by A. J. Molloy
I pause, pen poised, and read my last few scraps of notes. They relate to the punishing secrecy surrounding the Mysteries.
The laws of Athens and Rome made it a severe crime to speak of what went on in the Mysteries at Eleusis. In 415 B.C. there was a spate of indiscretion about the Mysteries by the Athenian elite, and a brutal crackdown followed: those who had revealed the secret were tortured and killed.
Tortured and killed?
It is all so tempting, so tantalizing, And what makes it especially appetizing is that it seems the Mysteries have survived, in some kind of authentic form; and I—Alexandra Beckmann—a humble student from Dartmouth—may be about to discover the secret of the Greco-Roman Mystery Religions.
I ignore the nagging voices in my head even as I flick through the last pages of my notebook: the voices saying the Mysteries are dangerous.
Oh please. That was then, this is now. I am just researching. Right?
Right. I lift my legs off the bed; I’ve got to get ready pretty soon. Jess has stopped singing, which means she has finished showering, which means it might be time for me to have my shower. I’ve learned that the water system in our apartment block can’t cope with two showers simultaneously.
But then my phone rings. The screen says Marc.
“Buona sera?”
“X . . . How are you?”
I pause. His soft and deep and gently amused voice makes me several degrees happier. I still don’t know how this works. Just a voice. But it is his voice.
“I’m done. I’ve learned everything there is to know about the Rites of Eleusis.”
“Impressive.”
“Did you know I am technically a mystes? That’s what the Greeks called an initiate who hasn’t completed the rituals. And they thought the Mysteries were so sacred, they didn’t refer to them by name—they just called them Ta Hiera: the holy.”
Marc praises my endeavors. Courteously. I stare out of the window at the sun over the Excelsior Hotel, as we talk.
“You really have been working hard, X.”
“I have. It’s what I do.”
He hesitates, then says, “Actually, there’s a rather fine quote you might find useful.”
“Go on.”
“ ‘Blessed is he who, having seen these rites, undertakes the way beneath the Earth. He knows the end of life, as well as its divinely granted beginning.’ ”
“Ooh,” I say. “That’s gooooood. Who is it?”
“Pindar, the Greek poet. Talking of the final Mystery.”
“ ‘The way beneath the Earth.’ Wow.” I am picking up a pen, scribbling the word Pindar in my notebook.
“Carissima . . .”
I am distracted.
“Mm?”
“Did you get my present?”
Now I pause, and put down the pen.
“Yes, I did get the present.”
It is sitting on my desk right now: a smallish flat box, wrapped in costly silver paper. The gift arrived this morning.
“I haven’t opened it yet. What is it? Your presents can be a little unnerving, Marcus.”
His laugh is polite. And firm.
“Open it.”
“Now?”
“Per favore.”
“Okay, okay.” Reaching for the box, I retreat to the bed and sit back against the pillows. Quickly I untie the bow and rip the lovely silver paper. The box within is plain, subtle and gray. I open the lid. And stare at the object nestling inside, cosseted in shapely foam. My cell phone is cradled under my chin.
“What the . . . ?”
“You like it?”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s great. I’ve always wanted one of these.” I pause. “What is it?”
His laughter is quick.
“Baibure-ta.”
“Hello?”
“It’s a vibrator, carissima. The best vibrator in the world, made in Japan.”
Even though I am alone, I am blushing. Quite fiercely.
“But it doesn’t, um, uh, ah, look like a vibrator. It looks like . . .” I take the shining metal object from its soft box. It is surprisingly heavy, and carefully, even lovingly, shaped. “It looks like a torture device for elves.”
“Try it.”
“Marc!”
“Try it.”
“I have you for that.”
“Just try it . . . Once.”
Hmm. Shall I try it? I am giggling. But I am still blushing.
With my cell phone tucked under my chin, I turn the sex toy in my hands. The metal is silvery in places, almost transparent; are there pearls in there, or shining steel balls? I’ve never used a sex toy before—not properly—I know that Jessica has one and I’ve admired it, and giggled with her, then forgotten about it. This doesn’t look the same; it’s much smaller and heavier and very differently shaped. And much, much pricier, no doubt. But I am beginning to see how it might work. You’d put that in there . . . ?
“I’ve got my clothes on, Marc, or most of them.”
“Then take them off.”
“Sì, Celenza!”
“This isn’t the Mysteries, X.”
“I know. I just like calling you Celenza. I like it when you order me around. But only sexually. You ever do it in a restaurant and I will punch you in the face, Marc Roscarrick.”
He laughs again. I love making him laugh.
“I’m putting the phone down, my lord. Hold on. ”
Quickly I peel down my jeans. I am already barefoot. Then I slip off my panties, get back on the bed, tuck the phone under my chin. And hold the sex toy in my hands.
“Okay, Celenza. Fire away.”
“Press the button at the bottom, the black one.”
I locate the little button, which is sophisticated and small. A gentle red light glows inside the vibrator, but much more noticeable is the fairly intense vibrating. This isn’t unexpected, but it is very different from the crude buzz of Jessica’s sex toy.
“Oh my goodness. It’s actually alive.”
“Now use it.”
I hesitate. Am I actually going to do this?
“But, Marc, I’m not sure—”
“Press the silver tip to your sweet little clitoris.”
I stare at the toy. Then, quite slowly, I open my bare legs. My darling tattoo glows dark, scarlet and violet on my white skin. The machine feels like a small animal, something alive, buzzing deep and wildly. Yearning to do its job.
“Press it against your clitoris.”
I hesitate, then I answer.
“Sì, Celenza.”
Now I close my eyes and press the soft, curving metal against my clitoris. My wetness.
The sensation is too much.
“Oh God!”
“Don’t press too hard.”
“It’s good, it’s good, but it’s weird . . .”
“Try once more. Do it slowly, very slowly.”
I use the toy again. Against my clitoris. Much softer this time.
The pleasure surges through me, starting in my groin, but emanating and rippling.
“Now think of me, carissima.”
“I am already,” I say. And I am. My eyes are closed and I am thinking of Marc.
“What are you thinking?”
The machine buzzes.
“You,” I say. “You. Deep inside me.”
“What am I doing?”
My body is blushing. But not from shame.
“You are fucking me.”
“Am I fucking you hard?”
“Very hard. Your . . . your cock is inside me. I love your cock. But . . . ah . . .”
The machine is too much. Too good. I want this to last.
“C
areful, wait . . . Talk to me. How am I fucking you, Alexandra?”
“From behind. You’re not naked.”
“No?”
“No, but I am. You’ve come to my apartment, Marc, you’ve ripped all the clothes off me, you throw me on the bed, you open my legs, brutal—I have no choice, oh God—”
The machine buzzes. I see how it works. My eyes are closed very tight; my heart is beating very fast, but I see how this works. This other part goes there, inside me. Not far. But just enough.
“Oh my God.”
“I stripped you naked.”
“You did, you did, and now you are fucking me, fucking me hard, and you are calling me your little girl.”
“My little girl . . .”
“And I am helpless, you are in me . . .”
“In you?”
“Yes, yes. In me, deep inside me. Deep, deep, deep.”
“I am inside you . . .”
“You are inside me so deep, so deep. It is the only thing I can feel. Your cock deep inside me. But mmmm—”
“Wait!”
“I can’t.”
“Carissima . . .”
I am barely able to speak. The machine is alive, and it is pleasuring me. Wonderfully.
“You are fucking me, hard, and it hurts, and I love it, love it, I love . . . I love . . . I . . . I love it, I love it.”
“But not only this . . .”
“Mmmmmarc . . .”
“Press the other part down there.”
“Where? I . . . I . . . I don’t . . . Oh, yes—” I see. Yes, I see. He means my perineum. And below. And even as I think this, the machine slips. It slips inside me. Anally. I didn’t even move it.
“Oh.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I dash into the bathroom, turn the tap and sluice myself with hot water.
The toy is washed and cleaned and in its box. I feel like locking the box away. It is a little too exciting. But I am glad Marc gave me this. I’d rather have this than a car.
Turning my face into the shower water I can’t help smiling. Good, this is good. Now I rub myself down using this divine soap, which was a gift from Marc. He says it comes from a little monastery in deepest Florence, the Officina Profumo Farmaceutica di Santa Novella; apparently the soap has been made by monks and nuns since the fourteenth century.
Subtly floral, discreetly sensual, handmade and skin-loving. The foam is scented clouds. Sapone di Latte! I use it everywhere; I probably overuse it, even though the bars must cost fifty dollars apiece.
Thank you, Marc. Thank you for everything.
Cleansed and refreshed, I step into the bedroom, quite nude, with a towel turbaned on my head, and for a second eye myself critically in my one good, floor-length mirror. I pinch half an inch in front of the mirror: hmmm. Am I putting on weight? Is all this divine Campanian food in all these glorious Neapolitan restaurants making me fat?
The bell rings. And as I pull on my dress, I decide I don’t especially care if I am getting fat. This is probably because I am not getting fat. It is the miracle of Mediterranean life: I eat anything I want but all the swimming in the sea, and most especially the sex, is keeping me reasonably thin.
The bell rings again. Instead of answering the intercom I run downstairs, barefoot in my dress, with my hair still wet, and I open the door to the warm summer evening air, and Marc is standing there smiling in his jeans and white shirt and I actually leap into his strong arms so that he is staggering back onto Via Santa Lucia, holding me as I kiss him, with my ankles locked around the small of his back.
We kiss. I am acting like a seventeen-year-old. I do not care. I feel seventeen. I am in love. The moon is high over Capri.
“Hello, X,” he says, as he puts me down on the ground.
“Hello, Marc,” I say. “I’m quite pleased to see you.”
He smiles.
“You liked the toy, then?”
“Those crazy Japanese. What are they like?”
“I got it so you wouldn’t be lonely.”
“Marc, I see you every day. You sleep with me twice a day.”
“But sometimes I have business. Anyway . . .” He gestures at his parked Mercedes. “Tonight I want to show you something special.”
“What?” I am imagining a marvelous meal, perhaps the world’s greatest tonno rosso recipe, served on top of Mount Vesuvius.
Instead, Marc says, “The Cappella Sansevero.”
“But . . .” I say, stammering, and flustered—and excited. I’ve heard of the Sansevero Chapel, of course; every serious visitor to Naples has heard of the notorious and amazing Sansevero Chapel, every serious art historian in the entire universe has heard of Sansevero Chapel. “But it’s closed for renovation, Marc. It’s been closed for years, no one knows when it will reopen; you can’t get in. I tried and tried . . .”
His eyes twinkle in that way.
“You are right . . .” He smiles. “But I am paying for the renovations.”
He is dangling one large key on a ring. Marc can get me into the Cappella Sansevero!
The drive takes all of three hundred seconds, from the ordinariness of my apartment block to the doors of one of the most sacred places in human artistry. We get out of the car and approach.
The chapel is shrouded in scaffolding, and surrounded—protected—by the narrow streets of Old Naples, the grand and battered heart of Naples, where old men with gray stubble play scala outside tiny cafes with bright strip lighting, smoking and coughing and exchanging their amiable insults. A circolo sociale.
In the light of dusk, the glass wall shrines fluoresce with yellow electric candles and red plastic flowers and leering, eerie statuettes. There are lots of smiling Holy Marys, the patron saint of the Camorra.
As Marc reaches for the keys, a big blue Vespa emerges abruptly and suddenly from a shadowed corner, and veers dangerously past me, carrying two laughing teen girls in shorts and flip-flops, riding the bike without helmets, their sumptuous dark hair rising and falling in the driven breeze.
I watch them disappear: their happiness, their laughter, their fleeting beauty. Now they are gone; the old roads are almost silent. Washing hangs limply above. The bassi are quiet. A man in a tiny room opposite, framed by his open window, sits watching soccer on a stupidly bulky TV under a portrait of Padre Pio. His artificial leg sits on the table in front of him as he chews provola cheese, rinds and all. Chewing with his toothless mouth.
“Okay,” says Marc, disturbing my reverie on Neapolitan street life. “OK, piccolina, we can go in.”
He is opening the door to the Cappella Sansevero.
The first thing I see is a splendid, small, late-Baroque chapel, lit by one bare builder’s lightbulb. Mops and brushes litter the scene, and new ocher brick dust is scattered on the floor, but this debris can’t detract from the glittering, jewel-box beauty of the ornately marbled chapel.
Marc tells me the history of the place, but I know it already.
“The seventh Prince of Sansevero, Raimondo, was born in 1710, into a noble Neapolitan family which traced its lineage to the time of Charlemagne. He was said to be the greatest intellect in the history of Naples, versed in alchemy, astronomy, sorcery, and mechanics . . .”
I admire the painted ceiling as Marc speaks.
“The prince spoke half a dozen European languages, as well as Arabic and Hebrew. He was head of the Neapolitan masonic lodge until he was excommunicated by the Church—the slanders of heresy were later retracted.”
The floor is a dense and monochrome labyrinth of a mosaic; I know this is meant to represent Masonic initiation. Why is Marc bringing me here? Does this place have something to do with the Mysteries?
Marc concludes, with a sweeping and generous gesture, waving at this chapel he is paying to restore. “The
last years of Raimondo’s life were dedicated to building this place—Sansevero Chapel—endowing it with statuary and images from the greatest artists of the time. He wanted his chapel to be the beating heart of the Neapolitan Baroque, infused with cryptic and allegorical truths.”
“It’s . . . very impressive.”
“Come,” says Marc.
I am feeling somewhat nervous. Because I know this room, sumptuous as it might be, is certainly not the famous treasure of the Cappella Sansevero. That lies down a narrow staircase to our right.
The antechamber is dark: Marc turns on the flashlight in his phone and we descend this constricted helix of cool white marble. The stairs twist on themselves, confusingly. I hasten after Marc’s light. At last we reach the dark and somber silence of the crypt. And Marc’s flashlight shines on the terrible and amazing treasure of Sansevero.
The Veiled Christ—the Cristo Velato—of Sammartino.
It is mind-blowing. It is scary. It is indescribable. But I need to find the words in myself, in my soul, to describe it. Otherwise I will have somehow failed; I will have been revealed and rejected, I will be unworthy.
The sculpture shows Jesus in the tomb. But Sammartino, the sculptor, has draped the dead Jesus, the dead-yet-awakening Jesus, with a soft, gentle, silken sheet, a death shroud of linen, clinging to every contour, yet it is made out of the same block of marble as the body.
How was it done? How could you do this? Sculpt a perfect body then, at the same time, sculpt a silken sheet in which to clothe it, the two becoming one? To this day I know that art historians argue over the technique involved; some devotees believe it is simply a work of magic.
“What do you think?” Marc asks.
“It’s marvelous,” I say, stammering a little. “No, it’s more than marvelous. It is miraculous.”
And it is. The sculpture is miraculous. Perhaps the single most astonishing work of art I have ever encountered. Yet this sculpture is also unsettling; there is something otherworldly about it, something beyond human. It possesses an eerie perfection. It is too much.
