The Alchemist's Gift

by Martin Rua

  Chapter 38

  Naples, 19th of June, 09:30

  Two days before the summer solstice

  I met Carlo the next day in front of the entrance to the cathedral which contains the Chapel of the Treasure of San Gennaro. With me were Alex and Andrea. They seemed to be getting pretty close and since, following the departure of my in-laws, I had suggested to the Interpol inspector that she leave the bed & breakfast and stay with us, that devil Alex now had her constantly at hand. Or at least until he went back to Tuscany for business.

  The day was clear and warm, ideal for cooling off for a few minutes inside the cathedral. Carlo greeted my brother warmly and introduced himself to Andrea.

  “Inspector Kominkova is following the investigation on behalf of Interpol and the Czech police,” I told him.

  Carlo shook her hand warmly, then led the way to the portal decorated with sculptures by Tino da Camaino. Before entering, I looked at the facade designed by Enrico Alvino in the late nineteenth century, and felt a melancholy smile appear for a moment on my lips. I remembered my friend and partner Bruno von Alten who, snob that he was, used to turn his face the other way when he was forced to go down Via Duomo.

  “The sight of that neo-gothic abomination disturbs me to the depths of my soul,” he used to say.

  I sighed and smiled at the thought of him. I missed his company.

  We entered the Duomo, the cathedral built by Charles II and completed between 1313 and 1314, when it already had behind it a history of nearly a thousand years.

  Carlo headed without hesitation toward the right aisle, where the elaborate Chapel of Treasure of San Gennaro was.

  “When I realized that the ‘shrine’ might be this chapel, I started digging through my memories of my university days to try and find the meaning of the poem,” he said, stopping in front of the massive gate designed by Cosimo Fanzago.

  “Before you continue,” I interrupted, as I admired the bust containing the skull of St. Gennaro to the left of the main altar, “I’d like to point out to you one not insignificant detail that we have been taking for granted.”

  “Which is?”

  “The rubedo stone which is changed into a stream by our art. Do you realise the implications of this verse?”

  “Certainly, and we should dedicate thorough study to it when all this is over.”

  “Why don’t you explain it to us mere mortals?” interjected Alex.

  “The Prince of Sansevero hints that the rubedo stone – the dried blood of St Gennaro – transmutes into a stream, meaning that it melts through the work of ‘our art’, which is alchemy. He is basically saying that it’s not blood, but some alchemical compound. The prince had actually reproduced a substance which mimicked the behaviour of the blood of San Gennaro, hardening and liquefying in a very similar manner. They weren’t very impressed at the time and Sansevero was expelled by the Deputation of the Chapel of the Treasury for having questioned the miracle itself in the Lettera Apologetica. The poem in our possession confirms his belief that it was not real blood.”

  “Exactly,” said Carlo, nodding, “but the reference to the blood of San Gennaro served only to bring us here to the chapel – here in front of the gate to be precise.”

  I touched the massive bronze gate and stared at my friend.

  “The ‘ser of Clauso’ is Cosimo Fanzago,” said Carlo. “He was born in 1591 in Clusone, a town in the province of Bergamo called Clausus in Roman times. The ‘cloistered’ mentioned in the poem has nothing to do with Fanzago locking himself up in a convent – it refers to the gate, the ‘closure’ of the Chapel of the Treasure of San Gennaro, which was designed by Fanzago himself. When I realized the reference, I put two and two together and it all made perfect sense. When his father died, Cosimo Fanzago moved to Naples to study sculpture. He did a lot of work here, including this gate. From design to completion it took forty years.”

  I nodded, repeating the poem. “‘The Divo waited forty springs…’”

  “Of course, the Divo in question is Saint Gennaro,” said Carlo, indicating the bust of the saint atop the gate. “The last and most obscure part remains, however ‘Tocare le sue canne è tuo dovere, / Tal quale l’instrumento per le messe’. It is curious that ‘touch’ is spelled with one ‘C’.”

  “I tried to understand why as well, but couldn’t find an explanation.”

  Carlo smiled and pointed a finger at my chest. “Because you, Lorenzo, never had a bloody minded professor of baroque architecture like mine – Professor Renato Esposito, God rest his soul. Look here.”

  Carlo walked up to the gate and ran his knuckles across the vertical columns, producing a series of sounds.

  “My God…” whispered Alex incredulously, “it’s like a musical instrument… Like a music box!”

  Carlo nodded and smiled triumphantly. “Tocare is not an error made by the prince, and it doesn’t mean ‘touch’. It means ‘play’ – in Spanish. Fanzago devised the gate in such a way that the columns could produce sounds, as though to remind us that this chapel was also designed for music. According to the poem, your duty is to play the reeds of the gate. To what end, though, I wouldn’t know.”

  I laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a genius! You’ve found the instrument that will play the numerical sequence from the Sansevero Chapel!”

  Carlo raised an eyebrow. “You think that’s what it is?”

  “There’s no doubt about it. The numbers correspond to the vertical columns and the letter ‘S’ indicates the direction from which to start – that is, from the left.”

  I pulled out the slip of paper upon which I had written the sequence and began to gently tap the columns. It must have been something that tourists who were aware of the peculiarities of the gate did occasionally, for the woman supervising the inside of the chapel looked at me in vague annoyance.

  “So: three, two… four… three…”

  I reproduced the melody a few times with gradually increasing confidence, but nothing happened.

  “How strange…” I murmured.

  “What did you expect – San Gennaro to appear and reveal to you the secret you’re seeking?” asked Alex, as sarcastic as ever.

  Andrea laughed, then – still smiling – said, “Perhaps you have to learn this melody and use it later, in the continuation of the search.”

  “Hmm, maybe you’re right.”

  “But… it sounds familiar to me, that sequence of notes,” said Andrea shortly and began to hum. After a few seconds, she nodded. “Yes, as I thought. I know it! It’s the beginning of a Mozart sonata.”

  Our eyes were now focused on the Interpol inspector, who was revealing hidden talents. She looked at us in surprise and blushed. “What? In Prague, Mozart has been a kind of divinity ever since Don Giovanni debuted there in the Estates Theatre in 1787. There are performances of Mozart operas every day. He is also one of my favourite musicians, I’ve been listening to him since I was a little girl.”

  This news about Andrea’s musical taste was another cross on the heart of Alex, who looked decidedly enamoured of the young policewoman.

  Andrea closed her eyes and began to hum the melody. Then after a moment, she opened them again and held up a finger. “I’ve got it! Sonata No. 1 in C major – K 279. I’d bet my life on it.”

  I stood looking at her in admiration, then turned my head to the bust of San Gennaro to thank him respectfully, pulled out the smartphone and said. “Let’s go outside and listen to it, quickly.”

  We left the cathedral and stood in the churchyard. Andrea, Carlo and Alex crowded around me while I looked for the sonata in question on YouTube. I found a beautiful version performed by Glenn Gould.

  After the first few bars of the first part, Allegro, I paused it and looked at the others.

  “What did I tell you? That’s it,” said Andrea. But a shadow of doubt appeared on my face.

  “What is it Lorenzo – aren’t you convinced?” asked Alex. I quickly Googled it.

  “It
says here that the sonata was composed in 1774.”

  “So?” asked Alex, still not understanding.

  “The Prince of Sansevero died in 1771.”

  We looked at one another in disappointment, thinking that we must have got it wrong.

  Andrea rubbed her forehead. “But how could he have known, if Mozart wrote it three years after his death?”

  While my three friends furrowed their brows and attempted to find an answer, I frantically scanned various websites in search of more information.

  “Listen to this: ‘The Piano Sonata K 279 was written by Mozart in 1774. The composition consists of three movements, Allegro, Andante, Allegro, the first of which, however, seems to be the re-working of a previous work by the Austrian composer’.”

  “So you think the Prince of Sansevero had the opportunity to listen to the previous version of the Allegro before his death?” asked Carlo.

  “I’ll tell you more, now that I think about it – Mozart was in Naples for a month and a half in 1770, just a few months before Raimondo de Sandro died.”

  “They could have met,” suggested Andrea.

  “Why not?” I said, holding my hands up. Carlo thought for a moment. “That makes sense – and in any case, there’s no doubt about it, that is precisely the melody played by striking Cosimo Fanzago’s gate.”

  Raimondo de Sangro, the Comte de Saint-Germain and now Mozart. Three personages of huge importance in their time, each in his own sphere, a genius. And above all, three Masons. Three initiates. I was accumulating material for Asar, but I was suddenly struck by the suspicion that I now wanted to find out the secret for myself. And to realise the last, great work of Matteo Rinaldi. The one he had left unfinished. And which had, perhaps, cost him his life.

  Chapter 39

  Naples, 19th of June, 09:50

  Two days before the summer solstice

  Carlo and I said goodbye to Andrea and Alex, who by now were inseparable, and we headed along Spaccanapoli for Palazzo Penne. We had surpassed ourselves. In a few days we had decoded the messages of the Prince of Sansevero, discovering the mysterious melody of Mozart and managing to manufacture the alchemical ruby. It seemed we had found everything Asar had requested – the tools needed to open the Cathedral of the Nine Mirrors to possess its secret. It remained to be determined whether that information would satisfy the masked lunatic, however.

  Once in Palazzo Penne, we were greeted by the guard on duty, but that morning he was not alone. A second person was present in the hot, dusty apartment used as a consultation room for the Hašek codex. A person sitting in front of the half open window, his back turned to us.

  After we had been accommodated at the table and exchanged dubious glances, he stood up. I recognized Asar’s mask and his Egyptian headdress with black and white stripes.

  “Ah, you honour us with your presence this morning,” I said sarcastically.

  “I wanted to verify your results personally,” he replied in his usual hoarse, low voice. “Tell me everything.”

  I told him how we had interpreted the Peregrino Neapolitano, thanks to which we had been able to manufacture the ruby and discover the melody hidden in the Sansevero Chapel and the Chapel gate of the Treasure of San Gennaro.

  As I spoke, I took from my jacket pocket the ruby and the sequence of numbers which had led us to discover the Mozart sonata. “These, in my opinion, are the tools you are seeking.”

  Asar approached the table. He snatched up the ruby, studied it for a while and then slipped it into his own pocket. Then he took the piece of paper where I had transcribed the sequence of the Sansevero Chapel and the title of Mozart’s composition.

  “Sonata No. 1 in C major, K 279… And what good would this sonata be, in your opinion?”

  I held my hands up. “I have absolutely no idea, just as I have no idea of the function of the ruby.”

  Asar walked about the room for a while, then turned to look at us. “You read the letter in which the Comte de Saint-Germain describes what he does in the cathedral of Chartres on the day of the summer solstice?”

  “Yes, he says that he cordoned off that part of which the prince was aware and used a certain catalyst in the exact moment when the light began to move towards a point. All very vague, but the two must have known what they were talking about.”

  Asar took out the ruby and held it up in front of us. “This is the catalyst, Mr Aragona. But where exactly should it be positioned? Where?”

  The marble slab, the small metal fragment, the plan of the cathedral. Like an image flashing in the darkness, I saw in my mind the photograph found in Matteo’s box in his laboratory in Via Anticaglia. Matteo had understood this too.

  “Of course! It’s all so… so clear! At the foot of the Sant’Apollinare window in the south transept of the cathedral of Chartres there is a marble slab set in a different position to the others which has a metal pin sticking out of it. Put your catalyst there in two days’ time and you should find the way to this cursed Cathedral of the Nine Mirrors.”

  Asar stood motionless for a few seconds, then nodded and began to clap slowly. “Bravo, Mr Aragona – you are a true expert in hermetic puzzles.”

  Without turning round he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. His assistant appeared with a laptop. With a quick gesture Asar opened it, turning the screen towards us. I saw the un-nerving program that showed the green silhouettes. I shuddered.

  “What are you doing? I gave you what you wanted!”

  Asar pressed a key and the outline with my name on it quickly changed colour. I was paralysed with fear and couldn’t move a muscle, while the green gave way to red. Within seconds the silhouette was purple. But I was still alive. Several interminable seconds passed, and eventually Asar laughed.

  “You won’t die, Mr Aragona – at least, not yet. None of the people seated at your table on the first night of The Magic Flute has ever really run any risk because of this little graphic simulation. And as I’ve repeatedly told you, Professor Ricciardi had a heart attack.”

  The blood rushed to my head. The bastard had been playing with us like a cat with a mouse, and threatening us with a toy weapon.

  “You son of a…” I hissed, jumping up to attack him. Before I had taken a step, though, I was stopped by the barrel of a gun which his henchman was pointing at me.

  “But that doesn’t mean that we are not able to harm you if we wish,” continued Asar calmly. He closed the computer and gave it to his assistant then walked towards the door, opened it and waved us out. “Please, there is nothing more for you to do here. Leave the building and head towards Spaccanapoli. You have been very useful, but perhaps now you can help the poor Prague police and Commissioner Franchi to get to the bottom of another enigma. Who killed Hašek?”

  Chapter 40

  Naples, 19th of June, 10:48

  Two days before the summer solstice

  Like two schoolboys thrown out of the classroom during a lesson, Carlo and I walked back with our tails between our legs. Was that really the end of the story, at least for us? Perhaps it would be better to just forget about the whole thing and let the police carry out the investigation, without there being any mystery involved. Unfortunately for me, though, the matter was far from over.

  “What do we do now?” asked Carlo, as soon as we got to Piazza San Domenico Maggiore. “I mean… maybe you, your wife and the other people are out of danger, but…”

  “… but this story means a lot to us, doesn’t it?”

  Carlo opened his arms. “I mean, what about Matteo, our teacher? I feel like we’re betraying him, handing over the final part of his research to these people.”

  “I feel the same way. But what should we do?”

  “First, tell Oscar to get in touch with his French colleagues. In a couple of days they should be able to get their hands on these scoundrels, seeing as we know what they’re going to do.”

  “They’re going to Chartres to look for the Cathedral of the Nine Mirrors, it’s true
, and we also have a clear idea of the exact spot where we can find them, but…”

  Carlo waited for me to finish, before eventually adding, “None of this is very convincing, is it?”

  I pursed my lips. “How are they hoping to go unnoticed?”

  At least thirty people – including our brothers, the police, friends and family – now knew where the Hašek codex, the letters of de Sangro to Saint-Germain, led. It had become an open secret. So what did they intend to do? Stand there in the middle of the cathedral of Chartres and stage a magic ritual? There was something odd about the whole thing.

  I pulled out my phone to call Oscar, and in that moment it rang.

  “Hello, Lorenzo.”

  “Hey, Riccardo, how are you?”

  “Fine, fine. Listen, where can I get a decent pizza in this town?”

  “Which town? Prague?”

  “Prague? I’m in Naples, Lorenzo! I’m in a taxi. I landed half an hour ago and I’m coming downtown.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have come to pick you up!”

  “And what kind of surprise would that have been? So, are you busy?”

  Good question. In theory I had my antiques gallery to run, but in recent days I had been neglecting it, for obvious reasons. My head was full of other things.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I have a room in a hotel at Via Chiaia.”

  “Ok, get settled in and I’ll see you at the Gambrinus café in half an hour.”

  I hung up and Carlo looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

  “The brother who got you into this mess?”

  “Or the one who handed us Matteo’s last, great study – it depends on your point of view…”

  Riccardo was on time and, together with Carlo, we sat at one of the tables outside the Gambrinus café. The weather was lovely, and there were many people sat relaxing in the open air, perhaps without images of murdered people or masks concealing mysteries filling their heads.

  I had agreed with Carlo not to say anything to Riccardo about what we had discovered in Matteo’s lab at Alma’s house,. If Hašek and our master decided to restrict access to that information, there must have been a reason.