The tear thief
Chapter 1
The first light of dawn began to filter through the thick brocade curtains. The large room bathed in an indigo light and Baldassario listened devotedly to the slow, deep breathing of Altagracia still in a deep slumber beside him.
He rose gently, careful not to interrupt Morpheus' symphony rhythmically filling the young woman's chest. Standing next to the bed, he contemplated for a moment the tapering curves of her body, completely undressed and vulnerable before covering her modestly with a pristine satin sheet.
Dressed in simple linen pants, he descended the marble staircase and crossed the main hall teeming with paintings, sculptures and miscellaneous objets d'art. He knew each of these objects as he knew a long-time friend. For him, they were alive and rich with stories a hundred or even a thousand years old. Coveted, exposed, stolen, lost, forgotten; they had travelled through time, each patina a page in their biography. There was, of course, the "official story", but Baldassario secretly quivered when remembering the personal story marking each of these pieces of art that would always belong only to him. He had established a silent rapport with them, a bond that he could share with no human.
Collecting art was his passion and his work as far as the rest of world was concerned. The very particular method employed to procure the most beautiful pieces was a secret shared only by a highly select group of individuals.
Baldassario sat on the terrace of his 16th century villa that resembled more a medieval fortress than a Renaissance palace. Perched upon one of the hills surrounding the city-state of Florence, the villa towered over an ocean of vines and olive trees with majestic cypress dotting the landscape.
The Tuscan countryside at sunrise was for him one of the most beautiful spectacles in the world. A perfect, living masterpiece; nature accomplishing the eternal miracle of the simplicity of life.
Watching the sunrise over the olive trees, Baldassario was torn between the desire to enjoy this graceful moment in solitude and the want of savouring it through the eyes of Altagracia.
The feline shadow that first brushed against before settling in front of him put an end to his torment. For a moment she rested perfectly still basking in the first rays of the fire star, the satin sheet tied in a toga around her torso. Then very slowly, as if lulled by the atmospheric vibrations resuming life after night, she began to sway while undoing the sheet, before brandishing it, arms extended, like an offering to the sun god.
Altagracia, unencumbered by the fabric, allowed her body to express itself, wrapped in the warm embrace of the new day, in a dance primitive, pure and in perfect harmony with the moment, sublimating the occasion.
Baldassario was overcome by a bittersweet wave of the painful pleasure of feeling alive. He loved Altagracia the way one loves a wild animal- for what it is: wild, untamed, free to come and go without restriction, with the glowing gaze of a wildcat unconscious of doubt or fear, revering life in knowing its true price.
Loving her selfishly and confining her in a bourgeois relationship, would only extinguish that fire and kill the love itself. Baldassario loved Altagracia in the only way he could. He owned objects more rare but he would never possess this woman.
They would share intense moments like this morning, then she would leave same as she arrived: without warning, without a word.
After several days away from home, Altagracia seemed to wilt. She had developed a symbiotic rapport with her Andalusian land. She felt a vital need to be surrounded by Flamenco and her own and to offer them, without reserve, the best of her talent as had done generations of women in her family.
Concluding her gestural ode facing Baldassario, her gaze plunged so deeply into his eyes as to probe the darkest recesses of his soul. Her quest was halted by the insurmountable wall of tenderness and admiration erected by the radiant eyes of her lover.
Disarmed by this silent expression of affection, she crossed the space separating herself from Baldassario, pressed her body to his chest and put her lips to his. He embraced the naked woman in arms, returning her kiss then whispered a simple “Thank you” in her ear.
He then felt Altagracia’s tears flowing down her cheeks and could not help thinking of the market value of this precious liquid. But he immediately dismissed the idea that came to spoil the magic of their being together.
Altagracia sensed Badassario’s sudden tension and studied him through misty eyes. She detected in his expression a cold shadow concealing a persona at once disturbing, frightening and intriguing.
For the young and romantic Andalusian, the mystery was a powerful aphrodisiac, one that permeated the secret weave of her Tuscan lover’s life.
“The Medicis are hosting a ball tonight. I have to attend and I would like it if you would accompany me,” said Baldassario interrupting their respective private thoughts.
“I don’t know how you can bear these pompous, antiquated events,” Altagracia replied.
“Solely by professional obligation.”
“Of course,” she said with a sly smile while questioning the true nature of his obligation.
Baldassario watched as the young woman moved away knowing that she would surely disappear before lunch and wondered when he would see her again. He knew she was intelligent, extremely intuitive and possibly even a bit of a sorceress with the gypsy blood that flowed through her veins. Their growing intimacy posed a threat to his occult activities, but her sporadic appearances had become essential to him. As essential as the perilous exercise he will engage in this evening.
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