by G. L. Baron
Was it really possible?
He tried to focus his attention only on the items that interested him, trying to remember the exact image that had come to mind.
He went to a desk and looked eagerly for a pen. He found one and took the paper back into the light of the table lamp.
Then he began to draw straight lines on the sheet. He stopped once and then a second time, and finally the lines turned into triangles. He put down his pen and excitedly watched the results:
It was incredible. The triangles before him were identical to those on Meredith’s bracelet. Inexplicably, despite not having a photographic memory, he could remember them perfectly.
But what did they mean?
He decided it was time to find out; those geometric designs were printed in his mind and he could not understand why. There was only one person who could explain it.
He left his room and walked to Julia’s room. He knocked vehemently, wanting all the answers.
The door opened, but suddenly all his questions disappeared.
Julia greeted him at the door with a satin petticoat, wet hair and a smile on her lips.
‘I hoped you’d come,’ she whispered with a soft voice. Then she took his hand and invited him inside.
52
Milan, January 3rd. 6:45 p.m.
‘Basically, we don’t have anything,’ Alessandro Pitti stood motionless, his arms crossed, a dark look on his face. He was with Nigel Sforza staring at the FIAT Punto on a breakdown lorry, in the centre of a judicial car park on the northern outskirts of the city.
The car had been found in the early afternoon, abandoned under one of the viaducts in the new district of Porta Nuova, with its four emergency lights flashing.
‘They wanted us to find it,’ Pitti continued, giving the Interpol agent a shrewd look. ‘And from there, they could have gone anywhere…’
Sforza was silent, with his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket and the Ray-Ban’s on his nose, although it had been dark for a while.
The FIAT Punto was slowly lowered to the ground, with the aid of a steel hook.
The two men went towards it. ‘Leave it here,’ Sforza ordered.
‘My shift is over,’ the man protested, fleece hat on his head, his belly the envy of a woman in labour. ‘I have to lock it up and go home.’
‘Just a second, please.’ Pitti approached him and pointed to the time on his Citizen Eco-Drive. Then he looked at the car more closely; the woman and Cassini had used it for half an hour at the most. There was nothing useful inside it.
Sforza did not have the same opinion. He spotted a metal object on the mat and opened the passenger door.
‘What is it?’ The carabiniere immediately asked, intrigued.
‘A smartphone.’ The Interpol agent pushed his glasses up on his forehead and calmly turned it on. The device did not require any pin and logged on to the network.
‘They’ve left it here on purpose,’ Pitti deduced.
‘It’s Cassini’s, judging from the last numbers dialled.’ Sforza touched the display several times and was able to verify that the last phone call was from the night before, at 7:21 p.m. The last number was his own…
‘You can lock the car up now.’ Pitti turned towards the parking attendant and thanked him with a nod.
The inspector moved away a few metres, eyes fixed on the phone display. After a few steps he stopped abruptly; there was a very interesting item in the recently opened documents.
‘San Francisco Tribune’ – online edition
Monday, April 2nd, 2012
An organic microchip to communicate with neurons. In the future we will be able to record our dreams and relive our experiences.
He read it calmly. When he had finished, he turned to Pitti who had approached him with an inquiring look. ‘What did you say before? That we didn’t have anything?’
The carabiniere nodded. ‘Why, isn’t that so?’
‘I wouldn’t say that…’ Sforza looked up, stared at him in the face and smiled. ‘I have a very promising clue…’
Pitti smiled. ‘And where’s it taking us?’
‘A long way away from here.’
53
Rome, January 3rd. 7:10 p.m.
Cassini was lying on the bed with his eyes wide open. Spellbound.
He had made love to other women besides his wife before, but Julia had been amazing. She had caressed him in all the right places, so that every wish to know more dissolved in her kisses.
That girl had something magnetic… and it was not just a matter of skill in the arts of love. There was more to her, there was something hidden in her eyes that the professor could not identify.
Could it be just passion making him think that way? Was he already in love?
Cassini shook his head and turned away. She was there, beside him, naked with her shoulders against him. The light from the square drew blades on the yellowish bed cover, reaching her perfect buttocks. Her back was marked by some old scars. If he could have believed it possible, he would have sworn that they were scars of lashes.
‘You did well,’ she murmured, merely contemplating the wall.
He swallowed. ‘Do you normally do it with the first guy that comes along?’
‘Only when I need it,’ she said drily. ‘Get’s rid of the tension.’
There was an icy moment between them.
Get’s rid of the tension. It was not quite the romantic message that he could have hoped for.
‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’ she inquired again, turning round and covering her breasts.
Cassini did not answer. He felt used. It was not even the first time, after what they had done with his brain.
He stood up suddenly, trying to ward off the thought, and pulled on his boxers. He felt like a drunk on the deck of a ship. He went to the table, where he had left his clothes, and took the paper with the design he had drawn earlier.
He had to distract himself. Maybe he could not forget immediately what had been much more than a pastime for him. But he had to try… and what better way, if not asking Julia all the questions she did not want to answer?
He handed her the printout of Primavera and stared at her.
She seemed surprised. ‘What is it?’ she asked absently, picking up the paper.
‘You tell me!’ he replied. ‘What do those triangles and numbers mean?’
Julia stared at the drawing. Cassini had drawn astronomy triangles exactly as the Sheikh had done six months before. She wondered if she should reveal this and decided that now there was no more danger… after months of digging, they had not found anything. If what they were trying to find really existed, it was not there on the banks of the river! It was useless to keep on lying. ‘Do you know what ephemeris tables are?’
Cassini shook his head.
‘They are tables that calculate the positions of the stars on a certain date and time. The configuration in space is unique, in constant motion. In other words it’s like a big clock.’
‘What are those triangles? Why were they on Meredith’s bracelet?’
Julia smiled. ‘The triangles are connected with the numbers that you first identified in your book.’
‘What do they mean?’
‘It was you in The Secret of the Cursed Painters who speculated that the numbers represented a date: 1, 4 - 1000, 300, 10, 9 and then 3. Or if you prefer 14, 1319, 3 or 14 March 1319’.
The professor looked at the drawing for a moment. When he touched her hand in taking it back, a frisson went through him again. ‘14 March 1319,’ agreed Cassini. It was the same conclusion which he had arrived at five years ago, but had not grasped its meaning. ‘Does it have something to do with Dante?’
‘It might…’ she admitted.
‘This is the reason why I’m in the middle? And what do the triangles mean?’
‘The triangles are astronomical positions. Each vertex represents a celestial body, and its Botticelli’s painting that explains which is which: the figure on
the left with the bottom hand, holds a sword symbolizing Mars, and the other with the caduceus, symbolizes Mercury. The Zenith is represented by Cupid; similarly, Jupiter, Saturn and the Sun are personified by the Three Graces’ hands.’
‘It’s a kind of celestial chart?’ insisted Cassini. ‘A little like what navigators did with a sextant? They oriented themselves by looking at the stars, right?’
Julia nodded with satisfaction. ‘That’s it exactly, those triangles represent a map of the sky on a certain date.’
‘March 14, 1319,’ continued Cassini.
‘That’s right. And there is only one place on earth where, on that date, the stars in the sky had those particular co-ordinates.’
‘It’s a map!’ Cassini deduced. ‘And where does it take us?’
‘The co-ordinates indicate a place in Iceland, along the river Jökulfall. We checked last summer, but unfortunately we were wrong.’
Cassini thought about that and then tried to recall the conversation they had had on the train that afternoon, ‘He is an art lover,’ she had told him, talking about Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn. ‘He would like to see the most important works of the Renaissance again. Unfortunately, he cannot move anymore and so he hired someone who could do it for him.’
It was clear, then, that it was not just a simple wish to “relive” works of art through the experts’ sensations. There was something more.
He looked at the drawing again. The Primavera hiding co-ordinates, but for what?
The first thought, however stupid, went to the Garden of Eden described in Dante’s Divine Comedy. He had always questioned the allegorical meaning of the beautiful lush forest in the background of Botticelli’s painting. All that vegetation appeared to be an element in its own right, as if recalling something that was not only the symbol of spring. Was it possible that Botticelli had created the painting, inspired by a hypothetical representation of Paradise recounted by the poet?
For some time, scholars have defined the starting point of Dante’s journey – the “dark forest”: it had been identified as the valley of Jehoshaphat near Jerusalem. Perhaps, if the starting point really existed, thought Cassini, the arrival could exist as well: the earthly paradise, the Garden of Eden.
And if the painter had included the co-ordinates in his picture to find it, then, perhaps you could explain Botticelli’s obsession with the Divine Comedy.
‘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.’ Those verses of Purgatory which had come to his mind in Paris, probably now had a concrete meaning. What was the meaning of the word “plant”? The tree of the Garden of Eden, symbol of divine justice, or “map”? Was it possible that it meant both? A map to reach the plant?
‘Manuel!’ Julia took his hand and held it gently. ‘Do you feel alright?’
He nodded, stroking his eyebrow with his finger. Maybe now he could see a fragment of a much larger picture, which the girl had told him on the train was already inside him. A truth that had already killed three people!
54
Dubai, January 3rd. 7:15 p.m.
The call of the muezzin suddenly tore through his restless dreams.
Joonas Eklöf, a big man with long blonde hair and a full beard, turned over between the sheets of his king-size bed and tried to go back to sleep. But he could not. He was exhausted from the trip; the time zone and the thoughts that plagued him were stronger than sleep.
He sat on the bed and rubbed his eyes.
The city was incredible, just like the hotel in which Al Husayn’s company had booked his stay: Atlantis The Palm. It was a huge building. Inspired by the myth of Atlantis, it dominated the breakwater of the Palm Jumeirah, the artificial peninsula built on the coast of Dubai. Everything was designed to impress tourists, from the Dolphin Bay – the dolphinarium where people could swim with dolphins – to the immense water park.
The suite in which Eklöf was housed occupied an area of one thousand square metres. There were four bedrooms, a recreation room, a gym, and even a room where he could watch aquarium fish while lying on the couch.
The archaeologist stood up. He looked like an elephant in a crystal shop. He went to the window to watch the city’s illuminated skyline. The reflections of glass and concrete skyscrapers moved sinuously in the black waters of the gulf.
Placed untidily on a desk nearby were some rolls and excavation projects, closed several months earlier.
The campaign at the foot of the glacier, Langjökull, had been a failure for which he felt responsible.
It had begun at the time of the Knights of Malta. The Sheikh came up with the idea after reading the Sex dierum iter, the same ancient document that Eklöf was studying when they met in Venice. It had taken many years, but by cross-referencing the parchment information with the ancient Icelandic legends, he had found the place where to dig: the Jökulfall’s riverbanks.
The previous summer a massive archaeological campaign had been organized. An entire season of excavations had failed to produce any results although the calculations were correct.
From what he knew, his friend Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn was very disappointed. The difficulties, however, prompted him to continue in what had become his reason for living. His and his wife’s.
The astronomical triangles that had enabled him to locate the place had become an emblem. The Sheikh had commissioned a gold bracelet on which these geometric designs were engraved, and a sentence: ‘Our greatest happiness is not in never falling, but, in rising every time we fall.’ That simple object symbolized a new starting point for him and his wife. The rebirth of the phoenix.
But for what?
No one knew exactly what the Sheikh was trying to find in Iceland. For precisely that reason, when Al Husayn’s secretary had invited him to Dubai, just before Christmas, Eklöf had been alarmed.
Could it be possible that he had found out about the man who called himself the Bull?
No, it was not possible. He had been very careful. No one had contacted him since the river Jökulfall excavation had closed in September.
Why had he been invited then? He had no indication that there were other places to dig – at least not at the co-ordinates he had been given.
However, he was the only one of the Knights of Malta who Mohamed trusted, and so could not refuse. He had informed Venice of his intention to go to the Sheikh’s. He had brought the maps of the summer campaign with him, to be prepared for anything. Four rolls of paper, glossy maps and a number of files loaded on an Ipad; documents that had kept him restless. And that he wanted to get rid of as soon as possible.
Joonas Eklöf looked at the clock; he still had more than an hour to go. He went into the bathroom, took a cold shower and dressed. He put on a pair of white linen trousers and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He, who was accustomed to wearing shorts even in winter, felt like a wrapped sweet.
Shortly after, he was in a taxi headed for the city centre.
He had not realized the size of Palm Jumeira until then. His hotel stood on the breakwater, which extended in a huge crescent along the palm fronds for several kilometres. The lights sparkled in the dark and one could not see the end. A six-lane motorway, with a super elevated rail link in the centre, crossed the palm tree’s trunk, which he was then being driven along. Each branch of the immense sand and cement plant - – fourteen in all – was more than a kilometre long, populated by hundreds of villas with private beach and pool.
Eklöf observed the driver, a Pakistani who spoke perfect English, and asked, ‘Will it take long?’
The man stared at him in the rear view mirror and smiled. ‘If you look straight ahead, you can already see it. It is that illuminated gold skyscraper… the one that stands out over all others.’
The Finn looked up and, over a series of towers, he began to distinguish the shiny top of the Burj Khalifa.
The taxi manoeuvred through the evening traffic and headed towards the Busi
ness Village.
*
At nine o’clock, Joonas Eklöf was sitting in the large meeting room of his old friend Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn, quietly toying with the Crusaders of Malta ring which he had received – along with the Sheikh – many years before.
‘My condolences,’ he began, looking down.
The Sheikh did not answer. After a few moments the voice synthesizer of his computer summed up his thoughts. ‘She was the most precious pearl in my harem.’
Eklöf nodded, shrugging.
‘She was the best wife I ever had. This project was also hers. It’s thanks to her we are now where we are today.’
At a dead point, Joonas hoped, looking at the scrolls he had brought with him.
‘I brought you here because I need your contacts among the echelons of the Icelandic government. And this time it will be more complicated than last summer.’
The blonde giant swallowed, afraid, and looked up. He knew that Al Husayn’s research had continued even after the previous summer’s failure, but was convinced that it would not lead to anything. Or so he hoped.
‘In early December we started a very promising experiment. The same poor Meredith was killed for…’
Behind the Sheikh, on the big OLED curved screen hanging on the wall, appeared the image of a fresco. ‘This is The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci,’ he continued. ‘You see the figures of Jesus and John, sitting at his right? They are very detached from each other, too far apart. The apostle is in an abnormal position, unnatural, as if to leave more space than necessary between him and Christ.’
The archaeologist carefully scrutinised the image of The Last Supper that was approaching in a slow zoom. In fact, the figures of the apostles, arranged in four clusters, did not occupy the fresco in a uniform manner. The reason was in the art books, the will of the painter to portray a scene of everyday life. Each character was doing something very specific that respected his psychological condition. From what he knew, the position of the apostles was a very precise artistic choice… not an anomaly.
