Arcadia Burns

by Kai Meyer

  She went to the door.

  Alessandro leaned forward in the bed, but his injuries would hardly allow him to stand up, let alone stop her. “Don’t make any kind of deal with him! Not with the Hungry Man!”

  At first she wasn’t going to answer him, but at the door she turned around. Came back, kissed him once again, and said, very quietly, “Too late.”

  The prison gate latched behind her with a steely clunk. Through the barred windows in the corridor, she could see the inner courtyard of the institution. No one appeared in the glare of the searchlights. Up on the walls, spiral coils of barbed wire shimmered against the black sky. It was just before ten in the evening, and official visiting hours had been over ages ago.

  The taciturn prison officer who had taken her to the reception desk near the entrance made no secret of his disapproval. God knew what he took her for—maybe a prostitute summoned to the Hungry Man in his cell—but she didn’t care at the moment.

  A lot depended on how she conducted this visit. Just the same, she was sure the prisoner would see at first glance how edgy she felt. The fact was that she was terrified of him. To most Arcadians, the Hungry Man was so much more than a capo dei capi who had been in prison for three decades. They genuinely thought he was the reincarnation of King Lycaon, and would lead them into a new age of glorious barbarism.

  She had seen an old photograph of him, black and white, grainy. Even in the photo he hadn’t been a young man: He was gray at the temples, with shoulder-length hair and a full beard. The picture had been taken during his internment in Gela. His eyes had been in deep shadow, but from the corners of his mouth Rosa had been able to tell that he was smiling, in spite of the police officers posing beside him. Smiling as if they were the captives, not he.

  She knew his real name, but within the dynasties no one used it. They all referred to him merely as the Hungry Man. If you believed his followers, he was both the past and the future of Arcadia. Or alternatively, thought Rosa, a megalomaniac Mafia boss who refused to admit that he, like countless other capi, had walked into a trap set by the state prosecutor’s office.

  Rosa’s footsteps echoed back from the security barriers. She was wearing high-heeled boots and was dressed all in black, which made her look taller than she was. She had even put on makeup, for the first time since that night in the Village. She wanted to appear as sophisticated and adult as possible.

  The warden stopped at a door, looked right and left, and then opened it. He stepped aside and gestured to Rosa. “Knock when you’re through with the visit.”

  She walked into a visiting room with a partition dividing it. In the middle of the divider, halfway up, was a window like those at a bank counter. A white plastic chair stood in front of it.

  The door was closed behind her, and now she was alone in her half of the room. It was only in this part that a lamp was on; everything was dark on the other side of the partition. The glass was tinted, and hardly any light came through it. Rosa adjusted to the idea that she wouldn’t be able to see the man she was visiting, while she herself would be on display to him in bright light.

  “Sit down.”

  It was the voice she had heard on the telephone. So hoarse that after those first words Rosa expected a cough, but it never came. Something was wrong with his larynx. Cancer, maybe. She found that idea encouraging to some extent.

  Rosa sat down, crossed her legs, linked her hands in her lap. She didn’t want to start fidgeting with something, like the hem of her jacket or her hair.

  “I respect courage when I see it,” he said. His voice came over a fist-size loudspeaker below the pane between them. Rosa resisted the impulse to squint in an effort to see more through the glass. All she could make out was a vague silhouette. He wasn’t sitting but standing there upright, motionless, looking down at her.

  “Hiding behind tinted glass isn’t particularly courageous,” she heard herself saying.

  “How old are you, Rosa?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “How old were you when your father died?”

  “Is he dead, then?”

  He didn’t answer that.

  “I opened his tomb.” Well, really she had smashed a hole in the damn stone slab with a pickax, but it amounted to the same thing. “The casket was empty.”

  “Why do you tell me that?”

  “I don’t know anything about my family. Or not nearly enough. I thought I did know a few things, but most of them weren’t worth a damn. The fact is that I haven’t the faintest idea what my grandmother and my father were doing all those years.”

  “And you think that clears you of all blame? Because that’s what you care about, isn’t it?”

  “I wasn’t even born when Trevini and my grandmother made sure you went to prison. Even my father was still a child at the time.”

  “And has young Carnevare made you happy?”

  “Happiness is relative.”

  “Nonsense!” he snapped back, but then he calmed down again. “Happiness is the opposite of unhappiness. Good luck versus bad luck. So tell me, Rosa: Has Alessandro Carnevare made you happy?”

  “I’m happy when I’m with him.”

  “Always?”

  “Often.”

  “Much has happened since you two got together. Not all of it good.”

  She clenched one of the hands lying in her lap into a fist. “For me, it wasn’t such bad luck that the palazzo burned down. And I’d say my aunt’s death was her own fault.”

  “How about your sister’s death?”

  “Zoe lied to me. She spied on me for Florinda.”

  “A good reason, no doubt, to wish her dead,” he commented sarcastically.

  He was provoking her, and it infuriated her to be so easily manipulated. “I liked Zoe in spite of her failings. I loved her, even.”

  “Ah, now we’re coming closer to the crux of it.”

  “Zoe’s death wasn’t Alessandro’s fault.”

  “But you see a connection. Of course you do. You’d have to be blind not to.”

  She stood and moved very close to the pane, until the tip of her nose was almost touching the glass. “Could we leave out the psychological games?”

  The silhouette in the dark came closer. The distance between them was less than a handbreadth, and yet she still couldn’t see his face through the tinted glass. The fact that his voice came over the loudspeaker level with her belly button also irritated her.

  “Have you any idea,” he asked, “how your grandmother died?”

  “In her bed. She was sick, had probably been sick for quite some time.”

  “Florinda poisoned her.”

  “So?”

  “You have Costanza’s eyes.”

  “And here was I thinking, just now, that we might be friends.”

  “She looked very like you when she was young. She was a pretty girl, and later a very beautiful woman.”

  In her heart she was grateful to him for infuriating her like this. It made it easier not to be overimpressed by his aura of superiority. “Why did you want me to come here?” she asked, to end the discussion of Costanza. “On the phone you said it was one of your conditions. So now I’m here. Why?”

  “Because I wanted to see who you are. What you are.” With a muted sound, he placed the palm of his hand against the glass pane, spread his fingers, and pressed them against it. “How long has it been,” he asked, “since you learned about the Arcadian dynasties?”

  “A few months.” She couldn’t help staring at his hand, the deep lines on it, the long, slender fingers.

  “Your mother never told you?”

  “I’d have thought she was crazy if she had.” As Rosa said that, she had to admit to herself that Gemma had been right there. And probably about some other things as well.

  “What was it like when you shifted shape for the first time?”

  “It felt…forbidden. Like a kid staying up late at night for the first time because there’s no one else home.”


  “Isn’t it a shame that we have to hide something so wonderful from the world?”

  “I guess it’s not so wonderful for the world.”

  “There have always been hunters and hunted. Some who get what they want because they’re strong enough. And others who kneel to them. No civilization, no progress will change that. We didn’t make those laws; life itself did. What I stand for isn’t a step back. It’s the end of our self-denial. The end of a great lie.”

  She was finding it increasingly difficult to resist his charisma. The labyrinth of lines on his hand, the forcefulness of his voice—it was like standing in front of an ancient temple, a place still awe-inspiring after thousands of years.

  “We have lived in the shadows long enough, hiding what we really are from others,” he went on. “It’s time to be ourselves again. And that has already begun. You, too, are an element in that change, Rosa.”

  “I am?”

  “Lamias have always distinguished themselves from other Arcadians. That’s why there aren’t many of you left. You rebelled and followed your own aims. Guile and deceit were always your sharpest weapons.”

  “I prefer more direct methods,” said Rosa, thinking of her stapler.

  “You are snakes. Your venom works slowly and in secret. I should have guessed that I owed the last thirty years behind bars to Costanza. Instead I believed the faked evidence pointing to the Carnevares. Did you know that they were once my closest allies?”

  She nodded.

  “Today I have other faithful assistants out there. They’re more effective than the Carnevares ever were. I should be grateful to your grandmother. All that time in my cell has opened my eyes to new allies. I’ll soon be leaving this place, and I owe that to them.”

  Rosa watched his fingers curl against the pane. The palm of his hand withdrew a fraction of an inch, looking darker, while his fingertips were a semicircle of pale points against the black background. Rosa couldn’t take her eyes off them.

  “Is it true,” she asked, “that it was the Lamias who toppled Lycaon from the throne of Arcadia?”

  The hand abruptly withdrew into the darkness. His whole outline was barely visible now. He must have stepped back. “I had reason enough to wish every one of you dead,” he said after a pause, without answering her question. “But I, too, have learned my lesson. I was wrong to let my wish for revenge on the Carnevares consume me. I want a new beginning, not retribution. The dynasties have played the part of gangsters for too long, regarding the business of their Cosa Nostra clans as more important than their origin and their destiny. If all that is to change, there must be new blood. New leaders who don’t care about controlling the drug market in Paris or real estate funds in Hong Kong. Join me, Rosa, and all the sins of your ancestors will be forgotten. And if young Carnevare learns that his Arcadian inheritance is more important than his position as capo of his clan, then he’s welcome to join us as well.” He paused for effect again, and then added, “Which is more than you can expect from the other clans. They all despise the pair of you for your relationship. And how long will it be before they find out about your connections with that judge?”

  So he knew about Quattrini, too? She should have guessed.

  “Sooner or later,” he said, “they will kill you and young Carnevare. A number of them would already like to; your own families are making plans to clear you out of their way. I, on the other hand, am offering you the future.”

  “The Hundinga were trying to kill me,” she pointed out. “On your orders.”

  “They were supposed to be observing you, instilling a spirit of respect in you,” he contradicted her. “There are always risks in letting dogs off the leash, and this time they went too far. That wasn’t my intention, and they’ve paid for it. Look at the newspapers. There’s been a helicopter crash off the coast.”

  The longer he talked, the more he sounded like a feudal lord back in the Middle Ages. Without a shadow of doubt he was obsessed with King Lycaon, and whether his idea of Lycaon was a crazed delusion or just something spooky ultimately made no difference. As soon as he got out of here, he would be in command of the others all over again.

  “I did what you wanted,” said Rosa. “I gave you evidence against Trevini. And I came here because you asked to talk to me. Will you leave Alessandro alone now?”

  She had expected a long silence. Dramatic, to show her how small and weak she was compared to him. Instead, he simply said, “Of course.”

  She pushed back the plastic chair and started for the door.

  “Sometime,” he said, “I’ll be asking you a favor. Maybe a large and significant favor, maybe only a small one. But you will grant it.”

  She kept her back to him, halfway to the door.

  “You will grant me that favor, Rosa Alcantara. That is my condition.”

  It would have been so easy to say no. She had never had difficulty in doing that before. Just a brief no, that was all. And then the lines would have been drawn. She on the good side, he on the bad one.

  Except that it wasn’t so easy.

  “Agreed,” she said.

  She took the last few steps and knocked on the door, much too fast and hard, in time with her hammering heartbeat.

  “Good-bye, Rosa. And don’t forget—”

  Over her shoulder, she glanced at the black surface of the glass, in which all she saw now was her own reflection. She was looking into her own eyes.

  “—I am not your enemy.”

  THE ALCHEMISTS

  IT WAS A MILD afternoon, and the air smelled of spring. Not unusual here at the end of February, as the taxi driver had explained in broken English as he drove Rosa away from the Lisbon airport. They had been on the road for an hour and a half, the last part of the way up the narrow, winding street leading into Sintra’s historic city center.

  The colorful palace towering above the town was enthroned on a densely wooded mountain. The Rua Barbosa do Bocage, a little road in the eternal shade of mighty trees, wound its way around the sides. Rosa recognized the wall and the gate of Quinta da Regaleira. She and Alessandro had met Augusto Dallamano here last October, in the villa built by a Freemason and alchemist. Dallamano had taken Rosa ninety feet down into a shaft in the ground along a slippery spiral staircase, and there he had told her more about the statues on the seabed, the stone panthers and snakes that the Stabat Mater would later snap up from under their noses.

  Today she passed the entrance to the Quinta without stopping. The taxi continued along the narrow street, past dense bushes and walls overgrown with moss, hiding behind them some of the oldest and most magnificent villas of Portugal.

  After less than a mile the GPS announced that they had arrived. The driver stopped in front of a small gap in an ivy-covered wall. A steep path led uphill, turning left after a few steps. Heavy branches hung low above the path up, and weeds grew in the cracks of broken paving stones. The builder of this property might have wanted not to be found too easily, but he hadn’t counted on GPS.

  The cabbie gesticulated and said something in Portuguese.

  “This is it?” she asked.

  He nodded and impatiently tapped the price on the meter. Rosa paid him and got out.

  She put her bag over her shoulder and began to climb. A few overgrown stone statues stood on plinths to the right and left of the path; you could hardly see them under dense tendrils of climbing plants. In a few months’ time they would be entirely hidden under the leaves.

  The upward path went around another bend before Rosa saw the three-story villa. She couldn’t help comparing it with the fairy-tale palace of Quinta da Regaleira on the other side of the mountain. This house was a cube, with dark yellow plaster facades, in the middle of a garden that had run wild. The tops of trees bent down close to the walls, and dried, brown, twining plants hung like curtains in the branches, keeping the sun away from the tall windows.

  The flat roof of the house was dominated by a glazed dome with a stone balustrade around it. With its
rusty metal framework and clouded panes, the dome reminded Rosa of the wrecked greenhouse. All at once, the thought of the burned-down palazzo made Rosa more melancholy than ever. For a moment she wondered whether they kept animals up here, too, but she immediately rejected the idea. This was only an old hothouse in the art nouveau style.

  The front door of the villa was flung open, and Iole ran out. She was wearing one of the white summer dresses that she liked so much. Rosa had given up trying to break her of the habit. Maybe Signora Falchi would be more successful once Iole was back in Sicily.

  They hugged each other, and Rosa was surprised but most of all glad to see how happy Iole looked. She herself had thought Augusto Dallamano a cold, surly man when she’d met him, but Iole seemed to feel at ease in his company.

  “Are you okay?” Rosa asked, wrinkling her brow.

  Iole nodded. “How’s Alessandro?”

  “Getting on the nurses’ nerves.” She leaned forward, with a conspiratorial air. “He’s the worst patient in the world. But don’t tell him I said that.”

  “On TV they’re the ones who always end up marrying the head nurse.”

  “The head nurse in that hospital is at least sixty. And they’re discharging him tomorrow.” Rosa sighed. “Well, strictly speaking he’s discharging himself. I guess that once he’s gone, they’ll all get drunk and have a fireworks display to celebrate.”

  Iole twirled around in a circle. “I could stay here forever and ever,” she cried enthusiastically.

  “Signora Falchi would never go along with that. She may have survived the Hundinga, but this place would drive her to quit.”

  Iole beamed. “It’s even nicer inside.”

  She took Rosa’s hand and led her up the steps to the front door.

  Late that afternoon, they were sitting with Augusto Dallamano in the villa’s conservatory, a rickety glazed annex built onto the back of the house. Outside, the garden came right up to the windows. Two armchairs and a sofa stood among towers of books. Rosa and Dallamano sat opposite each other, leaving the couch to Iole. She had an albino cat on her lap, snow white with red eyes. It was purring with pleasure as she stroked it.