Damiano by R. A. MacAvoy Page A

Damiano entirely male? All the painters gave their angels the faces of women.
    Had Raphael seemed a woman, Damiano, easily swayed by such things, would not have been able to bear it. He would have made a fool of himself, for certain, and perhaps sinned in his heart. Perhaps, Damiano reflected, that was why Raphael did not appear so, since the good God did not offer a man temptations he could not possibly resist.
    The chiseled face tilted sideways, almost like that of a curious bird, and the wings swept snow into the air: snow that broke the light like a thousand prisms. “Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Raphael.
    Damiano swallowed; he realized his hand still clutched the neck of the wine bottle. “I had forgotten how amazing you are, Raphael. Seeing you under the sky, like this... is very beautiful.”
    The angel’s face remained unchanged, as though the compliment had gone through him. “The blue sky is very beautiful,” he agreed, tilting his head upwards. “But then so it is in the rain, and the snow.”
    Damiano’s cold and nervous hands fumbled under the folds of the mantle and found the pear-shape of the lute. He brought it out. “You see, Seraph. I loosened all the strings, knowing the cold might have snapped the neck.”
    Raphael knelt in the snow and took the instrument in both his hands. One by one, he adjusted the eight strings.
    â€œThis is as loose as they need to be,” he remarked. “Unless you are going to the top of a mountain.”
    Damiano sighed, thinking how much there was to explain. “Only as high as the summer pastures, where the people of Partestrada have fled. Then... I don’t know, Raphael. Perhaps France, or Germany, but not until... tell me, what should I do for my city?”
    Raphael gazed at Damiano until the young man felt he were standing alone beneath hosts of stars. Had he known how, he would have laid open his soul to the angel, with the history of his every thought, and let Raphael judge him and decide his path. No matter the pain, weariness, or worldly shame, Damiano believed, he would have done Raphael’s bidding.
    But he did not know how to bare his soul, and he was certain that Raphael was not about to tell him what to do with his life, so instead Damiano dropped his eyes to the cork and the green glass of the wine bottle. Consequently Raphael’s words caught him by surprise.
    â€œPray, Damiano! Pray for the people of Partestrada, and pray for yourself; for guidance. It may be you will need it.” The angel spoke with a clear intensity, and Damiano flushed at his own omission.
    â€œOf course, Seraph. Since yesterday... all has been topsyturvy, and I have forgotten. But aren’t you my guidance?”
    Raphael laughed and Damiano, too. It always worked that way. “No, Dami, I’m not here as a messenger of the Highest. It was your will that first called me and my own will that chose to come. I am not your guide but your friend.”
    Damiano bowed his head to follow the angel’s advice, but immediately he raised his eyes again and saw Raphael sitting before him, wings folded back. Macchiata lay curled on the angel’s lap like a white piglet, slightly soiled. “Don’t go,” begged Damiano. “I’m afraid when I look up again, you’ll be gone, and you just got here.”
    Raphael took Damiano’s hand and held it.
    The mortals ate while Raphael looked on. They didn’t speak of Pardo or Partestrada or the horsemen who even now must be combing the uplands for the city’s unfortunate people. In fact, later, when trudging the road that afternoon, Damiano looked back upon their conversation, and it seemed they had talked about nothing at all. Raphael had turned down Macchiata’s invitation to walk along with them, saying he was not much of a walker.
    The afternoon clouded up, and the snow that the sun had softened began to freeze. Black walls of