The Maze Of You and Me

November 15, this year
Venice, Italy
10:45 pm CEST

The great Daedalus of Greek myth was said to have built a labyrinth to imprison a monster. Daedalus’ crafted maze was so meticulous and clever that he himself narrowly escaped his own art with his life.

Astrid studies the map as she descends a third staircase. Though she has a well plotted course to Dr. Catena’s laboratories, she cannot help but be turned around and befuddled by the turns and elegant twists veining through Albion’s house. She waits at corners and listens. She hurries down long wood paneled corridors. She scans ballrooms and lobbies for watching eyes. So far she has encountered no one, but every so often she glances up to corners in the ceiling where small hemispheres of smoked glass monitor her quick pace through the maze. It occurs to her when she arrives at yet another staircase that perhaps the monster’s eyes follow her. The monster may just be waiting for her below.

Another corner. Another hallway. Another rush to the next turn. Two men appear from out of a door just feet away. Astrid slows her pace, smiles and says, “Good evening.” She is astonished when the greeting is returned in kind. The two men, both elegantly dressed in suit and tie, continue their quiet conversation and walk toward the elevators.

Another stair, another hall, another lobby—then, she arrives—or at least she guesses. There is no sign or placard, but instead, she peers through an automatic sliding glass door. Within are laboratory furnishings and implements. As if it were a hospital ward, several doors encircle a reception-like desk. Against the walls are carts. Astrid sees hanging tubes, stacked boxes of latex gloves, glass cylinders full of cotton swabs, locked drawers, metal trays with sharp stainless instruments—a big plastic bottle with white letters: ALCOHOL. She wishes for wine. On rolling stands are a couple of monitors. They flash lines and numbers. In the dim light there is no color save the baby blue of bed sheets and taupe hued walls.

To the right of the door a hallway slants downward. At the bottom, maybe twenty feet or so, is another glass door. The room behind it emits an inviting green light. An armed guard stands at the entrance. Seeing the guard, Astrid’s face ducks to the map. She sees Catena’s Laboratory clearly marked in Howard’s scribbly handwriting, but the lower hall is not depicted. She cannot help but think of Catena’s Tree of Life lab experiments. The Melgia Gene.

“Posso essere di aiuto, Signorina?” the guard says, not-so-friendly.

“No assistance, thank you,” Astrid replies in Italian. “I am visiting a friend here.” She walks through the sliding glass door telling herself not to run.

Two women rise up from their computers from behind a reception desk. Astrid braces for resistance—for expulsion—for an ear breaking alarm. Instead, the taller of the two nurses smiles and says, “Hello, Professor Finnley. I expect you are here to see Graham Cremo?”

Astrid feels her hands rolling the map back into a scroll. “I am,” she says. She braces her feet, thinking that at any moment white-coated, Italian orderlies will appear at her sides and wrestle her to the linoleum.

The woman makes a quick notation on a clipboard and points to the right. “He is asleep right now, Professor. But you may visit. We would prefer that you allow him to wake on his own. As you can imagine, he needs all the rest he can get.”

“Of course,” Astrid says. Her breathing slows slightly. “How is he?”

The nurses exchange a glance.

“He is still in critical condition. The gunshot wound has shattered his clavicle and he has suffered blood loss—but don’t worry, he is in the care of Dr. Catena,” her lips stretch into a wider grin, “Dr. Catena is his best hope.” She points to the left. “Just four doors down. Room 10.”

Astrid moves. She rushes. Inside her chest a heavy pendulum swings and batters against the cage of her ribs. Above the door she notes another security camera. She raises her middle finger at it. She is not sure why. Maybe because of Albion’s all-too-composed demeanor. Or his command of Basil’s existence-altering art that he seems not quite qualified to command. Or maybe because the watching eyes remind her of the rankling all-seeing deities of her chosen field of study—and right now, they should not get to witness her face when she sees Graham. They are none of the monster’s business—these matters of the heart.

She turns the handle, enters and presses her back against the door to close it. The room is dark save the neon glow of a patient monitor and a small, candle-like lamp. On the bed lies Graham Cremo. He is sleeping. His tall body is longer than the bed. Astrid feels a smile arc as she notices his big feet jutting out from the blankets.

Slowly she moves to him. She attempts to read the blinking monitor and make sense of his condition. Her fingers touch his arm and her focus drops to his face. Beautiful, she thinks.

When she begins to whisper, she is both hopeful he might, or might not hear her.

“If I could change what happened, I would. Beginning again is all I can do—make a new story. I want my new story to be with you.”