by Martin Rua
“Thank you for the flowers.”
“They weren’t for you, they were for your wife.”
I nodded.
“What are you doing here?”
“Do you still have your old toy with you?”
I did, and I showed it to her. “Here. Take it, I don’t need it anymore, it hasn’t given me any more visions. I have more important things to think about now.”
“Lorenzo—”
“Anna, I don’t want you around here. I don’t care about all that any more, not now. I’m sorry that you’ve come so far just to talk to me, but at the moment I don’t want to think about anything except Àrtemis.”
“Of course, I… I’m sorry.” She paused then and, still looking me in the eyes, asked, “Is she so ill?”
I nodded. “If things don’t improve, she only has weeks to live.”
Anna looked down in silence.
“Thanks for not saying how sorry you are. I can’t stand hearing that any more. Now excuse me, but I have to go back inside. Go home, Anna, go wherever you may be safe, but leave me alone.”
The girl looked up again and her beautiful blue eyes were full of tears. “I don’t know where to go… But you’re right, I won’t bother you again. It’s I who should apologise.”
She handed me back the toy, but I shook my head, so she put it back into her bag and headed for the road. My heart sank as I watched her leave, and I was full of mixed feelings. I was grateful to her for having freed me from my imprisonment, but, idiotically, I also hated her, because from that slavery I had fallen into abject despair. But I didn’t even have the strength to think about her at that moment.
I shook my head and went back inside the clinic.
15
The Mysterious Mr Navarro
Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona
Zurich, January, 2013
Upon my return from a quick lunch the next day, I found more fresh flowers. I looked at Christa.
“The same guy from the flower shop.”
I shook my head sadly.
“Christa, I don’t want that woman wandering around here. She’s not my friend, I hardly know her. She thinks that she’s the niece of an old friend of my grandfather’s and so she’s started sticking her nose into my life, into Àrtemis’s illness… but I don’t want her here and I don’t want her flowers.”
I’d only told my in-laws half the truth. They had more than enough on their plate what with worrying about the Àrt’s illness and my disappearance.
“But she must be really concerned about Àrtemis.”
“Christa, I have reason to believe that girl is—”
“Lorenzo—”
That voice. I heard it so rarely now because of the sedatives.
“Lore—”
There it was again, softly, faintly I heard her call my name. I was already at her bedside when she called out my name the first time. By the second, I was already clutching her hand.
“Hello darling, how are you feeling today?”
Àrt stared for a moment at Anna’s flowers, then looked at me. “Thanks Lore… I love them.”
I felt guilty, and in all honesty would have told her that they weren’t from me this time. But I couldn’t tell her about Anna and all the rest.
When she had first learned of my disappearance, her condition had suddenly worsened. Christa, Mitzos, the doctors, everyone in fact, had feared the worst, because Àrt had stopped eating what little food she had previously managed to swallow between one drip and the next.
Ever since I’d come back, however, the doctor had told me that Àrt seemed to be responding better to the treatment. It seemed that with my return, her desire to fight had increased. Those words ignited in me a glimmer of hope, although the doctor, with great honesty, tried not to encourage any false hopes.
“I’m glad you like them, my love,” I said, deciding to lie, “the flowers are very rare.”
Àrt smiled weakly. “What are you going to read to me today?” she asked, as though she were a little girl waiting to hear a bedtime story.
I smiled and sat down beside the bed. “It depends. Where do you want to travel, my little one?”
Àrt closed her eyes and sighed. “I miss Naples.”
I held back my tears and without hesitation found what I was looking for on my tablet.
Iésce sole / nun te fá chiù suspirá / siénti mai / ca li ffigliole / hanno tanto ra priá…
That afternoon, on Àrtemis’s insistence, I allowed myself a walk through the old part of town. I wandered through the elegant streets of Zurich with vacant eyes and a heavy heart. Like a polar wind, something cold and dry had been blowing through me for weeks.
My wanderings took me to the Fraumünster, one of the oldest churches in the city. I stood in front of the portal, undecided for a few seconds, then went inside, if only to look at the beautiful stained glass windows by Chagall.
The great sandstone nave welcomed me into its peaceful embrace.
Once again I tried to listen to the silence, but found no comfort.
*
“Oh, what the hell am I doing—?” I muttered through clenched teeth.
“You’re talking to Him.”
I turned to my right and saw an old man with a kind expression who I hadn’t noticed until then. A strangely familiar face.
“He must be busy, He’s not answering,” I replied bitterly.
“Are you sure?” he asked, with a sweet smile. “has He always answered straightaway in the past, or does He usually just text you?”
I shook my head. “Look, thank you for trying to comfort me, but I’d rather—”
“I apologise if I disturbed you. I saw that you were in deep pain… I just wanted to make you feel a little better. Please forgive me.”
“Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Are you a priest, perhaps?” I asked bluntly,” because if you are I’d better warn you that, apart from a couple of friends who are priests, I haven’t much respect for your lot.”
The old man shook his head. “No, I’m not a priest. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Antonio Carlos Navarro.”
Astonished, I held out my hand. “Are you Spanish, Mr. Navarro? I’m Lorenzo, Lorenzo Aragona.”
“Your name is hardly a typical Italian one either, is it?”
“My family has Spanish origins, but we have been Neapolitans for generations now.”
“I see. And how is it that you’re in Zurich, señor Aragona? If I’m not being indiscreet, that is.”
By rights, that old man, with his strange white pony tail, his well-cared for goatee and the air of a nineteenth-century adventurer should have made me lose my temper, but for some reason he didn’t. His relaxed, familiar way put me at ease and I couldn’t help but answer honestly.
“My wife is hospitalized at the Institute of oncology.”
“Ah. Nothing good, I imagine, otherwise someone like you wouldn’t be in a church in the centre of Zurich trying to speak to God.”
“Someone like me?”
“I can see it in your face: you aren’t a man of the church. You are someone who seeks the truth in other places.”
With just a few words, the man had described me perfectly. I was taken aback.
“Well observed, señor Navarro, but right now all I’m looking for is comfort. You are right, my wife’s situation is nothing good. They’ve given her a few weeks to live.”
“I understand,” said the old man, who suddenly became very sad. “I have also had to deal with great pain in my life, I have lost many loved ones. Many times I saw them die in front of me and was not able to do anything, except to realise that perhaps I had just given up without a fight.”
That statement, instead of cheering up, annoyed me. “And how exactly does one fight death, señor Navarro?”
Navarro became very serious.
“I will tell you one thing. Ask yourself if you have really done everything in your power to save her, or if you have simply accepted what
the doctor told you.”
I stared at him, unable to refute his words.
“Travel Mr. Aragona, travel. Look for the solution. You still have time, believe me.”
As he spoke those last words, he squeezed my arm in a gesture of affection that transmitted the strength and warmth I so badly needed. He got up, smiled at me, and walked towards the exit.
I sat there stunned and motionless for a few seconds, then, as though awaking from a dream, jumped to my feet.
“It can’t be!”
I turned round and strode quickly to the exit. Once outside I looked left and right, but there was no sign of him. I walked quickly round the church, looking down the streets of the city centre, but there was no trace of the old man. Navarro had disappeared. Him and his face. That same face I was sure I had seen in the visions of a few days before.
Perhaps God had been listening after all.
16
Look For Me, Lorenzo, Look For Me!
Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona
Zurich, January, 2013
When I returned to the hospital, Àrt was resting. Only Mitzos was there to keep her company, and he greeted me with a weary nod. I told him to go, that I would stay with his daughter.
My wife was asleep and so, once left alone, I started thinking about the strange man whose words were still ringing in my ears. I couldn’t believe that it had happened by chance. That man whose face was similar to the one I had seen in my vision was in Zurich, and at what was a hugely dramatic time for me. In the light of the encounter with him, I regretted having left the toy with Anna. The old man had told me that I still had time. But for what? What could I do that some of the best doctors in the world had not yet been able to?
I left Àrt sleeping and walked to the drinks machine. As I passed the lift, I glanced inside, and just as the doors were about to close, my eyes fell on a familiar face.
“What the…? Bloody hell—”
Under the astonished gaze of several nurses, I hurled myself down the stairs, desperate to get there before the lift. I got to the ground floor and waited for the doors to open, and could barely restrain myself from pouncing on her.
“Come out, I need to talk to you.”
Anna looked at me without saying anything, with the expression of someone who knows she has disobeyed a specific request, but also with the knowledge that she had done nothing wrong. I took her by the arm and dragged her briskly outside the institution.
“Anna, you’re driving me insane – part of me wishes you and your flowers would just disappear, but then I meet an old man who seems somehow profoundly involved in this whole mess and I start hoping that you will materialise so that I can get that damn toy from you. And then you actually do!” I blurted out.
Just as Anna was about to answer, I saw Christa, who had been outside taking some air, walking towards us. Anna noticed her too and, taking advantage of my distraction, slipped away towards the parking lot.
“Wait!”
I started to follow her, but Christa had arrived. “Are you alright, Lorenzo?”
“Yes, I… Yes, I’m all right. I’m just going to get some air. You go ahead, I’ll up there soon.”
Alone, I kept staring at the parking lot where Anna had vanished just a moment before. Why the hell had she run away? It occurred to me for the first time that ever since I’d met her, she’d seemed to want to avoid contact with anyone but me. I sighed and put my hands into my jacket pockets to warm them. And jumped with shock when I felt with my right hand brush against something strange – something that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.
It was the Spider-Man toy. Anna must have slipped it into my pocket the moment I was distracted.
I stared at it.
“Come on, old feller, show me those pictures again.”
I kept trying for a few seconds, then put it back in my pocket and returned inside, but when I reached the floor where Àrt’s room was, I noticed a strange commotion in the corridor. Nurses followed by doctors were running into my wife’s room, talking hurriedly to each other, while Christa was in the hallway with her hands over her mouth.
“What’s happened?”
Christa, her eyes full of tears, did not answer. I ran into the room, but was immediately grabbed by two nurses who told me to step outside. Àrt had been put on a stretcher with an oxygen mask over her mouth. They were about to take her away.
*
“Oh my God! What the hell is going on?” I shouted at one of the nurses who was holding me.
“Respiratory failure – stand aside,” muttered Doctor Ganz as he took her away.
I stopped struggling and stood there, frozen, staring at the procession that was rushing towards the operating theatre. I turned to Christa and could do nothing except take her in my arms.
After an hour, the doctor came to speak to us. “Right now the situation is stable, her levels have normalized. But she’s still not completely out of danger.”
“Can we see her?” asked Christa in a faint voice.
“No, madam, I’m sorry. She’s in intensive care. Please be patient. We’re doing everything in our power.”
I walked away without saying a word, left the clinic and crossed the parking lot, walking quickly, then I stopped in the middle of a vacant lot, buffeted by a cold wind. I pulled out the Spider-Man toy and without even thinking about what I was doing, held it up in front of my eyes.
And there it was, at last.
The vision.
Confused images floated in the air, as though in a dream. Buildings and unknown objects like a slow, whirling vortex. Then, from that confusion, some well-defined shapes emerged. I saw men wearing the clothes of another time: priests gathered around a bright object, who gave way to crusaders, and then to men in the uniforms of the Second World War. Finally, one face in particular became clearer – the same face that I’d seen in the first vision, the one which had seemed familiar but which I hadn’t managed to give a name to—
Until that moment.
Navarro.
The old man, wearing a military uniform, walked towards me, and, when he was just a couple of metres from my face, he transformed, and took on the appearance of my grandfather.
Palm upwards, Old Lorenzo Aragona senior raised his right hand, and upon it shone a key engraved with the solar symbol of the circled cross.
“Look for me, Lorenzo, look for me,” murmured my grandfather in the vision.
Slowly the other figures in military uniform gathered around him. Some had young faces, others – perhaps three or four – seemed old. I counted them, and that was the last thing I saw: there were nine of them.
17
The Baphomet Code
From the diary of Lorenzo Aragona
Zurich, January, 2013
Despite my profession being that of an antique dealer, I’ve never limited myself to the everyday business of buying and selling precious objects, and, thanks to my passion for the esoteric, I have often found my hands full of occult artefacts, so it was hard for me to come to terms with such an outlandish phenomenon being caused by a run-of-the-mill, mass-produced plastic toy.
The faces, the colours, the uniforms of World War II, and finally, the figure of Navarro, whose face turned into that of my grandfather – it was all very confusing.
I was just about to go back inside the clinic, when, with what little light was left, I saw a figure staring at me from the other side of the parking lot.
“Well? Did you see them?” asked Anna as I approached her.
I nodded.
“Did you also see the Nine?” she continued.
I gazed at her, stunned, and nodded again.
“And one of them had a key with a symbol of a spoked wheel in the palm of his hand,” concluded the girl.
“How can we possibly both have had the same vision?”
“It isn’t a vision, Lorenzo, it’s a message.”
“That old man I saw a few days ago – Navarro, the one I told y
ou about: he was in the vision. His face turned into my grandfather’s, and then he showed me the key. What does it mean? And what has it got to do with us?”
The girl hesitated.
“You know more than you’re telling me, Anna. Why don’t you explain what’s really going on? You’ve travelled so far to find me.”
Anna’s face grew gloomy, while I waited with trepidation for the answers I so desperately needed.
“My grandfather was killed, Lorenzo. I didn’t tell you before. He saw something during the Second World War – and many years later, that same something killed him.”
“And what was this something?”
Anna pulled a battered looking volume out of her bag.
“This is the book that I found in Konstantin’s package. I was waiting for the right moment to show it to you.”
I read the title, which was in English, of the little old book: The Baphomet Code. Vol. I. Edited by Vladimir Afanas’evič Glyz.
“The Baphomet Code, Volume I. Do you think that the answer to our questions is here?”
“I’ve asked myself that question many times, Lorenzo. Read the page where there’s the bookmark,” said Anna, gesturing to the volume.
In this fragment of the Chaldean Oracles, a text which has never previously been published and which is impossible to find, but which by a series of fortunate coincidences we have gained access to, we will speak about the so-called idol of Gilgamesh, which became known in the West as Baphomet, a mangling of the original Arabic name Abufihamat which means ’Father of the Unknown’. Through the idol it is possible to acquire the power to evoke The Guardian of the Threshold – the Father of the Unknown – and bend it to one’s will, forcing it to grant a wish. It is, in hindsight, the same well-known figure which we find in dozens of legends and fairy tales. The Guardian of the Threshold has indeed taken many forms over the millennia: it was Bes, the deformed guardian of the temples of Egypt, the Dvarapala Buddhist god Janus and, in literature, the dark entities evoked in the novel Zanoni.
In the Chaldean source we have studied, it is argued that the Guardian is a genie – an entity somewhere between a living being and a product of the mind – created by Chaldean magicians using their psychic powers, channelling those metaphysical energies which permeate the world, evoking the higher beings living among us and giving them shape.