Naples, 18th of June, 17:30
Three days to the summer solstice
We left the chapel and went our separate ways. I promised Michele that I would inform him as soon as I figured out what that code meant. He could barely believe that he had possessed the Peregrino Neapolitano for so many years without ever guessing what was really hidden in its pages. But now he wanted to go all the way. Once again, I fervently hoped that I would be able to retrieve the book.
I returned to Palazzo Sansevero and found Memmo Capogrosso and Luca Bellinfante in the laboratory.
“Ah, hi Lorenzo,” said Memmo, with his usual seraphic calm. “We’ve just arrived and we are going to start cooking the compound.”
“I was about to do the same thing.”
Memmo noticed the pensive and worried expression on my face. “Have you read our messages? We’ve been looking for you for quite a while. What’s been going on?”
“Maybe another murder, brother,” I said with a sigh.
“What? Are you serious?” asked Memmo, with a frown. I nodded.
“Let’s not think about it for now – let’s get on with that,” I said, pointing to the glass containers.
“All right. We need only add the boiled dew, as I said in the message…”
I noticed that Luca had picked up the vessel containing that salt which was so important in alchemical operations and, as it is prepared in the spring, is often called boiled dew. At that moment I remembered the words of the last letter Hašek had sent to Matteo before my master died, warning him not to use the dew that Matteo and his lodge generally used but to wait for Hašek to give him the one he had prepared. Matteo hadn’t had time to do it, but maybe I did.
I felt inside my jacket and pulled out the small vial which Riccardo had given me in Prague and which I now always carried with me. I looked at it for a moment. That must be Hašek’s boiled dew. I handed it to Luca, who looked at me in amazement.
“This is the one you have to use – in the same proportions.”
With the addition of Hašek’s secret ingredient, we performed all the operations necessary, producing a vitreous paste with a dark red hue. When we had finished we placed part of it in a mould and allowed it to cool.
I thanked Memmo and Luca for their co-operation, and told them they could go home. I had already taken too much advantage of their kindness. Memmo put his hand on my shoulder. “Lorenzo, you would have done the same, and even more. So don’t thank us, and above all don’t apologise. Call us later to let us know if the stone has turned out well.”
While the ruby solidified, I concentrated on the last piece of the Peregrino Neapolitano that Carlo had copied. It was another poem, certainly more complex than the one which had taken me to the Sansevero Chapel:
De’ la bianchezza vincitor sagace,
Entrare puoi tu ora nel sacello,
Lì dove di rubedo pietra giace,
C’Arte nostra mutare fa in ruscello.
Il Divo attese quaranta primavere,
Che ’l ser da Clauso clausur facesse.
Tocare le sue canne è tuo dovere,
Tal quale l’instrumento per le messe.11
It seemed evident that the poem followed the one which had led me to the chapel. You could tell from that ‘de’ la bianchezza vincitor sagace’ with which the author – the prince – took it for granted that the initiate had managed to accomplish the ‘whiteness’ – the albedo, the second step of alchemy – with the clue found in the ark beneath the altar. It appeared clear from the reference to rubedo, the third and final passage of the work of alchemy, that the prince was referring to a stone: perhaps the ruby that the initiate – the‘pilgrim’ – should already have made at that point.
I looked at the cooling gem and thought of Matteo and the wisdom he had shown despite lacking the detailed knowledge contained in the Peregrino Neapolitano. He had guessed – perhaps by reading all of the de Sangro to-Saint-Germain correspondence – the way forward. He had easily identified Notre-Dame de Chartres and had gone even further, tracing the layout on that photo of the floor. I couldn’t understand why he had done it, but I smiled at the thought that perhaps I had surpassed even my master by deciphering the clue which had brought me to the Peregrino Neapolitano. I realised too that even this last poem probably referred to information that neither Matteo nor Vladislav Hašek had been able to obtain, lacking as they did the opportunity to consult the prince’s text.
But now I had to interpret it, and it didn’t look as though it would be easy. I began re-formulating the various pieces of which it was made up in more modern terms. I wrote:
You who have found by cunning the clue of the albedo can now enter the shrine… which is in the temple. This temple houses the rubedo stone, a stone obtained alchemically during the third phase of the work. Or perhaps a red stone, rubedo colour.
I re-read my version and, although it was not yet clear, it seemed convincing. I went on.
Our art, which might be alchemy, can change this rubedo stone into a stream.
“What does that mean?” I thought, re-reading my notes. “What can change a stone into a stream?”
It was certainly symbolic and probably alchemical in meaning. I continued to write down the poetry in simpler terms.
The Divo waited forty springs, that is forty years. Divo in Latin is divine, holy. It might mean a saint. The saint waited forty years for the Ser – the lord – from Clauso to be cloistered. Tocare… perhaps it means touch… touch his reeds as a tool for the mass/harvest is your duty.
It was useless – the second part didn’t make sense. Who was this saint who had waited four decades for someone from Clauso to be cloistered? And what instrument with reeds did you have to touch? Perhaps an organ? And where? And anyway, you don’t play an organ by touching the reeds.
Exhausted, I put my head in my hands, put aside the poetry and, so as not to go crazy, turned my attention back to the ruby. Finally it had cooled. I picked it up gently and held it up to the light of one of the laboratory lamps. It lit up the room with an intense red glow, as though there were an LED inside it, but the beautiful gem with unique physical characteristics cast no light whatsoever on the secret.
I looked at the time: 19:30. The pressure of that day – which still stretched out long ahead of me – weighed heavily, and I decided that it was time to go home.
I switched everything off and closed the door, but as I was descending the stairs my phone rang. Unknown number.
It could only be Asar. Finally.
11Sagacious victor of the whiteness / You may now enter in the chapel / there where the red stone lies / Our art turns it into a stream / The Divo waited forty springs / for the Ser from Clauso to have himself closed / It is your duty to touch its reeds / which are the same as the instruments for the mass.