Naples, 19th of June, 09:30
Two days before the summer solstice
I met Carlo the next day in front of the entrance to the cathedral which contains the Chapel of the Treasure of San Gennaro. With me were Alex and Andrea. They seemed to be getting pretty close and since, following the departure of my in-laws, I had suggested to the Interpol inspector that she leave the bed & breakfast and stay with us, that devil Alex now had her constantly at hand. Or at least until he went back to Tuscany for business.
The day was clear and warm, ideal for cooling off for a few minutes inside the cathedral. Carlo greeted my brother warmly and introduced himself to Andrea.
“Inspector Kominkova is following the investigation on behalf of Interpol and the Czech police,” I told him.
Carlo shook her hand warmly, then led the way to the portal decorated with sculptures by Tino da Camaino. Before entering, I looked at the facade designed by Enrico Alvino in the late nineteenth century, and felt a melancholy smile appear for a moment on my lips. I remembered my friend and partner Bruno von Alten who, snob that he was, used to turn his face the other way when he was forced to go down Via Duomo.
“The sight of that neo-gothic abomination disturbs me to the depths of my soul,” he used to say.
I sighed and smiled at the thought of him. I missed his company.
We entered the Duomo, the cathedral built by Charles II and completed between 1313 and 1314, when it already had behind it a history of nearly a thousand years.
Carlo headed without hesitation toward the right aisle, where the elaborate Chapel of Treasure of San Gennaro was.
“When I realized that the ‘shrine’ might be this chapel, I started digging through my memories of my university days to try and find the meaning of the poem,” he said, stopping in front of the massive gate designed by Cosimo Fanzago.
“Before you continue,” I interrupted, as I admired the bust containing the skull of St. Gennaro to the left of the main altar, “I’d like to point out to you one not insignificant detail that we have been taking for granted.”
“Which is?”
“The rubedo stone which is changed into a stream by our art. Do you realise the implications of this verse?”
“Certainly, and we should dedicate thorough study to it when all this is over.”
“Why don’t you explain it to us mere mortals?” interjected Alex.
“The Prince of Sansevero hints that the rubedo stone – the dried blood of St Gennaro – transmutes into a stream, meaning that it melts through the work of ‘our art’, which is alchemy. He is basically saying that it’s not blood, but some alchemical compound. The prince had actually reproduced a substance which mimicked the behaviour of the blood of San Gennaro, hardening and liquefying in a very similar manner. They weren’t very impressed at the time and Sansevero was expelled by the Deputation of the Chapel of the Treasury for having questioned the miracle itself in the Lettera Apologetica. The poem in our possession confirms his belief that it was not real blood.”
“Exactly,” said Carlo, nodding, “but the reference to the blood of San Gennaro served only to bring us here to the chapel – here in front of the gate to be precise.”
I touched the massive bronze gate and stared at my friend.
“The ‘ser of Clauso’ is Cosimo Fanzago,” said Carlo. “He was born in 1591 in Clusone, a town in the province of Bergamo called Clausus in Roman times. The ‘cloistered’ mentioned in the poem has nothing to do with Fanzago locking himself up in a convent – it refers to the gate, the ‘closure’ of the Chapel of the Treasure of San Gennaro, which was designed by Fanzago himself. When I realized the reference, I put two and two together and it all made perfect sense. When his father died, Cosimo Fanzago moved to Naples to study sculpture. He did a lot of work here, including this gate. From design to completion it took forty years.”
I nodded, repeating the poem. “‘The Divo waited forty springs…’”
“Of course, the Divo in question is Saint Gennaro,” said Carlo, indicating the bust of the saint atop the gate. “The last and most obscure part remains, however ‘Tocare le sue canne è tuo dovere, / Tal quale l’instrumento per le messe’. It is curious that ‘touch’ is spelled with one ‘C’.”
“I tried to understand why as well, but couldn’t find an explanation.”
Carlo smiled and pointed a finger at my chest. “Because you, Lorenzo, never had a bloody minded professor of baroque architecture like mine – Professor Renato Esposito, God rest his soul. Look here.”
Carlo walked up to the gate and ran his knuckles across the vertical columns, producing a series of sounds.
“My God…” whispered Alex incredulously, “it’s like a musical instrument… Like a music box!”
Carlo nodded and smiled triumphantly. “Tocare is not an error made by the prince, and it doesn’t mean ‘touch’. It means ‘play’ – in Spanish. Fanzago devised the gate in such a way that the columns could produce sounds, as though to remind us that this chapel was also designed for music. According to the poem, your duty is to play the reeds of the gate. To what end, though, I wouldn’t know.”
I laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a genius! You’ve found the instrument that will play the numerical sequence from the Sansevero Chapel!”
Carlo raised an eyebrow. “You think that’s what it is?”
“There’s no doubt about it. The numbers correspond to the vertical columns and the letter ‘S’ indicates the direction from which to start – that is, from the left.”
I pulled out the slip of paper upon which I had written the sequence and began to gently tap the columns. It must have been something that tourists who were aware of the peculiarities of the gate did occasionally, for the woman supervising the inside of the chapel looked at me in vague annoyance.
“So: three, two… four… three…”
I reproduced the melody a few times with gradually increasing confidence, but nothing happened.
“How strange…” I murmured.
“What did you expect – San Gennaro to appear and reveal to you the secret you’re seeking?” asked Alex, as sarcastic as ever.
Andrea laughed, then – still smiling – said, “Perhaps you have to learn this melody and use it later, in the continuation of the search.”
“Hmm, maybe you’re right.”
“But… it sounds familiar to me, that sequence of notes,” said Andrea shortly and began to hum. After a few seconds, she nodded. “Yes, as I thought. I know it! It’s the beginning of a Mozart sonata.”
Our eyes were now focused on the Interpol inspector, who was revealing hidden talents. She looked at us in surprise and blushed. “What? In Prague, Mozart has been a kind of divinity ever since Don Giovanni debuted there in the Estates Theatre in 1787. There are performances of Mozart operas every day. He is also one of my favourite musicians, I’ve been listening to him since I was a little girl.”
This news about Andrea’s musical taste was another cross on the heart of Alex, who looked decidedly enamoured of the young policewoman.
Andrea closed her eyes and began to hum the melody. Then after a moment, she opened them again and held up a finger. “I’ve got it! Sonata No. 1 in C major – K 279. I’d bet my life on it.”
I stood looking at her in admiration, then turned my head to the bust of San Gennaro to thank him respectfully, pulled out the smartphone and said. “Let’s go outside and listen to it, quickly.”
We left the cathedral and stood in the churchyard. Andrea, Carlo and Alex crowded around me while I looked for the sonata in question on YouTube. I found a beautiful version performed by Glenn Gould.
After the first few bars of the first part, Allegro, I paused it and looked at the others.
“What did I tell you? That’s it,” said Andrea. But a shadow of doubt appeared on my face.
“What is it Lorenzo – aren’t you convinced?” asked Alex. I quickly Googled it.
“It says here that the sonata was composed in 1774.”
“So?” asked Alex, still not understanding.
“The Prince of Sansevero died in 1771.”
We looked at one another in disappointment, thinking that we must have got it wrong.
Andrea rubbed her forehead. “But how could he have known, if Mozart wrote it three years after his death?”
While my three friends furrowed their brows and attempted to find an answer, I frantically scanned various websites in search of more information.
“Listen to this: ‘The Piano Sonata K 279 was written by Mozart in 1774. The composition consists of three movements, Allegro, Andante, Allegro, the first of which, however, seems to be the re-working of a previous work by the Austrian composer’.”
“So you think the Prince of Sansevero had the opportunity to listen to the previous version of the Allegro before his death?” asked Carlo.
“I’ll tell you more, now that I think about it – Mozart was in Naples for a month and a half in 1770, just a few months before Raimondo de Sandro died.”
“They could have met,” suggested Andrea.
“Why not?” I said, holding my hands up. Carlo thought for a moment. “That makes sense – and in any case, there’s no doubt about it, that is precisely the melody played by striking Cosimo Fanzago’s gate.”
Raimondo de Sangro, the Comte de Saint-Germain and now Mozart. Three personages of huge importance in their time, each in his own sphere, a genius. And above all, three Masons. Three initiates. I was accumulating material for Asar, but I was suddenly struck by the suspicion that I now wanted to find out the secret for myself. And to realise the last, great work of Matteo Rinaldi. The one he had left unfinished. And which had, perhaps, cost him his life.