by Salvatore DIFALCO

The Con­tes­sa cools her­self with a pink silk fan as I climb her shoul­ders. I strad­dle her neck with my thighs in their green vel­vet leg­gings, and cov­er her right eye with my right hand while I raise a glass of ru­by with my left and thus sin­is­ter hand and toast the pur­ple phan­tasm mount­ing my shoul­ders, per­haps an in­car­na­tion of Bac­chus gen­er­at­ed by my psy­che. I toast you, Bac­chus! And I al­so toast Eros, who may be float­ing above Bac­chus, shoot­ing lit­tle ar­rows. Will this bring me mis­for­tune? Will this bring me mis­for­tune even if I am left-hand­ed? The Con­tes­sa is tol­er­ant in the ex­treme. Tick­led pink by me, she per­mits all man­ner of li­cense, with­in reason.

Wee, I can see the aban­doned green cas­tle from this lofty coign and the green lands sur­round­ing it. The cas­tle be­longed to the Contessa’s great grand­fa­ther long be­fore the fam­i­ly lost its for­tune. One of my japes to­day is wear­ing a scar­let jack­et that be­longs to her fa­ther, Count Monte­doro. Does it not look smart on me? Am I not spruce with it on? It makes me feel no­ble. That said, the Count will kill me be­fore this day is done. More claret, my dear? Please quit shuf­fling your feet in their pearl-bead­ed shoes. Do not let me spill it on your grass-smeared, wed­ding-white dress. She wore this dress why? To gam­bol with me up and down the grassy hills and over the fields like two lu­natics? Or to mock her fa­ther and their fa­mil­ial tra­di­tions, dic­tat­ed by blood bonds and sta­tus? But we are not get­ting mar­ried. We are get­ting drunk!

Thus far she has pol­ished off half the bot­tle. Of course I drank a bot­tle on my own be­fore we set off on our jour­ney. Ques­tion: How can she sup­port me and Bac­chus on her shoul­ders? I am not a small man. I am not a large man, but I am not a small one. And Bac­chus is Bac­chus, my grape-hued muse. Good ques­tion! You are do­ing well, Con­tes­sa. Wee! This makes me mer­ry, this makes the Con­tes­sa mer­ry. Her fa­ther would be hor­ri­fied if he could see her now. And if he saw me in his jack­et he would like­ly try to pierce me with the or­na­men­tal sword sheathed on his flank or shank me with the an­tique dirk he keeps in his sleeve. And I do not blame him. I do not blame your fa­ther, Con­tes­sa. No man of sound mind would sanc­tion my union with his daugh­ter or with any woman he knew. I am com­fort­able with this. But that does not mean I can­not play.

Wee, Con­tes­sa. I beg you not to stum­ble now, not to drop me with­out warn­ing. I sense a sub­tle slack­en­ing. Your laugh­ter has di­min­ished, dear. Are you not en­joy­ing your­self? Shall I jump down and per­form a few ac­ro­bat­ics for your amuse­ment? Bac­chus squeezes my head with his thighs. What is he try­ing to tell me? That I should jump down and do what is right? Or that he does not feel well and short­ly will evac­u­ate his con­tents? Con­tes­sa, Con­tes­sa, what shall we do? Shall I jump down? Or shall we run to the green cas­tle with me on your shoul­ders and Bac­chus on mine? I think you can do it. I be­lieve you can make it all the way.

She starts to move slow­ly. I stretch out my arms for bal­ance. But she does not pro­ceed in the di­rec­tion of the cas­tle. In­stead she lopes to the riv­er. Why are you head­ed to­ward the riv­er, love? She does not walk in a straight line, she weaves. She picks up speed even as she weaves. We are mov­ing at a smar­tish pace now. I feel the wind in my face. Bac­chus hangs on to my hair. The Con­tes­sa is full of sur­pris­es. I feel elat­ed. I feel elat­ed even as she runs head­long to­ward the river­bank. I feel us tip­ping, tip­ping for­ward. Bac­chus hangs on to my ears. A mo­ment of per­il seems im­mi­nent. And yet I am joy­ful. Very lit­tle is need­ed to be hap­py, re­al­ly. It is all with­in your­self and in your way of drinking.

Filed under Fiction on September 11th, 2026

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