CHAPTER 1. WAITING FOR DOOM

February 1, 1814.

By virtue of his origin, Mucio Pieri was an Italian—his uniquely talented being was the natural creation of the very same lineage that, several decades earlier, had been subjected to extremely ruthless persecution and oppression by the extraordinarily secretive, but by no means faceless, Italian sbirri: and what was the reason for this? In the indescribably exquisite home of Filiberto Piero, the house of his father's father, or rather, Mucio Pieri's grandfather, certain forbidden folios—forbidden by the laws of the time—were found. In those days, possessing such books could wipe out an entire lineage, regardless of its origin. But were such books ever kept in that house, in Filiberto Pieri's house? It is highly probable that they were not—Filiberto Pieri was the most fervent, and, what's more, continuously eloquent, opponent of the government then dominant in Italy, so is it surprising that those very folios, which were never even present in that place, were found in the house of that nobleman?

Be that as it may, to save his life and the life of his family, Filiberto Pieri was forced to leave Italy—but where to? His choice was as insane as his political views—or so thought every sane, but by no means wise or enlightened, person. From then on, the true place of residence for that branch of the Pieri family was the Captaincy General of the Philippines—it was here that the extraordinarily long branches of the freedom-loving Pieri tree formed their new bloom.

Just like the branches of the Pieri family tree, tireless time also did not stand still—many decades passed: the government in Italy changed, forbidden books were now included in the string of permissible ones, yet the Pieri family still did not find its pardon. So, was it because of the storage of forbidden books that the family of Filiberto Pieri—the very Italian whose name at the time was instantly overgrown with the evergreen moss of not-so-flattering rumors—was forced to flee Italy?

But enough about the predecessors! Mucio Pieri was in a much greater way than his blood relatives—thanks to their experience, he learned to be silent: it was this silence, this ability not to voice all the thoughts in his mind, that awakened in his being the exceptional talents so skillfully hidden by nature—unlike his father, he was not in the least, truly not in the least, interested in the current state of affairs on the modern political map of the world. In this life, he had only one passion—the name of this passion was the seemingly unremarkable word "painting."

“To rule Europe, you need reason; to rule Asia, you need strength!” his father would say at the very hour when Mucio Pieri silently created landscapes of exceptional beauty. “The architecture of Rome is the daily labor of man for 27 centuries!” his father would pronounce when Mucio Pieri silently reproduced on white canvas an architecture more magnificent than the one he mentioned: an architecture whose creator, since the creation of the world, was nature! “Rome is not just the Teatro Argentina, but also the Mamertine Prison!” his father's lips would repeat in those moments when he was silently studying animals and birds of all kinds.

“Trust your eyes!” Giovanni Pieri would say to him every day. “Don’t believe your eyes! Eyes can only see what is limited—the mind is capable of seeing the unlimited!” Mucio Pieri would repeat to himself every night. “What is the price of your paintings?” his father would often ask with contempt. “Any number is a limitation, and perfection—the givenness of nature—is not subject to any limitations whatsoever!” Mucio Pieri would always answer his father with simplicity. Thus, from childhood, he gradually, empirically—since the theoretical path was closed to him due to his environment—mastered the following, very curious, maxim: communication with not the best people can give the best experience.

Such was Mucio Pieri—the same Mucio Pieri who, in those moments, surrounded by exclusively malachite vegetation, continuously created with indescribable inspiration: it was in this way, through creativity, through painting, that he acquired the highest quality education in this world—in his mind, at those moments, there were as many ideas as there were stars in the vastness of the Milky Way.

Making a few seemingly insignificant movements that, in the blink of an eye, created extraordinarily lovely flowers, he felt a joy of the most indescribable kind—he realized his strength, his greatness, his power: in these moments, he was the Almighty, God, Yahweh to his creation—the painting “Wanderers Pursued by Death.” Looking more closely at the blue-eyed flowers just created by his brush, he immediately came to the conclusion that even plants whose leaves are significantly more attractive than their flowers can exist in this world. “How magnificent they are!” Mucio Pieri loudly exclaimed in his mind and immediately created beside the blue-eyed flowers just revealed to his eyes an equal number of such plants as the number of human beings that fill any Catholic cathedral on any given Sunday.

A few more skillful brushstrokes, and three wanderers appeared before his eyes. But who, who was the prototype for each of these wanderers? Perhaps his friends? Mucio Pieri had no friends—he felt perfectly comfortable in absolute solitude. Perhaps his enemies? Mucio Pieri had no enemies—this was, of course, one of the positive consequences of his solitude. No! These wanderers were Filiberto Pieri, Giovanni Pieri, and Mucio Pieri—each of them was dressed in the appropriate attire of his century: each of them was doomed to doom, just as the very time in which each of them lived was. "Time, like water, is capable of gnawing away at everything in this world—everything, without the slightest exception!.." the aforementioned words suddenly flashed through Mucio Pieri's mind.