The Alchemist’s Code

by Martin Rua

  I uttered those words with little conviction during our frequent spats, since I was the first to reject contemporary art and architecture. As far as I was concerned, it was all over in the thirties when Art Deco had exploded in America, and I considered Art Nouveau the highest possible synthesis of ancient and modern aesthetics. That it was my favourite style was demonstrated by the plethora of swirls, flowers, table lamps, stained glass and Guimard furniture which was my house. A house which, of course, he detested.

  Bruno sat down at his desk, opened the sales ledger and simultaneously turned on the computer: he wrote everything down by hand and kept the original receipts and all important documents in a safe in his house. He viewed printers with suspicion and said he didn’t trust that infernal thing called a computer.

  “How many times do I have to tell you? You’re stuck in the eighteenth century! Don’t you want to keep up with the times?”

  “The day when your computer or printer decide to stop working, you’ll come crying to me, begging me to let you use my silly, old-fashioned notes. And at that moment I will open my most expensive bottle of fine champagne cognac and have a laugh or two.”

  “Ok, you’re on. For my part, I’ll make an exception to the rule I’ve set myself against drinking absinthe and will toast you with a good Spanish bottle that I’ve kept aside for just this sort of thing.”

  “Very well,” concluded Bruno. “Now that we have discussed liqueurs, if you don’t mind I should like to do a cross-check with you of the pieces sold, optioned and those which we are interested in.”

  I spread my arms in despair, groaning, “But we did it yesterday.”

  “Yesterday, we had not sold the Riesener.”

  *

  At one, I went to lunch with Àrtemis at Donna Teresa’s Trattoria, my favourite, which was only a.few minutes from my house. I would have walked miles just to savour the dishes they served there, and although the Églantine – my antiques shop – was in the centre of town, I willingly made the trek back up to the Vomero area at lunchtime.

  “Mr Aragona, today we’ve got baked pasta, beans and escarole and a wonderful risotto with savoy cabbage.”

  When Teresa, the granddaughter of the restaurant’s legendary founder, listed the specials of the day, it was like music to my ears. It was poetry, pure gastronomic poetry.

  “I’ve have the risotto,” said Àrtemis, anticipating my choice.

  “Risotto for me too, thanks Teresa.”

  The girl made a note and left.

  “So, everything ok down at the shop?”

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t call it a shop,” I said, holding up my hands as if to protect myself, “otherwise Bruno might appear and launch into one of his intolerable Teutonic harangues. The Églantine is an antique gallery.”

  “All right, I didn’t mean to offend anybody—”

  “I know that, darling. But, if it weren’t for Bruno—”

  “That’s right, I know how grateful you are to him. There’s no need for me to remind you about the pile of strange objects which have been accumulating on your desk for years now.”

  “Oh come on! I am an antiquarian, after all – it’s perfectly natural that I accumulate and conserve things. That’s how they acquire value!”

  “Yes, yes – the same old excuse.”

  When Teresa brought our dishes, I put all other matters to one side and dedicated myself to making the risotto vanish, forkful by forkful. But as I was looking down, preparing to stick my fork into the creamy cabbage, something – or rather someone – at the entrance of the restaurant caught my attention.

  *

  I realised, in fact, that I was looking into the eyes of a beautiful blonde girl. We exchanged a look which seemed to last a long time and which made me feel immediately uncomfortable. I had the impression that she wasn’t just gazing in my direction but that she actually wanted something.

  Àrtemis noticed my reaction, and turned mechanically toward the door, but the girl had already disappeared.

  “What is it? What did you see?”

  “No, no – I thought I saw someone I knew, that’s all. Let’s eat, it’s nothing,” I lied, preferring not to arouse her jealousy.

  After lunch I accompanied Àrtemis to the university and then headed back to the Églantine. I was almost there when suddenly, that day – which until then had seemed so perfect – took an unexpected turn.

  As I was driving along Via Chiatamone towards the garage where I parked my car, a scooter raced out from a building and cut in front of me. There was no way I could stop in time and I hit it head-on, throwing the driver out of the saddle.

  “Shit!” I shouted, and jumped out of the car.

  Luckily there were no other cars passing in that moment, so I ran round to see how the scooter’s driver was. I found them in front of my car, lying on the ground next to their vehicle.

  “Oh Christ, let him be okay!” I said as I bent down – and saw that the rider was a young woman. “Can you hear me? Hey, are you all right?”

  I lifted the visor of the helmet and straightaway the girl opened her eyes, revealing two pools of intense blue that stared back into mine. At that moment I realised that I’d seen that face before – those eyes would have been hard to forget.

  “The girl outside the restaurant! It’s you!”

  But before I could ask her anything, the girl slipped something into my jacket pocket and, with feline grace, stood up, easily lifted her scooter from the ground as though it was lighter than a bicycle and sped away before I had time to react.

  I looked around me. Nobody else seemed to have noticed and so, somewhat confused, I returned to my car. Taking a few deep breaths to try and calm myself, I started the engine and set off back to the garage.

  As soon he saw me, Bruno frowned. “Lorenzo, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Is everything ok?”

  I flopped down in the chair behind my desk and told him about the accident. Bruno’s initially tense expression gradually faded, and a moment later he had regained his composure.

  “Thank God nothing serious had happened, I was worried. Right, back to work – come on.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “How can you say that nothing serious happened? I almost killed a girl, who then ran away without letting me see whether she was all right or not.”

  Bruno shrugged. “She was probably just some idiot, Lorenzo.”

  Trying to put the accident out of my mind was perhaps the best thing, but first there was something I had to check.

  “Ah, maybe you’re right. I’m going to rinse my face.”

  I locked myself in the bathroom and pulled out the note that the girl had put in my pocket. It read:

  See you at 18:30 in the little bar at the end of Via Parco Margherita, at the corner of Corso Vittorio Emanuele. Be there – your life depends on it.

  I stood staring at the piece of paper for a few seconds, trying to organise my thoughts and figure out whether I was dreaming or whether all this was really happening. And what if that accident had all been a set-up? If all that the girl had wanted to do was give me this message? I put the piece of paper back in my pocket and left the bathroom. And found Bruno standing like a phantom outside, staring at me with a concerned look on his face.

  “Are you sure you’re ok, Lorenzo?”

  I put a hand to my chest, and let out a sigh.

  “Damn it, Bruno! You nearly gave me a heart attack! Of course I’m ok – really.”

  “Yeah, you’re right… I was just worried. Put that accident out of your mind, ok?”

  I nodded, dazed. “Of course, the best thing is just to forget about it. Everything’s fine.”

  “Great. Listen, I have to go out for a few minutes. You’re staying here, aren’t you?”

  Bruno never left the shop, and wouldn’t have even if someone had started shelling the place, but by now what had seemed like a perfect day had turned into a total mess, so I decided to stop being surprised.

  “Ok,
go ahead, no problem.”

  *

  Bruno was gone for nearly an hour – sixty minutes during which I tried to put together the pieces of the strange experience and decide whether I should attend the appointment that the unknown girl had proposed. Should I go or not? And what could she want to tell me that was so important that my life depended on it? Of course, in recent years I’d had a fair number of adventures in the mysterious world of those esoteric disciplines that so intrigued me, often getting myself into trouble and dragging poor old Àrtemis along with me. I’d seen with my own eyes the ancient rituals still practiced by secret societies, found amulets with unknown powers and studied codes that would have been better left to rot in forgotten libraries. Recently, however, I’d decided that I’d had enough of all the trouble running so many risks in pursuit of legends and dreams had got me into. I considered myself lucky to have had a chance to peek behind the veil of appearances and to investigate the most hidden aspects of knowledge and reality. My passion for alchemy had drawn me into the fascinating world of the transmutations of minerals, thanks to hours and hours spent coughing among the fumes of the small workshop I had at home, the crazed treasure hunts I had undertaken in the company of my friend Sante – a completely crazy retired Maltese sailor with an obsession with esoteric archeology – had led me to discover mysterious artefacts and the traces of lost civilizations, and, finally, being a member of the Freemasons had introduced me to various Hermetic doctrines.

  But enough was enough. Now I just wanted to live in peace for a bit and dedicate myself to my work, and especially to my wife.

  The little adventure that morning, though, had brought back all the anxiety and tension that I’d experienced during those dangerous incursions into esotericism. The girl’s behaviour and especially the note she had put in my pocket had started to tickle my sixth sense.

  At a loss as to what else to do, it occurred to me that I could tell everything to my close friend Oscar who, as luck would have it, was a police commissioner, and so I called his mobile. When a recorded message informed me that the user was not at that moment available, I tried calling the office directly.

  The receptionist was categorical. “I’m sorry, but Commissioner Franchi is out of the office at the moment. Can I take a message?”

  “Just tell him that Lorenzo Aragona is looking for him.”

  That was that, then – I was going to have to decide for myself. I didn’t want to say anything about the note to anyone, not even Bruno. He would have taken me for mad if he found out that I was willing to listen to a girl who had run away after being knocked down.

  To be honest, I should really have let it go. It was starting to look a lot like some kind of practical joke.

  *

  When Bruno returned, his angular face wore its usual aplomb, and the uncharacteristic concern which I had seen appear in his eyes had vanished.

  “Everything ok? Has anybody been? Anybody phoned?”

  I shook my head. “All quiet. Apparently, when you aren’t here, nothing happens and nobody comes.”

  “Funny – very funny.”

  Bruno sat down at his desk and began to make phone calls and update his files, but I couldn’t keep my agitation in check, and kept getting up and wandering around between the furniture and objects on display in the shop. I had decided that I wouldn’t go to the appointment, yet I couldn’t help but think of the accident, the girl and that phrase: ‘your life depends on it.’

  In any case, once 18:15 came around, I set off for my car. “I’m going home, dear partner, I’ll see you tomorrow. Make sure you do too at some point.”

  “Strange as it might seem to you, somebody does actually have to sort out the paperwork. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I got in and made my way to Piazza dei Martiri, then crossed Via dei Mille and finally took Via del Parco Margherita. I was nearing the intersection with Corso Vittorio Emanuele, when a large black SUV, which was parked on the right side of the road, suddenly pulled out in front of me and started dawdling along. After a few seconds I lost my patience and started beeping the horn, and at that point the SUV stopped altogether.

  “What the hell?!”

  The driver’s side door opened and a woman, dressed all in black with a baseball cap on her head, climbed out and strode over to my window. She leaned over and looked into my eyes.

  It was the girl on the scooter. This time I didn’t even manage to open my mouth. She put a finger to her lips as though to silence me, and quickly placed another piece of paper on the dashboard before returning to her car and driving away.

  I was really starting to get sick of all this.

  I started the engine and, as I drove, unfolded the piece of paper and read the message.

  Go into the garage to the right of the hotel Parker’s, I’ll be waiting for you there. Park next to the black SUV. Do not use your phone. Whatever happens, do not speak for any reason!

  This treasure hunt was beginning to get on my nerves, but I decided to follow the new instructions: I had to talk to this girl in private and find out what the hell she wanted, so I turned into the garage, which was located a few metres from the intersection, took the ticket issued automatically by the machine at the entrance and drove inside. There at the back of the large car park, I saw the big black SUV. I pulled up next to it, turned off the engine and waited a few seconds. Then I heard the door behind me open.

  I started to turn around, but a hand pressed over my mouth paralysed me, preventing me from moving or speaking, and at the same time another hand held up a mobile phone with these words on its screen:

  Don’t speak, you are bugged. I do not want to hurt you. Undress completely and put on the clothes that I will put on the seat beside you.

  At that point I had no choice but to follow the instructions: it occurred to me that there might well be a gun aimed at my head, and the idea didn’t exactly make me feel comfortable.

  With some embarrassment, I changed quickly and waited. Another message on the phone screen gave me further instructions.

  Get out of your car and get straight into the back seat of the SUV.

  I did as she said, and a moment later the driver’s door opened. “We can talk now. But wait a second until I’ve got out of here,” she said in a deep, warm voice which betrayed a slight foreign accent.

  She started the engine, drove over to the exit and put a ticket into the machine, opening the barrier, then set off at speed along Corso Vittorio Emanuele in the direction of Mergellina. The lights of the gulf to our left slipped by quickly on that cold Neapolitan night.

  “We don’t have much time, Mr Aragona. You have no idea how long I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. I’ve been studying your movements for weeks.”

  “Well it’s very kind of you to tell me that, but I should tell you that I am extremely pissed off. What is this, a kidnapping? Is it money you want? What the hell are you after?”

  “Nothing like that. My name is Anna Nikitovna Glyz, I’m Russian. I studied here in Italy, that’s why I speak your language. I can’t tell you much, only the few things I know, but please, take what I tell you seriously.”

  I tried to make out her features in the rear view mirror, but it was too dark and I could only guess at them. She must be very beautiful, though, with slightly wavy blonde hair and those wonderful blue-green eyes.

  She looked into the mirror, then, without preamble, said, “Your life is a lie, Mr Aragona.”

  I laughed.

  “Of course it is!”

  “Listen to me, please – I don’t know how long I can keep them off my tail.”

  “Keep who off your tail? Come on, shall we stop this farce?”

  “I’m not kidding, believe me. Your life is like some kind of TV reality show. Your wife, your partner, your house, your shop. It’s all fake. They are deceiving you.”

  “Who is deceiving me, miss? And who are you?”

  The SUV reached the station of Mergellina, then went on to Piazza
Sannazzaro, circled round the fountain with the statue of Partenope, and returned to Corso Vittorio Emanuele.

  “Listen to me, I have to go. You take the wheel without getting out of the car. They’ll be suspicious, but we can still confuse them. Go back to the garage, leave this car there, pick up yours and change back into your own clothes.”

  “Hang on a second, what do you mean, you’re going? You’re going to leave me here like this? Without any explanation?”

  She parked in front of Mergellina railway station and, before leaving, turned to face me. Yes, she was beautiful – an uncompromising, faultless beauty. Her face was simply perfect, with full, oval lips, defined eyebrows and a straight well-proportioned nose. For a split second I almost forgot the absurd situation in which I found myself.

  “Mr Aragona, is there something you have every day? I mean, something you eat, or drink every day, always at the same time?”

  “There are several—”

  “I mean something unusual – not coffee or your favourite drink. Think about it tonight and find a way not to eat or drink it any more. But don’t let the woman you believe is your wife find out. Behave naturally. I’ll be back.”

  Without giving me time to reply, she opened the door and disappeared in the direction of the station.

  I sat there stunned for a few seconds, trying to take in what she had said.

  Suddenly, I was seized with the feeling that all the passers-by were watching me. It couldn’t be so, I told myself. The idea that the girl could have invented everything struck me again. Maybe she’d just wanted to get rid of a stolen SUV and had come up with this bizarre way of doing it. That thought made me feel even more stressed, so I decided that the best thing to do was to take the car back to the garage as quickly as possible. I slipped into the driver’s seat and headed back to the Parker’s hotel.

  Once there, I picked up my car, changed back into my own clothes and set off quickly toward home. As I drove, however, my tension only increased: how would I act with my wife? What Anna – if that actually was her name – had said would have been enough to shock anyone. How could I go home and pretend that nothing had happened? The fake accident on the scooter, the messages, swapping cars, and the phrase, “Your wife, your partner, your house, your shop. It’s all fake.”