The Alchemist's Gift

by Martin Rua

  “But the Voynich is almost certainly a fake, right?”

  “It was just a thought. And moreover, the symbols here are half-drawn, as if the author didn’t have time to complete them.”

  “Yes, like on the map, look. You can see the outline of letters near the second five-pointed star at the bottom.”

  I nodded, then frowned. Riccardo had given me a strange idea. I took a close look at both pages, inspecting them one after the other.

  “Symbols and incomplete letters on both… Had Hašek kept these sheets because he’d cracked the code?”

  I laid one page over the other and held them up to the light. What I saw made my eyes widen and brought a smile to my lips.

  “What’s up? What have you found?” Riccardo asked, astonished by the look on my face.

  I held the pages up in front of him, positioning them before the light of the lamp. As if by magic, the letters took shape, and Riccardo grinned. “Incredible…”

  “It seems that the text is just a decoy – that it doesn’t really mean anything at all. A fake, just like the Voynich. Don Raimondo simply wanted to hide the name of the place where the trail should begin.”

  Chapter 9

  Prague, the last days of spring, the dead of night

  “… So Ariadne is Arachne, the spider-woman who unravels her web through the labyrinth, thus enabling Theseus-Logos to find his way to the centre of the maze and subjugate the beast within us – the Minotaur.”

  Father Angelo Ravelli was giving one of his lessons on the symbolism of cathedrals. He had an unbridled passion for these great medieval temples and knew all their obscure secrets.

  “As you know, I don’t want to simply teach some straightforward lesson or impart empty notions. Rather, I want to guide you into the depths of the Holy Scriptures and direct you in the compelling study of the true meanings of symbols, parables, and characters. And nothing is more evocative, more charged with meaning and mystery than the labyrinth.”

  He turned and pointed to a photo he’d taken from an old book which served him as a document holder, archive, and folder. It showed a cathedral, an unmistakable example of French Gothic architecture.

  “This is one of the buildings I love most in the world, one of the most wonderful Gothic cathedrals in Christendom, an authentic summation of the architectural and symbolic knowledge of its age. Inside, set into the floor of the central nave, is a depiction of a giant labyrinth.”

  He took another sheet of paper and held it out towards the assembled students: it was a picture of a labyrinth, surrounded by notes written in a sinewy and in parts illegible cursive script.

  “Think how chaotic it must have been in there during the mass, with children getting lost in the turns of the labyrinth while their parents followed the priest’s words in the hope of ensuring their own small corner of heaven.”

  One of the students, completely engrossed in the drawing, was distracted, and the professor noticed.

  “Young man, you seem to be lost in the maze. Perhaps you need an Ariadne.”

  The laughter roused him.

  “Sorry, sir,” the lad replied, blushing. “Yes, it’s true, I was distracted. I was… thinking about the labyrinth.”

  “What about it?” Ravelli asked.

  “I was wondering… what’s at the centre?”

  He continued to follow the intricate path in his imagination, but every time he stopped at the same point: the centre.

  “Well,” the professor continued, “until 1789, there was a copper plaque in the middle, depicting Theseus slaying the Minotaur. We have written records from the time which confirm it. The Minotaur—” he said, turning to indicate the sketch he’d drawn on the board at the beginning of the lesson. “This clear reference to the myth of Theseus and Ariadne illustrates the importance the cathedral builders attached to the classical myths, which they obviously interpreted in terms of Christianity.”

  The student, by now even more curious, asked a second question.

  “And now? What’s in the centre of the labyrinth now?”

  Ravelli thought for a moment. “At the outbreak of the French Revolution every available piece of copper and bronze was melted down to make cannons and the like. The Minotaur suffered the same fate. These days, there’s—”

  *

  I awoke with a start, covered in sweat, murmuring “… the centre… what’s in the centre?”

  I remembered the interrupted dream perfectly and a slight smile came to my lips. Thanks to the events of a few hours earlier, I’d dreamed of a cathedral. But not just a cathedral.

  Father Ravelli… I remembered him. And I remembered that lesson too. The distracted student was me. It must have been at least thirty years ago! What was the cathedral my religious studies teacher was referring to?

  I couldn’t remember. It could have been Paris, Reims, Saint-Denis. I shook my head, I had no idea. I forgot about it immediately, however, as my stomach and head brought me back me to the harsh reality of my situation. The green fairy was fluttering around inside me, playing merry havoc with my gastric juices.

  I looked around. I was sitting in the armchair of my hotel room in Prague. Morning light had crept in through a gap in the curtains and picked out objects in the semi-darkness. I saw two figures lying on the bed where I should have been sleeping.

  “What the…?”

  Riccardo was sleeping next to Zuzia, who continued to snore undisturbed. I turned to look at the bottle of absinthe on the table and saw it was almost empty – the Sicilian and I must have really let ourselves go.

  “Oh God – if Àrtemis finds out about this she’ll never speak to me again.”

  I felt profoundly guilty. To get rid of that deeply unpleasant feeling I decided to get myself cleaned up. I’d wake the two ‘lovebirds’ later.

  Getting up proved more difficult than expected. My head was spinning and I was stiff from the awkward position I’d been sleeping in. I’d just managed a couple of steps towards the bathroom when the telephone rang.

  “What is this thing of calling every time I decide to have a shower, some kind of local custom?”

  Zuzia and Riccardo continued to sleep undisturbed. I looked at them in amazement as I rushed over to answer it.

  “Look at those two – it’s like they’re made for each other.”

  I lifted the receiver and responded quietly.

  “Hello.”

  “Mr Aragona, a phone call for you, it’s Inspector Lisáček.”

  “Thank you, put him on.”

  “Good morning, I hope I haven’t woken you.”

  “No, not at all, I was just about to have a shower.” I looked at my watch: ten o’clock. It had been courteous of Lisáček not to call earlier. “Is there any news?”

  “Unfortunately, not really. What about you?”

  As we talked I’d picked up the photos of the alchemical watch. I remembered that I’d studied them for a while with Riccardo before the absinthe had deadened my brain, though without discovering much. But something else occurred to me, an idea I’d had just before falling asleep and which might put Lisáček on the right track.

  “Maybe…”

  “Good. Listen, if you’ve got something to tell us, why don’t you stop by the police station? I’ll let Inspector Kominkova know. Shall we say in an hour? Your hotel isn’t very far away. That way, you might even be able to re-assure Baron Scotto di Fasano who’ll be here soon.”

  The day was starting badly. I really had no desire to see that revolting man, but it seemed I didn’t have much choice.

  “I’ll get ready and be with you in an hour.”

  I hung up and looked towards the bed. Riccardo and Zuzia had woken in the meantime, and were both staring at me as though awaiting an explanation. I raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  “Have we all slept well?”

  The two looked at other in embarrassment, then Riccardo stood up, not without a little difficulty, and adjusted his crumpled clothes. “Sorry, I must hav
e fallen asleep while we were talking. I don’t think I can hold my absinthe.”

  “Not if you drink half a bottle. That was Lisáček on the phone, I’ve got to go to the police station.”

  “Lorenzo, make sure you keep quiet about the bag.”

  “I don’t know how much longer I can keep it under wraps, Riccardo – not if it could help the authorities find Hašek’s killers.”

  The Sicilian shook his head. “The murderers’ identity isn’t in those pages, Lorenzo, nor in the vial – just their motive.”

  “They might still be useful, though, don’t you think?”

  “They’ll be more useful to us. We have knowledge that the police don’t.”

  “Hmm. Look, take care of the girl. Get her out of the hotel discreetly. I’ll see you in the lobby around lunchtime and we can review the situation then.”

  Riccardo looked Zuzia up and down, smiling mischievously. “Discreetly, you say? That’s going to be difficult.”

  *

  I jumped in a cab and gave the driver the address written on Lisáček’s business card. “Ve Smečkách ulice, please.”

  The man smirked and gave an amused nod.

  I shook my head in confusion. What was so funny? I didn’t have to wait long to find out. It was just over two kilometres from the hotel to the police station near Wenceslas Square. On arrival, the driver pointed out a number of buildings with flashy red signs and explicit exhortations: Strip Club, Sex Shows, Erotika, Girlz, Girlz, Girlz, and The Red Castle Club were just some of the names I noticed. I’d forgotten that in recent years the area behind Wenceslas Square, itself frequented by tourists and full of shops, had practically become Prague’s red light district. The police station where Lisáček worked was on the ground floor of a seedy looking building. On the floor above, just outside the station windows, a line of panties, bras and garters fluttered in the breeze.

  “Bloody hell…” I murmured, taking in the unusual sight.

  The taxi driver smiled. “Sex, yes, sir? Sex!” he said, pointing at me and then slapping his hand on his chest, as if to let me know that if I wanted he could procure me more ‘fun’ than was on offer around there.

  I shook my head, checked the meter and paid him what I owed him.

  “No sex – police!” I said, pointing at the police station.

  He raised his arms and took the money, embarrassed. “Oh, sorry sir, sorry.”

  I entered the building where a policeman sat silently behind a desk staring at me.

  “I have an appointment with Inspector Lisáček,” I said, “my name is Lorenzo Aragona.”

  The policeman dialled a number on the phone in front of him and muttered something.

  “ID?” he asked.

  I handed over my passport and got a visitor’s badge before being escorted to Lisáček’s office by another policeman.

  “Please, take a seat Mr Aragona,” the inspector said, his tired face showing the strain of his long night. “I hope you didn’t pay too much attention to the tenants on the floor above.”

  “I guess they’re sleeping now, but I saw their laundry hanging in the sunshine.”

  Lisáček smiled sarcastically. “It’s their way of having a laugh at our expense – they hang their washing out to provoke us. For the time being we’re making the best of a bad situation, but sooner or later we’ll have to do something.”

  “What can I say? Better a cheerful brothel than a vicious murder like the one you’re dealing with.”

  Lisáček nodded. “Indisputably.”

  At that moment the door opened and Andrea Kominkova entered with Scotto di Fasano, who was holding a steaming cup. His ugly face already had a blue-ish hue, but when he saw me he started going a deep Pompeian red.

  “Ah, you’re here,” he said. “Have you brought me my watch?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied, almost angrily.

  Lisáček invited us both to speak English, although Scotto di Fasano could barely speak his own native tongue and I assumed that Kominkova had been interpreting for him until I arrived.

  Irritated, I looked at Lisáček and Kominkova. “If the baron thinks I’ve stolen his watch, we can put an end to this right now. I certainly didn’t come here to be insulted.”

  “Please try to understand, the baron is in shock,” said Andrea, in a conciliatory tone.

  Scotto di Fasano took a sip of the coffee he had in his paper cup and grimaced in disgust. “I might be in shock, but Mr Aragona is the prime suspect in the theft of my watch. He’s been wanting to get his hands on it for years.”

  “You over-estimate me, Baron, for as fortunate as I might consider myself to be in economic terms, I would never spend a fortune to buy your precious watch.”

  “Exactly – that's why you stole it!” said the baron, turning even redder and slipping into Neapolitan dialect.

  “That’s enough, Baron. I’d like to hear what Mr Aragona has discovered,” said Lisáček, silencing my unbearable compatriot.

  I returned Scotto di Fasano’s glare for another instant and then pulled out the photos I’d studied in the hotel as well as several images I’d downloaded from the internet and printed in the lobby. As I’d been having a quick breakfast before taking the taxi to the police station, I’d examined the watch’s details to clear up any last-minute uncertainties. Symbols skilfully engraved on the edge of the casing but virtually hidden in the decoration had confirmed some of my suspicions, though they hadn’t satisfied all of my doubts.

  The two policemen and the baron leaned over to see what I’d discovered.

  “So, gentlemen, we all know this watch is a unique piece; no others like it were made in the eighteenth century. The mechanism, from what I could tell from the photos, is highly complex and completely different to those normally used in watches of that era. We don’t know if it was the prince himself who made it, or if, as is more likely, he was helped by a master watchmaker working to his designs. The watch is a rare piece, not only because of its inexplicable anti-rusting effect, but also because it contains a music box. There are very few eighteenth century pocket watches in the world that can play a tune. The extraordinary automata that start to move when you set a specific time – nine minutes to twelve – are surrounded by exquisite decoration. And it was whilst studying the details of the case’s decoration that something suddenly came to me.”

  Scotto di Fasano gave a contemptuous little laugh and without giving me time to explain, said, “Mr Aragona, I’ve had the watch for years and I’ve studied it thoroughly. Now you want me to believe that in just a few hours you’ve discovered something new, simply by studying some photographs. Do me a favour!”

  I kept calm and continued. “You say you’ve studied it closely, so you’ll have noticed what’s hidden in the tangle of branches and tiny leaves on the edge of the case. Something that could be linked to the scene around Hašek’s body.”

  At the sight of the curiosity which crept into Scotto di Fassano’s expression my mood lifted a little, and I allowed myself a poetic thought: “Cretin”.

  “Well, from your expression I take it you’ve never noticed the symbols so cleverly hidden in the design by whoever engraved the case. Inspector, do you have a magnifying glass?”

  Lisáček opened a drawer and pulled out a large lens. He handed it to Scotto di Fasano and I invited him to look carefully at the points I had indicated.

  “Good lord, it’s true,” the idiot said after a while.

  Lisáček took the lens, looked at the photo and then passed it on to Kominkova. A lock of long hair fell from her forehead and covered her face as she examined the image. When she raised her eyes again, they were full of wonder. “They look like Egyptian symbols. Do they mean something?”

  I nodded. “I think this is the connection with Hašek’s murder.”

  Scotto di Fasano continued to shake his head. “How is it possible that I’ve never noticed them?”

  I looked at him, amused. “Don’t
take it to heart, Baron, it takes a trained eye and experience,” I said in a mocking tone. “I’ve studied hundreds of manuscripts, books and ancient objects, many connected to esotericism. I’ve sold many such pieces in my modest art gallery as well as eighteenth century objects decorated in complex and bizarre ways. The first thing I look for in a piece like this is some sort of hidden message. And if the object in question was possibly made by Raimondo di Sangro, well…”

  I left the sentence hanging in the air and showed them the other photos I’d found on the internet. In one you could see an alabaster statue from the museum in Cairo depicting a pharaoh sitting on a throne.

  “Remind you of anything?” I asked, after a few seconds.

  “It looks like the position we found Hašek’s body in,” Lisáček remarked.

  “Right,” I agreed, then I gave them the other photo. “And what about this one?”

  The second picture showed a Roman statue of Isis. It had all the usual features, such as a sistrum and a jar containing Nile water, but there was one detail that had immediately made me suspicious.

  “I don’t understand,” said Lisáček, continuing to look at the photo.

  I pointed at the statue’s chest. “The knot, Inspector, the Isis knot. Why would the murderers have tied a piece of cloth around the corpse’s chest? For the same reason they positioned him on the chair like a pharaoh having first inflicted fourteen cuts and cut off his genitals.”

  Lisáček and Kominkova looked at me, waiting for me to conclude.

  “According to Egyptian mythology, the god Osiris, Isis’ husband, was cut to pieces by his brother Seth. Fourteen pieces, to be exact,” I continued. “The pieces were scattered to the four corners of Egypt but Isis went to get them so she could put her husband’s body back together. She recovered all of them but the genital organs. Maybe the killers are fanatical followers of some mad Egyptian cult, or want us to think they are. We don’t know. Nor do we know what all this has to do with the alchemical watch, which contains an ankh, which is to say an Egyptian cross, as well as a small bird, and a design representing two horns enclosing a sun, Isis’ typical headdress. For now it remains a mystery, but it would appear that the two events, the murder and theft, have this Egyptian symbolism in common. Perhaps the murderer and the thief are the same person.”