The Alchemist's Gift

by Martin Rua

  A chorus of gasps had arisen from the audience, followed by applause.

  “Incredible, absolutely incredible,” an amazed Pierluigi Folin had commented beside me.

  My mood darkened, and it was immediately clear why the watch had never been exhibited and its power never demonstrated. There was always someone ready to pull a gun out to get their hands on an object like that.

  Oddly, the owner, Baron Scotto di Fasano, had cast his prudence aside and revealed his treasure to the world. I’d turned to look at him. Sitting in the front row, his appearance was truly disturbing – a deformed, stooped freak of nature. The expression on his face, as irregular as a Picasso portrait, had been one of smug triumph.

  *

  At the end of the demonstration I had gone over to greet him as a simple courtesy.

  “Baron. Finally we get to see your incredible treasure.”

  Scotto di Fasano had noticed the ironic tone I had used in pronouncing the word ‘your’. He had smiled, and his unpleasant face had become even more misshapen. “Mr Aragona, I know this object would make a collector like you very happy. Which is precisely why I so rarely show it. To shield it from the greed of unscrupulous people.”

  Our dislike was mutual and neither of us hid it, but we put on a show of cordiality.

  “In fact, I’m amazed that you did agree to show it.”

  He had held up his hands. “This is the most important exhibition on alchemy ever organised, one to which you have made a great contribution, they tell me. But without the alchemic watch it would have just been an event like many others. A waste of time. I also had plenty of guarantees that the exhibits would be safe. The American company in question is one of the best in the world – we’re not talking about a little Neapolitan antique shop here. They’re used to dealing in millions of dollars. And now excuse me, I’m having lunch with the mayor of Prague. Please enjoy the watch. While you can…”

  He had walked away, stumbling on his twisted legs, accompanied by Stefano de Lucia, his inseparable assistant.

  “You bastard…” I’d muttered to myself through gritted teeth.

  As I had been leaving the conference hall, still immersed in my thoughts, Pierluigi Folin had approached me. With him were two men, one odd looking and quite old, the other young and handsome with short hair and a thin moustache.

  “Mr Aragona, before you go, I’d like to present another valuable contributor to the exhibition. Mr Vladislav Hašek, an alchemy aficionado like yourself.”

  “May I have the honour of shaking hands with the great Lorenzo Aragona?” the old man had said in decent Italian but with a marked eastern European accent. His receding hairline, high forehead, neck-length white hair and thick beard gave him a cordial air.

  “But of course! The honour is all mine.”

  “You are an important antiquarian and… expert, I’m only the owner of a small alchemy shop in Malá Strana.” The old man stopped a moment and indicated his companion. “This is Riccardo Micali, the owner of a large homeopathic medicine company. He has lived in Prague for many years and is… a great student of esotericism. He’s my Italian teacher.”

  “Vladislav is always too kind, I’m just his faithful pupil,” said Riccardo modestly, with an obvious Sicilian accent.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I had replied, holding out my hand and receiving a rather telling handshake. I’d raised an eyebrow and he had given a hint of a smile. A brother. The acacia badge pinned to my jacket must have been a fairly clear sign and Riccardo had immediately taken the opportunity to reveal himself.

  “Would you do me the honour of coming to my shop this afternoon?” Hašek had resumed, ignoring the quick exchange of glances between the Sicilian and I. “I have something very interesting for you.”

  “Really? What sort of thing?”

  “Well come – come and find out.”

  “Go and see Hašek, Mr Aragona, you’ll find it very worthwhile, I can assure you,” Folin had added.

  I had looked at the strange man and his masonic student for a few seconds, then, with a smile, nodded. “Fine. What’s your shop called and where, precisely, is it?”

  “Exit Pražský Hrad and go straight as far as Pohořelec. It’s some way from the shops selling trinkets to the tourists. You’ll find it easily enough, Mr Aragona, even without knowing its name.”

  Leaving me with that enigmatic phrase, he had left, accompanied by Riccardo Micali. One of those things that pricked my damned sixth sense.

  *

  Needless to say I had gone to the appointment and had actually managed to find his shop. By following my instinct.

  “Dobrý vecer!” he had greeted me, as I’d entered his dusty, eccentric world.

  “Dobrý vecer,” I’d replied.

  As is often the case in these sort of shops, it was overflowing with disorderly piles of stuff: chipped cups, masks, amulets and funny figurines, pipettes, stills, small tanks and containers with coloured powders. It was a veritable bazaar, full of pseudo alchemical objects for tourists. However, the one object I found myself continually drawn to was a small bowl containing several metal fragments. Their silver-black reflections were unmistakeable and I read the name on the label just for confirmation: stibium. What was antimony sulphide doing so readily to hand in the shop?

  “Welcome to my humble shop, Zlatá Ratolest, The Golden Bough!” said old Hašek upon seeing me enter.

  I had stared at him for a few seconds. His deep eyes were cheerful and full of life, but they revealed a look that penetrated beyond the surface. The look of a wise man. Even though the thinning white hair which fell from the sides of his head to his neck and his aquiline nose gave him the appearance of a plucked owl.

  “Fascinating, my modest collection of tools and minerals, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “It certainly is…” I’d said, again raising the bowl containing the stibnite. “I wouldn’t have expected to find something of use to real artists amongst all these coloured powders for tourists.”

  “And yet you found it straightaway, just as you found the shop!”

  “A question of habit, pan Hašek,” I’d replied, as I set the small container down. “Why did you want to see me?”

  “I saw how you watched the experiment with the alchemical watch this morning. Everyone was amazed, but you were worried.”

  “That thing is dangerous.”

  The old owl had suddenly grown serious and continued to watch me as though he was searching the depths of my eyes for confirmation of an innermost thought. “Oh, very, very dangerous. I respect you, Mr Aragona, which is why I want to meet you again, this evening after I’ve closed the shop. At eight o’clock on the Charles Bridge, yes? In front of the statue of Jan Nepomucký who – ah, dear God – I strongly advise you not to imitate!” he had said, smiling again and winking at me.

  I had smiled too. Jan Nepomucký, or Giovanni Nepomuceno in Italian, was one of the most famous martyrs in Czech history, the confessor of the queen of Bohemia. King Wenceslas IV, a cruel and corrupt monarch, was jealous of his wife and ordered Jan to give up the secrets of the confessional. The priest firmly resisted the king’s harassment and repeated death threats, until Wenceslas finally ordered him to be executed and his body to be thrown into the Vltava.

  The old man had stared at me for an instant with his expressive, insightful eyes. “A sad story. Tragic, like many that bridges have to tell…” he’d continued in a low, lyrical voice. I glanced through the shop window: the square was quiet and far from the cameras recording the changing of the guard at the castle entrance.

  “Why at eight and not now?” I’d finally asked, turning to look at Hašek.

  “I'm going to give you something very precious,” he’d responded, “something I haven’t got here.”

  “Why me, if it’s something so precious?”

  Hašek became melancholic. “I owe it to an old friend. And besides you are the right person.”

  At that moment some customers had entered, p
utting an end to our discussion. Before dismissing me, the old man had re-iterated.

  “Eight o'clock, Mr Aragona – eight o’clock.”

  I had glanced at him and before nodding goodbye I couldn’t help but ask one last question. “Now can you tell me, how were you so sure I’d find the shop? There are several here in the square.”

  “The shop sign, you couldn’t have missed it. Sbohem. Go with God.”

  As soon as I’d left the shop I turned around, sure that I hadn’t noticed anything a few minutes earlier. But I was wrong. On both sides of a sign that read ‘Zlatá Ratolest’ were two entwined branches that must once have been golden. Both were now small and discoloured, but under them were two more familiar symbols: mercury and sulphur.

  It had brought a smile to my lips.

  After I’d left Hašek’s shop, I’d wandered around a bit, doing some shopping like a good tourist in the Golden Lane, where tradition holds that many alchemists once lived, and then headed towards the Charles Bridge, reaching the meeting place a few minutes early. Even now, I still am not certain why I went. Certainly curiosity played a part: I was dying to know what this precious thing Hašek wanted to give me was. In truth, his mysterious speech that afternoon had disturbed me somewhat, and I’d told myself that I couldn’t abandon the old man until he’d explained everything.

  *

  And now, there I was, under the statue of Jan Nepomucký. The plaque on the pedestal shone with a dazzling gold colour, worn down by the constant caresses of passers-by. In fact, it’s said that anyone who wants to return to Prague should perform this ritual, and so I did it too, even though there was no need: returning to the Bohemian city was a regular and incalculable pleasure for me, in spite of the increasing number of noisy tourists.

  As soon as I leaned on the railing, I felt a presence to my right. Someone with a slightly agitated air had stopped to look at the river, which was getting darker and darker as night fell.

  “It’s a truly beautiful city, isn’t it?”

  I looked at the man standing next to me and was surprised, but not overly so, to find the Sicilian I’d met a few hours earlier.

  “Touchingly beautiful, I’d say… brother.”

  “Right.”

  The young man quickly turned his eyes to me, warily looked right and left, then held out his right hand. I returned the greeting and confirmed that I hadn’t been mistaken: he was a freemason.

  “Hašek sent me,” he said, skipping the usual pleasantries.

  “Oh, where is he?”

  “Vladislav had an accident, he… couldn’t come,” Riccardo Micali said enigmatically, as he continued to look around nervously. I tried to follow his gaze but he squeezed my arm hard.

  “Don’t turn round. Someone might be watching us.”

  I went back to staring at the river, astounded by this latest turn of events. My passion for alchemy and interest in the hermetic sciences had often put me in situations which weren’t exactly ordinary, but today was setting new records for strange experiences. Who the hell was this man who’d revealed himself a fellow mason and seemed to be running away from something, or someone?

  “Who would be spying on us?”

  “I don’t know, but Hašek warned me.”

  “Who is Hašek anyway?”

  Riccardo turned to look at the Vltava. “He’s a great initiate, Lorenzo. In the small circle of modern alchemists his symbolic name is legendary.”

  “Well, I should know it, then,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. You know him as Basile Cobalière.”

  “What…?”

  I was about to turn round to face him, but again he stopped me.

  “Don’t turn round.”

  I snorted nervously. I’d begun to have enough of this game.

  “You mean, Hašek is Basile Cobalière? The legendary Prague alchemist? He’s always given extremely illuminating advice on the Alquimia internet forum, the one reserved for initiates. No one has ever known who was behind the pseudonym, so how do you know?”

  “Having a pharmaceutical company specializing in homeopathy has naturally brought me into contact with the world of spagyrics and alchemy, but most of what I know about these two subjects I owe to him. Anyway, shortly after you left the shop this afternoon, he called me. He was scared. Someone had threatened him. He told me that it would be too dangerous for him to meet you so he asked me to stop by his house to get this and then to give it to you.”

  He slipped a blue velvet bag about the size of a fist onto the parapet. I took it discreetly, without lifting my gaze from the river.

  “What is it? When I met him in the shop he said something about owing a friend a favour.”

  “He just told me to tell you that this is what you need, that you should be careful how you use it, and to watch out for people who will do anything to get it.”

  He paused, turned round again, then stood watching the bridge. With his regular, clean-shaven face, thin moustache, and short dark hair combed into a side parting, he reminded me of one of those Italian actors of the 1950s and 60s who broke so many hearts with their Latin lover looks.

  “Now it would be best to…” he resumed after a few seconds before suddenly stopping. Something had caught his attention. “… they’ve found us!” he cried in terror, slurring his words and revealing his strong Sicilian accent.

  “Who?” I asked, scared, as I prepared to turn.

  “Don’t look around,” Riccardo hissed. “Pretend you haven’t noticed anything, maybe we can fool them. Go back to Malá Strana, but stay away from Hašek’s shop, please. Good luck and may the Great Architect protect you.”

  He walked away, hurriedly disappearing into the crowd as I remained paralysed with fear. Trembling, I put the small bag in my jacket pocket and mechanically walked back in the direction I’d come from. In the uncertain glow of the street lights, which had now been on for some time as the evening drew in, I sensed two people hurrying towards me from Staré Mĕsto, the Old Town. They might just have been two tourists, two of the many people who still crowded the Charles Bridge, but I decided to leave and moved swiftly over to the other side of the river, to Malá Strana.

  Walking quickly, but without running, I tried to slip between the passers-by, touching the bag in my pocket every so often. Suddenly, the impulse to look round got the better of me. There could be no doubt now. The two men were staring fixedly at me, and their appearance did little to re-assure me: square shoulders, cheap, dark suits, and very short hair. The type Quentin Tarantino would cast to play Balkan gangsters.

  I accelerated, forcing myself not to turn around and look again, but as I walked – and by now I was really scared – I thought I heard my pursuers’ footsteps close behind me. I quickly crossed to the watchtower on the Malá Strana side of the bridge, and went into a fast food joint which, given the pleasant weather, had outdoor seating in a delightful courtyard. Panicking, I slipped into the building and began to rush between the tables packed with youngsters. A few moments later, the two men appeared at the entrance to the courtyard – they seemed to have no intention of letting me escape. It seemed unlikely they’d attack me there, but that didn’t mean I was safe. In fact, I was trapped as the two men, who continued to keep their eyes glued to me, positioned themselves at the entrance like two guard dogs. I could have punched myself. Despite the trouble I’d often found myself in, evading pursuers was not exactly my forte.

  By now resigned to capture, I was returning to the entrance, desperate but determined to finish this thing one way or the other, when fortune decided to lend me a helping hand. I saw a school party of about fifteen raucous Italian teenagers, plus their teacher and a guitar, preparing to leave the place after their dinner. This gave me an idea. I went up to a boy, put my arm around the surprised youngster’s shoulder, and shouted: “Come on kids, let’s sing…”

  They looked at me, unsure for a moment, as I, overcoming my embarrassment, began to sing a song by Ligabue. The fast food customers, amused and ir
ritated in equal measure, looked on as the noisy Italians left the eatery singing at the top of their voices. I positioned myself in the middle of the group and held onto two students, both twenty centimetres taller than me, as I sang along with them. This sortie disrupted the plans of my pursuers who, in a vain attempt to grab me, rushed into the youngsters surrounding me. Bad idea.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” I said to the two men.

  The youngsters scowled at them, and their adrenaline levels began to rise. The two pursuers suddenly found themselves up against a pack of hunting dogs, and what followed was a real and proper brawl. The teacher tried to calm her pupils, while the two men tried to defend themselves. The fracas covered my escape.

  I gave silent thanks to my inadvertent accomplices and doubled back towards the Charles Bridge.

  My relief at having escaped didn’t last long, though. As I moved briskly through the streets of the Old City, I felt despair begin to seep into my soul like a dense, black mist. I felt it spread from my stomach, and the further I went the more it took hold, gaining form and strength until it reached my throat and made me gag. I leant against the side of a building, rubbed my stomach and breathed deeply to suppress the nausea. Gradually, I managed to calm down a bit and soon I was able to resume walking.

  I reached the Prašná Brána, the Powder Tower, turned left and slipped into my hotel. The concierge saw the agitation on my face and, handing me my key, thoughtfully asked if I was well.

  “Fine, thanks,” I answered briefly.

  Before going up to my room, I asked him if there were any messages for me.

  “No, sir, nothing.”

  Just as well. After all, the only person I would have been pleased to hear from, my wife Àrtemis, had called that morning before the conference. And I really didn’t want to involve her in another of my crazy adventures.

  My mind was racked with doubts and questions as I took the lift, but I was sure of one thing – that all I wanted to do was throw myself onto a bed and sleep for several hours.