by Chad Brecher
“Tell me you see a light at the end of this tunnel,” Ellie groaned. She whimpered as a rat scurried across her back, up her neck, and got tangled in her hair before freeing itself and darting into the darkness.
Alex turned his head forward. The flashlight in front of him flickered momentarily. Alex sucked in his breath as the light dimmed and threatened to go out. He did not want to imagine what it would be like to navigate this tunnel in complete darkness. The prospect sent him pushing forward.
After some distance, the tunnel widened and split. The left passageway was blocked by a cave-in with a jagged array of stones filling the path. Alex squeezed into the tunnel to the right and suddenly found himself sliding down an embankment. He frantically attempted to halt his descent by digging the heel of his hands into the stone surface but the green grime coating it was too slippery. Alex’s head flopped forward and collapsed the tripod support of his arms. He found himself sliding uncontrollably down the steep slope. His eyes widened with alarm as he quickly approached a narrow stone ledge that hovered over a larger room. His body struck the ledge hard. The impact sent his torso spinning until his hips flew out over the ledge and he found himself suspended precariously over the room below.
Alex’s fingers dug into the stone ledge. His muscles ached as he forced himself to look below at the long drop onto the stone surface. The strap of his bag felt taut under his armpit. Alex looked up to find that his bag had fortuitously snagged a stony outcropping and was supporting him.
Thank you, Marco.
Alex struggled to pull himself back onto the ledge, gripping the leather strap with his right hand and the stone surface with his left. Muscles tensed, he swung his right leg up. His shoe caught the lip of the ledge and he used it as leverage to pull his body onto the stone surface. He lay for some time on his back, trying to catch his breath. He could see Ellie’s face poke out from an opening in the wall above.
“You OK?”
“Just a little beat up.” Alex pulled himself to a sitting position and looked up at Ellie. “Be careful, it’s really slippery. You’re going to need to go down feet first. I’ll catch you.”
Alex waited as Ellie’s shoes dangled from the hole. She pushed her body backwards and slid down the embankment on her stomach until she found herself in Alex’s embrace. Secure on the ledge, Ellie attempted to wipe the slime off the front of her blouse. The wet fabric stuck to her skin. She moved aside to allow Clay and Jonas to descend to the ledge.
“Now what?” Jonas asked as his flashlight explored the ceiling above, finding it to be a lattice-work of cracks.
“I would venture we go down,” Clay responded, wiping the palms of his hands with a handkerchief before passing it to Ellie.
Alex walked along the stone ledge that ran along the perimeter of the room. A large break in the stone surface of the ledge produced a gap. With the help of the flashlight, he could see that jagged stones composed one of the walls.
“We climb down.”
Alex let his foot dangle in the gap in the ledge. The tip of his shoe contacted a stone. He allowed his body to slip into the gap. Clutching the lip of the ledge, his other shoe found some footing on another rock. He slowly descended down into the room below.
Training the flashlight up, he could see his companions clustered by the gap.
“What do you see?” Clay asked.
Alex surveyed the room. The chamber was empty. The floor had a sandy bottom with rocks scattered upon it. There were faint frescoes painted on the walls, faded through the centuries. Alex could make out a youthful Jesus as shepherd tending over a flock of sheep.
“It may be an early Christian Church. It wasn’t uncommon to have them underground during the time of Roman persecution.”
“Just tell me there is an exit to this Church,” Jonas urged.
Alex ignored the comment and let the light pan across the ground. A dull white object caught his attention and he squatted beside it.
“What do you see?” Clay asked as he scaled down the wall.
Alex reached out and grabbed a small handful of sand. He let the grains run through his fingers like a sieve until all that was left in the palm of his hand was a half-smoked cigarette.
“Cigarette.” Alex held it up as Clay approached.
“Sorry. I don’t smoke. It’s a nasty vice.”
“It’s a cigarette.”
“I don’t get what you’re trying to say.”
“The early Christians didn’t smoke.”
“OK.”
“Well, someone must have been in here. Possibly, recently.”
Clay’s eyes twinkled and he smiled broadly. “Which means that unless we find his skeleton here, there must be a way out of here!”
“Exactly.”
The earthen and stone passageway leading from the subterranean church was narrow but tall. The four traveled in silence as the temperature continued to remain bitingly cool. Ellie could see frozen precipitation coating the walls and hear the sound of dripping water in the distance.
“I think we’re near the river.”
“Which river? The Nile? I feel like we’ve been walking forever,” Jonas complained. The flashlight he was holding suddenly went out. He tapped it against the wall to no avail. “Looks like we’re down to one flashlight.”
“There’s something up ahead,” Alex announced as the passageway widened slightly. Along the side of the tunnel were barrels. The ground beneath their feet turned from dirt to cement. They reached a flight of stone steps that led to a wooden door in the ceiling. The wood was dilapidated with corroded planks eaten away or missing completely. Alex shined the light through the cracks and could see a room above. He pushed on the door but found it locked.
“Allow me.” Jonas growled and not so delicately pushed Alex aside. Jonas leveled his good shoulder against the door. With a yell and a limited charge, his shoulder contacted the wood, splintering the planks, and sending the shards falling to the ground below. He continued to pound away at the door until he was able to pull himself through a hole into the room above. Alex, Clay, and Ellie followed.
The room was empty except for an ancient, vandalized kitchenette. Cigarette butts and hypodermic needles were strewn across the floor. Graffiti was sprayed across the walls. An old plaque proclaiming “Property of the Verona Water Authority” was covered over with a neon green peace sign. Ellie peered through a partially boarded up window and her heart quickened at the sight of the banks of the River Adige outside. Jonas initially tried the front door and found it locked. With a kick, the door cracked and opened. The sunlight was blinding. The four shielded their eyes with their hands and stumbled out like a group of drunkards dressed in tattered and soiled clothes.
Ellie sunk to her knees and pulled blades of grass from the ground.
Alex clung to his satchel and smiled as the river lapped serenely against the shore in front of him.
44
Ellie removed the plush white towel from the heating rack, tilted her head down, and loosely wrapped her hair. She leaned over the sink and with the ball of her hand wiped away the fog from the mirror. She peered at herself. The pink had finally returned to her cheeks but her lips remained chapped and red. She looked down at her naked body, running her fingers across the many bruises and bumps that dotted her skin. After the events of the prior days — the discovery of the Polo manuscript beneath the Church of San Procolo, the trek through the catacombs beneath Verona, and finally the flight from Verona aboard Clay’s Learjet — the hot bath felt truly amazing. Clay had wanted to get far away from the forces hunting them, ultimately ordering his personal pilot to travel to Turin.
The five-star hotel was over-the-top in every way, from the exquisite dining to the large suites whose spacious balconies overlooked the city. To go from being trapped in a stone crypt to a life of luxury took some adjustment, but Ellie told herself that a girl could get used to it. She slipped the white robe on and cinched the belt tightly around her waist, looked one last
time in the mirror, and opened the door. Steam escaped from the bathroom.
She walked barefoot on the carpet and stopped before the king sized bed. Laid out upon the duvet were an assortment of expensive Italian clothes meticulously organized in piles of shirts, pants, skirts, socks and stockings, and jackets. Although Ellie continued to be suspicious of the old man, she could not deny Clay’s generosity. After fleeing from Verona with the muddied proverbial shirts on their backs, in Turin he had arranged for personal shoppers who canvassed the city and returned with new wardrobes for each of them.
Ellie sat down on the bed. Through a gap in the silk curtains, she could see the sun sinking below the cityscape, producing a muted silhouette of church steeples. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the receiver of a gilded phone. Ellie had an urge to call Alex. She wondered what he would think about being asked if he wanted to come over. She immediately blushed with embarrassment. It seemed so collegiate but she could not deny her feelings. Perhaps it was the romantic ambience of the hotel or the excitement of the chase. She could not underestimate the bond two people could form in the face of adversity. She had found Alex to be compassionate, caring, smart, and strong. After Gordon, Ellie coped with his loss by creating an impenetrable shield that prevented any intimacy. All of this was unexpected as Alex had somehow disarmed her defenses. Though only a young graduate student, Alex possessed the very maturity and wisdom that made Ellie feel something she had not felt in ages…safe.
She smiled at the thought. Ellie lifted the receiver to her ear. Just then, a knock at the door startled her. She placed the receiver back on the cradle, sprung up from the bed, and made her way to the door.
Ellie leaned in and placed her eye to the peephole. She grinned upon seeing Alex nervously waiting by the door.
She opened the door. Ellie nearly laughed upon seeing Alex. He was dressed in a black jacket adorned with bright silver zippers that served no practical purpose, crisscrossing the fabric in a pattern that could only be admired by the critics at a fashion show.
“Don’t say a word,” Alex warned. “I don’t think my personal shopper, Italo, and I have the same taste in clothing. Don’t worry, I’m told my brown jacket is being dry cleaned as we speak.”
“I think it looks…” Ellie smirked.
“Not a word,” Alex brought his index finger up to silence her.
“What brings you to these parts,” Ellie asked coyly.
Alex appeared to suddenly realize that Ellie was dressed in a robe with her hair bundled in a towel. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t wait to come by…may I?” He motioned to come in. Ellie nodded and moved aside.
Alex entered like a whirlwind. “I’ve been looking through the manuscript and I’m frustrated.”
“Oh, the manuscript,” Ellie replied with disappointment and closed the door. “You’re not the only one frustrated,” she mumbled out of the side of her mouth.
“I think we need to brainstorm on it. I hope you don’t mind, I asked Redmund and Jonas to come by.”
“They’re coming here?”
“Yes. Sorry. I should have checked with you first.” He paused and looked at her in her robe. A flash of confusion passed across his face. “You probably will want to change, huh? They’ll be here any second.”
Ellie swung around and angrily grabbed several of the garments on the bed. As she stalked away from Alex, he could hear her mumble under her breath, “Men!”
45
“You’re stuck.” Clay rose from the chair and paced around Ellie’s suite. He was dressed in a dapper blue blazer with a collared shirt, slacks, and Bruno Magli shoes. In his left hand was a fine porcelain saucer upon which rested a small espresso cup. Clay would periodically lift the cup to his lips and take a sip. Jonas hovered in the background, leaning against a dresser. He still appeared to be nursing his shoulder. Ellie sat in a pastel colored upholstered chair with legs and arms coolly crossed. Her hair was still damp and tussled.
“I think that is a little harsh, Redmund,” Alex answered. He had cleared off an antique wooden desk in the corner, removing a leather-covered book containing descriptions of the amenities provided by the hotel, magazines about the city of Turin, and a pile of hotel stationary. The manuscript was delicately laid out upon the desk behind Alex. He swiveled in the chair and looked at Clay. “I’m not an expert in the field. I’m just a graduate student. Let’s not forget that. Besides that, I’m certainly not a linguist. This manuscript is written in a hybrid language not used anymore — it’s a mixture of French and Italian. Foreign languages aren’t my strong suits, especially Franco-Venetian.”
He looked around the room and did not sense any sympathy.
“You said this is the original Polo manuscript. Unless I am forgetting. Maybe the freezing temperature in the crypt might have made me delirious,” Jonas teased.
“I think it is the original manu…” Alex held up his hands. “Listen…hear me out. There are many versions of Marco Polo’s Description of the World. Redmund, you know this better than anyone through your own searches. Most Polo scholars divide the manuscripts into three principal categories. Category A includes a series of manuscripts that most scholars believe to be the closest to the original manuscript. Some of these manuscripts are written in French, others in Venetian or Tuscan, others in Czech or Gaelic. Category B includes manuscripts with material that is not found in the A versions and may have been added later or suppressed for some reason from the early versions. The third category contains a single manuscript known as the ‘F’ version. It is the oldest known copy of Polo’s Description of the World. It is an early fourteenth-century manuscript written in Franco-Venetian known as The Book of Wonders, kept at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. If my suspicion is correct, I believe that this manuscript predates the ‘F’ version. It may be within its own category. It may be the source text for all other manuscripts.”
“Sounds like we need an expert on the manuscripts, someone who can make sense of the text,” Clay voiced aloud. “Who knows what secrets are within it? I think there is only one person who can truly help us. We need Bertrand Foucault.”
Alex raised his eyebrows.
“Bertrand Foucault has written the most definitive translation of the ‘F’ version. I bought a limited edition facsimile of The Book of Wonders many years ago annotated by Foucault. He’s done some work for me in the past. If anyone can help us with this manuscript, it’s him. Pack up your things, we’re going to Paris.”
46
With the press of a button, the massive white screen silently elevated, disappearing into the ceiling. The final slide from his presentation, the stylized logo of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France — BnF — lingered on the purple, velvet-clad wall. Dr. Bertrand Foucault slipped on his silver spectacles, positioned them low on the bridge of his nose, and inspected the illuminated control panel on the podium.
“Yoyons voir,” he muttered under his breath and randomly flipped a switch. Feedback screeched through the auditorium. “No…no.” The professor quickly toggled the switch back to its prior position and glanced into the darkness of the vast hall. He pressed a square neon blue button. The lights along the periphery of the auditorium dimmed and went out, plunging the room into complete darkness. He was greeted by mischievous whistles and clapping. “Parfait.”
“Professeur, pardon.”
Dr. Foucault was relieved to find his teaching assistant at the side of the podium. The student wordlessly leaned across the podium and proceeded to click a series of buttons with the confidence and effortlessness of a seasoned concert pianist. The lights of the auditorium grew brighter with a crescendo and the final slide disappeared from the wall.
“Merci, Thomas, merci.”
The teaching assistant merely nodded, having performed the same task numerous times before at Foucault’s lectures. He just wished the old man would finally learn how to use the system. He slung his bag over his shoulder and waved. “Au revoir, Professeur.”
Dr. Foucault gathered his papers and arranged them in a small pile before sliding them into a leather briefcase.
“Dr. Foucault. One more question.”
An American? The voice was familiar. Dr. Foucault looked up from his bag and scanned the interior of the room. He could see students filing out of the auditorium. As a group of laughing students squeezed through a row towards the aisle, he could see four individuals who remained seated in the back row of the auditorium. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the lights and attempted to make out the source of the plea.
“Oui, monsieur.”
“You said that the most influential Italian book of the fourteenth century was Dante’s Divine Comedy. What about Marco Polo’s Description of the World?”
Dr. Foucault allowed the corners of his mouth to curl ever so slightly upwards into a smirk.
“You, better than anyone, should realize that it was written in 1298. It loses by a technicality, I’m afraid, Dr. Clay. What brings you to the City of Lights?”
“You.”
47
Dr. Foucault hurriedly ushered the motley foursome into a small conference room down the hall from the Scalle Ovale. He suspiciously looked back down the corridor before pulling the door shut and locking it.
“This is all very unexpected, Redmund. Still looking for your white whale?”
“Until my last dying breath, Bertrand. It’s been a while. It has to be what… fifteen years? You’ve certainly moved up in the world since then. There are even rumors that you are on the short list for running this monstrosity, the Bibliothèque Nationale.”