Nigel thought it best to steer clear of him—“After a while, he gets on my nerves,” he admitted—and to drive for the day to the villa.
Orsina was uneasy as she waited for her uncle. The atmosphere of the palazzo was oppressive and aloof. It seemed to embody both the hopeless parenting that she had received, and Emanuele’s obsession with aristocracy and family tradition. Her year in America had been like coming up for air, and ever since, she had embraced another way of life less haunted by the past.
To distract herself, she turned her mind to the redecoration of Nigel’s flat in Kensington, and leafed through the brochures and samples that the interior decorator had sent them. She jumped when the bell rang to announce her uncle’s arrival in the androne. She hurried down and greeted him with the conventional kiss, but sensed that he was preoccupied.
At the appointed hour, Emanuele and Orsina sat on two facing sofas in the salone. He spoke, as usual, in formal tones. “You have heard some of my lectures, my dear Orsina, and maybe through long association you have an inkling of my philosophical life.”
Orsina nodded deferentially, which seemed to be the right response. Emanuele resumed. “There are many dimensions to this philosophical life of mine, and as a woman, you could not possibly share them all. But you do carry the Riviera blood, and with it, an obligation. You are twenty-eight, and if you died tomorrow there would be nothing of you worth remembering. It is time you faced your responsibilities.”
His arrogant and paternalistic manner annoyed her, but Orsina felt relieved as she thought: if he’s going to urge me and Nigel to hurry up and have children, I’ll tell him that it’s none of his business. But this was not the Baron’s theme.
“You and your sister are now the only heirs of the Gens Riviera in its unadulterated form. My own physical incapacity is to blame, otherwise I would be saying this to my eldest son.” Emanuele paused, and for a moment Orsina thought that he was going to break down in tears or, worse, in a fit of anger. “But that is Fate,” he continued. “Now, you know that I have urged you to pay close attention to that book, The Magical World of the Heroes, which was presented to you before your marriage, as it is to every eldest and legitimate Riviera. Yet so far your sister, who is not supposed to read it under any circumstance, has shown more interest in it than you!” He had raised his voice, and then gave her such a wintry stare, a shiver went down her spine.
“Yes,” he added, “I caught Angela leafing through my own hallowed copy of it, in my studio. She knew that it is absolutely forbidden, and still she dared. What can I say? She should have known better.”
Orsina was taken aback. Now her uncle sounded menacing, even vindictive.
“But you,” he continued, “you who have the privilege, how could you not be dying to learn its secrets?” She had never seen her uncle so livid, nor had she expected to be terrified. She very much wished for Nigel to be there with her.
“You must wonder what the book’s significance is,” the uncle continued, after having calmed down with an effort of will. “Like any profound treatise on magic, it works on several levels. First there is natural magic, of which the noblest form is the Royal Art of alchemy. I don’t expect you to set up an alchemical laboratory, as I myself did in my youth, but that is one possible application. This book gives practical instructions under the veil of allegories and symbols.
“Alchemy has another meaning, but it applies specifically to the male. The female anatomy and mentality are not adapted to the practice of sexual alchemy, so I pass over that. Perhaps to your relief?” he said, with a half smile. Orsina, now listening intently, felt apprehensive. This was the first time that her uncle had spoken to her of his esoteric interests. “Sexual alchemy,” coming from him, was certainly an alarming concept. But to feed his penchant for lecturing might soothe him. “No, please don’t pass over it. I want to understand it all,” she said.
“There is no way to understand it all, my dear child,” he said, turning his profile to her as though addressing an audience outside the window. He continued, quoting from memory from The Magical World:
He who knows the use of the female vessel kindles the secret fire, which flies like an arrow whithersoever he will. Thereby he achieves results that few would believe possible.
“That’s why I will not describe them to you.” He warmed to his theme. “Another form of magic is celestial.
But the adept who uses celestial magic commands the invisible forces that rain down from the planets, and bends them to his purposes. He applies them to the kingdom of plants, to that of animals, and to those humans who are little better than either.
“This is the magic that sustained the great, lasting civilizations of the past. Never mind what idiot historians write in their preposterous books. But in our time, the masses have become so degraded that it’s a total waste of effort to try to better them. It’s enough to use this magic for the benefit of the few families that deserve it. I will leave you with that hint.
“Yet there is a higher magic still, which operates in the world of immaterial intelligences,” he added, looking up and hooding his eyes, as if in an afterthought.
It is there that the Hero attains his goal, beyond earthly time and space. He destroys all that is human in him, and becomes of the same substance as the Sun, yea, no less than a god. For such a man, death is an incidental event of no significance to his true nature.
He stopped and looked Orsina in the eye. “But this is all I will tell you, because these things have to be discovered for oneself. For centuries, the eldest Riviera has been entrusted with a book that is the key to their discovery. Others may read this book, in its watered-down and incomplete version, but they will not know the lock into which the key fits. That is our possession alone.”
The tirade seemed to be over, but Orsina was not going to take it all with feminine passivity. She returned his stare, mastering the anger that was welling up in her. Her voice trembled as she said, “Thank you for telling me this, Uncle. I have heard all I need to hear.” She got up from the sofa and started for the door. Then she swung around and broke out: “But what use is a key, if one can’t find the damned lock?”
There was a longer silence. Then the Baron assumed a more friendly tone. “Don’t go yet, my dear. You know the Mercury Room?”
“Yes,” said Orsina, “the storage room with no windows. I never knew why it was called that.”
“The room is decorated with a frieze showing Mercury stealing Apollo’s cattle and hiding them in a cave. That is the lock,” said Emanuele, “and the book is the clavis magna, the grand key.”
He paused, giving her time to absorb his words, and came over to her. She shrank back, dreading another embrace. “Anyway,” he continued, reaching into his inner pocket, “you should also have this.” He placed an envelope in her hands. “You ought to know what our most illustrious ancestors accomplished after having metabolized The Magical World of the Heroes. It’s a sketchy outline, but it will have to do for now. Immediately after you have read it, destroy it. Is that understood?”
Orsina nodded, turned, and left the room.
TWELVE
Squeezing past the tourists, Orsina reached the area at the back of the vaporetto. The rush of water under the propellers and the breeze were a relief from the sticky heat. When the boat stopped at San Marco, most of the tourists got off and she was able to sit down. The route continued around the island to the Fondamenta Nuove, where Orsina disembarked and bought an ice-cream. She saw a larger steamer about to leave, and on impulse ran to the gangway. “Just a moment, please, Madam: I need to check your purse,” said the armed guard.
Once on board, Orsina stood in the bow, leaning over the rail and enjoying the wind in her hair as the boat picked up speed on its way to the outer islands. It stopped at San Michele; at Murano, where again most of the tourists left for the glass workshops; Burano with its garish houses; and finally Torcello.
Orsina took the gravel path that led to the cathedral of Tor
cello, the oldest settlement of the Venetian lagoon. She entered the venerable building, so cool and different in atmosphere from Palazzo Riviera. After sitting for a while, she decided to climb the tower.
She arrived at the top, out of breath from the steps but exhilarated by the stronger breezes and the view of the little island beneath. Here, of all places, no ghosts of her heroic ancestors were hovering around. She could bear to open her uncle’s letter at last.
The envelope produced a single sheet of paper, neatly typed on both sides. It read:
A very brief sketch on how some of the Riviera employed the magical powers obtained from a lifetime study of Il mondo magico de gli heroi.
The first one known to us was the author of the book, Cesare della Riviera. But for you to realize the enormity of his audacity I must remind you of the climate in Europe at the time of the book’s publication, in 1603. Despite Giordano Bruno’s burning at the stake in 1600 and Campanella’s imprisonment by the Inquisition, Cesare Della Riviera influenced the Holy Office to approve the publication of the abridged edition (nobody outside the family ever heard of the dynastic edition) at a time when certain Cardinals of the Church were planning to have him arrested and tried for heresy. The official imprimatur took the wind completely out of their sails. But he had another motive: to show the other noble families dabbling in magic that he was just a pretentious ass, and therefore harmless. Why, his book promised everything and delivered nothing! It was very convenient that they should think him a charlatan and leave him in peace.
Later in the seventeenth century, there was Anastasio Della Riviera, the builder of the villa. He applied his power to the acquisition of property, and to persuading moneylenders and builders to act in his interests, rather than their own. Many of the properties we still own were bequeathed to the family by him.
Then there was our military hero, General Giuliano Della Riviera, who fought with Prince Eugene of Savoy. He was a master of men, and incidentally of horses, and could do exactly the same: persuade them to act in his interests by hazarding their own lives. His regiment was known for its fearlessness.
Paolo, his twin brother, studied the art too, but he went by a different route. He lost his wife and first child when they were still young, and decided to renounce family life and become a missionary. He went to Mexico, at first with a party of Jesuits but later on his own he founded a community of natives whom he had converted. I would classify this as another example of persuading people to act against their own best interests. They built a virtual city in the midst of impenetrable jungle, which he ruled like an uncrowned king; but Paolo’s success at converting the Mexicans caused jealousy among his superiors. He was recalled to Italy, and on the voyage home he died, supposedly of a fever. His city and all its inhabitants faded back into the jungle.
More recently, my grandfather was an adept. You know that he was a politician. But you didn’t know how he had such a long and unblemished career. He sat in parliament, and oversaw the passing of several bills under King Umberto. All such bills had been initially opposed, some vehemently; still, he succeeded in having them ratified.
It was the same power: he knew how to influence the thoughts of men.
As for myself, it is not yet time for you to know how I have employed and am employing the power. But what you must know is that your time has come to possess yourself of the book’s magic. Start studying it today—and burn this sheet of paper at once.
As if on cue, the hour struck. The bell was only feet away from Orsina, and the shock and noise were extreme. When the sound had died away, Orsina took out a book of matches from her purse and after a few attempts managed to set the letter on fire. Holding it into the wind, when the flames neared her fingers she let go, and it fluttered away to nothingness. She slowly descended the tower, overtaken by mixed emotions: awe, fear, and—why not admit it?—morbid curiosity. The Magical World of the Heroes was no empty pretense, of that she was becoming convinced. She would no longer put off studying it. But where should she begin, or rather, how? She rejoined the steamer, stopped off for dinner on Burano, and let herself into the palace around midnight.
The next day, Orsina was still asleep when Nigel returned from the villa. “I met Emanuele on the way out.” he said. “His smile was as cold as it gets. I left the Ferrari in Mestre, with the wine in the boot, but Bhaskar’s going to go and fetch it by motor launch.”
“Did you see Angela?”
“Yes, she was in a good mood and says hello. Now I must get to class. I’ve missed an hour already.”
Alone in the palace, Orsina began to feel the sense of oppression returning. She wondered why she had heard nothing from Leo: it was two weeks since he had suggested that they study The Magical World together. Could he have said so in the heat of the moment, only to cool off and find his other research more absorbing? That was impossible, or was it? She was about to call a girlfriend and suggest lunch together, when the phone rang.
“Leo? Is it you? What time is it there?”
“Four in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep.”
“How are you?”
“I’m all right, thank you. How’s Angela?”
“Angela? She’s fine, probably villa-hopping, as usual. And I thought you missed me!”
There was an awkward silence. If Angela was all right, then there was no need to worry Orsina by telling her about his vision. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s the professor in me. I remembered that you’re helping Angela settle in at Bristol. That’s all. Tell me: how are you?”
“I’m fine, but I’m really bored with being alone in this place, with Nigel out all day. I’ve even been reduced to reading The Magical World!”
“I have, too; in fact I’ve been reading it intensively,” said Leo cautiously.
Orsina could not resist pushing her luck, now that the subject had been broached. “So, Leo, have you been reading about the Cave of Mercury?” That was the lock, her uncle had told her, and the book was the key.
“Yes,” replied Leo, “in fact I’ve read the chapter many times. After the thing I’ve told you about, I had the idea that this Cave could be oneself, one’s inner consciousness. Cesare makes it seem as though ‘Mercury’ means everything, which I found very unhelpful earlier on. But it may signify that the whole of experience can be recreated in the imagination.”
“Yes, and in my edition he adds something: he says that Mercury is the vehicle that brings the soul down from heaven into the body. That links up with his idea that the whole universe is present in us, the macrocosm in the microcosm. Do you know, Uncle has started talking to me about these things, too. He’s given me some clues about the book, and how it concerns the Riviera family. I can’t say any more.”
“I’d hope it was more universal than that. Is there any hope of a humble Kavenaugh learning about it, too?”
“Ah, Leo: there’s also an aristocracy of the spirit. But anyway, you know Uncle and his family chauvinism. No one is supposed to be as good as we are. But for once, he gave me a concrete hint. There’s a room in the palace that’s actually called the Cave of Mercury. I’m going to explore it.”
“Oh yes, you do that. And watch out for—what does the book say?—Pygmies, Gnomes, Vulcans, and Salamanders lurking in the dark.”
“I will!”
That afternoon, Orsina equipped herself with a large flashlight and entered the storage-room. She laughed at herself as the beam fell on an electric wall sconce. Of course, the whole palazzo had been wired, and they’d hardly leave out the one room without a window. She turned on the light, which revealed stacks of chairs, trestle tables, and a wheeled stepladder that she had seen used for changing the light bulbs. There was space enough to circle the room, but the black-painted walls were smooth and featureless. No other door led in or out.
There was, however, a broad cornice, then a painted frieze, well above head height. As in other rooms, it was half painted and half modeled in plaster, so that some of the figures protruded from the
surface. The frieze was darkened with age and smoke, and hard to make out. By aiming her flashlight, Orsina could see some details, and memories of well-loved Greek myths came back to her. Of course: they were the stories of Hermes, Mercury to the Romans. There was a herd of cows that an infant was driving into a cave; they must be the cattle that Hermes stole from Apollo. The nativity scene must be, in fact, not Mary giving birth to Jesus, but Mercury’s mother Maia giving birth to him in the cave of Mount Cyllene. On the third wall, Mercury had grown up and was exchanging his lyre for Apollo’s golden staff. And on the east wall, opposite the door, were two scenes Orsina did not recall: Mercury locking the door of his cave, and the same nude figure, now almost separate from the wall, flying up to join Jupiter, enthroned on the ceiling.
“There must be a clue here,” thought Orsina, “if only I could read the myths more closely.” Perhaps she should ask Leo; he knew Greco-Roman mythology inside out. But that could wait; she was in the cave, why not use the ladder? It was not difficult to push it into position. She climbed to the platform, some six feet above the floor, which brought her face level with the frieze, and worked systematically around the room.
When she came to the east wall, the shock made her stagger and almost lose her footing. Mercury’s cave, which had looked black and featureless from below, contained a distinct, square outline in relief. Moreover, it had a keyhole.
“The book is the key,” Emanuele had said. Orsina climbed carefully down the ladder and returned to the salone, where she had been discussing the book with Leo. How was one to find an actual key in an allegorical book? Unable to keep her discovery to herself, she picked up the phone again and dialed Leo’s number.
The Forbidden Book: A Novel Page 8
