Tarquinia, Italy, September 12, 1962
Yesterday, in the evening we arrived in Tarquinia, one of the ancient cities of the Etruscans. The inn is quite comfortable. Jonathan is happy enough: tomorrow we are visiting the necropolis at Monterozzi. He longs to find inspiration for his art among the Etruscan cities of the dead. Frankly, sometimes I think Jonathan is bizarre, but he is an excellent draughtsman, and he is my friend.
For my part, I accepted his invitation not out of love for the Etruscans. Mainly because I needed a break. After we’re done with the Etruscans, we’ll travel down to Rome, which lies a few miles south of Tarquinia.
There, my Italian friend Teresa will join us and be our guide to the eternal city. I must admit, I badly need this holiday. Back in London the air was heavy. I just need to stop thinking about the office. And Jonathan, with his bizarre joviality, is the perfect fellow for this trip. He is a party animal. I suspect, he will like Teresa tremendously, with her dark curls, and long black lashes.
From what I have seen so far, modern Tarquinia is a small, sluggish town. It lives on in the long shadows of its Etruscan past, so said our guide, a soft-spoken Italian with a good English. We are agreed, tomorrow he is picking us up by car, his white Fiat Cinquecento… but here comes Jonathan. He is back from his foray into the kitchen. The innkeeper is very kind and familiar. She doesn’t mind his forward ways. She laughs heartily when he steals some focaccia from her baskets. He is always so noisy when he comes in.
September 13
Our guide Tonino switched on his dim torch and led us into the narrow passageway to the first tomb in the Monterozzi necropolis. Jonathan looked around with an eager gaze, darting from mural to mural. Some of them are heavily damaged and you need a lot of imagination to ‘see’ their first splendour. But if there’s one thing Jonathan has plenty of, it certainly, is imagination. He sketched a detail here and there and hopped around the tombs in pure bliss. I could read it on his face. Now, I can recognize the beauty of Etruscan art, but after visiting ten or so underground tombs, I was worn down to my core. Not so Jonathan: he went on and on, stopping in front of every single shape and colour, asking so many questions I thought our guide would gasp for breath. But he was pleased with Jonathan’s deep interest and the two of them went on talking, leaving me behind.
We entered ‘The Tomb of the Augurs’. Jonathan listened closely to the guide’s explanation, tuntil he saw the painting of the phersu, an Etruscan word meaning ‘mask’: it depicts a man wearing a grotesque mask with a black beard in the act of leading a hooded, blind-folded man on a rope and, at the same time, setting a fierce black dog on his victim.
‘It was an Etruscan ritual game’, our guide said, ‘but as to its meaning, the archaeologists are at odds with one another. You may well be sure there’s a lot of critical debate going on, but no certainty.’
‘A cruel game’, I said.
But Jonathan went closer, taking in the smallest details, admiring. He started a new drawing. In a frenzy of movement and inspiration, he drew the phersu in charcoal several times, but he was not satisfied with the results. He had failed to capture its spirit, he said. Well, artists can be weird sometimes. I could not see what he found so enticing in that repulsive figure. The more I looked at it, the more my unease grew. The mask is raw and rife with low instincts, animal-like and cruel.
The victim is naked and covered with bloody wounds, the black dog is fierce looking while attacking the helpless man… it repelled me. I regret to say that Jonathan’s reaction disturbed me even more. He burst into a sharp high-pitched laughter; his intense grin transformed his features into a grotesque mask too. I was utterly shocked.
***
September 14
Michael is all right, but he is so proper. I am sure he can’t stand the necropolis any longer but doesn’t say so out of politeness. Decent guy, as predictable as a Swiss clock. Never mind, I’ll go to ‘The Tomb of the Augurs’ again, on my own, today.
There’s something in that bold mask crossing over the abyss of death…leading to the terrible laughter of cruelty. I need to reproduce that quality. It’s a powerful vision for my art, stretching beyond the beautiful and the moral, into sheer demonic energy. I’ll draw until I catch its essence. My drawings will be its channel. These Etruscans were remarkable.
They succeeded in unlocking that underworld realm where laughter and horror meet: a pure example of the grotesque. It will lend my art a new freedom and riotousness. I must not spare my efforts: I will draw until I catch that, or I’ll drop dead.
***
September 16
It has been two days now since I saw Jonathan. He is tucked away down there in the tomb, buried alive in his frenzy to draw the Etruscan mask. I fear he is becoming obsessed with it. I had a late lay-in this morning.
When I woke up, Jonathan was already gone.
Our innkeeper keeps to herself. She cannot speak a single English word and there is no alchemy between the two of us. I don’t have Jonathan’s catchy smile.
After breakfast, I’ll stroll downtown and look for a suitable present for Teresa. I hope Jonathan will join me for lunch. He can be quite thoughtless sometimes.
***
September 17
‘Honestly, Dr Rustico, I don’t see how the wounds might have been caused by a rabid dog. You saw his lifeless body lying on the ground of the tomb yourself. I doubt a dog might have followed the victim into that burrow.’
‘I must insist, Superintendent, there’s no doubt about what caused the wounds: in fact, not one dog, but a pack of them attacked the young Englishman. He had no way of defending himself or running away. You found his sketches scattered on the ground, didn’t you?’ ‘We did. A most strange case indeed. Where is his friend? I have a few questions to ask him.’ ‘He is sitting next door, but I doubt it will be much use questioning him. He is unable to speak, staring blankly at the void. I am keeping him under observation for today: his nerves may give at any moment. It was a hard blow. I gather they were close friends.’
***
September 18
Dr Rustico gave me Jonathan’s last sketches. I can hardly bear to look at them. They are all full of grotesque devilry. The Doctor tells me he was attacked by a pack of dogs, but how on earth is this possible? His body was torn to pieces, his limbs severed and his face – my god – I’ll never forget its expression: a mask of horror. His gaze was transfixed.
He must have seen something unspeakable. Someone must have attacked him, catching him by surprise. I must go back to the tomb. Maybe I’ll find some clues.
The police closed it to the public, but I’ll go overnight, when nobody is around. I can’t leave this accursed place before knowing.
***
September 18, midnight.
Here it is – the torch. It will do. So far it has been easy. My goodness, I can hardly breathe down here. It’s chilly and gloomy enough.
There, the infamous painting Jonathan was obsessed with…I wonder… There is a strange glow around the mask… but what on earth?... What is it that I hear?
Barking. Yet, there’s nobody around. And nobody saw me, I am certain. My goodness, I lift the torch, and … that’s impossible!
The black dog’s picture…
The barking is getting closer… from nowhere… or from hell!
AARRGH
***
September 19
‘A strange case indeed, Doctor Rustico. The poor fellow must have been looking for evidence. He was unconvinced by your thesis of the dogs’ attack. And he died in the same horrible way as his friend.’
Doctor Rustico nodded gravely, as he covered the face of the dead man with a sheet, the horror of the hellish encounter still readable in his fixed gaze.
‘You’ll have to make sure nobody can gain access to the tombs at night, at least until the local authorities deal with these awful stray dogs.’
‘There is something more to it’, said the Superintendent, ‘the picture of the black dog… has disappeared…’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Yes, but there is no sign of erasure. It has…vanished.’
The doctor raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
Then, the Superintend, who had been pondering, scratched his black moustache and said: ‘You know, Doctor, dogs were the gate keepers of hell in Etruscan religion, -- how is that for irony?’
