was needed. She would know so much that I was ignorant of. She would wear the best and most beautiful clothes, and she would smile her sweet and innocent smile.
That Magdalena was gone. In her stead was this ghost, an almost complete opposite of who she really was. This thing tormented me, haunted my steps. It would wake me from sleep and become a nightmare even in the day. I tried to fight her, catch her, talk to her, but she was gone every time. She was there but not there. She was real but not real.
I couldn’t move one day. I laid there in bed, and I could barely breathe, barely see and hear. The pain, oh the pain, I thought I could adapt to the suffering, but no, it was unimaginable. The flies swarmed near. The smell, my rotting stench, was unbearable. My mind began to play tricks as I saw in terror a horde of black rats scurrying everywhere.
This, I knew, was the last day of my life.
Magdalena came to see me. This time, she came with comfort, and she spoke with love. “My beloved.”
“My love,” I croaked.
“Do not fear anymore. Time demands its toll. He is near.”
“Who?”
“Shhh, my beloved. All will be well.”
“My love,” I said, “how have you come to this?”
“It was you, my beloved, you who have killed me. Your love for ego was too great, and I was felled by your greatness. The more you played, the more I tried to reach you. When you were with me, I knew you were using me like your violins. I was a means to an end. I kept comforting you, helping you, loving you, in the hopes that I can find the man I first fell in love with. And here you are. My beloved, here you are, with me at last. We can be together.”
I did not know what to spake. I heard her, I understand her, yet I could not reply to this, this thing.
She must have sensed something, for her loving visage turned dark. “You do not love me. Even now, you care too much of your legacy as composer. You never loved me. Even before, you focused too much on yourself.”
“No, no,” I began, “I do love you, my sweet, I do—“
“DO NOT LIE! DO NOT LIE TO ME, YOU ARROGANT BASTARD! DO NOT LIE!”
I wanted to run. My body would not allow. I yearned to scream for help. What came out was a whimper. I imagined she was not there. She grabbed my throat, and roared “DO NOT LIE!” Then, suddenly, she released me.
I breathed in hard and calmed as much as I can. I looked at her, and this time there was a new companion to company me.
Behind Magdalena was a silhouette of a tall man. He appeared to be some priest, although his robes were blacker than midnight. I could not see his face with his hood. I felt a strange dread and deep calm at the sight of the figure.
Magdalena began to leave. I called to her to stay, to not leave me with this man, but she left. I was alone, with the flies, the rats, and the robed man.
He came forward, unafraid of the plague.
I spoke, “Who are you?”
He seemed confused. When he spoke, it was if the sound came from the earth, from the flies, from the rats, and from my mind. YOU DO NOT KNOW ME? he said. HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW ME?
“I do not understand.”
ALL THINGS KNOW ME. FEW KNOW OF YOU. HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW ME?
“Please….”
THEY KNOW YOU AS COMPOSER, MUSICIAN, VIOLINIST. ONE DAY, THEY WILL CALL YOU THIEF. YOU WILL BE REMEBERED, BUT I SHALL NEVER BE FORGOTTEN.
“Who are you?”
I AM THE GREATEST THIEF, GREATER THAN YOU, GREATER THAN THE IMPRISONED AND THE FREE, FOR MY ROLE IS THE LAW OF LIFE. THERE IS NO TASK TOO LARGE OR TOO SMALL FOR MY PROWESS. ALL THINGS I STEAL, AND ALL THINGS THEY GIVE TO ME. HIDE YOUR TREASURES AND YOURSELF IN FORTRESSES AND BARRED GATES AND ARMIES AND DISTANCES AND SECRETS. I SHALL HAVE MY TOLL, AND I SHALL STEAL FROM YOU NOT JUST THE TREASURES, BUT THE FORTESSS AND THE BARRED GATES AND THE ARMIES AND THE DISTANCES AND THE SECRETS, AND I SHALL TAKE THEM ALL AS I TAKE YOU WITH ME TO THE EARTH.
I AM THE GREATEST THIEF, FOR IT IS NOT THE OBJECTS I STEAL, BUT THE IDEAS AND THE DREAMS. I ROB NOT FROM THE PEOPLE, BUT FROM THE WORLD. I COME TO THEM, AND THEY COME TO ME. I AM NEVER CAUGHT, NEVER PUNISHED FOR MY ACTS, FOR MY DUTY IS THE LAW ITSELF, AND I AM THE EXICUTIONER AND ENFORCER OF THE LAW. MY ONLY REWARD FROM MY WORK IS TO CONTINUE TO WORK UNTIL THERE IS NONE LEFT TO STEAL. ALL THINGS HATE AND LOVE WHAT I DO, AND EITHER WAY, ALL THINGS KNOW I AM IMPORTANT. THEY GIVE ME LIFE, AND IN RETURN, I TAKE IT.
I AM THE GREATEST THIEF, FOR MY REPUTATION IS TRANCENDENT AND VAST. I AM NO STRANGER IN ANY STRANGERS’ HOMES. I AM GUEST AND HOST IN PALACE AND HOVEL. I AM PRAISED AND CURSED IN MANY LANDS, EVEN IN LANDS YOU NEVER KNEW EXISTED. SONGS SING OF ME. TOMES TELL OF ME. ALL THINGS KNOW ME. THEY HAVE GIVEN ME MANY NAMES THROUGH THE GENERATIONS. TO THE HINDUS, I AM YAMA-DHARMA. TO THE GREEKS, I AM THANATOS. TO THE CHRISTIANS, I AM AZRAEL. TO YOU, I AM THE PLAGUE.
I AM THE GREATEST THIEF.
With that, Death took me to the darkness.