Dante's Key

by G. L. Baron

  *

  Fifteen minutes later, Cassini emerged from the underworld. He had got off at Charles de Gaulle Étoile station and found himself right under the Arc de Triomphe.

  The chilly wind and light snowfall seemed to have stopped abruptly. Cars ran frantically around the monument celebrating Napoleon’s victories.

  Up until then he had been driven by his survival instinct. But now that he had escaped the danger, how was he supposed to behave? What should he do?

  As he walked along the Champs-Élysées he began reflecting on the flashbacks; he did not know how, but they were connected to what was happening to him. Was it possible that, in some way, those visions and memories indicated a kind of map to follow?

  Following that reasoning, he could not help but think back to his Dante, and those verses of Purgatory that read: ‘And when thou writ’st them, keep in mind, Not to conceal how thou hast seen the plant, That twice hath now been spoil’d.’ – ‘And remember, when you’ll write, do not keep silent about seeing the plant, twice stolen.’

  The meaning of those verses had been one of the most important ideas of the Secret of the Cursed Painters. For most academics, the poet using the term plant was referring to the tree of the Garden of Eden, the symbol of divine justice. For Cassini, however, the significance was very different; the term plant was to be interpreted not as a tree, but as the “map” that would lead him to the earthly paradise.

  Five years earlier, reaching that conclusion, the professor based his interpretation on another famous triplet in canto XXVII: ‘Upright within the rock arose, and fac’d such part of heav’n, that from before my steps, the beams were shrouded of the sinking sun.’ – ‘Straight climbed the road to heaven, and the sun already low at sunset cast my shadow before me.’ In those heroic verses the poet seemed to provide a precise geographical location, with the sun low in the west and him on his way to the east. This was how Cassini had got the idea that the term “plant” had been used as a synonym for “map” to find Eden.

  Unlike the great poet, he was not searching for Paradise – far from it. His goal was to understand what those visions meant. Perhaps, it could save his life…

  He continued reflecting; was it reasonable to think that, somehow, his subconscious was suggesting a way out? Was it possible that all the flashbacks gradually returning represented a map navigating the labyrinth of his mind?

  He decided it was worth trying, because he knew he had only managed to escape his pursuers by accident. He had been lucky and he knew it very well; whatever the reason why these men were chasing him, he was sure that they would try again… and in any case, it would be very difficult to elude them twice.

  In front of him, between a Louis Vuitton and a Lacoste shop, there was the yellow sign of Hertz in the window of a car hire company. He glanced over his shoulder and then slipped inside.

  35

  Paris, January 2nd. 11:41 a.m.

  When his mobile rang, Inspector Sforza was in a taxi going to his hotel in Montmartre.

  He touched “Answer” and found himself in front of the pale pimply face of Fabien Bérot, taken with the office webcam.

  ‘Nigel, is it a bad moment?’ the nerd asked through Skype. ‘I have two things which may interest you. Good and bad,’ he continued, without waiting for an answer. His voice was hoarse and, as usual, without emotion.

  Sforza settled down in his seat and smiled. ‘Start with the good.’

  ‘Remember a few days ago, before you came to Lyon, while we were talking on the phone the line broke off?’

  The inspector did not remember anything. He must have scowled because soon after Bérot added, ‘My phone was burned.’ Sforza remembered that he had noticed a phone with a screen that had seemed incinerated on Fabien’s desk. ‘I’m so sorry, but I don’t see how that could be of interest to me…’

  ‘You should,’ the young man said quietly. ‘I thought it had fused because of a manufacturing defect. When I dismantled it, however, I realized that the insides were completely charred.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s not easy for a phone’s electronics to burn like that,’ muttered the young man. ‘The problem may have been generated by electromagnetic waves passing through the circuits. But there must have been a change of field strong enough to melt it.’

  Sforza was already beginning to lose patience. ‘Come to the point, Fabien.’

  ‘You know that I have a proton magnetometer in the laboratory?’

  ‘No. And frankly I don’t care,’ pointed out the inspector. ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘I checked the magnetic fields that have been detected in the laboratory in recent days… in particular in the vicinity of the two microchips you sent me.’

  ‘Well?’ Sforza watched him through the mobile screen; Fabien for once seemed to have acquired greater vitality, as if what he was saying really touched him.

  ‘As you know, a “normal” magnetic field varies over time, or rather, the intensity varies over time. There are times, though, when the magnetic field is stable, albeit for a limited period. A bit like a straight line instead of one going up and down…’

  Sforza grimaced. He could not understand where he was going with this, but preferred not to interrupt.

  ‘You have that particular case in the MRI. The field generated does not vary in time because the cells that you want to observe must magnetize; that is, they must align to the magnetic field created. If the field varied continuously, cells would not be able to line up… as if they had to run after a spinning compass.’

  ‘Basically, you’re telling me that those microchips generate a magnetic field similar to that of an MRI?’ Sforza cut him short. ‘And that’s what burnt your phone?’

  ‘Exactly! In “restarting” the cyclical resonance, a field variation flared that was strong enough to burn my Next. We are talking about a magnetic field of about 1 Tesla… the Earth is two thousand times lower, just to give you a comparison.’

  ‘Make a hypothesis. What are those microchips for, in your opinion?’

  ‘I knew you’d ask me,’ he continued without smiling. ‘Have you ever heard of Solidweb?’

  Sforza shook his head. ‘Of course not. Should I?’

  ‘Not necessarily… unless you have multiple sclerosis or SLA. It’s a company that deals with developing systems that help patients to move independently and communicate.’

  ‘I still don’t understand, forgive me.’

  ‘I remembered reading something in the past.’ Bérot tapped something on the keys and continued. ‘Solidweb produced devices that use sensors similar to those of an electroencephalograph; they were able to interpret the thoughts of the patients. They allowed them to perform basic operations. The principle was simple: when neurons interact in our brain, the chemical reaction generates an emission of an electric pulse. EEG sensors measure those impulses and transmit them to the PC, which in turn gives basic directions to other equipment: up, down, right, left, on, off.’

  Sforza settled on the seat. He still did not understand where the young man was going, but compared to what he already knew, it was beginning to get interesting.

  ‘The more advanced devices had up to a maximum of two hundred and fifty-six sensors that could be applied to the head. According to the CEO of this Solidweb, a certain Timothy Dempsey, the number of sensors was sufficient to impart the simple commands that I just told you about… but not for the development he had in mind.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Although in a very rudimentary way the EEG sensors could interpret the chemical reactions occurring in the brain and transform them into instructions for the computer, using the same technique you could – according to him – perhaps do something more…’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ Sforza repeated again, annoyed.

  ‘He wanted to record dreams.’

  The inspector could not suppress an astonished look.

  ‘Earth calling Fabien,’ he whispered with a televi
sion presenter’s tone. ‘Don’t be offended, my friend, but I think you’ve got too much imagination.’

  ‘Nigel, I’m not kidding… This is the frontier of future entertainment! Rather than films in 3d… people will line up to be able to “see” Angelina Jolie or George Clooney’s dreams.’

  ‘Let’s say I believe you – but that’s not so – then what is the magnetic resonance for?’

  Bérot smiled and this time looked like he was really enjoying himself.

  ‘As you know, the human brain has a variable number of neurons between ten and one hundred billion. A complete map of all would require too many nano-sensors. Unless… mapping is not made with a sensor for each cell, as in current devices, but in a different way: by measuring the precession of the protons or nuclei spin with magnetic momentum.’ Fabien stopped. Then he tried to clarify the concept, so that even Sforza could understand. ‘That’s exactly what makes magnetic resonance; not detecting individual neurons one-by-one, but all together, it makes measurements at the nuclear level, captures changes in the brain at the atomic level.’

  Sforza remained motionless, his face impassive. He watched the young man through the display for a long time. ‘Can you do that?’ he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut as if he had the sun in his face.

  ‘Technically yes… Then the problem would be to record the data, but the other device that you brought me could be the appropriate support… the organic chips we have… sorry… that we had.’

  ‘Stop, stop!’ Sforza frowned and interrupted the young man abruptly. ‘What do you mean we had?’

  ‘That’s the bad news…’ Bérot paused, waiting for a comment that did not come. ‘The second thing I had to tell you is this: the microchips have disappeared.’

  36

  Versailles, January 2nd. 2:10 p.m.

  Cassini was standing on the edge of a country road, a fine rain-like dew coming down. The engine was on, and as he watched the mobile phone display for the route to follow, the wipers emitted a rhythmic and reassuring sound.

  After a few moments he put the car in gear and turned left, onto the Rampe Saint-Martin. He was in a black Mini Cooper with a white roof and had been forced to pay by credit card to rent it. He knew that with those criminals in hot pursuit it was not the best choice, since he still had to leave a copy of his driving license, but had considered it to be an unavoidable risk.

  Before him was the sign indicating Versailles and a flyover. Above it, the hectic traffic flowed along the motorway. At that point the road went up and bent to the right. Suddenly he remembered the tire screeches and the speedometer indicating 180 kilometres an hour. It was the same road lined with trees that he had driven down in a Ferrari in one of his visions.

  On his left, he remembered, at some point there should be some train tracks. Sure enough, after a few metres he saw the railway track running along the roadside. In his side mirror, he saw the imposing figure of a green train and he heard the whistle. The train reached him almost immediately and for a short stretch they proceeded side-by-side. Cassini was then forced to put on the brakes.

  The Mini turned left and went up the ramp of a bridge, like in his memory, just above the tracks. From there onwards he knew that the trees would disappear and give way to the outer buildings of the city, a palette of greys and browns fading from the white light of the winter day.

  All the details he saw were clear in his mind, as if he had been there only a few days before: a drain, a tree, a fence. And they were just as he remembered them. There was only one small detail: he was sure he had never been there. It was as if entire pieces of his life experience had been deleted and were re-emerging in fits and starts from his brain.

  After reaching the end of Rue Edouard Charton, the phone’s navigator suggested he turn left on Rue d’Anjou. He indicated and began the slight descent. After a while he reached his goal: a restaurant with a slate roof, painted bright red and with the sign Le Carré aux Crêpes.

  When he had rented the car, he had no idea what his destination was. A quick search with his smartphone, though, had given him reassurance; in Versailles there was only one place called Le Carré aux Crêpes and it was located near Place Royale.

  Cassini parked the car on the roadside, a few metres from the large Christmas tree that he had seen in his flashbacks, and got out. The sky was grey but the rain had stopped.

  He approached the front entrance of the place – even that was firmly impressed in his memory. The wall was painted red, with two big windows by the door, and the words on the sign written in gold. There was only one difference; the last time, up front, there had been three Harley Davidsons parked.

  He put his hand on the door and entered. A bell tinkled over his head.

  *

  The interior of the restaurant was small, warm and welcoming. A row of wooden columns divided the room in two and the open-beamed ceiling was low. On the far left wall was a rounded masonry counter. On the opposite side, laid tables were crammed one next to the other, in front of a wooden staircase that led upstairs.

  ‘Welcome,’ a mulatto woman in her thirties greeted him, with a friendly smile on her face. ‘Are you alone?’

  Cassini nodded and looked around, hoping some more accurate detail would emerge from his memory.

  The waitress walked him to the table and the professor sat down, waiting for a flashback that never came.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘What I had last time,’ ventured Cassini. If he had been there, maybe she would remember…

  The young waitress remained motionless, however, staring at him with two little half-closed eyes and a doubtful look. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I passed by few days ago, over Christmas,’ suggested Cassini, thinking of the decorated tree outside the door.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember you… monsieur.’ The girl seemed genuinely sorry. ‘We are very close to the palace of Versailles, a lot of tourists come here.’

  ‘Are you really sure you don’t remember me? There were three Harley Davidsons out there that same day.’

  The young woman smiled. ‘Yes. The Harleys I remember. My boyfriend’s a fan of those motorbikes. It must have been about ten days ago…’ Then she turned toward the counter and caught the attention of the man fiddling with a glass. ‘Pierre, what day were the three bikers with the Harleys here?’

  The man thought for a second and then leaned his elbows on the counter. ‘It was last Monday,’ he announced. ‘The 22nd.’

  At those words, uttered in a tight and fast French, Cassini let out a sigh of relief. Until then he had worked only on hypotheses; the fact that a few days before there really had been Harley Davidsons outside, made him feel better. ‘Right, the 22nd,’ he agreed with the landlord. ‘Do you remember me now?’

  The young woman shook her head in a no sign. ‘Forgive me, monsieur, don’t be offended…’

  Cassini shot her a look of resignation. He had little choice. If he hoped to have more information he would be forced to say something, too. As crazy as it was, he decided to tell the truth: ‘Excuse me, miss. Unfortunately I suffer from a rare form of amnesia… I’m trying to go through what I did that day… can I ask you another question?’

  The girl, visibly uncomfortable, smiled. But it was clear that Cassini’s words had raised her suspicions.

  ‘Do you have security cameras?’

  ‘Of course not… monsieur.’

  The professor did not give up and continued insisting, clinging to that weak clue of the motorbikes. ‘And my car, do you remember it? I think I came here with a red Ferrari… it would not have passed unnoticed.’

  Pierre, meanwhile, had reached the young waitress. Now he was standing next to Cassini, and rubbing his hands on his apron. ‘The Ferrari I remember well…’ he admitted, with a touch of pride. ‘You don’t see many of those these days.’

  Cassini started in the chair. ‘And what else do you remember?’

  Meanwhile, the room was filling up little-by-little. T
he voices got louder as did the clink of cutlery on the tableware. Out of nowhere, the three leather-clad motorcyclists appeared, resting on the counter, gulping beer from large tankards. Cassini suddenly found himself at a different table, in the company of a woman and next to a flashy mirror, not far from the entrance.

  Now everything was becoming clearer…

  ‘I remember that a girl was driving that car…’ Pierre finally concluded. ‘Not you!’

  37

  Versailles, December 22nd.

  Meredith’s hazel eyes were fixed on him.

  They were sitting at a table in the small restaurant near the palace of Versailles. There were three men dressed in leather sipping beer at the bar.

  For an instant she was silent, then she looked down and pulled a small aluminium object from her purse. A big display covered the entire front. ‘Are they bothering you?’ he inquired.

  ‘No,’ came the dry response. Then he touched the back of his head and his fingertip felt one of the two tiny microchips. Meredith had applied them to him moments earlier. ‘I hate having to repeat myself… but are you sure that these gizmos aren’t dangerous?’

  The girl smiled. ‘You can sleep peacefully, as I have already told you; they are called OCST. They are organic devices made of actin, the “skeleton” that holds human body cells together.’

  The man did not seem convinced.

  ‘See?’ Meredith pushed a strand of black hair up showing him a gaudy earring and a bare neck. ‘I’ve also got them myself.’

  A big man with a black moustache and an apron approached the table. ‘Monsieur and Madame what can I get you?’

  Meredith barely deigned to glance up at him. The name tag said “Pierre”. She went back to the menu and pointed at the photograph of one of the dishes, ‘What’s this like?’

  ‘We’re called Le Carré aux Crêpes… so I would say an excellent choice,’ replied Pierre. ‘And for you?’

  ‘The same: a Suzette.’