The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring

by Agustín Bernaldo Palatchi

  121

  Once he had put the children to bed, Mauricio settled back comfortably in an armchair in the drawing room and gazed at the crackling logs burning in the fireplace, together with his beloved Lorena by his side. The cold cell was already a distant place, although he would never be able to look at the crenellated tower of the Government Palace with the same eyes. Many years would have to pass before he could erase the memory of the torture he had undergone and the intense pains he still felt made him unable to forget. In spite of this, he was immensely happy. He had returned home, his children had clapped their hands with joy at his recovered freedom, he could feel his wife’s tender look as she caressed him with her eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to enjoy his family in the years to come. The future, however, was not free of worries and he would soon have to face a delicate decision that Lorena would find difficult to understand.

  “Do you think dreams are the language God uses to talk to us as we sleep, when we are unable to hear his voice during the day?” asked Mauricio, preparing the ground for the question that so concerned him. “Saint Joseph changed his intention to repudiate the Virgin Mary because of a dream. Also an angel warned him, as he slept, that he should abandon Nazareth and travel to Egypt. Despite Jesus being a newborn baby, Joseph obeyed immediately and so managed to escape from the children’s massacre that had been ordered by Herod. I am certainly no saint, but I too have had a dream in which I was told to return the ring. When I promised to give the gem back should I ever to come out of prison alive, miracles started to occur: a doctor came to visit me in my cell, the tortures stopped, and shortly afterward the Grand Council authorized my freedom thanks to a legal procedure that had never been used before. Should I really be so arrogant as to ignore the signs? Yet how can we return the emerald, our most precious possession, and yet watch undaunted as our debts lead us toward ruin?”

  “You know I am against giving the ring back, Mauricio. But anyway, even if you were to follow this through, the wolf is not at the door quite yet. I was waiting for a moment when we could be alone so that I could explain that my mother has paid off all our debts, using part of Francesco’s legacy. Naturally, we shall return the money as soon as our situation improves, but for now it gives us breathing space.”

  Mauricio was so overjoyed on hearing this news that he was just about to raise his arms with enthusiasm, completely forgetting the slings that held them fast. This piece of unexpected news now gave him the necessary time to achieve what he had planned.

  “Your mother has saved us. We shall pay her back to the very last florin before the year is out. Listen to me, as soon as I am well again, with your approval, I shall go to France and give back the emerald. After which, I shall cross the Pyrenees and present myself at the Spanish court. Once there, I shall request an audience with Christopher Columbus and will not leave until he gives me back the money I lent him.”

  “Perhaps your journey to Spain will yield fruit, but I do not think it is right or suitable to return the emerald to someone who could be a mere imposter. After all, what do we know about him?”

  “Not much,” Mauricio admitted. “All we know is that in a small town in the South of France called Aigne, a certain Michel Blanch will lead us to the true owner. He assures us in his letter that he has in his possession unmistakable evidence accrediting rights to the emerald.”

  Mauricio watched in surprise as Lorena’s expression changed dramatically. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened in such an exaggerated way that she looked as if she had just seen a ghost. When she finally recovered her composure, the corners of her mouth were still twitching.”

  “You will not be traveling alone. I shall accompany you,” his wife stated with measured seriousness.

  “But why?” asked Mauricio.

  Lorena took her time before she answered.

  “Michel Blanch is my real father. It is impossible for this to be a coincidence. We shall go to Aigne in search of our truth.”

  122

  The journey did not turn out to be easy for Mauricio. As soon as the slings had been removed from his arms, he insisted on leaving for France. Finally, only just over three months after his acquittal by the Grand Council, Mauricio and Lorena set sail on a caravel leaving the nearby port of Livorno bound for Marseille. Once there, they joined up with a commercial caravan that coincided with the route they wanted to take. Following the old Roman roads, they made stops at Arles, Nimes, Montpellier, and Beziers, where they profitably sold the excellent olive oil they had brought with them from Tuscany.

  It was fine summer weather and no storms spoiled the sea crossing, also the days were longer, enabling the caravan to travel further in daylight. But despite these favorable conditions, Mauricio had suffered a lot due to the acute pains he was still enduring. The bones had mended but did not fit together as before, in such a way that all movement in his shoulders and wrists was now ostensibly reduced. According to all the doctors they had consulted, the pains would stay with him for the rest of his life.

  Mauricio believed in the impossible and was completely confident that his joints would regain their old mobility and that his ailments would eventually be alleviated. Several soothsayers had warned him that it was premature to risk undertaking such a long journey without being completely recovered. However, his enthusiasm had overcome his fears and the ramparts of Cagarou de Aigne were already within sight. Cagarou meant snail in the Occitan language and the place drew its name from the hillock it occupied. Its circular pattern was reminiscent of a snail, its winding streets forming concentric spirals with only one possible exit. There, within that shell, a mystery lay hidden, going by the name of Michel Blanch.

  123

  The last thing Lorena could ever have imagined was that Michel Blanch would turn out to be the hamlet’s parish priest. As far as she could see, his sermons were held in great esteem as the church was so crowded that Lorena and her husband were unable to even get inside. They had to content themselves with waiting in the adjacent small square, accompanied by a few other people, until mass was over. Not only were the good folk of Cagarou de Aigne there, but many people from the nearby town of Minerve, who had also come to attend the service. Such an unusually large amount of people said a lot about Michel Blanch. Her mother had always considered him to be someone special and it seemed as if his parishioners held an exceptionally high opinion of the man. Lorena was increasingly filled with curiosity and a desire to know him.

  Yet she had to wait for quite a while until her wish was fulfilled. Once the service was over, the square filled up completely and the parishioners fought for the honor of a few minutes conversation with him. At last, she managed to get near him. A deep emotion overcame her, quite different from anything she had ever experienced before, when she was finally able to contemplate, face-to-face, the source from which she had sprung.

  Michel was a man whose mere presence was imposing: tall and well-built, with strong features and large blue eyes that were so penetrating that they seemed to delve into the depths of wherever his gaze fell. A broad and clear brow denoted intelligence. His silver locks fell onto his shoulders in attractive waves. His bushy eyebrows, which were also white, gave him a look of vitality and his carefully tended bearded, white as snow, an appearance of great wisdom. His strong, straight nose and full lips suggested a strong personality. Thanks to her mother, Lorena knew that the man was around sixty years old, but the physical energy he transmitted was unusual for someone of his age.

  Overcoming her nervousness and with a quaking heart, Lorena explained that they had come from Florence with the intention of returning the ring to its rightful owner. The charismatic priest nodded his head discreetly and invited them to his house in order to discuss the matter.

  “You have come just at the right time,” said Michel after hearing their story. “Tomorrow I leave for Tarascón de Ariège. Three armed men will escort me to dissuade any possible highwaymen from committing violent sins. Come with us, therefore, wi
thout fear, for near there you shall find the person you are looking for.”

  The conversation had flowed naturally in a mixture of the language of Occitan, which Lorena and Mauricio had known since they were children, due to their fondness for the Occitan poets, and the Tuscan language, which Michel Blanch could speak. However the conversation came to an abrupt halt when they tried to find out more about the history of the emerald and the rights to possession of the person about to receive such a precious jewel from their hands.

  “Now is not the time to talk about this,” Michel apologized. “As Ecclesiastes so wisely reminds us: ‘There is a time to be born, and a time to die … a time to break down and a time to build up … a time to rend and a time to sew … a time to keep silence and a time to speak … ’”

  Lorena, dissatisfied with such a poetic but evasive answer, had tried to discover something more specific, as they were, after all, prepared to hand over a jewel of incalculable value.

  “As I told you, everything has its moment and its time under the sun. Today is neither the time nor the place to discuss this, but within a few days your worries and queries will all find answers. And if these do not satisfy you, no one will oblige you to hand over the emerald.”

  Insistence usually yields results, but Lorena was unable to get Michel Blanch to shed any light on that question. To all appearances, the man did not seem in the least affected by the fact that they were going to return such an extraordinary jewel and had not even asked them to show it to him. He had simply believed them with the same equanimity one would show on receiving unimportant news from some distant relations. Michel’s apparent indifference aroused Lorena’s suspicions. What if he wished to get his hands on the ring and was merely playing out a role with the intention of achieving his purpose? What if there was no proof of the ring’s rightful owner? What were they to think then of a journey escorted by men enjoying Michel Blanch’s trust? Were they not perhaps sheep being led by wolves toward their own perdition? In the case of them not giving up the emerald willingly, they would be unable to stop it being snatched from them and be killed on some lonely road, if that was his intention.

  Lorena resolved to share her doubts with Mauricio, although her intuition told her she could put her trust in the priest, to whom she owed nothing less than her very own life.

  124

  Mauricio and Lorena decided to take the risk and travel with Michel. The whole village woke early to bid farewell to the man who had been their parish priest for twenty years. The priest of Taracón had died and the ecclesiastical authorities decided that his place would be taken by the priest of Aigne. It seemed that Michel Blanch’s first parish had been Taracón and he had asked for it to also be his last. Another cleric, much younger and very well thought of by the ecclesiastical hierarchy would be taking his place. However good he may turn out to be, the inhabitants of Aigne and Minerve would miss the person for whom they had shown so much affection.

  For her part, Lorena hoped to get to know this man better as they travelled together. Being able to observe him at close quarters over a period of various days would therefore give her a perfect opportunity. For this reason, she had not revealed that she was probably his daughter, preferring to form an opinion of her father without him knowing about the intimate bond that united them. Also, the fact that he was a priest, consecrated to God, dissuaded her from revealing something that might be considered a scandalous sin.

  But was it possible to silence the past that could speak without needing words? What was certain was that Lorena had read in Michel’s eyes a mixture of astonishment and wistfulness when their eyes had met for the first time in the church square. Astonishment to see a woman who resembled so much the one he had loved in Florence before he had become a respectable priest? Wistfulness for the magical moments he had experienced with her mother? It was impossible to know. Michel Blanch had abstained from asking her anything about her family and Lorena had limited herself to mention her married name.

  However, it would only take a couple of questions and a quick calculation to realize that the seed of someone who had once upon a time been a troubadour had taken, and grown to become the woman she now was. But perhaps now, the pastor wanted to know nothing of the poet he had once been. Yet who was to know? Maybe, after all is said and done, no one really wanted to drag up old secrets from the past into the light of day.

  125

  Lorena could not have been more mistaken. All the coincidences that had conspired to make that journey possible were part of an inescapable design: one capable of making her hear the callings of a conscience that lay buried deep in the hidden depths of a forgotten cave.

  She suspected none of this when, after a nine-day journey on mules, the sky darkened, announcing a threatening storm. The animals grew silent and the wind abated as black clouds could be seen advancing toward them from the North.

  “We shall have to find a safe shelter soon,” announced Michel. “Fortunately, I know of some caves nearby. We shall camp there until the storm has spent its fury.”

  The weather had been mild for the nine preceding days. The heat had been tolerable by day and at night they were able to sleep out in the open with no other precaution than a bonfire by which the men took turns to stand guard in its glow. The storms, however, could take on apocalyptic proportions in the mountainous terrain through which they were traveling. The enormous uprooted trees Lorena had noticed during the journey were a clear sign of what could happen when storms unleashed their fury in the mountains of the Sabarthès. For this reason, Lorena was relieved to hear the news that there were some caves nearby where they could take refuge. Her husband would be particularly pleased to get some rest. Although he had rarely complained, Lorena knew full well that the irregular gait of the mules was causing him a lot of pain in his shoulders. Happily, the journey was coming to an end. What separated them now from Tarascón was a passing storm and this last halt in their journey.

  The travelers reached the cave just as the whole sky was starting to resemble a battleground in which flying armies hiding behind the clouds were using lightning and thunder to mutually destroy each other. The entrance to the cave was big enough for all of them to enter without difficulty, including the mules, who were more agitated than on other days. After tethering them up safely, avoiding being kicked, the men proceeded to start up a couple of bonfires in order to warm the cave and drive away any possible wild animals. Lorena, Mauricio, and Michel, whose friendship had flourished during the journey, spontaneously gathered around the smaller of the two fires. The rest of the men shared the larger one.

  “This cave has been used by man since the beginning of humanity,” Michel Blanch explained. “We have only gone in a couple of hundred feet. Were we to advance any further, we would discover a veritable underground city, more deserving of a visit than Rome, Avignon, or Florence.”

  “Should we then make the most of this storm and explore it?” asked Mauricio, smiling.

  “Without a doubt. You would only need to venture in a few hundred feet before reaching ‘the cathedral,’ a grand room of sheer rock, higher and more spacious than the Duomo of Florence. The acoustics of the place are extraordinary. On occasions I have sung there, together with a few intrepid musicians. I do not know what the music of the spheres sound like, but I doubt there can be anywhere else on earth where the notes vibrate as they do in that extraordinary subterranean cathedral.”

  During the journey, Michel had shown himself to be an excellent leader whose directions were never questioned by anybody. However, he was also a man with an infectious laugh, who knew how to enjoy the sweet fruits the tree of life has to offer. He was a priest, but also an inspired poet and a great admirer, as was Lorena, of the ancient Occitan troubadour songs. He and Mauricio had sung some together and the words had taken her back to her childhood and far beyond.

  “It must be impressive to hear a concert in such a natural auditorium. But are you sure there is no danger going deeper into those caves
?” asked Mauricio.

  “Not if you come with me. I know every twist and turn better than the wrinkles on my own face and I could go along its galleries blindfolded and still not worry about getting lost. Trust me and follow me. You will see, there is a connection between the emerald and that cave that only those who penetrate into its very depths can understand. It will only be then, that I shall finally be able to satisfy your doubts concerning the ring.”

  Lorena looked at her husband. During the nine days they had been traveling, Michel had ignored all her questions regarding the emerald, alleging that it was not the right time. And now, according to him, they were in the right place at the right time. Lorena was frightened at the thought of going into the cave, an unknown world to her. A subterranean kingdom in the very bowels of the mountain that might even extend into the remote depths of the earth itself. Could this be the abode of the Evil One himself? Lorena quickly discarded such a fanciful thought. Michel Blanch harbored no such fear concerning these caves and judging from his words, he seemed to know them perfectly. During their journey, Lorena had built up a great affection and enormous admiration for the man who was supposedly her father. What he was asking of them was perhaps unusual, but then nothing connected with the emerald was ever otherwise. Also Lorena knew instinctively that she could trust in this man. Mauricio took her hand and she grasped it, filled with love.