The Witch of Napoli

by Michael Schmicker

  “He told me to come in the afternoon. When I got there, he answered the door himself. The servants were gone. So was his wife. I knew then what he wanted, but I thought maybe I could get his help without doing…everything.”

  Her voice was a whisper now.

  “He invited me into the drawing room, and I told him what Rossi said, that the sittings cost too much, and he was going to stop them. I asked him if he could help. He went over to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of liquor, and brought it back, and put it on the table. He poured two glasses, and told me he liked me a lot, and would pay for the sittings … if I would do something for him. ”

  She turned to me, her eyes searching mine, begging for understanding, absolution.

  Suddenly, everything made sense – the “stomach ache” that kept her from going to the Minerva Club that night. Throwing up in the dormitory before we left for Genoa. The cramps she had in Heidelberg at breakfast. Same thing my mother had when she was pregnant with my brother Paolo. Nausea mattutina. Morning sickness.

  And the letter Cappelli sent her shortly after we arrived in Torino –how Alessandra’s hand trembled when I gave it to her.

  “Dr. Cappelli knows, doesn’t he?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “What does he want to do?”

  “He doesn’t want it.”

  “Maybe he’ll send you some money for the…operation.”

  “He’s moved to Palermo.”

  I put my arm around her shoulder and she leaned into me, the tears flowing now. Cappelli didn’t give a shit. He got what he wanted. When you have money, you can fuck people and get away with it. It’s always been that way. It isn’t going to change.

  I heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall and held my breath, afraid it was Lombardi coming to look for us. But the footsteps passed by the door and on down the hall. We waited until it was quiet again.

  “What will you do now?” I finally said.

  Her voice was fierce.

  “I’m going to keep the baby.”

  I stared at her. “That’s crazy.”

  Alessandra turned her tear-stained face to me. “It’s a girl, Tommaso. I know it is.” She put her hands on her stomach.

  “I’ve always dreamed of having a little girl. We’re going to Rome – just me and her…I’m going to call her Zoe.”

  I stood up. “Alessandra, stop it! You don’t know it’s a girl, and even if it is, you can’t keep it. Lombardi’s bound to notice. He’s not blind. He’ll send you back to Naples – with nothing!”

  “I can, damn it!” Alessandra shouted. “I can! I can!” She hugged her waist. “I just have to hide it for six weeks.” She reached for my arm. “You’ll help me.”

  “Alessandra, you’re so close. You can make it to Rome…”

  “Shut up, Tommaso!” She clutched her stomach, rocking back and forth, the tears now running down her cheeks. “Me and Zoe… Me and Zoe.”

  Chapter 41

  I paced my room, eyes fixed on the clock hanging on the wall next to the armoire. Give her an hour, she said. She needed to think. Then we could talk. The second it struck nine P.M., I hurried up the hall to Alessandra’s room.

  When I got there, the sheets had been stripped off the bed and Alessandra was sitting on the bare mattress, her skirt hiked up, a towel between her legs. Her undergarments hung on the back of the chair. Next to her leg, gleaming in the light of the bedside lamp, was a long, thin, steel rod with a hook on the end.

  A boot hook.

  I stared at it stupidly for a second before it hit me.

  “You’re going to…”

  “I can’t keep her.”

  Her words have haunted me for twenty years. God, the inexpressible anguish in her voice – how much she wanted that child! And she could have. The truth is, we could have pulled it off – six weeks – but I was too fucking selfish. I didn’t want her “little Zoe” to screw up the tour. I wanted to see Paris.

  “What do you want me to do?” I said.

  “Just stay here with me.”

  I nodded my head.

  Alessandra reached across the bed and squeezed my hand. Her eyes were wet with tears. “Thank you, Tommaso.”

  I squeezed back. “You and me, remember?”

  I couldn’t watch. I retreated to the bathroom. I waited, gripping the sink, my back to the half-closed door. I could hear her shifting around on the bed, making small groans, then I heard a short, sharp inhale, followed by rapid panting, then an ominous silence.

  “Alessandra?” I called out, scared. “Alessandra!”

  In the mirror, I could only see her lower legs. As I watched, she pulled up her knees, rose up on the balls of her feet, and dug her heels into the mattress.

  “Aagh! God!” she screamed.

  I spun around, yanked the door open, and ran to her bed.

  She lay on her back, blood trickling down her thigh, the hook clutched in her hand. Her eyes were shut and she was panting hard. I snatched the hook from her hand, pulled her dress over her, and hurried back to the bathroom. I threw the hook in the sink, grabbed a towel and rushed back. She lay there gasping, her pale face covered with sweat. Suddenly she let out a groan and her stomach tightened and her legs jerked up again and her body shuddered, and stuff came out. I nearly vomited.

  She turned to me. “The towel,” she rasped.

  I gave it to her. She groaned and began swabbing between her legs. When she finished she let it drop and fell back on the pillow.

  “Hide it, Tommaso,” she whispered.

  I balled up the two blood-soaked towels and stood there, looking around. I couldn’t leave them in the room. The maid would find them. I stuffed them under my coat, slipped out of the room, locking the door behind me, the key shaking in my hand, and hurried down the back stairs and into the alley behind the hotel. A waiter was smoking a cigarette against the wall. He looked at me, surprised. I hesitated, then turned and walked out to the street. The river was only a few blocks away.

  When I got back to the room, Alessandra was sitting up in bed, her head in her hands, crying. I sat down beside her.

  “Everything’s going to be alright,” I said.

  Chapter 42

  The clerk at the front desk greeted Lombardi with a stack of mail when we checked in at the Hotel Kaiserin. The bell boy took our bags to our rooms and Lombardi, eager to make amends to Alessandra for the extra tour stops, took us to Café Frauenhuber, where Mozart and Beethoven drank coffee while composing music. He knew the city, and had promised us a taste of Vienna’s celebrated pastries.

  Lombardi studied the menu, and turned to Alessandra.

  “Can that bad stomach of yours handle an eiskaffee? The coffee is strong, but it’s poured over ice cream.”

  “My stomach is fine,” she said. “I told you.”

  Alessandra was a survivor. You come from Naples, you have to be. You get knocked down, you get up. You go on with your life. We have a saying: Life is like a henhouse ladder – short and full of shit. The morning after she used the boot hook on herself, she showed up for breakfast. She was still bleeding, but she was scared Lombardi would be suspicious and demand to examine her “stomach ache.” What was left inside her came out a few days later, on the train ride to Vienna. She drank this stuff I bought for her at a chemist, locked herself in the bathroom, and it ended up on the tracks. But after that her insides were all screwed up.

  The waiter brought our drinks, Sachertorte for them and a Kaiserschmarrn for me. Mine was delicious.

  As he sipped his coffee, Lombardi worked his way through the letters, including one from Gemelli back in Torino.

  He frowned and put down his cup.

  “Professor Gemelli says there’s a petition circulating at the university to censure me.”

  “Censure you? Why?” I asked.

  “They say I’m embarrassing the university by studying Spiritualist nonsense.” Lombardi unfolded a newspaper clipping Gemelli had included in his letter.

&nb
sp; “What’s this?”

  He started reading it to us.

  Huxley hadn’t wasted any time launching his counter-attack.

  Dubrovsky Exposer Dismisses Geneva Spiritualist Photograph

  ———

  A French magician may have been impressed by the table levitation produced by Italian medium Alessandra Poverelli last week in Geneva, Switzerland, but Nigel Huxley, chief investigator for the London Society for the investigation of Mediums, remains skeptical. Mr. Huxley is well-known for his successful exposure earlier this year of the infamous Russian occultist Madame Dubrovsky.

  A flash-light photograph of the alleged “levitation” appeared last week in many newspapers on the Continent, prompting a warning from the veteran psychic investigator. “Publicity is the goal of any stage magician, and one can’t blame Monsieur D’Argent for seizing the opportunity to promote himself. But science is not entertainment. Unfortunately, Professor Lombardi seems intent on turning his scientific tour into a traveling circus. ”

  Mr. Huxley recently completed his preliminary investigation of the Italian medium which he conducted in France, and the Society will soon issue its official report on that investigation. “Signora Poverelli is an extremely charming woman. Whether this has clouded the judgment of Dr. Lombardi and some of our Latin colleagues on the Continent, I cannot say. But everything I myself witnessed can be easily explained without resorting to the supernatural.”

  Lombardi tossed the clipping on the table and smiled at Alessandra. “At least Huxley got one thing right. You can be charming at times.”

  Lombardi signaled the waiter for another coffee, and turned to the last unopened letter. It was a Mattino envelope, sporting a crowing rooster.

  “This one’s for you, Tommaso.”

  Chapter 43

  It was from Doffo.

  I opened it nervously. Doffo had promised to let me know if he heard anything about Pigotti coming after Alessandra. My first thought was Pigotti was on a train headed for Vienna to kill Alessandra.

  But the threat wasn’t from Pigotti. It was something more frightening.

  Tommaso, I just received the enclosed letter from Pietro. The Vatican is coming after Alessandra. I will try to learn more. P.S. The Weasel is a Jesuit they use when they go after big game.

  Pietro was Doffo’s boyfriend back in Rome. He would show up in Naples for a few days and they would disappear together. He was a few years older than Doffo, tall and thin, with a neatly trimmed beard. His father cleaned the bathrooms at St. Peter’s. He wrote terrible poetry, but told the funniest stories – he was always making jokes about the Pope. He worked as a secretary in the Church’s Office of the Holy Inquisition. In the old days, they kept a watchful eye on everybody, eager to pounce on heresy. Every village had a priest, and every priest reported to Rome. I principi hanno le braccia lunghe. Princes have long arms, as we say in Italy. The rack and strappado had disappeared long before Garibaldi defeated the papal army and took Rome, but the Office still monitored and harassed enemies of the Church – and they had friends in every major newspaper in the country, eager and willing to publish any scandals they uncovered.

  Doffo had blacked out the personal parts of Pietro’s letter, but what remained was alarming.

  …and here’s the juiciest piece of gossip! This morning I was scribbling away at my desk just outside Cardinal Uccello’s office, pretending to work, while eavesdropping on His Eminence, as usual. He was meeting with the Weasel – I’m sure you remember him. Nasty, nasty man. My ears perked up when Uccello started complaining about a Neapolitan medium named Alessandra Poverelli. Isn’t she Tommaso’s friend? I decided to reorganize a file in his office while they talked, and they ignored the little mouse in the corner arranging his cheeses. It seems Signora Poverelli is troubling the sleep of the Supreme Pontiff, and when His Holiness Vincenzo Gioacchino Raffaele Luigi Pecci tosses and turns all night, none of us here at the Vatican sleep well. The Pope is worried about the credibility she’s providing the Spiritualist heresy, and has decided to publicly denounce her table levitations as the work of Satan. (You would think Lucifer could produce something more spectacular.) His Eminence however seemed more offended by her sex life. “She’s a terrible moral example for Italian women – she’s unmarried, childless and living in sin.” (Sounds like fun!) He’s assigned the Weasel to dig up dirt on Alessandra. He gave him a fat envelope stuffed with lire and told him to start in Bari, where she was born. Poor Alessandra. If she’s been naughty, the Weasel will find out. Remember what he did to Gaetano. I’ll keep you informed. Tommaso’s been a friend to us and, if I can help him, I’m happy to do so. Uccello keeps the juicy information in a locked drawer in his desk. He thinks he has the only key, but he’s wrong.

  I looked up and they were both staring at me. I had completely forgotten they were there.

  “Well, aren’t you going to read it to us?” Alessandra demanded.

  “Just Doffo with the latest gossip from the Mattino office,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “I won’t bore you.” Fortunately, just then the waiter appeared with the bill, and I hastily stuffed the letter back in the envelope.

  A few centuries earlier, Alessandra would have joined Savonarola at the stake.

  In 1856, Pope Pius IX had denounced mediumship as "heretical, scandalous, and contrary to the honesty of customs.” The Church didn’t want you dabbling in divination or talking to the dead. That was their job. They really got nervous when spirits speaking through mediums talked about a life beyond the veil which didn’t include eternal damnation. Take that away and the pews empty fast.

  The Italian newspapers had started to follow Alessandra’s tour through Europe. She sold papers. She was Italian, beautiful, outspoken, and readers were clamoring for more stories about the “Witch of Naples.” Everyone in Italy was talking about Alessandra, and the Italian Spiritualist Society was using her to promote new Spiritualist circles in a dozen cities. No wonder the Pope had nightmares.

  It wouldn’t take long for the Weasel to find her pile of dirty laundry.

  Alessandra was living on the streets when she was fourteen, and you survive by stealing – or by selling yourself. Her husband was a gangster.

  The Pope could do a lot with that information.

  Chapter 44

  Weitzel’s students had it all figured out.

  They knew how Alessandra did her table levitation trick.

  Professor Weitzel and Lombardi had done their undergraduate work together at the University of Bologna where they were rivals. Weitzel had graduated first in their class, Lombardi second.

  “Frankly, Camillo, I think this whole business is nonsense,” Weitzel told Lombardi as we sat in his spacious office at the University of Vienna. “But my students here are champing at the bit to take a crack at your Signora Poverelli. We’re ready to start tonight.” Heads nodded around the table. There were six of them, not much older than me, bright-eyed and sitting on the edge of their seats, eager to challenge Alessandra.

  “Could we do it tomorrow night?” Lombardi asked. “We just got into town on Friday.”

  Weitzel stiffened. He looked sourly at Lombardi. “The department is pretty busy, frankly.”

  On the way back to the hotel, a crowd of church-goers were pouring out of St. Stephen’s cathedral reminding us that it was Sunday. As our carriage passed down Singerstrasse, Alessandra turned to Lombardi.

  “Do we have to do it tonight, Camillo?”

  Lombardi frowned. “Dr. Weitzel is doing me a favor. If he wants to start tonight, we have to do it.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Surely he can wait one day.”

  “Tonight!” Lombardi snapped. “No arguing, Alessandra. I’m tired too, but we have obligations.”

  I saw my opening.

  “Why don’t we go to the park?’ I said cheerfully.

  I wanted to ride the Big Wheel. The bell boy had told me all about it. The Riesenrad had been added to the park three years earlier, for the Golden J
ubilee of Emperor Franz Josef. It towers over the park, soaring 65 meters into the sky above the city. I had to ride it.

  “We’re all tired,” Lombardi said. “Tommaso’s right. Let’s go to the park and have lunch.”

  Lombardi rented a carriage and he sat in the back seat with Alessandra as we traveled the length of the flower-lined Hauptallee, the magnificent, main boulevard through the Weiner Prater. Lombardi worked on her, entertaining her with funny comments, and she finally started smiling again as we clip-clopped beneath the magnificent chestnut trees, the shady meadows filled with picnickers and lovers, the small ponds where little boys were launching their toy boats, and the colorful parade of humanity sharing the sunny boulevard with us – young military cadets in their red and gold uniforms strutting with their giggling girlfriends, nannies with their wicker prams, barrel organ players and accordion players, acrobats and beggars.

  We rounded a curve and right in front of us was the Big Wheel.

  “Can I ride it?” I asked.

  “Let’s all go!” Lombardi laughed, and looked at Alessandra.

  “Alessandra looked up nervously at the wheel. “You and Dr. Lombardi go.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” I said. “Come.”

  “I’m not afraid!” she shot back. “It’s just that….”

  “…you’re afraid.” Lombardi teased. “That’s all right, the men will ride it, won’t we Tommaso.” He winked at me. Alessandra glared at him, then sat back in her seat and crossed her arms.

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  I felt a bit queasy myself when the carriage dropped us off next to the metal monster. Lombardi sent me off to buy ice creams while he got the tickets. As the line crept closer, Alessandra edged closer to Lombardi. The attendant took our tickets, Alessandra grabbed Lombardi’s arm, and we crowded into the bright red cabin with ten other people. The cabin jerked forward to load the one behind us and Alessandra clung to Lombardi. Then we rose up into the blue summer sky, higher and higher till you could see the whole magnificent city spread out below us, with its green parks and the Karlskirche and Strauss’s serene, blue Danube off in the distance.