The Witch of Napoli

by Michael Schmicker

  “I freely confess, before I encountered Signora Poverelli I did not consider it worthy of the dignity of a savant, and a naturalist, to be present at such spiritistic séances. I shared that degree of distrust and suspicion which should always accompany the observation of the abnormal. Yet these telekinetic phenomena are incontestable facts – for I cannot deny what I have seen with my own eyes.”

  He looked around the room.

  “However, let me be clear. I do not believe in the supernatural, spirits of the dead, or the absurd doctrines of Spiritualism. The force which moved that bell was not a spirit from a non-existent afterlife. It was produced by the mind of Alessandra herself.”

  He described Alessandra’s unhappy childhood, including being forced to witness the murder of her father, powerless to do anything about it. “My hypothesis is that her repressed, inner rage, focused on an object or person, produces the telekinetic levitations, raps, pinches, and blows frequently reported during her sittings. But her most dramatic telekinetic effects are produced when this soi-disant Savonarola personality emerges.”

  He was used to dealing with psychopaths in his asylum for the criminally insane, but Alessandra’s transformation was unsettling, even to him. He could understand why an earlier, superstitious age believed in demonic possession.

  “Frankly, I wasn’t prepared for the hatred which emanated from this Savonarola personality – a rage that was barely contained and, if let loose, appeared capable of wreaking severe injury.”

  He stared into space for a moment, then shook his head.

  “Many years ago, on a hike through the countryside, I knocked at a farmhouse hoping for a glass of water. The door was flung open, and I was surprised by a vicious dog on a short chain, fangs bared, eyes burning, mere centimeters from my face. Fortunately, the dog’s master had a good grip on his beast.” He grimaced. “I did not get the feeling that Signora Poverelli had a secure grip on hers. I hope to explore this with Dr. Freud in Vienna.”

  Lombardi paced back and forth, throwing out questions which demanded Science’s attention. Were mediums like Alessandra freaks of nature? Or were we all capable, in certain extreme mental states, of moving objects with our minds? Did weather – temperature, barometric pressure, humidity – have any effect on telekinetic powers? There was so much to learn! Andiamo! Let’s go!

  The crowd erupted in an ovation of approval, and Gemelli signaled to the waiters to serve the brandy. Lombardi returned his notes to his portfolio, then turned back to his audience.

  “I’m sure some of you have questions. Shall we start with our host?”

  Gemelli pointed his glass at Huxley. “I’ll defer to our English guest. I’m curious what he has to say about all this.”

  Everyone looked at Huxley.

  Chapter 23

  Huxley stubbed out his cigar, rose to his feet and walked to the front of the room. He stood there for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts, then launched his devastating cross-examination.

  “The first question I suggest we ask is not how Madame Poverelli’s telekinetic powers work, but whether she has any.”

  He looked around the room, a condescending smile on his face. “Are we dealing here with telekinesis…or trickery?”

  Lombardi stiffened.

  Huxley fixed his gaze on Lombardi.

  “I presume that Alessandra knew in advance that you would be coming to her apartment? Several days, or even a week before you visited her?”

  Lombardi looked puzzled. “She was expecting me, yes. Professor Rossi told her.”

  “And the séance took place in Alessandra’s apartment. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. I was frankly surprised. I expected it to be held in Professor Rossi’s home.”

  “And who changed the location?”

  “Professor Rossi.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Yes. He said Alessandra felt more comfortable there, and she performed best in familiar surroundings.”

  Huxley raised an eyebrow. “So Alessandra knew in advance you were coming, and she picked the place for the séance, her own apartment – a place she is familiar with, a place she has furnished to suit her taste – or her needs….”

  Lombardi turned red as it finally dawned on him where Huxley was leading him. “I’m not a fool, Mr. Huxley. I recognized the opportunity this gave to Signora Poverelli to cheat if she wanted to. I thoroughly inspected the premises before we began.”

  “So you inspected the premises for concealed doors, or hidden mechanical devices. Tell me, Professor – are you familiar with the magician’s trade?”

  “No,” Lombardi shot back. “Are you?”

  “Oddly enough, Professor, I am. I find that knowledge quite helpful in my business.” He smiled, then continued. “Did Alessandra cooperate with you when you requested permission to search her apartment?”

  “Yes. For the most part.”

  Huxley cocked his head. “Meaning?”

  “Signora Damiano objected to having the window closed and locked.”

  “Signora Damiano, the head of the Spiritualist Society of Naples, and good friend of Alessandra’s. But you wisely insisted, given that it provided access to the room from the outside?

  “It was a reasonable request under ordinary circumstances. It was extremely hot and humid that night. But I felt it needed to be closed and locked for my purposes that evening.”

  “I applaud your caution, professor. Did your inspection before the séance began also include an inspection of Signora Poverelli’s person?”

  Lombardi shot him a look of disgust. “No. Is that something you regularly do in your trade, sir?”

  Huxley turned to the group. “I’m sure all of us here tonight would enjoy such an assignment,” he said. He waited until the laughter stopped. “Alas, most mediums are reluctant to allow men to play in their petticoats. That’s why I always bring along a woman friend to perform the inspection. Women have been deceiving men since the Garden of Eden. They’ve had centuries of practice.”

  “Your suggested protocol is duly noted,” Lombardi replied stonily.

  Huxley smiled. “Indeed, we caught one clever vixen bringing to her sittings a bell which she would place on the table – for the ‘spirits’ to ring – while concealing a second bell in her skirt. In the dark, it’s quite difficult to tell exactly where a sound is coming from.”

  Huxley paused for a second to let his audience ponder that troubling point, then resumed.

  “And the illumination in the room…was the light adequate?

  “Bright enough to observe everything clearly, including Alessandra’s movements.”

  “But you were not observing in full light?”

  “No.”

  “And I see you wear…spectacles.”

  Huxley picked up his brandy glass, took a sip, then put it back down on the table.

  “So let me understand, if I may, Professor. Alessandra knew in advance you were coming, the séance was held in her apartment, you attempted an inspection…”

  “Conducted an inspection! A damn thorough one!”

  “My apologies….conducted an inspection of the apartment, though not an inspection of Signora Poverelli’s person, who performed her magic in dim light…”

  Lombardi exploded. “Damn you, sir! Enough! I know what I saw that night!”

  Baranov hopped to his feet, “Hear! Hear!”

  Lombardi stepped towards Huxley, his face flushed, and jabbed his finger in Huxley’s chest. “Do you think I would risk my professional reputation if I weren’t completely convinced of that? Knowing that people like you would be waiting to attack my observations, to ridicule me?”

  Gemelli rose from his chair. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Please!”

  Huxley raised his hands in mock surrender.

  “Forgive me, Professor. I wasn’t there, and you were. But if I were a betting man, I’d wager a hundred pounds that your Alessandra is a jumped-up trickster.”

  We all let out a gasp.


  Huxley dropped his bombshell. “Did you know Alessandra’s first husband was a street magician?”

  Lombardi looked like he had been punched in the stomach.

  “How would you know that?” he finally said.

  Huxley nodded at Renard. Renard looked embarrassed.

  “I was told that by Professor Rossi,” Renard said. “I’m not sure how he learned that. But yes, that is what he told me.”

  Lombardi looked at Huxley. “Your point?” he said weakly.

  “You don’t find it both convenient and suspicious that your Alessandra was married to a magician – and has had twenty years to perfect the tricks she may have learned from him? I think the conclusion is obvious.”

  I felt sick.

  “Objection, Mr. Huxley.” Renard rose to his feet. “We can all agree that Madam Poverelli had the opportunity to cheat. But the possibility of fraud is not proof of fraud. The question is, did she? What would be helpful is for Madame Poverelli to demonstrate what she can do – under conditions acceptable to an investigator with your experience. May I make a proposal?”

  He looked at Lombardi.

  “Professor, you would be wise to learn more about Alessandra before you launch your public tour of Europe. If Mr. Huxley’s suspicions are correct, it is far better to know now.”

  He turned to Huxley. “As Mr. Huxley here knows, I own a small, private island in South France, on the Cote d’Azur, where I have a summer cottage. I would be happy to host a private sitting there. Mr. Huxley has spent the week as my guest, so he is familiar with the layout of the building, and its isolation should appeal to his suspicious nature. If Alessandra is employing confederates, they’ll have to swim three kilometers to assist her, with no place to hide when they get there.”

  Huxley smiled, and Renard continued.

  “If Mr. Huxley is willing to spend a few more days as my guest, I suggest we meet on Ile Ribaud for a séance with Alessandra. Mr. Huxley will set the rules for the evening – I will act as the referee should you strongly object to some condition he imposes. With Mr. Huxley’s permission, you may want to bring a photographer. Last but not least, gentlemen, we all agree to accept the results, whether favorable or unfavorable to our position. Do I have your concurrence?”

  Huxley, slouched in his chair, waved his acceptance. “Agreed.”

  “Agreed” Lombardi replied grimly.

  I wasn’t listening.

  My mind had already jumped back to the photograph I had taken of Alessandra and the levitated table, hanging in the air. After developing the plate, I had studied it with a magnifying glass for almost an hour, reluctant to accept what I had witnessed. But I couldn’t find anything I couldn’t account for – a wire, a string, a lifted knee or slyly placed finger. Nothing.

  Except for a thin, faint, vertical shadow parallel with the table leg, where the flash bounced off – what? Something. But what? And did Alessandra have anything to do with it?

  Suddenly I felt scared for Alessandra.

  Chapter 24

  Huxley wasted no time coming after Alessandra.

  He was a master at intimidation, and it was easy to understand how some little cockney trickster working the London séance circuit would pee in her knickers if he turned his attention towards her game. He expected to land a quick knockout punch.

  When we arrived at the train station for the trip to Ile Ribaud, Lombardi hurried forward to the first class carriage to join Huxley and Renard. Sapienti had also decided to come along. Alessandra and I went to buy food. It was six hours to Genoa, and another 14 hours up the coast by boat before we could reach Toulon, and we were traveling second class. We weren’t welcome in the dining car.

  We boarded at the conductor’s tutti a bordo and dropped into our seats, loaded down with our luggage and a big basket of bread and sausages. A plump woman and her three children followed on our heels and squeezed into the bench opposite us. Across the aisle, a small, wide-eyed boy dressed in Sunday clothes sat next to a fat monsignor who had his nose stuck in his breviary, mumbling his Hours. The remaining seats in the car were grabbed by a dozen sailors from the Royal Navy who had sloughed off their uniforms, pulled the window curtains, and launched a noisy dice game.

  By the time the train reached Asti, we had a card game of our own going, and a picnic spread out on our laps. Alessandra invited the mother and her kids to help themselves to our larder, which they eagerly did, the little boy playing the jew’s harp between chomps of bread, his sister dancing along as she stuffed her own mouth. Alessandra always played scopa with reckless abandon, and I steadily piled up the points. I had just captured her Knave, and she was swearing like a sailor herself, when we looked up and there stood Huxley in a white linen suit.

  He fixed his icy blue eyes on Alessandra.

  “One must play one’s cards wisely, Signora Poverelli – or suffer the inevitable consequences.”

  No buongiorno, no introduction. Nothing.

  He turned to me. “If you will allow me to sit down for a moment…?”

  I jumped up from my seat and removed my hat. Alessandra looked confused.

  “Scusa, Signore, do I know you?” she asked.

  “No, but you shall,” he replied.

  As he stepped past me, I poked Alessandra. “Signor Huxley. The Englishman Dr. Lombardi told you about.” She had never met him.

  Huxley sat down, adjusted his trousers, languidly leaned back on the bench, and gazed out the window for a few seconds, watching the countryside pass by. Finally he swung around to face Alessandra, leaned in close, and whispered in her ear.

  “I know your game. You’re a pathetic fraud, and a waste of my time. You may fool Dr. Lombardi, but not me.”

  Alessandra’s jaw dropped. So did mine.

  He drew back and stared out the window again, not even deigning to look at us. “I’ve exposed a dozen cheats smarter than you. I know what you’ll do, and how you’ll do it.” He nonchalantly brushed a spot off his suit. “If you try any of your silly tricks on Ile Ribaud, you will return to Naples a topic of amusement, not amazement. Do you understand?” As the color rose in Alessandra’s face, Huxley picked up the Queen of Cups from the scatter of cards on the bench beside him, studied it, then rose to his feet and handed it to her. “My advice, Signora Poverelli? Fold your cards while you’re ahead.”

  The show was over. He had dropped by, delivered his threat, and was ready to return to first class for a cigar and a glass of sherry, confident his preemptive strike had scared the shit out of her.

  Instead, Alessandra grabbed the bread knife and leapt to her feet.

  “Vafanculo!” she replied. Up yours!

  Huxley blushed – he didn’t expect that response, though he should have. You don’t insult a Neapolitan to his face, and certainly not Alessandra. He looked at her calmly.

  “Language one would expect from someone of your class.”

  I snatched the knife from Alessandra, scared she would use it, and shoved Huxley, knocking him backwards.

  “Leave her alone!” I said. Huxley recovered his balance and turned towards me.

  “Ah, the little photographer boy who created the fake photo. Tell me, how long have you been her confederate in this scam?”

  I shoved him again, harder. “Leave her alone!”

  He grabbed my elbow and yanked me up close. “You little guttersnipe!” he snarled. “When I’m done with her, perhaps you and I can go a few rounds in the ring. How does that sound to you?” My heart was pounding in my chest.

  Alessandra jumped forward and slapped him in the face.

  “Cazzo!” Prick!

  Huxley glared at her, red-faced. Down the car, the sailors stopped their dice game and began to whistle and cheer her on. Let him have it, lady. Bastard! Asshole! Huxley turned and stomped back to his carriage. I had to physically restrain Alessandra from chasing him back to his car. She was spitting mad.

  Chapter 25

  Alessandra was spoiling for another fight, but I
wasn’t.

  Lombardi had warned her about her temper, and the consequences if she couldn’t control it. As the train pulled into Genoa where we would disembark to transfer to the ferry, I lit into her.

  “Do you want to be sent back to Naples?” I shouted. “Your husband will kill you. You stole his money, for Christ’s sake – remember?” I was pissed. “And think of someone other than yourself for once. If you’re sent home, so am I.”

  That stung her. Whatever faults Alessandra had, she was loyal to her friends. For the rest of the trip, she made an effort to avoid Huxley, and we reached the Cote d’Azur without another scrap.

  Renard’s man was waiting for us with two boats at the small harbor in Hyeres when we finally arrived the next morning. In the distance, across the sparkling, blue water, the Ile du Grand Ribaud rose up out of the bay in the blinding, noon sunshine, white gulls lazily circling in the sky above. I could make out a small lighthouse on one tip of the flat island but nothing else.

  Gaston and his young son Henri hurried forward to grab our bags. Lombardi and Sapienti looked uncomfortable and out of place in their dark suits and ties, but Huxley and Renard had already donned casual summer clothes and leather sandals. In his short-sleeved mariner’s shirt, Huxley’s athletic build was conspicuous. He would have killed me in a fight. I watched as he pulled a square, leather box from under the pile of luggage, swung it easily to his shoulder, and stepped sure-footedly into the boat, ignoring Gaston’s offer of a hand. Renard followed, helping Lombardi and the unsteady Sapienti into their wooden seats at the bow.

  Alessandra and I were assigned to Henri’s skiff along with the luggage, my camera gear, and supplies for the weekend. The kid settled into his seat, grabbed the oars, and I untied the rope and shoved us off. Alessandra kicked off her shoes, closed her eyes and leaned back, letting the sun warm her face. Henri said something in French I didn’t understand, and giggled. Alessandra let her hand play in the sparkling water as we headed out into the bay.