“Why, if it isn’t Alfred’s nephew!” Agatha chimes in, appearing behind Sheng. “How is everything?”
“Hao! Agatha!” Sheng is really surprised to see the elderly New York actress, who was Professor Van Der Berger’s longtime love. “Nice to see you! I didn’t think you’d be coming.”
“Oh, I traveled in excellent company.”
Sheng finds himself shaking a massive hand, which belongs to an equally giant man. After a moment’s hesitation, Sheng smiles. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your mailman’s uniform on.”
Quilleran winks at him and then, when Agatha turns to follow the scent of fresh canapés arriving, he trails behind her like a bodyguard.
Sheng suddenly thinks of Egon Nose and asks Harvey how things turned out with the owner of the nightclub Lucifer.
“Problem solved,” Harvey replies. “One of his chauffeurs got into an accident while they were driving down Broadway. She wasn’t hurt, but Egon …”
“I can’t say I’ll cry, but … how did it happen?”
Harvey’s eyes become piercing. “It seems a crow flew in front of her car.”
At the party, time flies, but Sheng doesn’t see any trace of Elettra or Mistral. He’s spotted Quilleran’s Seneca friends and the gypsy woman with the gold earring, who wears a cheerful flowered apron and is carrying a tray full of hot ravioli.
“The girls?” he asks Harvey, tired of wandering around aimlessly.
“No sign of them,” Harvey confirms, biting into a canapé.
Sheng leans against a column.
“Hello, son,” his father says, taking him by surprise. “Did you have a good trip?”
“Yeah, Dad. Nice clothes,” Sheng remarks, staring at his father’s pea-green silk suit. “You could win the prize for the evening’s worst outfit.”
His father laughs. “Well, I might come in second.…”
In fact, a man standing off to the side in a dark corner of the courtyard is dressed in a mismatched suit, the pinstripes on the trousers and jacket in different colors. Sheng doesn’t remember him, so he has to ask Ermete, who’s passing by with a blond woman.
“That’s the Siberian who gave us the heart top in Paris,” the engineer says. “He doesn’t speak a single word of French, English or Italian, but it looks like he’s having fun.”
A peal of unmistakable laughter makes Sheng turn to look at the door of the Domus Quintilia, and his heart skips a beat.
It’s Mistral, dressed in a knee-length red and white outfit and black lace tights with a flower pattern. Her laugh announces the long-awaited entrance of the ladies of the house: the three Melodia women in sparkling sequins. The elderly Irene, in her wheelchair, wears a light gray gown, gray pearl earrings and a shawl draped over her lap. Linda, to her left, sports a short hairdo, dangling gemstone earrings and a very elegant snake-shaped bracelet. On the other side is Elettra, whose wild black hair hangs down over her shoulders. She’s wearing a glittering lilac-colored tube dress with purple tights and ballerina flats.
Their entrance is a bit theatrical, but it wins applause from all the guests. Elettra, Linda and Irene look around like movie stars, going along with it. They reach the center of the courtyard and go their separate ways to mingle.
“Hello, my dear!” Elettra says with a coquettish tone, walking up to Harvey.
Her purple eye shadow sparkles, as does her red lip gloss.
“Isn’t purple supposed to be bad luck?” Harvey says.
He turns to Sheng for backup, but his friend is gone. He’s slipped through the other guests, carrying two glasses, and pops up right behind Mistral, who’s saying hello to her mother’s friends, Professor Ganglof and the other people in the Parisian delegation.
“Hi, Sheng!” the French girl says.
But before he can even hand her the glass, she introduces him to a blond boy, whom Sheng instantly finds detestable. “You remember Michel, don’t you?”
“Actually, no.” Sheng forces a smile.
“Of course you do! The organist from Saint-Germain-des-Prés in Paris!”
“Oh, right!” he exclaims, giving in. “But it’s a little hard for me to shake his hand,” he adds, looking at the glasses he’s holding.
Mistral accepts a flute and makes Sheng give the other one to Michel.
Sheng notices something in Mistral’s eyes, something he’s never noticed before. A strange energy …
Whatever it is, they’re interrupted by applause. People are trying to persuade Irene to make a speech.
The elderly woman finally gives in. “Oh, all right!” she exclaims. “You want me to speak, so I’ll speak: Thank you all for coming!”
She then pretends to roll herself away in her wheelchair. The guests’ laughter makes her smile and stop. Her gray pearls gleam.
“Honestly!” she continues. “I don’t have much more to tell you. All around me, I see the people dearest to my heart, along with others whom I met only tonight. I know they’re here because they’re all connected in some way by a common friendship … with an extraordinary person.”
The courtyard falls silent. Unseen by the others, Fernando turns down the music.
“A special person who traveled, studied and read a great, great deal … all to pursue his big dream: to help us better understand the world we live in.”
Sheng stares hard at Irene, trying to avoid looking at Mistral and the blond boy from Paris.
“And so … thank you, Alfred! God willing, we’ll all get together from time to time, like tonight, to show our gratitude for everything you did for us and for giving us the chance to meet. And maybe to try to change the things that need changing, at least a little bit.”
“To Alfred!” Fernando exclaims, raising his glass.
“To Alfred!” the others repeat, applauding.
Sheng sneaks away to avoid seeing Mistral and the blond French boy toast and sadly heads toward the dark archway leading outside.
For a moment, he has the impression he sees old Professor Van Der Berger coming in through the entrance, like a friend who’s stopping by to say hello. The impression is so vivid that Sheng does a double take, but then he realizes he’s wrong. The music is turned up again and the party goes on, but something in the courtyard is bothering him, making him feel the need to be alone for a while.
He goes out onto the street.
There, he sees another person, who’s standing beside the door.
“Hello, Sheng.”
It’s a hard, inflexible voice. The voice of a shadow.
“Jacob …,” Sheng replies in a whisper.
Jacob Mahler is dressed in an elegant black-and-white herringbone overcoat with a fur-trimmed collar. He’s holding the violin he used to take Professor Van Der Berger’s life not far from here. It’s a strange moment: the killer and the professor’s friend standing face to face, both of them feeling awkward in their own way.
“There’s something I’d like to do,” Jacob Mahler says, breaking the silence, “but I need your help.”
Sheng nods and, without saying a word, listens to what the shadow has to tell him.
“All right,” he says, nodding, once the man’s finished. He takes the musical score from the violinist’s hands, turns to go back inside and then stops, realizing that this is a sort of final farewell. And he hasn’t said goodbye.
But when he turns around, Jacob Mahler has already disappeared.
Sheng pushes his way through the guests, determined.
He sees Mistral, makes a beeline for her and tries to interrupt her conversation with the French organist. He has to say her name a couple of times and ends up pulling her away.
“Sheng! Do you have to be so pushy?”
“I think so,” the boy replies, handing her the score Jacob Mahler gave him. “I need you to sing this.”
Mistral glances at the sheet music. “What? Oh, no, are you crazy? I’d be ashamed!”
“You’ve got to do it.”
“Sheng, cut it out! What
is it, anyway?” The female chorus solo of Gustav Mahler’s Symphony no. 2, called The Resurrection. “I’ve never sung this in my life!”
“The notes are there,” Sheng insists. “Sing.”
Seeing Mistral’s hesitation, the boy calls out to everyone, “Your attention for a moment, please! We have a pleasant surprise! Mistral Blanchard would like to sing us a song.”
“Sheng!” Mistral protests. “Have you lost your mind?”
But he doesn’t even look her way. Instead, he repeats his announcement, tapping a spoon against a glass to quiet down the people who didn’t hear him the first time. He asks Fernando to switch off the music, turns to Mistral and looks her straight in the eye.
“Please,” he tells her, lowering his voice, “trust me.”
Mistral stares at the faces of all the guests at the party. In particular, those of Madame Cocot and Professor Ganglof, who appear to be burning with curiosity. Her face flushed, she clutches the score and, in the two seconds that follow, wishes she knew the magic formula for disappearing.
“Brava!” Harvey and Elettra start cheering, to encourage her.
Mistral smiles and tries to spot them among all the faces, but she can’t find them. Still, the ice has been broken.
She opens the score and begins to sing, her voice slowly growing louder. She discovers it’s a sweet melody that flows with grace and power through the shadows of the courtyard and the string of blinking lights, rising up to the wooden balcony and the windows on the top floors, all the way to the four statues that peer down like owls.
Mistral sings a simple, perfect harmony, and as they listen, all those present have the feeling they already know the song, even if this is the first time they’ve ever heard it. And as her voice weaves its spell, they all gradually hear the mesmerizing notes of a violin joining it. But no matter how hard they look for the mysterious violinist, they can’t see anyone playing. Not even a shadow of him, or a glimpse of his steely-gray hair.
Mistral allows the sound of the violin to pervade her and, to her own amazement, lets the shivers running down her spine give her energy, transforming them into voice. She continues to sing, with hope. And as she sings, somewhere deep in her heart, she ends up thinking that it isn’t too late. People can change. Everything can change. The same instrument can be used to do evil or to do good. It depends on the mind of the person using it.
Mistral sings, accompanied by Jacob Mahler’s violin. And for a few long moments, everything seems perfect.
When the song is over, the silence that follows is so intense that the little lights can be heard blinking on and off. Sheng discovers he has tears in his eyes. He moves before anyone else does. Once again, he leaves the courtyard of the Domus Quintilia.
And he finds an unexpected gift on the ground.
A case.
A violin.
And its razor-sharp bow.
Which will never be used again.
LATER THAT NIGHT, WHEN THE PARTY IN HONOR OF ALFRED VAN Der Berger is over, Cybel’s waiters clear the tables. And six people are in the secret room right below them. They can hear the wait-staff’s footsteps and voices through the grate over the well, but, protected by the basement’s thick walls, they know they can talk without being overheard.
“It’s up to you now,” Aunt Irene begins, looking at the four kids. “Isn’t that right, Vladimir?”
The antiques dealer nods. “Yes, it’s up to you to agree to do it or not.”
“I accept,” Elettra replies, her mind made up. “I like the idea of aging slower than other people.”
“One year for every four,” Sheng says. “Being born on February twenty-ninth is cool! If I try hard, I could end up being four hundred years old.”
“It isn’t as simple as that,” Irene says. “The possibility of aging more slowly depends on the power within us … and on how well Nature manages to help us pave the way for those who’ll come later.”
“Look at what terrible shape I’m in after only a hundred and ten years,” Vladimir jokes, sitting down on the edge of the desk.
The group laughs.
“Of course, we aren’t giving ourselves an easy task,” Mistral points out. Then, when everyone stares at her, she adds, “We need to hide the four objects in four cities again, choose our successors—”
“Hao!” Sheng exclaims, cutting her off. “There’s something I always wanted to ask you guys: when the four of you chose us … I mean, them …”
“Sheng …”
Sheng smiles. “What did you choose first, the cities or us?”
“The cities were chosen by our masters and by their masters before them,” Vladimir replies.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, when the time comes, you’ll know what to do. That’s why you have the tops.”
“A hundred years,” Harvey says to the others. “I don’t know if we can even imagine.…”
“A hundred years isn’t long at all, you’ll see,” Aunt Irene chimes in with a smile. “Especially if we really want to change the way people think … and make our planet dream again.”
“But … you aren’t going to leave us all on our own, are you?” Sheng asks, sensing that they’re drawing close to some kind of goodbye.
“In theory, when the pupils have become as good as—and better than—their teachers, it’s best for the teachers to step aside,” Vladimir replies.
“But there are still hundreds of things we don’t know!” Elettra protests.
“Mithra, Isis, all those gods …,” Mistral says, beside her.
“And the Egyptian calendar,” Sheng adds, “with all that stuff about the year with four eclipses …”
“Not to mention that wandering planet called Nibiru,” Harvey concludes, “which should be coming back here in a hundred years or so.”
The two elderly Sages look at each other, hesitant.
“Well?” Elettra insists. “If we accept the Pact, are you going to help us or aren’t you?”
“If only Alfred were still here,” Vladimir grumbles as he gets up from the table, almost angry. “He was the one who studied the Pact better than the rest of us. He understood the connection with the stars and the legends of the ancient Chaldeans.…”
“We’ve got Ermete for that,” Sheng says. “Well? Why are you all staring at me? He might not be one of the four chosen ones or the four masters, but he knows more bizarre facts than the rest of us put together.”
“Sheng is right,” Mistral says. “We never would’ve managed to get anywhere without his help.”
“Not to mention your mom’s,” Elettra tells Mistral.
“And my dad’s, too,” Harvey says. “Now that he’s convinced he needs to do something to try and restore our planet’s health, he’s on our side. As long as we don’t get him wrapped up in anything even remotely … supernatural.”
“My father’s got a bunch of discounts for airlines and hotels all around the world,” Sheng adds. “If we need to travel the globe to hide a Ring of Fire or a Veil of Isis, that could always come in handy.…”
The others nod, convinced.
They make a nice team. One that’s reckless and inconsistent, sure. Or maybe just unpredictable and brilliant.
Sheng lets out a loud yawn. “Guys, I really need to get some sleep now.”
“Me too,” Mistral says.
“Tired of chatting with your organ-playing friend?”
“Hey, Sheng?” Elettra breaks in. “You wouldn’t happen to be jealous, would you?”
Sheng pretends to yawn a second time and gets up from his chair.
“Just a moment,” Irene says, calling him back. “It’s time for each of you to take custody of your object.”
“Now?” Elettra grumbles. “Can’t we do it tomorrow, Auntie?”
“It’s better to do it right away. Where are they?”
“We put them all in here,” Elettra replies, picking up Nik Knife’s backpack from the ground.
A moment later, the Ring
of Fire, the Star of Stone and the Pearl of the Sea Dragon are on the table.
“What about the Veil of Isis?” Mistral asks, noticing that her object is missing.
Elettra feels around the bottom of the backpack. “I don’t understand,” she mumbles. “I’m sure it was in here.”
Then she’s struck by a horrible doubt. “Harvey!”
“What?”
“When you got here, where did you put the backpack?”
“In your room. Why?”
“No! Aunt Linda!” Elettra cries, racing out of the underground room.
She crosses the hallway in a flash, dives into the elevator and jabs the buttons, punching in the secret combination to make it go back upstairs. She throws open the iron doors and bursts into her aunt’s room.
“Auntie!” she cries.
Linda is sitting on the edge of the puff chair in front of her dressing table and is taking off her earrings. Despite the chill, her window is wide open, as if to air out the room.
“Elettra, dear!” she exclaims, glancing at the girl. “You’re covered with dust! Have you been rolling around in the streets with the stray cats?”
“That’s not funny!” Elettra snaps. “Where did you put the Veil of Isis?”
“The veil of what?”
Her makeup from the party still impeccable, the woman rests her second earring on the dressing table, lining it up with the first one.
Elettra insists. “It was in my room, in Harvey’s backpack, and it was there until this afternoon when we went out to plant the tree!”
“Oh, of course!” Linda Melodia finally exclaims, perfectly calm. “You mean that old filthy-dirty sheet?”
“Auntie …”
“It’s downstairs in the linen closet, washed and pressed.”
“Oh, no … Auntie, no …”
“And scented with lavender!”
Elettra slumps against the door, shocked.
This is a catastrophe, she thinks. A centuries-old relic has undergone Aunt Linda’s antibacterial treatment. It might be totally useless now.
But as a world of thoughts races around in her mind, she hears, through the open window and the well in the courtyard, the unmistakable sound of laughter.
Century #4: Dragon of Seas Page 22