Star of Stone

by Pierdomenico Baccalario

  Mistral nods. “More specifically, what I’m wondering is … what is it we’re looking for now? The stolen top? A way to decipher the numbers on the postcard? The other postcards? The Star of Stone? Or the two men the professor was friends with before he ran off?”

  “I don’t think he ran off,” Elettra interjects. “I think he was forced to run away from someone. Maybe he’d already discovered the existence of the Ring of Fire, or this … this Star of Stone. Maybe the star led him to Rome … and now we’re taking the same trip backward.”

  “He left us some clues: a picture and a postcard,” says Mistral.

  “Remember what he said?” Elettra asks. “If you find a secret, you need to guard it and protect it. And maybe … maybe he tried but failed. Maybe he got something wrong or betrayed himself.”

  “Or someone betrayed him,” Sheng adds.

  “So he ended up crossing paths with … them,” Elettra concludes.

  “Yeah,” Harvey says bleakly, spelling it out, “the people who are following us now, searching for the very same secret. That must be it.”

  Just then, a man dressed in black appears behind them.

  14

  THE STRANGER

  HARVEY, SHENG, ELETTRA AND MISTRAL WHIRL AROUND. OF average height, the man is wearing round glasses and a Sherlock Holmes hat. He has a long beard. He’s wearing a nineteenth-century coal-gray trench coat and has a pipe clenched between his lips.

  “So who’s she?” he asks with a guttural voice, pointing at Linda Melodia, who’s curled up in the armchair.

  The kids take a closer look at him. Sprawled out over the table to protect the map of the Chaldeans, Sheng notices that one part of the man’s beard is coming detached from his chin. “Ermete? Is that you?”

  The man raises his pipe as a greeting. “Who else would it be, kid?”

  Elettra starts to run over to him, but the engineer stops her with a flick of his hand. “No. No signs of affection. Let’s pretend we barely know each other.” His eyes dart around the lobby. Then, with skillful slowness, he grabs a chair from a nearby table and drags it over by the kids’ seats.

  “What on earth are you wearing?” Mistral exclaims, almost at a loss for words.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” the engineer/radio ham/archaeologist/comics reader/gaming master Ermete De Panfilis says, proud as a peacock. “I found it all on eBay, and at a bargain, too.”

  “You look like a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Lieutenant Columbo.” Elettra smirks, her leg slung over the arm of her chair.

  Ermete grimaces with disappointment. “I was hoping that one of you would recognize my tribute to ‘The Raven,’ the poem by Edgar Allan Poe. He wrote it in this city….”

  “Never heard of him,” replies Sheng.

  “What the heck do you read back in China?”

  “I just finished the latest Ulysses Moore book,” replies Sheng. “Hao, it’s wild! Basically, you find out that Ulysses Moore is actually—”

  “In any case, you didn’t answer me,” Ermete says, cutting him off and turning back toward the nearby armchair. “That woman. Who is she?”

  “My aunt,” Elettra explains. “She can be trusted. She beat the daylights out of Jacob Mahler when she caught him over at the Domus Quintilia.”

  “I trust her completely, then!” Ermete snickers, resting his elbows on the table. “Have I missed any spins?”

  “Actually, we were just deciding what to ask the tops,” says Elettra.

  “What are the options?”

  Mistral hands him the old postcard they found in the inside pocket of the tuxedo. Meanwhile, Elettra tells him how they found it.

  “Holy moly. These look like … like numbers in a matrix cipher!”

  Ermete has never heard about Agatha or about the professor’s former life in New York, but when they tell him about his abandoning the Chanin Building, he’s stunned. “He left an apartment in the middle of Manhattan for that dump on the outskirts of Rome?”

  The Star of Stone is even more of a mystery to him. “The minute I get home, I’ll check Alfred’s notes to see if he mentions the Star.”

  “Try looking in the book by Seneca, in his treatise On Comets,” Mistral suggests.

  “Good idea. I’ll check out the legends of Mithra, too. If I remember correctly, that particular sun god was born from a rock. The Star of Stone could be a star that was born from a rock…. Does that make sense to you guys?”

  “Actually, not really,” Harvey remarks. “I mean, it wouldn’t make any sense here in New York. The religion of Mithra never came here to the New World. It’s a really ancient religion from Asia and Europe….”

  “Which officially came to an end in AD 392, when the Roman emperor Theodosius prohibited the worship of the ancient pagan gods under force of arms,” Ermete continues encyclopedically.

  “Exactly. In 392, there weren’t any Romans in America. There were the people that Columbus called the Indians, who had other gods,” Harvey explains.

  “Let’s not forget that Columbus was one of the people who used this map,” Sheng reminds them.

  “I think we should use the tops now,” Elettra interjects, holding up hers.

  The five spread a street plan of Manhattan over the wooden map, holding the corners down taut. Then they deliberate on who should go first.

  “I’ve never spun mine before …,” Mistral says in a hushed voice, awed by all their preparations.

  “It’s easy! You just do this,” Sheng explains, casting his top, the one with the eye, onto the map. “This one shows a detail you need to watch for or discover,” he continues as the top begins to whirl around, moving along the chaotic grooves below to intersect the gridline streets of Manhattan.

  “New York and Rome have something in common,” Ermete says in a low voice, staring at the map. “Manhattan was built just like a Roman encampment. See the streets? They intersect at right angles.”

  The top of the eye begins to move around in smaller circles and finally stops. The corner of Sixth Street and Avenue B in the East Village.

  “What’s there?” everyone asks Harvey.

  He shakes his head, baffled. “Nothing that comes to mind.” He reflects a minute. “Tompkins Square Park, I think …”

  Elettra casts the top of the tower. It spins around with its distinctive rhythm, different from the one before it. It’s slower, more deliberate. It stops in the very center of the East River, at the lower tip of Roosevelt Island. “This should be a safe place,” the girl says.

  “But that can’t be,” Harvey sneers.

  “Why? What’s on the island?”

  “An old, abandoned smallpox hospital.”

  “So much for a safe place….”

  Ermete looks at Mistral. “It’s your turn.”

  “What about Harvey?” the French girl asks.

  “He always goes after the rest of us,” explains Sheng. “He likes to be a copycat.”

  Mistral stands up. Then she leans over the table, gently rests her top with the dog on the map and sends it spinning, almost sad to see it leave her fingertips. This top moves differently, too, swirling around restlessly, furiously. It indicates the guard to get past.

  “This one’s easy,” Harvey remarks when the top finally stops. “And it’s definitely a well-guarded place: Rockefeller Center.”

  “The place with the ice-skating rink?” asks Mistral, who’s seen it in lots of movies.

  “Yeah. That’s where they put the city’s tallest Christmas tree, too. It’s one of the most famous attractions in New York. And now, check this out!” Harvey rests the last top on the surface, and rather than just casting it, he hurls it onto the map. It’s the whirlwind, the place of danger. The top darts around with a threatening hiss until, exhausted, it stops in the center of Hell’s Kitchen, the heart of New York’s Irish community.

  “Oh, great …” He groans. “Now of all times. Unless I’m mistaken, tomorrow’s the seventeenth, St. Patrick’s Day.” Harvey points his fing
er at the neighborhood west of Broadway. “Tomorrow there are going to be tons of people dressed in green parading down Fifth Avenue.”

  Tons of people.

  The danger is a celebration.

  15

  THE MISSION

  IT’S PERFECTLY SILENT IN EGON NOSE’S OFFICE. AS SILENT AS THE grave. All the outside noise is muffled by the rosewood panels lining the walls. Soundproofing blocks out the surrounding world, as well as the partying going on in the club. One needs silence to think.

  The gold picture frames are gleaming. Dr. Nose is surrounded by a spiral of bluish smoke that drifts up toward the low ceiling lights like a trapped angel.

  He’s holding a wooden top in front of him and inhaling deep puffs of smoke. Depicted on the wooden top is a bridge. Or a rainbow. Nothing else. Just old wood hardened by the centuries, perfectly conserved by the warm, dry environment in which it was discovered. It’s desert wood.

  “There was only one tree in the middle of the desert,” Egon Nose says aloud. “It was a giant black sycamore. They called it the Judas Tree.” He lets out a little cough, his throat tickling. His cigar glows with red cinders. “The Judas Tree had deep, deep roots. All the merchants along the Silk Road gathered around it. For hundreds of years, it marked the passage bridging the East and the West.”

  “It’s gone now,” an icy voice replies.

  Egon Nose is on the phone. One of the screens in his study shows an urban skyline that isn’t Manhattan’s. There are tall skyscrapers, different lights, different swarms of human insects trapped in a megalopolis. It’s Shanghai. The icy voice is coming from there.

  Dr. Nose balances his cigar on the rim of a crystal ashtray, which breaks the light down into ten oddly shaped prisms. “Yes. They cut it down hundreds of years ago. It’s still a shame when a tree dies, don’t you think?” He rests his fingertips on the surface of the ancient top and turns it upside down. “So, this is it? An old wooden toy? You sure it’s worth what you’re paying me to have gotten it for you? I don’t think—”

  “You aren’t paid to think,” the voice snaps icily.

  “Heh, heh, heh … I’m sorry if I doubted you, sir,” the owner of the club replies sarcastically, “and if I was lacking respect for your little toy.”

  “I don’t like to play.”

  “I’m not surprised, Heremit. You don’t like anything. Except for yourself, naturally.”

  A shadow passes across the screen showing the city of Shanghai. It’s moving too swiftly to be captured in the image. “I want the map. And the other tops,” the shadow says.

  “It’s only a matter of hours. All we need to do is wait,” Dr. Nose replies.

  “Tomorrow is March seventeenth,” Heremit Devil reminds him.

  “It’s already March seventeenth,” Dr. Nose remarks, checking his watch. “Can’t you hear how quiet it is? It’s St. Patrick’s Day. Time for the pagan spirits to hide in the shadows, waiting for it to be over. It isn’t a good day to come out into the open. Heh, heh, heh … But that doesn’t mean it isn’t a good time to move around below.”

  “I have five days left.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before the next appointment.” The shadow reappears on the screen with the image of Shanghai. His back is turned toward the camera, facing the window. He’s staring outside, his hands clasped behind his back. “I can almost see it now.”

  “See what? Your city being crushed by your devastating power?”

  “The star,” Heremit Devil replies without turning around. “But that’s none of your concern.”

  Egon Nose picks up his cigar again and lets himself be surrounded by its smoke. “There aren’t any stars in Hell’s Kitchen. And you’re right. That’s none of my concern. I don’t even care. Stars are all useless. They’re too small, too distant. Besides, this sky moving around makes me nauseous. What good are stars if you can’t even touch them?”

  16

  THE ISLAND

  THE WIND IN NEW YORK HARBOR IS WHIRLING THROUGH ELETTRA’s long, long hair and the rail at the side of the ferryboat. The girl has her eyes closed and is letting her thoughts fly free. Her mood has changed so much since the day before! She feels good, at peace with the world and full of volcanic energy again. Her kiss with Harvey, the way they didn’t say anything about it, their stolen glances at the museum … it made her feel incredibly pretty. And wanted.

  “You look like an octopus,” Linda Melodia remarks, snapping her back to reality.

  “Thanks, Auntie,” Elettra grumbles in reply.

  The woman’s hands delve into her niece’s curls with expert skill. “You didn’t use any conditioner,” she declares. Linda takes one of her niece’s locks between her fingers and studies it like an entomologist would examine a rare tropical butterfly. “Would you look at this! A sea of split ends. You need a haircut!”

  Elettra feels a surge of anger rise up inside of her, but it’s one of those mild kinds of anger, one that’s easy to push back down. She smiles. “Auntie, what man could ever put up with you?”

  “Well, see here! When I was your age, boys were lining up at the door….”

  “I’ve never doubted it. This jacket is yours, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Capri, 1979.” After all the years, Linda Melodia’s clothes still look brand-new. “I remember who gave it to me, too,” Linda continues, pleased as punch. “A nice, dark-haired young man whom I had to send packing.”

  “Why’s that?” Elettra laughs, imagining the scene.

  “Why? Why? First they give you a gift, and then they start calling you, taking you out to places with crowds of screaming people, walking into your house tracking mud because they can’t help but play with a soccer ball that’s being kicked around on the street … and so, simply because you accepted a gift, you find yourself working for them.”

  “But it’s nice,” Elettra concludes.

  “Heavens, is it nice!” sighs Linda, staring, mesmerized, at the Statue of Liberty, which is now in front of them. “Do we get off here?”

  “Isn’t there another island first?”

  Aunt Linda opens the boat tour program and reads. “Ellis Island. Oh, yes. The one all the immigrants entering the United States would pass through. Imagine that! Millions of people who waited there for their entrance visas …”

  Who knows how many life stories were trapped in there? thinks Elettra as the ferryboat makes its way around Liberty Island. And who knows what Harvey’s thinking? Who knows where he is right now? …

  * * *

  Harvey has just come out of the Chanin Building. Agatha’s place. His gym bag is slung over his shoulder. Sheng is trotting along beside him, toting his backpack, his camera hanging around his neck. They took a picture of the professor’s photograph and its frame. But their day has only just begun.

  “Where to now?” Sheng asks.

  The sidewalks are packed with people, policemen are everywhere and the streets have been taped off.

  “The old Irish part of town,” Harvey proposes. “Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “Why’s it called that?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s because the Irish who moved here in the mid-1800s left their country because of a famine. They were desperate for food.”

  “In any case, Hell’s Kitchen must be like my mom’s kitchen,” jokes Sheng. “Pure hell! Millennia of Chinese culinary traditions mysteriously vanishing without a trace.”

  The two walk toward Fifth Avenue and soon find themselves surrounded by a chaotic world of music and people. The entire street looks like a sea of green. White and green festoons are draped across the windows, lampposts and traffic lights, while thousands of little flags are fluttering in the sunshine. The cheerful sounds of fiddles and tambourines are echoing from every corner.

  “Have they all gone crazy?” Sheng shouts to Harvey, trying to make his way through the crowd. They’re surrounded by party horns, green and white checkered hats, clouds of confetti and streamers as long as jungle vines
.

  They smell the aroma of all kinds of fried foods and beer wafting through the air. The beer is green, naturally. The national color of Ireland.

  “Here in New York, St. Patrick is the patron saint of Irishmen, and the police, too,” Harvey explains, pointing at the numerous officers lining the sidewalks, “given that most of the city’s cops were once Irish.”

  “Oh, man!” Sheng yells when he’s almost knocked over by a procession of kids with painted faces. “I can’t move!”

  “It’s the parade!” Harvey shouts.

  They manage to push their way through the crowd to a stand selling fritters. Hanging down from its canopy as decorations are rubber snakes.

  “What have snakes got to do with it?” Sheng asks, surprised.

  “It’s St. Patrick’s Day, son!” the owner of the stand says, chuckling. “All the snakes get driven away! Fritter?”

  Among the crowd, there’s one person who doesn’t look at all cheerful. He’s so tall, massive and grim-looking that even the confetti seems to shy away from him. He stares at Harvey from a distance, trying not to lose sight of him in the sea of people, studying Harvey’s new friend, the Chinese one, all the while.

  When the two kids stop to buy a fritter, the man leans against a lamppost covered with decorations, pulls out a notebook and jots down a few quick notes. Then he starts moving again, indifferent and stern-looking.

  “Party with us, Indian dude!” a group of kids shout at him. But he doesn’t slow down. He tries to figure out where Harvey Miller is going.

  Perched on the lamppost, a crow blind in one eye lets out a shrill caw.

  17

  THE PHONE CALL

  “YOUR VOICE IS ALL GARBLED!” ERMETE SAYS ON THE PHONE. “NO! It isn’t your fault, Mom. It’s the connection. I don’t have time to call you back. I’ve got to go now. Yeah, sure, I go out. It’s only natural. I’m in New York! Huh? What do you care if I’m keeping my room clean? I’m not expecting any company. Besides, how could it be clean, after the burglars tore it apart?”