“Hermetic thought was absorbed by the great cultural and scientific minds of the Renaissance.” Once more, Phillip’s arm swept toward the ceiling. “My own artists, Michelangelo, Raphael, Botticelli, and Tintoretto, among them. Like them, Dürer was captivated by Hermetic philosophy.”
That was nice. Phillip owned the major Renaissance artists.
I waded in, still anxious to get back to our original question. Phillip, anticipating me, held up his hand. “Yes, the picture.” He walked over to a Mylar cabinet, selected a book, flipped it open. It was a catalogue raisonné. He held it out, pointing to the upper right-hand corner of Dürer’s woodcut. “The symbols in Melencolia 1 are Hermetic. The bell, for example, represents the correspondence between all things. The bell’s ring swelling outward can also be a shape. Dürer could never have known how profound his image was. Our own planet functions like a bell. The earth literally sings. Friction between sheets of the earth’s crust produces ringlike waves that can be heard in space. They even know the scale—B-flat major.”
Phillip pointed to the top left-hand corner of the woodcut. “The rainbow illustrates the same principle: white, which transforms to the spectrum of colors. Have you heard of a condition called synaesthesia?”
“Where some people see music as colors?” Laurel said.
“That’s one type. A perfect example of interchangeability. In Dürer’s picture the ladder symbolizes the connection between heaven and earth. Renaissance masterpieces were regarded not simply as images but also as actual talismans with magical properties.”
Phillip flashed his pearly whites at Laurel again. “There’s a long list of notables—Dante, Mirandello, Dürer, Goethe, and my own English Edmund Spenser—who carried forward the fundamental notion of the ‘one.’ The great Isaac Newton was the last before that heretic Descartes drew down the dark curtain of rationalism.”
“Can you explain some of the other symbols?” she asked.
“It would make more sense to consult someone better versed in that field. I do know, however, that Dürer played a few tricks on his audience.”
“Tricks?” Laurel raised her eyebrows.
“It was not at all typical for Renaissance artists to sign their work. In fact, many were forbidden to, so they were forced into subterfuge. In The School of Athens, Raphael hid his initials on the collar of one of the figures. Dürer often used a monogram on his works, but in Melencolia 1 he hid his name.”
He stretched out long, bony fingers to give Laurel a friendly pat on the cheek. “You have until tonight to figure out how he signed the work. If you’re successful, dinner’s on me.”
“Any first-year art history student knows that,” I said. “You’re talking about his magic square. All the rows and columns add up to thirty-four. On the bottom row are a four, fifteen, fourteen, and one. The one and four stand for A and D, Dürer’s initials. Or alternatively, A.D. 1514, the date he completed the work. Picasso was so impressed by that he hid the date of The Unknown Masterpiece, 1934, in his own picture.”
This failed to wipe the smug look off Phillip’s face. “Your origins are dubious, John, and your manners show it. That’s only the first. There are actually eighty-six ways Dürer signed his name, but I suspect anything deeper will elude you. You’ll need help. Claire was just here for our fundraiser. Why not call on her? She’ll get it sorted out for you.”
Laurel did not look amused. “If it’s all the same to you, we’d appreciate knowing now.”
This time Phillip waggled his finger at her. “Ah, what’s the rush? I guarantee you I’m acquainted with some of the best dinner spots in town.”
Fourteen
At Laurel’s suggestion, we headed for Washington Square Park to work on the Dürer puzzle. The park had a good cluster of people, and we’d be safe among the throng.
“What an ass Phillip is,” I said. “He’s got a rep as a total loser with women.”
“It shows. Who’s Claire?” Laurel asked.
“Phillip’s ex-wife and an old friend of mine. I’m surprised he suggested her; I thought they were on the permanent outs. She co-owned the gallery with Phillip, and later started her own. She’s a curator at the Museum of Modern Art now with a long trail of creds—degrees from Cambridge and the Sorbonne, that kind of thing. Her father has one of the most important collections of occult literature in the country. If she senses some interesting gossip she won’t let it go, so let’s see if we can figure this out on our own. I’d rather not call her unless I have to.”
We wandered through the Waverly Place entrance and into the circle of chess players. We stopped to watch two men playing, their heads bent over the board, focused on the match as if their lives depended on it. I leaned over to the one nearest me and whispered Knight f3. The guy didn’t even blink.
“Do you play chess a lot?” Laurel asked when we moved away.
“Once. I never played again because I didn’t want to destroy a perfect record.”
She gave me a pretend slap.
We sat on a bench near the dog runs. In a truly civilized gesture the park offered separate enclosed runs, one for the small guys and another across the path for the big boys. We stopped to watch a Yorkie wrestle his ball away from a longhaired dachshund.
Farther on, people cooled their feet in the fountain. Park workers zipped past in golf carts. Washington Square had lost most of its zing since the sixties, when Pollock and de Kooning had studios nearby and Allen Ginsberg and Dylan were the local bards. The way I heard it, back then pot practically grew on the lawns.
If Dürer really had signed his name eighty-six different ways, I despaired of ever finding the correct one. We took another look at Melencolia 1. A couple of websites we searched on my BlackBerry proved helpful. “In the upper right-hand corner, what do you see?” The image was furry and grayed out, although still clear enough to read.
“The bell,” Laurel said, “and the magic square. Magic squares were originally Chinese, weren’t they?”
“Yes, Babylonians had them as well, fifth- and sixth-order squares used for astrology. In Dürer’s magic square, the two numbers of the constant, three and four, add up to seven. Multiply them and you get twelve. Seven and twelve are the most sacred numbers.” I checked another website and read the text aloud to Laurel. “‘Seven was revered by Mesopotamians because of the seven celestial bodies visible to the naked eye: the Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. Pythagoras believed seven to be the ultimate expression of harmony, and Judaism considered it the perfect number as reflected by the seventh day—Shabbat, the day of worship.’”
“There’s music too,” Laurel added, “seven notes on the diatonic scale.”
“Right. And you’ve heard of the seventh heaven? It’s the Muslim concept of supreme heaven, the one of absolute purity. But this doesn’t help us,” I said. “Seven won’t work with only two spaces to be filled in.”
“What does Dürer’s entire name add up to?” Laurel asked.
I counted out the numeric value of each letter in his name and added them up. “A hundred and thirty-five. You’d need three squares for that, and we have only two.”
“I guess there’s no point trying the constant, thirty-four, because that would stand for the letters C and D,” Laurel said.
I nodded absentmindedly. After another half an hour we’d gotten nowhere and decided to leave. The sun had disappeared behind a heavy bank of clouds, turning the late afternoon sky to mottled purples and grays without taking the heat away. Rivers of perspiration slipped down my spine, pooling in the hollow at the small of my back.
Laurel stopped as we neared the park’s west exit. Two figures caught her attention. She half turned toward them and I followed her gaze. The first was a silver Elvis. Gelled and silvered hair slicked back at the sides, silver face, flashy sequined suit, chrome-rimmed sunglasses. Every minute or so he would pivot, thrust out his hips, and assume a new Elvis pose. The other performance artist, a few feet away, wore a jester costume.
Gold and black hat with bells and a black bodysuit with a white collar. On each flap of his collar was a symbol for a suit of cards: spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs. His face was completely hidden by a white porcelain mask. On his left wrist I saw a red tattoo.
Laurel put a hand to her lips. “Who’s that?”
“Good question. The Elvis is probably a legitimate performance artist, but the jester’s got to be from the alchemy website.”
We were in a crowded park so felt safe enough. We waited to see what he’d do. His gaze wandered to Laurel’s ample breasts and locked on. I put my arm around her to send him the clear message that she belonged to me, then held up my other hand and flipped him the bird.
“Let’s take off,” I said. “I don’t want to hang around this guy.”
So that made three of them—Eris, Shim, and this jester. And they posed a danger not only to me but now to Laurel too. The only solution I could see was to counter their numbers with allies of my own. That meant giving Laurel more of the story and enlisting Tomas’s help. I’d wanted to learn what else Tomas knew anyway, and this would furnish the pretext. I could involve them while keeping something in reserve. Hal’s flash drive was safely, I hoped, with Nina. The only other existing file was on my BlackBerry, and Eris and her friends wouldn’t be getting their hands on that. I told Laurel about the Book of Nahum and what Tomas had revealed of it.
“I see why they’re so desperate to get it,” she said after a moment of astonishment over the immense find. “No wonder it’s worth a fortune. What did you say his name was—Tomas Zakar? Are you sure about him?”
“Samuel employed him in Iraq. That checks out.”
“How do you know it’s not just some story he gave you? He could be anyone. What if he has terrorist connections?”
“There’s no chance. Samuel would never have associated with someone like that. I’d like you to meet him; another pair of eyes might help us crack this thing, and there’s no point working at cross purposes.”
“All right. But if you sense anything negative about him, back off. This game of Hal’s is sucking us under and I don’t think you see that. You worry me by rushing headlong into things.”
I lost my cool over that remark. “Laurel, my life has been directly threatened. And look at what just happened. Those freaks will show up out of the blue, even in a crowded park. They have no fear. And how are they finding me? You’re quite right I’m rushing. I have no fucking choice.”
“Why are you getting mad? I’m just looking out for you.” She linked her arm through mine. “We’ll get it sorted out.”
The condo would be at the top of their list of places to find me. I had to get out of there. Laurel waited for me around the corner at Caffe Dante while I stopped by the condo to pick up a few things. But before I went anywhere near my place I stood in the doorway to Kenny’s and made sure there was no surveillance.
Once inside I threw a change of clothes, some toiletries, and Samuel’s last journal into a small case. I shoved my treasure chest into the back of his closet, folded a blanket around it, and tossed some shoes on top. I stuffed Samuel’s billfold with his American Express, Visa, and about two hundred dollars, returned to me after the crash, into my pocket.
As I was about to leave a call came.
“Darling, what have you become embroiled in this time?”
Claire. She never bothered to introduce herself, assuming the entire world knew who she was. “Funny you should call me.”
“Phillip passed along a message. He said you wanted to speak to me. Something about alchemy and Dürer? You do get mixed up in the quaintest things, dear.”
“I’m just doing some research on a Dürer print, but I think it’s under control. Can I check in with you later if I need to?”
“Of course. But now I’m intrigued. You’re chasing a big fat commission, aren’t you? I hadn’t heard of any Dürers being available right now.”
“Everything’s always on the market, Claire. You know that. Listen, I appreciate your call but I’ve got to split.”
She hung up abruptly, feeling cheated, no doubt, because I’d held out on her.
I got in touch with Tomas, and he suggested we meet at his room at the Waldorf. Before leaving, I took out the precious bottle of 1985 Barolo I’d saved for a special occasion. On the back of my business card I wrote a thank you to Nina. There being no answer when I knocked, I left it propped against her door. She’d earned it.
Fifteen
Before going up to see Tomas, I suggested to Laurel that we wait in the Waldorf lobby to make sure no one had followed us. When we reached the hotel we settled into plump chairs.
Our housekeeper, Evelyn, taught herself English by watching old movies, so I grew up transfixed by Cary Grant captive in the Plaza, King Kong teetering from the Empire State Building, Lana Turner vamping at the Waldorf Astoria. Fantasy and reality not yet being distinct in my young mind, on one school visit to the Empire State I’d stubbornly refused to make the trip to the observation deck, afraid that a giant, hairy hand would curl around me and fling me off the top. Some of my strongest first impressions of the city came from those films. They gave New York a varnish of glamour no other place possessed, one of the many reasons I loved it so much.
On special occasions, Evelyn would bring me to the Waldorf. For her, walking into the lobby was like entering a king’s palace. We’d tour the place the way others would a gallery or museum, finishing off our visit with lunch at Peacock Alley—a Waldorf salad with candied walnuts for her, and for me an indulgence, strawberry napoleon with white chocolate mousse. The Waldorf had undergone a long process of recovery from the sixties, when many of its fabulous art deco designs had been concealed under carpets or behind heavy drapes. The work of Louis Rigal—his twelve remarkable murals, and the mosaic disc on the floor made of 150,000 pieces of marble—shone on full display. A focal point of the room, the tall clock from the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, still rang its Westminster chimes every fifteen minutes.
People drifted through the lobby, going about their business. No one seemed to be paying any special attention to us. I glanced over at Laurel. She was looking down, fidgeting with a tissue, fright at seeing the jester still occupying her mind, I guessed. She had a lot on her shoulders already, and the news I’d brought her might well have been too much for her to handle. In the short time we’d spent together, I’d felt an attraction for Laurel that I hadn’t experienced for a long time. She caught me looking at her and gave me a half smile. “Let’s go up,” I said. “I think we’re okay here.”
The elevator stopped at the second floor to admit an older woman wearing heavy, oversweet perfume. Her hair was a frightening helmet, stiff and overly bright, speaking of decades of applied color. She strode in and commanded center spot, forcing Laurel and me to retreat to the back wall.
Tomas’s door swung open after the first knock. A friendly lion seized my hand in both of his huge paws, insisting, “Come in, come in, John. You are most welcome here.” I noticed a deep welt on the man’s palm when he took his hand away.
Tomas looked up from his perch on a chair in the corner and gestured toward the lion. “My brother, Ari.”
Laurel greeted them politely when I introduced her; she appeared duly impressed by the surroundings. When Ari stepped aside, we could see the room was actually a large two-bedroom suite with a living area done up in faux Chippendale, fresh flowers on gleaming tables, ornate draperies, carpets and walls in soft coffee and cream tones, all of it designed to project an air of inoffensive gentility. The high ceilings soared to elaborate cornices. A camera like those used by TV photojournalists sat on one of the chairs beside a beaten-up backpack. The suite occupied a premier position in the hotel, its windows looking out onto Park Avenue.
I thought they’d been burning incense until I noticed a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, a package of Gitanes Brunes open beside it. The coffee table was covered with takeout containers. The presence of someone else was disconce
rting, and I was annoyed with Tomas for failing to mention his brother when I’d called him. Nor did Tomas seem particularly welcoming. I felt like a moth fluttering into a hornet’s nest.
The lion gestured toward Tomas, signaling for him to give up his seat. He did so with an audible sigh. Whether Tomas didn’t want to move or just hated being ordered around wasn’t clear. I thought about the two boys I’d seen earlier at the beach.
I reluctantly sat down. What else could I do? It would have been rude for us to make an excuse and walk out again.
I’d never have guessed that Ari, with his caramel-colored mane, freckles, and profusion of curly hair on his arms and the back of his hands, was Tomas’s brother. He wore Levi’s and a jean shirt and had pale green eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, which seemed to be almost constantly. Both in looks and temperament, the contrast between him and Tomas was striking. I took an instant liking to him.
“What may I offer you to drink?” Ari asked. “We have a whole cabinet full of things.” He flipped open a bar full of miniature bottles. I thanked him but said I’d pass. Laurel asked for a bottle of Poland Spring.
“Please, eat, eat, help yourselves,” he urged, beaming at us. “It is all from Khyber Pass. That’s where you met with Tomas, no?” I nodded.
“The best food there.” Ari pointed to the containers. “The mantoo is most delicious, we have two kinds of hummus, dumplings, yogurt with mint, ashak, baklava—it drips with honey and nuts. Please help yourself.”
We selected samples of food and munched away.
Twenty minutes or so. I would stay exactly that long, then make my excuses and go.
Ari turned to me. “Please may I say how terrible it is about Samuel. Our great friend. We cannot believe he’s gone.”
Every expression of sympathy still stung like an accusation, but I expressed my thanks.
The Witch of Babylon Page 14
