The Demon Catchers of Milan #2: The Halcyon Bird (6 page)

He stopped in the middle of the street and frowned at me.

“You already checked online, didn’t you?”

I frowned back. “Of course! But there wasn’t a thing. You’d think there would be.”

He smiled. “It shows how old I am, that I didn’t think to ask that until now. And how young you are, if you think that everything can be found on the Internet.”

His grin took the sting out of his words. I had to admit I’d been pretty surprised not to find a single line about the poem.

“The Internet feels so vast, doesn’t it?” Nonno went on. “It feels as if it ought to encompass all things, when really it touches on only a small part. This poem, I expect, is hidden in a letter or in a book nobody’s bothered to translate. Or there is no written copy of it, at all.”

“Don’t say that,” I said. “I’m already feeling hopeless.”

He snorted. “Despair is for the weak-minded. We haven’t even started yet,” he said.

We were in the Via Orefici now, weaving in and out of the shoppers, the tourists, the businesspeople in a hurry. I could see the Largo Cairoli up ahead. Beyond it was the Castello Sforzeco and the Parco Sempione.

We walked up the Via Dante, and got a table in a restaurant on the left-hand side of the Largo Cairoli right before the Foro Buonaparte.

“You don’t think Lucifero might be following us?” I asked as we sat down.

“Oh, I think it very likely,” he replied, looking a lot less disturbed than I felt. “We can watch the entrance to the restaurant from here, and keep an eye on the promenade, too.”

If I hadn’t been so worried I would have enjoyed watching all the people going by on the sidewalk outside our window. Beyond the sidewalk, cars and
motorini
circled the Largo as if they were in a race with no finish.

“Should we go home instead?”

“No. Laura’s out, and I want to eat here,” he stated.

The waiters knew Nonno, and one of them came over to shake his hand and thank him, profusely and loudly, for making his sister well again. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, looking around us; Nonno stopped him.

“
Basta, basta
, gently, my son,” Giuliano told him. “You are very welcome, and I will thank you to speak in a lower voice.”

The guy looked crestfallen.

“I am so sorry, Signore.”

“No. I can understand your joy! It’s only that we do not speak of these things too loudly in public, you know,” Nonno said kindly. “And I am delighted to hear your sister is better. I must pay her a visit soon.”

Lunch was delicious. I had the mushroom risotto, which looked like it had been poured into a mold: a perfect, round, flat-topped mound with crisp edges. I felt a bit bad when I put my fork into it, but ruining a work of art never tasted so good.

We didn’t see Lucifero again. When I said I was worried
about walking alone in the park, Nonno overruled me.

“You have your cell phone. And you must not let fear of him interfere with your daily life. What can he do to you? Scream like a madwoman if he gets near you; there will be plenty of people in the park at this time of day.”

I still didn’t want to go. Even without the possibility of running into Lucifero, wandering around among the leafless trees and half-dead winter grass didn’t seem like all that much fun. I went anyway, sulking at Nonno as he waved airily at me before heading back toward the Via Brera.

After half an hour exploring, however, I had to admit I felt better. I had a good meal inside of me, and I liked watching the scattering of cold-season tourists staring up at the castle battlements and buying postcards and models of the Duomo at the stand across the moat. The Milanese were out with their vast assortment of dogs, sometimes several at a time. One sour-faced woman had five dogs: a solemn German shepherd, a brace of greyhounds, a busy-looking terrier, and a Chihuahua in a sweater and booties. They all got along, but their legs had different plans. I watched until she noticed me, and then pretended I hadn’t been looking.

The Parco Sempione is beautiful, and it stands in the heart of the city. Emilio told me once that the city used to be full of orchards, long ago; I thought I could imagine spring in a city like that, with blossoms everywhere. In Center Plains, spring brought a snow of white apple blossoms in April or May. I
thought of Gina walking through slush to get to school, then I remembered that Luke probably drove her these days. I thought of the kids on the steps in the Piazza dei Mercanti again and turned toward home.

“You didn’t tell me about Lucifero,” Gina said that night over Skype. She looked seriously alarmed.

“I know,” I said. “I was too embarrassed.”

She glanced over her shoulder, then asked, “Did you tell Mom and Dad?”

“Of course not. They would only worry even more.”

“Well, I’m worrying now!”

My sister doesn’t freak out about things. She can see the funny side of the biggest, blackest argument between our parents. She even teased me the day I left for Milan, still exhausted and shell-shocked after my possession. Seeing her like this, I started to worry again myself.

Behind her on the screen, I could see our living room: a faded poster from some 1980s band and family portraits on the walls, including Grandfather Roberto, my father’s father. Mom passed through the living room, carrying a plate and a glass, a romance novel under her arm; her end-of day ritual. I heard Dad’s voice call out, asking where something was. Mom answered back, and I knew she was saying, “You left it in the something-something, don’t you remember?”

I wanted to be there, to be close enough to touch the picture frames. I wanted to go into the kitchen and microwave
some milk for hot chocolate, and bring out two mugs, one for me and one for Gina, and sag down onto the couch in front of the TV. I wanted Mom to lean around the door and say, “It’s a school night. Just this show, okay?”—and then disappear again, only to reappear and say, “Hey! Wait a minute. Did you guys finish your homework?”

Gina and I looked at each other and I felt dizzy, thinking about the cold ocean between us.

“Is it spring there yet?” I asked suddenly. “Any sign of a thaw?”

She raised her eyebrows.

“We’ve had a couple of really warm days … odd weather. Then freezing again. Don’t try to distract me.”

“I’m being careful, Gina. We can’t exactly have him arrested. And I’m not the only one keeping an eye out.”

“Okay,” she said, but I could see she wasn’t convinced.

“Let me tell you about the cute librarian,” I said, and she relented, listening patiently to a description of Fernando.

Unfortunately, as the cold, foggy weather continued, I didn’t get another chance to see Fernando. He and Nonno talked on the phone a bunch, so I did hear his laugh. I didn’t see Lucifero, either, so I felt like I was coming out even. Fernando put us in touch with a very crabby poet who ignored Nonno’s messages.

The sun came out, briefly, for Nonna’s birthday in March. Francesco stopped by after lunch, it being a half day for lectures
at the university. We shared the desk in the shop, our books spread out before us, while Giuliano worked on accounts and case notes in the back office.

I love studying in the shop. I love doing anything at all in the shop, even sweeping the floor. Actually, I really do like sweeping; it’s a simple job, and I know, more or less, when it’s finished. I also know that with the dust of centuries hiding in the floorboards, I could sweep it over and over and never stop pulling dirt out of the cracks. I love how, when I come in from the street, the city disappears, and around me there is only the silence of centuries, the flickering candles, the measured, calm greetings of my cousins. Time moves more slowly in the candle shop, I’m sure of it.

Francesco looked from his pile of books to mine.

“What are you working on today?” he asked.

“I got interested in Da Vinci after we saw the
Codex Atlanticus
,” I told him. “I’m reading about his involvement with the duchy, and his inventions and stuff.”

“I’ve always wondered if one of us met him,” he said. “I wonder what they would have talked about.”

“Do you think he believed in the existence of demons?”

“I don’t know,” said Francesco. “I think he mainly believed in what he could see. He was so intensely interested in the material world, you know. Yet I think if he had seen a demon in action, he would have believed in it, and not everybody does that.”

I thought of the sketches, the prophecy, the imaginative world I’d seen in Da Vinci’s pages, and wasn’t sure I agreed with him.

The bells on the shop door jingled, announcing a man about Emilio’s age, who said gruffly, “Signore Della Torre?” No
buona sera
, or any other kind of greeting for us. He looked around as if Nonno might be sitting on a shelf or hiding behind a candle. I glanced at Francesco. He seemed annoyed, and neither of us moved for a minute. Then I got up and gently tapped on the door of the back office.

“Coming,” said Nonno, who had probably heard the guy anyway. He carefully put away his notes, then followed me back.

“Ah! Tommaso Strozzi. Good evening,” said Giuliano. “Come sit. May my assistants stay?”

The young man grimaced, as if to say he didn’t much care either way.

Francesco and I cleared the table, and I was sent to get wine and glasses. I hurried, not wanting to miss anything, and got back in time to hear Nonno finish his polite inquiries about Tommaso Strozzi’s mother, and aunts and uncles, and so forth. As he invited Tommaso to tell his story, I remembered how hard I would have had to work, even a month before, to understand their swift Italian. Now it was as if I flowed along with the stream of words, and rarely hit one I didn’t understand. I noticed every detail about Tommaso; his expensively cut dark hair, his fingers, thick with rings, the heavy smell of
his cologne, rising over the scent of melting wax from the shop, the sturdy swell of his neck, his silk scarf. I realized I found him disturbingly attractive, though I had no idea why. I blushed and looked out the window.

Tommaso Strozzi was telling Giuliano that his father had recently begun to believe that his hands were rotting off. He spoke hesitantly, though nothing about him suggested that he would normally hesitate about anything, like punching a man, or kissing a woman, for example. When he detailed his father’s behavior, he glowered as if he were furious. I had a sudden flash of memory, seeing the same expression on my father’s face on the day he found out his own father was dying. I looked at Tommaso again, and this time, I could see the pain behind the stiff pauses. He finished his story at last, and then added, “Forgive me for saying this, but I would never have come to you, except that my mother said this wasn’t for the doctors at the mental hospital. She seemed to think something like this had happened before.”

“In your family?”

“Oh, no! At least, I don’t think that’s what she meant. She said something about another family.”

“This is certainly not unheard of. And she’s right, the psychiatrists, they don’t always understand the causes.”

“Perhaps,” said the young man, lifting his eyebrows ever so slightly.

Watching Francesco, I saw that he betrayed no more
concern about the young man’s skepticism than Nonno. When Giuliano began to ask Tommaso Strozzi specific questions on the details of his father’s condition, I looked away again, annoyed that I found him so attractive. That was when I first noticed the candle.

As I turned to look at it more closely, Tommaso’s and Nonno’s voices slid away from me; the room, full of minute fires, shrank down to that single failing light. Then it went out, briefly flickering blue, which was not how a candle flame died when it had enough wick. There was no orange coal gleaming in the wick, no smoke. I stood up and put one finger close to the wick, taking great care not to touch it. I couldn’t feel any heat; the candle was as cold as if it had not been lit.

It’s an old family problem
, I thought.
It comes in families of bankers. The key that opens the door is
—and then not a word but a sensation came to me, a taste, stagnant and musty, like a pond with no way for the water to flow in or out. Still gazing at the candle, I asked myself where all this had come from.

As the room snapped back into focus, I noticed Francesco watching me, but I didn’t meet his eyes. Giuliano stood up and bowed slightly toward the man at the table.

“We will call on your father as soon as is convenient for him,” said Nonno.

“Of course. Thank you for being so understanding.”

“There’s nothing wrong with skepticism. That is not where the trouble lies.
Buona sera
.”

They met each other’s eyes for a moment. Then Tommaso nodded. Still ignoring us, he said
buona sera
to Nonno and stepped out the door.

I could tell Giuliano was about to ask us what we thought of all of this, when the church bells started to ring, and he said, “
Santa Maria
, is that the time? We have to get ready for Nonna’s birthday dinner.”

I stole the first shower, because I still had to buy a present; then I went to the bike stand in the Via Brera.

Milan has these wonderful bikes. They’re cream and yellow, like a lemon meringue pie, and they have the city coat of arms printed on them. If you have a membership in the bike-sharing program, you can go to a
stazione
anywhere in the city, swipe your BikeMi card, and take out a bike for thirty minutes, which is always way more time than you need to get to the next stand.

The bikes are stout and come with a lock and a basket, which is perfect for carrying a history book, a panino, a can of
aranciata amara
, and a spare sweater. I flew all the way to the Libreria Rizzoli in the Galleria, and bought Nonna one of her cheesy romances. The covers look the same as the ones my mom reads, but the words are in Italian instead of English. I had the store lady wrap it in their fancy wrapping paper, found a bike at the Duomo
stazione
, and took off again, this time for the Navigli neighborhood on the south side of the city, a place I’d never been. I had to use my tourist map to get there.