The Alchemist's Gift

by Martin Rua

  I approached the texts with almost sacred respect. There were books of biblical exegesis, of Kabbalah and of alchemy, writings considered dangerous or inconvenient at the time in which the prince lived. There were authors such as Pierre Bayle, Anthony Collins, John Toland. There was even a version of the Telliamed by Benoit de Maillet, purged of the additions that the abbot Jean Baptiste de Mascrier had added to reconcile the ‘blasphemous’ scientific book with Christian dogma. All the texts dating back to the mid-eighteenth century were original editions and had belonged to Raimondo de Sangro.

  Priceless.

  “Unbelievable,” I commented, completely absorbed.

  “Yeah,” said Michele, “but let’s get down to business. According to the location you found on that chart, the book indicated by III, II, 3 is… this one!”

  Michele pulled out the third book from the left on the second shelf of the third bookcase. A volume entitled Peregrino Neapolitano.

  “Never heard of it,” I said, shaking my head.

  Michele smiled. “Of course not – it was never published. Look who wrote it.”

  I read the author’s name. “Esercitato… the name that Raimondo de Sangro gave himself when he was admitted to the Accademia della Crusca.”

  “There are many texts in this library that have never been disclosed. Raimondo printed them in his own printing shops for himself or for a few close friends. There is more than one book in here that would have made any inquisitor extremely happy.”

  The book resembled a tour guide of Naples for the use of intellectuals visiting our city. It also quoted Carlo Celano’s famous Notizie del Bello dell’Antico e del Curioso della Città di Napoli, a seventeenth century work describing the sights and monuments of Naples.

  “I imagine that de Sangro must have loaned the same volume to Saint-Germain if it is mentioned in their correspondence,” replied Michele.

  “The book isn’t explicitly mentioned and its location wasn’t obvious on the chart, but was hidden in the way I showed you,” I pointed out. “I agree with you, though. Saint-Germain must have known what the prince was referring to. If I managed to discover the trick of how to read the position, it must have been a breeze for him. Assuming that the message was for him and not for some hypothetical future scholar.”

  Michele thought for a moment. “So the prince refers to this book in the correspondence, but without being able to consult it we are fumbling about in the dark. You have a lock, but you don’t have a key.”

  “Then in that case, I need a lock pick.”

  Chapter 17

  Naples, the last days of spring, 17:25

  After leaving Michele’s house I met up with Andrea.

  “Oscar seems very efficient,” she said, obviously pleasantly surprised, “he has already put me in touch with the two men who will accompany me to the theatre and by tonight he will confirm whether he’ll be able to get us invitations to the gala dinner.”

  “Of course he’ll manage it.”

  “You trust him completely, don’t you?”

  “He’s like a brother to me,” I said with a wink.

  “Did you learn anything during your meeting with that friend of yours you told me about?”

  “Maybe,” I said showing her the Peregrino Neapolitano. Michele had lent it to me on the condition that I treat it as if it were the Holy Shroud and after making me promise three times that I would give him the prince’s letters. If I could get my hands on them.

  “Among the papers that Hašek gave me there was the exact position of this, which belongs to my friend.”

  “What?”

  “It looks like a tour guide, but I suspect that there’s something hidden behind its appearance…”

  *

  The day ended with dinner at my house, which was also attended by my parents. When the ‘Greeks’ as my father called them, came, it was always a party and my old man never missed an opportunity to discuss ‘New Testament’ issues with Mitzos. My father, Mimmo Aragona, a retired pharmacist, had become passionate about the historical study of the Gospels when he was in his seventies, and any excuse to provoke his audience, whom he always left speechless, was good enough for him. Of course, with a luminary like Mitzos, who was also well versed in that discipline, he never managed to get a reaction, and with each of them sticking to their guns they would begin to tease each other, driving their respective wives crazy. It was great fun.

  After dinner, and after yet another ‘exchange of views’ between the two, my father called me aside.

  “How are you, Lorenzo? You’re back from Prague earlier than expected,” he said, sitting down on a chair in my study.

  “Well, yes, I didn’t want to leave the gallery in Bart’s hands for too long. I trust him, but he’s still not much more than a boy.”

  My father raised one of his bushy eyebrows, and, his already small eyes turning into slits, squinted at me for a few moments. When he did this he reminded me of a wise rabbi – it was funny, but it was also a sign that he hadn’t been taken in by my lie.

  “I might be old, but I know how to use the internet,” he said, still staring at me, “I read some news online that wasn’t on the TV – some disturbing news about the murder of a vendor of esoteric objects in Prague. When certain things happen and you’re in the neighbourhood that always sets alarm bells ringing for me.”

  He was off again with this story of the bad luck which dogged me or trouble that gravitated towards me wherever I went. I made a gesture with my hand as if to ward off an absurd thought, and chuckled. “Come on, you’re always suspicious of me!”

  “No, my son, I just know you too well. Don’t get into any trouble.”

  It was pointless – absolutely no one trusted me.

  When they had all gone – Andrea graciously accompanied by my brother of course, who had offered her a ride to her bed and breakfast – I went to my study to try to sort out my thoughts and to study the Peregrino Neapolitano. While I was immersed in it, Àrtemis came in with a cup of tea in her hand. She curled up on a chair and stared at me without saying a word.

  “Well? What?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, smiling, “I always love watching you when you’re trying to open a treasure chest – a real one or a symbolic one. You look like a child trying to understand how a toy is made.”

  “That, more or less, is what I’m doing,” I said, returning her smile and rubbing my eyes.

  “And have you managed?”

  I got up from the desk, walked over to her and sat on the chair arm, showing her the book. “I wouldn’t want to be imagining things, but I have the feeling this is more than just a tourist guide.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Look at this – there are short, individual descriptions of the monuments. There is a single, precise itinerary which lasts seven days and which winds through the historic centre of Naples. Then there’s another, rather short one, that seems to follow the same path, but… I don’t know, there’s something odd about it.”

  “I don’t understand, why is that strange?”

  “In the second itinerary, the monuments or places are described with nursery rhymes or poems. They use no names known to us or that could have been in use in the eighteenth century. There is not one of them that is recognizable.”

  Àrtemis took a sip of tea, gasped and raised her eyes to my face. “You don’t mean – some kind of initiatory journey?”

  I held up my hands wide in resignation.

  “Right in the centre of Naples – why not?”

  Chapter 18

  Naples, 16th of June, 21:30

  Five days before the summer solstice

  O Isis und Osiris, schenket der Weisheit Geist dem neuen Paar! Die Ihr der Wand’rer Schritte lenket, stärkt sie mit Geduld in Gefahr.6

  The impressive performance of the baritone playing Sarastro resonated in the air around us re-assuringly as though it were a true prayer to the Egyptian gods. From the excellent seats kindly dona
ted by our mysterious ‘friends’ from the IPSI club we had a perfect view of the beautiful scenery decorating the San Carlo’s enormous stage.

  I had tried to prevent Àrtemis from coming, quarrelling with her until I could take no more.

  “The invitation may have come from the killers, Àrtemis, do you understand that?” I had said before capitulating.

  “Then we will face them together. I’m coming with you,” she had replied, putting an end to the argument.

  When the lights came on between the first and second act, I had looked around hoping to see someone staring directly at Àrtemis and myself, but I was only able to see Andrea Kominkova in a lovely little black dress and the two policemen Oscar had sent Inspector Viola Brancato and Deputy Commissioner Vincenzo Amato, two old acquaintances. Oscar had managed to get them seats in a fairly central box in the second circle from which they had a good view of the whole hall. Andrea had a pair of opera glasses and was studying the audience. Occasionally she lent them to our Neapolitan colleagues, giving the impression that they were three friends who had come to enjoy Mozart’s masterpiece.

  Auch dir, Prinz, legen die Götter auf ein heilsames Stillschweigen; ohne dieses seid ihr beide verloren. Du wirst sehen Pamina – sprechen sie aber nie dürfen; Dies ist der Anfang eurer Prüfungszeit.7

  The opera was coming to its most mystical part, the trials to which Tamino and Papageno are subjected by Sarastro’s priests. I wondered if it was possible that the combination of the presence on the bill at the San Carlo of The Magic Flute and the Prague events were random or, more likely, Hašek's murderers had set all this up for some specific reason. Maybe I’d find out that night.

  The opera reached its focal point, the subversion of good and evil. On stage there was Pamina who tried in vain to convince her mother, the Queen of the Night, that Sarastro was not really evil. Implacable, the woman called for revenge. She handed her daughter a dagger, ordering her to kill Sarastro and bring her the solar disk that the priest wore around his neck. The aria that followed, the most famous of The Magic Flute, sent shivers down my spine.

  Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen, Tod und Verzweiflung flammet um mich her!8

  The opera ended to loud applause, the San Carlo’s demanding audience thundering its approval of the arrangement of the conductor, a visionary young French-Italian artist who was conquering the world’s theatres with his daring approach which always, however, kept one eye on tradition.

  At the fourth round of applause – an absolute first for the San Carlo – Mario Cassan went up onto the stage, sparking off a standing ovation.

  “Hmm – he’s not bad, this Cassan,” commented Àrtemis, as she applauded.

  I ignored her comment and continued to look around, feeling worried. “Never mind him, Àrtemis, keep your eyes open. I still think it was a serious mistake bringing you with me.”

  “I think it’s all a misunderstanding – what could they do? Shoot us in the middle of the crowd? And why?”

  I raised an eyebrow and looked back at the stage.

  “I wish I was as optimistic.”

  Meanwhile Cassan had managed to silence the audience. Surrounded by the cast and clad in a tuxedo without a bow tie, he looked like an actor.

  “Please, please!” he cried, going against the theatre’s custom and calming the frenzied spectators. “I thank you with all my heart, in the name of the cast, the technicians, the orchestra and choir of the San Carlo and all those who made this show possible! You know me well,” he went on in fluent Italian, “I am a frequent guest of your… of our city. The city of my mother. Your warmth is for me the warmth of a family.”

  There was another burst of applause that was so loud that I feared it would send Camillo Guerra and Gennaro Maldarelli’s beautiful clock tumbling off the proscenium and onto the heads of the orchestra. “I want, finally, to thank Mozart for giving us such a profound opera – an opera which we still have not properly understood or interpreted and where what you see and hear is never the whole story!” concluded Mario Cassan, leaving the stage after a final thank you.

  Another ovation accompanied the closing of the curtain. As we reached the exit, Cassan’s last words kept going round in my head.

  “What you see and hear is never… Non hoc totum. No, it can’t be.”

  Àrtemis, who looked beautiful in her long ivory silk gown, looked at me quizzically.

  “What are you babbling about?”

  I shrugged. “I'm not sure, but it sounded like Cassan just quoted the motto engraved on the Prince of Sansevero’s alchemical watch.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know – it’s just a feeling, I might be wrong.”

  We met Andrea and the other two policemen in the small foyer on the ground floor and exchanged looks. I knew that soon I would probably have to turn on the microphone that was hidden behind my tie. The gala dinner was about to begin and this would be the opportunity to try to understand at least who our mysterious hosts were. The probable killers of Hašek…

  Through an internal passageway that connected the theatre with the Royal Palace, the imposing building designed in the seventeenth century by Domenico Fontana, we reached the home of the Real Circolo Filarmonico – the exclusive Royal Philharmonic Club for opera and music lovers which had begun as a result of the Unification of Italy. The Club essentially brought together former noble families – the same noble families who in 1861 had sworn allegiance to the Savoys, the new rulers of a united Italy. I had always had a liking for the Bourbons myself, and if I had been living at that time, in the mid nineteenth century, I doubt that I would have gone over to the other side with the nonchalance displayed by many Bourbon nobles and officials. Who knows, I might even have become an outlaw…

  Monarchists aside, in addition to the pressure of being there, the idea of that exclusive club bothered me. Àrtemis seemed rather amused.

  “Oh, look – look who’s here,” she kept saying every time she spotted some ‘celebrity’. They stood out among the guests who began to pour into the beautifully decorated rooms with Egyptian-style columns, mirrors, stucco and early nineteenth century furniture that I would have happily put on show in my gallery. “And look there, look! Isn’t that the Countess of Forcoletta? She’s a customer of yours, isn’t she?”

  I snorted. “Come on, Àrtemis, you’re an academic, stop acting like somebody who reads the gossip mags! Who cares about these people?”

  Pragmatic as ever, my wife raised an eyebrow at me.

  “You should be less picky, Aragona – many of these people are your customers.”

  I sighed. She was right, after all. “I can’t help it, I hate all these over privileged nobodies who’ve done nothing to deserve the positions they find themselves in.”

  Àrtemis smiled and patted my cheek. “But what do you care? Make the best of a bad situation. You’re a great antique dealer and a very good salesman. Exploit the weaknesses of these people as you have always done and you will continue to lead a comfortable life. And if playing cards at the Royal Palace makes them feel important… well, good for them.”

  I was about to argue further when we were interrupted by two smiling guests who we knew well and who slipped through the crowd to us, smiling.

  “Àrtemis, Lorenzo!” cried the elder of the two. “What a pleasure to find you here!”

  “Hello Filippo, the pleasure is ours!” replied my wife, embracing the elderly man. “Lorenzo, do you remember my colleague, Professor Ricciardi?”

  “Of course, how are you, sir?”

  “Don’t be so deferential, Lorenzo. I feel like what I am – an old man!”

  “Oh don’t be silly Filippo, you're in wonderful shape!” interjected the other guest.

  “Michele, you didn’t tell me you were coming here tonight,” I said, shaking hands with Michele de Sangro.

  “Why, you didn’t ask,” he replied, in his usual manner. “But never mind – come, I want to introduce you to Mario Cassan,
he is a family friend.”

  “Oh yes, I’d love to meet him!” said Àrtemis, without giving me time to answer. She had obviously decided to put my mild jealousy to the test, and I accepted the challenge.

  “Mario, mon ami! C'était super!” exclaimed Michele, as he approached the conductor with open arms.

  Cassan, surrounded by some more elderly exponents of Neapolitan high society and two or three ecstatic girls, opened his slightly lopsided mouth in a grin, a real magnet for the fairer sex. “Michele, it is Mozart who is great,” he replied, embracing his friend. “I’ve simply provided a backdrop to his genius!”

  “Too modest, as always. Ladies, gentlemen, can I steal a few moments with our conductor?”

  The admirers dispersed reluctantly, giving Michele dirty looks as my friend gestured to Àrtemis, Filippo Ricciardi and myself.

  “Mario, may I present Professor Filippo Ricciardi, an archaeologist and professor at the Federico II university and his brilliant colleague, Àrtemis Nicopolidis. And this is her husband and my friend, the antiquarian Lorenzo Aragona.”

  “Enchanté,” said Mario Cassan, kissing Àrtemis’s hand. My wife smiled and turned red. I could hardly believe my eyes.

  “Bravo – charming and gallant as well,”" said Àrtemis.