The Witch of Napoli

by Michael Schmicker

  I jumped up. “Don’t worry, Alessandra, we’ll think of something.”

  Rossi bent down and retrieved the telegram, then passed it back to Venzano.

  “Alessandra, it’s over. He’s not coming.”

  Venzano folded up the telegram. “Professor, do you have a comment we can run with the telegram?”

  “Perhaps later,” he replied, reaching for his hat. You could hear the resignation in his voice. Alessandra and I followed him out to the street where she refused to let him go.

  “Professor, if we can just get him to come…” she pleaded. “Once he’s here, I can convince him. I know I can! I know it! We can’t give up. We’ll talk about it after the service this week, yes?”

  That’s when Rossi dropped his bombshell.

  “Alessandra, we’re discontinuing the weekly séances.”

  “No!” she cried. “But why?”

  “Some members object to the cost.”

  “But you can’t! Oh, you can’t! It’s such a small amount.”

  Rossi stared at her for a second, then clasped her hands in his. “I’m so sorry about Lombardi, Alessandra. The failure is mine. I do believe you would have convinced him.”

  Rossi bowed then disappeared into the chattering lunch crowd thronging the street. I steered Alessandra over to a bench and helped her sit down.

  She was silent for several minutes, staring at the ground. Then she looked up, tears in her eyes.

  “Pigotti found the money,” she whispered.

  “What money?” I said.

  “The money I was saving for Rome. He noticed the slit in the mattress.”

  “Oh God, Alessandra! What did you say?”

  “I told him I was saving it for his birthday, to buy him something special. That I stole it from Rossi’s wallet during a sitting.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “I don’t know. He slapped me hard, then he took the money. It’s all gone, Tommaso.”

  I tried to think of something to say, but I couldn’t. I mean, what could you say? Her dream was over. At least Pigotti hadn’t discovered the whole truth. She would have been dead.

  A beggar woman cradling a dirty-faced child approached us with her hand out, and I tried to shoo her away. The city was filled with them, and you can’t help them all. But Alessandra called her back, dug into her purse, found a few soldi, and handed them to her. Then she stood up, and extended her hand.

  “Thank you for everything you have done for me, Tommaso. You’ve been a true friend.”

  “What will you do now?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” she replied wearily. “Maybe Dr. Cappelli can help. His family has money. And I know he likes me.”

  “Will I see you again?” I asked.

  She looked at me for a long time, then a soft smile appeared on her face. “You’re a sweet boy, Tommaso. You’re going to make some woman very happy someday.”

  Then she was gone.

  Chapter 11

  I hid in the darkroom all afternoon, my head in my hands, thinking of Alessandra.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with anything. Sick to my stomach, I was reaching for my hat to go home when Doffo stopped by to find out what had happened at the meeting.

  Venzano had hired him a month before I joined, hoping his drawings would put more bite in our editorial pages, especially the war we were running against the mayor and his cronies. People were dying from eating rotten meat because the Camorra ran the slaughterhouses and owned the inspectors. At the time Venzano offered him a job, Doffo was working up in Rome as a cartoonist for a small Socialist weekly that couldn’t always pay him.

  He was skinny, near-sighted, and a ricchione with a boyfriend in the Vatican, but he was fearless. He studied Daumier in art school and had an acid pen. He worked hard at his craft. The Dreyfus affair was big news that year, and he followed La Libre Parole closely – studying how their cartoonist exaggerated the Captain’s big nose, gave him a slouch, put him in ridiculous situations.

  A light suddenly went on in my head.

  “Doffo! Follow me,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “To Venzano’s office.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way. Let’s go.”

  I knew Venzano desperately wanted to keep the Alessandra story alive. He had a great business sense, and he understood what sells papers. He also had a soft spot for me – he saw a little of himself in me – and so when we arrived he waved us into his office. I wasted no time pitching my idea.

  “We’ll shame Lombardi into coming,” I explained excitedly. “Let Doffo do a cartoon suggesting he’s afraid to test Alessandra.”

  Venzano gave us an amused look, then nodded at Doffo. “Alright, what can you do with it?”

  Doffo thought for a moment, then took the pencil from behind his ear and started drawing. I watched in fascination as he sketched out a woman in long flowing robes, which he labeled “Science,” holding the torch of “Knowledge.” She was scowling down at Lombardi, who’s hiding under her skirts. The caption read “Lombardi Investigates the Spirit World”

  I wanted to humiliate Lombardi. “No, make Lombardi a cat, hiding from a little mouse – Alessandra.” Doffo grinned and quickly redid the sketch. Venzano stroked his moustache as he studied the drawing, then smiled. “Finish it up, and we’ll run it next to Lombardi’s telegram.”

  “Front page?” I suggested.

  Venzano laughed. “Get out of here, both of you.”

  Chapter 12

  Lombardi’s visit to Naples started off poorly.

  He was still smarting from the Mattino cartoon when he stepped off the train at the Napoli Centrale station. Before leaving Torino, he had announced to a reporter from La Stampa that he would be attending one séance only, and he expected to be disappointed.

  Rossi had booked him into the Palazzo, a short walk from the Main Post Office, a decent hotel but hardly de luxe. He should have known better. Lombardi wasn’t some ghetto Jew. He came from a wealthy family, and besides, Northerners always look down on the South.

  When I showed up at the hotel at eight the night of the séance, I found Lombardi in the lobby giving Rossi an earful – his room was too hot, mosquitoes buzzed him all night, the service was embarrassing, the hotel food both atrocious and suspicious. Rossi used my arrival to extricate himself and went off to find a bellman to call a carriage. When it finally swung by to pick us up, I hopped up in the front seat next to the driver and Rossi followed Lombardi into the back seat. Rossi leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder.

  “Do you know your way to Corso Vanucci?”

  The man hesitated. “Si, Signore, I do. Is that where you want to go?”

  I looked back in surprise at Rossi. I had presumed the séance that evening would be held at his home near the university. Instead, we were headed for the Basso-Porto, a seedy part of Naples, down by the docks. I started to say something but he shot me a look and I kept my mouth shut.

  “Yes,” he repeated. “Corso Vanucci. Number 48.”

  “As you wish, Signore.”

  He snapped his whip and the horse trotted off. Lombardi and Rossi chatted away as I racked my brain, trying to think why we would be headed for that disreputable gehenna, then it hit me. The night I took the photo at Rossi’s house, Alessandra told me she lived down by the docks.

  We were headed for Alessandra’s place.

  We made our way across town, down the Corso Garibaldi past the railway station till we came to the Reclusorio, the city poorhouse, where we turned left onto Strada Marinella which runs southeast out of town, following the curve of the bay. Rain had swept the city that afternoon but by evening it had stopped and the heat and humidity had soared. The stink of rotten garbage soon mixed with the smell of stale fish, tar and salt air. The city sewer, built after the terrible cholera epidemic of ’84 which killed 12,000 people and turned Naples into a mortuary, empties into the mud flats there. Lombardi pulled out a
handkerchief and pressed it to his nose.

  “I say, Professor, isn’t there a more pleasant route to our destination?” he demanded.

  The streets got progressively narrower and dirtier, and Lombardi fell silent. We finally arrived at Corso Vanucci. Dingy, flat-roofed, three-story tenements hung with laundry lined the narrow street down to the quay and the warehouses. The gaslights had already been lit, and we made our way down the rain-dampened cobblestones, the carriage forcing grumbling vendors to move their stands and press against the wall as we passed by. In the shadow of a doorway, a whore solicited a drunk, and a mangy dog nosed through a pile of garbage, hunting scraps to eat.

  When the driver halted his carriage in front of Number 48, the astonished Lombardi turned to Rossi.

  “Certainly you don’t live here?”

  But Rossi had already jumped out of the carriage. He shoved some money in the cabman’s hand and started walking briskly towards the apartment. Lombardi hopped out and hurried after Rossi. He caught up with him at the curb, and grabbed his arm.

  “I was told the séance would be held in your home. I demand an explanation!”

  Rossi looked at him evenly. “This is where Alessandra lives, Professor.”

  “This is ridiculous!”

  “You offer her one opportunity to perform. Fair enough. She feels most comfortable in familiar surroundings, and she chooses to demonstrate her powers here.”

  “That’s outrageous! This is no place for a gentleman. I insist you take me back to my hotel.”

  Rossi shrugged his shoulder. “You can come with me or remain here on the street.”

  A pack of ragged, dirty-faced boys came running up to Lombardi and started yanking on his sleeve, begging for money. Lombardi raised his walking stick and they scattered, laughing and flinging rude gestures at him. Lombardi stood there for a moment, looking around. The carriage was gone. He had no choice. He muttered an oath, grimly gripped his cane like a club, and followed us up a dark, narrow staircase smelling of piss and garlic to Alessandra’s third floor dump.

  Give Rossi credit. It was a spectacular gamble, but he had gotten Lombardi there.

  But could Alessandra deliver?

  Chapter 13

  Pigotti was waiting for us at the door.

  He nodded at Rossi, who had been there before, but he eyed Lombardi suspiciously.

  The apartment was small and cramped – a parlor-kitchen with a small, high window open to the stink of the public latrine in the courtyard below, and off the parlor a bedroom. For Lower Town, it was a palace – most poor bastards in that part of town rent eight, ten to a room with no windows, sleeping on dirt floors with their chickens and pigs. But Pigotti ran the lottery and the gambling in the neighborhood for the Camorra, and could afford better.

  Two elderly women I didn’t recognize were seated at the table chatting with Alessandra when we stepped inside. A kerosene lamp burned brightly on the table, casting harsh, deep shadows in the corner of the room. Alessandra stood up as we entered.

  Lombardi probably expected a gypsy fortuneteller, wearing bright colored skirts, and sporting bead necklaces and silver rings and bracelets. Instead, Alessandra was dressed completely in black. Her dark hair and the black, high-neck collar of her plain silk dress framed her pale, consumptive face, drawing your attention to her liquid eyes. She wore no jewelry. Alessandra stepped forward, offering her hand.

  Lombardi was still fuming from Rossi’s trick. “So, you’re the woman who levitates tables and talks to dead monks?” he said sarcastically. Alessandra’s eyes flared at his rudeness, but Lombardi had already turned his attention to the two women – Signora Damiano, president of the Spiritualist Society of Naples, and her companion who served as the Society’s secretary.

  Damiano grabbed his hand and pressed it to her ample bosom. “Professor, we believe you will witness miracles tonight which will change your mind about the question of survival,” she gushed.

  “Signora,” he replied coldly,” You have one night to produce your miracle. I’m not coming back here.”

  He turned to Rossi and told him he wanted to inspect the apartment. There wasn’t much to inspect, but Lombardi did a thorough job. When he finished with the bedroom, he returned to the parlor and asked Rossi and me to turn the table and chairs upside down. He took the lamp, got down on his knees, and peered through his pince-nez looking for hidden wires or mechanical devices. Finally, he walked over to the kitchen window, closed the shutters and locked them.

  “Can’t you leave it open a bit?” Damiano pleaded, fanning herself. “We will all die of heat in here.” A sirocco wind was blowing the week Lombardi visited, and the heat and humidity was oppressive. She looked to Alessandra for help.

  “Professor,” Alessandra said, “would you agree to….”

  Lombardi whirled around “No, I don’t agree to,” he snapped. “I didn’t agree to a test in your apartment, but I’m given no choice.” He stared hard at Rossi. “I am not a fool. I find this whole arrangement exceedingly suspicious.”

  He held out his hand. “Now, if someone will kindly give me the apartment key. I will lock the door and hold the key – after Signor Pigotti here is ushered out.”

  Pigotti’s jaw dropped. For a second, he was speechless then you could see the color rise in his face. He stepped up to Lombardi, and dangled the key in his face.

  “I remain in the room during all séances,” he said in a soft, menacing voice.

  I would have pissed in my pants. Amazingly, Lombardi didn’t flinch. Maybe when you work with the criminally insane, like Lombardi did, you learn how to read them. Whatever, my opinion of Lombardi changed that night. He locked his eyes on Pigotti, his voice calm, measured.

  “If you remain in the room,” he replied, “I leave.” He held out his hand again. “The key please.”

  Rossi had backed away. Alessandra thrust her hand out.

  “Give me the fee. Quickly!”

  Rossi pulled it from his coat pocket and handed it to her. Alessandra pushed past me and shoved the money into Pigotti’s hand.

  “Caro, take it! Take it!” She grabbed the key and pushed him towards the door.

  Anger and avarice contested briefly on Pigotti’s face before he finally jammed the money in his pocket, glared at Lombardi, and stalked out. Alessandra immediately slammed the door, locked it, and handed Lombardi the key.

  “There. Are you satisfied now?”

  Lombardi ignored her. He assigned us seats, starting with Rossi, who was ordered to sit at the opposite end of the table, furthest from Alessandra. Lombardi himself would sit next to Alessandra, controlling her right hand and knee. He wanted me to sit on her left, controlling her left hand and knee. He didn’t care where Damiano and her friend sat. When we were all in position, he reached over and turned up the lamp. “It will remain at full illumination during the séance,” he announced.

  Signora Damiano rose to her feet.

  “That’s impossible!” she protested. “Bright light frustrates the work of the spirits, and can be dangerous to the medium.”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied curtly. “Those are the requirements for my participation.”

  “Surely, Professor, you will not object to half-light?” Rossi pleaded. “I assure you that you will find the illumination adequate for your purposes.”

  Lombardi shrugged, and reached for his bag. “Then I am ready to return to the hotel.”

  “Basta! Enough!”

  It was Alessandra. She marched over to the door and yanked it open.

  “Get out! Enough of your insults, your rudeness, your suspicions. Get out!”

  Everyone looked at Lombardi. My heart was in my throat. If Lombardi walked, her dream was over. Damiano and her circle would wash their hands of her, and Pigotti would dump her on the street. But you could only push Alessandra so far.

  Lombardi stared at Alessandra for what felt like an eternity, then surprised everyone by folding his cards.

  “My report will note
that illumination was marginal,” he announced stiffly. “I suggest we begin.”

  Everyone was exhausted, and the séance hadn’t even begun.

  Chapter 14

  I was looking forward to holding Alessandra’s knee under the table.

  We all joined hands, bowed our heads, and Signora Damiano led us in a pater noster – except Lombardi of course, because he was an atheist. I mumbled along. You always do a prayer before every séance to beg God to protect you from evil spirits. As Rossi said, when you summon the dead, you’re opening a door to the spirit world, and you never know who will step through. You hope it’s your dead grandmother, not Jack the Ripper.

  When Damiano finished, she pulled a small, silver tea bell out of her purse and placed it in the middle of the table. Any spirits hovering around the room would be invited to announce their presence by moving or ringing it, she told Lombardi. Of course, spirits could use raps, taps or touches as well, but the bell seemed to attract the spirits’ attention, and the Society always used it in its séances. Lombardi was instantly suspicious. He insisted on examining it carefully before returning it to the table himself. His skepticism was becoming extremely annoying and tiresome.

  At last, Lombardi nodded to Rossi who turned down the lamp, everyone settled back into their chairs, joined hands, and Alessandra started the séance.

  “Spirits, we know you are here,” she intoned. “Give us a sign.”

  I didn’t bring my camera that night. Venzano had wanted me to photograph the séance, but Rossi vetoed it. The Mattino could interview Lombardi after the séance. He didn’t want extra pressure on Alessandra, because she was already nervous. Cappelli had promised to join the circle that night, but at the last minute had to go to Palermo on business. Alessandra wanted me to take his place. She knew I believed in her. I had seen the table levitate. I had even photographed it. Alessandra was convinced believers increased her psychic powers.

  I did my best. I closed my eyes and tried to will the spirits to show themselves, but I didn’t really know how, and eventually I gave up and opened my eyes again.