The Devil's Canvas

By Gianfranco Pereno

A distressing dream that inexorably turns into reality. The power of Caravaggio's genius merges with the great and arcane power of Magic, generating a nightmare that transcends the boundaries of Reason and Faith. A cunning and unpredictable serial killer who uses art as a tool to lure his victims into a realm where love and passion, cruelty and tenderness, seem to violently blur their boundaries. An astonishing reality where each individual is both spectator and protagonist. A prolonged terror in which Law and Justice will only clash after a harrowing final scream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Babelcube Inc.
• Release date: May 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781667474533

Book preview

Prologue

The man tentatively extended his hand towards a strange brass handle that faintly shimmered on the door at the end of the hallway.

The door leaf seemed to open by itself, and it had the distinct sensation of floating into nothingness.

White, light, discomfort, anguish.

He realized that he had instinctively closed his eyes even before feeling the wind on his skin.

The warm breath that entered his soul unexpectedly swept away all his fears, and he felt his eyelids relax as his pupils began to increasingly focus on the tranquil panorama of the lagoon.

In the distance, almost floating in the warm afternoon air, the reassuring outline of Murano Island.

He was out!

The sun warming his skin had the power to melt even the frost he felt inside, and like someone awakening from a nightmare and finding relief in familiar objects around them, for him, that expand of calm blue water, intersected by rows of large mooring posts delineating navigable canals, helped push the anxiety and fear of the past hours into a hidden corner of his memory.

He sensed that he was gradually regaining awareness of his own body, but that sensation unexpectedly caused a gurgle in his stomach, and his most urgent desire focused incredibly on a shrimp sandwich, accompanied by a fresh glass of Prosecco.

From a nearby alleyway, a child of two or three suddenly darted past him, laughing, immediately followed by the urgent call of a young woman chasing after him, pushing a lightweight stroller laden with heavy grocery bags.

He mentally followed the hurried steps of the mother, and only when he calculated that they were nearing the bridge dividing them from the Fondamenta Nuove pier, did he turn his head in their direction.

The child was climbing the steps one at a time, always lifting his right foot first, deeply focused. The woman, on the other hand, in order to allow the wheels of her makeshift cart to climb the broad steps more easily, had turned her back to the bridge.

It was clear she was struggling, but his instinctive impulse to help her was halted when he saw her turn her head towards a figure seated at the foot of the bridge that he had not yet noticed.

He observed the plump face of the mother break into a slight smile and, after a quick greeting nod, calmly returned to focus on the stroller.

Years before, he had been fascinated by a television commercial where the characters suddenly froze in place. Leaves, clothing, hair, scarves, all crystallized in a perfect still image, while conversely, the camera's viewpoint continued to slowly rotate, allowing in that surreal three-dimensional pause to calmly observe all the details of the scene from different angles.

Now that woman, too, absurdly seemed immobilized within an unreal silence, her back curved in the effort to maneuver the stroller over a step, and the light blue scarf, which had fluttered lightly around her neck before, now seemed to have turned into a shard of Venetian glass placed against the light.

Then the imaginary camera's viewpoint shifted towards the figure crouched on the steps, revealing a young girl characterized by a mass of fiery red hair and a strange, tight-fitting suit made of what appeared at first glance to be snake scales, although in truth much larger and more massive.

The image slowly zoomed in, lingering on the close-up of a beautiful, oriental-looking face, with closed eyes, before descending to unabashedly observe the elegant profile of a soft breast.

It lowered further to touch the slight roundness of a subtly yellowish belly, finally ending its exploration by rotating close to a long, tapered thigh.

There was a barely perceptible noise, and immediately the camera swiftly returned to the girl's face.

Now her eyes were wide open, and the pupils, a warm and soft yellow, gleamed in the sunlight's reflection.

The moment her eyelids closed and reopened on that liquid metal, he understood; he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the girl wasn't wearing extravagant clothing, but what he had just seen was the girl's actual skin.

An amused smile formed on the beautiful face, which had the sole effect of making him scream in fear as around him that entire crystallized world exploded into a myriad of fragments.

Gleaming needles vanished slowly, leaving in their place an immense darkness, pregnant with the prolonged echo of the scream that had escaped his chest.

Then silence... silence and darkness.

From nothingness, a new sound came forth, initially faint, then steadily louder, until it became something very much akin to the gallop of a horse, steady and powerful.

In the moment he realized it was nothing but the beat of his own heart, he perceived that even that darkness had its limits and boundaries, and he cautiously reached out a hand to probe it.

A lightning bolt behind him made him turn sharply.

He saw nothing, although his subconscious still recorded the indistinct image of a fluid reddish mass.

Another flash, followed by a piercing pain in his temples.

As he pressed his hands firmly against his sore eyes, his brain imprinted on his retinas the unmistakable silhouette of a Chinese dragon, immediately followed by a glow that seemed to illuminate his very soul.

Time ceased to exist.

When the man slowly reopened his eyes in the omnipresent darkness, his heart had resumed its regular beat.

He had finally understood!

Now he knew exactly where he was.

In the mouth of the dragon!!

With calmness, he turned towards the point he knew to be the darkest and deepest and waited motionless, with serenity, for the enormous flame that would erupt from it.

Michele Barovier woke up drenched in sweat. That recurring nightmare was starting to get on his nerves. Throughout his life, he had never attached much importance to dreams, but lately, the regularity with which this one recurred, identical and unchanging, was truly worrying.

He shook his head and shrugged as he got out of bed to fill the bathtub with boiling water. Michele was the last descendant of an ancient Venetian family that had enriched itself first through the trade of fabrics imported from the East, and then with the production of splendid objects in Murano glass; but those splendors were now just a vague memory.

To him, it seemed not to matter, and when occasionally the conversation turned to the now-lost fortunes of his family, the most he could muster was a melancholic smile, mixed with a considerable dose of irony. He was satisfied with himself. At thirty-two years old, his life was well on its way to deserved consolidation; he taught art history at the State Art High School of Venice, even managing to garner a certain sympathy from his students, though truth be told, it was the girls who, more or less subtly, showed a much more pronounced interest in him.

However, he overlooked the matter. Certainly, a nice smile or a slightly longer-than-necessary glance flattered his ego, but apart from the natural male attraction to fluttering miniskirts, his emotional involvement ended there.

He had an official girlfriend, Vanessa Della Vigna. Beautiful, blonde, tall. A splendid woman who firmly held the reins of both their lives in her slender hands, who took care to carefully regulate their commitments to ensure they had enough time for regular lovemaking and to guarantee that their pleasures were authentic and satisfying.

They went out to dinner at least two evenings a week, mingling with the right and select friends, and above all, thanks to her important position at the Cassa di Risparmio di Venezia, she had already meticulously studied a perfect plan for subsidized mortgages for their future home, furniture, and the inevitable optional pension.

The only annoyance was a bothersome indecision about the destination of their future honeymoon. Michele's only extravagance seemed to be his pronounced interest in art history, which according to everyone went far beyond normal professional commitment.

A passion so intense that not even Vanessa felt inclined to oppose it; on the contrary, she even convinced herself that having rivals like the Venus of Botticelli or ethereal ladies holding delightful ermines in their arms was an elegant game that her boyfriend's pastime allowed her to play with her closest friends.

It was precisely because of Michele's total preference for Giotto's colors or the formal elegance expressed by Botticelli that he was surprised at himself for accepting the invitation of a colleague who begged him to accompany her to the opening of a Caravaggio exhibition set up in the prestigious halls of the Correr Museum.

Mr. Michelangelo Merisi, however, did not fit his tastes. Certainly, he appreciated his enormous talent, recognizing the great contribution he had made to the history of painting; but his disorderly life and above all those colors, or rather, those menacing shadows so present in his paintings, were light-years away from the tranquility and shades of his favorite artists.

Carlotta had now reached her last year of teaching, then retirement, and this, perhaps, was the real reason that had prompted her to climb the stairs of the Correr, despite having to make the entire globe circuit due to an annoying high tide that submerged much of Piazza San Marco.

Certainly, she could have slipped on a pair of rubber boots and carefully waded through the few hundred meters that separated the museum from her bachelor apartment, but then she would have had to keep them on for the entire visit, and the idea that her soles would squeak with every step on the polished floors did not convince her at all.

Moreover, there was also the likelihood that various councilors and even the mayor himself would be present.

She waited for him at the top of the stairs, holding the entrance tickets prominently in her hand.

Michele's heart skipped a beat. Carlotta was tall, dark-skinned, and despite being on the verge of retirement, she was still upright in posture and full of vitality.

Her eternal smile, combined with a slightly mocking glance above a large and heavy bosom, hinted at her habit of being admired and courted; the discreet charm of someone who until not many years ago had surely been a very beautiful woman.

She was also intelligent, witty, and very professionally prepared. The only drawback, the colors. It seemed that common rules of dress did not exist for her. If you counted, you could find dozens of different colors on her, without any attempt at coherence or tonal matching.

Sometimes she reminded him of a coat rack placed, during his days at the Academy of Fine Arts, in a corner of an apartment he had had near Campo S. Stefano. The classic small student apartment, rented following a fierce attack of independence and furnished with whatever was found early in the morning next to the canals, before the sweepers passed.

He remembered that coat rack well; always buried under colorful scarves, jackets, and coats that the tide of friends threw on it haphazardly when they came to pretend to study, before everyone conscientiously started rolling and talking about boobs.

Then fortunately Vanessa had entered his life, and everything had ended.

Carlotta greeted him with the delicacy one uses towards an old lover before impatiently taking him under her arm. Did you have breakfast? You look a bit pale! she said without looking at him.

He then saw her wave the tickets under the nose of a perfect hostess in her dark blue suit, and before the poor woman had time to react, he found himself dragged into a room packed with people.

Instinctively, Michele composed himself. Almost without realizing it, with a quick and efficient gesture, he ran his fingers through his hair, and while with the corner of his eye he recognized next to the window a senior official from the Department of Fine Arts, he checked the time meticulously. He took a step to go and greet him and squeaked! Another step and another squeak, far from subdued, resonated blasphemously in the room.

He looked at his feet, seeing only a pair of shoes from the Rossetti brothers, but then, in his field of vision, Carlotta's yellow boat boots entered casually.

Dear professor, welcome! I'm glad to see you again! I seem to remember that you have always been a passionate admirer of Caravaggio. The voice came from a forest-green velvet suit, although the expression of derision that unmistakably hovered over the impeccably groomed face of the owner, the culture councilor Marco Visentin, expressed exactly the opposite.

Marco Visentin! Carlotta's voice rang out clear and authoritative in the large bright room, and for a moment, in the councilor's hazelnut eyes, there flickered a long-forgotten reverential fear.

I see you still enjoy being at the center of attention!

The tone was so courteous that it was difficult to detect the irony that instead shone in the woman's hazel eyes.

It is a true pleasure to see how intelligence and culture interact with the worldly image one has of them.

What?... Certainly! A remarkable cultural moment!

The councilor, noticeably uncomfortable, took refuge behind a hasty gesture to a passing waiter.

A glass of prosecco?

The tone sounded excessively high-pitched, and Michele skillfully stifled the smile that was inexorably shaping his lips inside the glass.

Then, as the forest-green jacket disappeared quickly behind the impeccable tuxedo of another waiter, he whispered in Carlotta's ear:

How on earth do you say nothing with so many words and at the same time convince people that you have expressed something very profound?

The death glare he received in return immediately deterred him from further comments.

The long hand of his Rolex managed to make almost two complete turns before he suddenly realized he was alone.

In the distance, in front of him, he saw a group of lounging people, mechanically registering the sense of tiredness and boredom they emanated.

The unexpected feeling of emptiness reminded him of his colleague.

«Carlotta?»

His words were lost in thin air.

He looked around worriedly and only then saw the teacher leaning against a doorframe, a few rooms behind.

Embarrassed, he retraced his steps and in those few tens of meters he realized how estranged he had become and how rude he had been towards his friend.

The fact that Caravaggio didn't excite him at all certainly couldn't justify his behavior.

«Carlotta, I...»

Shut up and listen!

The elderly teacher's voice seemed to have no time or age.

Do you really think that for almost two hours I listened to you talk about brushstrokes and chiaroscuro, about a new way of presenting reality, about scenographic perspectives and other such nonsense, without realizing that you weren't there? The tone of his voice seemed to float in the air.

«I'm old but not yet stupid! Or do you think I need you to explain a canvas to me? But I..."

Michele's voice had dropped to a whisper.

Shut up! Look and then tell me what you see!

At the command, Carlotta had followed a dangerous arc with a transparent, violet-colored plastic umbrella, which Michele had absolutely not noticed before and which the woman had just pointed resolutely towards a wall.

«It's a painting...» Michele whispered.

«You moron! Of course it's a painting! We are in a museum, not at the Rialto fish market!»

The pitch of his voice had increased noticeably.

What painting is it?

Michele's voice had regained its usual professional timbre, even if cracked by a certain astonishment.

And what do you see?

Carlotta urged again.

Now it was Michele's turn to reveal impatience and disappointment.

«I see Judith cutting off Holofernes' head and the old servant waiting to be able to help her! Technically I can tell you that..."

Technically?

The old lady's hazel eyes had turned dangerously dark brown.

«Technically! But can't you see anything else?"

At that point Michele completely lost patience and the previous sense of embarrassment was replaced by a profound irritation.

What the hell was he doing there, in front of a painting he didn't like, feeling criticized and judged by an old spinster with yellow boots on her feet and a ridiculous umbrella in her hand?

He turned determinedly towards her with his back to the painting, but the harsh reply he was preparing to give remained stuck in his throat.

Carlotta, with a fluid and confident gesture, had placed the palm of her hand on his belly, just above the crocodile belt. When did you have your last real orgasm? He heard himself ask.

The words seemed to penetrate his belly together with the pressure of the hand, and that contact and the intimacy of the absolutely out of place question completely disoriented him.

He first looked at the back of the woman's hand, surprising himself by observing the myriad of wrinkles that covered it, mixed with the rapid darting of small blue veins, then he raised his gaze towards the eyes in front of him.

It now seemed as if a torrent of molten gold was flowing placidly beneath his half-closed eyelids.

He felt the pressure in his hand increase noticeably.

«This is the point of the third chakra!»

The voice had now taken on the same heat as the lava present in the eyes.

Chakra?

The moment Michele heard the sound of his own voice, the thrust increased dramatically and he felt his body thrown violently backwards.

Against the painting!

When his shoulders hit the canvas, his thoughts ran to the absurdity of the catastrophe taking place: a woman gone mad, a masterpiece torn to pieces, the equally lacerating scream of the alarm siren that would immediately go off accompanied by a heavy baggage of bewilderment and of shame.

The seconds passed quickly, but he felt no sound filling the space, while instead his fall seemed to have no end.

He continued to fall, enveloped in a thickening fog, until it became solid beneath him.

With some effort he got to his knees, the palms of his sweaty hands resting on the cold floor.

His head hurt and a myriad of points of light were busy spinning crazily inside his eyes.

He hesitantly reached out a hand and felt what felt like warm, rough fabric under his fingertips.

He greedily clung to that one contact with reality, while his eyes were meanwhile getting used to the dim surrounding light.

Right under his nose he could now see a pair of shapeless cloth slippers, of a dirty and undefined color, but which might once have been a beautiful bright red.

From the smell, which perfidiously slipped into his nose, he understood rather than saw that they were inhabited by heavy socks, once certainly white, which wrapped around bony ankles.

While his brain realized that what he was clutching in his hand was the hem of a wide raw wool skirt, a dark object moved above his head and a blade of light illuminated the wrinkled and terrified face of an old woman.

His mouth was open in a silent scream and some whitish drool was foaming slightly between his only two surviving teeth in his reddish gums.

Under a small cap, very few white hairs revealed a stained and shiny scalp and, further down, wide eyes testified to what was undoubtedly a true moment of terror.

Something thick fell to hit his hand and a dark liquid seeped stickily between his wrist and the strap of his watch.

Michele had never had such an experience before, but he immediately understood, without any margin for error, that it was blood.

Much!

The old woman's hands began to tremble madly and the black package that the woman was holding in her lap swayed dangerously.

Suddenly Michele saw a hole open in that dark mass and something slipped out and fell into his arms.

It was a man!

It took him a moment to realize that his entire body was missing, however.

In his hands he only had a warm head that he was unconsciously holding by the beard.

Shocked, he stood transfixed as two dark eyes stared back at him, filled with equally horror.

A high-pitched screech behind him made him turn around in terror.

In front was now a beautiful girl in a dress yellow-ochre on which some black stripes clearly stood out.

A light white shirt was stretched over a beautiful breast, large and firm, with nipples so erect that only violent excitement could have caused it.

On the beautiful face, disbelief was now drawing a myriad of small uncontrolled movements.

He saw the girl bring the back of her left hand to her mouth and made out the small, very white teeth forcefully cutting into the tender velvety skin.

A flash of determination that flashed in the girl's eyes, however, alarmed him, allowing him to notice the movement of her right arm, half hidden behind a red cloth.

An instant later, very quickly, the blow came.

If the girl hadn't been so upset, he would surely have died and his head would have rolled to keep company with the one that had slipped out of his hands in the meantime.

In the haste of the gesture, the tip of the blade of a heavy sword that the woman kept hidden had caught in the curtain hanging from the ceiling and the blow, thus deflected, had the only effect of causing some sparks on the floor.

Michele jumped up and with the intention of putting as many objects as possible between himself and that murderous blade, he sought shelter beyond the bed which seemed to occupy all the space to his left.

In disbelief, he felt his right foot get caught in the large blood-stained sheet and fell head