by Jon Tracy
Valentina thinks for a second. ‘She’s late twenties. White. Italian – I think. Not very tall. Not very fat. Not very strong. In fact, not very anything. She’s mousey. Hasn’t spoken. The only communication has been through those written words, so I can’t really say how intelligent she is.’ Then she remembers something. ‘I did notice that her nails were all broken. Her hands looked rough – that is, once we cleaned the blood off them. So I’d guess she’s a manual worker rather than a brainier office type.’
‘Don’t write manual workers off as unintelligent.’ He wags a fork at her. ‘I washed dishes in every other kitchen in Paris; that doesn’t make me stupid.’
‘Never said it did. Why do you ask about her intelligence?’
Tom waggles the photocopy. ‘No spelling mistakes. Good grammar. She has an old-fashioned, formal and educated style of writing.’
The comment amuses Valentina.
‘She should have. She says she’s a noblewoman, of noble birth.’
‘The scene she wrote of is ancient Rome, certainly pre-Christ, and given the respectful references to the Senate, maybe even pre-Julius Caesar.’
Valentina’s impressed. ‘My, you are a smart old kitchen porter, aren’t you?’
‘Less of the old!’ He forks another bite of tuna, loads it with sauce and looks again at the paper. ‘The writer’s descriptions contain religious and ritualistic references; the whole thing is intriguingly riddled with allusions to secrets and truths. Do you know what the name Cassandra means?’
‘Nope. Can’t say I do.’ Valentina mops up the last of the sauce with a final forkful of fish. ‘I can’t believe I ate all this. You made me so hungry.’
‘Doom,’ says Tom, ‘Cassandra was a prophet of doom.’
17
Mother picks me out.
She takes me to one side, away from the others, and talks only to me.
I am special.
She tells me so.
I am Her favourite and I am to be called Melissa. I will be one of Her Melissae – Her little bees.
She speaks to me about Lagash, Anatolia, Phrygia, Crete and Malta. She talks of Hellenic and Roman civilisations, of the kings and emperors She’s known.
Of rulers who’ve worshipped Her.
Of fools who have ignored Her.
Of Her love for Attis, and how She killed him and then raised him from the dead.
‘Death and Life,’ She whispers in my ear, then speaks for a long time of creation and destruction and Her glorious part in it all.
The part I will play in the future.
Mother holds me to Her bosom and strokes my hair while teaching me how to change sea to sand and sand to grass. She tells me how together we will turn the grass to stone and the stone to marble and the marble to towers of glass and steel that will stretch beyond the sun.
There is nothing Mother cannot achieve. Nothing she cannot create .
Around us there are women of every race, every colour and every age. Mother could have picked any one of them, but She has chosen me.
I am special.
She tells me so.
Outside of the warm womb that is our temple, a pale moon rises and paints its whiteness on the naked flesh of my gathering sisters. The first sparks of a fire crackle close by. A large, flat stone is brought in, laden with bread and wine.
The Galli come.
They beat their drums, fine instruments made from skins of fish and goat, let loose a primal rhythm.
Mother catches it and shares it with us. She seals the rhythm inside us. It becomes our pulse. It flows through our genitals and rests in our wombs.
Mother tells me to close my eyes.
She tells me that She loves me. Loves me from the cool brow of Her stone-figured image on the heights of Mount Sipylus to the bloodstained soil of Rome where She now lies down with me.
I am not to be frightened of what She will do to me.
I am special.
She tells me so.
18
Sunday morning gathers around Valentina Morassi like a cool mountain mist.
She opens her eyes slowly and sees untidy puddles of pale daylight shimmering on the wooden bedroom floor.
Leakage from the real world.
An unwelcome clue that her night’s rest is over.
Not that she got much rest.
Valentina’s normally an eight-hours-a-night person. She squints at her Mickey clock and realises she’s had less than six.
Her own fault.
Hers and Tom’s.
The thought makes her smile. She’s happy to lose a lot more sleep if the man next to her is the reason why.
She has a plan for the day, and it’s a simple one.
Sleepy lovemaking. Breakfast in bed. Less sleepy love-making. Shower – dress – reluctantly think about work.
It’s all a nice change from her normal pattern of putting work first.
Great sex turns everything upside down.
Fill your body with pesky orgasms and suddenly your all-important life-defining job can go hang itself.
Valentina slides close to Tom and drifts her hand down his impressive rack of abdominal muscles.
He stirs a little.
Still asleep.
But not for long.
Before Valentina rouses him, she thinks about yesterday, about how nervous she was meeting him at the airport. About whether he would feel the same way about her as she did about him. Whether any sexual advance would jeopardise their friendship.
Then there was their first kiss.
It seems unfair that romance can live or die in only a few seconds or just a few words. Had she not been bold enough to ask that he kiss her ‘a proper hello’, then maybe nothing would have happened between them.
How many great loves have never happened because someone lacked the courage to make the first move?
She tries to clear her mind and return to the matter in hand.
Her right hand, to be precise.
Tom lets out a sigh that comes from so far inside of him it’s like the distant growl of an animal in a far-off jungle.
Her fingers bring the beast closer.
As he stretches and hardens, she kisses his back and presses her soft flesh against him.
He rolls over and looks at her. Eyes still sleepy, the colour of beaten pewter, but alive enough to show his pleasure at being with her.
Valentina doesn’t even let him say good morning. She presses her lips gently against his. She wants to capture the precious intimacy growing between them. Make sure it never escapes.
Her romantic thoughts and plans for the day come to an abrupt end.
The phone rings.
It’s bad news.
She knows it is.
Bad news has a way of preceding itself. Like the stench of rotting fish – you’re aware of it before you even see it. Similarly, the one thing you can’t do is ignore it.
‘Sorry,’ she says, in a breathy voice as soft as kitten fur.
Tom manages a moan of understanding.
The call is from Federico Assante. He gets straight to the point. ‘I’ve been rung by the hospital – it seems our prisoner had a good night. So good that she gave the staff a real name and apparently is willing to be interviewed.’
Valentina is surprised. ‘Who is she?’
He glances at his notes. ‘Suzanna someone. Hang on, I wrote it down. Now where is it? Grecoraci – Suzanna Grecoraci. Apparently, before we get to see her, the bossy doctor we met yesterday, Verdetti, wants to talk to us, and she’s only going to be at the unit for another hour.’
Valentina glances at the only thing she’s wearing, her watch; it’s not even nine a.m. Her tone gives away a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘I guess I can be there in twenty minutes. Does that work for you?’
Federico says it does and they agree to meet in reception.
She thinks about mentioning that she knows he called Major Caesario, but decides to save it until they’re face to face.
When she’s finished, Tom is sitting up in bed, bare-chested, hair tousled and eyes full of expectancy. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, ‘I have to go straight away. I’ll be back as soon as possible, promise.’ She wants to kiss him, a kiss just to apologise, to show he’s not second choice to work. But she daren’t.
One kiss won’t be enough.
One kiss will result in making her at least an hour late.
She dresses quickly. Smart black Armani jeans and a warm grey sweater. She’s still explaining her rushed exit as her head pops through the floppy cowl neck. ‘The woman in charge of the psych unit is difficult; I don’t want her to change her mind. I’m really sorry.’
‘Stop apologising. It’s not a problem.’ Tom is almost as fascinated watching her dress as he was watching her un dress. ‘Do you think your colleagues have a camera on us?’
‘What?’
He peers up as though he’s searching for a lens hidden in the ceiling. ‘Only it seems that any time there’s a hint of romance between us, someone from the Carabinieri always rings.’
She laughs. ‘Don’t say that. We’re safe, I promise.’
‘If you like, I can grab the metro and meet you somewhere, when you know what time you’re finishing, and where you’re going to be.’
‘Could be an idea. I’ll call you. There’s food in the kitchen, but of course you know that from your shopping.’
‘Thanks. Have you got a computer, a laptop I can use?’
‘There’s a little Sony in a case in the lounge.’
‘Password?’
‘Electra.’
‘Elector?’
She chuckles. ‘No, Elec tra, as in the big Electra Glide that I’m going to one day treat myself to.’ Fully clothed, she now risks kissing him.
But only lightly.
Well, it starts lightly.
It’s meant to be just a peck, but it turns out to be more passionate. She pulls away and lets out an almost painful sigh.
Her thoughts about Tom – and that brief kiss – have a tingling and hypnotic effect that last throughout the drive from her home to the Policlinico.
Valentina only clears her head when she is inside the disinfectant-smelling hospital and approaching the psychiatric ward.
Federico is obediently waiting in reception, engrossed in a well-thumbed gossip magazine.
‘ Buongiorno,’ he says amiably, dropping the mag and standing, ‘Verdetti’s waiting for us.’
She skips the pleasantries as they walk to the doctor’s office. ‘Tell me, Federico, did you call Caesario, or did he call you?’
He lets out a dismissive humph. ‘He is my boss – he asked that he be kept in touch, so I did as he asked.’
A good answer, but she’s not letting him off that lightly. ‘No. He’s not your boss. I am. I’m your immediate boss and you report directly to me.’ She waits for a reaction. He should look a little ashamed, a little afraid because he’s being dressed down for undermining a senior officer, but he doesn’t. He should be eager to apologise, say he’s sorry and promise not to do it again, but he clearly isn’t going to.
They stop outside Verdetti’s office and Valentina lets off more steam again. ‘Lieutenant, we have ranks and reporting procedures for good reasons, so make sure they are respected and followed in future. If Major Caesario needs informing of something, then I’ll do it. You report only to me, unless instructed otherwise. Do we understand each other?’
He shrugs and makes to open the door.
Valentina grabs his wrist and stops him. ‘I asked you a question. Do you understand the order I just gave you?’
He looks at her tight grip on his arm and reacts for the first time. A flush of colour to his face. A twitch of his Adam’s apple as he swallows and tries to stay calm. ‘I understand.’
‘ Va bene.’ She lets go of his wrist and allows him to open the door.
19
We are below ground.
In the womb of the earth.
Mother’s womb.
When I am frightened down here, Mother comforts me. When I am filled with panic, She brings me special peace. It enters my lungs and calms me. Makes me see things differently.
And when She punishes me, I understand that it is for my own good .
I know that the pain I suffer is necessary.
Necessary to ensure so I keep the secret.
But I wish it would stop.
When I am fasting, the hunger gnaws inside my gut like a rat in the carcass of a cow, but that pain is nothing to the fires of humiliation that burn in my soul.
Mother says She will cure me. She will rid me of my anguish.
Whatever the price.
Whatever the pain and humiliation.
She says I should remember that it hurts Her more than it hurts me .
I will never forget.
She says that if I did better, if I earned Her trust, then She wouldn’t have to do these things to me. Wouldn’t need to teach me Her lessons.
I tell Her I am trying.
I am trying very hard to learn.
But then She laughs at me.
Not a nice laugh.
Not the laugh a mother should share with a daughter.
She stares into my eyes and tells me She has Her doubts.
Says She wonders if I am worth it.
Worth all the effort that She puts in.
I am frightened.
She puts Her face close to mine and She tells me that She knows what I’m doing.
Knows that I am letting ‘the others’ in.
She laughs again.
The not-very-nice laugh.
I try to look away, but She grabs my face and forces me to look at Her. She says that She knows about them and will find them and punish them as well.
She will trap them and make them all one.
Make them all Hers.
I tell Mother there are no others.
But She knows.
Mother beats me again.
She sticks cloth in my mouth so I can’t scream. So ‘the others’ can’t hear me.
Then She teaches me Her lessons.
And when She’s done, She leaves me.
Alone.
In the dark.
Underground.
In the safety of Her womb.
20
Tom showers and shaves. He pulls on black Levis and a black shirt.
A passing glance in the mirror appals him.
Bar a dab of white on the collar, he looks like a priest.
He changes the shirt for a green one made from thick Egyptian cotton. One warm enough never to need a jumper over the top.
He pulls out his cell phone and sends a text message to the only old friend he has in Rome, Alfredo Giordano. Being Sunday, he knows exactly where Alfie is, and it’s not the kind of place where you can have a phone ringing.
He’s at church.
Saying Mass.
While he waits for Alfie to reply, Tom makes espresso as thick as treacle and fires up Valentina’s Vaio. There’s mail stacked high in his AOL account, but that’s not what he’s looking for.
He finds several Google entries for ‘Cassandra Prophet of Doom’ and is pleased his basic grasp of Greek mythology hasn’t completely deserted him. Cassandra, also known as Alexandra, was the daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba of Troy. She was so beautiful that Apollo granted her the gift of prophecy.
Tom vaguely remembers that Sassy Cassy spent a night at Apollo’s temple, and when she fell asleep, magical snakes licked her ears so clean she was able to hear the future.
Neat trick.
If only you could order a couple of snakes like that from iwantoneofthose. com.
After a little searching, he tracks down Cassandra’s family tree. Her father Priam was the son of Laomedon and grandson of Ilus and ruled during the Trojan War. Tom becomes lost and bored as he traces the generations back through Trus, Erichthonius and Dardanus, but he feels compelled to complete the task.
&
nbsp; He makes another espresso and is pleased when he recalls that Dardanus was the son of Zeus and Electra.
No Harleys back in those days!
The temporary amusement disappears when he reads that the wife of Dardanus was Batea, the daughter of a king called Teucer.
Teucer.
He sits back from the computer.
Until a few years ago, the name Teucer had never meant anything to him.
But then there was Venice.
In Venice, he became more than familiar with it.
Teucer was the name at the centre of a case that stretched back six hundred years before Christ. A case that almost killed him and Valentina.
He comforts himself with hard logic. These are different Teucers.
Very different.
One was from Greece and ruled Troy. The other was from Etruria and was part of a dark satanic legend.
But he can’t help but add up the coincidences.
A crazed woman believing she is Cassandra, who is a dark descendant of Teucer, turns up covered in blood after a ritual dismemberment at a legendary site of truth and justice. On its own it’s disturbing.
That it should happen at exactly the time that Tom is visiting Valentina is more troubling. It’s almost as though fate – or God – has decreed that he has to be here.
That this is the place where he is needed.
He puts his hand to his lip.
It’s bleeding again.
Outside the window he hears church bells ringing. The sound of Mass beginning makes him check his phone to see if there’s a message from Alfie.
There is.
Tom reads it and can barely believe his eyes.
21
Louisa Verdetti looks up from the paperwork on her desk and over the top of her black-framed spectacles. ‘Please, sit down.’
Valentina and Federico pull up chairs.
The director updates them. ‘The lady you brought in seems stable and calm this morning. Certainly well enough for you to interview, though we haven’t yet had time to do the full range of diagnostic checks that we’d like.’
Federico flips open his notebook. ‘Suzanna Grecoraci. Has she said where she’s from? How old she is?’