The Alchemist of Rome

by M C Dulac

  “I’d love to go there. We went north - to Florence.”

  “The north is beautiful. But gloomy at times. All business and money. You must see the south, before you leave. See Vesuvius and the ruins of Pompeii, and the Bay of Naples.”

  “I have to leave soon.”

  “Maybe you should stay longer.”

  He smiled again. Rebecca smiled too, and turned away as she felt her cheeks redden.

  They walked across the bridge and then through the streets into the city. Antonio made the city seem alive, pointing out all the monuments and landmarks.

  “If you are free tomorrow, maybe we can go to a gallery,” Antonio said, when they reached her hotel.

  “Sure.”

  He broke into a smile, “I’ll send you a message. I have Jane’s number -”

  Rebecca chewed her lip, “I’ll give you mine,” she said.

  As he entered her number into his phone, another message glowed and a shadow darkened his face, “I have to go. I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Destera,” Rebecca said in Italian. Tomorrow.

  “Destera,” he grinned.

  * * * * *

  Jane left for the airport early the next morning. Rebecca waited with her in front of the hotel, and gave Jane a hug as the driver put the bags in the car. Rebecca watched the taxi until it disappeared around the corner. For a moment she felt a tinge of regret and a flicker of fear. But all of Rome was awaiting her.

  They had been so busy packing the night before, Rebecca had not told Jane that she had seen Antonio on the bridge, or that they might go to a gallery together that day. Rebecca did not know if her omission was deliberate. Her heart quickened when she thought of Antonio, and she did not want Jane to realise how strong her feelings were.

  When she checked her phone, she saw a message from Antonio, apologising for leaving so suddenly the night before. He had to see his boss, he explained. Maybe they could meet for coffee and then see some art? That sounded great, she wrote back, and he messaged straightaway. Would six o’clock be okay?

  Everything seemed sunnier that day. The hours passed in a blur. All she could think of was seeing Antonio again.

  Antonio was waiting in the coffee shop. He smiled and rose from his seat as she entered, pecking her on each cheek, the way the Italians greeted friends.

  “Would you like to eat now or later?” he asked.

  “Later is fine. I’ll get a coffee.”

  Antonio ordered two coffees.

  His phone glowed to life. Rebecca glanced at the screen and saw the name, Otto von Schumann.

  Not a woman, was her first thought, surprised by her own curiosity. Why did she feel such interest? She had no right to know whom he was seeing.

  Antonio hesitated but the phone continued to shake silently, “Excuse me,” he said, snatching the phone. He stood up and crossed the cafe, talking fast in Italian.

  He fell silent as he listened, nodding occasionally. Otto von Schumann did most of the talking. The call ended. Antonio stared at his phone, taking a deep breath.

  “Your boss?” Rebecca said as he returned to the table.

  Antonio’s eyes flickered, and he nodded vaguely. He picked up the menu, and his eyes roamed the page.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “That’s the food menu,” she added, “And it’s upside down.”

  “Yes, it is,” Antonio rubbed his forehead and broke into a smile, “I’m sorry, I was distracted.”

  “Do you need to meet your boss?”

  “Maybe later. But not for a few hours.”

  Their coffees arrived. Rebecca finished hers while Antonio left his untouched. The phone call must have unsettled him. They left the cafe, wandering through the early evening streets. Ahead was an elaborate fountain.

  “What is that?”

  “Bernini’s Fontana del Tritone,” Antonio said, “Bernini was a renaissance sculptor. All his works have such passion and movement. Before Bernini, sculptors followed the Ancient Roman style and made statues that were upright and static. Bernini unleashed the energy in the marble. He created figures that were emotional and dramatic, as though the stone were alive. You can find his work all over Rome.”

  “Is that a dolphin?”

  “Four dolphins. Their tails are holding up the sea god, Triton.”

  “And what is the sea god doing?”

  “Blowing water out of the conch shell.”

  Rebecca walked around, eyeing the fountain curiously. They walked up a steep hill, sometimes talking, then falling into a comfortable silence.

  “I feel like the clouds are finally lifting,” Rebecca said.

  Antonio nodded sympathetically, “Jane told me - about your sister.”

  “I didn’t mean to get depressed. I’m sorry,” Rebecca said.

  “Why should you be sorry? You have to grieve. Grieving is a journey that is part of life. We do not grieve enough.”

  The emotions welled in her heart, and suddenly she found the words pouring out, “Laura first got sick when we were children. She was my little sister and I prayed she would get better. Then the doctors said she was cured and all the cancer was gone. But she got sick again last year and when they did the tests the cancer had come back. And this time she didn’t get better - she got sicker and sicker. I felt so useless and helpless. It was moving through her blood so quickly. And then she was gone.”

  Rebecca blinked away a tear. She didn’t want to get emotional in front of Antonio.

  “It’s okay,” Antonio said softly.

  The sky was now pink with early twilight. They walked in silence.

  “You will have to carry the sadness with you,” Antonio said, “And one day it will lift and you will be happy again.”

  Rebecca nodded. She wondered what Antonio had been through in his life.

  “What would Laura say if she were here?” he asked.

  “She’d say it was beautiful,” Rebecca said.

  “Then let’s pretend she is here.”

  Rebecca smiled. Because Laura wouldn’t want her to be unhappy. And Laura would like Antonio as much as Rebecca did.

  “Have you been to the Palazzo Barberini?” Antonio said, pointing to the top of the hill, “My favourite Caravaggio is there. You must see it.”

  They entered through tall gates and crossed the courtyard. The Palazzo was grand and imposing. They climbed a marble staircase, which Antonio said Bernini had also designed. They bought their tickets and entered the galleries.

  Antonio’s enthusiasm was catching, as he paced through the rooms. He must have come to the gallery often, for he knew each painting. When they found a Caravaggio, he stood silently, while Rebecca marveled at the flesh so real it was hard to believe it was created by brush and oil paint.

  “There is another Caravaggio you must see,” Antonio said, as the gallery attendant pointed to the clock, “Or maybe they have moved it to the vault.”

  Rebecca’s eyes were drawn to a small painting in the corner. In the painting, two young men stood in a darkened room. On the table between them was a bowl of blue liquid, which gave off an unearthly light. Strewn around the table were flasks, vials and pots. The glow from the bowl lit the face of the taller man, who wore a frock coat and waistcoat. His hair was tied back with a ribbon, and his eyes were fixed on the glass bowl. The second figure stared at the bowl with wonder and concern. His clothes were simpler and not as fine as his master’s.

  The servant looked so much like Antonio, it was like looking at a photograph. If it weren’t for the old fashioned clothes and the subtle strokes of the oil paint, she could believe it was him. She was struck again by Antonio’s timeless look, a look repeated endlessly in the statues and paintings of Rome.

  Antonio was pacing around, and now she sensed him beside her.

  “Is this a Caravaggio?”

  “In the style of Caravaggio, but no.”

  “Albert Price. Is that the artist?”

  “N
o, that’s the name of the painting. ‘Albert Price, the scientist and his apprentice.’”

  “Painted in 1761.”

  Rebecca wanted to add that the apprentice looked just like him, but Antonio may not find that funny.

  “Who is the artist?”

  “Artist unknown,” Antonio smiled, placing his hand on her back and guiding her away, “The gallery is closing. Let’s see if we can get a pizza now.”

  Rebecca smiled. Rome was so much better now Antonio was here. She glanced at the picture again. At that time, she did not realise that nothing was a coincidence.

  chapter two

  But maybe it was too good to be true.

  After walking Rebecca to her hotel, Antonio had said he would meet her at six o’clock the following evening in the Piazza Navona. But it was now almost seven and he was nowhere in sight. She was sitting in a cafe just before Bernini’s grand fountain, and in that hour she had drunk in every detail of the powerful statues which personified the four rivers. Struggling, twisting and reaching, the stone river gods stared imploringly around the square. The statues were so life-like, she could imagine real flesh and blood beneath the marble, just as Antonio had said. But as she sipped the last cold drops of her second coffee, the fountain was not enough to distract her from the fact that Antonio had forgotten her.

  She pulled her bag across her shoulder and stood up. Then her phone rang.

  “I am so sorry,” Antonio’s voice was full of soul and angst, “I could not get away from work. Are you in the Piazza Navona?”

  “I’m just about to leave.”

  “I’m still at my studio. Can you come by?”

  “No problem. How far away are you?”

  “Just near the Corso. Not far at all.”

  He told her the address.

  Rebecca had assumed that he lived at the edge of the city. She had spoken with a young woman at the hotel, who had told her all about the cost of living and punctured Rebecca’s dreams of moving to Rome. Like most cities, the magnificent old town and luxury areas were only for the rich, or tourists visiting for a week or two. The real life of Rome happened in the towns and suburbs on its outskirts.

  “The city centre is for princes and aristocrats,” the hotel manager had said with a resigned shake of her head.

  Rebecca was fairly certain that Antonio wasn’t a prince. That would be too much to hope for.

  A few minutes later however, she found herself standing outside a grand building off the Corso. It was baroque - or renaissance, she wasn’t sure which - but it exuded elegance and charm. She stared at the buzzer. She did not know Antonio’s surname. Was he the A. Pulisi on the second floor? Before she tried the bell, the door opened and an elderly woman stepped out. Rebecca slipped through the door and found herself in a cool stairwell.

  She started climbing the wide stone stairs. When she reached the second floor a door opened and Antonio appeared on the landing.

  “Buonasera,” he grinned, “Come in, I’m almost finished.”

  In his loose shirt and tanned trousers, Antonio was the image of a romantic artist, but this was no starving artist’s garret. The room beyond was as big as an art gallery. Brightly coloured walls rose to a gilt-trimmed ceiling, covered in faded frescos. The floor was laid with ornate parquetry, and tall windows looked onto the narrow street. The furnishings had a casual feel, as though the person who lived there cared little for the grand space. There were a few chairs, a chaise lounge, a polished table and a beanbag. And everywhere there were easels and clay models and papers and cloths.

  “I will be ready in a minute,” Antonio returned to a drawing board at the far end of the room.

  “That’s fine. There’s no hurry.”

  Rebecca’s walked across the studio. Her eyes fell on a wall, on which had been pinned dozens, if not hundreds of sketches. There were vistas of Rome’s bridges and arches, ruins and streets; panoramas of cliffs and coastlines; sketches of men and women in historical or modern day dress, and quick sketches of cars, Vespas, animals and dogs. The papers were stuck on top of each other, and in some places were more than three deep.

  “Are these yours?”

  “Yes, just old sketches - practice drawings.”

  How many years had he been drawing? He must have been a prodigy. The oldest papers were curling and yellow. Some must have been copies, for there were no longer goats grazing in the Colosseum, or people in frock coats on the Spanish Steps. The pictures were brilliant and mesmerising, although Antonio had made no attempt to preserve or frame them. The charcoal dust sprinkled down the wall and onto other papers.

  Rebecca wandered through the doorway into the next room and saw another wall covered with illustrations. These pictures of nineteenth century Rome could not be Antonio’s work, although he had a similar style. The original pictures must be very valuable. Some were framed behind glass, and others were fixed with pins. Some were finely detailed and others were bare sketches. They captured everyday life centuries ago. It was a collection to rival any art gallery.

  In the next room, was a dining table covered with a canvas cloth, on which lay brushes and a palette of paints. The paints glistened, as though they had been recently mixed. Taking a step back, her eyes roamed over a half-finished landscape above the doorway. Antonio must have been decorating his own walls!

  She passed through another doorway and found a room full of dusty drawers, gilt chairs and easels. This led onto a further room, in the corner of which was an unmade bed. The artist had disturbed nights, so it seemed.

  There was a second doorway leading back through the rooms to the studio. She searched for anything that tied Antonio to the modern world - a computer, a television, a refrigerator. What did he eat? This was such an unusual way to live, but it only made him more mysterious and exciting.

  Antonio covered the picture he was working on.

  “I’m ready now,” he broke into a charming smile.

  His Converse sneakers were at the door. Antonio slipped on the sneakers and rolled down his sleeves, breaking the old world spell of the apartment.

  “Let’s get something to eat.”

  He led the way down the stairs and out through the courtyard. The restaurant was across the street, down a staircase that led onto a dim, candlelit room. It was relaxed and informal, the type of local restaurant Rebecca had glimpsed on her walks through Rome. They took a seat by the wall.

  “You have a wonderful studio,” she couldn’t help saying.

  “It is a special place. I can almost imagine I’m in another century and the modern world doesn’t exist.”

  “You like old things,” Rebecca observed.

  “I prefer traditional techniques. Human skill never ceases to amaze people, no matter what computers can do. Caravaggio was an artist long before cameras, but the thrill of seeing his work never goes away.”

  “Should I have a pizza?” she stared at the menu. It was dark in the restaurant.

  “Yes, you must try the pizza here,” Antonio nodded as the waiter approached. He didn’t order for himself, “I ate earlier,” he said guiltily, “But I want you to enjoy the food of Rome.”

  She had never met a man who wasn’t hungry. But Antonio looked healthy, with his lean, strong physique, even if he was romantically pale.

  The waiter poured some red wine before she could say no. Antonio lifted his glass, although he did not drink.

  “Did Jane get away safely?”

  “Yes, this morning.”

  “And is she home now?”

  “No, not for another twelve hours. It’s a long flight.”

  Antonio rubbed his temples, as though he could not comprehend such a journey.

  “What did you do today?” he asked with interest.

  “Walked around. Rome is incredible. It’s a city built on top of another and another.”

  “True. But there is always one Rome you like the best. After a while, you see only that one.”

  “And which one is that?” the red wi
ne was warm and soothing.

  “For me, it will always be baroque Rome.”

  “Baroque?”

  “1760s. It’s as though all life ended then.”

  “1761,” Rebecca said.

  A crease wrinkled Antonio’s brow, “Why do you say that?”

  “It was the date on the picture in the gallery,” she smiled. The picture of the scientist’s apprentice that looked just like Antonio.

  The pizza arrived. Rebecca was glad, for even one glass of wine had gone to her head. She gestured for Antonio to share, but he said again he wasn’t hungry. She was secretly glad - because she was very hungry.

  “I’m so glad you like the studio. I don’t have a lot of visitors,” Antonio said.

  “It’s beautiful. It’s everything I dreamed of when I came to Rome. Is that where you live?”

  “Most of the time. I have another apartment,” Antonio paused, “In Piramide. Do you know there is a pyramid in Rome? It was built in 12AD as a tomb for a Roman nobleman. It’s a real pyramid, right in the middle of the suburbs. Everyone in the Eternal City wants immortality, to reach out across time and demand the attention of the living.”

  Rebecca took another mouthful of pizza. All the food in Rome was the best she’d ever tasted.

  “Maybe I will show you around Piramide one day.”

  “I’d love that,” Rebecca said, aware she had eaten all the pizza and her wine glass was empty. She felt much better, “By the way, did it work out?”

  Antonio raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “The drawing you were just working on?”

  Antonio paused, “I’ll see.”

  Antonio suggested they get gelato near the Piazza del Popolo. When they climbed up the stairs to the street, it was almost dark. They followed lanes that led onto little squares and came across ancient statues in the middle of renaissance streets. The gelato vendor was by a fountain. Antonio bought her a gelato and together they walked over the Ponte Cavour.

  The sky was full of pink clouds and the old buildings were lit up with golden lights. Rebecca’s heart soared. She would be happy to wander through Rome on her own, but Antonio made things even more perfect.