Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991 полностью

“Now, lad,” he said real low, “it’s late and you’d best go.” Then he almost pushed me out the door. I made haste, indeed, and paddled my little boots home real fast. It was like he had to show it to someone before he blew a gasket and then he got sorry. You know how people are, just can’t keep a secret — like a teakettle with the lid on tight and then whoosh, off she blows. He gave me the willies and I was really dreading his class next day, like if I didn’t show up he’d positively know I knew. I was pretty upset, but I made it home and then had nightmares, like this cat with a knife was chasing me around Venice and everywhere I went there he was, and just before the knife went through my skinny neck I woke up, all sweating.

Alas, I do believe I have made a rather serious mistake, or a “boo-boo,” to quote Kelly John. I’m quite certain he knows the truth. It was difficult to “hide out” in order to change my identity, but I managed nicely and no one has suspected me, until now. That boy is entirely too perceptive, which of course could contribute to his being a fine artist one day, but unfortunately, that day will never come. It is most obvious that it has become necessary for me to dispose of him. The Calagria is my life, my wife, my child, sustenance and friend — the only great thing that has ever entered my somewhat barren existence.

You must have realized by now that I am Calagria — at least I’m his reincarnation. This knowledge has come upon me slowly, but now I am sure. (I keep this journal locked in my desk at the center, incidentally, in case robbers should enter my little house.) As I did the painting hundreds of years ago, why shouldn’t I have it? Let us simply say that I repossessed it. Sometimes I stare for hours at my painting, then something clicks and I’m there — there beside that canal. Occasionally I’m on the steps of the palazzo looking at my city with the piercing eyes of the artist. At other times I’m in a gondola sketching the bustling life about me. Always I’m dressed in slashed doublet, hose, and swirling cape. Often Leonardo and I discuss the Medici family — fine people, fine people. If there were only more patrons in the world like Lorenzo. Ah, yes, poor Kelly John. As we have wells here in Point Magiway (there is an unused one in the field in back of my house), it will be a simple matter for me to, shall we say, allow him to vanish. A pity, but there it is.

Little Kelly John, me, I went to class anyhow, in. spite of my teeny shrinky soul. I decided that everybody should see that picture, not just one wiggy little old man, so I tried to figure something out. I was too much of a marshmallow-heart to turn him in — he’d just die away — and he was a good artist and a great teacher, so I had what I guess you’d call a moral problem, or ethical, or something. I knew there was something loose in his brain; poor old guy, but dangerous.

Well, in class he started looking at me kind of spooky when he thought I wasn’t watching. I’m of a nervous type nature and under this mouselike exterior beats the heart of a mouse. Believe it or not, yesterday he showed up in class with his beard and mustache all trimmed kind of sharp and pointy, and wearing a cape that looked like he’d made it himself out of an old bedspread. Yet he didn’t look funny at all — he looked like Lucifer, but seemed to be younger or more determined; something like that.

Anyhow, there was a creepy change, and I could barely hold my paintbrush.

Standing at my easel slopping away, I heard him creep up behind me, and then he sort of breathed into my ear, “Kelly John, you’re doing fine. Wouldn’t you like to come over tonight and partake of some humble food? We’re not ready for egg tempera technique here in class, but I’ll be only too happy to show you, my boy. Hey, what?”

“Oh yes, sir, I guess so, sir, thank you, Mr. Block, sure, I’d like that fine,” I babbled.

My cool had definitely departed and I droobled some paint where it shouldn’t be and I heard him padding away, sort of chuckling under his breath. Yikes! What had I done?

After classes, while I made it back to my room, I wondered should I be honest and tell him I knew — like put it to him straight — or should I bluff it through or what? I damn near chewed my fingernails down to my wrists. He sure seemed pretty far gone to me, and I knew, I mean I knew, he was going to do something entirely illegal which might hurt me, like maybe I would cease to exist unless I thought something out and quick. I kept thinking of that stiletto looking too sharp and pointy, like old crazy’s beard. Mercy.