“Why?” said Roscuro. His eyes went back and forth, back and forth, following the locket.
“Because,” said Botticelli, “you will promise it — ha — but you will not grant it. You gain his trust. And then you deny him. You refuse to offer the very thing he wants. Forgiveness, freedom, friendship, whatever it is that his heart most desires, you withhold.” At this point in his lecture, Botticelli laughed so hard that he had to sit down and catch his breath. The locket swayed slowly back and forth and then stopped altogether.
“Ha,” said Botticelli, “ha-ha-ha! You gain his trust, you refuse him and — ha-ha — you become what he knew you were all along, what
“I would like very much to torture a prisoner,” said Roscuro. “I would like to make someone suffer.”
“Your time will come,” said Botticelli. “Currently, all the prisoners are spoken for. But another prisoner will arrive sooner or later. How do I know this to be true? Because, Roscuro, thankfully there is evil in the world. And the presence of evil guarantees the existence of prisoners.”
“So, soon, there will be a prisoner for me?”
“Yes,” said Botticelli Remorso. “Yes.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Ha-ha-ha! Of course you are looking forward to it. You are looking forward to it because you are a rat, a real rat.”
“Yes,” said Roscuro. “I am a real rat.”
“Concerned not at all with the light,” said Botticelli.
“Concerned not at all with the light,” repeated Roscuro.
Botticelli laughed again and shook his head. The locket, suspended from the long nail on his paw, swung back and forth, back and forth.
“You, my young friend, are a rat. Exactly. Yes. Evil. Prisoners. Rats. Suffering. It all fits together so neatly, so sweetly. Oh, it is a lovely world, a lovely, dark world.”
17
NOT LONG AFTER this conversation between Botticelli and Roscuro, a prisoner did arrive. The dungeon door slammed and the two rats watched a man being led by a king’s soldier down the stairs into the dungeon.
“Excellent,” whispered Botticelli. “This one is yours.”
Roscuro looked at the man closely. “I will make him suffer,” he said.
But as he stared up at the man, the door to the dungeon was suddenly flung open and a thick and brilliant shaft of afternoon light cut into the dark of the dungeon.
“Ugh,” said Botticelli. He covered his eyes with one paw.
Roscuro, however, stared directly into the light.
Reader, this is important: The rat called Chiaroscuro did not look away. He let the light from the upstairs world enter him and fill him. He gasped aloud with the wonder of it.
“Give him his small comforts,” shouted a voice at the top of the stairs, and a red cloth was thrown into the light. The cloth hung suspended for a moment, bright red and glowing, and then the door was slammed shut again and the light disappeared and the cloth fell to the floor. It was Gregory the jailer who bent to pick it up.
“Go on,” said the old man as he held out the cloth to the prisoner, “take it. You’ll need every last bit of warmth down here.”
And so the prisoner took the cloth and draped it around his shoulders as if it were a cloak, and the soldier of the king said, “Right then, Gregory, he’s all yours.” And the soldier turned and went back up the steps and opened the door to the outside world and some small light leaked in before he closed the door behind him.
“Did you see that?” Roscuro said to Botticelli.
“Hideously ugly,” said Botticelli. “Ridiculous. What can they possibly mean by letting all that light in at once. Don’t they know that this is a dungeon?”
“It was beautiful,” said Roscuro.
“No,” said Botticelli. “No.” He looked at Roscuro intently. “Not beautiful. No.”
“I must see more light. I must see all of it,” said Roscuro. “I must go upstairs.”
Botticelli sighed. “Who cares about the light? Your obsession with it is tiresome. Listen. We are rats. Rats. We do not like light. We are about darkness. We are about suffering.”
“But,” said Roscuro, “upstairs.”
“No ‘buts,’ ” said Botticelli. “No ‘buts.’ None. Rats do not go upstairs. Upstairs is the domain of mice.” He took the locket from around his neck.
“What,” he said, swinging it back and forth, “is this rope made of?”
“Whiskers.”
“The whiskers of whom?”
“Mice.”
“Exactly. And who lives upstairs?”
“Mice.”
“Exactly. Mice.” Botticelli turned his head and spat on the floor. “Mice are nothing but little packages of blood and bones, afraid of everything. They are despicable, laughable, the opposite of everything we strive to be. Do you want to live in their world?”
Roscuro looked up, past Botticelli to the delicious sliver of light that shone out from underneath the door. He said nothing.
“Listen,” said Botticelli, “this is what you should do: Go and torture the prisoner. Go and take the red cloth from him. The cloth will satisfy your cravings for something from that world. But do not go up into the light. You will regret it.” As he spoke, the locket swung back and forth, back and forth. “You do not belong in that world. You are a rat. A rat. Say it with me.”
“A rat,” said Roscuro.
“Ah, but you are cheating. You must say, ‘
“I am a rat,” said Roscuro.
“Again,” said Botticelli, swinging his locket.
“I am a rat.”
“Exactly,” said Botticelli. “A rat is a rat is a rat. End of story. World without end. Amen.”
“Yes,” said Roscuro. “Amen, I am a rat.” He closed his eyes. He saw, again, the red cloth spinning against the backdrop of gold.
And he told himself, reader, that it was the cloth that he desired and not the light.
18
ROSCURO WENT, as Botticelli told him he must, to torment the new prisoner and to take the red cloth from him.
The man was sitting with his legs stretched out straight in front of him, chained to the floor. The red cloth was still draped over his shoulders.
