Naples, the last days of spring, 09:30
The next morning we went to the police station where, after chatting briefly to the assistant chief, we met Oscar. My friend hugged me warmly then shook Andrea’s hand, accompanying the gesture with a smile, and we went into the office that he had placed at our disposal. It was already quite warm in Naples, and a lovely summer seemed to be on the way. We opened the windows and after a few minutes, during which Andrea summarized her extensive professional curriculum, we got down to business and explained what had happened in Prague just two days before.
“I’ll refrain from commenting, as I generally do, on the events involving my friend here, dear Andrea. If I know Àrtemis, she will already have told him not to leave the house for a while. Maybe I should confiscate his passport too…” muttered Oscar, after listening to our account of events. He smiled at his sarcasm, though I was beginning to feel worried. If everyone thought that I was a magnet for bad luck, maybe I was.
“All right,” I said, “now that you’ve had your fun, what do you think we should do?”
Oscar moved the tuft of white hair from his forehead, a gesture he always made when he was nervous or trying to focus, pulled out a notebook and began drawing a diagram with arrows which linked various aspects of the story, commenting as he did so on the information at our disposal.
“So, we have the theft of a rare watch with Egyptian symbols engraved on it created by a person of the immense renown of the Prince of Sansevero, which leads to the murder of a Prague shopkeeper. Then we have a message written in the victim’s blood on the wall of his shop – the same one as that printed on the envelope that was sent to you. Have I missed anything? Ah, yes, on the corpse there were fourteen stab wounds, and you, Lorenzo, think that is a reference to the myth of Osiris, dismembered by his brother Seth.”
Oscar stood for a few seconds looking at his diagram.
“Let’s forget the watch for now, we don’t know if the theft and murder are connected,” he continued. “The most disturbing thing is that the murder and the envelope which contained the theatre tickets, in addition to the acronym, also share a symbol resembling an Egyptian god or something similar. It seems to me that there’s no doubt about it – the murderers are inviting you to go to the theatre.”
“I agree,” said Andrea. “I’d thought of a sect of kemetists or something like that, trafficking in works of art, who lost their heads and killed Hašek.”
“Kemetists…” mused Oscar, “I’m not really an expert in the field – it’s a neo-pagan religion, right?"
“Exactly. To my knowledge, they never commit crimes, though.”
“I’m not saying that they’re criminals,” clarified Andrea, “but it’s possible that one of them went rogue and instead of addressing his prayers to Isis addressed his knife to Vladislav Hašek’s throat.”
Oscar thought for a moment, then put his notebook down on the table and rubbed his eyes. “All right, it seems to me that Lorenzo should go to the premiere of The Magic Flute at the Royal Philharmonic Club at the San Carlo in two days time, and you go with him, Andrea, along with a couple of my men. I’ll arrange it so that you can also go to the reception that will follow. You’ll have to be the bait, but with all those people around, it shouldn’t be too dangerous.”
After the meeting with Oscar, Andrea went to the office of the SCIP – the International Police Co-operation Service, which co-ordinates the activities of Interpol in Italy – to legitimize her involvement in the investigation. I stayed with my friend for a while to discuss the ‘esoteric’ part of the story in more detail. Oscar was not just a policeman, he was an initiate like me. I revealed, among other things, that Hašek was in fact the great Basile Cobalière. I had already shown him, in the presence of Andrea, the bag and the two sheets of correspondence from de Sangro to Saint-Germain which he was now holding thoughtfully in his hands. He too had disapproved of the fact that I had hidden them from the Prague police, but in front of Andrea had only given me a scolding. Now we were alone, he really gave me a dressing down.
“You’re incredible, Lorenzo. If you weren’t the Worshipful Master of the lodge to which I belong, I’d spank you like a child. How is it that you always manage to commit this kind of indiscretion?”
I pulled out my phone and, after finding Hašek’s email, I handed it to him. “Read it again and try for a moment to put yourself in my shoes – and not as a policeman. What would you have done?”
Oscar re-read the last, dramatic message of the great alchemist of Prague, then put the phone on the coffee table in front of him and sighed.
“What do you think this substance is? And what idea did you get from the manuscript?”
I shrugged. “I'll try to analyse the contents of the vial and the manuscript today – maybe there’s someone who can help me figure it out.”
*
After arranging to meet Andrea again in the afternoon, I headed for the old town where I met someone very special. As I climbed the Calata Trinita Maggiore, the spire of the Immacolata in the centre of Piazza del Gesù Nuovo welcomed me. Every time I went to that part of the city, I thought of how, since the sacrifice of the siren Partenophe, the supernatural in Naples had never been considered folklore but had always been an integral part of the city’s daily life. Those who live there, walking through the alleys and decumans, feel its pulse: Naples generates an almost palpable energy – an energy that gave life to the esoteric schools and to legendary characters like Raimondo de Sangro.
Immersed in these thoughts, I crossed the square, glancing at the facade of the Gesù Nuovo, then climbed up Via San Sebastiano. I arrived in Piazza Bellini and sat down in one of the literary cafés that looked out over the ancient Greek walls which were visible two metres below the modern street level.
I waited for a few minutes sipping a glass of cool, fragrant falanghina until I saw the slim figure of the person I was waiting for in the distance.
“So, how's my favourite alchemist?” he said with a big smile, embracing me affectionately.
“Coming from you that’s a real compliment, Michele.”
Sneakers, jeans, a polo shirt, a pair of sunglasses that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Johnny Depp, flowing brown hair and a whiff of the Neapolitan bourgeoisie: no one would have thought that young man was actually a descendant of one the most unique characters of eighteenth century Naples. Just as no one would have realised how intelligent he was, what profound knowledge of the history of his family he possessed nor how much of an expert he was in ancient books.
Michele de Sangro sat across from me and called the waiter over. “What are you drinking?” he asked, then, without giving me time to answer, raised his hand. “No, wait, don’t tell me. Whatever it is, I want the same. I trust the tastes of Lorenzo Aragona.”
“You’re making fun of me, as usual.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Yes, sir?” asked the waiter, who had just arrived.
“I’ll have the same as the gentleman and please do not accept any money from him – he is my guest.”
The waiter smiled and walked away. Michele looked at me and raised his hand again. All of his gestures were filled with conviction, and when he made his mind up there was no changing it.
“Don’t complain,” he resumed, “you are in my neck of the woods so it’s my treat.”
“"All right, all right,” I agreed, without another word.
“Well,” said Michele, settling into his chair and taking off his sunglasses, “How can I help you?”
As was his habit, he wanted to get right down to business. He didn’t need pleasantries when he was in the presence of true friends and just as he was willing to do anything to help them, he would not hesitate for a moment to mercilessly point out their mistakes. He was crystal clear, sincere and perhaps a little too blunt, but he certainly wasn’t ambiguous. For him, things were either black or white, and he was rarely wrong in his classifications.
Adapting myself to his style, I immediately took out the contents of the packet I had received in Prague and laid them on the table. Michele leaned forward slowly and with a single glance recognized the handwriting on the sheets. His cocky expression turned to surprise.
“Where the hell did you find them?”
Meanwhile his wine had arrived and without taking his eyes off me, he took a sip almost without realising it.
“They were given to me in Prague. They are part of a correspondence between the Prince of Sansevero and the Count Saint-Germain. The previous owner received them from a mysterious Italian alchemist who in turn had bought them in a flea market in Paris.”
Michele touched the papers with almost religious respect, his eyes sparkling. “I was sure that some correspondence between the two existed somewhere. Where’s the rest?”
“Stolen.”
Michele’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“What? By who?”
“Maybe by the same people who killed the previous owner.”
My friend went white, then smiled nervously and took another sip of wine.
“Ah. It’s getting interesting.”
“Yes – interesting and dangerous. The police are investigating, and I’m already embroiled in it up to my neck.”
He shook his head and continued to look at the sheets. “Unbelievable… But what can I do for you?”
I took the two sheets, put one on top of the other and held them out to him again.
“Look at them against the light.”
We were sitting under a large umbrella and Michele jumped up and lifted the sheets towards the light of the sun, repeating, “Unbelievable.” He remained motionless for a few seconds, then returned to the table. “It’s a message from the Prince! This is incredible! How did you find out?”
“By chance, but that’s beside the point. The geographical indication, Parthenope, is very precise, but I don’t know how to read the rest: PH. and those numbers after it, III, II, 3.”
Michele smiled. “You were right to ask me, because to my eye it’s as clear as day. It refers to the placement of a book in the library of the Apartment of the Phoenix in the Sansevero building, where Raimondo de Sangro kept his most precious books and scientific curiosities.”
I shook my head, confused and suddenly demoralised.
“But that apartment and all its books no longer exists.”
Michele smiled again. “To be precise, the apartment itself no longer exists, but the books do. I know the person who owns the entire library and is familiar with the exact original location of the volumes on the shelves.”
I regained heart.
“Really? And who is this person?”
“Why, he’s sitting right in front of you!”