The Forbidden Book: A Novel

by Joscelyn Godwin

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  “You realize, Inspector, that the prisons are overflowing?” The anti-Islamic demonstrations had given free license to all sorts of hooligans, who had smashed windows, burned cars, destroyed hydrants, vandalized subway stations, and engaged in urban guerrilla warfare against the police all over Europe. Tens of thousands had been arrested.

  “So, what do you suggest: that we let the suspects leave, free as birds, and reach them in a month or so with a citation? I’m sure you don’t mean to hinder the investigation? Do you realize this is a high-profile case?”

  It was arranged: the thirty-one young men would be bussed to the police headquarters in Verona and held in prison for the 48 hours allowed by law. It would be for the GIP from Verona to decide whether to hold them longer.

  It was a busy afternoon for the police, as they set up roadblocks on every approach to the villa, even the footpaths.

  Orsina, after having seen to her uncle who was weak but in stable condition, had had a long conversation with Avvocato Alemanni, who called her himself from Milan. He had been pleased to hear about the many campers on their grounds. This made him feel almost positive that her husband could not be detained for much longer. There was, however, the added complication of extradition: Mr. MacPherson was a British subject, and the lawyer was already in touch with a firm from London whose specialty was criminal law. His parting words were of comfort, but also meant to warn her: the case was already in the papers, and they should brace for the onslaught of the media pestering them for weeks. He could refer them to a security firm should they wish to hire bodyguards for protection. Orsina declined, hung up the phone, and wept.

  All the students were by now in prison in Verona. Frantic phoning, texting and web searching was taking place, as Ghedina himself questioned them one by one. Not all of the young men were as polite as the Baron had been, and police records revealed that several of them had been arrested in the past, mostly during student demonstrations that had turned violent. Of the several foreigners, two Swiss were already under suspicion for assaults on drug addicts.

  When questioned, the young men corroborated the Baron’s evidence in every detail. Yes, the lectures were on history and philosophy. Yes, they did not pay any fee, nor did they enroll in any formal way. Yes, he kept no record of their names. And yes, he avoided personal contact with them. Many of them had hitchhiked to the villa and camped out in a field, where no one had ever bothered them. Others had friends in Verona, stayed in youth hostels, borrowed or shared cars. Some of them had caught a glimpse of Angela, as they happened to cross paths near the villa. But no one knew the slightest thing about the Baron’s family or private life.

  At the villa, Orsina fell into an exhausted sleep. She woke early, feeling very little rested and still desperate: it was not a nightmare. She got up to prepare for whatever horrors the day might hold. Among other things she packed an overnight bag, to be ready to stay over in Bolzano if necessary. She collected Nigel’s passport, checkbook and other important papers.

  Emanuele appeared for breakfast, worn out and pale. “Dear Orsina,” he said, “I’m doing everything within my power to help.”

  “Uncle, how much do you know about those men who come to listen to you?” she asked.

  “Almost nothing. Unfortunately for the police, I couldn’t name a single one. They just turn up. I can’t think what attracts them to an old man’s ramblings, but,” he spread his hands eloquently, “you see how it is: there’s no keeping them away.”

  “I’m going to Bolzano to see Nigel, and I may be away for the night. Can you take care of … the funeral arrangements?” She broke into tears. Her uncle made a supreme effort not to cry himself.

  “I will phone Montecuccoli in Venice immediately,” he finally said. “Our family has always dealt with that firm. They operated impeccably when they took care of your parents’ funeral. I never dreamed we’d be needing their services again so soon.” The Baron choked up. Orsina stretched her hand across the table to his, and started to sob.

  ****

  Leo went through the motions of beginning the new academic year, but the events of the summer preyed on his mind: the bombing of San Petronio, and the lost opportunity of Orsina’s love, as being her friend and confidant was really a meager consolation. Their sheer weight felt like a physical burden. He could forget them while teaching, but the moment he left his seminar room, they came back. And there was more. His episode of temporary blindness had remained unexplained. It had not returned, but it was impossible not to worry about that, and not to think of it, somehow, in relation to The Magical World.

  The book, even in its incomplete version, had entered Leo’s life to such an extent that he was now consulting it daily. He was definitely making progress with it, yet at the same time resisting the impulse to attempt another meditation. To put it bluntly, he feared lapsing into madness. In the meantime, he had been neglecting his obligations as a Third Order member, failing even to stop by the Dahlgren Chapel, on campus, for the communal morning prayers.

  Without fully admitting it to himself, he was beginning to realize that his religious commitment had worked, for years, as a sedative. The outlandish world of mysterious images Orsina had brought into his life through The Magical World was proving equally addictive, but also mesmerizing. This new drug did not merely put him to sleep; it was trying, it seemed, to evoke new realities and possibilities to him. He had recently read of how “the hero, without having to expose himself to the cold air, shut up indoors and sitting in his chair, can observe the exact motions and orbits of the planets; and not just watch them, but really touch them.” Now, late at night alone in his apartment, he turned back a few pages and reread:

  Sometimes the celestial earth transforms itself into a high hill; then this form is destroyed and replaced by that of broad and spacious fields. This, in turn, is transformed into a limpid lake. Beautiful and alluring islands arise from it, which give birth to other rivers, other springs, and other lakes. These again return to earth and take on the semblance of hard bodies, metallic and mineral, among which one discovers precious gems, emeralds, diamonds, rubies, and the like. Then these turn into green vegetation, varied plant life, and leafy trees. Soon the more perfect forms begin to appear. While all the others vanish, the magical substance transmutes into the appearance of a lively horse, which then takes the outer form of a man or woman. This likewise falls back to earth, and suddenly reappears as a lion.

  Leo read the passage once again to memorize the various stages of the apparition. Then he shut his eyes, breathed deeply, and invited them to recompose themselves in his imagination. But stopped abruptly, short of breath, while his eyes snapped open.

  He had suddenly felt cold, as if a blast of arctic air had blown into his living room. His heart was racing and he was shivering as he walked to open the window. A warm breeze wafted in. He breathed it deeply, and felt better at once.

  After having closed the book and placed it back on the dining room table, he had to resist the temptation to call Orsina. He wished very much to speak to her about the book, but the embarrassment of finding Nigel on the other end was still too fresh in his memory. God knows what he must have thought! Perhaps that was why she had not been calling him for a few days. Or perhaps she had gone to Bristol to help Angela settle in, and had no time for him.

  SEVENTEEN

  Three days after the police had begun the investigation at Villa Riviera, Giorgio drove in from Verona. He was to take Marianna to the funeral and bring her straight back again, while Dumitru would follow in the Lancia with Orsina and the Baron. By eleven they were parked on the Tronchetto, then, together, took the launch that was awaiting them to the cemetery island of San Michele.

  The exquisite Renaissance church floated like a marble galleon inches above the lagoon. A platoon of media people had lain in ambush since the early morning. It was now a small army. The Baron, Orsina, Marianna and Giorgio managed to
get past journalists, cameramen and photographers and take their seats in the front row. Some Franciscan friars succeeded in keeping the media from entering too. Inside, many, many people thronged: Rupert, friends, acquaintances, onlookers. A scent of fresh flowers and incense was in the air.

  Angela, inside her open coffin, had been placed in the dainty marble-lined Emiliana Chapel. She looked truly angelic in her otherworldly pallor. Candles flickered amid a cascade of white roses. The Archbishop of Venice had given in to the request of a very distraught Baron Riviera della Motta: there would be no Mass, but he would speak a eulogy in praise of Angela.

  His platitudes for a girl he had never seen alive were perfect for the occasion. Then, a reduced orchestra with choir and soloists as well as the church’s organist, performed Gabriel Fauré’s Messe de Requiem in its entirety.

  At the end, the music floated down to earth, as the lullaby of death dissolved into silence. It gave the mourners the strength to follow Angela to her final resting place, the Riviera tomb.

  Two centuries ago, Canova had supplied its design. In a mound of natural rock was an open portal, and beside it a large round stone. Seated on the stone was a life-size angel, with a quizzical expression directed at the viewer. The casual visitors to the cemetery would have recognized the allusion to the resurrection of Jesus, given an approving glance, and moved on to the equally decorative tombs of other Venetian dynasties. Had they tarried, however, they would have noticed details for which the great sculptor was not responsible, but one of his pupils, instructed by the head of the family.

  The arched entrance bore small panels in relief, representing the signs of the zodiac and the twelve labors of Hercules. Peering through the grille that blocked the entrance, he would discern a vaulted chamber with a central pillar like the trunk of a tree, branching into the ribs of the vault, and many sarcophagi lining the walls. And the stone “door” of the tomb bore three Latin inscriptions in the shape of a triangle: Sideream Amplectitur Lucem—“It embraces the starry light”; Sol VLtimus FVlgens Radiis—“The uttermost sun resplendent with rays”; MERge CVRate In UStrinam—“Hide it carefully in the pyre.” Only a very few visitors would have recognized there the three principles of alchemy: Salt, Sulfur, and Mercury: in Latin Sal, Sulfur, and Mercurius.

  The media were awaiting the funeral procession, and the atmosphere created in the church by Fauré’s sublime music was lost.

  Orsina had cried all the tears she had; the Baron looked numbed. Old Marianna just could not bear it, and Bhaskar took her to the Palazzo Riviera, to rest.

  “Requiescat in pace,” the Archbishop finally said as Angela’s coffin was being lowered into the crypt.

  The mourners lingered in the cemetery. Besides, the vaporetti and launches Montecuccoli had hired to ferry them back to Venice were not there yet. The media delighted in having more time to film the distraught family.

  Among the crowd was Inspector Ghedina. He had spent nearly five hours the previous day in Bolzano, drilling Mr. MacPherson, and had left with mixed feelings about his innocence, or at least partial guilt. The second autopsy had succeeded in identifying the soap found on Angela’s body and, eventually, its brand: Jouvence’s Air du printemps. The same soap, Gallorini had carefully noted, was found in the villa’s every bathroom, even in the staff quarters and the Baron’s studio. No progress on that front. So before going back to Verona to interrogate once more all thirty-one of the Baron’s students, the Inspector had gone to the funeral, with a purpose that went beyond offering his condolences.

  During the service he had been eyeing those who evidently belonged to the villa-hopping set. He now approached them, initially claiming to be a friend of the family. He looked the part too, he was glad to realize. Owing to the circumstances and the Inspector’s good acting, the jaded young men and women uncharacteristically opened themselves to him, united in their grieving for Angela.

  Ghedina spoke in polite hushed tones, listened, and appraised them one by one. In his mind he began to make a list of those he should question officially. His assistants had already obtained photographs of Gherardo and Augusto, whom Orsina had noted as Angela’s latest boyfriends, and he decided that they, at least, must be interrogated. Within twenty minutes or so, he cast away his mask, explained who he was, and asked some young men and a few young women to meet him the next day at the police headquarters in Bolzano.

  Colucci popped up to take care of the details—identities, addresses, phone numbers—and the stunned debauchees were obliged to submit one by one to this garlic-smelling cop in his ill-fitting black suit. As he wrote down their details he told the young people that there would be legal consequences if they failed to appear for questioning. “It’s not that we suspect any of you,” he lied, reassuringly, “but you may tell us things we don’t know and help us find your friend’s murderer.”

  The vaporetti and launches had finally arrived, and most people went back to Venice. “Uncle,” said Orsina on their private launch, “I can’t believe it’s over.”

  “I know. I’m sorry about the media and the onlookers. I could have had the cemetery swarming with security guards. But the more poor Angela is in the news, the more pressure is on the police to solve the case.”

  Orsina was about to break into tears again. She looked away from her uncle and said: “I don’t think I’ll be coming to the palazzo.”

  “Are you going back to the villa?”

  “No, I’ll catch a train for Bolzano. My bag’s in your car. I want to be close to Nigel.”

  “Of course. We’ll see you to the railway station.”

  Back in Venice, Giorgio went to the parking lot to collect Orsina’s bag, and brought it to her at the station. She had found a train leaving shortly for Bolzano.

  “And you, Uncle?” she asked as they stood on the platform, “will you be going back to the villa?”

  “I think I’ll remain in Venice for a few days. Will you be staying at the same hotel in Bolzano?”

  “Yes. By the way, Giorgio,” he was standing next to the Baron, “could you call them—at the Hotel Greif—and book a room for me?”

  “Comandi, Baronessa,” he replied.

  “Please, Orsina, do call me if you need anything,” the Baron said; “Giorgio is at your disposal should you need a chauffeur, or whatever.”

  “Thank you, Uncle. I’ll let you know.” The train started to move. She blew her uncle a kiss and sat down, alone in her compartment.

  For two hours she relived the events of the last few days as if in a trance, cell phone permitting. Normally, she would have turned it off. Talking of serious matters among a crowd of total strangers went against her nature. And yet she could not ignore phone calls. They might be something urgent: the lawyer, the police, the Inspector himself, her uncle.

  The phone rang again. She looked at the screen but, like many numbers lately, she did not recognize it. She took a deep breath, and at the fifth ring, answered.

  “Pronto? Who is it?”

  “Orsina? Is that you?”

  “Leo!”

  Leo heard his name pronounced as if charged with the breath of life. Then the line went dead. Had he sent her roses on the sly, proposing a secret lover’s meeting, this is how, in his imagination, she would have said his name in response. For the last few days he had been sick with a bad cold, and had cancelled his classes. Now, feeling much better and ready to go back to work the next day, he had given in to the temptation to call Orsina and talk about The Magical World. But as the silence persisted, his fantasies grew darker. Perhaps Nigel had discovered that she had spent far too much time talking late at night with that American.

  That was it, he resolved. He would not call her back. Had she lost interest in the book, and in him too? He had had his chance. It was too late now.

  His phone rang. “We went through a tunnel, the line went dead.”

  It was her voice again. She was between Trent and Bolzano, on a crowded train.

  “A train? You? How come?”
he asked her.

  “You don’t know?” Orsina stepped out of the compartment, and walked down the corridor, looking for privacy. From the tone in her voice, Leo braced for unpleasant news, but nothing could have prepared him for what he heard.

  “Dear God, Orsina! This is so tragic, I’m speechless. Perhaps you don’t want to talk about it?”

  “Yes I do. I have to talk about it, I can’t bottle it up.”

  He could hear her sobbing over the din of the train. “Shall I call you tomorrow?”

  “No, no: talk to me, talk to me now.”

  “Oh, Orsina, I am so sorry. I can’t believe it. And she was so young, so beautiful, and ready to go off to college. How could such a thing happen to her—to your family, after your parents and all? I’m terribly sorry, Orsina, terribly sorry.” He was annoyed at the banality of his own words, but that did not matter to her: it was his voice that she needed to hear.

  The line went dead again. Leo thought of Angela, and the image that came was the one in his vision: stark naked, lunar, reproachful. Goose bumps crept up his spine as he realized its significance. It had been a portent.

  As soon as Orsina’s train came out of the tunnel, she called him again.

  “I haven’t told you everything yet,” and she elaborated.

  “Nigel in jail? Dear God, this is unbelievable. Of course he would never do such a thing. The police must be crazy. But how did she die? Can you bear to tell me?”

  “All we know is that she was found dead in the trunk of Nigel’s car.”