The Witch of Napoli

by Michael Schmicker

  “God, Tommaso, I miss the sea.” She unbuttoned the cuffs of her blouse but didn’t roll up her sleeves. The cigarette burns Pigotti gave her were probably still there. “I used to walk down to the docks and watch the kids fish, and look out to the sea and imagine all the different places in the world the boats were going to.”

  I laughed. “You could have been a cook on a boat bound for Borneo.”

  She opened her eyes and grinned. “I know how to row, you know.”

  She hiked up her dress, slipped into the seat next to Henri, and grabbed an oar. Henri laughed, and the two of them started stroking together. I thought she would have us going in circles, but she pulled in rhythm and we powered right along. God knows where she learned that. Half way across the bay, we were closing on Lombardi’s boat, and I’m sure she wanted to overtake them to thumb her nose at Huxley, but a wave caught her oar in a tangle with Henri’s and we slid onto the beach a distant second. Huxley had already hopped out with his box and their gang had started up the beach.

  In Naples, I never cared for the ocean. It stinks. Ile Ribaud was different. The scent of lavender infused the salt air, and white clouds floated in a blue sky above our heads as we scrambled up a steep, narrow footpath from the rocky beach. When we reached the top, Henri pointed to a low, stone cottage atop a small rise a sizeable hike from us. The island was mostly burnt grass and low bushes with an occasional olive tree, and the heat soon had us sweating despite the sea breeze.

  Henri played guide, cheerfully babbling away in mixed up Italian and French, pointing out the sights – the lighthouse which Napoleon had something to do with, the small building next to it where he and his family lived – “mon casa” – and three shallow, rectangular ponds which we skirted along the way. I later found out they held poisonous jellyfish Dr. Renard used in his scientific experiments. I’m glad I didn’t put my hand in the water.

  Henri’s mother, Capucine, was waiting at the door to greet us when we arrived, and led Alessandra to her room. Henri showed me to mine. As we passed by the verandah, I saw Lombardi and Sapienti had removed their coats and ties and everyone was busy lighting up cigars. Once our bags were dumped in the room, Henri headed back to the beach to pick up the luggage, Capucine busied herself in the kitchen, and Alessandra and I started for the verandah.

  Renard intercepted us with his black dog Barbet, a large, friendly mutt who took an instant liking to Alessandra, jumping up and licking her face. Alessandra bent down and hugged him. Renard smiled and handed her the leash.

  “Take him. He needs a walk,” he said. “We’re meeting with Monsieur Huxley to go over his requirements for the sitting tonight, and I don’t think you’re presence is welcome.” He smiled. “Tell me, what exactly did you two talk about on the train? He was in a foul mood when he returned to his seat.”

  “He can go to hell,” Alessandra shot back.

  I winced. Renard looked at her quizzically.

  “Alessandra, Monsieur Huxley has a right to be skeptical. He’s uncovered the most shameful tricks played by the seemingly sweetest ladies. You need to earn his trust. And mine, too. But if you can produce the phenomena Dr. Lombardi believes he observed in Naples, you’ll find no stronger champion than me.”

  Barbet let out a loud bark, tugging at the leash. Renard patted his head then pointed to the door. “Take Barbet to the beach, find a stick and toss it in the surf. He loves to swim.”

  I followed Renard out to the verandah, and found the others settled around a rough wooden table that Capucine had decorated with a vase of pretty wildflowers and a yellow bowl filled with oranges. Gaston was circling the group, a bottle of red wine in his hand, filling glasses. The view was superb. It looked back across a lovely bay crowded with holiday sailboats to the village of Hyeres and its white-washed houses running up a pine-covered hill crowned by a castle. The Brits had discovered the town years earlier, and half the street signs were in English.

  Huxley ignored me as I pulled up a chair. Renard delivered a welcome toast, then turned the stage over to Huxley who pushed aside the flowers and placed his mysterious leather box in the center of the table. For the first time, I noticed it had a lock.

  “Rule one in this business, gentlemen,” he announced. “Never let the medium furnish the target objects.” He removed a small key from his pants pocket. “Rule two. Never allow the medium access to them at any time.” He sprung the lock and lifted the top. We all leaned forward as he pulled out a small silver bell and held it up for us to see.

  “The test I propose is simple. I am challenging Signora Poverelli to duplicate the bell levitation she allegedly produced in Naples for Professor Lombardi here. Preferably, it will not be accompanied by a slap to the face similar to that suffered by Dr. Lombardi that night. If our insolent ‘Fra Savonarola’ attempts that outrage, she will get her ears boxed. But the test comes with a small twist…..”

  Huxley reached into the box again, and pulled out a small glass jar and a brush.

  “….The bell will be coated with this carbon lampblack.” He looked pointedly at me. “Anyone who manages to touch the bell will find a surprise left behind on their fingertips. Should any movement or levitation of the bell occur, we will stop the sitting immediately and I will conduct a careful inspection. Further, the bell itself will sit under this….”

  He lifted out a large glass vase, flipped it over, and dropped it over the bell.

  “…to discourage the use of strings, wires, sticks or other popular tools of the trade commonly employed by ‘spirits’ to move an object in the dark.”

  Renard leaned back in his chair, a look of amusement on his face. “Rather clever, Nigel.”

  “Indeed. Well done, sir,” added Sapienti. Next to him, Lombardi sat in silence.

  Huxley peered into the box. “Oh – and one final change to Dr. Lombardi’s protocol in Naples.” He pulled out a length of thin cord. “This time, Signora Poverelli will be tied to the chair, hand and foot.”

  Renard put down his wine glass. “Isn’t that a bit too much, Nigel?”

  Huxley bristled. “I never underestimate the acrobatic skills of these charlatans.”

  “But that presumes in advance that Signora Poverelli is a charlatan. Come, Nigel, your experimental controls are ingenious and quite formidable without the ropes. I’m not sure I would agree to be tied to a chair for two hours, unable to scratch my nose or shift my legs.”

  Lombardi spoke up.

  “That’s not the point. He wants to humiliate her.” He stared at Huxley. “Don’t you?”

  Huxley returned his stare. “My sitting, my rules.”

  Lombardi stood up. “This is supposed to be a science experiment, not an Inquisition. But have it your way.” He nodded to me.

  “Tommaso, go get Alessandra.”

  Chapter 26

  Tommaso do this. Tommaso do that.

  It was annoying, but you do what the boss says. The donkey gets hitched wherever the master wants. My neck was already sunburned from the row out to the island, and I fell on my ass when I slid down the slope to the beach. Alessandra had waded out into the water with Henri, her skirt tucked between her legs, playing fetch with Barbet. I shouted to her, but their backs were to me and the breeze was blowing onshore. I removed my shoes and socks, rolled up my trousers, and waded out. She finally saw me and they splashed back, chased by Barbet who shook himself off vigorously, soaking my clothes.

  “You’re needed at the cottage,” I grumbled. I didn’t like seeing Alessandra with Henri. You can’t trust a Frenchman. “Signor Huxley has laid out the rules for the sitting and I’m not sure you’re going to like them all.”

  “Tell me,” she laughed.

  As we walked back I filled her in. The lampblack and vase didn’t bother her, but when I told her about the ropes, she stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Never!”

  She started pacing around in a circle, her fists clenched, then collapsed to her knees on the sand and let out a howl. I was completely
bewildered. The ropes would be humiliating, but refusing would naturally invite suspicion. Her reaction didn’t make any sense.

  I slid down next to her, unsure of what to do. Her eyes were brimming with tears, and you could see she was trying to work something out in her mind, jabbing the ground with her stick, and rocking back and forth. She finally turned to me.

  “Tommaso, I can’t……I won’t. I’ll return to Naples first!”

  “But why?”

  She swiped her tears angrily, jumped to her feet and set off running. Henri grabbed Barbet’s leash and we hurried after her.

  Lombardi and the others were still on the verandah, sampling a cognac Renard had trotted out, when Alessandra marched over to the table and grabbed Huxley by the arm.

  “No ropes,” she declared. “Or I go home.”

  Everyone stared at her in stunned silence. She looked like a madwoman, her face flushed, her hair wind-tangled, her eyes puffy. Huxley put down his snifter, looked at Lombardi, then back at Alessandra.

  “You prefer to withdraw?”

  “I won’t be tied down,” she repeated.

  Lombardi spoke up. “She’s not offering to withdraw. She’s asking you to skip the ropes.”

  “No! My sitting, my rules. Or we can skip this whole charade and enjoy the weekend.” He turned to Alessandra, a smirk on his face. “What are you afraid of, my dear?”

  “Nothing!” she shot back.

  “What are you afraid of?” Lombardi said, rising to his feet. “That she’ll succeed? Use your lampblack and your vase, sir, and let’s get on with it.”

  Renard reached over and rang the bell.

  “Nigel, we’ve all come a long way. I for one would be greatly disappointed to leave without a test.”

  Huxley hesitated. He could insist, but it would be “bad form” as the Brits say – a mortal sin in Huxley’s social circle. He swirled the Courvoisier in his snifter, swallowed it, and set the glass down.

  “Fine with me.”

  That evening, Capucine served up a delicious seafood bouillabaisse for dinner, better than anything I ever ate in Naples. Renard kept us entertained during the meal with a humorous description of his visit to Stockholm to receive his Nobel medal, but Lombardi was distant and quiet. He seemed very nervous.

  Alessandra wasn’t – she had seconds and chattered away with Sapienti. As Capucine and Henri cleared the table, Sapienti invited us all outside to see the stars. Huxley begged off to go paint his bell and arrange the séance room. The sky that night was spectacular, and Sapienti, energized by Alessandra’s flirtations, outdid himself pointing out various constellations and planets.

  Afterwards, I headed to my room to fetch the tripod and camera for the sitting, since Lombardi wanted me to visually document the layout of the séance room before we began. As I passed the kitchen, Henri pulled me aside. Between his pantomimes and broken Italian, I finally understood what he wanted to tell me. While we were outside, Huxley had slipped into Alessandra’s room and rummaged through our bags. Henri didn’t know why, but I did. Huxley was looking for devices he was convinced we had brought with us.

  Chapter 27

  At eight o’clock, Huxley locked the door and bolted the wooden shutters.

  Gaston and his family had been dismissed for the night, and we crowded into the séance room. It was a tight fit. I set up my tripod in the corner assigned me, right behind Huxley’s chair. Lombardi was banished to the end of the table along with Sapienti, and Huxley and Renard took their seats flanking Alessandra where they would control her hands and feet. I made sure the photo showed everyone’s position, as well as the blackened bell sitting under the glass vase on the table. Huxley had placed the oil lamp on a small side table, the wick trimmed high. The room was definitely brighter than in Naples. Lombardi looked unusually somber.

  None of them joined Alessandra in the opening prayer – Sapienti and Renard weren’t religious, and Huxley wasn’t about to pray with her – but Alessandra appeared confident.

  Maybe she was overconfident, or maybe it was the brighter light, but she struggled from the start.

  She fidgeted and sighed as she settled down, closing her eyes and calling on the spirits for several minutes, then re-opening them to stare at the bell – back and forth, back and forth she went. I stood behind Huxley, the camera squeeze bulb in my fist, ready to fire if anything happened. Maybe twenty minutes into the sitting, she turned to Huxley.

  “You’re holding my wrist too tight. It hurts.” Huxley ignored her. A short while later, she turned to him again.

  “I need a glass of water. Let go of me.” She nodded towards a pitcher Capucine had stationed on the sideboard. Huxley shook his head.

  “Dr. Sapienti can bring it to you.”

  “But I need to stretch my legs!”

  Huxley smiled. “I’m sure you do.”

  It was clear Huxley wasn’t going to let Alessandra out of his grip for a moment. I wondered when Alessandra would give up and call Savonarola. As Rossi said, when the spirits didn’t show up, she inevitably called on him.

  We didn’t have to wait long.

  Alessandra finally bent her head, closed her eyes, and began mumbling the disturbing incantation she used in Naples.

  “Babbo… Babbo!…Per favore! Per favore!” Father! Father, please come!

  Huxley partially blocked my view, but I anticipated everything that followed – the slump against Renard’s shoulder, the head falling forward, the convulsions as the demon took possession of her twitching body, then …

  Sapienti grabbed the table and gasped.

  “My God! Look at her face!”

  “Disbelievers!” A chilling hiss filled the room. “You demand signs and wonders, even as the Devil prepares your place in Hell.”

  Alessandra’s head swiveled to face Huxley, and once again I saw Savonarola’s sickly, green eyes sweep the room. The heavy-lidded, reptilian gaze locked on Huxley.

  “My Alessandra begs, but I am tired of your games. I will show you nothing.”

  Huxley started clapping.

  “Brava, Signora Poverelli. You really should be in theater. The voice! The facial contortions! The change of eye color – tell me, how did you accomplish that? I’m guessing a drop of methyl green slipped into the eye while we were distracted?”

  The entity remained silent, its unblinking eyes fixed on Huxley.

  Huxley looked around the table. “It’s a show. Don’t you see? That’s all it is.” He started to reach for Alessandra, and the green eyes burned brighter.

  “Do not touch my beloved!”

  The menace in the command was palpable.

  Huxley hesitated, then drew back his hand. He seemed unnerved.

  “Very well, Signora, have it your way. I expected it might come to this.” He got up, walked over to the sideboard, poured himself a glass of water, then returned to his seat. I noticed a tremble in his hand.

  “Let’s play a game, shall we? You can be Fra Savonarola.” He forced a smile. “At Cambridge, my alma mater, I had the pleasure of attending a most informative class in medieval Italian history. Unfortunately, it was some years ago, and I’ve forgotten most of it. Since you were there, I’m sure you can help me with a few facts….”

  It was a brilliant trap. Huxley had obviously planned it in advance, and knew the answers to the questions he was about to ask. If Alessandra were play-acting, she was caught. She knew nothing about Italian history – she could barely read. Across from me, Renard had immediately picked up on it. So had Lombardi. Huxley took a sip of water.

  “Now, you were born in Florence, if I recall correctly….”

  “Serpent!” the voice hissed. “You know I was born in Ferrara.”

  The shock on Huxley’s face was unmistakable. He stared at Alessandra, mouth open.

  “I…I… yes, Ferrara…” he stammered. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

  “And you were the only child of…”

  “There were seven of us.”
/>   Huxley sat there dumbfounded.

  “Your mother’s name?”

  “Elena.”

  “Damn you! Your father?”

  “Niccolo.”

  “Grandfather’s name? Tell me that!”

  “Michele.”

  “Enough of this!” Huxley yelled. “Rossi schooled you, didn’t he? He’s in on this. I should have guessed. But we’re not here to test your memory.” He pointed to the glass vase in the center of the table.

  “Move the bell, damn you, or admit you’re a fraud!”

  The hooded green eyes narrowed, and a sneer appeared.

  “What if I move you instead?”

  Huxley’s chair was suddenly yanked from under him, dumping him on the floor. As the chair flew backwards, it knocked over the tripod, and I ended up on my backside too. Sapienti stared at us. Lombardi had a triumphant grin on his face.

  Huxley reached over and grabbed me by the collar.

  “You! You did that!” he shouted, his face purple with rage. “You’re working with her!”

  “Nigel! Stop!” Renard scrambled around the table and separated us. “I saw Tommaso the whole time. He didn’t touch your chair.”

  “The hell he didn’t!”

  At that moment, the bell rang.

  Everyone turned back to the table. The bell was now outside the glass jar, lying on its side. Alessandra was slumped forward in her chair, face down on the table.

  “Nobody touch it!” Huxley screamed, pushing us back.

  He grabbed the oil lamp and examined the bell, searching for marks in the lampblack. Nothing. He seized Alessandra’s hands and inspected her fingers. Again, nothing. They were clean. He turned to us, barely able to contain his fury.

  “The chair was a diversion,” he shouted. “We looked away, she moved the bell.”

  “But how?” Renard demanded. “There’s no marks on the bell.”

  “They’re clever – I warned you! That’s why you use the ropes!” He slammed his fist on the table, and leaned down to Alessandra. “You think I’m some dumb, gullible Italian paesano? You’re a fraud, and I won’t let you get away with this.”