Naples, 17th of June, 20:00
Four days before the summer solstice
“To the Glory of the Great Architect of the Universe, I declare this meeting of the respectable lodge of the name Silver Shadow open. Brothers, take your places!”
Our little Masonic temple – soberly decorated with images of the signs of the zodiac, two columns at the western entrance and a small altar with the Jewish menorah – was housed in a suitably small apartment in Palazzo Sansevero. The three gavel strokes which opened the meeting sounded, and there was the faint sound of the brothers taking their seats along the two longer walls of the room. Twelve brothers of the Silver Shadow Lodge had answered my call and were now waiting to hear how they might be of assistance in my hour of need. Carlo Sangiacomo, who sat before me in the place of the Senior Warden, was ready to back me up, while Oscar, who had come directly from police headquarters and was sitting to my right, would be able to fill in some gaps in his role as Orator.
“Brothers, thank you for coming despite such short notice,” he began. “I know of your commitments, both professional and to your families, and I would never have dreamed of disturbing you without a good reason.”
A hand rose immediately in the row of chairs to my left, the so-called South Column. Memmo Capogrosso, one of the masters of the lodge, was asking to speak.
“Please, brother Memmo.”
Memmo, his nearly two metres tall frame crowned with jet black hair, stood up. “Worshipful Master, first of all allow me to present the justifications of the other eight brothers who were unable to come. Half of them are out of Naples for work and the other four were unable to free themselves from prior commitments, but all are anxious for you and your wife and ready to help. The second thing I wish to say is that there is no need for you to justify yourself. I have spoken.”
We all smiled. Despite the desperately serious reason for my having called the meeting, Memmo had managed to ease the tension slightly. That was important – it put us in the right frame of mind.
“Thank you, Memmo. Thank you all, present and absent, from the bottom of my heart. But now let me tell you about the situation in more detail and explain how you can be helpful to Oscar and myself.”
I quickly ran through the events which, from their beginnings in Prague, had brought me to that unexpected meeting in our small but beautiful temple, where our lodge – independent and therefore not linked to any national Masonic organisation – welcomed any brother mason who wished to take part in our work as a visitor. In a small apartment which we had first rented more than fifteen years ago, along with the late Maestro Matteo Rinaldi, we had also set up an alchemical laboratory – small but certainly better equipped than the one I had at home. There he had created the ruby of which Sansevero had spoken in the letters.
When I had finished, and answered a few questions from the brothers to clarify obscure points of the story, Memmo spoke once again.
“Brother Worshipful Master, I am at your complete disposal in so far as I can be useful. Tonight I will light the oven and get to work in the lab.”
Memmo was a chemist in charge of the quality control department of a large solvents and paints manufacturer. For him, the study of alchemy had been almost a natural progression.
Another hand went up – that of Luca Bellinfante. Luca was an advertising executive and often collaborated with my brother Alex’s events agency.
“I volunteer to help Memmo – like him I have also I taken a few days off,” were his encouraging words. At the end of the meeting I had at my disposal two small working groups: taking it in shifts and supervised by myself, Memmo and Luca would attempt to recreate the Sansevero artificial gem while Massimiliano Lupo and Vito di Gennaro would help Carlo and I with the documents. To the first, I also revealed what the four ingredients which Carlo and I had discovered on the facade of the church of Gesù Nuovo were and explained the prince’s instructions for creating the gem. The rest of the lodge was still ready to intervene if necessary.
“I am so lucky to have brothers like you – our Master Rinaldi would be proud,” I said in an emotional voice at the end of the meeting. The memory of Matteo was still alive in all of us and whenever we did anything important, our thoughts flew immediately to him.
After making arrangements with Oscar to meet the next morning at his office, I wished them all farewell in front of Picchiatti’s spectacular door for Saint Caterina a Formiello and headed for the garage in one of the alleys between Via dei Tribunali and the Sant’Aniello CapoNaples area where I had left the car. As I headed off down Via Nilo, deserted at that late hour, I saw a child a few yards ahead of me. Small and thin and clad in dark shorts and a white T-shirt, he looked to be about seven or eight and had every appearance of being one of those sly street urchins common in the poorer parts of Naples. He was standing there, staring at me as though awaiting me.
When I was only a few metres away from him he began walking towards me. I was all too familiar with the habits of the street children and if that little rascal was still staring at me intensely it didn’t bode well. I was wary, and when he blocked my way I made an inquiring gesture with my head.
“So? What d’you want, child?”
There was an ominous, almost magnetic look in his eyes, as though he was trying to peer right through me. No, this was not just some street child – there was definitely something odd about him.
“You’ve to go to the Janara,” he said in a flat, emotionless voice, before slowly retracing his steps towards Via dei Tribunali.
“Excuse me?”
He stopped and turned round. “To the Janara. The professor always went.”
“What professor?”
“Professor Rinaldi.”
Hearing that name startled me. It couldn’t be. Who was this child who had appeared out of nowhere and spoke of my old teacher who had died ten years ago? And who was this Janara? Matteo had never spoken to me of visiting a witch.
“Come on, I’ll take you to the Janara.”
What could I do? Even though it seemed insane, I followed him. We took Via dei Tribunali, still busy despite the hour, then Via Atri, which, on the contrary, was dark and empty. My little Virgil continued for another hundred yards and then stopped at the door of a seventeenth century palazzo that must once have been beautiful. The boy turned to me and, with the same blank look, gestured with one of his skinny little arms at the interior of the building.
“The Janara’s in there.”
I looked in at the dark courtyard dominated by a huge and unexpected ‘falcon wing’ staircase, typical of buildings designed by Ferdinando Sanfelice and his followers. All around the courtyard there were the doors of rooms used as storerooms or warehouses. There was, however, one that looked for all the world like the entrance to a basso – those little proletarian ground floor dwellings which dotted the palazzos in the centre of Naples.
“In that door?” I asked the boy, still looking around the yard. I received no reply and turned round. There was no one there – my little guide had disappeared into thin air.
I looked towards the end of Via Atri and towards Via dei Tribunali, where the evening crowds still walked, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. He had disappeared.
Like a munaciello, the infant monk of Neapolitan legend.
I shook my head and went into the courtyard. What had I to lose?
Following my instinct I headed for what I had identified as the basso. On the door was a faded brass plate which bore only one name: Sofia. As there was no bell, I knocked.
“What am I doing?” I thought, regretting having done it instantly. “It’s already late and whoever it is might be sleeping.”
“It’s open,” intoned a voice from within, inviting me inside.
When I crossed the threshold I found myself in another world. A world of legend and myth, of love potions and curses, the evil eye and of the remedy for the evil eye. The room that loomed up before me was shrouded in gloom, numerous candles set here and there provided the only source of light. The most disturbing things were the objects dangling from the ceiling: crow’s feet tied to chilli pepper twigs, headless rag dolls, mummified black roosters, five-pointed stars, Allah’s eye, a myriad of crosses. On the walls were shelves overflowing with glass or clay jars, piles of herbs, figurines of every possible deity from the Virgin Mary and Buddha to Shiva and Manitou, and old tomes eaten by bookworms. And the whole thing was drenched with a powerful smell of incense.
“May I?” I whispered, closing the door behind me.
At the entrance there was a small table draped in a red cloth with a pentagram at its centre and a chair. I imagined that I should sit down, so I did. Behind the table was a large dark curtain which divided into two parts what appeared to be a single room, perhaps separating that picturesque entrance from the rest of the house. After a moment, the curtain moved aside and a woman appeared.
I was paralysed, shaken by a vortex of contrasting emotions.
I had been expecting some ugly, fat old hag with the eyes of a witch, but instead I found myself before one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.
Excluding Àrtemis.
In fact, the young woman, who looked to be no more than thirty, reminded me a little of my wife, with her long, black, wavy hair pulled up from her forehead by a wide band, bright, profound eyes that glittered with bewitching golden sparks, extraordinarily fleshy red lips and a perfect nose. And even though she wore loose clothes, I could sense that beneath them was a body on a par with that face. Everything one imagines at the phrase ‘Mediterranean beauty’ was concentrated in that woman.
“H… Hello,” I said, trying to shake off my shock and getting to my feet out of politeness.
“Stay seated,” she said in a warm, almost sing-song voice and without looking at me. It was not an invitation, it was a command.
The woman took the chair on the opposite side of the table and without saying a word, took out a tarot deck and began to arrange the cards on the table.
“Listen, I think…” I began, trying to stop her – but it was useless.
“You think nothing and you know nothing,” she said, interrupting me and continuing to arrange the cards slowly, her slender hands moving as if they were embroidering. After a moment of silence she looked up, and my heart leapt – those eyes were capable of pulverising any shred of resolve I had left. Frankly, I feared that I would do whatever she asked, trembling at the thought, but also unable to resist.
I tried in any case to regain control of myself and asked, “Y-you’re the Janara?”
The scarlet rose she had in place of lips broke into a slight smile, revealing perfect teeth and annihilating what was left of my willpower.
“That’s what they call me – but for you I am Sofia.”
“All right, Sofia… look, I followed a child who brought me here and…”
“What child?” she asked calmly, continuing to lay out the cards.
“I don’t know, a little lad… he guided me all the way here, he said that I should come to you.”
“Sorry, I don’t have any assistants, little lads or otherwise.”
I sat watching her in silence for a few seconds. Was she making fun of me? I gave up trying to understand.
“All right, never mind. The child told me that Professor Rinaldi used to consult you, that he always came to see you. Did he mean Matteo Rinaldi?”
Upon hearing Matteo’s name, Sofia smiled again, dreamily. “‘He was a good person, Professor Rinaldi. He knew things that can’t be spoken of.”
“Things… What things? You can tell me, I am… I was one of his dearest friends.”
“I know. You are Lorenzo Aragona,” she said, looking up.
I swallowed hard, unable to ask how she knew my name. It would have been pointless.
“The professor used to talk about the people he was closest to a lot.”
“Did he talk to you about me? What did he tell you?”
“That one day you’d come and that I had to give you something he left with me. But first I want to read your fortune.”
“Something for me…” I murmured, slumping down into my chair.
“Death!” said Sofia, after a moment of silence, holding out a card. I was startled – she had certainly obtained the desired effect of capturing my attention.
“Death is around the corner, but you can stop it, you can save the people you love. You will discover a big old building with a treasure in it. But don’t expect gold and diamonds. Search for the treasure far from sight, but watch yourself: in this story, friends will become enemies…” She was silent for a moment, then, putting the cards back into the deck, she spoke again, still without looking at me.
“When it’s all over, come back to me. You can go now.”
I hesitated. I hadn’t expected to be dismissed quite like that.
Sofia stood up, walked over to a shelf, took an object from inside a clay jar and came over to me, holding it out. It was a large old blackened bronze key. The face of the Janara was now only a few inches from mine, and I could feel her breath. Her eyes bored into mine one last time, immobilising me, and a devilish smile of the age-old wisdom that had been handed down from the priestesses of Diana to the Djanares or Janares of today appeared on her sensual lips. The same lips that a moment later brushed mine and then moving slowly to my right ear, whispered, “Alma Brin has the lock…”
I heard those words with my eyes closed, and when I opened them I found myself in the middle of the courtyard, sweating and panting. My head was spinning and I did not understand how I had got there from the Sibyl’s den. Or maybe… maybe I’d never really been there at all. The cool night air rapidly blew away the fumes of that enchantment. I turned to look at the basso, but the old wooden door with the ‘Sofia’ nameplate was gone. In its place were three rotten wooden planks, held in place by another two nailed across them in an X.
“What does it mean…?” I murmured.
Resigned to often being a witness to unexplained events, I stood there for a moment more staring at that cobbled together door, then turned to leave, convinced I was hallucinating. After a few steps, however, I stopped abruptly. I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket and took out the bronze key. I looked at it, completely unable to explain how it could actually be there, in my hand. Hallucinations don’t make objects materialise.
In that moment, Sofia’s final words returned to my mind, and I smiled.
“Alma Brin has the lock.”