Visions and Vendettas

The chimes of the tower's bells echoed across the city, heralding the genesis.

Tonight was the night.

Casimiro inhaled deeply as he knelt on the bench of Seville's most illustrious cathedral. The air was laden with incense, intertwining with the aroma of ancient wood from the pews. His gaze fixed upon the Retablo Mayor, a grand woodcarving altarpiece, noting the finer details and stories of Jesus’ life while the priest droned on about some detail or another. Casimiro had spent over four weeks devoting himself to the boredom of daily masses and incessant prayer to devise his biggest heist yet. The thrill of absconding with a piece of the cathedral— one of its treasures amidst the vast collection of art, from paintings, sculptures, and goldsmith work—was uncontainable. Far, far too many for one place to hold Casimiro mused. He would be just taking one small piece. And not even a portion of the Retablo Mayor. They should be glad of that at least. For this act would be his retribution for the sake of many. Andalucía had suffered too much for far too long in the conflict that stemmed from 1833 right through to this very day in 1874. Yes, far too long.

Despite the endless sermons and liturgies, scant of the city's opulence trickled down to the denizens who were the lifeblood of Seville's grandeur. The cathedral, a monolith of affluence, stood in stark contrast to the reality mere miles away. He looked up at its soaring vaulted ceilings, etched with intricate patterns that whispered tales of faith and grandeur. He then looked further to the sides to note the pillars standing as a testament to the cathedral's past, withstanding earthquakes and more. Stained glass windows fractured sunlight into a kaleidoscope of colours, bathing the hallowed ground in ethereal hues. In such moments, one could be utterly spellbound. It made sense why so many of the simpletons around him came to preach. They wanted to imagine a better life. They yearned for a glimpse of a better existence, a brief escape from their daily confines. Ironically, Casimiro was trying to do just that whenever he was forced to play the pliant believer during a service. An actor performing his best to gain awareness of how Seville’s citizens operated, and how they protected their most prized building and its esteemed possessions.

He was so lost in thought that he almost forgot to stand at mass end. Those around him started mingling, hushed conversations ensuing. Talks of weather mingled with reflections on the sermon and the day’s happenings, while whispers of the monarchy's potential resurgence wove through the crowd, a topic that seemed to have swelled in significance over recent weeks. These murmurs stoked the fires of Casimiro’s resolve, a testament to the stark divide where the affluent thrived and the destitute were forgotten. To him, the masses could pray to the heavens, but without action, their words were as fleeting as smoke. This brutal truth, imparted from a young age, was the very fabric he sought to unravel, in the only way he knew how.

He stopped for a second. Tonight was his last night in Seville by virtue of his plan. And so, he pivoted away from the cathedral’s towering exit gates post the mass to the entrance of the Giralda Tower instead. Climbing the path always took some effort, and at that moment, he wished he could be one of the few who were allowed to take a white steed up to the very top. Even here, the incense's sting pursued him, intensifying as he ascended. His sack coat grew warm against his skin, a testament to the physical toll of his climb. He focused on the floor count. 11… 17… 28… 30… 34. The steps were not that of a normal staircase but elongated in a sloped manner of 34 ramps that required less effort but effort, nonetheless. So, when the day’s light appeared again, he welcomed it gleefully, stepping through the door from the murky incense-laden Cathedral walls to a small viewing deck that showcased the full landscape of Seville. The sight was striking. He could thank the droves of Muslims for building this structure; and then the tight-lipped Catholics for maintaining it. Despite having climbed his way up the tower a dozen times now, this view proved his favourite time and time again. Not many buildings offered such an expansive view in the vicinity and the opportunity to climb up proved the singular factor that made him feel remotely guilty for stealing from this city. A city whose buildings were mostly squat but vibrant in colour, thanks to the sun’s rays and the necessity to keep the heat at bay. These colours gave the city an air of vibrancy and life despite its hardships. It almost made Casimiro fond of it too. He found himself gazing for quite a few minutes more.

A few hours later he found himself staring up. This time it was the Giralda Tower looming over him. And the moon just behind. At day and in the early hours of the night the streets around him had been bustling. Now they were teetering on eery. It was 3 am. The hour of devilish acts and Machiavellian ways. Casimiro smiled a mischievous smile, grasped the knife wrapped in cloth tighter, and marched his way toward the gate whose patron was remarkably easily distracted. Tonight, it was a belladonna named Isabella. He paid her rather handsomely for her silence and timing, for she aptly distracted the guard right as he swung the gate closed. Guess the guard did not realise it would be another, more personal, job that he would be finishing. Casimiro unfastened the hinge and swung it open to enter the interior courtyard of the cathedral. It was dotted with trees, their branches adorned with oranges that glowed like embers in the moonlight. He was tempted to have a little feast of the bitter-tasting product of the trees. At that very thought he heard a twig snap, and within that same very second, he foolishly kicked one of the little pesky bright fruits harshly so that the guard took notice. A dash towards the foliage proved fruitful in evading the roadblock of his mission.

Casimiro’s heart rate was beating far too feverishly for his liking. This small glimpse of a theft gone wrong made him react more harshly than his previous ventures. He mulled over for a moment on why he reacted so strongly. Then he shook himself from his stupor. No time for thinking, time for acting. He stood and asserted himself to the right frame of mind once more, and stealthily tip-toed around the fallen branches should the intruder come a-knocking again. Reaching the heavy doors, he slipped through the small opening left for the night guards to meander through. The cathedral looked sinister without the brightening of the day’s light through its looming stained-glass windows, a stark contrast to just a few hours earlier. The atmosphere suited him just fine, his act was one of revenge. It seemed fitting the cathedral was gloomy in response.

He ventured over to the right corner where his point of focus had centralised, to the place where the deed would happen. A long 33 days it had taken until he could enact his initial plan post seeing this painting. It was that of “The Vision of Saint Anthony of Padua,” commissioned and captured by the cathedral, standing over 200 years in age. Created by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, Casmirio's fascination with Murillo's work began upon encountering it at London's National Gallery. But his chance trip to Seville established that interest impassionedly more.

The painting showcased humble devotion. In it, Saint Anthony has a moment of rapturous vision, his gaze locked on the celestial sight before him whilst kneeling in prayer on the bare ground beneath him. The focal point of the vision is no other than the Infant Jesus, who floats in mid-air and reaches his tiny hands to Saint Anthony; a gesture that bridges the heavenly realm with the earthly, symbolizing the accessibility of divine love and grace. Murillo masterfully used colour, light, and shadow to display the sheer devotion and power of faith. Yet, for Casimiro, his faith lay in justice. He would cut and take just the saint. An act to reflect a loving nation's bereavement of both vision and faith. His beloved father’s country. The country he had died for.

“And so, he wouldn’t want you to do what you are about to do,” a voice whispered behind him. His heart raced three times its usual cadence at the sound. Was this his last rodeo?

He turned to see a figure clad in the simple brown robe of his Franciscan order, a figure that should most definitely not be three-dimensional and standing as an almost mirror of his reflection on the painting. “I get it. You want to avenge. Not a good idea though.”

Casimiro blinked. “Right, anyway…” he pivoted on his right leg and swung the left in clear denial. His face contorted in deep confusion. “I am still here,” the voice said.

“No, you are not,” Casimiro muttered under his breath, unsheathed his well-sharpened knife and got to work clambering over the fencing right in front of the painting and the little altar. “And yet, you are talking back,” Casimiro glimpsed at the figure again, the face more visible thanks to his manoeuvre just now, combined with the light’s triangulation. It showed one of a disappointed father. Fitting.

Casimiro's grip on the knife tightened, the blade glinting faintly in the dim light as he faced the apparition. His mind, a tempest of doubt and resolve, struggled to discern reality from the shadows cast by guilt and a burgeoning fondness for Seville, a city that had unwittingly seeped into the crevices of his heart.

"You are but a figment. A trick of the mind, wrought from too long in this city's embrace," he whispered, his voice a blend of defiance and uncertainty.

The figure, steadfast in its ethereal vigil, merely sighed, its expression one of sorrowful understanding. "Perhaps," it conceded, "but even phantoms bear truths. Seville has marked you, thief. Can you bear its weight?"

The ghostly whisper seemed to imbue the air with a palpable tension, urging him to ponder the ramifications of his imminent act. Casimiro faced the painting, the knife in his hand trembling slightly as doubt crept into his heart. He felt the weight of Seville's history, its beauty and its plight, press upon him. It was a city of contrasts, of vibrant life amidst struggles, its every stone telling a story of resilience and faith. And here he was, poised to sever a piece of its soul.

A battle raged within, a tumultuous clash between his initial conviction and the unforeseen empathy that tethered him to this place. Memories of the city's narrow alleys bathed in golden sunlight, the vibrant markets, the laughter of its people, all flashed before him, challenging his resolve.

Yet, within the storm of his thoughts, a clarity emerged. His actions, though seemingly a theft, bore a deeper intent—a cry for justice, a beacon for the overlooked and oppressed. The painting, a masterpiece of divine connection, would serve as a symbol, a catalyst for change. It was not the desecration of beauty he sought but the reclamation of hope.

His blade met the canvas.

--------

This short story draws inspiration from the real-life event involving the theft of Saint Anthony from the painting "The Vision of Saint Anthony of Padua" in Seville, 1874. A year later, in 1875, a Spanish immigrant purportedly sold the stolen portion of the painting to Hermann Schaus, a New York City art gallery owner. Recognizing the artwork, Schaus acquired it for $250 and promptly alerted the Spanish consulate. The piece was then shipped off back to Seville and added back into the work in 1875 by the restorer Salvador Martínez Cubells. 

This story pays homage to Saint Anthony of Padua, now venerated as the patron saint of retrieving lost items and people, weaving a narrative that mirrors the enduring hope of finding what was once thought irretrievably lost.