The Alchemist’s Code (12 page)

“Don't you think you're exaggerating a bit, Naalnish? I simply lost my way after Cassino.”

“Of course, and by chance you found it again in the heart of the Black Forest, right? It took us a year to find you, but in the end, as you see, we succeeded.”

“Bravo! You all have my admiration. And now? What are you going to do?”

Nathan and his men gathered around the casket that contained the idol and fixed their eyes on von Tschoudy.

“Your key, Henri. Where do you keep it? We've searched you but we couldn't find it,” said Nathan.

The German watched them in amusement, then smiled and shook his head.

“I consider it offensive that you think I will decide to help you simply because I'm tied up and you have me at gunpoint. I have made my choice, and I am ready to die for the Reich. Fuck you.”

Nathan remained impassive, then nodded his head at Lev, who immediately left the room. “Let's see if you are ready to sacrifice your men too, brother Henri,” said Nathan, while Lev dragged someone into the room.

It was Sergeant Müller.

Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona

Naples, January, 2013

I stood staring at the box, trying to interpret that enigmatic dedication.

“Looks like our grandparents were friends, and were together somewhere in 1945”.

“So it would seem,” confirmed Anna.

“Maybe they met before the war. What did your grandfather do?”

“He was an interpreter at the University of Sverdlovsk – what is now called Ekaterinburg, my hometown. I couldn't even begin to tell you how many languages he studied, ancient and modern.”

“Well, maybe that's how they knew each other. My grandfather was a psychoanalyst, specialising in encryption codes and Jungian symbolism. He knew a lot of languages too. He was an official of the Ministry of War, one of the youngest. He was sent to the front because he was an expert in codes, but he had no great sympathy for the fascist regime. From what I know, he never participated in any hostilities. Maybe they met at some conference.”

“A fascist official and a Soviet professor? Together?”

“Well, relations, especially commercial ones, between the two countries were actually quite good. Mussolini himself encouraged Italian industrialists to continue their business with the Soviet Union. 'The Soviets always pay' he said. So apart from the war, there's not really anything preventing our grandfathers from having met several times. On one of these occasions, your grandfather must have done mine a favour, and to thank him, he gave him this box.”

“And why call him brother?”

“Maybe because they were very good friends, Anna. I really don't know,” I said, without conviction. “Look… I'm sorry, but in all this, the mystery which is closest to my heart, the one which is at the forefront of my thoughts, is, do you know where my wife is? I tried to call her earlier, but her phone is off. Do you know anything? The caretaker of the garage near my gallery spoke of… hospital, of a disease.”

Anna smiled at me, sweetly and sadly, and shook her head.

“I only know that the woman I saw in recent weeks is not your wife. I looked you up on the internet and there are photos of you alongside your real wife. In light of what I've been through myself, I realised that they had built a fictitious life around you and put someone claiming to be your wife in it.”

I took off my cap abruptly and rubbed my forehead as though searching for an answer. “But how is it possible that nobody noticed what was happening? That no one has tried to help me in this month and a half? Relatives, friends, brothers – how is it possible?”

The expression on Anna's face grew dark and the corners of her mouth twisted into a grimace of disgust.

“Whoever is behind all this possesses great resources, Lorenzo, as I know to my cost.”

I turned to look at her and felt a wave of determination flood through me.

“Well, then it's time they met the real Lorenzo Aragona. Let's get off this bus, I've had enough of hiding.”

“Where are we going?”

“To see an old friend.”

We got off the tour bus at Piazza Vittoria and began walking towards the San Fernando police station, but a few hundred metres from the building Anna stopped.

“I'm not going in there. There's no point. The police can't help us.”

“What the hell do you mean? If not them then who?”

“Only ourselves Lorenzo. No one will believe you.”

“Oscar will. You do what you want.”

Past caring, I turned away, walked into the police station and asked the officer on the desk for Oscar.

“Commissioner Franchi is not here at the moment, sir. Can I help you?”

“I'm a friend of his, my name is Lorenzo Aragona.”

“Ah—” he said, looking suddenly astonished. “Lorenzo Aragona, did you say?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Wait a moment please,” the man replied, then picked up a phone, dialled an extension and said, “Sir, there's a gentleman here who says he's Lorenzo Aragona – Shall I send him up?”

He looked at me.

“Yes, sir, Lorenzo Aragona… Excuse me,” the stunned policeman asked me, “are you
sure
you are Lorenzo Aragona?”

“Yes, I think so,” I answered sarcastically.

“He says he is, sir. Okay, I'll send him up. Mr Aragona, that way, please – deputy commissioner Amato is expecting you.”

I arrived at Amato's door and knocked.

The door was opened by a man in his fifties, of solid build, with short hair, a beard and a surprised expression, as though there were a ghost standing before him, who beckoned me to enter. “Please, please – sit down.”

I knew and respected Vincenzo Amato, one of Oscar's most trusted associates, but at that moment he seemed terribly confused.

“Glad to have you here. Would you like a coffee?” he asked, unable to take his eyes off me.

“No thanks, I'm fine. I'm looking for Oscar.”

“I know – or rather, I imagined that you'd come to talk to him. The commissioner isn't here at the moment but he's on his way. I've informed him that you're here. While we are waiting, maybe I could ask you a couple of questions, if you don't mind.”

“… of course, and maybe I can ask you something too.”

“Whatever you want!” he exclaimed with great kindness, then paused for a moment to stare at me, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

“What is it?” I asked, trying to break the embarrassing silence.

“Excuse me,” he said, smiling again, “I was just trying to figure out if— How are you? Do you feel ok?”

I nodded in disbelief. “Yes, yes, I'm fine – but what's that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing, nothing, please excuse me.”

“Look, I'm in a bit of a hurry so if you don't mind—”

Amato suddenly became serious. “You're right, but we'd better wait for Oscar, ok? Right… Ok, Let me just ask you a few questions.”

He took a deep breath and then began. “Where… Where have you been for the past few weeks? I mean, were you away, did you go somewhere?”

His question brought me crashing back down to earth.

“I'm sorry, but why do you ask?”

“Well, because… because you disappeared for quite a long time, and none of your friends or relatives has been able to tell us where you were. You know, after the murder of your partner, you had a nervous breakdown and—”

I was beginning to lose my patience, but I tried to stay calm.

“Listen, Amato, I don't remember a damn thing about what's happened. I don't remember the death of my friend, the closure of my store, or where my wife is. I don't remember anything about the last three months. And if it weren't for that girl, I wouldn't be here now.”

Amato raised an eyebrow.

“A girl, you said?”

“Yes, a young Russian woman who— Look, it's a long story, let's wait till Oscar gets here, if you don't mind.”

“Well can you at least tell me who this woman is?”

“I told you, a Russian girl – her name is Anna Nikisomething Glyz and she says she's been through the same thing as me. That is to say, some strange form of amnesia.”

“I understand,” said Amato, nodding, “so you don't know what you've been doing for the last month and a half, or where you've been?”

“Actually, I do.”

“Oh – so where was it?”

“Right here in the city, a few blocks from my house. I was held prisoner in a dilapidated building in an alley in the San Martino district.”

“What! You were held there?” asked Amato, staring at me. “Who were they?”

“No idea.”

“And could you take us to the building?”

“Of course! It's close to my house, I told you.”

Just then the door opened and Oscar flew in, putting an end to our surreal conversation. Even though he was a stern man, as soon as he saw me waves of emotion crossed his face.

“I didn't believe it when they called me,” he said, embracing me warmly. “Welcome back.”

Slightly embarrassed, I returned his embrace, then pulled away and, staring into his piercing green eyes, asked the first of a long series of questions.

“What's going on, Oscar? Where's Àrtemis?”

My friend put his hands on my shoulders as though I were a kite ready to fly away.

“Come into my office, we won't be disturbed there. Vincenzo, please call Viola and ask her to join us.”

*

Oscar was more or less my age, a little over forty, but, unlike me, his hair was completely white, with only the odd tuft of black between his neck and sideburns. In his case, however, the cause was not natural but much more dramatic: one night twenty years ago in Rome while he was in his car with his girlfriend, they had been approached by a gang of thugs and, powerless to stop them, he had seen his girlfriend killed right before his very eyes. His hair went prematurely white, and from that day on his eyes assumed a grim expression that would never leave them. It was at that moment that he decided that he would become a policeman. And he succeeded. After his first few years as an ordinary constable in Rome, he had rapidly climbed the career ladder and was transferred to Naples. He had fallen in love with the city, had become commissioner and now he no longer wanted to leave, having earned himself a reputation as a tough cop along the way. Several times he'd ended up in the sights of the Camorra, but he had never been intimidated. At first he had fought crime with his fists, until the esoteric studies, a passion for which I had kindled in him, had restored his equilibrium.

“Have they given you something to drink?” said Oscar once we were seated.

“I'm fine, thanks.”

Oscar looked down, then, as though making a great effort, looked back at me. “You've lost so much weight… So what happened to you? Where did you disappear to? My men were keeping an eye out, but you always found a way to slip through the net. You don't answer your phone and when someone sees you, it's as though you're on another planet. Even our consultant psychiatrists advised me to wait and see the development of this… this
condition
of yours, before intervening, but I'm worried. And all this time I've been trying to defend you to everybody.”

“Defend me? Why?”

“You're still nominally a suspect in Bruno's murder.”

“I don't remember a damn thing, Oscar. My whole life has fallen to pieces in the last twenty-four hours.”

Oscar nodded. “All right, tell me what happened.”

Before I began to speak, though, the door opened and, inspector Viola Brancato, whom I already knew, and Vincenzo Amato came in.

I tried to collect my thoughts, then began to tell them everything, from the encounter with Anna to my 'awakening'. I told them that I'd found myself in that revolting apartment and discovered that my whole world had been turned upside down. That I'd found myself with that woman, who was not my wife; that while still under the effects of whatever they were giving me, I'd gone to that absurd store without knowing how and that I'd probably killed a man there in self-defence. I told them about the tattoo the man had, and the visions, the symbols, Spider-Man and all the rest.

After listening to my story Oscar leant back in his chair.

“Lorenzo, do you realize what you've just told us? You're saying that someone has deliberately kept you in some kind of hypnotic state, probably induced by drugs, for weeks on end, and that in all that time not only did you go back to a building just a few metres from your home every night to sleep, but that every morning you also came to this area to work in a store where you underwent some kind of psychological testing? All this right under my nose—”

A feeling of desperation began to grow within me – it was clear that Oscar didn't believe me.

“That's exactly what happened.”

Oscar shook his head, trying to keep his cool. “Well, these people whoever they were must have been bloody good, because if it's true that you were around here, I never saw you.”

“For God's sake, Oscar, I was here! I told you, it was as though the drug had completely altered my perception of reality. An alkaloid like mescaline can have effects like that. In that hallucinatory state I went to that place every day, and the drugs made it look like the Églantine to me.”

“Ok, ok – let's drop it for the moment.”

Shaken, I stood up impatiently. “Look, I don't care if you believe me or not, and frankly I don't care what happened, or what's going to happen. I just want to know where my wife is. She's not answering her phone – where the hell is she?!”

Oscar too got to his feet, and Viola Brancato put a hand on my shoulder to calm me. The tension was palpable.

“Your wife is in Zurich, in a cancer clinic.”