Camaldoli

All of Naples spread out before us, and the island of Capri stood solidly in the bay, challenging newcomers. Arrive. Eat. Buy. Exclaim. The cliffs on the south side of the city made me almost believe in sirens and their songs. The murky areas to the north made me believe in the underworld. Right now, though, it tranfixed me to believe in fairies.

"He's back!"

Did I really hear that?

The buzzing sound was so much like insects. Too low, though. It would be a mighty big insect making a noise like that. I didn't bother to turn and see, because the voices would come back, tiny and full of mirth, if I kept my eyes focused on my work.

I always arrived with my sketchpad. I always got a drawing... or most of it. A person has to listen in a different way for fairies language to make sense. Like listening to white noise, only to discover there is some sense to it. It took patience.

"He's taking out the paper!"

"Oh good!"

"Let him draw," a somewhat older voice… smoother and softer than any bird… faintly said to the young ones. Like a babysitter. Reining in the exuberance of her charges. "We can all come back later to see how he's coming along."

I only discovered it this vantage point teetering above the careening autos on the tangenziale. Camaldoi is the highest spot in the entire Naples area. You see it from just about every freeway. You see it, even as you're flying overhead on approach back into the Naples airport. A white building. Lit up at night. An easy landmark.

It was an overcast day. Sometimes spitting rain. Sometimes drizzling. Sometimes stopping. The clouds were moving all the time. I finally found it. During the wet season, every rock grew a mossy covering of green. Every tree, continuously washed appeared as though it had been anointed specifically to give joy. I don't know if it was different lighting, or a change in my own perception, but there they were. Zooming like dragonflies. Intelligent like an unruly band of preschoolers flitting like wildfire from one piece of mischief to another. The fairies were all I had hoped they would be.

The low grumbling noise bothered me at first. Then I concentrated on it. There was something else in the air. Something larger. Mostly, the thing said, "Yum." The higher voices always responded after a word or a body noise from the thing I couldn't see. I sure could smell it, though. The smell was what united all of us, I think.

It became hard to pretend I was working on a sketch. The voices were continuous… and usually funny. I have worked on projects at Camaldoli through fluffy scudding clouds, humid heat, breezy bright days that make you feel a buzz of anticipation for no reason in particular. I come here because the sisters in the convent keep the place scrupulously clean. The long walk out to the viewpoint tantalized me every time.

Last week, I wanted to see if it was possible to capture the way moss kept growing on the rocks of the wall. The delicate fuzz in shades of green to vivid, almost, for paint to mimic.

The problem was the enormous toe. It kept getting in the way. And the smell. I mentioned that, I think.

"Its back!"

"That stupid ogre is going to drive off the artist if we don't do some thing about it."

I was making extraordinary progress on the moss. I found that with my eyes close enough I could make out individual hair-like structures. I could even capture them on my canvas. But that toe. The enormous toe. I finally gave up and included it in the bottom corner of my painting.

The intermittent growling voice paused from its monotony of "Yum" to make a new word. "Me,"… and if I didn't know better, I would think a chuckle accompanied the word. Then, a huge drop of rain fell upon me. There had been drizzle all day, and I was prepared for a downpour any time. I wiped at my neck, wondering if I should run for my car before the rest of the rain came. Then, to my horror, I realized the blob was too sticky to be rain. Transparent, yes. Wet, yes. A lot more like drool than anything else.

"That was a direct hit. I would hate it."

"Oh, gross!"

A tittering laugh so high it made the sound of a cricket seem like a bass clef rumble. "The artist never saw it coming, did he?"

The more authoritative, melodic voice warned of two things. "We better all get out of here while we can. I think the ogre is going to fart."

A small breeze turned a page on my sketchbook at my feet. From further away, I heard the voice say, "Put that down. It's going to turn you into an ogre yourself!"

Then they were gone.

And just as predicted, the smell got worse. So many times worse. As if everybody's oldest, fattest uncle went to a farting convention where the windows and doors, according to the bylaws of the Flatulence Club, remained closed for an entire evening. The chuckle I heard after adding the toe to my painting deepened into an even greater, roaring laugh.

I fled.

Understanding what the fairies are saying is all well and good. Ever since I became aware they were interested in my painting or drawing projects, I wanted to get one of them to pose for me. But hearing them is different than communicating with them. How could I ask one of them to hold still?

Should the wings be pointy?

How many wings should I draw?

Did they sip nectar, tender shoots of new plants, or hunt insects?

If I could only observe these things, I could fill 15 sketchbooks with drawings and notes.

Instead, the ogre chose to reveal itsself one part at a time, and ever more disgusting detail.

The toe it was so delighted with had a nail on it so peaked and so chipped, it looked more like a leaky roof than a toenail. It came encrusted with dirt running in lines down each ridge, and mud under the edge of it thick enough to plant a garden. A newly healing gash sported a scab partly flaking off, and partly clinging to the dirty skin.

A nostril was next. Boogers, hairs, pimples, food, and all.

Than one butt cheek and the other on successive days. Because it stood in my way and would not allow any other artwork to proceed.

An elbow. Creviced with deep pits and scaly ridges.

A shin.

I considered abandoning that spot. Only those fairies…

They were still so cute and funny.

And I still had not drawn any of them.

I became hyper sensitive to the movements. Their leader, the oldest one, apparently, was a hard worker. I realized it wasn't sisters from the convent who put forth the effort for making a trash free zone. She swooped this way that, on purple wings, hair floating behind her, putting trash not in a receptacle close by, but taking it all the way down the hill to a collection site I couldn't see.

In the meantime, the vanity of the ogre continued to grow.

I drew one shoulder from the front side, and the next day from the back.

The heaving breasts placed before me were not the type to inspire the smallest amount of heat even in the most depraved human. Between random hairs, moles, and a ragged neckline that revealed far too much, I got and got on with it, hoping I shoddy piece of work would satisfy it.

I never did find out the name of the cat woman. She brought food every day, and that is how the strays were so glossy on that hilltop. She spoke only Italian. I wanted to ask her about fairies and ogres. Or maybe I was simply going insane.

For whatever reason, though, I kept going back.

It was a cloudless day, when the wind brushed the surface of the Mediterranean like an uninspired harpist gently plucking at the strings of the instrument just to keep in practice. Naples has enough days like that one to keep people smugly waiting for the next one…so they can do nothing. As well we all should. Why waste a perfect day on getting things done?

I finally got up the nerve to draw the entire face of the ogre who now consumed almost an entire sketchbook.

The right nostril I knew too well. All the other parts harmonized in a grand symphony of unloveliness. Stringy hair, thick on one side, and thin wisps on the other, hanging in ragged hanks across the forehead and cheeks. Broad sections of checks and chin pockmarked from years' worth of junk food, and the resulting pimples. Warts. Hairs sprouting from nowhere but threatening to take over the entire face. The eyes might've been beautiful at one time. Patchy eyelashes, and a dullness to them made me doubt it, though.

For some reason, I left the ears. I didn't draw them right away. The ogre would be there, demanding more for me, the next time I came, anyway.

As a trudged down the path to my waiting car, the cat lady gave me a friendly wave, and gestured to her glossy looking friends. I waved back. I nodded.

A gust of wind carried my sketchbook from my overburdened arms to her ankles.

She picked up the sketchbook and dumped through it. What started out as thrilled giggles for seeing ships on the water, or small buds peeping out of the ground with the new spring several months ago, turned to clucks of dismay. It was obvious when the ogre had started taking over my artistic life.

I was suddenly ashamed. I didn't know why.

The cat lady handed the sketchbook to a passerby who spoke English. He returned it to me saying simply, "She got caught up in all that at one time. Now, she's happy with her cats."

I nodded and thanked him.

As I got in my car, I waved to her. She waved back. Before the door slammed shut, I heard a very awkward, "God bless you!"

The next time I went to the hilltop, things felt different. Strangely, I wasn't troubled by the ogre. My intention had been that I would draw the ears on her portrait, and called our project complete. Pointy ears, remarkably delicate for a creature that size. I almost looked forward to that project.

Only two fairies wandered across and passed the benches where I usually sat. Artistically, to plan one thing, and have everything swept out from under you can derail the days worth of creativity. But things took an unexpected turn for the better.

"He's gloomy."

"I wonder if he misses his girlfriend?"

Tinkling laughter made me blush.

"Do you suppose if one of us poses for him, he'll cheer up?"

"Well, you can give it a try."

No more urging was needed. On lime colored, clover scented wings, a fairy with the tiniest, most perfect face swooped in front of me, and landed on the back of the bench, just where I was sitting.

I had to pretend I didn't know what they were saying.

"How long did the ogre have to stay still?"

"As long as it took."

I remembered instantly that my original goal been to draw a fairy. Now, I couldn't open the sketchbook quickly enough. I hesitated. It seemed like a desecration to put this delicate creature in the same proximity as the ogre drawings. I instead got out my smaller, completely fresh sketchbook.

Suddenly, I became grateful for each body part I had drawn, from the lackluster to the truly disgusting, on that ogre. It honed the powers of perception I needed to make a true portrait of this nearly perfect being. So many questions were answered. Number of wings? Four. Number of limbs? Also four. Antennae from the top of the head? Two large and one small. Clothing? Gossamer but functional. It covered everything, but revealed everything as well. A long tunic brushed well past the knees, and leggings appeared to have shoes built right in. Surprising to me was watching how even with the stillness of another perfect Naples day, the hair floated above and around her. Curly strands reached upward and outward as if flight was this person's true purpose, regardless of anything else her body might do. Even staying still.

I stole glances at the other fairy when I could. It was the older one. The hard-working lady, who I had always thought of as their queen.

She chattered at the younger fairy. It helped so that the excitable creature could hold her body motionless.

The pose the young thing selected could not have been more charming. Profile head, with hounds primly crossed on her knees, and toes pointed so that they barely touched the bench beneath her, and modified seat that was halfway to kneeling.

Many artists will carelessly brandish a generic ear, giving it as much thought as they might a tree stump. Not me. Every facial feature interests me. Ears most of all. As with most of my drawings, I waited until the end to make sure I had that ear perfect. I studied it and was ready to execute that one all important element.

Booming footsteps sounded nearby.

Than came the sound of a cluster of fairy wings as they also approached the hilltop.

"Come back! We were only kidding!"

"We have all the popcorn you want."

"In all its buttery goodness."

Well before I saw it, the scent of the ogre joined us on the hilltop. The queen of the fairies looked exasperated.

"How did you all decide to come here?"

"You know how it is."

"I think the ogre smelled him."

"And probably thinks it's time for the final sitting."

This time the queen sounded angry. "Every single piece of that popcorn. Right here. Right now."

She was too late, though. Three of the fairies had already popped a piece of buttery goodness into their mouth.

The entire flock of magical beings zoomed away. Leaving me alone with the ogre. Having nearly completed a portrait of a fairy, the contrast was distressing.

The ogre sat in front of me, with legs crossed, like the worst version of the Buddha imaginable. She waited for her portrait to be complete.

I reluctantly switched to my tattered, much older sketchbook.

I stood up to see one side and then the other. As I sat back down and began to draw both ears from a frontal view, a dark feeling welled in my stomach. Ogre ears, in the fairy ear were almost identical. Plenty, and fuzzy. Finally attuned to catch the slightest sound. Even the scratching of an pencil on the thick pages of a sketchbook.

When I finished the drawing, I couldn't explain to myself or anyone else the feeling of dread. I showed the ogre the portrait. She grinned in self-satisfied pleasure. She had the entire carton of popcorn the fairies had left behind, and threw an entire handful into her maw.

"I think we are done here." I said.

I hastily packed up all of my sketchbooks and supplies. Making it to my car, I realized that the one thing I forgot was my iPhone. I threw everything inside, and ran back to the hilltop.

As I approached the bench, I expected the foul smell of the ogre. Instead, I got that ozone smell that happens right before a rain storm, though the sky was cloudless. My focus was entirely on my phone, though. I darted over to it, and turned to leave.

From 10 feet above the ground, a carton of popcorn began a slow fall. The shadow of where an ogre may have been glistened in the air for a moment, and then was gone. The carton hit the ground, and popcorn spilled all around.

My journey back to the car was a slow one. Would I ever revisit the hilltop?

The cat lady watched me as I got into the car like an old man. The look of understanding and regret in her eyes made me believe she was the only person who understood. She lifted a hand in sympathy or farewell…neither of us knew which.

I did return to the hilltop. Weeks later.

Three ogres made the air nearly unbreathable. None of the three was the ogre I had lavished so much attention on as I drew parts of her body. I listened more closely to the conversations… Particularly with the queen mother and a new cluster of very tiny, and new to the world, young ones. Each phrase took on a new significance.

"Here is how to handle hawks. When the shadow comes and you're aware of it, it's too late. Stick to the shadows if you can."

"Yes ma'am."

"How to avoid cats. Learn to think like they do, and know what their jumping power is. only rest in places they can't reach you."

"Yes ma'am."

"Don't eat that. It will turn you into an ogre. Any morsel of human food. Avoid it like poison."

Each of the young ones may have given her a perfunctory, "Yes ma'am," but I already knew fairies who had ignored her advice.

"And mama? What do you think we should do about ogres?"

"Well. I do know one way to get rid of them."

This time as I returned to my car, I waved to the cat lady, and she knew it was my way of saying farewell.