by M C Dulac
“A blue glow?”
“Yes. A slight blue glow. Sort of like an animal in the dark,” she stopped herself, because wasn’t that absurd?
But Antonio did not seem surprised, “Maybe there are others. Why did they take so long to come? It is too late now.”
“What is too late?”
“Do not worry, Rebecca. I feel better already. I’ve waited so long to be free. I’ll call you soon. You saved me.”
“I don’t know what I did.”
“Soon,” Antonio’s voice began to fade, “Soon. And remember - don’t read the book.”
chapter seven
Although she had felt no temptation to read the book at first, the longer it sat on the shelf in her hotel room, the more her curiosity grew.
That afternoon she took the book out of the box and examined the spine and the cover. Her imagination began to wander.
Why did Antonio want the book? It was handwritten and over a century old, so it was unlikely that the contents were confidential or had any value in the present day. Schumann’s ancestor’s diary was in a museum. Maybe he had other antique books and Antonio had taken one. Perhaps he planned to sell it and make a small fortune, which he felt he deserved after Schumann’s harsh treatment. If this was true, Rebecca had just been an accessory to a crime.
Her heart began to race, and she reminded herself it was just a theory.
Maybe Antonio had hidden something inside the book. The couple in the apartment looked official, as though they might be investigators. If Antonio had confidential information, what better place to hide it than between the pages of this old book? Rebecca tried to open the clasp but it had jammed shut. After several attempts she gave up and peered at each end. She could not see any papers inside.
She sent Antonio a message that night. He did not reply. When her messages the next day went unanswered, she called but got a prerecorded message. She guessed it was someone telling her in Italian that Antonio was not available.
He had left her two items - the book and the elaborate set of keys. She could not take either of these home with her to Australia, nor could she leave them at the hotel. She knew no one in Rome now. When another day passed, she decided that the best thing to do was to return the book and the keys to Antonio’s apartment.
It was cold and overcast when she made her way out of the Metro station early the next morning. When she reached the apartment building, the door from the street was open. She walked up the stairs. The book in her shoulder bag was heavy and she looked forward to returning it to its strange hiding place.
But when she reached Antonio’s door, it looked different, as though it had been recently polished. She slid the old keys into the lock and frowned. The keys did not fit. The more she tried to open the door, the more noise she made. She looked around self-consciously and then stared again at the door. The lock had been changed.
Antonio must have moved out. What had happened to the wall of precious drawings and the portrait of the frightened girl? Rebecca tried the lock one more time, but the keys definitely did not fit.
Reluctantly, she walked down the stairs. In the courtyard she found a bin. She peered inside, fearful that Antonio’s drawings might be there, but the bin was empty. She paced around the yard, trying to see if the windows of Antonio’s apartment were open.
She could take the book to a library or a museum, but how could she explain how she got it? Where else could she leave it?
The art school. That’s where Jane had met Antonio. She scrolled through her phone until she found the number and waited while it rang. An American woman answered. Rebecca explained she was looking for Antonio.
“Have you tried his studio? It’s near the Corso.”
“He’s not there.”
“That’s unusual. I don’t know where he’d be. The art school is closed for winter now.”
“Is there anyone else I can call?”
“Otto von Schumann sponsors the school, although I’m not sure how to reach him.”
Rebecca closed her eyes. She was going around in circles.
“Thanks, I’ll keep looking.”
Rebecca caught the Metro back to her hotel. She placed the book on the shelf in her room. A bitter wind was blowing, shaking the leaves from the trees. In addition to her anxiety about the book, other feelings tossed around her heart. Antonio’s studio was no more. Their romance had ended and now all their favourite places were gone. Not that they would have had a future, unless she stayed in Italy, and how could she do that? She knew it was too good to be true, but even the end of a dream could hurt. She tried to ignore the deep sadness in her heart. She had thought she had banished that sadness, but now it was circling again.
It was past midday. Rebecca pulled on her coat, unsure if she was hungry or not. She had a plate of pasta in the restaurant opposite the hotel. Afterwards she found herself walking past the Fontana del Tritone. The stone sea god was still blowing water out of a shell, although the cold, overcast day was very different to the sunny afternoon when Antonio had first told her about Bernini. Ahead was the road to the Palazzo Barberini gallery. The memory of being there with Antonio made the windy streets less lonely.
She crossed the courtyard to the entrance and bought a ticket. She walked through the galleries until she found the Caravaggio, remembering how Antonio had drawn her attention to the painter’s skill.
Then her eyes turned to the small painting in the corner.
The scientist, Albert Price, and his apprentice. 1761, Artist Unknown.
The apprentice was so like Antonio, Rebecca felt she could reach out and touch him. The man in the picture had the same full lips and strong jaw, the same dark wavy hair, the same brown eyes and strong square hands. He even had the same expression as Antonio, when Antonio was fascinated by something.
History had given no name to the apprentice. History had even forgotten his master, the dashing scientist, Albert Price. Rebecca stared at the handsome young man in fine clothes, with the glow of discovery in his eyes.
In the centre of the painting was a glass of blue liquid. The artist had used so many colours, the spinning heart of the elixir appeared to shine from the canvas. Rebecca was as transfixed by its brilliance as the two young men in the painting.
She thought of the names Antonio had written on the wall - Paracelsus, Flamel and Fulcanelli. Alchemists who discovered secret elixirs so they never aged and never died and who held in their hands the key to immortality. Elixirs that made them persuasive and irresistible.
Rebecca stared at the painting so intensely, she could have fallen into the canvas. It was Antonio. She was sure of it.
What had the man in the apartment said? Antonio’s laboratory must be elsewhere.
And the young woman had replied, Antonio didn’t act like a scientist.
But he had the knowledge, the man said.
It was true Antonio was not a scientist. But maybe at one time, he had been an alchemist’s apprentice.
What powers did alchemists possess?
The power to transform base metals into gold - that allowed the alchemist to acquire great worldly riches.
The power to create the elixir of life - so the alchemist never aged.
The power to enchant and seduce - to cast a spell over everyone in their orbit.
Antonio had a magnificent apartment and extraordinary talent. Everyone who met him fell in love with him. He had extraordinary knowledge of eighteenth-century Rome and was able to sketch it as though he had been there.
He was mature beyond his years.
He was secretive and troubled.
He knew the names of other alchemists.
He had a sensitivity to light, as though sunlight caused him to fade away.
He often spoke of 1761 - the date of this painting. The date when the apprentice had mixed an elixir alongside his master.
He had the knowledge.
Rebecca rubbed her temples. All this could not be possible. Her imagination was runn
ing wild again. But the couple in the apartment were real, as was the mysterious book.
The gallery was closing. Rebecca crossed the courtyard. The streets were crowded and the traffic was heavy. She lowered her head as the wind whipped her coat. People jostled her as the pavement narrowed. She looked around the sea of unfamiliar faces and then at the cars and motorcycles that glided by.
She caught a flash of golden hair behind her. Was the couple who were searching for Antonio somewhere in this crowd? As she narrowly avoided stepping into the path of a dark car, she remembered the uneasiness she had felt that first day in Rome - a feeling that she was being watched.
Her heart began to race, as she glanced around the street. She hadn’t been scared before in Italy, but now she realised she really was on her own. When she reached the safety of her hotel, she heaved a sigh of relief. It took a moment to realise the manager was calling out to her.
“Are you checking out tomorrow, Miss?” the manager asked.
Rebecca paused, then felt an icy feeling in her heart, “I’ll be staying another week.”
The manager frowned as she looked at the hotel computer, “We have a room available later in the week, but we are booked out after tonight,” she shrugged apologetically.
Rebecca took a deep breath as her pulse raced, “I’d completely forgotten to tell you.”
“I can look for another hotel for you, but it may be hard to find a room in the city centre at such short notice.”
“Thank you,” Rebecca said, “I’ll look too.”
With all that had happened since Jane had left, she had forgotten to extend her stay at the hotel. With Antonio, it was easy to forget such worldly details. Now she was alone in a foreign city with nowhere to stay.
When she got to her room, she opened her laptop. There was Jane’s message, unread, from a few days before, reminding her to extend her stay at the hotel. She’d told Jane she could look after herself, but now she was in a real mess.
She leaned back on the bed and closed her eyes, surprised at how exhausted she felt. She fell into a half-sleep. Her dreams were disturbed. She was no longer in Rome, but near the sea. The dream was so vivid, she could taste salt water on her lips.
Suddenly there were voices. Jane’s? Laura’s? Girls’ voices drifting over the waves, warning her of danger.
She was woken by her phone ringing. It was not late, for the streets outside were busy and the restaurants were open.
Antonio was calling.
“Hey, where are you? I have to give you the book. And we need to talk,” Rebecca frowned. How could she ask Antonio if he was an alchemist?
“Rebecca,” he said, “So good to hear your voice.”
“Antonio, I have to go home soon. So tell me where to send the book.”
“You haven’t read it?”
“No,” Rebecca said.
“I knew I could trust you.”
“Listen, Antonio. The lock on your apartment has changed.”
“He changed the lock?”
“I don’t know who changed the lock, but I can’t get in.”
“Then he is angry with me.”
“Otto von Schumann?”
“He is very angry with me.”
“What about those people who were in your apartment?”
“Have you seen them again?”
“No. Or maybe. It’s hard to tell who’s watching me.”
“That is not good. I’m sorry, Rebecca.”
“Antonio, I need to give you the book and your keys.”
“Can you come to Amalfi?”
“Amalfi? How far is that?”
“Only a few hours. It is beautiful here. I know you will love it. We’ll talk when you get here.”
“Amalfi?”
“I’ll meet you in the town square.”
Rebecca ran her hand through her hair. Should she go? She had nowhere to stay now and she had enough money for a hotel. She could say goodbye to Antonio properly. And hand over the book. Everyone said you couldn’t leave Italy without seeing the Amalfi Coast. If she went early no one in Rome would have a chance to follow her.
Rome was getting uncomfortable for her too.
chapter eight
Rebecca arrived in Amalfi late the following afternoon. She’d taken a bus along the main highway from Rome, but it was when she rounded the Bay of Naples and reached the cliffs of Sorrento, that she began to feel the special magic of the Italian coast. Grand houses were perched above the sea, gazing across to the islands of Capri and Ischia; enticing, alluring names, like whispers from a long-forgotten dream. Mountains fell down to the sea and rocky islands rose from the water, in a landscape straight from mythology. Pebbly beaches and secret coves lay at the base of steep ravines, and small towns nestled in the bays. The coastal road ran right above the waves and through tunnels in the cliffs. The bus wound around more bends before descending a steep slope and coming to the open harbour before the town of Amalfi.
The hotel was just above the town square. At this time of year, long after summer, it had been easy to book at such short notice. The owner led her to a small room with a view of the Cathedral steps and the cobblestone streets.
After she unpacked, she went outside. A veil of cloud had rolled over the mountains and light rain swirled in from the sea. Waves splashed against the seawall and rattled the pebbles on the beach. It was growing dark and the first lights were twinkling along the cliffs.
She called Antonio and waited.
“I’m in Amalfi,” she said, when he answered.
“I’m so glad you arrived safely,” he said, “You did not tell me when you were coming. I could have met you. Where are you staying?”
“A hotel I found on the internet last night. Where are you?”
“I am at the Palazzo Ombre,” he lowered his voice, “Unfortunately I cannot meet you tonight. I have matters to attend to. Perhaps you can stop by the palazzo in the morning.”
“Are you near Amalfi?”
He told her the address. He fell silent suddenly, as though he were wary of being overheard.
“I’m so glad you came, Rebecca. It means more to me than you know.”
“I’ll see you soon,” she said.
She looked over the rolling sea. She was glad she had come to Amalfi, with or without Antonio, although this windswept night was not what she had expected. She walked along the waterfront as far as she could, until the streetlights faded into darkness, and she returned to the hotel.
She woke early the next day to golden sunlight. The clouds had cleared and the rugged cliffs outside her window soared into a clear blue sky. She felt refreshed but hungry. It was an hour before breakfast was served. She wandered down the steps of the hotel and across the square to the seafront.
The sea sparkled in the early morning sun. The rocky points of the cliffs faded into the distance, hazy in the salt spray. The sun had not yet reached over the mountaintops and the beach was swathed in shadow.
She thought she was the only person awake, but then she saw a figure standing at the water’s edge. He faced the sea, hands in his pockets. He was slim with dark hair and wore a white shirt and pants. He appeared to shimmer in the early morning sea mist.
He turned his head in a familiar gesture. She was sure it was Antonio. Maybe he had come to Amalfi to meet her. He appeared to nod, before he gazed again at the sea.
There was a set of steps ahead. Rebecca climbed down to the beach, but when she looked across again, the man had disappeared. Had he gone into one of the arches underneath the promenade? How could he have moved so fast? As she watched, the sun rose over the cliffs and the beach was plunged into sunshine.
She shivered at the strange encounter.
Breakfast was laid out when she returned to the hotel. When she had eaten, she opened her map. The Palazzo Ombre lay on a narrow cliff some distance from Amalfi. She wanted to hand over the book as soon as possible. Anything else - saying goodbye to Antonio, having dinner again, discussing their futu
re - could wait.
She hired a car near the bus station. Driving along the coastal road, she kept her eye on the sharp curves. She soon realised she was retracing the previous day’s journey. The Palazzo Ombre was closer to Sorrento than Amalfi, and she wondered why Antonio had told her to stay so far away.
She passed several hotels on the road, but according to the map, the Palazzo Ombre was at the top of a cliff. Just when she thought she had missed the turnoff, she spotted a road leading into the olive groves. She followed the road through the orchards, until she came to a stop near a railing fence.
She glimpsed the sea and heard the distant splash of waves. Without the noise of traffic or birds, every other noise was amplified.
A pair of gateposts rose in the distance. ‘Palazzo Ombre’ was carved into the stone.
Nothing moved or stirred in the orchard beyond the iron gates. Rebecca pushed the gates open. The drive led under the trees, before it forked into two winding paths.
She took the path closest to the sunlight. As she walked on, she noticed the trees were old and gnarled, with branches so entwined they formed a shadowy tunnel. There was no scent, except the smell of dirt. In the dim light, not even grass grew beneath the trees and only bare thorny bushes covered the ground. More steps led down to another orchard, but it too was overgrown.
She looked at Antonio’s message again. He was staying at the Palazzo Ombre. She must be in the right place.
The paths wound further into the dying wood. Frustrated, Rebecca left the path and climbed up the slope of a hill, toward the dazzling sunlight. She came to a lawn above the sea.
Blinded by the sun, she saw a large house ahead. In the beams of light, it looked imposing and dreamlike. But there was something strange about the windows and balconies. When she shielded her eyes, she saw that the house was no more than a ruin.
The roof of the palazzo had fallen in and the window frames were empty. The side of the house facing the sea was open to the elements. Wind beat against the bare walls, creating an eerie thud down the valley. Behind the palazzo were the remains of another building, singed by a fire that must have happened long ago. The cliff beneath the palazzo had fallen away, revealing a set of steps winding down the cliff face. Far below, the sea seethed against an old embankment. The noise of the sea was hypnotic as it rocked through the ocean caves.