She was not embarrassed. “I think it may be. Look at this one: ‘Vulva tumens radiis.’”
“That seems pretty explicit,” said Leo: “the ‘vulva swelling with rays.’ But it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yes it does. You see, the word here is VULTURA, vulture.”
“And why on earth do vultures come into it?”
“The text says that the vulture is the purest of birds, because it doesn’t kill anything to eat, not even plants.”
“Well, that’s new light on vultures; they feed on carrion, for God’s sake! What’s so pure about that? But does it get you anywhere?”
“I only wish I knew,” said Orsina. “Here’s one I can’t figure out: Pulsa cineres, elige lacunam.”
“Pound the ashes, choose an orifice,” translated Leo in a puzzled voice. He thought for a while, then said: “These Latin phrases, I’d venture, all seem to have to do with reproduction. You know, I think this might be a sort of Renaissance manual for newlyweds, that tells them things like how to conceive male children, and how to avoid conception. All this stuff about moons and menstruation.
“And look at this one,” he went on, warming to the subject: ‘A caelo totum,’ meaning ‘Everything from heaven’. From it you get, let’s see … ACETUM, vinegar. The diphthong ‘ae’ in caelo is rendered with an ‘e’, of course. Perhaps the ashes and vinegar come from some folk-medicine knowledge about the role of acidity in conception; and the things from heaven may well be babies. They couldn’t write these things openly then, because official medicine didn’t even pretend to know them. But one hardly needs a book like this to regulate one’s married life today.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Orsina. “That may be one meaning of it. But I think there are other meanings.”
“If there are, they escape me. But I’ve only seen a few fragments.”
“Why would Uncle be so opposed to my showing the book to anyone?”
“I don’t know, it may be one of his idiosyncrasies. He told me that the book is passed on at the wedding day of the eldest son—or in your case, daughter. It’s the latter’s duty to study it, and put its suggestions in practice. All obsolete by now, but it’s a family tradition, and he lives in the past.”
“There may be more to it. I think the book’s meaning is not so much literal as symbolic.”
“Very well, then,” said Leo, who, from what he could judge was relieved to find the book quite harmless, based on these excerpts at least. “Maybe reading it is a kind of do-it-yourself psychoanalysis.”
“You’re trying to put my fears to rest, aren’t you?” she asked as she returned the pages to her purse.
“No. I simply don’t think there’s much to it. I mean it.”
“Leo,” she was staring at him with a sudden intensity that was hard to bear, “do you remember that letter I left on your desk, at the university, years ago?”
“Yes,” he answered straightforwardly, no sense in pretending he didn’t.
“Why didn’t you answer?”
He kept silent.
“Why didn’t you? It’s as if I had never written it to you.”
“I never opened it.”
“What? Why didn’t you, you fool?”
He did not answer. She continued: “I had poured my soul into that letter, Leo!” She was very close to him; indeed, she had grabbed the lapels of his jacket to pull him closer.
“I’m sorry, Orsina. The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt you.”
“Right, and you threw away my letter, maybe unopened—did you?”
“I … I gave it to my secretary with other papers she was to shred.”
“You shredded my letter without reading it?” Orsina’s eyes were wide with amazement. “But why? Didn’t you like me in the least? Were you not attracted to me?”
“Oh yes,” he conceded at last. “I found you very attractive, from the first time I set eyes on you in Rome.”
“Then why didn’t you act on it? Why, for Heaven’s sake? Out of some ridiculously bourgeois code of behavior? Did you think having a relationship with your intern would be, what? Improper? Inappropriate? Unseemly? Please! You’re wiser than that. Nothing so silly could hold you back if you really wanted me.”
There were tears in her eyes. Tears, spent over him? He could no longer refrain from telling her the truth. He hated to see her so miserable. “Orsina, please don’t be angry. Please.” She composed herself, but he sensed that it would not last unless he came clean.
“People wonder about me,” he said, trying to look for the right words to make his confession to the point. “Some think I must be a closet homosexual, living alone with two cats. But when I was younger I was not like I am now. I was cocky and vain, and didn’t pay any attention to people’s feelings. Girls thought I was ‘good-looking,’ and that was enough for them to fall into my arms.
“Then, in graduate school, a girl became pregnant with my child. She wanted to get married, or failing that to bring it up as a single mother. But I persuaded her to have an abortion, and in a weak moment, she agreed. There were complications. As a result, she became sterile. And that wasn’t all. She had a nervous breakdown, and began to take antidepressants. I’m still in touch with her. I’ve tried to help her, but she’s hardly a functioning human being anymore.
“I felt only disgust for myself. Not knowing what to do, I took refuge in my Catholic upbringing. I joined a Third Order, in which one doesn’t become a monk or a priest but takes a vow of celibacy. And I tried to become a decent human being. That’s all. I’m very sorry, Orsina, if I’ve caused you pain. I only wish to help.”
She said nothing, but kissed him on the lips, lightly. That was an unexpected reaction.
“You must have been wondering about my choice for a husband?” she asked, having gotten a hold of herself.
“I try not to judge anymore. And I’m sure he is a man of many qualities.”
“None of which he has shown you yet.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Enough of this. He’s fine. And he offered me a chance to get away from all this.” Leo was puzzled by her last words. “Oh, there are things you don’t know, and they’d be hard to explain anyway. But getting away from here, from Italy, from my family was good. Am I in love with him? No. But I am faithful, and nice to him. Is he faithful to me? I don’t ask. It’s a very friendly arrangement. It works. So,” once more she changed tone and expression, and he braced for another emotional outbreak, “tell me: if I kissed you now, what would that make you Professor? Unethical? Worse? A breaker of your own solemn vow? An adulterer?”
He had no time to respond as she was kissing him passionately and he was kissing her back, tasting the saltiness of her tears mixed with the sweetness of her saliva. She pulled away from his embrace, and brought a hand to her mouth, then both hands up, to cover her face. She was weeping, then laughing, and then in his arms again, kissing him with a passion he had forgotten, or perhaps never known. Leo was holding her tightly, basking in her scent, living a moment he had dreamed about, and did not want to let her go.
“I could have been yours, you fool! I don’t care about money. You could have taken me away from all this ballast. We could have gone to Australia, Argentina, whatever, we could have started from scratch.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. If I had—”
“Don’t speak, don’t speak.” She kissed him again, as if this long kiss could breathe life into each other. Then, suddenly, she hastened back to the villa, leaving him in the garden, overwhelmed.
SIX
Leo had told Dumitru that he would not be having dinner, and then stumbled back to his bedroom. He felt sick. And stupid, immensely stupid, for having thrown away, he now knew, his happiness, and maybe Orsina’s too. He spent the night awake, his bed light on, staring at the ceiling while resisting the impulse to run to Orsina.
At breakfast came the moment he had been dreading: being alone with Orsina again. And there she w
as, sitting at the table, leafing through a paper, her head bathed in the slanted sunlight streaming through the window. She looked up at him, and said: “Good morning, Leo.” She seemed agitated. “The news is horrible: 531 dead and many more wounded in San Petronio. The whole world is in shock.”
“It’s a terrible tragedy,” he commented. It was too, but was Orsina defusing tension by referring to it? As he sat down, she asked, gently:
“Will you be doing some research for your book, Leo?”
Those few words, that sisterly smile, spoke volumes. Aristocratic reserve must have taken over and there would be no more show of soul. The time for regrets was over. Still, he couldn’t help noticing how beautiful she was.
“I was expecting to, Orsina. But I got a phone call this morning, from a colleague at the university, back in D.C. He wants to collaborate with me on a project we’ve been putting on hold repeatedly. So I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Already?”
Is there something else you need to tell me? Leo wondered in his mind as he sat silently. No, he concluded; she’s just being polite.
“Well,” she continued, “everybody will miss you. I hope this has been the first of many visits, here or at our place in France, Leo. It’ll always be a pleasure to host you.”
So that was how she wanted to play it, mused Leo later, alone in his room as he was packing. She wants to know that I’m willing to come back to visit.
Of course, Leo had invented the phone call from his colleague. And of course, Orsina had guessed so, but had not insisted.
Leo left the villa after lunch. Nigel took him to the railway station with his roaring Ferrari. The Baron had bidden him a very formal arrivederci the night before, and both sisters had kissed him on both cheeks, Angela hugging him more tightly.
Immediately before his departure, Leo had given a tip to Dumitru and his wife, and to Samanta. He had then looked for Marianna. She too was given a tip, and a sealed letter. In Italian, he had told her: “This letter is for Orsina. Make sure you give it to her personally.” “Comandi!” It was understood. Then, on the spur of the moment, Leo had hugged the vinegar-smelling aged woman. Somehow, he felt that of all the people in the villa she loved Orsina the most.
Leo arrived in Rome’s railway station, and immediately noticed that security had been increased through checkpoints and a heavy deployment of carabinieri. The taxi he took had to go through a few roadblocks set up by the army itself; near the Vatican, they became more numerous. One of the four bookshops the Baron had recommended was there. Leo arrived just before closing time.
A large, bearded man behind the counter was lighting a cigarette.
“Yes, signore?”
“Do you have a copy of The Magical World of the Heroes?”
The owner narrowed his eyes. “Where have you heard of it?”
Taken aback, Leo replied with the unadorned truth: “Barone Riviera della Motta recommended it; he said that I might find it here.”
“The Barone? Why didn’t you say so?”
The man busied himself in the search, leaving a smoke-trail behind him as he moved between the piles of dusty volumes. Leo browsed through the books on display on different tables. Some bore alarming titles, Our Mussolini and the like, but for the most part they were about alchemy, the occult—in short, esoterica. The owner returned with a dusty book and a smile. “Here it is,” he said, “the last copy.”
That evening, in a nondescript airport hotel, Leo leafed through the book, reading here and there at random: mentions of alchemy, Cabala; planets and satellites; riddles and codes; a wild potpourri of quotations from Trithemius, Iamblichus, Rabbi Achados, Geber, Empedocles, Proclus … It was puzzling and, try as he might to make some sense out of it, he grew frustrated. This was the regular edition, anyway. According to the Baron, only the special edition for the Riviera dynasty contained the “secrets.”
He put down the book and revisited in his mind the days he had spent in Italy. In his letter to Orsina, he had kept a very amicable tone. She would realize from the beginning that he was not proposing anything illicit. He simply stated that she could count on him for anything, anywhere and at anytime.
****
Back in D.C., Leo woke at five in the morning in his apartment, and recognized the symptoms of jet-lag: in Italy it was already eleven. After unpacking and tidying up the place, it was still too early to bring back his cats Galileo and Garibaldi from the cattery or go to the office. He turned almost instinctively to the book he had bought in Rome, and read the title page:
Cesare Della Riviera
The Magical World of the Heroes
Which deals with uncommon clarity with what the true Natural Magic is,
and how the true Philosophers’ Stone can be fabricated,
by narrating, one by one, the prodigious and ineffable effects
that a perfect Hero is enabled to attain through the said means.
He read here and there for an hour or so, wondering all the while how the author could boast of “uncommon clarity.” He was reaching the end of Book II, The Powers of the Tree of Life, when his eyes fell on the reassuring name of Saint Thomas Aquinas. What was the great theologian doing in this company? He read:
Thus the glorious Thomas of Aquinas, in his book On Being and Essence, writes that one can obtain within an hour from a watermelon seed the leaves, the flowers and the fruit. “I saw, as we began to eat, that a watermelon was sown in a certain prepared soil, sprinkled with some concocted water—and unrestrained leaves, flowers and then fruits came forth from it, so that, before we left the table, we could eat of them.”
Was Cesare Della Riviera misquoting, or even inventing something entirely? Leo remembered reading the very treatise, but could not recall any mention of magic watermelons: it would positively have stood out. Still, he read on.
Although the natural magus produces marvelous effects in all three kingdoms through said nature, nevertheless the God Priapus works his miracles in an easier and faster way in the vegetable kingdom.
Thus the Hero can create gardens in which, despite winter, it is possible to enjoy a perpetual and most sweet springtime—for both in the extreme cold and in the excessive summer heat, there are fresh herbs, green and tender, and aromatic flowers; but likewise there is also a constant mild autumn, offering at all times and with abundance delicious and delicate fruits.
Priapus? Had he not just seen a statue of that god on the woodland path of Villa Riviera? He reread the whole chapter, this time avidly. Then began to wonder. He had only been at Villa Riviera for a few days during late spring, but had noticed some oddities in the garden. He was no expert, far from it, but the trees in it had looked both centuries-old and youthful at same time; and what of that ever-present breeze that made the climate just perfect? Even the grapes in the vineyards, he had been told by the Baron himself, benefited from such an ideal climate.
Was the Baron, as the book’s “wise hero,” realizing marvels in his own backyard?
“Nonsense!” Leo said aloud; “what am I thinking? Besides, that part of north-east Italy is renowned for its mild climate.” He closed the book and turned to the serious business of the day.
****
“I think I know how to make the most of being here,” Nigel said enthusiastically as he and Orsina were having coffee after lunch at Villa Riviera. The Baron, ever busier with his sympathizers, had not turned up; and Angela, as usual, had gone villa-hopping on her Vespa. As Orsina looked quizzically at him, Nigel elaborated. “I intend to find the perfect Amarone. Somewhere in this region it’s waiting for me. What we have here,” draining his glass, “is close, but I believe we can do better. And I like driving around vineyards.”
“What a noble pursuit!” said Orsina. They both laughed. She would not accompany him because his driving style didn’t mix well with many wine-tasting stops. She spoke from past experiences in France.
“All right, I’ll see you later,” he said.
Orsina
walked to the garden, and sat on a chaise longue beneath a majestic tulip tree. The family’s secret book was in her hands. She had placed Leo’s letter, still unopened, at the very beginning of the first part, The Conquest of the Tree of Life. In the company of the massive tree, towering to almost 150 feet, she expected to be inspired to approach the book in a new light. Uncle Emanuele had once more told her that she must take the book very seriously and study it every day. Now, perfectly relaxed in the deep shade of the thick foliage, she turned to the first chapter and read:
The most exalted and liberal Maker deliberated to give form to man; whose model or idea he did not take from supercelestial forms, but only (O infinite goodness!) from Himself, making it in His own image and likeness.
It was a promising beginning. She must make a clean sweep of what she had read of it before, casually dipping in here and there, and make a fresh start. And so it was time to make a fresh start of her relationship with Leo. It was curious how she hadn’t read his letter yet. Marianna had dutifully handed it to her over a week before, the very day of Leo’s departure. Orsina had thanked her, and put the envelope on her dressing table, where it had waited for a few hours before finding its way to a drawer. Nigel might have noticed it.
Giuseppe was clipping a boxwood hedge nearby. She called the old gardener a few times till he heard. By the time he reached her, she had ripped the unopened letter into many pieces.
“Here, Giuseppe: put this on the compost heap.”
SEVEN
Two days later, Leo was in the Library of Congress, ready to begin his summer research project. As he waited for the books that he had ordered, he wondered if the library’s 23 million volumes might include the “secret edition” of Cesare della Riviera’s treatise. Several different editions of The Magical World of the Heroes appeared in response to his search, and he ordered them all. By now, he had read the book from cover to cover. It seemed to him very bombastic, but he was intrigued. After lunch, when the books arrived, he set aside his literary studies to examine them.
The Forbidden Book: A Novel Page 4