The Alchemist's Gift

by Martin Rua

  The Interpol inspector had an irritated expression on her face as she approached our table. “Lorenzo, what happened? We can’t leave you alone for a minute.”

  “Please, Andrea, sit down, I’ll explain everything.”

  I told her how, the night before, the girl had asked for our help and how we had only just escaped from her pimp. Andrea repeatedly shook her head, then asked Zuzia something in Czech and the girl began to cry. It was only after a couple of hugs from Andrea that she managed to calm down. I’d never seen such a sweet, understanding police officer. Not even my friend Oscar Franchi, the Police Commissioner in Naples, was as affable as Andrea.

  “Zuzana will stay at the home of a colleague of mine who helps girls with similar problems. Given the situation, all the extenuating circumstances will be taken into consideration, rest assured,” Andrea said, continuing to comfort the girl. Then her eyes hardened and she turned to Riccardo, “But you, Mr Micali, will do me the courtesy of going to the police station and making a statement about the Hašek murder. If he was a friend of yours, it could greatly help Commissioner Bublan and Inspector Lisáček to find a trail.”

  Riccardo would have preferred not to be involved, but that was impossible. His behaviour struck me as strange, though. Hašek was his friend, his teacher – why not help the police? I suspected that the Sicilian was afraid of exposing himself, troubled by what had happened and by what he knew: the threats faced by the old alchemist, the theft and then the murder. We had a heated discussion before Andrea arrived and in the end I had convinced him to co-operate. The only thing that I promised him, for the moment, was to not say anything about the contents of the bag. Once again I was regretting my decision.

  “Keep me posted on what you find out, Lorenzo,” he said with a wistful look, hugging me before we parted. “If Hašek preferred to entrust the bag to you instead of me he must have known what he was doing, but I would like to know the secret that maybe killed him.”

  I seemed to sense a twinge of jealousy in his voice, but perhaps it was just an illusion. “Don’t worry, I will. Join me in Naples soon as you can.”

  Before going to the airport, Andrea and I met Vinnie Maglione, who had come to my hotel to say goodbye. He looked dejected and after listening to the story of the letter delivered to my wife he grew even more so.

  “How long do you think you’ll stay in Prague, Vinnie?” I asked, as we sipped coffee at the Grand Hotel Bar. Maglione sighed.

  “The exhibition is open, my co-workers are here to support the Czechs and Italians and there isn’t much for me to do here. But given what’s happened I’ll stay on to follow the developments of the investigation. I hope there’s some news about the alchemical watch. I’m really sorry that you were involved, but… who knows, this letter might actually shed some light on the theft. I mean, maybe the mafia’s behind all this. In any case, it’s been a real bit of bad luck for me.”

  I laid a friendly hand on his shoulder to try to comfort him, and Andrea Kominkova, in her kind way, did the same.

  “Don’t despair – Bublan and Lisáček are both smart,” she said. “They are doing their best and I will too.”

  “Why don’t you visit Naples before returning to the States?” I asked, before we said farewell. “I’ll show you my lab and my collection of alchemical instruments. You’ll like them, and maybe the Quantum Spagyria might be interested in me getting involved in some other initiative.”

  The American nodded and smiled. “Trying to cheer me up with a business proposal?”

  “You’re American, Mr Maglione – you’re more of a doer than we lazy Italians.”

  Maglione smiled again. “Thanks for the invitation, I’ll think about it.”

  We finished our coffee in silence, then said goodbye and Andrea and I got ready to board the taxi that would take us to the airport. As we waited, I received a phone call from Carlo Sangiacomo, who I had asked to pick up the mysterious letter signed IPSI from my house.

  “Hello Carlo. So, what’s new?”

  “Well, maybe you were worrying over nothing, Lorenzo. Inside the envelope there are two tickets for the premiere of The Magic Flute this weekend at the San Carlo and then there’s an invitation, again for two people, to a gala dinner to be held immediately afterwards at the Real Philharmonic Club in the Palazzo Reale.”

  “Ah. And who’s the invitation from?”

  “I don’t know, there’s no message inside the envelope. I have the impression that you’ll have to go there to find that out.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Thanks anyway.”

  “You’re welcome, don’t mention it. Take care and have a good flight.”

  Chapter 13

  Naples, the last days of spring, 21:15

  We arrived right on time. During the flight I had decided to reveal to Andrea why Hašek had wanted to meet me. Obviously, she hadn’t taken it well.

  “That might be the motive for the murder, Lorenzo, didn’t you realise that? You’ve hidden evidence from the police. This is serious.”

  “I know, Andrea. It was wrong of me, but… I was just overwhelmed by everything that happened in those twenty-four hours.”

  Andrea shook her head and frowned. “I must inform Lisáček of this – it’s possible that the murder wasn’t just some robbery that went wrong with art traffickers trying to get Hašek’s manuscript and him refusing to give it to them.”

  “Please, be discreet in the report that you give Lisáček. Riccardo acted with the best intentions. It’s not simply a precious manuscript – there is something hidden in those pages…”

  The policewoman sighed. “Lorenzo, I believe you and you seem like an honest person, but I have to put Lisáček in a position to be able to follow the right trail. I’ll do my best, but try to co-operate, don’t keep anything else from us.”

  Before leaving I had told Àrtemis not to worry about picking us up, I’d get a taxi. Predictably, she hadn’t listened to me: jealous as she was, I was sure she wanted to get a look at the Interpol inspector. And there was another surprise waiting for us at the airport.

  “Alex!”

  Alessandro Aragona, or Alex as he we called him. My brother. A bachelor and hopeless womaniser who, when he wasn’t travelling around the world for work, lived in a sixteenth-century villa in Tuscany. Together with a couple of friends, he had started a company called ArtAround which organised events, and in the space of a few years it had gone international. Their motto was: If we didn’t organise the event, it’s not an event.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, hugging him. I hadn’t seen him for months.

  “Taking you home so you won’t get into any more trouble – I can never be sure with you.”

  Typical of Alex to respond in this way – he was able to bring me back down to earth in a matter of seconds without even trying. As I should have expected, a moment later his attention was drawn to Andrea, upon whom he was evidently preparing to unleash his entire Latin lover repertoire.

  “Well, well, well, what have we here…?” he said, eyeing her up and down and offering his hand.

  The girl nipped his advances in the bud and, speaking Italian with an eastern European accent, accompanied by her usual friendly smile, said, “Inspector Andrea Kominkova, Interpol.”

  Alex immediately calmed down and gave her a warm handshake. “Erm, welcome to Naples… Inspector. I’m Alex Aragona and if you need anything – anything at all – I am at your disposal.”

  She squeezed his hand in return and her smile broadened – she was clearly amused by Alex and his attempt to charm her. She let her hair fall across her forehead, mesmerising my brother, and said, “You can call me Andrea.”

  “Don’t take any notice of my brother, Andrea,” I said, nudging Alex. “He can go a bit over the top, but he’s nice. Too nice, sometimes.”

  My wife came forward to introduce herself. Her cascade of black curls I adored so swayed on her shoulders. “Àrtemis Nicopolidis Aragona, very pleased to meet you, Inspec
tor,” she said, holding out her hand to Andrea and smiling.

  “The pleasure is mine, Àrtemis. Your husband has told me about your fascinating studies,” said Andrea.

  Àrtemis raised her eyebrows and sighed. “Fascinating but almost useless. It seems that the language and culture of those who lived thousands of years ago is of interest to only a few people nowadays. Wikipedia is all you need to fill a brain nowadays, apparently.”

  After we had concluded the pleasantries we got into the car and, with Alex at the wheel, set off for home. I proceeded to book a room for Andrea in a bed & breakfast near my house, the guest room at Palazzo Aragona being already occupied by my in-laws. While we were on the freeway, I brought my wife and my brother up to date on all that had happened in the last thirty-six hours.

  “I can’t believe it,” cried Àrtemis, as soon as I had finished, “and all in one day! You’re incorrigible, Lorenzo! You’d better stop going away – every time you do, something happens.”

  “Your wife is right, you should take it easy for a while,” Alex interjected. “You attract bad luck.”

  “It would be pointless – you know that trouble would follow me right to my own doorstep.”

  Àrtemis was sitting in the back seat next to Andrea. I lowered the sun visor, flicked open the mirror and gave her a quick look. I saw her black curls swinging nervously as she shook her head. My sweet, combative Àrtemis: a brilliant teacher of languages and ancient Greek literature at the University Federico II, she had always been the rational one, and yet when, in the past, she’d had to follow me on some absurd treasure hunt, she’d never held me back. I trembled at the very idea of losing her. Not long before, the most awful of diseases had threatened to take her from me, and for an instant my mind went back to those dark days and my heart sank. It was only thanks to a medical genius that I had managed to save her, and from that day on every time something even slightly dangerous happened I felt compelled to protect her.

  “Anyway,” I continued, interrupting the flow of memories, “Andrea should get in touch with her Neapolitan colleagues. Tomorrow morning I will accompany her to police headquarters… And by the way, Andrea, have they told you who you’ll be working with here in Naples?”

  The girl nodded. “Yes – Interpol HQ in Rome has put me in touch with Commissioner Franchi and his team.”

  I turned round, looked at Àrtemis and smiled. Andrea and I had not yet discussed that detail and it was a pleasant surprise for me to hear his name.

  “Oscar Franchi?” I asked, smiling at her.

  Andrea cocked her head to one side, amazed, looking first at Àrtemis then at me. “Yep. Do you know him?”

  I turned back to watch the road. The bulk of Castel Sant’Elmo appeared on our left. We were almost home.

  “Well enough, Andrea. Well enough.”

  Chapter 14

  Naples, the last days of spring, 09:30

  The next morning we went to the police station where, after chatting briefly to the assistant chief, we met Oscar. My friend hugged me warmly then shook Andrea’s hand, accompanying the gesture with a smile, and we went into the office that he had placed at our disposal. It was already quite warm in Naples, and a lovely summer seemed to be on the way. We opened the windows and after a few minutes, during which Andrea summarized her extensive professional curriculum, we got down to business and explained what had happened in Prague just two days before.

  “I’ll refrain from commenting, as I generally do, on the events involving my friend here, dear Andrea. If I know Àrtemis, she will already have told him not to leave the house for a while. Maybe I should confiscate his passport too…” muttered Oscar, after listening to our account of events. He smiled at his sarcasm, though I was beginning to feel worried. If everyone thought that I was a magnet for bad luck, maybe I was.

  “All right,” I said, “now that you’ve had your fun, what do you think we should do?”

  Oscar moved the tuft of white hair from his forehead, a gesture he always made when he was nervous or trying to focus, pulled out a notebook and began drawing a diagram with arrows which linked various aspects of the story, commenting as he did so on the information at our disposal.

  “So, we have the theft of a rare watch with Egyptian symbols engraved on it created by a person of the immense renown of the Prince of Sansevero, which leads to the murder of a Prague shopkeeper. Then we have a message written in the victim’s blood on the wall of his shop – the same one as that printed on the envelope that was sent to you. Have I missed anything? Ah, yes, on the corpse there were fourteen stab wounds, and you, Lorenzo, think that is a reference to the myth of Osiris, dismembered by his brother Seth.”

  Oscar stood for a few seconds looking at his diagram.

  “Let’s forget the watch for now, we don’t know if the theft and murder are connected,” he continued. “The most disturbing thing is that the murder and the envelope which contained the theatre tickets, in addition to the acronym, also share a symbol resembling an Egyptian god or something similar. It seems to me that there’s no doubt about it – the murderers are inviting you to go to the theatre.”

  “I agree,” said Andrea. “I’d thought of a sect of kemetists or something like that, trafficking in works of art, who lost their heads and killed Hašek.”

  “Kemetists…” mused Oscar, “I’m not really an expert in the field – it’s a neo-pagan religion, right?"

  “Exactly. To my knowledge, they never commit crimes, though.”

  “I’m not saying that they’re criminals,” clarified Andrea, “but it’s possible that one of them went rogue and instead of addressing his prayers to Isis addressed his knife to Vladislav Hašek’s throat.”

  Oscar thought for a moment, then put his notebook down on the table and rubbed his eyes. “All right, it seems to me that Lorenzo should go to the premiere of The Magic Flute at the Royal Philharmonic Club at the San Carlo in two days time, and you go with him, Andrea, along with a couple of my men. I’ll arrange it so that you can also go to the reception that will follow. You’ll have to be the bait, but with all those people around, it shouldn’t be too dangerous.”

  After the meeting with Oscar, Andrea went to the office of the SCIP – the International Police Co-operation Service, which co-ordinates the activities of Interpol in Italy – to legitimize her involvement in the investigation. I stayed with my friend for a while to discuss the ‘esoteric’ part of the story in more detail. Oscar was not just a policeman, he was an initiate like me. I revealed, among other things, that Hašek was in fact the great Basile Cobalière. I had already shown him, in the presence of Andrea, the bag and the two sheets of correspondence from de Sangro to Saint-Germain which he was now holding thoughtfully in his hands. He too had disapproved of the fact that I had hidden them from the Prague police, but in front of Andrea had only given me a scolding. Now we were alone, he really gave me a dressing down.

  “You’re incredible, Lorenzo. If you weren’t the Worshipful Master of the lodge to which I belong, I’d spank you like a child. How is it that you always manage to commit this kind of indiscretion?”

  I pulled out my phone and, after finding Hašek’s email, I handed it to him. “Read it again and try for a moment to put yourself in my shoes – and not as a policeman. What would you have done?”

  Oscar re-read the last, dramatic message of the great alchemist of Prague, then put the phone on the coffee table in front of him and sighed.

  “What do you think this substance is? And what idea did you get from the manuscript?”

  I shrugged. “I'll try to analyse the contents of the vial and the manuscript today – maybe there’s someone who can help me figure it out.”

  *

  After arranging to meet Andrea again in the afternoon, I headed for the old town where I met someone very special. As I climbed the Calata Trinita Maggiore, the spire of the Immacolata in the centre of Piazza del Gesù Nuovo welcomed me. Every time I went to that part of the city, I thought of how,
since the sacrifice of the siren Partenophe, the supernatural in Naples had never been considered folklore but had always been an integral part of the city’s daily life. Those who live there, walking through the alleys and decumans, feel its pulse: Naples generates an almost palpable energy – an energy that gave life to the esoteric schools and to legendary characters like Raimondo de Sangro.

  Immersed in these thoughts, I crossed the square, glancing at the facade of the Gesù Nuovo, then climbed up Via San Sebastiano. I arrived in Piazza Bellini and sat down in one of the literary cafés that looked out over the ancient Greek walls which were visible two metres below the modern street level.

  I waited for a few minutes sipping a glass of cool, fragrant falanghina until I saw the slim figure of the person I was waiting for in the distance.

  “So, how's my favourite alchemist?” he said with a big smile, embracing me affectionately.

  “Coming from you that’s a real compliment, Michele.”

  Sneakers, jeans, a polo shirt, a pair of sunglasses that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Johnny Depp, flowing brown hair and a whiff of the Neapolitan bourgeoisie: no one would have thought that young man was actually a descendant of one the most unique characters of eighteenth century Naples. Just as no one would have realised how intelligent he was, what profound knowledge of the history of his family he possessed nor how much of an expert he was in ancient books.

  Michele de Sangro sat across from me and called the waiter over. “What are you drinking?” he asked, then, without giving me time to answer, raised his hand. “No, wait, don’t tell me. Whatever it is, I want the same. I trust the tastes of Lorenzo Aragona.”

  “You’re making fun of me, as usual.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Yes, sir?” asked the waiter, who had just arrived.