“The point of art is to create. The point of protest, is to provoke. If they don’t listen to either, you must vandalise with both.” – Gianluigi Nencioli
She flicked open the lid with her left thumbnail and gave the tube a little squeeze, a white substance spiraling out and scooped it into her right thumb and fingers, circling them together and around until the white became clear and all that remained was a sheen, the dryness of the nail groove reinvigorated once more. The edge of her thigh was used to close the tube while she curled her fingers up like Louis Armstrong readying himself for the trumpet. But unlike Louis, she didn’t have all the time in the world, only tonight.
The sandstone was warm to the touch. It should be, the sun was in full bloom earlier, but is at a relative eye-level now. Not that she should look at the sun directly, she noticed the sunlight glinting off the lens of her glasses onto the wall, and gave the circular flare a ‘bounce’ off the grey cement line holding the blocks together. The powder was seeping a little and she fought the temptation to give it a little swipe. Let things crumble, and sometimes they need a push before they fall.
It was ambitious, dangerous, but mostly sacrilegious. Notoriety awaits. Or incarceration. She scraped the underside of her heel on the back of the wall, the boots had lasted a long-time. This was no time to break in new boots, they would creak too much. Not to mention the pinching. These old favourites would do the job, the rubber soul worn thinner at the outside, but black like the rest of the outfit. They were used to seeing black garbs on the women here. Perhaps not in jeans and a black denim jacket though. And unlikely to have seen a utility belt that would make Batman nod in approval. But, the trick is not to be seen in the first place. Stay in the shadows, move swiftly. A final patdown, a nervous habit, she had everything for the painting, most things for the climbing, but importantly the keycard. They trusted ‘him’ with the latter. A smile curled on her face, pushing the bridge of her glasses further up her nose, thinking about how she acquired it last week.
It was still August then. The cobbles were not as bad on her feet, the Oxford style brogues were not the right size, but three pairs of socks were enough to pad out a bit. Although in the heat, she feared what state her feet would be in later. Was the beard overkill for this meeting? Her face was slender, with subtle cheekbones, each the curve of a svelte moon, but filling and brightening when she smiled. She took a mental note to keep the smiling to a minimum. A moustache was an option, but the packet only had a selection of six, and one of those was a pencil-thin moustache. No-one who ever had a pencil-thin moustache was ever up to any good, she thought. The beard would have to do, a few alterations and snips of the scissors and it was passable. The hair was tucked up under the cap, the wig was actually good. As tempting as the ‘Hasselhoff’ was, she opted for the more demure ‘Shatner’ style. A lump formed in her throat and she gripped the briefcase tighter, the closer she got to the double-doors and went inside. A group of nuns looked in her direction, their faces turning to a frown. Oh shit, was she meant to bless herself before going in? What was it again? Up, down, left, right? Or was that the cheat code for Sonic the Hedgehog? Fuck fuck. Do it quickly, they might not notice. She waved her fingers in front of her like a baseball coach giving a signal to his batter. Or was it the throwing person they did that for? Fucking sports, all a bunch of bullshit anyway.
There was a desk behind her, she turned away from the harem of nuns to see another one sitting at the desk. At least, it looked like she was sitting. She could have been standing, such was the fragility of her. ‘Perfect’, she thought, ‘I won’t say that she’s old, but I would not be surprised if she cut the bread at the last supper.’ She put her briefcase on the desk, a power move, and turned back to glare back at the harem of nuns. She wanted them to come over and ask what she was doing so she could say “nun of your business”, but alas, they decided to shuffle off muttering some things in Italian. The old dear had stirred from her papers and was wobbling her head side-to-side to get her eyes to go upwards as slowly as a guilty dog.
“Good afternoon” she asserted “I’m here for my appointment.”
“Appointment, eh?” The old girl creaked out, her bony arms moving a pamphlet with great difficulty, chewing on her own lips with what teeth she had remaining. “What’s your name, eh?” Her eyes narrowed in on the paper.
“Dimanche, Victor.”
“Victor, eh? Ah!” Her translucent fingers tapped the paper twice. “Found you.” Her gums mumped once more. “Upstairs, room to be…”
“Room to be what?” Victor followed-up.
“Room two Bee.” She croaked, pointing a finger skywards.
She chuckled, then scolded herself for laughing. No more slip-ups, as she took the briefcase and went walking up the stairs. Don’t tilt the hips, keep your weight in the feet. A loud clomp echoed on the marble, but there was no-one with good hearing around. The door was closed, and she knocked with the underside of her wrist, firmly, which had the effect of loosening the bands around her wrist, revealing her tattoo of a triangle and lines. Her eyes widened while her heart pounded on the restrictive top under the shirt, the fabric stretching it further. The footsteps were getting closer there wasn’t enough time to tie it, she pocketed the band and tugged at her cuff, as a man opened the door, ushering her in.
“Pleased to mack your acquaintance, meester Dimanch-ay.” He offered his hand, with fingers the size of sausages. Victor thought about declining the handshake, but knew a refusal of this would risk having him in closer for a kiss on each cheek. Couldn’t risk him coming up this close to the beard. She couldn’t let him dominate the handshake, so had to go with her second power-move of the visit and shook his hand with vigour and let go even before he had a chance to grasp it. “This is father Constantine, and father Baresi, and I am father da Vinci. No ah relation, I am afraid ah ha ha.” She watched as the other two gave each other a glance at this well-worn joke.
Formalities aside, I knew from the enquiries that they wanted a “traditional” curator for the chapel. That was code for they wanted a man. It was the 21st century, and this annoyed her that the patriarchy was still… well… a thing. She answered their questions, opened her briefcase and showed them the portfolio, tucking her left hand behind her back, trying not to show off the tattoo, which would rule her out of this position. Not as much as being a woman would, of course. She pointed at the restoration work she had painstakingly completed and couldn’t wait to regrow her nails once more. They pored over them on the desk and told her to take a seat, which she was glad of, her feet were starting to hurt with the triple socks and new shoes. ‘Bring the foot up, just a little massage on the back of her heel’, she said to herself, ‘not too much, don’t bring the attention to you, put your palms back on your thigh and oh fuck why do you have your legs crossed over like that? Because that’s my natural state, you fucking idiot.’ Da Vinci had picked up her work in his bratwurst fingers, while Baresi and Constantine mulled the piece. ‘Be cool, just uncross it and put it on the ground’. Her foot didn’t get the memo as she uncrossed and her shoe fell clean off the woolen socks clattering onto the floor topside down. She stood up, her shoed and de-shoed foot hitting the cold floor unequally, causing her hips to drop making her tilt like the leaning tower of Pisa.
“English shoes. I should have bought Italian.” she said, straightening and kicking over the shoe and forcing her foot back into it. They gave a silent “ah” face before looking back. She sat down and did some ‘man-spreading’ with her legs.
“We are ah very impres-sed with your work here. We have a few more people to interview this afternoon, but we will telephone call you tomorrow with the decision from him upstairs.”
“God??”
“Ha ha, heavens no. Il Papa.” Da Vinci grinned, revealing a thin row of endless teeth. “Although it could be said that he is the voice of God. The spo-kess man.” She left and walked by the nun at the front who was giving Methusala a run for his money, and walked towards the metro station. It was only a couple of stops, but the heat and these clothing were unbearable. A bead of sweat ran down from her wigged hair, the side of her head and into the beard, then that’s where she felt it unstick from her face. The passengers on the other side weren’t engrossed in phones, they were just looking. ‘What was wrong with these people? Don’t they have social media to get angry at?’ Victor poked at her cheek, trying to affix the beard back on. Even with the rattle of the metro train, she could hear a squelch of more of the beard coming off. ‘Fuuuuuuuuck’ she thought and looked up, not in prayer, but wishing gravity to take its course and fall back onto her face. ‘Maybe I can walk with my head held at this angle?’ she pondered as the subway doors opened and the cold air of the underground cooled a few beads of sweat, and got on the steps going up to the street level. Eye-contact was made with a couple of men and she nodded. Another sound and the beard loosened further. It was time to stride, make it to the hotel room, it’s just around the corner. ‘What was that tickling my ear? Oh fuck, I’m down a sideburn.’ The left sideburn was now flapping about like an angry goose getting ready to fuck some unfortunate Canadian’s day up. She swapped the briefcase into her right hand and pulled her phone out of the pocket and slapped it on the side of her face. ‘Perfectly normal’, the revolving doors to the hotel had allowed her to slip in in one smooth motion and she got into the elevator. As did three other men. Her throat gulped as she pushed the phone firmer against her and made a silent vow to murder anyone who was going to choose this moment to call her. The elevator was silent, aside from the whirr of the belt. They’d know she wasn’t on the phone to anyone, she’d have to talk, even if it was in English. But about what? “Yeah” she uttered “just arrived in Rome… Dan. Good old, Dan… how are things at home Dan? Wait, don’t answer, because why would you want to answer my questions ha ha, I’m the one calling you, I should.. I should be the one doing the talking” She pointed at the phone with her other hand while crumpling her face as two of the three men looked at her, unperturbed. The third was probably also looking at her, but he was out of her field of vision. “The hotel is good… a little crowded, I’m just about to get off here on the fourth floor, yep, sure do enjoy the fourth floor as much as I enjoy talking to you, Dan.” ‘Why the fuck were these doors slower than the old girl at the chapel?’ They juddered open and before they had fully retracted she was on the carpet and around the corner. Room 417. She put the briefcase down, and forced the keycard into the lock, kicking her leather case inside once it was open. She peeled off what remained on of the beard and dropped it onto the desk. The rest of the clothes were to follow, pulled over her head, and the trousers forming a figure-of-eight on the floor, with six socks joining them. Disregarding the normal rule of turning the water on before getting into the shower, the ice cold water, while a relief, still conjured up a shocked gasp to escape from her lips. She punched the handle with the edge of her palm and the water turned to a more tolerable temperature. She was used to peeling off glue from her fingers, but scrubbing it from her face was a new one. The clip was released and the final restraint allowed her to drop and be her own self once more. The mirror had fogged up and she swiped at it and looked at the face she was familiar with. Back to being Victoria Dimanche. The water gargled its last and the towel was thrown back over the railing to dry. The minibar was a disappointment and she closed the fridge with a thud. At least there was a glass tumbler, which she tipped the paper cover off, and reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of tequila, pouring a generous measure into and sipped at it, curling the glass back to rest betwixt and below her collarbones. They weren’t going to interview anyone else. She’d seen to that by finding out the names of the other candidates through the gullibility of the administration department. A few searches on social media, and a couple of legitimate looking emails saying that their interview was postponed to the following month but with the promise of restitution to soften the blow of rescheduling. Have to hire the only candidate that shows for the interview, she tapped her temple with her non-glass holding hand. So far, so good.
Up on the sixth floor, a trio of men were still wearing their suit jackets. One of them was a medium size, the others were each squeezed into a large, their shirt collars pressed tight against their neck, resulting in a permanent vein showing on their temple. The man in the medium jacket finished his call and gave his underlings a nod, prompting them to stand up. He sighed and joined them in standing. “Mr Moretti says there’s a problem.” He rubbed his lips. “We have to solve this problem.”
They walked towards the elevator and the large man with grey hair pushed the button. Stepping inside, he pressed again for the lobby, and they waited for the doors to shudder close. “Benny, call the restaurant. Tell them we’re coming in in half an hour.” Benny and his jet black hair pulled out a phone which his hand engulfed. “No bars, boss.”
“What about you, Vito?” He asked the other who pulled out his phone to the same result.
The boss gave a huh, as the lift carried its descent. Much like the lift gears, the ones in his head were running, and he clicked his fingers, “that bearded guy, he was on the phone here. He must’ve had a signal.” He scratched under his chin. “Not something you’d lie about, is it? Not unless…” there was a ding and elevator doors opened to the lobby, where they closed with none of the men getting off.
Balcony coffee 