Ring of Fire (7 page)

“The lights are out in Trastevere,” the woman replies. “And in the Parioli and Esquilino districts, too. But in some places, nothing happened.”

“It’s all because of that blasted underpass,” grumbles the man, who then launches into a harsh assessment of the construction work being done. “Do you hear all that ruckus?” The kids listen and hear a constant, although distant, honking of horns. “Can you imagine what’s going on in the roads, with all this snow and the traffic lights not working?”

Mistral dodges a snowball and packs one of her own, which she hurls randomly into the square. “Uh-oh. Bad idea,” remarks Harvey.

“No, it isn’t! It’s a great idea!” cries out Sheng, standing beside Mistral. Soon they’ve started throwing and being hit by snowballs from every direction.

Without the streetlights or neon signs, the old quarter of Rome is an incredible sight, with its labyrinth of cobblestone streets and sleepy buildings. “Want to go see what the Tiber looks like in the dark?” asks Elettra when there’s a lull in the snow ball fight.

“Is it far from here?”

“No. It’s right around the corner.”

When they reach the river, the kids discover that the city’s practically been divided into two parts. One side is lit up, but the other is shrouded in a thick mantle of silent darkness. Leaning
against the parapet of the Ponte Garibaldi, Harvey, Elettra, Mistral and Sheng look out at the quarter on the other side of the Tiber, where the lights are still shining.

“So it isn’t a total blackout!” remarks Elettra, a little reassured.

None of the others say a word. Admiring the glimmering reflection of the lights in the river and the lazy dance of the snowflakes, Mistral feels like she’s been swept up in a daydream. “What’s up there?” she asks, pointing over at Tiber Island, only half of which is lit up. It’s as though the island marks the dividing line between electric light and darkness.

Elettra answers, “As far as I know, there’s Fatebenefratelli hospital, a restaurant, a couple of churches and—” She stops short.

“What?”

Elettra lets out a strange laugh. “A Madonna statue called Our Lady of the Lights.”

“A fitting name, I’d say,” says Harvey. “Want to go take a look?”

“Oh, we can’t. The Madonna’s inside the church, which is closed at night.”

“I meant the island,” Harvey clarifies.

“If you guys want to.”

The four kids head toward the oldest bridge in the city, which makes its way over the Tiber like a long, dark shadow. When they reach it, Elettra says, “This bridge is called Ponte Quattro Capi. It’s named after a legend, naturally.”

“What legend?”

“Halfway across the bridge there are four heads. They say they’re the heads of the architects who built it. They were always arguing with each other, so they were beheaded once the work
was finished. But their heads were sculpted on the bridge so they’d always be united, at least when they were dead.”

“How horrible!” gasps Mistral.

“Actually, there are eight heads. Four plus four …” Elettra continues to explain as they make their way along the slippery, snowy bridge. “And they aren’t really the heads of the architects; they’re those of Giano Bifronte.”

“Who’s he?” asks Harvey.

“Janus, a god with two faces, one looking back on the past and one looking forward toward the future.”

The Tiber drifts by lazily beneath the kids’ feet. The snowflakes disappear in the river’s dark, slow-moving water, while little gusts of wind dance beneath the bridge’s curved vault.

“It’s strange to see half the city lit up and half the city dark,” murmurs Mistral. She wishes she had her paper and pencil with her so she could draw it. She tries to commit every little detail to memory. “I could stay here all night long looking at it.”

“So are we going to the island or aren’t we?” Sheng asks impatiently.

“Just a moment,” says Elettra, standing beside the faces carved into the bridge. “Don’t you guys feel hot?” she asks, almost without thinking.

“Hot?” Harvey asks, gawking at her. “Are you crazy? We’re about to freeze!”

But Mistral walks up to her and asks, concerned, “Elettra? Everything okay?”

“Of course.”

“Your hair looks strange. …”

When Mistral’s hand touches her, a flame blazes up inside of Elettra, her hair turning into a thick tangle of long black snakes.

She looks up at the sky. Peeking out through the clouds are a few twinkling stars.

And on the other side of the bridge is a man running in their direction.

He’s clearly exhausted. He staggers and looks behind him, frightened. He stops to catch his breath and then starts running again. When he’s only a few meters away from the kids, the man falls silently down to the ground. He tries to get up but doesn’t have the strength.

“Help!” he cries, sprawled out on the ground. He’s clutching an old brown leather briefcase. Once again, he cries out, “Help!”

Elettra, Harvey, Sheng and Mistral stand there, stock-still, unable to move or take their eyes off the man. He must be sixty years old, maybe seventy, and he’s wearing a very elegant raincoat.

“Whoa!” exclaims Sheng, stunned. “What’s going on?”

Harvey takes a step back. “Let’s get out of here. …”

Standing beside Elettra, Mistral tries to pull her friend back. “He looks drunk!” she whispers. But Elettra stands there, looking at him. The man has noticed her. He looks up at her. And …

I know him
, thinks Elettra, although she’s well aware it’s not true.

He has a thin face with sunken features and a long white beard. There’s something strangely familiar about him, although Elettra is positive she’s never seen him before.

“Help! Help me!” repeats the man with new energy. He reaches out his hand. “Please … please …” His fingers are stiff and white from the cold. His face is imploring yet determined.

“Elettra …,” Mistral whispers behind her. “Don’t get involved.”

Lying on the ground, the man is clutching the briefcase to his chest. He doesn’t stop staring at her for a single moment. It’s as though he recognizes her, too.

“Who are you?” Elettra asks under her breath.

His lips purple from the cold, he begins to silently repeat a word.

“That’s enough!” decides Harvey. “Let’s get out of here!”

The man’s lips obsessively continue to repeat the same word over and over.

“What … what’s he saying?” whispers Elettra.

She’s sweating.
It’s hot. Doesn’t anyone notice how hot it is?
she thinks.

“Guys!” Harvey insists.

“Let’s go!” Sheng agrees.

Just when Mistral’s almost managed to convince the girl to leave, Elettra finally understands what the man is repeating.

She bolts toward him.

“Come on!” she orders the other kids. “We’ve got to help him!”

When she gets near him, the man rolls over on his side, trying to stand up. Elettra grabs him by the arm and tries to help him to his feet, but he’s too heavy. His clothes are dripping wet. And he’s trembling. Shaking the snow from her hair, she waits for someone to help her.

Harvey reaches them. “You’re crazy,” he tells her. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

“No,” Elettra admits. She grabs the man under one arm. Harvey does the same with the other. Together, the two manage to lift him
up to his feet. He staggers, coughs and leans against the parapet. “Thank you …,” he says in a low voice. “You … you …” His hands are trembling constantly. His pants are torn at the knee.

“Who are you?” Elettra asks him. “And why were you saying that word to me?”

The man shakes his head. “It’s begun! It’s begun!” he shouts, pointing at something behind him. Because of the snow, it’s impossible to make out what it is. All they can see is Tiber Island, half-lit-up and half-dark.

“What’s begun?” Harvey asks him.

The man stares at him, a frantic look in his eyes. “You know. You all know! It’s begun! They know. And they’re coming!”

“Who’s coming?” insists Elettra. “And who are you?”

The man looks back over his shoulder. “They’re already too close.” He clutches the briefcase to his chest tightly, as if he wants to crush it.

“Close to what?” asks Elettra.

“Let’s go,” Harvey decides categorically.

The man sees someone appear right behind the two kids and cries out, “Them!”

Elettra and Harvey whirl around, but it’s only Mistral and Sheng, the latter with the ridiculous shower cap still covering his head. “Don’t worry,” Elettra tells him with a sigh. “There are just the four of us here.”

“Four. Four. Four,” the man begins to repeat.

“Guys …,” murmurs Sheng, drawing one step closer. “Are you sure everything’s all right?”

“What does it look like?” Harvey replies sarcastically.

The man desperately tugs on his beard and hair.

Elettra asks him again, “Who are you? And why were you repeating that word?”

He stares at her with wide eyes. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, suddenly calm. “But you’ve got to help me before they get here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to understand. You just have to …” Trembling, the man holds the brown leather briefcase out to her. “Take this.”

“I don’t want it!” cries Elettra. “What is it? And why …? I don’t even know who you are!”

“Please,” the man insists. “They’re looking for me. I don’t have time to explain. No one does. No one.”

Elettra looks at Harvey, who shakes his head. Mistral is as pale as a ghost, and Sheng looks like he’s ready to bolt. The white snow whirls around them, dancing. A strange energy makes her fingertips tremble.

There’s nothing to understand. All that matters is instinct. And instinct tells her to accept the briefcase from the stranger. “What do you want me to do with it?” she asks him, taking it.

“Keep it in a safe place,” the man orders. His face looks more relaxed, as if he’s freed himself from an unbearable burden. “I’ll come back for it as soon as I can.”

Elettra nods. “When?”

The man raises his hand to caress her cheek and, although it’s totally out of character for her, she lets him. “Soon. And thank you,” He looks at Harvey, Mistral and Sheng with an odd, sad look. “Run,” he adds. “Before they get here.”

He looks over his shoulder.

And he starts running again.

* * *

The kids gather around Elettra and the leather briefcase.

“Is it heavy?” asks Sheng.

“No.”

“Man!” he exclaims, pulling the shower cap off his head. “Does stuff like this happen often in Rome?”

Elettra tries to breathe calmly.

“Why’d you do that?” Harvey asks her, almost accusingly.

“I don’t know,” Elettra answers. “He needed help. He was scared. … And then … he kept repeating something.”

“Huh?”

“He was lying on the ground. He was looking at me and he kept repeating it. … At first I didn’t understand. But then, when I figured it out, it’s like something … clicked.”

“What was he saying?”

“A number,” replies Elettra. The snowflakes are like thousands of little white insects. “Twenty-nine. Like our birthdays.”

The man in the raincoat runs far away from Ponte Quattro Capi.

He runs.

And he keeps running.

He runs down a stairway leading to the bank of the Tiber and continues on swiftly, never looking behind him. Without the briefcase, he feels light and unusually pleased. He hasn’t felt like this for days, weeks, months.

He laughs, stumbles by the riverbank, catches his balance and keeps laughing.

To his right, the black wall of the riverside street called Lungotevere rises up toward the clouds, seemingly without end.
To his left, less than a meter away, the river roars along, heavy with water. Everything else is distant, silent, unreal. It’s as though the world consists only of that endless wall and that long, liquid snake of water.

He feels euphoric.

He stops to catch his breath and looks around. He’s reached a series of dark arcades. Caught in the thorny branches of dark, low-lying bushes are shreds of cloth and plastic.

Mixed in with the sound of the river he thinks he hears some kind of music. A slow, incredibly painful melody. A dirge hiding something forgotten, dolefully distant. It drifts sweetly through the dark arcades and mingles with the sound of the falling snow. The music is soft. Warm. Inviting.

The man blinks his eyes several times, brushes his damp hair off his forehead and wonders if the music is really there or if it’s only his thumping heart, his imagination. He pants, feeling the chilly air in his throat, takes a few steps, staggers and stops once again. Finally he’s convinced that the melody is actually there. He’s really hearing it. It’s coming from the darkness, from the depths of the earth, from below the street, along which cars are crawling nervously, lined up in traffic.

Its sound is sharp and deep, alive and mournful.

“A violin.” The man understands, drawing closer to the source of the music.

He rests his hand against the wall. He feels the slippery chill of the old bricks. He walks along, dragging his feet. He wanders into the darkness, led solely by the call of the violin.

He feels exhausted but he can’t stop. He walks through the damp darkness of the arch like a bee trapped in a bottle. The
farther he walks, the stronger and more captivating the melody becomes. It’s calling out to him.

But just when its pitch reaches a peak, it stops entirely, suddenly.

The man looks around, disoriented.

Where am I? Why did I come down here? And where is “here”?

The river is still behind him, but it’s immersed in a thick darkness.

Standing before him is a violinist with hair as gray as steel.

Jacob Mahler draws the bow away from his violin and lowers his arms to his sides. “Welcome, Alfred …,” he murmurs with icy calmness. “You aren’t easy to find.”

The man stands there like a pillar of salt. “What …?”

“ ‘Gesang ist Dasein,’ ”
Jacob Mahler recites, looking at his violin. “‘Song is existence.’ Those aren’t my words but those of Rilke, a German poet. He knew that no man could resist the call of music.”

“What’s going on here? What do you want?”