funiculì, funiculà
'ncoppa, jamme ja!
That week, Alessandra produced table levitations four nights in a row. During the second sitting, she invited Dr. Pirelli, one of Negri’s plump colleagues, to get up on top of the table. He sat there, dumbfounded, as all four legs of the table lifted off the floor for several seconds before crashing back down again. All the time, my palm was squeezing the flash bulb, I’m thinking “Now! Now!” but Lombardi was too flabbergasted to speak, and we missed it. I should have just fired the damn flash. It was unbelievable.
But Alessandra topped it on our last night in Genoa.
Chapter 31
“It feels like a cat is climbing my right arm towards my shoulder…”
“Somebody is tickling me.”
“Something just pulled my beard!”
Everyone in the room that night was being touched, pinched and grabbed by invisible hands except me. The only thing I felt was a bead of sweat rolling down the back of my neck. Negri’s laboratory was small and stuffy, the windows closed and papered over.
The room was pitch black. Alessandra was convinced that light discouraged the spirits, and Lombardi and Negri were curious to see what she could produce in total darkness.
Baldinotti, the accordion player, seemed to be the spirits’ favorite target that night.
At one point, he declared, “I feel a hand fumbling in my jacket pocket…..” He fell silent for ten seconds, then announced, “I don’t feel it anymore…”
Alessandra’s voice piped up in the darkness. “The spirits tell you to put your hand in the pocket.”
“Certainly,” Baldinotti replied. “I am now doing that…..I can feel my handkerchief…..” Suddenly he exclaimed, “What the devil?…why, it’s tied in a knot!”
Huxley would have claimed trickery – Alessandra had slipped out of her chair in the darkness and tied the knot, or switched handkerchiefs – but what happened next certainly wasn’t.
Baldinotti saw it first. “Look! There! In the corner!” he exclaimed.
A faint, silvery ball of light – like in Naples when Lombardi’s mother materialized – had emerged in the darkness. It grew in brightness then began to pulse, pushing five luminescent tendrils forward in the heavy, still air, which slowly resolved themselves into the five fingers of a hand. It was clearly a woman’s hand, with long, thin, finely formed fingers, but it ended at the wrist – what Spiritualists call a partial materialization. It glowed with the phosphorescent light of a firefly. The spirit hand floated slowly across the room and halted next to Alessandra’s right ear, faintly illuminating her face. The fingers reached out and gently pushed Alessandra’s hair back, like a doting mother might do to her daughter, then came to rest on her shoulder, the fingers curling naturally and gracefully.
Our eyes by this time were well adjusted to darkness, and everyone could easily see the glowing hand on Alessandra’s shoulder.
I blinked and rubbed my eyes. Your mind simply can’t wrap itself around something so bizarre, so absurd, as a disembodied hand. There’s nothing in your experience, your reality, to compare it to. But it was there – and it wasn’t simply a hand wrapped in a white handkerchief, or a stuffed glove, or some cheap device made of pasteboard.
Negri, only centimeters away, raised his monocle and studied it.
“Can we photograph it?” he asked.
I had been so mesmerized I had completely forgotten I had a camera bulb in my hand.
“The spirits say no,” answered Alessandra. “But you may touch it.”
Negri passed control of Alessandra to Lombardi, then reached out and gently grasped the spirit hand, describing what he felt.
“I’m…I’m feeling a true hand…flesh… and bones are felt… the skin of the hand… warm…mobile fingers… fingernails…are all perceived…the hand gives off a light…I can see the bust and arms of Signora Poverelli… both her hands are held by Dr. Lombardi…”
The hand glided down the table, and when it reached Baldinotti it halted, and the palm opened up, inviting him to take it. He slowly reached up and laid his own palm gently on the spirit hand, and the ghostly fingers seemed to entwine his own, the light pulsing like the beating of a heart.
“Olivia…?” He sounded startled. The light seemed to pulse brighter. “Oh, God – Cara Olivia!” He leaned forward and kissed the spirit hand, then laid his cheek against it and began to sob.
I never learned who Olivia was, and Negri left that part out of his scientific account, but Negri did have the courage to include the astonishing materialization in his report, and defended its reality till the day he died, despite the fierce ridicule he received from skeptics.
Absurd as the phenomenon of a materialized hand may seem, it seems to me to be very difficult to attribute the phenomena produced to deception, conscious or unconscious, or to a series of deceptions. It is inconceivable to suppose that an accomplice could have come into the room, which is small, and was locked and sealed during the progress of our experiments. We were making no noise, we could light up the room instantly. We must accept the evidence as we find it.
It was a spectacular beginning to the tour, and Lombardi was ecstatic, but Alessandra paid a price for it. She did sittings six straight nights that week, and we usually didn’t get back to the hotel until after midnight, and her cough seemed to be getting worse.
Chapter 32
Alessandra didn’t trust many people in her hard life.
She was hurt too many times, and rarely let down her guard. But Zoe captured her heart.
When we arrived at her father’s house in Lausanne, just outside of Geneva, the sassy, little six-year old ran to our carriage and thrust a bouquet of yellow daffodils into Alessandra’s hand.
“Buongiorno,” she chirped, and performed a dramatic, sweeping bow. “Mi chiamo Zoe.” Then she giggled and looked back to her beaming mother.
It turned out that “Good morning” and “My name is Zoe” were the only words of Italian she knew, but fortunately for us her parents spoke multiple languages, like most educated people in Switzerland. Professor Theodore Fournier, our host in Geneva, owned a magnificent, two-story house right on the water at Lac Leman. He was the same age as Lombardi, and the scion of a prominent financier who controlled the Banque Cantonale de Genève. They lived like the Medici, spent a lot of time in Paris, and Fournier’s wife Josephine decorated their house with Art Nouveau lamps and sculptures. Despite their money, they weren’t stuffy people. Josephine painted and ran around with artists, and Dr. Fournier was unconventional enough to investigate Spiritualism.
After a lunch of rabbit with mustard, Zoe led Alessandra down to the lake to feed the wild swans, trailed by a servant carrying a silver bowl filled with pieces of bread, and I tagged along. Before we even got there, the swans started honking and paddling towards the shore, eager for lunch. There must have been a dozen birds surrounding us, racing forward to grab the bread, then scurrying away in an attempt to gobble it down before another swan stole it from them. Alessandra had moved down the shore a little to feed a solitary swan out in the water, and I had started for the dock to inspect their sailboat, when I heard Zoe scream.
“Mama! Mama!”
I turned around and saw three birds chasing Zoe across the lawn, nipping at her legs, and lunging at the bread in her hand. Josephine came sprinting down the lawn to save her, but Alessandra got there first. She swooped up Zoe into her arms and laid into the birds, giving a swift boot to the biggest and sending the squawking trio to flight.
After that, Zoe followed her heroine “Tante” Alessandra everywhere.
I never saw Alessandra happier in her life than those two wonderful weeks in Switzerland.
No matter how late the evening sitting ran, she would get up early the next morning to eat breakfast with little Zoe. One morning, I came down and found Alessandra on her hands and knees in front of Zoe who was perched in a chair trying to keep from laughing.
“Meow” went Alessandra.
She pretended to be a cat, rubbing her face against Zoe’s leg then looked up at Zoe with a sad face. “Me-o-o-w.” Zoe covered her mouth with her hands, trying hard to keep a straight face, but she couldn’t. She exploded in laughter and jumped into Alessandra’s arms, kissing her, the two of them rolling on the floor. Josephine had taught Alessandra how to play Zoe’s favorite game, “Poor Pussy.”
Language was never a barrier between the two of them – they shared the language of the heart. One evening, I found Alessandra in the library, Zoe nestled in her lap, reading a children’s story together. It was in French and Zoe would read a few lines then look at Alessandra who would nod her head and say something in Italian.
“You don’t understand a word she is saying,” I protested.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “As the French say, ‘Pas de problème.’” She laughed and hugged Zoe who stuck her tongue out at me and parroted Alessandra.
“Pas de problème.”
I looked at Alessandra. “What does that mean?”
“It means ‘no problem,’ silly.” She tickled Zoe. “I learned it from my little bambina here.”
Alessandra spent most of her free time with Zoe, playing with her little black and white terrier Antoinette, playing tea party in her bedroom, and sitting on the dock in the sunshine eating apples and kicking their heels in the sparkling water.
Lombardi always believed Zoe was primarily responsible for Alessandra’s spectacular successes in Geneva. Alessandra’s spirit soared when she felt loved, and her psychic performance improved dramatically.
After the success in Genoa, she and Lombardi seemed to relax a bit in each other’s company. The first weekend we were there, Fournier took us all out for a cruise on the Mademoiselle, his magnificent, 25-meter sailboat – casually mentioning that it was designed by the British naval architect who built the Royal Yacht Britannia for the Prince of Wales. Their servants packed several baskets of cheese, bread and sausages to take with us, along with a half-dozen bottles of Valais white. Lombardi and Alessandra both loved their wine, and the two of them sampled liberally all the way across the lake to Évian-les-Bains, a pretty French town on the south shore with famous thermal baths catering to the rich. They toured the town with a bottle of Fendant and, on the way home, they sat together in the stern, well-lubricated, singing “Santa Lucia.” It was a blustery day, with a stiff breeze, and half-way back Fournier handed the wheel over to Josephine and clambered forward to reef a sail.
Before he reached the bow, a gust caught the sails and we suddenly heeled hard over.
“Merda!” Alessandra yelled, and flipped head over heels into the lake.
Lombardi dove into the water, suit and all, paddling furiously to her rescue. By the time we came about to pick them up, they were both laughing and splashing each other.
“Grab hold!” I yelled, sticking my hand out to haul Alessandra aboard.
“Join us!” she shouted, and yanked me in.
I surfaced sputtering and Lombardi paddled over to crown my head with his straw hat. Then the two idiots started singing “Santa Lucia” again.
• • •
That evening after supper, I made my way down to the lake to look for my journal, which I had left in the cabin of the boat. I found it, and was climbing back up the steps to the deck when I heard voices. I popped my head out and saw Lombardi and Alessandra heading for the dock. In the deepening twilight, I could see they were walking close together, and he was holding her hand.
Curious, I slipped back down the ladder, and snuffed out the lamp. The night was perfectly still, and I could hear them coming closer, whispering to each other. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden dock and stopped, then Lombard’s voice called out softly.
“Shall we sit here?”
“What a beautiful night, Camillo.”
I slid over to a porthole and peered out. The two of them were sitting on the dock, their shoes off. The moon cast a long, silver shadow across the water. Out on the lake, a flock of swans silently breasted through the shimmering light. Alessandra loosened the comb from her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders, then leaned back and looked up.
“The stars!” she murmured. “Look at them.”
Lombardi lifted his face towards the heavens, and they both sat there in silence.
She suddenly turned to him. “What month were you born?”
“Why?” he replied.
“Tell me.”
“Alright…February.”
“I thought so.”
He reached for her hand. “You sound disappointed.”
“You’re water. I’m fire.”
“Astrology?” There was amusement in his voice. “Don’t tell me you believe in that unscientific nonsense, Alessandra.”
She pulled her hand away and stood up.
“The Milky Way.” She pointed her finger at the luminous arc of galaxies and stars that glittered above their heads, her finger tracing its majestic sweep across the zodiac. “Dr. Sapienti told me it has a million stars, Camillo. Can you believe that?”
“Come, then, sit down here beside me. We’ll count them together.”
Alessandra giggled. “Am I safe?”
“I haven’t a drop of English blood in my veins. Your virtue is safe with me.” Lombardi dusted the dock with his handkerchief, then reached up and grasped Alessandra’s hand. “But if you’re worried, I can send for Master Labella to play chaperone.”
“I’ll use your shoes.” Alessandra positioned his shoes between them and sat down.
Lombardi grinned. “Hardly a credible barrier to intimacy.”
“You told me you were a gentleman.”
He laughed. “I was hoping you had forgotten.” They fell silent again, gazing at the stars. Alessandra shivered, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I should have brought a sweater. The nights are so much colder than Naples.”
“Here. This will help.” Lombardi took off his jacket. “With your permission, Signora…” He pushed the shoes aside, reached over, and wrapped it around her shoulders, brushing back her hair. He returned the shoes. “See, a perfect gentleman.”
Alessandra pushed the shoes away and leaned against him. He seemed surprised. He put his arm around her. “It’s the mountain air.”
Up at the house, you could hear Zoe singing, her voice floating down to us on the evening air. Lombardi’s voice, low and soft, found the spaces.
“You’ve never been to Paris?”
“No. Is it nice?”
“It’s the most beautiful city in the world. “The City of Lights – La Ville Lumière. You’re going to love Paris, Alessandra.”
“But I don’t speak French.” She sounded unsure.
“But I do. I can’t wait to show you everything.” He caught himself. “– and Tommaso, of course. The three of us. There’s a restaurant near the Champ de Mars I want to take you to…”
“Tante Alessandra! Tante Alessandra!”
Zoe’s voice broke the stillness, scattering the swans. “Dove sei? Where are you? Dove sei!” Zoe was running down the lawn, come to fetch her Alessandra.
Alessandra jumped up and grabbed her shoes. “Here, bambina! I’m here! Tante Alessandra is coming.”
Lombardi sat there on the dock for a moment, then sighed, scooped up his jacket, and started after her.
It was clear he was falling for Alessandra.
Chapter 33
Professor Fournier didn’t believe in spirits.
Like Lombardi and every other scientist who tested Alessandra that summer of ’99, he believed in the laws of physics – force, motions, and energy. The only thing he wanted to see Alessandra do was to levitate a table, or move a matchbox, or ring a bell – telekinetic effects that could be calculated, measured, photographed, recorded.
But Madame Aubertin believed in spirits, and she was desperate.
The evening we first arrived in Switzerland, a short, aristocratic-looking woman, about Alessandra’s age, showed up a
t Fournier’s house. She was dressed in mourning clothes and carried a little Papillon spaniel in a basket.
“Madame Aubertin is a friend of the family,” Fournier explained, passing the basket to Alessandra. “And this is Phalene.” The little dog licked Alessandra’s hand and she took it into her lap, delighted to pet it. “Madame recently lost someone very close to her. She asked me if she could intrude on our experiments before we start, in hopes you could communicate with that loved one. I told her you would try your best.”
Aubertin took a chair next to Alessandra, and lifted the black veil from her face. She had dark rings around her eyes, like she hadn’t slept in a long time.
“Signora, I know you are busy, but if you could understand the pain I feel in my heart…”
before Fournier finished his translation, Alessandra leaned over and embraced Aubertin.
“Signora… ” She gestured toward the sitting room. “Per piacere, venga.” Come with me.
Alessandra took charge of the sitting that night, holding one hand of Madame Aubertin while Josephine took the other. Fournier had never done a sitting to communicate with the dead, and was clearly skeptical, but he joined in the prayer, as did Lombardi for once.
“Spirits come!” Alessandra intoned. “Spirits come!” She closed her eyes and we all sat there in the dark, waiting for the spirits to show up. Next to me, head bowed, Madame Aubertin whispered her Ave Marias. I kept nervously glancing over my shoulder. Would the dead person suddenly show up behind a chair, like Lombardi’s mother?
After perhaps ten minutes of silence, Alessandra suddenly spoke up.
“There is someone here,” she announced. “A girl….young girl… brown hair…short white skirt…ribbon…blue ribbon in her hair…”
Madame Aubertin ‘s eyes were open now, looking at Alessandra intently.
“…she is holding a stick and a…circle…wood?…She hits the circle, and rolls it…rolls it along, hitting it. Now she is smiling, pointing to the basket, to Phalene ….then she points to herself…her dog?…”
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