Rapha, Elio

Chapter 1. Midnoon of Winter

 

Many old minstrels, often called as the people who live their lives by romance and fantasy, would repeat their own word everyday, just to soothe their crave for it: the duality of winter. The tiny light flickering under the dawn sky would always dig into each individuals’ skin, they said. The coldness would hurt and kill people. However, they were still aware of the warmth that people share, though it was kind of ironic. Those fantasy lovers, singers, and dancers spoke and sang, that people have a little warmth hidden inside their shawls, and that maintains the last hope to endure this cold and long winter.

 

And Elio was running downstairs busily, repeating the words of these minstrels. 

Whenever he took one step forward, he could hear words and sentences calling for him, bursting out of each window and doors. Elio, Elio! People shouted. People called him for something very important. It even felt like everyone was calling him. However, he wasn’t that relaxed enough to answer all those questions and callings. With a single moment, he hid himself under the small door nearby the hallway. Brown dust fell down on his cheek. Elio wiped them roughly, thinking this door was too small for him to get in.

But there was no choice. He pulled himself, his body-to be more specific- and tried his best to not to distort his face. Sometimes emotions were hardly in control.

“Dad, here I am,” Elio shouted, putting a little glass jar on the little table next to him. Inside the transparent jar, closed with some cloth and cork lid, he could see the dark liquid swaying. His eyes, colored with sunlight-vermillion stared at it for a moment, and then moved his stare to his father.

His father, Fiorello, was in a rush, searching for something. Although it was the same that his clothes were old and not fancy at all as usual, his whole body was covered with a thick layer of brown dust, which Elio saw in the hallway. Almost the very half of Fiorello’s body was inside a gigantic box. His long arms churned something inside the box. Then Elio looked at his father for a little more, and sat on the enormous trunk that was put on the floor, asking, 

“What are you looking for, dad?” 

Elio’s voice was trembling, as if he was not able to understand what his father was doing. In fact, that was almost true. He could hear: some little voices were layered inside the box, sometimes shivering, but that was yet too broad to be translated into the actual language. So Elio decided -almost forcibly- to wait until Fiorello finishes his work.

“Now I found it.”

Soon, Fiorello shouted with a heightened voice. His upper body, layered with the thick dust, popped out off the box. Old dust grains remained flickering in the empty space… Then Elio asked, a little bit hesitantly,

“What is that?”

Elio stared at what Fiorello was holding, trying to understand his father’s intention; he could see one thin and small vest. The edge was perfectly sewed with careful and professional effort, and the cloth itself seemed fine although they were in old condition. Through some parts, the color looked faded, but the tiny embroideries left on the bottom part of the vest were vibrant and beautiful. So Elio assumed that it would probably be made by someone who is very skillful at sewing. 

“I wore it when I was your age. I thought I lost it… but here it was.” Fiorello answered, smiling. Then he looked at it for a moment, and then shook it with his hand so the dust layers could be erased. 

“Can you put your arms higher?” Then he called his son with a single movement of his hand. Elio followed his instructions.

“Yes.” Elio answered. Fiorello’s warm hands were placed around him. Fiorello put his vest on Elio’s chest, smiling. His lip lines shifted a little bit. It’s been a long time since I saw your smile, dad, he whispered himself. 

“My mother, I mean, your grandmother made it. That’s why it feels special to me”. Fiorello explained. Then Elio nodded, now fully understanding his intention. Although he had never met his grandparents, especially grandmother before, he understood that his father was showing extra affection to his mother. He could read it from the little glimmer on his fathers’ vermillion eyes. Moreover- it was reasonable. Almost everyone naturally feels special affection for their mother. 

After his father finished his process of putting the vest on his son, Elio moved his body and sat on the table that was leaning against the wall. He glanced at his father for a moment, sideways, trying not to interrupt his emotion. In fact, Fiorello seemed already overwhelmed by his emotions. Though Elio could not explain it properly in words- he saw delightfulness, happiness, gladness, and also some concerns. He questioned himself about the very last emotion, but it did not last long. Elio looked up in Fiorello’s eyes for a moment. His vermillion eyes, same as his son, were colored with a deep and chill hue. It was even similar to the color of the seashore, with the beautiful sunset touching the horizon. 

“Then, why did you come?” Fiorello asked, after some minutes-

“I need to dye my hair.” Elio answered, showing his father how speckled his hair was. 

“Oh, I see.” Then Fiorello nodded his face. He grabbed the little transparent jar and opened it. The thick and dark liquid, a hair dye, was swaying inside. 

“Come here. Let me do it for you.” 

His father’s swollen, sturdy hands stroked his son’s hair, still quite young. Elio smiled contently, feeling his father’s gentle touch tangle in his hair. Fiorello’s hands were always affectionate in front of his son—and Elio loved that “limited” affection. He cherished those moments when his father, usually kind and gentle but always maintaining a certain line, would suddenly drop his mask and act unhesitatingly kind in front of him.

He was aware of this. That this was quite different from the ordinary father-son relationship, and that this deep affection, difficult to dismiss as mere “filial piety,” was a form of survival that Elio possessed.

But even this made it difficult to blame anyone. Elio had lived his entire life alone with Fiorello, enduring all the hardships of this vast empire, Peroce. Would it have been better if he had a more ordinary job? Even Fiorello’s profession was that of a clown in a traveling troupe, considered the most lowly of all time. Though he had been performing for years to immense popularity, it was true that he was treated poorly. Elio knew how hard his father prepared for a single performance, how much sweat and tears went into that effort. He knew the depth of his devotion that peeped through the face of a dazzling, jeweled mask. However, the pay itself was always meager compared to his efforts. After saving a certain amount, the monthly payment barely covered his stomach. Therefore, Fiorello was the only thing thirteen-year-old Elio could afford, and had. Furthermore, his young father was a parent who would give anything to his child, and all these factors combined to create a special affection for him. Some might call it a disgusting feeling, but Elio swore to the heavens that he loved Fiorello more purely than anyone else. That much he could be proud of. There was no impurity or filthy intention in his love. It was simply a love of such extremes that, without Fiorello, even he couldn’t exist in this world.

In any case, Elio loved his father. He loved and respected Fiorello’s very existence, everything he did. No, he tried to do so. At least, that’s what he thought.

“All done. Your hair’s wet, so dry it with a towel, then go to Madame Nicolo.”

Fiorelo, who had finally finished dyeing his hair, gently grasped his son’s shoulder. Elio slowly rose from his seat and glanced at his reflection in the distant window. His hair, which had only moments before looked like a tangled mess of silver and black, was now completely jet black. Elio stared blankly at the sight for a moment, then quickly dried his hair and prepared to leave.

“Oh, right, Dad.”

Elio, who was preparing to leave with an old leather bag in his hand, looked up and said,

“The director asked you to come to the office. He said he had something to say.”

“Is that so?”

Fiorello tilted his head slightly to the side, puzzled. “Let me see. Did he say something like that the last time I spoke with the director?” “I heard a very important guest is coming. The director looked incredibly happy.”

Elio added. He recalled how, before entering this room, he’d been stopped by the director in a narrow hallway and given a lengthy request. The director had told him that a “very important person” would be visiting soon, and to send Fiorello to the director’s office as quickly as possible. The director’s face, flushed with excitement even in broad daylight, looked as if he’d had a drink. The hallway of the traveling theater building seemed to be filled with whispers for some reason… For a moment, a gut feeling that something unusual was about to happen struck him. Then Elio quickly raised his head and spoke.

“Um… I think you should hurry, Dad.”

“Yes, I understand.”

Fiorello said, his face quite serious as he picked up his coat. His usually gentle face had turned paler than usual.

“Madame Niccolo’s room is close to the director’s office, right? Let’s go with me for now.”