The Witch of Napoli

by Michael Schmicker

  “They told me he had money and liked pretty women,” she told me. “I was desperate so I moved in with him.”

  It was a terrible mistake.

  Chapter 5

  Alessandra is beyond his reach now, thank God.

  Pigotti took over her show and her bed but he was insanely jealous. He couldn’t stand the thought of her sitting in a darkened room holding hands or pressing her leg against other men. He wasn’t dumb; he saw how men undressed her with their eyes. But he liked the money more.

  I should have been afraid of him after that first séance, but I was cocky, sixteen, and crazy in love with Alessandra.

  I finally came up with a scheme.

  I made a print of her with the cat – after cropping Rossi out of the picture – and mounted it in a pretty walnut frame, then sent her a message through Rossi offering her the picture and suggesting we meet for lunch. I waited nervously for her response, worried that I had appeared too aggressive, but a few days later received a scribbled note telling me to meet her that night at eight o’clock in the Piazza del Plebiscito. I snuck out of work early and hurried back to my apartment to press my white dress shirt, brush off my suit jacket, and pat a few drops of cologne water on my face before catching the tram to the piazza.

  It was a beautiful April evening, the sky turning pink from the setting sun and a large crowd of smartly-dressed ladies and gentlemen already strolling the arcades and enjoying the cool sea breeze up from the harbor. I got there early and dodged my way through the clopping horses and the slowly circling carriages to the Caffè Gambrinus, expecting to see uncle Mario outside the entrance, in our usual spot, selling postcards. He wasn’t, but Marcello was still there waiting tables.

  “Aren’t you the big shot now, working for the Mattino,” he teased when he took my order. “You better leave me a big tip.”

  “Important people expect superior service,” I laughed. “A caffe nero, and make it quick.”

  I sat there enjoying the show, one I never got tired of. Foreigners flock to the piazza to tour the royal palace which fronts the square, shopping for hats and gloves, lava and coral cameos, and copies of ancient bronzes. They always proved entertaining. As Marcello gabbed away in my ear, I sipped my coffee and watched a knot of German tourists, clutching their Baedekers and pestered by beggars and bootblacks, make their way towards the grand fountain to see the dancing dogs. Trailing behind them was a pair of Carabinieri, smartly dressed in their cocked hats and black and red police uniforms, watching for pickpockets. The Germans paused in front of an ice water vendor to inspect his tub of snow and lemons, and the eager proprietor hastily filled a tin cup and pushed it toward one of the ladies. But her fat husband shoved the cup away, and started shaking his finger at her – undoubtedly scolding her about drinking the local water. The insulted vendor jumped up to defend his refreshment, gesticulating wildly and pleading his case to the ragged crowd which quickly surrounded them. The embarrassed Huns finally broke through the ring of gawkers and hurried off, but not before Herr Professor stepped in some horse shit, which left everyone laughing.

  At 7:30, the bells tolled in the basilica of San Francesco across the square, and they turned on the gaslights encircling the piazza, illuminating the twilight evening with a necklace of light. Newsboys from the Piccolo descended on the square like a flock of noisy crows, hawking the evening edition. We had stuck it to them with the Alessandra séance story. The Piccolo’s editor was furious with his reporters for not picking it up before we got it. I bought a copy, lit a cigar, and thumbed through it, killing time. When the bell finally sounded eight, I warned Marcello to hold the table for me and hurried across the piazza to the church to look for Alessandra, her photograph in a wrapped box tucked under my arm.

  A puppeteer had set up his theater on the church steps, and a group of laughing street urchins were watching beak-nosed Pulcinella deliver a lesson with his cudgel, but Alessandra was nowhere to be found. I wandered around to the side and looked out to a garden, dimly illuminated by the gas lamps from the piazza, and spied a solitary figure sitting on a bench.

  “Alessandra?” I called out.

  “Tommaso?” came the soft reply.

  I hurried over and greeted her. She wore a plain black skirt, a shawl thrown around her shoulders, and the veil of her hat covered her face. I was overjoyed to discover she was alone.

  “Come,” I said, handing her the box. “I have a table reserved for us at the Caffè Gambrinus. You can open it there, where the light is better.”

  “No, let’s stay here,” she whispered.

  I sat down next to her as she opened the package and pulled out the photo. She let out a little cry. “Oh, how beautiful,” she said. Then she lifted her veil to inspect the photo more closely.

  My stomach turned over.

  “Jesus!” I gasped.

  Her right eye was swollen completely shut, her puffy face a mass of black and blue bruises. I moved my fingers towards her battered face and she pulled back.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Please.” I felt sick.

  “Your husband?” I demanded.

  She laughed bitterly. “He said I was flirting with Professor Cappelli, so he taught me one of his lessons.” She stared at the photo in her hand.

  Men always slap their wives around, but Pigotti had really laid into her. “You’ll look fine in a few days,” I lied. “Does he do this often?”

  “Usually he leaves my face alone. It’s not good for business. But that doesn’t stop him from having his fun.” She hesitated, then unbuttoned the sleeve of her blouse, pulled it back, and shoved her arm forward.

  “Oh Christ,” I exclaimed.

  Running up her left arm were several ugly, red welts, scabbed over. Cigarette burns. I felt rage rise up inside me.

  “Leave him!”

  “Don’t you think I tried?” she shot back angrily. “He always finds me and drags me back.”

  “You can hide at my place.”

  “Do you know what he would do to you?”

  “I’m not afraid of him.” I said.

  “You should be,” she replied wearily. “You don’t understand – he’s Camorra.”

  “Jesus.” I cradled my head in my hands. The night of the séance, I had noticed a tattoo on Pigotti’s forearm – a hand holding a stiletto. So that’s what it meant.

  The Camorra ran Naples back then – they still do today. The city is divided into twelve quartieri, with a boss for each, and you don’t mess with them. Ever. They don’t just kill you; they torture you before they kill you. They own the police and the politicians. They fix the lottery, and run the whorehouses and the gambling dens, and everyone pays them off to stay in business –porters, cabmen, dockers, butchers, hawkers, storekeepers. Even the Mattino had to pay them so they could sell their papers in the city.

  “Then get out of Naples.” I said. “Go back to your village.”

  “Never! I’m never going back there.”

  She turned back to the photo in her hands, studied it carefully, and her face softened. “You’re a sweet boy, Tommaso. Thank you.”

  “But you can’t go on like this,” I protested. “You have to get away.”

  “I will,” she said fiercely. “I’m going to Rome.”

  Chapter 6

  That’s when she first told me about her crazy scheme.

  When Rossi first approached her to do séances, Alessandra negotiated a weekly fee of five lire, but lied to Pigotti and said they offered four. She was secretly pocketing one lira from each séance. She had already squirreled away 20 lire, hidden in a slit inside the straw of her mattress. When she saved up enough, she said, she was going to escape to Rome, rent a small room all her own, with a flowerpot on a sunny windowsill, and live all by herself, and when she got old and fat she’d get a cat like Rossi’s to keep her company.

  It was incredibly risky. You don’t do side deals when your partner is Camorra. You end up in a gutter with your throat slit. And even if Pigotti didn’
t find out and kill her first, it would take her forever to save up the money, and besides how would she live when she got there – broke and without friends? She’d end up in a rat-infested tenement there too, begging for work just like a thousand other peasants from the South.

  It was never going to happen, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her that. La speranza e’ il pane dei poveri, as we say in Naples. Hope is the bread of the poor.

  “Everybody’s leaving Naples these days,” I said, trying a smile. “I’ve been thinking of going to America myself.”

  Just then, we heard loud male voices. Alessandra jerked around.

  “Oh God, no!” she cried. “He’s coming! Hide, Tommaso!”

  I looked at her bewildered. “Who’s coming?”

  She shoved the photo into my hands and pushed me towards the shadows.

  “Run!”

  I ran to the side of the garden, jumped the hedge, and threw myself flat on the ground. Peering through the bushes I saw two men round the corner of the church wall. One was Pigotti. Next to him was a squat, beefy man who looked out into the garden.

  “There she is,” he growled. He pointed towards the bench where Alessandra sat rigid.

  “Fucking bitch!”

  Pigotti flew down the steps and sprinted across the grass, cursing loudly. When he got there, he yanked Alessandra off the bench.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he screamed. She jerked her arm away.

  “I told Vito,” she shot back. “I went to the cathedral to light a candle.”

  “Then why the fuck are you out here in the dark?” he snarled. “You come here to see someone? Where is he?”

  He shoved her down on the bench and wheeled around, his fists clenched, eyes darting around the garden. ”I’ll kill him!”

  I buried my face in the dirt, trying to make my body as flat to the ground as I could.

  “Vito!” I heard Pigotti shout.

  “Boss?”

  “Find him! He’s around here somewhere.”

  I peeked up and saw Vito heading towards the hedge, holding a big stick in his hand. I looked towards the piazza. I could outrun Vito, but then Pigotti would know, and he would kill Alessandra – I was sure of it. I turned around and crawled on my knees as fast as I could down the hedge and deeper into the darkness until I bumped into a wooden cart. I pushed my way under it and lay there motionless with my hand stuffed into my mouth, praying he wouldn’t find me.

  I could hear Vito coming down the opposite side of the hedge towards me, whacking the bushes with his stick. When he got near me, he stopped and listened. I could hear his heavy breathing. I curled up tighter, terrified my foot was sticking out. He jabbed into the hedge and his stick struck the cart. I could hear the bushes creak as he leaned over the hedge. I shut my eyes and held my breath.

  After an eternity, I heard him grunt, the bushes creaked again, and he moved on. Finally he yelled back to Pigotti.

  “Nobody around, boss.”

  I slid out from under the cart and peered through the hedge to see Pigotti staring hard at Alessandra, trying to read her face.

  “Lucky for you,” he finally grunted. He lit a cigarette, yanked her to her feet and shoved her towards the church. “Get moving.”

  I looked down and I had peed in my pants.

  Chapter 7

  Camillo Lombardi changed everything.

  Short, goateed, little Jew. But he was smart, I’ll admit that. When he died, they saved his brain in a jar so scientists could study it.

  The week after the séance at Rossi’s home, Lombardi announced he would be giving a big, public lecture in Rome on the topic of “Science, Evolution, and Spiritualism.” Venzano immediately recognized the opportunity. Mattino readers were hungry for more stories about Alessandra and her supernatural powers, so he bought Rossi a train ticket and sent him to Rome to attend the lecture. His job was to intercept Lombardi after the talk, show him my photograph of Alessandra levitating the table, and convince him to come to Naples to investigate her. The Mattino would pay Lombardi’s expenses, and in return would get exclusive rights to the story.

  Lombardi’s position on Spiritualism was well known. He had attended three séances in Florence at the invitation of Dr. Lauro Nobile, head of the Italian Spiritualists Society, and concluded the medium was suffering from what he called female hysteria. As for the mysterious rappings and furniture levitations, they were most likely produced by trickery. His blunt dismissal, published in his book Studies on Hypnotism, Trance States and Credulity, made headlines across Europe.

  His reputation in the field of psychology rivaled Freud’s at that time. The two trained in Paris under Charcot, who conducted experiments using hypnosis on women suffering from hysteria. His entertaining shows at the Salpêtrière clinic drew the beau monde of Paris. Afterwards, Freud returned to Vienna to study the nervous disorders of rich housewives and Lombardi became the youngest full professor ever appointed to the University of Torino. He taught abnormal psychiatry and ran an asylum for the criminally insane.

  Lombardi was 45 when he first met Alessandra. He was short and slightly pudgy – a gourmand who enjoyed rich food and had the money to indulge – but he dressed smartly and sported an ebony walking stick with a winking Chinaman decorating its ivory knob. He spoke four languages fluently – not only Italian, but French, German and English as well, and could switch from one to the other without missing a beat.

  But he was also insufferably brash and abrasive, and collected enemies as fast as he did admirers. His students loved him, but a clique of older professors despised him. When the archbishop of Turin publicly denounced Lombardi in La Stampa for aggressively promoting Darwin in his classes, Lombardi famously countered in a letter to the editor that Darwin’s books weren’t even on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum. If the Pope didn’t object, why should His Excellency? His “impertinent and unwarranted” retort earned him a written reprimand from the Rector of the university. He tossed it in the trash.

  Before Rossi left for Rome, he called Alessandra and me to his home to share the exciting news. Alessandra was already there, chatting away with Cappelli, when I arrived. I hadn’t tried to contact Alessandra since the night at the Piazza del Plebiscito. Pigotti scared the shit out of me, and I doubted Alessandra saw me as anything more than just a sweet kid. But seeing her again still made my heart race.

  Rossi was cautiously optimistic he could lure Lombardi to Naples.

  “He’s a scientist, and your photograph is scientific evidence he can’t easily dismiss,” he told me. “In any event, I’m already scheduled to be in Rome that week for a meeting, so it’s worth a try.” He turned to Alessandra. “If I convince Professor Lombardi to come, it’s up to you to convince him spirits exist. Do that, and you can triple your séance fee. The aristocracy of Naples will clamor to sit with you.”

  Alessandra was giddy when we left Rossi’s apartment. My God, did I understand what that meant? she demanded. She would get out of Naples. She would get to Rome.

  “Tommaso, it’s going to happen,” she gushed. “I know it will. And all because of your photo.” She grabbed my face and gave me a kiss. I felt my face turn red, but she was already hurrying down the street to catch the tram.

  Chapter 8

  Lombardi was a real showman.

  Rome’s Messaggero newspaper published a detailed account of his extraordinary lecture in their morning edition the following day. I saved a copy in my files. Here, let me read it for you.

  Rome, Monday, April 12, 1899

  ———

  Large Crowd Throngs Teatro Valle for Darwin Lecture

  ——-

  Lombardi Dismisses Spiritualism and Afterlife Claims

  ———

  Over four hundred attendees, graced by the presence of Her Royal Highness Queen Margherita, crowded into the Teatro Valle last night to listen as the celebrated professor of psychiatry Dr. Camillo Lombardi of the University of Torino presented a vigorous defense of the theo
ry of evolution advanced by the English naturalist Charles Darwin.

  At exactly 8:00 P.M., the red velvet curtain was slowly drawn back, the electric lights came up, and Professor Lombardi appeared, center stage, standing in front of a small table. Two skulls sat on the table in front of him. A hush fell over the crowd as he began his lecture. The Bible was a wonderful book, Lombardi assured his audience, filled with sage advice on how to live an ethical life, but the story of God’s creation of Adam and Eve in a Garden of Eden was a fairy tale. The fossil record clearly shows we’re just smart monkeys.

  Dr. Lombardi picked up the first skull and presented it to his audience. “This,” he announced, “is the skull of an African ape.” He studied it for a moment, then lifted up the second skull. “And this,” he declared, “is the skull of an African bushman. I believe even those of you in the back can notice the similarities.” The audience erupted into laughter, and Professor Lombardi proceeded to deliver a most lively exposition of the modern, scientific theory of evolution by comparing the craniums and jawbones of the African and the ape, while quoting extensively from Darwin’s scientific treatise On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life.”

  At that point, Lombardi reached under the table, pulled out two more skulls, and lined up all four in a neat row. He’s got you. You’re thinking – what the hell is all this about?