by M C Dulac
He was deathly white in the streetlights. Rebecca didn’t want to say Schumann’s name, but she knew those dramatic motorcycles had something to do with him. They had raced through the night to warn of his impending arrival.
“He’s here in Rome,” Antonio whispered.
He gazed at her with glistening eyes. Then he turned around and began walking fast into the darkness.
chapter five
Rebecca did not hear from Antonio the next day or the day after. Friday passed without a call or message. The weekend was as empty as the bare wall of her hotel room. Now he was gone, her heart felt hollow. Life had been so much sweeter when he was around. Without him, even the most beautiful vistas made her feel lonely.
But she was not going to sit around doing nothing. Antonio had suggested going to Tivoli that weekend and she would go, without him.
The bus from Rome dropped her at Hadrian’s Villa. The ancient site was peaceful and rural. Walking along the main drive, it was hard to imagine that this had once been the emperor Hadrian’s bustling country estate. As she wandered beneath archways, past mirror-clear ponds and through the remains of collapsed villas scattered among the open fields, she was overwhelmed again by the rise and fall of civilisations.
She came to a long canal lined with classical statues. Hadrian had built this canal after the tragic early death of his friend, Alexander. It was a place to reflect on love, loss and grief, according to her guidebook.
Rebecca sighed, until she had enough of the ruins and caught the bus into the town of Tivoli.
She could not deny the gardens of the Villa d’Este were beautiful. The gardens rolled down green hillsides in steep terraces. The gentle tinkle of water from the one hundred fountains filled the air. Hedges and secret paths led under the trees, and statues and temples dotted the gardens. The grandest of the fountains was a water-organ, where the cascading water played an otherworldly tune. Tivoli, said the tourist brochure, was the perfect place for lovers.
Rebecca wandered alone up and down the garden terraces. If she was trying to forget Antonio, she had come to the wrong place. Everyone in Tivoli that day was in a couple or with family. She rested her arms on a yet another romantic balustrade and took a deep breath.
On the return to Rome, the bus got caught in heavy traffic. Rebecca had nothing to look at except rows of apartment buildings on the city outskirts. The bus dropped her in a busy part of the city, where the walls were plastered with peeling posters, and people walked with their heads down and their hands in their pockets.
It started to rain as Rebecca walked up a steep hill. Her phone buzzed in her bag. She frowned as she saw Antonio’s number.
“Rebecca,” his voice was deep and urgent, “Thank heaven.”
“How are you?”
There was noise in the phone, as though Antonio were calling from a busy street.
“Fine,” he said, although his tone was uncertain, “Can I see you?”
“Of course. Are you at home?”
“Yes. No. Not in the Corso. I’m at Piramide. Can you meet me there? Take the Blue Metro Line.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll meet you at the pizzeria,” he gave her directions.
“Is everything okay?”
“It will be.”
When the glow of her phone died down, she felt a tinge of doubt. Why did he want to see her so suddenly? Should she go? Her heart calmed as she reasoned it through. Piramide wasn’t far away, and the map on her phone showed that the pizza shop was near the station. She’d be able to get to Piramide easily and back on the Metro, and it was at least an hour before nightfall.
She arrived in a green suburb. There was a pyramid opposite the Metro station, just as Antonio said. Alongside it ran a long wall, overhung with trees - the wall of the Protestant Cemetery where the English poets, Keats and Shelley, were buried. She had placed the Cemetery on her to-see list when she read about it in her guidebook, but she’d have to do her literary sightseeing another time, for the gates were closed and Antonio would be waiting.
The pizzeria was an ordinary pizza shop. The floor was linoleum and the table and chairs were chrome. Rebecca took a seat along the wall and stared at the fridge of Coca Cola.
A few minutes later, Antonio walked through the doorway, although it took a moment to recognise him. He was gaunt and disheveled, and had dark circles under his eyes. His t-shirt and jeans were crushed, as though he had just thrown them on.
His face lit up briefly when he saw her, but when he sat down he could barely raise a smile.
“You look terrible,” Rebecca blurted out.
Antonio ran a hand through his unbrushed hair, “I never get any rest when he is in Rome.”
“You mean Otto von Schumann?”
“Yes,” Antonio’s eyes were tired.
The lighting in the shop was harsh. Maybe that was what was wrong, although his eyes had a haunted look that made her think it was something more serious.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. And I’m sorry to ask you to come all the way here. Rebecca, could you check the apartment on the Corso? I didn’t realise I’d be away for so long.”
“Sure, if it helps.”
Antonio smiled and there was a glimmer of his old handsome self, “Here are the keys.”
“Is Schumann a banker?” Rebecca did not want Antonio to know that she already knew about Otto von Schumann.
“Yes. I must rollover his investments and put his inventory in order. It’s always like this before he retreats to his villa.”
“Is that what you normally do for him?”
“I am his right-hand man,” Antonio said, with a wry smile, “The one he always turns to. I must do all that he commands. I just need to know my apartment is okay. I worry so much.”
“Why?”
“Money does terrible things to people. Even Schumann doesn’t trust anyone. Besides me. That’s why he works me into the grave. But I know I can trust you, Rebecca.”
“Of course you can.”
He was fading away in front of her. He shimmered and she saw the Coca Cola fridge behind him. She blinked her eyes. It must be a freakish effect of the light.
“I wish I were home in my studio,” he said, “Among my paintings and drawings,” he rubbed his hand over his face, “You don’t know what it’s like to have no control over anything.”
He made no sense, but Rebecca let him ramble.
“Could you go now?” he added.
“Sure, I’ll catch the Metro.”
“I’ll sleep better tonight, knowing the apartment is okay. Can you call me when you get there?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks again, Rebecca.”
When they stepped onto the street, Antonio winced in the twilight. As he walked away, he looked hunted and wary. She had never seen anyone look so ill so quickly, without being ill.
Rebecca caught the train into Rome, pushing aside the doubts that hovered at the edge of her mind. She arrived at Spagna station and made her way through the crowds in front of the Spanish Steps. When she approached the apartment, she felt calmer. Nothing bad had ever happened in Antonio’s studio.
All was quiet when she opened the door. A window was ajar and a gentle breeze ruffled the drawings on the wall. Rebecca closed the window and tidied the papers on the side table. The place was a mess, but in the nicest way. Art books were stacked upon each other and art supplies were strewn over every surface. There was a velvet armchair under one stack of papers and a marble head peering from behind a vase of paintbrushes.
The sun was setting and a red beam of light fell on the wall of monster drawings. The eyes blazed out from the paper. She leant closer. There was a similarity to Antonio’s haunted expression today. Were these self-portraits? No, this monster was older and more malevolent. His features were different, and his face was full of hate. She had never seen that emotion in Antonio. She turned her back, shivering as the eyes seemed to follow her.
R
ebecca checked each room. Antonio didn’t have any electrical equipment, not even a laptop, television or fridge. There were unlit candles on the tables, with drops of hardened wax down the side. Rebecca guessed the apartment had electricity, but she could not see the light switch and it was getting dark. She locked the door behind her and went down the staircase.
A man was coming up the stairs. He wore an expensive suit and moved with an elegant gait. He was looking at Antonio’s apartment door.
His short-cropped blond hair, thoughtful eyes and faint golden skin were the opposite of Antonio’s dark good looks, but there was a resemblance, as if they were distant family. Rebecca glanced behind her, catching his eye. The man continued up the stairs.
Outside, Rebecca took out her phone. Antonio answered at once.
“The apartment is fine. There was a man on the staircase though,” she added.
“What did he look like?”
“He had blond hair, nice suit, about thirty five.”
“I don’t know him. But he doesn’t sound dangerous.”
“Are you expecting someone dangerous?” Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat.
Antonio laughed, “Only my boss, when he’s angry. Thanks, Rebecca. I’ll be in Piramide for a few days. If I need help again, I’ll call you. If that’s okay.”
“I’m happy to help.”
“And after this,” Antonio trailed off, “Everything will be fine.”
Rebecca made her way through the Corso. A cold wind was blowing. The warm days had been deceiving. There had been a definite change in the weather.
chapter six
Antonio rang early on Monday morning. His voice was hoarse.
“Good morning, Rebecca,” he said, “Can you help me again?”
“Of course,” she had been awake for an hour, not sure how she would spend the day.
“I need a book from my apartment. Can you go now and ring me when you get there?”
“A book?”
“Yes. I forgot to bring it to Piramide.”
“I guess so.”
“Thank you, Rebecca.”
Antonio had hung up before she could say more.
People were making their way to work when Rebecca reached the city centre. She unlocked the door to the apartment building and took the stairs two at a time. Antonio’s apartment was dim and silent. She had closed all the windows the previous afternoon, and now the rooms smelt faintly of candle wax and paint. With no refrigerator humming or other modern noise, the apartment was strangely still. She crossed the parquetry floor and opened the shutters, but only the weakest morning sun reached the rooms.
Antonio did not have a bookcase, although there were piles of books stacked haphazardly in each corner. She gazed at the spines, wondering which book he needed. The books were old and new, and about art, artists or history.
“Great, you’re there,” Antonio said when she rang him, “Now go through the apartment to the last room. In the room you’ll see a stepladder. Lean it against the wall and push aside the panel in the roof. Inside there’s a book.”
“The book is in the roof?” Rebecca said warily.
“Yes. It’s an old book. Put the book in the box on the table and bring the box to Piramide. Thanks, Rebecca.”
He rang off. Rebecca took a deep breath. Should she do what he said? What sort of book was it, and why had he hidden it? But what harm could come from a book? Out of curiosity, she went through the apartment rooms. She reached the room with wood panel walls and the unmade bed. A ladder was in the corner. Rebecca climbed the ladder and pushed the ornate ceiling panel. It slid aside and a slow mist of dust fell over her.
The weak morning light barely reached the narrow space above. There were all sorts of things in there - an empty glass bottle, dull with mold, an old brass cylinder that might have been a telescope, and a folded brocade cloth. There was a large leather object, which Rebecca guessed was the book.
It was a strange bunch of items to hide in the roof, but it did not look sinister or criminal. Rebecca pulled the book toward her, releasing a cloud of dust and grit. She spluttered and let the dust fall onto the floor. She pushed the ceiling panel into place and climbed carefully down the ladder.
The book cover was made of leather and the pages were secured by a metal clasp. Placing the book on a table, she touched the clasp and it sprung open.
The handwritten pages were yellow with age and the ink had faded to a pale brown. Elegant and vaguely familiar cursive writing filled page after page. The book must have been more than a century old. Her eyes danced over the flamboyant letters without reading. She closed the cover and looked around for the leather box.
The box lay on a desk. Rebecca opened the lid and placed the book inside. As she placed the lid on the box, she realised her fingerprints were all over the dusty cover. Maybe she shouldn’t have touched it. There was nothing she could do now.
She slipped the box into her bag and went back through the rooms. The light had shifted and was falling on the portrait of the frightened girl. Mi dispiace, - I am sorry. The portrait’s eyes were full of warning and the lips looked like they were about to speak. Rebecca walked past quickly and had almost reached the main hall when the apartment door opened.
Expecting to see Antonio, she took a step back when two people entered the hall. It was the man she had seen on the staircase. Today he was accompanied by a young woman with long blonde hair.
Rebecca slid behind the doorway as they entered Antonio’s studio. The man moved confidently, assessing the drawings on the wall and the chaos of Antonio’s workspace.
“He must have left Rome.”
“Because of us?”
Their voices reminded her of Antonio’s. Was it the musical charm or the tempo of their words?
“He would not have seen us,” the man was glancing through Antonio’s papers, “There must be another reason, Elise.”
The young woman called Elise was gazing at the painted ceiling, “Do you think he lives here?”
“It seems so. Although he must have a laboratory somewhere,” the man was handsome and reminded Rebecca again of Antonio.
“This furniture is over two hundred years old, Jean-Louis. Nothing has changed.”
“Yes, that is unusual.”
“How long did you say he has lived here?”
“The apartment hasn’t changed hands since the eighteenth century. The paperwork is complex, as expected. He must have considerable resources to remain undetected for so long.”
“Are you sure we are right? He doesn’t act like a scientist,” the young woman was looking at the drawings on the wall.
“But he has the knowledge.”
They were moving through the doorway into the next room. Rebecca took a deep breath, but the couple stopped suddenly.
The young woman gasped, “Jean-Louis, look!”
Rebecca knew what had caught their attention - the portraits of Antonio’s monsters.
Rebecca clutched the book under her arm and ran through the studio. She sped down the stairs and flung open the door to the street. Her heart was pounding. What could she do now - return to her hotel or go straight to Piramide?
She ran to the Metro and caught the first train. She sank into the seat. She stared at the box. What had she just done? Why did Antonio want this antique book? Her heart was confused. Her short time with Antonio had been intense and intoxicating. She wanted to help him. But should she? Checking his apartment was simple, but taking this book made her uneasy. Why were the well-dressed couple looking for him?
When she reached Piramide, she sat on a seat near a bus stop outside the station. She balanced the box on her lap as she took out her phone. He didn’t answer at first.
“Antonio!” she said quickly, “I have to tell you what happened.”
“Did you get the book?”
“Yes, it’s here. It’s old and it’s heavy.”
“That’s the one.”
“There were two people in your apartment
. The man I saw yesterday.”
“Which man?”
“The one who was on the staircase. Today he was with a woman - a young woman with blonde hair. The woman’s name is Elise and she called the man, Jean-Louis. I think they are looking for you.”
Antonio paused, “But you have the book?”
“Yes. Can I give it to you now?”
“Rebecca, I have to leave Rome for a while. I can’t work for Schumann anymore. Not for the money, not for the world. I want a new start.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“No, just tired. So tired of life. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I need a few days. When I sort out my new place, I’ll call you.”
“What do I do with the book?”
“Just keep it with you. And just one thing. Please don’t read it.”
“It’s a hundred years old,” Rebecca said, “I’m not sure I could read it if I tried. What is it anyway?”
“It’s been in my possession a long time. What is that noise?”
“A bus,” Rebecca got up, as a bus arrived and passengers surrounded her, “Can I send the book to you?”
“No. You are the only one I trust with it. But just - no matter how much you want to - don’t read it.”
Rebecca felt the weight of the box and felt no temptation to open it.
“What about the people in your apartment?”
“Did you see them take anything?”
“No. Maybe they were - police.”
“They are not police,” Antonio said reassuringly, “You said, you think this is the man you saw the other night. Was he young?”
“Maybe in his thirties.”
“Was there anything unusual about him?”
“He reminded me - of you,” Rebecca hesitated, “Especially his eyes.”
She thought back to when she had passed the man on the stairs. She had seen his blue eyes, although the staircase was in shadow and there was no electric light. How had she been able to see what colour they were? His eyes had glowed gently, like Antonio’s eyes glowed sometimes in the evening.
“His eyes had a blue glow.”
