The Alchemist's Gift

by Martin Rua

  Chapter 2

  Prague, the last days of spring, 9.30 p.m

  Sleep remained elusive. I’d returned to the hotel around nine and spent half an hour lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, consumed by my thoughts. From time to time I’d cast an eye at the blue bag on the table, but without having the courage to open it or even to touch it.

  Once the nausea had passed, I decided to change strategy and dedicate myself to one of my favourite activities, one that opened my mind like few others did – eating. I slipped under the shower and stood there for a couple of minutes. Afterwards, still clad in my dressing gown, I looked in the mirror and noticed that my brown eyes, which were not too large and generally had a look I liked to consider penetrating, were now veiled with worry. I attempted to stretch my fleshy lips and the dimpled chin my wife liked so much into a smile.

  “Come on, it might all be a joke. Freemasons like to have their fun too. You don’t exactly take yourself all that seriously, do you?”

  But no, the thought didn’t re-assure me. I dried my hair and got ready for dinner. Before heading down to the hotel restaurant I put the blue velvet bag in my pocket.

  For a good half hour I tried not to rack my brains for an explanation of what had happened. After all, it wasn’t the first time my studies had got me involved in unusual situations.

  “It's no use complaining,” Àrtemis would often say, “you’re in your element in your hermetic adventures. The problem is that they just keep on backfiring on you.”

  You couldn’t really blame her. In any case, I’d decided that when I was back in my room I’d open the bag and look at the contents.

  Once I’d finished dinner, I made my way to the bar. The bartender tore his eyes from the plasma television he was watching at the back of the elegant lounge with a silent query, and when I gestured that I didn’t want to order anything, he went back to the news. On the screen I saw a photo of someone I thought I recognised. I moved closer. It was Vladislav Hašek, alias Basile Cobalière. Not understanding the report, I asked the bartender what was going on.

  “That old man has been killed.”

  Hašek murdered – that was why he hadn’t come to the appointment! A shiver ran down the full length of my body.

  The affair had suddenly taken a dramatic turn. Bewildered and upset, I walked away, feeling the nausea returning. Eating had been a terrible idea.

  I got back to my room and sat on the bed, my face in my hands and my thoughts darting around like crazed swallows. What was going on? Were those thugs on the Charles Bridge Hašek’s murderers?

  I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket. I had to see what the bag contained.

  “Is it possible he was killed for this?”

  I opened it. Inside there was a glass vial and two yellowing sheets of paper folded over twice. The vial was completely black, which might mean that its contents were photophobic.

  I opened out the two sheets of paper and immediately saw what was on them: alchemical symbols and a text I couldn’t decipher. Judging from the writing and the type of paper, they might have been from the eighteenth century, perhaps torn from a book. As well as the symbols I recognised on the sheet with the encrypted text, there was a strange illustration on the second page.

  “A map?” I wondered.

  I had never seen anything like it. The document certainly deserved more detailed study, for if there was any chance that old Hašek had been killed for the bag’s contents, it had to be something of great importance and value. Which also meant that I was in grave danger.

  There it was again. The turmoil in my stomach returned with a vengeance and this time it caught me by surprise. I ran into the bathroom and liberated myself of my excellent dinner. I rinsed my face and, exhausted, threw myself on the bed, convinced that I would fall into a deep sleep.

  I opened my eyes, sweating and panting after little more than an hour, at around 11.30 p.m. The nausea had passed, but my thoughts had started to circle obsessively again, this time like sick crows.

  Now with no hope of getting back to sleep, I got up and tidied myself. Before leaving the room I checked my smartphone and saw that I had a new email. I opened it and noted, to my surprise, that it was signed ‘Basile Cobalière’. I swallowed heavily and began to read. It was written in English.

  Dearest Lorenzo,

  If you’re reading this message, it means that I haven’t de-activated the ‘send later’ function and it has arrived in your inbox. In other words, it means that I am dead or unable to get in touch with you in any other way.

  I’m sorry to have involved you in all this, and especially for not having being honest with you right at the start. You’re an alchemist and you know that prudence is our supreme virtue. And it’s prudence that I would urge upon you from now on.

  I’m writing this message shortly after we met at the shop. Someone is watching me, I’m sure, but I can’t call the police. They would think I was mad. What I can do, however, is get Riccardo to deliver the object I wanted to give you in person. Riccardo, who you’ll have met by now and who will have given you the bag, is a young man I trust, and I’m instructing him in the Sacred Art. Whatever happens, do not tell anyone, not even the police!

  You’ve never received the bag and I’ve never given it to you. It and its contents simply do not exist. Yet you must study and guard it, for it holds what is, in my opinion, a dangerous secret. If you’re reading these words, it probably means that the secret has already killed me. Trust no one but Riccardo.

  Good luck, Lorenzo, and may the Great Architect of the Universe protect you.

  Basile Cobalière

  I sat down heavily on the bed. The message seemed implausible but it made for a dramatic postscript to Hašek’s death. What should I do?

  My head was spinning, but I felt like I needed a strong drink. A vice from which I thought I’d freed myself. I returned to the bar. A few clients sat sipping drinks at the various tables. I walked up to the counter. The bartender, not at all surprised to see me again, silently asked me the same question. This time I said something I’d almost forgotten, a word I hadn’t spoken in at least ten years.

  “Absinthe, please.”

  Absinthe. The green fairy, as the belle époque poètes maudits had called it. Considered by well-meaning people as something drunk by the depraved, almost a poison, it had re-appeared on the market thanks to the efforts of some Swiss and French producers who had re-proposed several excellent original recipes. What you found in the shops was often a mere imitation of the real absinthe. Connoisseurs, however, knew where to get the real thing and, above all, how to recognise it at the first sip. I was such a connoisseur.

  “Right away, sir,” the man said in English, turning to the shelf of liqueurs. He took a bottle, but I stopped him.

  “No, absinthe, I said,” I insisted, emphasising the word.

  He had been about to serve me one of those bitter herbal drinks that they fobbed off on gullible tourists, full of colouring to make it an improbable psychedelic green.

  He indicated he’d understood. “Yes, I understand – absinthe.”

  Maybe he’d wanted to test me. Perhaps fate had wanted to give me the chance to avoid falling back into my old, not always healthy, habits. But my stubbornness had always outweighed my good sense.

  I put 150 coronas on the bar and indicated a bottle next to the one the barman had taken. It had a faded beige label which said Verte de Pontarlier and its contents were a beautiful moss green. I repeated: “Absinthe.”

  The bartender, now satisfied, replaced the paint stripper and took the bottle I’d indicated.

  I calmly enjoyed the ceremony that preceded the first sip. The bartender set before me a glass, a classic perforated spoon, a sugar cube, and a jug of iced water.

  My face burned as if I’d already drunk it. First of all I poured the absinthe, then balanced the spoon on top of the glass and placed the sugar cube in it. I added some cold water to the sugar and the resulting liquid
dripped into the liqueur, diluting its bitter taste and creating a cloudiness known as the louche.

  I glanced at the bartender who had followed the whole procedure, then drank. Ten years of my life disappeared in one fell swoop. The green fairy instantly transported me back in time. Memories came flooding back of nights spent in the small alchemical laboratory I’d set up at home; of attempts to purify my body and spirit in harmony with the transformation of matter, and overcome the pain caused by the loss of my teacher. The result of all this was that I lost myself in the depths of my weaknesses, with absinthe as my only companion. Night after night my body fell apart until the real angel of my life, Àrtemis, managed to drag me away from that never ending binge, where everything was a green, shapeless delirium.

  I returned to the present. I was there, in the bar, with an empty glass in front of me. Again. With a bartender who knew nothing about me yet seemed to know me. I gave in to my old vice.

  “Forgive me, Àrtemis.”

  I took out my wallet and handed him 1000 coronas.

  He didn’t move.

  I gave him another 400.

  At that point, the bartender took the money, wrapped several sugar lumps in a napkin and handed it to me together with the bottle.

  "Good night sir.”

  I nodded and walked away. Like in some gothic fairy tale, the evil that had been about to destroy me had been beaten by the green fairy.

  Chapter 3

  Prague, the last days of spring, midnight

  Once I’d got back to my room, I placed the bottle, spoon and sugar on the table, took off my jacket and prepared to study the notes from the bag. But the phone rang and I was forced into an immediate change of plan. It was more or less midnight.

  “Call for you, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mr Aragona? This is Inspector Lisáček of the Prague police murder squad. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

  The policeman spoke English with a strong Czech accent. His voice was flat, with no particular intonation.

  “No problem, Inspector, I wasn’t asleep yet. What’s happened?”

  “Would you mind joining me in the lobby? I’m here, at your hotel.”

  The day seemed as though it would never end and with each passing minute it became increasingly confusing. And grotesque. Now the police were involved – although given Hašek’s death, I couldn’t say I was all that surprised.

  I sighed to dispel the tension. “Give me two minutes.”

  I went down to the lobby, but not before I’d stashed the bag and its contents in the room’s safe. Hašek’s email had set my alarm bells ringing and it would be best not to ignore them.

  Two men were waiting in one of the hotel lounges. They were dressed in plain clothes, but you could tell they were policemen from a mile off. They were an extremely odd couple: one fat and bald, the other tall and thin, but both had a keen stare which immediately marked them out as acute observers.

  “Lorenzo Aragona,” I said, holding my hand out.

  “Inspector Lisáček,” said the thin one in English, before indicating his colleague, or rather his superior. “And this is Commissioner Bublan.”

  We sat on chairs around a small table.

  “Mr Aragona, at some point between this afternoon and this evening, two crimes were committed that I think concern you. Firstly, an exhibit was stolen from the alchemy exhibition which opened in town today. Secondly, and more seriously, someone was murdered,” Lisáček said in the same flat voice.

  “Was the exhibit one of those I’d lent the exhibition?”

  “No, it’s the so-called alchemical watch.”

  “Oh no!” I cried.

  “The reason we’re here, however, is the murder,” Lisáček continued, in a dramatic tone. “Around eight o’clock this evening, the owner of a shop selling esoteric curios near the castle was found dead.”

  I decided it was best to lay out my cards straightaway and tell the truth. Or at least some of it. “I saw the news on TV. It’s incredible. I’d met him just a few hours earlier.”

  Lisáček stared at me for a moment, then nodded. “The two crimes, the murder and theft, could be connected, but we’re here because a note containing your details and the name of your hotel was found in Vladislav Hašek’s shop. Also because Mr Folin, the exhibition’s curator, who’s already been informed of everything, said that you might be able to help us shed some light on this tragedy. Given your esoteric expertise. Tell us about your meeting with Hašek. Where were you around eight o’clock this evening?”

  I shook my head, confused. “I was on the Charles Bridge, waiting for Hašek. I met him this morning at the exhibition, immediately after the press conference. He told me to meet him at his shop this afternoon. I went there and we exchanged a few words about his collection of alchemical odds and ends. Then some customers arrived and we stopped. At that point, he told me to meet him on the bridge at 8 p.m, but he never came.”

  “Is that all?” asked Lisáček.

  “Yes, I’d say so.”

  “Why do you think Hašek wanted to meet you in his shop, and why did he arrange to meet you again a few hours later?”

  From the look on Lisáček’s face I realised he was sniffing for something – it was as if he could read my mind and wasn’t convinced of my version of events. I’d have to use all my talents as an actor to ensure I let nothing slip about the bag.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to meet me in his shop to show off his collection – he looked very proud of it – and he probably wanted to meet in the evening to continue our conversation about alchemy. He was a mysterious sort.”

  Lisáček nodded slightly, whilst continuing to stare at me. “Did you notice anything strange in the shop? Something that made you suspicious?”

  “Just a big mess, a lot of stuff, but there was little of any real interest.”

  “For example?”

  I had to give him something, otherwise he would catch on. He was digging around to try and trip me up. I shot a quick look at Commissioner Bublan who was sitting impassive and silent, his face difficult to read. However, I was in no doubt that he was carefully evaluating both my words and my behaviour.

  “I saw some minerals and tools that are used in alchemy, stuff of a certain value. I’d say that if you looked around that bazaar well enough, you’d unearth some interesting and valuable things.”

  “I understand,” Lisáček said, nodding slowly several times.

  Before the policeman could start again, I decided to counter. “Look, what is this? An interrogation? Am I under investigation?”

  Maintaining an icy calm, Lisáček shook his head. “No. You’ve no need to worry. You’re not under investigation. At least not yet.”

  “Right, because if I were, I’d like to contact the Italian consulate and get a lawyer.”

  “Don’t worry, there’s no need. Of course, if you had an alibi for the time of death…”

  “You said he was killed around eight o’clock, right?”

  “More or less yes. The shop closes at seven thirty, so Hašek was killed a few minutes before your appointment on the Charles Bridge. But it’s too early for any precise details.”

  I began to hesitate, because that was the time I’d been with Riccardo and those two shady characters had started chasing me to the fast food joint.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I was on the bridge at that time. Maybe someone saw me and could testify to it.”

  “We’ll see,” Lisáček said. “In the meantime, I’d like to take advantage of your help for just a little longer. If I’m not mistaken, you’re one of the exhibition organisers and an expert on alchemy?”

  “I’d hardly say an expert. I’m an antiquarian and enthusiast of the hermetic sciences.”

  “That’s right, and that’s why I’d like to ask you to come with us to Hašek’s shop, to show you the scene of the crime. Maybe you could spot something we missed, as Mr Folin suggested.”

 
I hesitated a second and then nodded. “No problem, let’s go then.”

  Chapter 4

  Prague, the last days of spring, 12.30 a.m

  In the car, Lisáček asked me what I knew about the alchemical watch and its owner, though it was clear he was less interested in that than the murder.

  “Until today I’d never seen it first-hand. It was something of a legend. Even the few available photos of it are poor quality. It’s said to have been made by the Prince of Sansevero, a famous eighteenth century alchemist who spent most of his life in Naples.”

  “This watch,” Lisáček continued, more interested now, as he drove through the streets of central Prague, still full of tourists, “seems to have special properties.”

  “Er, yes, very special indeed. This morning, before hundreds of people, it cleaned several iron bars of rust in a matter of seconds.”

  “So, basically it cleans oxidised metals?” Lisáček remarked, now curious as well as amused. “More or less what an eight per cent solution of stannous chloride would do, or an ultrasound machine,” he added.

  “Yes, but we’re talking about a device created in the eighteenth century and as far as I’m aware ultrasound devices weren’t invented until the twentieth century.”

  “Do you think the watch’s value exceeds it’s already high market price? Is its value linked to its properties?” Lisáček persisted.

  I thought for a moment. “After what we saw this morning, I’d have thought that was evident.”

  “And what can you tell me about the current owner?”

  It seemed that Lisáček was considering a connection between the two crimes committed that day.

  I decided to be sincere again, even if by doing so I risked compromising my position in the eyes of the police.

  “Not very much. Just that he’s a pretty unpleasant person. He comes from an aristocratic family, rich, but without the slightest hint of esoteric culture. He has no idea of the scientific value of the object he owns… or rather owned.”