What treasure is the cat pointing out? wonders Elettra, staring up at the graceful statue in black marble perched on the cornice. The girl moves closer to the building and then draws back, looking for the best vantage point to find out where the statue’s gaze is directed. Well …, she decides, after countless attempts. The cat’s not looking at this street. She’s looking toward Piazza Grazioli, where the parking lot is.
Elettra twirls a lock of hair in her fingers, deep in thought.
I’m not looking for a treasure …, she tells herself. I’m looking for Mistral or, at most … the Ring of Fire.
If the cat is what the top was indicating, then what the cat’s indicating is … an elegant building in Piazza Grazioli. But its stony stare might be focused on any one of the windows. Or the front door. Or the cellar.
Elettra steps over a snowbank and checks the names on the intercom.
But as she’s drawing near, she notices for the second time the Gypsy she avoided before. The woman’s sitting cross-legged in the doorway of a building on a makeshift mat of cardboard.
Could it be? she wonders. Elettra looks back to check the position of the cat again. Could it be?
She walks up to the Gypsy, not even knowing what to say to her.
The woman turns her wrinkled face up from the thick pile of old coats she’s bundled up in, trying to protect herself from the cold. She holds out a plastic dish with a few copper coins resting in it.
“Good luck to you, young miss. I wish you much good luck, to you and your family,” she mumbles, like a sad refrain.
A little good luck couldn’t hurt, thinks Elettra. “Oh, why not?” she blurts out.
Slipping her hand into her pocket to grab a few coins, she pulls out first the top and then the tooth. She finally finds a fifty-cent coin and holds it out over the Gypsy’s dish. “Here,” she says.
The Gypsy gives a start. Her expression suddenly changes and the moment the coin clinks against the others, she gets up from her cardboard mat and turns to leave.
Elettra looks over her shoulder to see if a policeman is coming toward them. But, with the exception of a few people crossing through the square and the cat perched on the cornice, she doesn’t see anyone.
“Where are you going?” she asks the woman.
The Gypsy waves her hands over her head and, turning her back on the girl, exclaims, “No, no! Go away! Go away!”
“Are you talking to me?”
The Gypsy nods. She walks off in her bundle of coats, repeating, “Don’t! Don’t!”
“Don’t what?” Elettra insists, baffled.
The woman doesn’t reply. Instead, she starts running.
Sheng stops to check the not-exactly-foldable map in front of a large, dark archway crowning the main road. After a brief struggle against the wind, he heaves a sigh of relief. Unless he’s making another massive mistake, the bizarre-looking archway divides Coppedè from the rest of Rome.
The archway is menacing, light and heavy at the same time, supporting a structure that looks a lot like a prison.
“It’s up to us, guard dog …,” murmurs Sheng with a heroic attitude as he rolls up his sleeves while trying not to crumple the map any further. “It’s up to us, whirlpool. …”
As he walks through the arch, he has the strong sensation that the city has changed. In the middle of the square he sees a fountain with four frogs, surrounded by patches of gray snow. All around him are buildings that look like they’ve been quilted with dark travertine.
Sheng checks the position of the house he’s there to see, raises his camera and starts snapping off shots.
Yellow-and-red checkered house. Click.
Windows held up by leering masks. Click. Click. Click.
Balconies resting on the shoulders of Titans. Click. Click.
Knights in suits of armor holding up copper drainpipes. Click.
Slanting rooftops. Click.
He photographs these subjects with the speed of a sharpshooting gunslinger. He continues on, never slowing his pace, with the professional expression of someone who’s being forced to do dirty work and wants to get it over with as soon as possible. None of the passersby even bothers to look at him, assuming he’s just an average tourist.
And so, totally undisturbed, finally Sheng reaches his intended destination. It’s a little house with a somber-looking turret surrounded by an iron gate topped with twisted spikes that look so strange they deserve four shots of their own. Click. Click. Click. Click.
On the other side of the gate is a dismal-looking yard (two clicks) and a series of tiny prints made by a raven (one click).
The boy looks up to study the rest of the house. Its facade is completely asymmetrical. Columns and canopies hide side entrances and rooms. Sheng aims his camera and starts snapping shots.
And then, just as he’s focusing on a window with closed shutters, he has the odd feeling someone’s standing behind it. He zooms in and out without being able to see anyone, and, his voice so low he can barely hear it himself, he asks, “Mistral? Are you in there?”
He stands there, waiting for an answer, which naturally doesn’t come. He lowers the camera and looks around. He can see stoplights and road signs. Heroes and monsters, swords and fleurs-de-lis. Coats of arms and blazons. The iron gate and the garden.
“Man …,” he murmurs. “This place gives me the creeps.”
He walks along the gate, reaching a narrow path that’s been cleared of snow and leads up to the entrance of the house. A few red spots dotting the ground like tiny wounds catch his eye.
“Bingo …,” murmurs Sheng, snapping pictures of them. Zooming in, he confirms that they’re tiny patches of blood.
Click. Click.
Then he lowers his camera and turns around to look behind him. No one’s there. A street. Cars. Stoplights. Road signs. Coats of arms and blazons.
“More than the creeps …,” he says. He tries to concentrate on the house again, but he finds it’s no use. He lowers the camera and admits to himself that he’s scared out of his wits.
He walks away without looking any further, clumsily bumps into some passersby, apologizes and keeps walking.
That’s enough pictures, he thinks.
Dogs, dragons, sculptured animals, eyes, hands of stone.
That’s really enough. He’s had all he can take of Coppedè.
He starts running.
He reaches the frog fountain and flies through the archway, stopping only when he’s on the other side. He’s in Rome again.
“Stop!” Elettra shouts out to the Gypsy woman.
The woman runs, hobbling awkwardly in her thick layers of coats. “Go away!” she answers without slowing down.
Elettra follows her, first walking with long strides and then running. “Why are you running away?”
The Gypsy woman simply shoos her away with her hands, still running. Elettra runs faster and soon catches up with her. The woman finally gives up, leaning against the wall.
“Would you mind telling me why you were running away from me?” Elettra hounds her.
“In your pocket …,” the old woman pants, her face red with exhaustion.
“What? This? The top? Do you recognize this top?”
The Gypsy woman shakes her head, a foul odor wafting up all around her, one of dirty hair, sweat, grime.
“This, then? Do you recognize this?” insists Elettra, showing her the tooth.
The woman covers her eyes with her hands and tries once again to run off. “No! Go away! It’s not me!”
“You’re not what?” yells Elettra, holding her back. The Gypsy manages to pull herself free and starts running again.
Elettra, panting, chases after her. “Won’t you explain, please?” Then something dawns on her. “Do you know Alfred Van Der Berger?” she shouts. “The professor?”
When she hears the name, the old woman slows down slightly. She turns to look at the girl, shakes her head, and starts running again.
“You do!
You know the professor!” Elettra shouts, doubling her speed. “I know him, too! He’s a friend of mine!”
This time, the Gypsy woman stops in her tracks. Elettra catches up with her, walks around the misshapen bell form of her coats and repeats, “Alfred Van Der Berger. The professor. He’s the one who gave me the tooth.”
“He’s dead,” says the Gypsy.
“I know.”
“They killed him the other night. …” Tears run from the Gypsy woman’s eyes, leaving two glistening trails down her dirt-covered cheeks. It’s snowing. And the river is howling.
“Yes, yes, yes …,” Elettra says, overjoyed to have found another person who knows what happened. “It was them. …”
The woman looks around, frightened, and her hands gesture as if to cancel out everything around her. “Shhh!” she hisses between her black teeth. “Speak softly. There are … shadows … listening. Shadows that make the river howl.”
“I was there that night, too. I was on the bridge!” continues Elettra.
“No,” replies the Gypsy. “You weren’t there. There was only snow. The river crying. And the violin. The violin was there, the other night, when he died.”
In her mind’s eye, Elettra can see the man with the gray hair crossing over the threshold of the professor’s apartment. She can still hear with crystal clarity the sweet melody that was making her fall asleep. And, even after so many hours, for a moment she’s forced to close her eyes.
“Did you see the man with the violin, too?” she asks with a low voice.
The Gypsy woman shakes her head. “I only heard him. I didn’t see him.”
“Was he the one who killed the professor?”
Instead of an answer, she’s given another question. “When did he give you the tooth?”
“The other night, on the bridge.”
“And did he tell you why?”
“No. But I think it’s for the same reason he gave me other things … so the man with the violin wouldn’t find them.”
“He told me that, too,” says the Gypsy. Her hand disappears beneath the layers of her clothes. A moment later, it reappears with a black leather cord, hanging from which is a second tooth.
She holds it up beside the one in Elettra’s hand.
On it is engraved the letter “M.”
22
THE BASEMENT
“I’M SORRY, MR. HEINZ,” FERNANDO MELODIA TELLS THE MAN WHO’S walked into the Domus Quintilia looking for a room. “We’re booked solid.” The man is dressed entirely in black. With him he has a violin case and a broad-brimmed hat that hides the upper part of his face.
“Are you certain?” he insists. “Your hotel was recommended to me by a friend. …”
“I’m sure,” replies Fernando. “Besides, in any event, we aren’t exactly in the right mood to receive guests, believe me.”
“Has something happened?”
“Yes, you could say that,” says Fernando Melodia, without offering any explanation. “And now, if you’ll excuse me …”
But the man seems to have no intention of leaving. “Couldn’t you at least show me the rooms,” he continues, “or let me have a look around?”
“No, I’m sorry. We’re really very busy. My daughter’s caused a little bit of a crisis, so …” Fernando is reluctant to add anything else.
“How old is your daughter?”
“Twelve.”
“I understand, then. That’s the age when they begin to rebel against their parents.”
Fernando shakes his head. “No, I don’t think you understand. The fact is, she convinced our guests’ children to … I’m not sure what …” He gestures, as if to say, “What can you do?” Then he makes his way around the reception desk to walk the man to the door. “In any case, I hope you’ll come back here next time.”
“Where’s the basement?” the man asks him, point-blank.
“Um, sorry?”
“I asked you where the basement is.”
“B-back there …,” stammers Fernando, pointing out a door hidden behind some plants. “But why …?”
The man’s hands shoot out only twice, striking him in the chest. With the first blow, Fernando doubles over, the wind knocked out of him. With the second blow, he falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
“Thanks for the information,” hisses Jacob Mahler, stepping over him.
He bends down to grab him under the arms and drags him behind the reception desk, hiding him from view. Then, with a quick glance left and right, he opens up the reservation book and hastily leafs through it, looking for the names recorded that week.
But there aren’t any names in the book. It’s as if the hotel doesn’t have a single guest. How could that be? wonders Mahler. He opens up the drawers in search of registration documents or receipts, but again finds nothing. No passports. No identity cards. “Dammit!” he hisses, turning toward Fernando’s motionless body. “How do you run this hotel, huh? You haven’t copied down a single name!”
Giving up all hope of discovering the identities of the other kids in the group, Mahler shuts all the drawers. He’ll have to make do with the names he already knows: Elettra and Mistral.
“Meanwhile, the briefcase,” he murmurs, moving the plants aside. That is the thing he was paid for. The thing Heremit Devil ordered him to track down.
He flings the basement door open. A stone stairway makes its way down into the darkness. Mahler looks for the light switch and flicks it. A series of bulbs light up an underground room with a red brick ceiling.
“Basement.” Jacob Mahler looks around and smiles.
At the bottom of the stairs is a mouse. A little mouse that stares at him, surprised by all the light. Jacob loves mice. They’re just like him. Silent creatures who for years have been battling against mankind. Creatures whom mankind will never succeed in defeating.
The moment it senses danger, the little mouse scurries off to hide in its underground home.
Mahler walks down the steps two at a time, being careful not to let his coat drag on the ground. He breathes in the dusty air, walks up to the first piece of furniture and lifts up the sheet covering it: a trunk. He lifts up a second sheet: an art nouveau wardrobe. And then a third: a pair of nightstands.
He grits his teeth with frustration. The basement is immense. Where could his briefcase be hidden? Mahler scans the room with his eyes. It doesn’t take him long to spot signs of a recent gathering held on the floor.
He follows the footprints up to a lopsided dresser.
First drawer.
Second drawer.
Third drawer.
His lips twist into a smile.
“Briefcase,” he says.
But the moment he grabs it, he realizes something’s wrong.
The briefcase is light. Too light.
“You shouldn’t have done this, kids,” growls Jacob Mahler. He rests the briefcase on top of the dresser and opens it. It’s empty. Completely empty.
He hits it with his hand, making it fall to the ground; then he clenches his fists, trying to hold back a howl of rage. He starts to slowly hum the scale of C in an attempt to calm down. By the time he’s finished his third scale, he’s succeeded. But he also realizes he’s made too much noise.
He raises an eyebrow. The basement ceiling trembles. Approaching footsteps.
Mahler picks the empty briefcase up from the floor. He takes one last look around and mutters to himself, “Clever, Mistral … very clever.”
The footsteps come to a sudden halt. Mahler listens and starts to count the seconds. He understands immediately when it’s time to leave. He doesn’t even have the chance to rest his foot on the first step when a woman’s cry comes from upstairs. “Fernando! What are you doing down there?”
Mahler climbs the stairs. He reaches the basement door and, through the branches of the plants, sees a woman leaning over the reception desk.
Without making a single leaf rustle, he tries to slip out.
But the
woman snaps upright. “Who are you?” she exclaims.
Jacob ignores her, heading toward the front door.
“Excuse me!” insists Linda Melodia. “Might I know who you are?”
A second voice cries out with alarm from behind Mahler’s back, “Linda, look out!” It’s a woman in a wheelchair. Her features are withered with age and her hands are clutching the armrests of the chair.
“Stop!” warns Linda Melodia.
Jacob Mahler tries to push her away, but instead of stepping aside, she raises a broom and hits him over the head with it, snapping it in two. “I’ll show you, you filthy thief! Get out of here at once!”
The man grabs her arm with a steely grip. “That’s exactly what I was trying to do …,” he hisses.
“Leave me alone!” screams Linda, trying to break free.
Mahler could break her wrist. Or kill her.
But he doesn’t. Deep down, he admires the way the woman defends her territory. He limits himself to pushing her away and walking over to the door. The old woman in the wheelchair shouts something that he doesn’t bother to listen to.
He walks away from the hotel, carrying the useless, empty briefcase.
Something warm slides down his face.
He touches his forehead. The woman’s blow seems to have reopened his wound.
23
THE RIVER
“FOLLOW ME,” THE GYPSY HAD SAID, AND ELETTRA HAD OBEYED HER.
She left the known city to delve into the invisible world of the Gypsies, thinking of all the things she knew about them, none of which were flattering. Don’t trust them. Don’t look at them. Don’t let them read your palm. Don’t let them touch you. Stay away from them.
But instead, a few hours away from the night of San Silvestro, Elettra agreed to follow one of them through the hovels built beneath a bridge spanning the Tiber.
She follows her past a broken parapet, along a path of muddy snow that makes its way past shrubs, rocks by the riverside and dry branches, caught on which are strips of plastic that flutter in the wind like little flags. She follows her into the ice-cold shade of a bridge. Below the noise of cars. She leaves the city behind her.
Ring of Fire Page 17