My heart raced for him. “You must be so excited!”
“And missing you, remembering you,” he said with a tone that brought to mind the taste of his skin. I wished I could kiss him, run my hands down his back; I told him so. He groaned, said, “Have you made plans yet?”
“I may stick around a while longer. There’s more I’d like to see and …” Museo delle Anime del Purgatorio stared up at me from a scrap of paper, and despite a pang of apprehension, I decided to tell him the truth. “I found another note this morning, slipped under my door this time.”
He paused. “Did Giovanni see who left it at the desk?”
“No one left it. I asked. It must’ve been delivered to me directly.” Hush. “Noel?”
“I’m trying to figure out if I can get off the train. We just started moving. It might be possible—”
“Hang on, listen!” I told him about the note I’d dropped at Putra’s place, the one that jetted beneath his door. Surely, he’d found it—and me, because of it.
“Sit down, Maeve, there’s something you need to know.”
“I am sitting.” My fingers splayed out like a five-pronged anchor over the cool sheets.
“I don’t know why I kept this to myself. Maybe I wanted to prove it first so that you wouldn’t accuse me of overreacting again, or maybe I didn’t want to scare you—but now you need a little fear. I want you to change your room, or better yet go back to Betheny. I can’t protect you when I’m nine hundred miles away.” Protection again. But it was hard to feel outraged when he sounded so urgent. “Take out your notes,” he said. “Lay them out, side by side.”
I gathered them, minus the business card Ermanno had liberated the day we’d met: two notes in my jacket, three in a drawer, today’s on the side table. I put them on my bed.
“Look at the note that invited you to Rome, the one with Putra’s address,” he said. “Compare the handwriting in the first line to the writing in the address.”
Visit with me in the New Year.
There is much I wish to tell you.
Via della Scala —, No. 47
Trastevere
I noticed nothing, and told him so.
“Compare that to any of your others then,” he said. “Any that use the word visit.”
Visit Santa Maria in Cosmedin
Visit Il Sotto Abbasso
Visit Villa Borghese
Visit Museo delle Anime del Purgatorio
“The V is different,” I said. Of course Noel would pick up on that.
“It’s not just the V,” he said, as the difference in the N’s leaped out at me, too. “That’s just the easiest to see. There’s an openness to the first line of that invitation, and the last three lines don’t have that—in fact, they read like the work of someone trying hard to replicate something but not quite able to get away with it.”
“Wait, I don’t—”
“It’s a theory,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure I’m right. My grandfather swears he met the empu, so it’s probably true that Putra wrote part——note——” The line broke up as I registered his suspicion.
The invitation had two authors? “Still there?”
“I hear you,” I said. “Keep talking.”
“The business card Ermanno took that first day—Putra wrote on that in front of my grandfather. Studying it would’ve been telling, so I went to Ermanno and tried to get it back. He said it was impossible, that he was an expert at making things disappear permanently. Then he asked about you.”
No wonder Noel had been so annoyingly overprotective.
“I think Ermanno was with Putra in Betheny,” he continued. “Siblings traveling together—it’s not unlikely.”
Maeve, let’s travel someday on a train.
Yes, maybe it’ll come off the track, and then we can go wherever we want, drive it across the sea and over to Europe—
“I think Ermanno wrote part of that invitation, Maeve, and I think he left all those other notes, too. He knew you had the keris, and he’s the only brother we’ve seen.”
“But that’s exactly why it can’t be him!” I said. “He’s seen me in person. Why leave notes? And why would Sri Putra leave a note that asks me to visit him without leaving an address?”
“Who knows? Effing notes have been as irrational as Ermanno. The only thing I’ve learned about that guy is he’s obsessed with your keris.”
This, I knew.
“The first time I saw him alone, when I went back to get that note, he said the keris would harm you and I should give it to him. I told——go——hell——threat——wallet vanish. I need you to——what——listen——Maeve, can you hear me?”
“It’s the phone line. I’m losing you.”
“Promise——stupid——notes——Ermanno—promise——”
“I promise to stay away from Ermanno, Noel. Don’t worry. I’ll forget about the notes.” The connection died. I hoped he’d heard my reassurances.
I studied the notes again; how could I have missed those V’s? What else had I overlooked?
I remembered Old Gypsy Madge’s Fortune Teller and the Witches Key to Lucky Dreams, gifted to Ned Baker by someone looking for something stronger than love spells. Perhaps someone obsessed with magia nera.
Remembered Ermanno’s faltering expression—recognition, maybe—when he saw me. You should be looking for me. Not him. Me. Had Ermanno intended to masquerade as an empu, all for the keris? Had he developed a new plan after his first one failed?
Remembered Ermanno’s hand in my purse and his purple face at Il Sotto Abbasso.
Remembered that Ermanno, as temporary landlord, had keys to every apartment. If he’d found the note I’d meant for his brother, he’d know that I still had the keris after all. What could he do? Go to my room. Try the handle. Lure me away from the blade with another note. Or maybe he just wanted to turn me into another half-baked burn mark in the museum of purgatory.
Maybe I should go to the museum. Maybe Ermanno would be there and I could confront him, one last time. But I’d promised Noel—promised—and I didn’t want him to ever wonder if he should’ve jumped from that train and into the English Channel to get back to me.
“IF NOEL’S gone and the empu guy’s gone, why not come home?” Kit asked for the third time when we spoke that night. I’d called to explain why I’d registered under a new name—Betheny Castine—and that I hadn’t had a psychotic break. “I’m worried about you, and your cat misses you,” she said as I unpacked in my new room. The layout was the same, but the colors were darker—coffee brown and sapphire blue.
“I’m not coming home yet because I have more to see,” I told her. “And I refuse to let Ermanno chase me away.”
“Who’s Ermanno?”
My resistance was down. I told her everything: that a guy with a love of black magic had been following me around Betheny, leaving me notes; that Noel was convinced Ermanno had lured me to Rome and was continuing to lead me around on a chase fit for a goose; that Ermanno had developed a fascination with my keris and seemed determined to get it; that his tenants spoke of the trickster’s butter-coated, skeleton-key fingers; that I didn’t trust him to keep those fingers away from my hotel door; that he was the reason I’d changed my location—and my name.
“Wait a minute,” Kit said. “He’s wanted the keris for weeks? That’s why he was in Betheny, following you around? And he has a history of breaking and entering?”
“Well”—I tried to close the drawer I’d filled; it stuck—“I can’t be sure, but—”
“Maeve, was that keris hidden or something the day our apartment was left open? The day the dog got out?”
I abandoned the drawer. “No, I had it with me.” At the university, then Time After Time. “Why?”
“I didn’t leave our apartment unlocked.”
“Yes, you—”
“I wasn’t home until that night, when I ran into your father and helped him bring that boat table inside.”
“Kit
, are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said, as I sat heavily on the floor. “I didn’t say anything because I thought you’d done it and you’d forgotten, and I didn’t want to make you feel … Well, and then your dad had that ticket to Rome, and a vacation seemed like the perfect chance for you to get your health back. Could you have left the door unlocked, Maeve? Is it possible?”
“No,” I said, remembering Sparky’s little face as we’d left that day, her distress at being the one left behind. Remembered, too, finding her barking madly on the lawn, coated with ice. Upset because she’d known a fox had been close, sniffing around.
He’d been there. Ermanno had been inside my apartment.
“Come home.”
“No. Like I said, I won’t let Ermanno chase me away.”
For several minutes, I tried to convince her not to worry, but my limbs trembled in the sheets when I lay down and I couldn’t bring myself to turn off the lamp. I kept the keris by my side, hating Ermanno for making me so fearful—especially after all I’d gone through, after all I’d accomplished.
Purgatory. Purge. Out with the old, in with the new. I thought of timeworn appliances flung from windows to land on the stones below, like dead crows dropped from the sky. Purge. Purify. Pure. Fresh. Free of corruption. Absolute. Cleansed.
I fell asleep like that: the lights on, slurred chords in my head. And I woke the next day with it all still there, and rose, and headed out, without stopping for coffee—and without fear—to visit Museo delle Anime del Purgatorio.
THOUGH I’D ANTICIPATED the museum of purgatory to be an exhibition of the bizarrely morbid—as in crawling skeletons glued to the walls—I found an understated museum just off a Gothic church, housed in a little room that smelled of soup. A few people milled around inside, including a nun who smiled at me when I entered. No sign of Ermanno. I hugged my purse a little closer.
Behind a locked case, a scatter of frames held papers, documents. One bore a smudge purported to be the scorch mark of a hand, though it looked more like the print of a dove to me.
The nun stepped beside me. “What a miracle,” she said, in English.
“Do you really think so?”
“Oh! You’re American!” She giggled, covered her mouth with her hand. “I should’ve paid more attention to my languages. I can barely speak a word of Italian.”
“So many here speak English,” I told her. “You’ll be fine.”
“Yes, people have been kind.” She regarded the case again. “What a wonderful way to remind us of the power of prayer.”
“How do you mean?”
“All of these requests sent from those poor in-between souls in purgatory, asking for masses. Without prayer, these people never would’ve made it into heaven.” She smiled. “I’m sure they’re there now. These pleas were made long ago and many prayers were surely said. But I’ll pray for them all, just in case.”
“You believe in purgatory?”
Flecks of orange danced in the brown tint around her dilated pupils. “Oh, yes! All of the dead need our prayers, dear. So many do.”
What silliness. I looked again at the objects and their scars. Singed fingerprints on a book. Scorch marks on pillowcases and shirtsleeves, on nightcaps and other papers. More burned handprints on a table. Requests for prayers, for help? How easy these items would be to create. Why should anyone believe? What did it prove to trust in any of it?
“Sister Lynn. It’s time, dear.”
Another nun stood at the door, much older than the one beside me, and much sterner of face.
“Yes, sister. I’m coming.” Sister Lynn turned to me with a furrowed brow. “That woman never takes a break,” she muttered, then added, louder, “It was nice speaking with you.”
“You, too,” I said.
Alone in the room now, I read an account: 21 December 1838. The night a hand became imprinted on a page. Reports of a presence, chill air, and hearing the voice of the dead—of a brother who asked for help to end his suffering in purgatory.
I thought of Moira, all that I used to share of her feelings. Not dead. Not dead. But …
Idée fixe, I could not shake the thought. What would it be like to be in a coma? What would it be like to die and still breathe and breathe and breathe? My vision flashed white, to an image of me or Moira—one of us—seconds away from stabbing her shadow, and I knew even as my throat coated with acid.
Like purgatory.
“THERE IS a message,” Giovanni said when I returned to the hotel. He reached behind the counter, handed me a note.
Maeve Leahy, let us meet
Via della Scala —, No. 47
I will stay through January 6
Salam
Empu Putra
So Ermanno had finally come right out and claimed his brother’s identity. Little did he know his V’s gave him away. I wasn’t afraid this time. I was angry.
“The man who left this—you didn’t tell him I was still here, did you?” We’d talked about this yesterday. My parents, Kit, and Noel were the only people allowed access to me.
“A boy ran in and put this on the counter,” Giovanni said. “We did not see any man.”
Later that night, I heard from Noel with news that made my heart race for the right reasons: He’d found his mother. She’d been afraid to answer her door at first, then sobbed after realizing who he was. They’d talked for hours.
“We were both nervous. God, I told the worst jokes,” he said, as I remembered the boy he was, the child who’d tickled her feet. “She’s a potter. She’s going to show me her studio tomorrow.” She’d promised not to run.
I couldn’t have been happier for him and told him so, then reassured him that I was safe and not planning anything stupid. I didn’t mention my trip to the museum or the new beckoning note. I wouldn’t let him worry about me when he was dealing with something as singular and life altering as reconnecting with Faith Ryan, trying to oil her rusty smile.
I told him that I loved him. He said he loved me, too. But when I hung up, I recognized the feeling that sometimes ran wild in my blood with presentient assuredness. It would be a long time before I’d see Noel Ryan again.
I SPENT THE NEXT seventy-two hours trying to ignore the approach of January 6, even though “Harlem Nocturne” looped through me continuously. During the day, I traversed the city. I finally saw the Forum, the Colosseum, and Michelangelo’s dome, and ate my fill of tiramisu and gelato. I watched a puppet show. At night, I stayed in, ate at the bar, spoke with Noel.
I was particularly restless on the fifth. I took a tour of Rome’s famous bridges, and even stepped over the one that led to Ermanno’s apartments. If he was there, hiding in the cool bulb at the top of a lamppost, I didn’t see him, but I could almost feel the growing momentum of that second shoe—the one that was about to drop.
That night, as I filled the sink with hot water to wash a few things, I found something theory-shattering in the pocket of a pair of jeans.
Visit Il Sotto Abbasso
This was the extra note I’d picked up about the jazz club—not the note Noel had found first. I’d forgotten all about it. Though their messages had been identical, their styles were not; this one was written with the same V as the initial invitation to Trastevere.
I leaned against the countertop and stared at myself in the mirror. The jazz club was the only place I’d seen Ermanno outside of the apartment building. Was there something special—?
It’s only open Sunday nights. He didn’t know if he’d see you again at the apartments; he’d hoped to catch you at the club.
To persuade me—or frighten me—into giving him the keris. But why two notes?
Insurance. He saw Noel take the first one and didn’t trust him to pass it on. He thought it could be his last chance.
If that was true—if Ermanno had left this note—this loopy, flourishy note—and was one of the two authors of the note left for me in Betheny, then he’d written the first line: Visit with me in
the New Year. Why?
Because he knew his brother would be gone by then, and he wanted you—and the keris—all to himself.
Suddenly Ermanno’s words made a more perfect sense. Never enough speed, never enough luck. You should be looking for me. Not him. Me.
Noel was right. Ermanno had been in Betheny. He’d followed me and broken into my home. He’d duplicated one note and altered another. He’d meant to intimidate me.
Noel was also wrong. Whatever the bounds of the Italian’s obsession with the keris, whatever its root, Sri Putra had been behind the directives. He had sent me to Santa Maria in Cosmedin, Villa Borghese, and Museo delle Anime del Purgatorio, and had left one of the notes about Il Sotto Abbasso. He was alive. Safe. Escaped from his brother’s sleeve. And tomorrow was January 6—our last chance to meet.
Things weren’t always what they seemed. How could I have forgotten?
In the morning, I would walk to Sri Putra’s home. One last time.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE EMPU
I rose early and dressed in clothes Giovanni would not approve of—khakis and a button-down cotton shirt. I was prepared to defend my comfortable choice when I stepped into the lobby, but I found he’d donned something a little more casual as well: a hat, white wig, wire-rim glasses, plaid skirt, black shawl, and apron. His face looked covered in soot, and he stood beside a broom as he passed gifts to two children.
“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” I asked him when the boys, who looked to be about three and five, sat before us to open their presents.
“I am good, like Santa. You have not heard of Befana?” he asked, and I shook my head. “It is the holiday Epiphany today and we like to please the guests.” He mouthed, “My mama.”
I smiled as the older boy ripped off the wrappings to reveal a panettone box. He seemed less than pleased; he sprang up, knocked Giovanni’s faux glasses onto the floor, then raced to the bar. “Mama, Mama!” he cried, as his brother continued to work at his tape.
The Last Will of Moira Leahy Page 24
