Miraculously, the camera was loaded, and I had the presence of mind to start cranking the handle. I ended up capturing eight seconds of the action on film. Alessandra’s back is already to the camera when the film starts, but you clearly see her arm come up, then the basket dances out from behind her skirt, hops like a rabbit across the lawn, twirls around in a circle, then falls back to the grass. Later that summer, the Baron toured Bavaria, showing the film to packed houses, and the German press dubbed Alessandra the “Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” A professor in Berlin, who wasn’t there that day, assured everyone that it was all done with wires and string.
Lombardi was ecstatic when Weibel played the film back that evening, and told me he was going to buy a motion picture camera for me to use when we got to Paris. I couldn’t wait. I had visions of myself as the next Ugo Falena, directing films and entertaining thousands.
Renard had already sent out invitations to prominent French scientists to test Alessandra, Le Figaro had scheduled a major interview with her, and the editor of the Parisian Illustrated Review would be sending an artist over to the hotel to sketch the celebrated Neapolitan “Queen of Spirits.” Everybody was excited and happy.
I had completely forgotten about the Weasel.
Chapter 50
I got Doffo’s second letter the day we left for Warsaw.
Pietro had used his key to get into Uccello’s desk, found the confidential report the Weasel had mailed to Cardinal Uccello following his visit to Bari, and copied it for Doffo.
Alessandra was in trouble.
July 16, 1899
Confidential
To His Eminence Cardinal Giovanni Uccello
From: Crocifisso Testa, Interrogator
Investigation of the Spiritualist medium Alessandra Poverelli
Pax Tecum.
On 7 July I met for two hours with Father Angelo Federico, parish priest of the village of Spinazzola in Bari, to find out what he could tell me about Signora Poverelli. Father Angelo is a simple man, of no great intelligence or learning, with only two years training in the local seminary. He has served in his current position for 27 years without promotion. He is short and fat, rather slovenly in his dress, and lives with his housekeeper, most likely his concubine. According to Father Angelo, Alessandra’s father was a Socialist agitator disliked by the villagers, and her mother an open practitioner of witchcraft who refused to have her child baptized. Her mother died when she was five and her father was publicly executed for treason by the King of Naples when she was 13 years old. Because of the family’s unsavory reputation, no one in the village was willing to take her in, so out of Christian charity Father Angelo did. Satanic manifestations associated with her presence occurred frequently in the rectory, particularly when she was scolded by the housekeeper. Father Angelo suspected she was possessed by the Devil and performed an exorcism on her. I asked him if he had informed his Bishop before conducting the exorcism, and he replied that he saw no need to do so since they taught him the ritual in seminary. At this point, Father Angelo’s housekeeper, who was serving the pasta, interrupted him. “He had to tie her to the bed, she was so wild. The good Father spent the whole night on his knees next to her bed, begging God to drive the Devil out. But Satan keeps his own. She was a slut, a puttana. Got herself pregnant shortly afterwards.” My ears understandably perked up at this divine revelation. I asked Father Angelo if he knew who the father was. He said everyone suspected an acrobat named Ivano who came through the village with a traveling circus that summer. I asked him what had happened to Alessandra’s bastard. He replied that he quietly arranged to send the pregnant Alessandra to the Santissima Bambina orphanage in Naples to have her baby there. I assured him the Holy Father himself thanked him for this information, and for his years of hard labor in one of the more stony vineyards of the Lord. I am headed for Naples.
Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam.
P.S. Your Eminence would have been amused at the pasta presentation dreamed up by Father Angelo’s housekeeper. The spaghetti was shaped in the profile of Jesus, with orecchiette for his ears.
I stared at the letter, dumbfounded.
Alessandra had a bastard.
The Weasel would need the birth record, but he was already on that. Once he had it, the Vatican could leak it to the press, and the newspapers would go crazy. There was no way any respectable scientist could work with Alessandra once the scandal went public. Alessandra would be finished. So would Lombardi – the university would crucify him.
The only question was when the Vatican would drop the bombshell.
My guess was Paris.
I could have warned them, but I didn’t. She and Lombardi looked so happy. And what would be the point? There was nothing they could do about it anyway. Besides, there was a small chance the Weasel wouldn’t find anything. Twenty-six years had passed. That was a long time, and nobody kept good records on the nobodies who showed up to spend a few days with the sisters before delivering their brats, dumping their babies in an orphanage, and disappearing.
Me? I just wanted to make it to Paris. I figured I could use Lombardi’s camera to shoot some photos of the new Tour Eiffel and sell them back in Naples when it was over.
You have to gnaw the bone that’s thrown you.
Chapter 51
“How do I look, Tommaso?”
“Maronna!” I stared at Alessandra.
How did she look? She looked spectacular – the Neapolitan cinder maid turned into a princess, ready for the reception at Countess Walewska’s mansion. Polish newspapers and magazines had trumpeted her visit to Warsaw, and the city was buzzing about the mysterious Italian temptress who levitated tables.
Alessandra was squeezed into this long, beautiful, shimmering, emerald satin gown with puffy sleeves, a big bow on each shoulder, and a white satin rose on the sash around her waist. Lombardi had paid for it. He excused his generosity by telling her Warsaw society had its standards, and we don’t want to embarrass the Countess. But they both knew he was still trying to get her to change her mind and move to Paris with him.
The hairdresser that afternoon had piled her long tresses on top of her head in a bun, and crowned it with a silver ribbon. But I couldn’t take my eyes off her chest. The gown was cut daringly low in front.
Alessandra rested her arms on her full hips and twirled around, looking at herself in the mirror. She stopped, put her two hands on her stomach, and grimaced.
“God, I can hardly breathe in this contraption, but I do look ten years younger – tell me I do, Tommaso.” She patted her bosom. “Do you think Camillo will like it?”
“If he doesn’t, he’s pazzo, crazy.” I replied.
There was a knock on the door and I walked over and opened it. Lombardi stood in the hall, dressed to the nines. He sported a black tailcoat and trousers, a crisp white dress shirt with studs, a winged collar and a white silk bow tie, and black patent leather shoes. He stepped inside, took one look at Alessandra, and his jaw dropped.
“Do you think it’s a bit too daring, Camillo?” Alessandra said, tugging at her dress. He stared at her. My guess is that he hadn’t seen his own wife in something like that since their wedding night.
“I…I must say…it catches a man’s attention.”
I knew exactly what he was thinking – his attention, but also the attention of every other man in the room. Lombardi reached into his silk top hat, pulled out a small velvet box and presented it to Alessandra with a smile and a bow.
“I suggest you add these to your outfit tonight.”
Alessandra opened the box and gasped.
“My God, Camillo!” She held up a pair of small, diamond ear rings. “I…I can’t accept them.”
Lombardi laughed. “Consider them on loan for the evening.”
Cinderella was off to the ball.
Chapter 52
Krol had Alessandra cornered.
He had pulled up his chair right in front of hers, blocking her from escape, and was describing the plot for hi
s new novel. The Countess had introduced him as a famous Polish writer, and he certainly was verbose. I sat on a sofa next to Alessandra, watching Lombardi work his way around the crowded drawing room of her elegant, three-story pied-a-terre which looked out on Lazienki Park. The Italian ambassador to the Kingdom of Poland showed up with his wife, along with several Polish princes and counts, but my attention kept returning to Alessandra.
She looked pale, and fatigued.
The room was packed and humid. The servants had opened the windows wide, but Alessandra had her handkerchief out and was constantly patting the perspiration off her forehead.
“Do you believe in fate, Signora Poverelli?” Krol lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, then leaned forward. “I’ve been thinking for months about including a séance scene in my new novel, and now I have the queen of spirits sitting right in front of me. I have a thousand questions for you.”
Alessandra shot me a pleading glance, and I stood up.
“You’ll have to excuse her. Alessandra is fading a bit. We just arrive this afternoon and it was a long trip.”
Krol ignored me. He jabbed his cigarette at her. “Do you use some special incantation to call the spirits? Do you actually see them, or do you just feel their presence in the room?”
I held out my hand to Alessandra. “We really need to get Alessandra some rest.”
He pushed it away, irritated at my persistence. “All Signora Poverelli needs is another glass of wine. Waiter!”
Alessandra struggled to her feet. “Please, forgive me. I…I really must go.”
She didn’t look too steady. I took her elbow and steered her around the chair, as Krol glowered at me. Alessandra hung on to my arm.
“I feel sick. I need to find the bathroom.”
As we made our way to the hallway, a balding man in a ridiculously bemedaled military uniform stepped forward and blocked our path.
“Finally let you go, did he? I’ve been trying all evening to meet the famous Signora Poverelli!” He bowed. “General Nikolai Bibikov, at your service.”
I didn’t know what to do. I had to get Alessandra to the bathroom quickly, but I was terrified of insulting him.
“There you are, Alessandra.” Lombardi had come up behind me. He stepped forward to introduce himself to Bibikov and we escaped. Alessandra slipped into the bathroom, closed the door, and I hovered outside, pretending to inspect the paintings which lined the halls. A minute later, Lombardi came hurrying down the hall.
“Tommaso, where the devil is Alessandra? The General is waiting to meet her.”
“She’s feeling sick.” I pointed to the bathroom. He grimaced.
“Well, as soon as she gets out, bring her to me.”
Alessandra stayed in the bathroom for a long time, and when she came out, she didn’t look much better, but she charmed Bibikov and managed to hang on until the reception ended at nine.
We made it outside into the cool evening air, and were waiting for our carriage to arrive, when Alessandra suddenly let go of my hand, fell to one knee, then collapsed on the sidewalk. Everybody started shouting and screaming, and Lombardi quickly bent down and cradled her head in his lap, searching for her pulse. She opened her eyes and looked at him, confused, then struggled to get back to her feet, but he held her there. I was scared to death. Someone ran to fetch Countess Walewska.
A few minutes later, the Countess ran down the steps, followed by the doorman with a glass of water, but Alessandra was already sitting up.
“I’m alright,” she insisted. “It was just the heat. I’m feeling better now.”
“Signora, please, come inside,” the countess begged. “Stay here tonight.” She looked at Lombardi, but Alessandra insisted she felt better, and wanted to go back to the hotel.
Later that night, I went up to visit Alessandra. She was sitting up in bed with a pillow behind her, looking pale but a lot better. Lombardi was just returning a stethoscope to his medical bag.
“I’m glad you’re here, Tommaso,” he said. “I’ve made a decision which affects both of you.” He closed his bag.
“I’m canceling the rest of the tour.”
“No!” Alessandra cried. She looked bewildered. “But why, Camillo?”
Lombardi took her hand.
“Alessandra, listen to me. You need rest. A month, at least. I blame myself. The traveling, the sittings every night, the need to perform – you’re exhausted. Now this. I’m worried about you.”
“Camillo, I’m fine!” Alessandra protested. “You’ll see! Tomorrow, I’ll be back to my old self.” She began to cough, and Lombardi reached down into his medical bag and pulled out a bottle.
“This is laudanum. It will help you sleep tonight.” He poured out a glass and gave it to her, then closed the bag. He took her hand again.
“Alessandra, I know you’re worried about your fee. You don’t have to. When we get to Torino, you will get your 4,000 lire. You’ve earned it.”
I could see the tears well up in Alessandra’s eyes. “Camillo…thank you. Thank you so much.”
The tour was over. We were going home.
I followed Lombardi out into the hall, and he pulled me aside. “We’re going to be in Warsaw for a while, Tommaso. She needs to stay in bed and rest. I want you to make sure she stays there.”
After Lombardi left, I went back inside.
She patted the bed. “Sit down here. Next to me.”
She looked at me for a long time, then she smiled. “If only I were twenty years younger….” I blushed. She fought to keep her eyes open, the laudanum beginning to take over. “You to Naples…me to Rome…I’m going to miss you terribly.”
“I once dreamed about becoming the editor of the Mattino,” I told her. “Now, it’s not enough. I want to do something bigger. Maybe I’ll follow you to Rome and become the editor of the Messaggero. ”
She smiled. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Tommaso. You and me in Rome.” She squeezed my hand, and her eyes fluttered and finally closed as the opium worked its magic.
Over in England, Huxley wasn’t ready to let Alessandra walk away from the game.
Chapter 53
Give Huxley credit.
He figured Alessandra out, and he played her brilliantly. The Times was in on the plan, but Huxley chose the bait, and set the hook.
We left Warsaw for Torino on Aug 10, 1899, my seventeenth birthday. I bought a bottle of Polish wodka the night before we left, drank half of it, and boarded the train with a terrible hangover. Lombardi had kept Alessandra in Warsaw for almost two weeks, then arranged a first-class sleeper for her on the Nord-Sued Express on the trip home. By the time we reached Zurich, she had made a remarkable recovery. The cough was still there, but color had returned to her face, along with her appetite. Lombardi kidded that she was “costing him a fortune” in the dining car.
At every stop along the way, reporters peppered Lombardi with questions, demanding to know why the tour had been suddenly cancelled. Not everybody bought his story that Alessandra’s health was in danger. In Paris, Le Petit Journal breathlessly trumpeted that Weitzel in Vienna had caught Alessandra using matches to start a fire so she could terminate a failed sitting – a rumor Huxley planted.
We arrived back home on Sunday, and Lombardi put us up in the administrative guest house at the asylum until he could get to the bank to arrange our train tickets and Alessandra’s payment. The impossible dream she had confessed to me that night at the Piazza del Plebiscito was about to come true. She could start a new life – without Pigotti, and with 4,000 lire in her purse. She would run her own life.
At ten o’clock the next morning, the “Kaiser” came looking for us. Frau Junker was as sour as ever.
“You will come with me. Dr. Lombardi wants to see you in his office.”
When we got there, Lombardi was sitting behind his desk with a scowl on his face. Behind him was a cabinet of curiosities filled with fossils and stones. A row of ivory skulls mounted on iron rods sat on a side table – prob
ably the props Lombardi had used in his famous Darwin lecture in Rome. A young, clean-shaven man in a sharp-looking, brown suit and silk tie lounged in a chair in front of Lombardi, a notebook and pen in his hands. He jumped up when Alessandra entered the room.
“Signora Poverelli?”
Lombardi gestured to him. “This is Mr. Harold Carter, Rome correspondent for the London Times. He insists on asking you a few questions.”
Carter flashed Alessandra a boyish grin. “Che piacere vederti.” So pleased to meet you. His Italian was excellent. He bowed and kissed her hand. Huxley had picked the right messenger.
Frau Junker brought over two chairs, Lombardi dismissed her, and we all sat down.
“Signora Poverelli…” Carter started.
“Alessandra is fine,” she replied with a smile, brushing back her long black hair.
“Thank you…Alessandra, then.” He opened his notebook. “Our newspaper recently interviewed Mr. Nigel Huxley, an investigator for the London Society for…”
“We’re quite familiar with Mr. Huxley,” Lombardi interjected.
“I understand. I wanted to ask Signora – I’m sorry, Alessandra – here, if she had seen the interview.”
“I haven’t,” Alessandra replied. “And I don’t care what that cazzo says.”
Carter laughed. “I understand. I won’t read you the article. But I was hoping to get a comment from you on his offer to test you in England.”
Lombardi stood up. “Alessandra has nothing left to prove. She’s passed enough tests.”
Carter ignored him. He held up a newspaper clipping and looked at Alessandra.
“In the interview here, Mr. Huxley explains how you could have produced the phenomena he witnessed at the sitting on Ile Ribaud. He suggests you come to England and demonstrate your paranormal powers. If you can, he says the Society will happily join its Continental colleagues and declare your powers genuine. Will you consider it?”
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