The Ides Of January

“The chosen son has arrived.” Kenzo flung open the twin mahogany doors and stepped into his father’s office. “You know you have my number, you don’t always need your driver to fetch me like a dog.”

Alistair Cavalli stood by his floor to ceiling windows, his face inches from the double paned bullet proof glass, overlooking the city below him with his back towards his beloved only son.

“Mr. Quarterworth is more than capable of fetching you when need be. My responsibilities are far too pressing for frivolous pleasantries.”

Kenzo shook his head before dropping down onto a python leather sofa designed for appearance more than comfort. Staring up at the cathedral ceilings of his father’s top floor office reminded him of his childhood days within these same walls, a waiting room for his father’s attention. His eyes traced the labyrinthian lines on the ceiling, recalling how he would imagine himself as an omnipotent god guiding the minotaur from his corridor prison to freedom. Massive paintings worthy of museum exhibits decorated the surrounding walls, trophies of conquest and mementos of the past. Above the alexandrite bar countertop topped with more bottles of Louis XIII de Rémy Martin than one man would even need, Saturn Devouring His Sun dramatically hung in its onyx frame, a constant reminder of the necessity of violence for absolute power. His father’s obsession with ancient Rome was displayed thoroughly throughout, from the original sketches of Michaelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam”, to a laurel wreath from Julius Caesar’s personal collection. But the crown jewel of the collection was displayed elegantly in the centre of the room upon a marble foundation, its presence sanctifying the surrounding air with immeasurable importance. Perseus with the head of Medusa, Benvenuto Cellini’s magnum opus, blessed the office of the most influential man in the city.

“Oh mighty and powerful Oz, how gracious I am to be in your presence”, Kenzo sarcastically remarked. “If you brought me here to lecture me about the party I’ll stop you right there, I’ve heard it all before. First you’re gonna say-”

Alistair raised his hand in a halting motion towards his son, not taking his eyes off the skyline view. “Do you recall the reasoning behind your given name? Kenzo, a name of Japanese origin, meaning healthy and wise. Certainly not a name I would have chosen. I argued for you to be named Marcus, to place yourself amongst the greats. But your mother, she was persistent. ‘Kenzo, he must be named Kenzo’ she would repeat on and on. I suppose her resolve for it came from her upbringing, a memory she desired to pass on to her only child. In the end, in her last moments, it was her final request. Against my consensus or agreement, I honored her wish. And so Kenzo you had been christened.” With a final glance at the city below, a final glance at the shattered remains of a sullen past, Alistair turned and took a seat on a lounge chair across from the sofa.

“No, Kenzo, you’re activities are not my present concern. How are you and Selina?”

Kenzo stared back blankly, shocked at his father’s reminiscing and unnatural interest in the status of his relationship. “Wha- she’s fine. We’re fine. What’re you asking for?”

Alistair turned his head back towards the view of outside, the wind caressing the glass panes passed by as rapidly as the years had. “Our family’s history has been intertwined for many eras, the Cavalli’s and the Rossi’s. Our great grandfathers worked together to build this city up from the dust and raised it to the clouds, the filth hardened into fortune. You’ve heard the tales before, the disagreements and turmoil that arose turning partners to rivals, and the vicious and unnecessary bloodshed that resulted. The blood that has been spilled is still being cleaned up to this day, the deep red burrowed into the dirt of the city. And now, after many years, the bloodshed between our families has finally come to a pause, our reconciliation as fresh as the morning dew.” Alistair panned his head back to face Kenzo head on, eye to eye, with the stern look of a man who would never allow his power to be taken from him. “I need to ensure that you understand this. The importance of you preserving your relationship.”

“Is that all this is to you? All you ever seem to care about, all you’ve ever cared about is your work, your standings.” Kenzo sat up straight, his fists clenched tightly by his side. “I’m not some pawn you can move around your board. My relationship is my business, so stay out of it.” His anger was beginning to rise, realizing once more how his father was more interested in him as an asset than as a son. Frustrated, he stood and turned to leave the office.

“Before you go, how’s Lucius? I…briefly spoke with him the other night. The tenth anniversary of his parent’s deaths is coming up soon, isn’t it? I can’t believe its already been that long.” Alistair’s expression looked genuine enough, but Kenzo was never able to truly discern his real intentions.

“He’s…complicated. I don’t know, maybe some things you just never really get over.”

“It truly was a tragedy what happened to them, so very preventable. I still remember that night vividly. They were good friends to us, our family, I have missed them dearly. And then that accident with that girl of his, what was her name again? No matter, please, just give Lucius my regards. He is more than welcome to anything that I have to offer, I hope he is aware of that.”

Kenzo just looked down at the calacatta gold flooring and shook his head, resuming his reach for the hand sculpted door handles.

“I’ll have Quarterworth meet you downstairs and give you a lift home.”

“Don’t bother, I’d rather walk. Goodbye father.” The heavy doors gradually began to close behind him, the viewpoint between them growing smaller and smaller.

Outside the lobby doors, the rain from the prior night had hardly given up, torrenting down through cracks and crevices, filling to the brim every concave surface. As Kenzo stood under the overhang, for a brief moment he regretted declining the warm and dry car ride, but only for a moment. Turning up the collar of his jacket and tucking his head into the hood of his sweater, he braced for the frigid flood.

Before taking a step forward, a puddle that had formed in a pothole hypnotically drew his attention, the raindrops pouring down from above caused rhythmic ripples onto the gentle surface. Kenzo glared as the drops hit one by one, their ripples intersecting and causing an increase in activity. One drop into a ripple into another into another into another. Crouching down with his head just above the puddle, he tried to make out his reflection on the mirrored plane. But just as his image would begin to form, a raindrop would fall and wash it all away.

***

Drip, drip, drip. A recurring stream of water droplets fell down from an overhead concrete beam, the splashing against the damp ground causing an echo to dance throughout the unfamiliar structure. The sound of nature’s clock worked just as intended, as Lucius began to open his eyes and adjust to his surroundings. He laid face down on a rough floor of gray, his wet matted hair floating on the surface of dreary puddle. The droplets continued to cascade down the foreign air, finding it’s resting place just spaces away from Lucius, urging him to get up.

Concrete surrounded his immediate area, the rot and decay acting as evidence that his current position had been abandoned long ago. The only remembrance of life was seen through the weeping masses of greenery, displaced amongst every surface. The silence was deafening, as the green called out for a reply but received no answer. Sunlight rayed through the cracks of the structure's edges yet only the cold remained, as it begged for a glimpse at its warm horizon. The green had survived off nothing but instinct, alive in catalysts draped over the gray like a blanket of snow over an abandoned landscape, a sheet placed over a long forgotten corpse. The green had dawned the role of watcher, witnessing all that was left to fade away. But now, that role was given to the man struggling to get to his feet.

As Lucius’s eyes adjust to the blinding glimpse of the graveyarded plateau, his confusion only multiplied as his mind raced to recall the moments that lead up to the present moment. His vision focuses in on a stream of water cascading down from a peak, embellishing the ground with its collected due. Dropping down to his knees in the waist deep pond, he cupped his hands together and letting it fill with the clear liquid took a drink, hoping for some sense of rejuvenation. Wiping his mouth, he glanced down at his own appearance reflected in the rippling water. Black strands of hair lay matted to his forehead, with the face looking back at him appearing more like a ghost than a living being. His clothes remained just as they were when he entered the gallery, aside from the dirt buildup from the sullen ground.

As he stared into the reflection, the reflection stared back at him, and he gathered the courage to attempt to speak for the first time since he arrived.

“What… is this place, where…am I?”

Through a cracked opening that resided between incongruent walls, golden rays beamed through and painted large shadows behind him, evocative of Plato’s allegory of the cave. Gathering his concerns and confusion, Lucius chose to push aside his current fears, as he stood up and made his way to the light.