Rapha, Elio: Chapter 2
Days of Turmoil
“Hello? This is Fiorello.”
“Ah! Mr. Fiorello, please come in.”
At Fiorello’s single word, a crashing sound came from inside the room. At the same time, the director, who was bloated from head to toe, opened the door as if he had been waiting. Since the director usually handled everything leisurely, Fiorello and Elio looked at each other with a reluctant expression. Two pairs of crimson eyes, identical to one another, met.
Unlike his usual baggy and shabby attire, the director appeared quite dressed up. Not only was there a jacket that didn’t fit well, but there were also wool trousers that roughly wrapped around his entire thighs and carefully knitted wool socks. Elio scanned his unfamiliar appearance with a sour look, then turned his gaze to his father with a worried expression. Just like Elio, Fiorello wore a worried expression. Everyone was inexplicably tense, noticing the director’s unusual demeanor.
“Come on in, Mr. Fiorello.”
“…Thank you.”
Hearing an overly polite greeting unlike usual, Fiorello smiled awkwardly and stepped inside. Just as he was about to let go of Elio’s hand and head toward Madame Nicolo’s tailoring room, the director, having belatedly confirmed Elio’s presence, called out to him.
“Ah, Elio is here, too. Perfect timing. Come and sit down.”
It would have been insane to refuse when the director, who oversaw this entire traveling troupe, had singled him out. Even though Elio and Fiorello were responsible for most of the troupe’s earnings, it seemed wise to avoid any conflict with the director as much as possible. In the end, Elio forced a smile and slowly entered the director’s office to take a seat. Because the stove had been kept burning with wood without interruption, a muggy yet cozy air filled the room. Elio sat down on the old armchair placed in the center of the room, guided by the director’s hand. As he buried himself in the chair, which had been warmed by the stove, the fatigue that had been frozen in his body seemed to melt away like snow.
“Now, please sit down, Mr. Fiorello.”
Unable to resist the director’s insistence, Fiorello did sit down, but perhaps due to the sudden summons, he appeared quite uncomfortable. Fiorello settled into his seat awkwardly, unable to fully sink into the sofa like Elio had. Then, as if urging him to get straight to the point, Fiorello cleared his throat a few times in front of the director.
Thankfully, the director read people well. “There is no need to rush. A very special guest has arrived, and I called you because he wanted to see Mr. Fiorello,” said the old, greedy director, fiddling with his well-groomed mustache.
The director emphasized the words “very” and “special” several times. Even Elio, whose tension had been released by the pleasant comfort and warmth melting into his fingertips, could sense it. Elio wore a confused expression as he alternated between watching his father’s eyes narrow slightly and the director’s brown eyes flashing a rare glint.
‘Why does Dad look so upset?’
Normally, even if he strictly drew a line in his own way, he would have treated the director kindly and gently. However, as Elio observed him right now, this was not the father he knew.
Soon, noticing that his lips were unusually tightly closed, the director rubbed his hands together and spoke. It seemed he had decided to settle the matter when Fiorello was still silent.
“Let me introduce you, Mr. Fiorello—His Excellency, Count Drosselier.”
In an instant, an eerie feeling ran through Elio’s mind at the mention of those words. ‘A Count?’ His scarlet eyes wavered more severely than ever before. And before Elio and Fiorello could take turns protesting, a strange figure walked out from the space slightly obscured by the curtains in the director’s office.
The unfamiliar figure exuded an atmosphere entirely different from anyone else Elio had ever met. With every step he took, an aura of excessive coldness and rigidity enveloped him, and the hem of his luxurious coat, draped over his shoulders and extending down to his waist, was rigidly structured. Even to Elio, a layman in such matters, this was clearly evident. And that was not all; the eyes of this man, known as the Count, were a dazzling blue, and his slightly graying golden hair was neatly combed back with expensive hair oil.
Elio got a feeling that those around him were overwhelmed simply by his presence. The man had a perspective of an observer looking down upon everything from beneath his feet. For a moment, Elio thought his breath had stopped. He would only realize later that it was an illusion, but even that sense of realization felt faint at the moment.
“…Nice to meet you, Your Excellency, Mr. Drosselier.”
It was Fiorello who broke the silence that felt so distant. At first, Fiorello also appeared overwhelmed, but he quickly grasped the situation and bowed his head in greeting before his son did.
“I’m Fiorello, and this is my son Elio.”
Fiorello gently grabbed the shoulder of Elio who was hovering awkwardly. Then, Elio bowed his head, shuffling nervously.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Elio.
Elio couldn’t stop thinking of the man. He was just another person, a life made of the same flesh and blood as everyone else. Yet, that single noble bearing alone was enough to make Elio feel as though the very foundation of himself was beginning to shake. Elio recalled a verse the troubadours of old used to recite.
All men are born from the same place and return to the same place.
They were all human, destined one day to return to the same earth, so how could the mere presence of one person feel so vastly different from another’s?
But there was no time to dwell on it any further as the Count opened his mouth.
“A pleasure. I have a son about that age, you know. He’s quite mischievous.”
The Count said this while slowly looking Elio over with cool, water-blue eyes. Elio tried to avoid that gaze, but he knew that those cold eyes were picking him apart with careful precision. The moment that thought crossed his mind, an inexplicable chill swept across his entire body.
Not long after, the Count stopped staring at Elio. Then, he withdrew his gaze and turned to Fiorello.
“I would like to see a performance. At the Count’s estate. I plan to provide room and board….”
The Count trailed off for just a moment, then continued. “As for the associated costs, I’ll provide as much as you want. I’ll write it on a blank check. It starts at a minimum of 1,000 denarii.”
In an instant, a gasp of disbelief burst from the director’s mouth upon hearing the Count’s words. It was the same for Elio.
Holding his breath tightly, Elio tried to gauge whether what he had just heard was truly real. 1,000 denarii—it was an absurd amount. Since the income from a single long-running performance was merely 50 denarii, 1,000 denarii would ensure he wouldn’t have to worry about making ends meet for the time being. And that wasn’t all—this was the ‘minimum’ amount the Count had offered, not the ‘maximum.’ If he wanted to, he could easily get more.
Having finished his calculations, Elio turned to his father with a dumbfounded expression. Fiorello would accept it immediately. He might even show a genuinely lively smile, one that had been hard to see lately!
“…Dad?” However, when he turned his head, what caught Elio’s eye was an unexpected expression. Elio’s complexion contorted slightly at the sight of his father’s face. At the same time, the corners of his lips trembled slightly.
Fiorello’s eyes were trembling violently. His brow was not merely slightly furrowed, and his lips had long since been bitten hard by his upper teeth. His hand, clutching the hem of his trousers, trembled strangely severely, and in Fiorello’s scarlet eyes, which alternated sidelong glances at the Count’s face and his son Elio, one could read something akin to anxiety that was difficult to perceive at a glance. This was not a temporary or fragmentary anxiety. It was an anxiety that had accumulated layer upon layer over a very long period, only to explode in an instant—an anxiety reeking of the past.
