The heat rose in sweltering spirals from the darkened cobblestones. The oppressive grey clouds above smote it down, debilitating, overwhelming, gloaming.
My eyes automatically scanned the Venetian street that lay before me, checking, checking. Windows, pilasters, flowers boxes above. Maybe a touch of red in the third box from the end - I made a mental note to myself.
At the far end, the unpainted gondola was being tested on its rails. I walked down to the trough that would be filled with water to create the canal. A few trees, a bridge, and the dome of St Peter’s beyond. This looked alright.
Cloisters with the roofs behind. ****, the incompetents. I had personally marked out the chimneys this morning, could they not match up the chalk lines?
I passed girls in tight leather skirts and men in flamboyant shirts as I moved on. The larger than life representation of the roof of the Sistine Chapel. Not bad, but then, they only had to work on a vertical surface. No agony or ecstasy here.
A loud crash. I turned to see a large truck, a pile of junk, half on and half off it. About to turn away, my eyes glimpsed a flash of brown. Rich, luxuriant brown. Curious, I went over.
Old machine dies, being junked. Now it was the shapes that held my eye. Here, a curved section – the trunk of an elephant god? There, a flared wedge – the skirt of a goddess? And there, a fluted prong – the distinctive cast mark of the lord of the seven hills…
An eternity – or was it just a flash? – later, they stood before me, glowing, resplendent. My work, my art, my life. Me. So precious, so sacred. How could I share them with anyone else? Let their profane eyes wander over the very marrow of my soul? Would all the suns, the moons and the stars in the universe be recompense enough to part with them?
Could I still live without my soul?
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